Solwezi - Dar es Salaam - Zanzibar - Solwezi

Tuesday 26th February 2013

Time: 4.30am. Mulenga calls me. I mysteriously wake up seconds prior to the phone call. The phone flashes – it’s on silent. Mulenga speaks, I grunt. I get up and I wash quickly and I prepare for his arrival. He arrives on time. He uses my toilet and leaves the light on. I tell him off and he says sorry. He then asks me why I’ve left the kitchen light on. I tell him that it creates the illusion that someone is living in the house while I’m away. He laughs and says OK.

In the car, Mulenga’s wife sits in the back whilst he drives to the bus station. They talk in Bemba. There’s some laughter. I feel vague and tired. Mulenga says I’m dressed like a white man. I tell him I am a white man. He asks me if I’m cold (I’m wearing shorts), and I say no.

We board the bus. We sit second row, left side. There are seat-belts. I breathe a sigh of relief internally. The bus is almost full as we board. The bus driver is playing a game of how many times you can blast your horn. It’s a senseless activity. No one rushes to board because of him. We leave slightly after 5am. There’s a pastor on board giving us a minor sermon. He asks God to protect us on our travels. I just hope the driver is fresh, that we face no lunatic drivers, and that my seat-belt continues to work throughout the journey. The pastor continues for 20 minutes. The woman on the opposite row keeps saying ‘amen, pastor’ every time she likes what he says. And so the first leg of our journey to Dar es Salaam to pick up Mulenga's new Honda CRV begins.

I fall asleep. I wake up in Chingola to the sight of characters walking idly around looking for work. I fall asleep again. I drift. We arrive in Ndola – more characters hanging around. The journey passes without incident and we arrive in Kapiri. I disembark. There’s a crowd of young men waving keys shouting ‘Taxi?’, ‘Taxi, boss?’ I walk away from the bus and five of them surround me. I tell them to wait, to calm down. They sense I’m going to the TAZARA station. I wait for Mulenga. I tell him one of the drivers has offered 15 pin. He talks to them in Bemba and I get a break.

Our driver takes us to the station. Inside the station building I feel like I’m back in high school: same steps, same smell, same dilapidated structures. We go to the ticket office. The guy there doesn’t have our booking – just tells me that there is a booking for Robert and Michelle. I tell him I have no idea who Michelle is. We both ponder who she is. His booking notices are scrawled in a book. No computers here.

Ticket office man tells us to wait for another character. He is on lunch apparently. We wait for 20 minutes and then he arrives. He looks like he’s just come from the pub. He sorts out our ticket. He doesn’t know who Michelle is either. He makes me wait 10 minutes for my small change. Useless character.

We go back into town to pick up supplies. First we eat lunch. It is OK. Some boys are amused there is a white man in the restaurant. They greet me in Bemba and I respond in Bemba. They laugh. A white man speaking an African language seems to be very amusing. We pick up some essentials and go back to the station with our taxi man.

We find a place to sit and wait to board the train. I watch the station life. Patient bodies everywhere. Street kids walk around collecting plastic bottles. I watch four kids try to tip a wheelie bin over to get the contents but they are not strong enough. Other kids run around. The minutes stack up slowly. After an hour or so delay the gate opens and we can board. Our carriage is off the platform. A helpful lady instructs us. We find our cabin. It’s old and rundown but OK. After two minutes some men burst in and start dropping luggage in our cabin. I protest – we’ve booked the cabin! They talk in Bemba. I urge Mulenga to find out what is going on. A man was rushing for the train and didn’t have time to organise his ticket. His name is Pastor, but I’m sure that’s not his name. He is Ugandan. He has four huge suitcases – an African not struggling for money. Mulegna offers him some cassava and he starts eating and making a mess. I get the impression he thinks he’ll be staying in our cabin. I wait for the right moment. After ten minutes I ask him what the deal is. I tell him we’ve booked the cabin. He didn’t know. I ask our cabin attendant, Joy (skin: black; weight: healthy; hair: wig), to assist. She says she’ll find him a space. Problem solved.

