Village Night Life

After dinner, I want to check out the night life in the village. So I head out with Alick and Christian, who are both from around this area and are also staying at the guesthouse.

We step into the first of two bars in the village. Ten or so tables are arranged haphazardly around the room, which is illuminated by a single bare light bulb and a spotlight aimed at a bare wall. A boombox sits at the bar, playing music by a Zambian band at top volume. A couple of women are sitting at the bar drinking and a small group of men are sitting and drinking around a table next to the dart board at the other side of the room. We are the third group.

The bar consists of a few dusty bottles sitting on a couple of wooden shelves on the wall, accompanied by a few bottles of hard liquor. The only beers available are the local brews Castle and Mosi. Each grabbing a Castle, we sit down at a table halfway between the dart board and the bar. Alick recognizes that one of the men sitting at the table is the local priest at the Catholic church. I may be mistaken, but I thought Catholic priests are supposed to refrain from patronizing drinking establishments; and here he is, taking a swig of his beer in between throwing darts. Has the church relaxed the rules to attract and retain priests to rural areas? Is the priest openly flouting the rules knowing that he can get away with it? Are the people so devoted to the priest and the church that they don’t question his conducts? Of course, a priest drinking and having entertainment is really no big deal in comparison to the big scandals the Catholic Church has been involved in recently. But isn’t making this comparison akin to indulging in the kind of moral relativism the Church has been warning us about? Slippery slope, anyone?

We next visit the bar at the other side of the market. On our arrival, we just double the number of patrons at the bar. This place has a pool table. We play pool until the barkeep tells us that she wants to go home. I look at my watch – eleven o’clock. I guess that’s late enough for a Saturday night out in a village in the middle of Zambia. The night life on the weekend here is pretty dead. But for the villagers, most of whom do not have formal employment, a Saturday night means nothing to them – it’s not any different than a Monday night, or a Wednesday night, or any other night of the week.

As the bar shuts, we retrace our way back to the guesthouse on the dirt road as a light shower comes down.