Shoes

Shoes

Noel Laflin

September 2, 2015

Should I ever return to Zambia, I am going to skip the suggested trinkets of hand mirrors and magic markers I was advised to bring as objects of trade with the back country locals.  Instead, I shall bring shoes – lots and lots of shoes – modest new running models, worn-through sneakers, or any state of footwear in between.  In fact, I’ll bring a footlocker full if customs so allows.  And, I won’t trade for them.  I’ll just give them away.

This twenty-year fantasy accelerated into full gear once again yesterday as I was cleaning out my old car.  For there, amidst all of the junk hiding in the trunk, were some cheap rubber sandals, hiking boots, and two old pairs of tennis shoes.   And just like that, as I began my sorting and tossing, my last image of Joseph popped into fresh focus once again. There he was - my apparition, as clear as the African day is long - standing quietly, staring in wonder and hoping against hope that I might give him an old pair of shoes.

The young barefoot lad who worked at our remote, small camp hidden high away in a northern Zambian national park, always greeted me with downcast eyes.  I initially thought that he was extremely shy or perhaps just politely deferential to guests.

“Joseph,” I finally asked toward the end of my stay, “why are you always staring at the ground?  You have a beautiful smile – you should let people see that more often.  But it’s hard to notice when you are always looking down.”

“It is your shoes, sir” he replied softly in beautifully clipped English, eyes still lowered.  “I like your shoes very much.  Can I have them please?”

The image of Joseph and his camp co-workers, along with nearly every other Zambian encountered throughout my three-week stay in their country suddenly came into sharp focus.  There was not a pair of shoes to be found among the entire lot.

“I would like nothing better than to give you these old Nikes, my friend,” I finally replied, finding my own eyes suddenly cast downward.  “But I’m afraid they will not let me on the plane taking me home tomorrow, should I show up barefoot.  I have no other shoes or sandals to wear.”

Joseph slowly nodded in agreement.

“I understand, sir.  Thank you for allowing me to ask.”

Before we struck camp the following day, I handed over the last of my Zambian currency to Joseph.  I told him to put it toward some shoes.  He raised his eyes level with mine and gave me a fantastic smile.

What I had not told the boy, however, was that I had come on the trip with two sets of shoes but had given away the first pair just two weeks prior.  Being old, they had split apart due to water damage while on the Zambezi River.  A young barefoot boatman by the name of Washington repaired them for me using rubber raft repair glue. They were as good as new by the time he was done. As he too had no shoes, I asked if he could use them.  After all, I had a spare pair in the duffle bag. You would have thought I’d given him a winning lottery ticket.

 

“I will trade these for a pair in my own size,” said the gentle giant with feet much larger than mine.  “I have never had a pair of shoes before.  Thank you, sir!”

 

The last I saw of the young man, he was running barefoot up a steep, rocky, cactus-strewn mountain. Washington was on his way back home, to a village some ten kilometers north.

He had a very firm grip on an ancient pair of New Balance running shoes as he ran.

British Airlines had no such obstacles in its flight path.  Maybe I should have chanced a barefoot journey of my own.