I take a shower before dinner. It’s a small compartment with no grip on the floor. I have visions of daytime TV adverts of people slipping over and suing for compensation. None of that happens here of course. It’s your own fault if you hurt yourself.  Dinner is in the buffet carriage. It’s rowdy when we enter and everything is rocking from side to side. I order beef and Mulenga takes chicken. We sit on a table with another man. I ask Mulenga what the characters are arguing about and he tells me they are discussing the merits of their tribes. We finish and head back to the cabin to talk some more about useless characters and the problems with Zambia. The train rolls on towards Dar es Salaam. It’s lights out at 10pm – long day.

Friday 1st March 2013

It’s about 9am by the time we’ve taken breakfast and showered. I head out with Mulenga into Kariakoo. It’s the part of Dar es Salaam that is full of shops for car parts and the like. Mulenga walks around with a shock absorber from his car in a plastic bag. He wants to get a replacement. After some time a character comes out of some shadows and takes Mulenga by the hand. He takes us to his friend’s shop. He is a black man dressed as an Arab and has some proverbs stitched to his white shirt. After looking at some spare parts, Mulenga tells the man he wants a particular type and the man says he’ll come and find Mulenga later. We head back to the hotel. It’s a relief to get back in an air-conditioned environment. I cool down whilst Mulenga heads to the market. As Mulenga walks off I look at his shoes. They have the word ‘Africa’ written on them.

I receive a phone call in the room and it’s from reception. Spare parts man is in the lobby with a spare part. I tell the lady that my friend is not here but will be back later so he’ll have to wait or come back another time. She says OK but I don’t feel she understood me. I rest some more and then go to the restaurant and take lunch. I order ‘local chicken’, Tanzania’s answer to free range chicken. I’m about half way through my meal before spare parts man walks into the restaurant with a hotel worker. Spare parts man starts waving his arms, which roughly translates into: ‘Boss, I’ve been in the lobby for over an hour waiting and you’re not coming to see me.’ I tell the hotel worker that I don’t know where my friend is and that spare parts man will have to come back later. The hotel worker translates. Spare parts man gets it and leaves with the hotel worker leaving me to finish my interrupted meal.

After lunch, I don’t have much to do so I make a decision to try and find the tourist office to see if I can get some information on Zanzibar. I ask at the reception for a taxi. After five minutes one turns up. It’s a Toyota Corolla with blacked-out windows and ‘Toyota’ emblazoned across the top of the tinted windscreen. I get in and my taxi driver tells me his name is Habib and then asks me where I want to go. I tell him the tourist office. We head off but the traffic is bad. It takes a while to reach the area where the tourist office is. Habib gets out and enquires about where it is actually located. It appears he has no idea where it is. He pulls in to park and says that we can go together.

We go inside an arcade and he heads to a woman at the lifts. She has a book for registering names. I say to Habib this doesn’t look like a tourist office. He says he knows but we can find out. We take the lift to the fourth floor and get out. It’s the government offices for tourism. I despair. We go to the reception. Habib talks in Swahili to the receptionist. I talk to the receptionist in English. He is unhelpful but I don’t blame him – he’s not working for a tourist office. Habib talks some more in Swahili. The receptionist makes a phone call. I have a feeling he’s calling the tourist office. The only words I understand are ‘mzungu’ and ‘Zanzibar’. He puts the phone down and says the tourist office is now closed. They open at 9am tomorrow. I despair again. I say let’s go to Habib. We head to the lifts. One opens but the arrow is going up. I stand back but Habib gets in – he didn’t see the arrow. He looks forlorn when he sees me not joining him as the doors shut. I get the next lift down and wait for him at the bottom. He turns up five minutes later. We leave for the car. I tell him to take me back to the hotel. The traffic is horrendous but I get to see some sights at least.

