Hello friends and family,
I have some bad news: Zambians are experiencing one of their worst droughts on record. When I heard this news from my taxi driver, I wasn’t surprised—the signs were there early.
The rainy season starts around mid-November (it used to be the end of October, but climate change has delayed the first rainfall by two weeks), but November 15th arrived without a drop of rain. Another week passed and there was still no rain. Then another passed. Then another. By early December, every farmer I knew had grown nervous. The soil had become brittle and dry, so they couldn’t plow their fields, let alone plant their December crops. Three weeks into the rainy season and this year’s harvest was already in jeopardy.
My host family was hit especially hard. They own a lot of land and need to plow early in the season to plant all of their crops. Now, all they could do was wait. My host father tried to stay busy by clearing the yard and fixing his motor-bike, but every so often he just sat outside his home and stared across his dry fields. I knew he wanted to work—he has a family to feed—but nothing he did now would amount to anything. All he could do was wait.
The rain began around December 15th. It was modest at first, usually just a 15 minute downpour in the morning or afternoon. While everyone was relieved, it was less precipitation than last year. Still, it was enough to start plowing. Each morning after that first rainfall, the men and boys in my host family would dawn their work boots, saddle their two cows with a wooden harness and a steel plow, then till a few acres of damp fields. They’d break at noon once the sun came out, then return to the fields at 4 pm for some weeding. They were still behind, but if they worked hard, they could maybe make up for lost time. Maybe.
Finally, in the third week of January, the rains came in earnest. The daily sprinkles turned into hours of thunderstorms, and the sun and blue sky were replaced with a permanent overcast. There was so little sunlight that my 80W solar panel—which can normally support my laptop, headphones, kindle, battery, and houselights—could only charge my phone. I thought my host dad would be ecstatic with all the water in the fields. Instead, he was forlorn: “These rains, they are too much.” He said. “The soil is so wet that the the crops cannot take hold. We pray that the rains will get lighter and we can continue to work.”
After a week, the sun returned and the rains abated. Too much, in fact. Since mid-January and March, it has rained six times. The crops did take hold, but the combination of delayed planting, extreme downpour, and then drought has left most crops either unviable or stunted. My host family expects to harvest maybe a quarter of their fields.
The same thing happened all across Zambia. Every province was hit by severe drought and withering crops. The only exception is Luapula, where people use canoes to commute during the rainy season. There have been dry spells before, but none as bad as this one. I spoke with a man who owns six farms across Central province. In all his 60 years, he has never seen a drought this bad. On March 1st, the president of Zambia, Hakainde Hichilema, declared that the drought was a national disaster and an emergency.
It is unclear how Zambia will respond to this crisis. I hope that the government will purchase ground corn meal from neighboring countries then sell it to its citizens at a subsidized rate. That assumes, of course, that those other countries have a surplus of corn-meal and that the Zambian government has the funds and capability to follow through with this logistical nightmare. In short, I’m not holding my breath. For now, everyone will have to tighten their belts. I’m not worried about feeding myself, but I am concerned about my host family. I already buy a lot of their food, so I can’t imagine how they will support themselves this year. I plan on doubling what I’ve been giving them, but that still may not be enough.
A few days ago, I walked past my host family’s corn fields. The stocks last year were taller than me and bright green. None of the plants I saw before me were above four feet. Each plant had browning leaves and sharp, undeveloped bristles. Some were tipping over under their own weight. I looked down and saw that the soil had turned to sand. I looked up and was surprised to see storm clouds rolling in. It was an ironic scene, one that described the situation perfectly: rains were coming, but it was too little too late.
The drought as you so descriptively told us about sounds most frightening.