The elevator I have stepped into is small, and two more people get on. One is a woman larger even than I am — I, who am often complimented on my “African shape” — and a man taller, more broadly set, and heavier than both of us.
“You have to get off,” he jokes to the woman. “It won’t carry.” He chuckles.
“Me, I have no weight,” she counters, with a smile. The doors crawl toward each other.
“Look, even the doors won’t close,” he laughs.
“Maybe it’s you,” I offer. I have seen, in only a few days here, that Zambians are straightforward folks, with a good sense of humor, but I am uncomfortable with my dare. I usually wait more than 48 hours to participate in a new place.
“No, no, no,” he insists, with a bigger smile. “I’m smaller than she.” Everyone laughs, seeing this isn’t true, but he persists.
“Women,” he says, “are always big. You know.”
I break a sweat just reading this; my experience is that in the developing world, elevators are also still developing. I may miss the rich cultural encounters, but I climb stairs whenever possible under about 10 stories in the developing world!
Ha! I was with a helper at the time and could never admit fear, but I had a similar feeling today heading to a 12th floor, alone, especially as the doors scraped between floor 8 and 9…