Sunday 3rd March 2013

It’s before 7am and I’m awake after a dreadfully hot night in the Hotel Kiponda, Stone Town, Zanzibar. I take breakfast after a cold shower. It is served on the balcony on the top floor. It’s a nice setting. I take a seat and prepare some corn flakes. Three women walk in but there is no free table for them so they’ll have to share a table. They look awkward. They walk up to mine and take one look at me and continue to the next table. Feelings are mutual. There’s a man on his own sipping coffee on another table. He starts playing on his iPhone and I wish it was 1998 again. Some eggs arrive but not in the way I asked. Communication breakdown.  I am impressed with the spread they have put on. It is the kind of breakfast you’d enjoy having every day if you had the time.

We leave the hotel and Mulenga heads back to Dar to sort stuff out. I go and book myself on the 4pm ferry. I walk into the maze that is Stone Town. I ask for directions to the spa. I get close. Some guy assists me and tells one of his underlings to take me to the spa. He offers small talk. When he gets me there I give him some notes. I head into the spa and ask for a massage. A women walks off and another women appears and calls out to me. I look at her but she is not looking at me. It clicks that she is blind.

After, I walk around Stone Town and get lost several times. I eventually find somewhere to sit and relax as the rains have come. At a coffee shop, I order ginger and lemongrass tea and take a seat at a big table. After two minutes a crowd from some tourist group arrive. I can instantly tell they are continental Europeans. It’s all awkward movements and fractured English. I vacate my seat so they can enjoy the big table. A small French man looks up at me and says thank you, in the same manner as an old lady does after you've got something down from the top shelf at the supermarket.

Time passes, and after I’ve over analysed everyone’s behavioural traits I decide to walk out and find some other form of entertainment. I take a walk along the sea front, and I walk further than I’ve been before. I come to a side route where the beach opens up. There are no locals hassling people to buy curios tat. I take a seat against the stone wall and watch the boats. There’s a couple in the sea, frolicking. I think about going in the sea but I’m worried about leaving my bag on the beach; I also worry about getting sand everywhere and the discomfort it brings. Eventually I relent and start stripping off. I leave my bag as close to the water as possible and stay near the shore in case I need to get out quickly and make pursuit. I float in the water. I have a moment of clarity.

I last 15 minutes before some character starts walking towards the sea front. I call it a day and get out. I stand there and let the sun dry me. Some Maasai guys walk past. They pick shells from the sea shore. They say hello and I say hello back. I pack my bag and head to get the ferry back to Dar.


Monday 4th March 2013

My eyelids open before 7am. Mulenga is off early, to Kariakoo again, to organise some spare parts. I take my time; I take breakfast, shower and then pack in the luxury of an air-conditioned room. I head out around 10am to get some cash at the ATM. I walk into the melee that is Kariakoo. Taxi drivers sitting around see a white man and think business has arrived. I disappoint them and use my legs. The ATM isn’t working so I find another one and then head straight back into the hotel lobby where it is air-conditioned. Just a half hour walking around and I feel dirty and hot. I wait and read the paper. Ferguson reckons he has a good chance versus Real Madrid because they won two big games on the bounce. Habib turns up and asks how his brother is and I tell him I’m fine. We sit next to each other. Mulenga turns up and we pack the car and leave for the meeting place to collect the car.

We arrive at the car meeting place: a patch of vacant land next to a petrol station. There’s a man in a white t-shirt and several other characters hanging there. Mulenga finds the CRV and does an immediate inspection. Chaps are assisting him. When he’s happy he tells me we can unload the taxi and pack the stuff in the car. I get Habib to help. I ask Mulenga some important car related checks that I learnt, and give off the vague pretence that I know what I’m talking about. It’s OK – there’s enough fluids. Mulenga pays Habib but Habib wants more money. Mulenga calls him his brother and refuses. Habib departs and some character drives off in the CRV to top up the tank. It soon transpires the agent has forgotten the papers so we are delayed. This is OK with Mulenga as it means he can change the oil. The man in the white t-shirt is the mechanic, it seems. He parks the car and gets to work. I plod around in the shade, staying away from the scorching heat. Just a few seconds exposure and I can feel my skin toasting.

I check on progress. Oil is changed but still no agent. The mechanic strikes up a conversation with me, asks me where I’m from. He tells me he’s never been to Europe but seen a lot of Africa. He tells me he went to Mozambique. I ask him if he can speak Portuguese. He says no. He asks me if I can speak any other languages. I tell him some French and Spanish, but little. He attempts to count to ten in Spanish and I help him through it because he struggles. We say goodbye.

A character appears with a roll of sellotape. He offers to tape up the wing mirrors for five pin. We all laugh. Mulenga says his tape is very cheap and offers one pin. The man accepts and calls Mulenga ‘boss’. Mulenga is worried that characters on the Morogoro Road will steal his mirrors at the lights. It starts to rain so we go to sit in the car. I head for the front seat but there’s a gigantic woman in there dressed in some security guard clothing so I sit in the back. Mulenga tells me she will be a shield to stop corrupt police on the Morogoro Road from stopping us and charging us silly fines. One of the agent’s characters who drive the cars from the port will drive us out of town. It is better that Tanzanians are in the front of the car apparently.

The gigantic woman (skin: black; weight: obese; hair: corn rows) sleeps in the passenger seat. She looks very lazy. She only stirs when her phone rings and then she shouts stuff in Swahili down the phone. Minutes clock up and the agent eventually appears. More money exchanges hands. Mulenga calls him a useless character when he leaves and gives the OK to the driver to go. Before this, though, the gigantic woman has a gigantic friend, also dressed in security clothing, who wants a lift too. Mulenga agrees but reluctantly, I can tell by the tone of his voice.  She sits in the back with us two. Before this, she goes to the toilet. I follow her. I open the door to the toilet vestibule but she didn’t lock it and I see her trying to lift her skirt back into place looking distressed. I turn away and wait. Nothing surprises me these days. I finish business quickly because the stench of the toilet is overbearing. I go back to the car and get in.

We ease our way out of town and come to the point where Mulenga takes over. The driver gets out and Mulenga gives him money but he asks for more. Mulenga laughs and calls him his brother. The driver tried his luck and failed. Mulenga gets back in, sets the seat and mirrors and drives off. It’s now Mulenga and I sitting right-side and the two gigantic women sitting left-side. They talk loudly in Swahili. They seem to forget they are in someone else’s car – a stranger’s car at that. After a while the talking is so loud that I have to cover my left ear with my hand. I start to dislike them a lot, much like my growing dislike for toilets without natural ventilation. It takes a good 30-40 minutes until we come to a checkpoint where one gets out. I breathe a sigh of relief internally. Who knows what they were talking about?

There are food stalls at the checkpoint. The women come crawling and surround the car. They speak in broken English because they can tell that we are not Tanzanian. One woman says to Mulenga, ‘Uncle, come eat. Nice food. Feel good. Satisfied.’ It sounds almost Hollywood Chinese English. One woman ushers me into her place. She has nshima, rice, chips... I take a step back and wait for a better offer as it doesn’t look appetising. Everyone is looking at me and making comments about the white man. After ten minutes Mulenga joins me and tells me this is the only place we’ll get food for a while. We both order chicken and chips. The chicken looks vaguely presentable in a glass cabinet with the chips. A man comes over and chops them up and then re-heats them in half a litre of oil. He uses his bare hands. I immediately think of where they might have been prior. A man walks past and tells him not to use his hands. Too late. The chips come fresh, at least. We get back in the car I take one bite of the chicken and then decide to eat the chips instead. Mulenga eats the chicken. He is not concerned about eating recycled chicken after an arduous morning gallivanting around Dar es Salaam looking for spare parts for his friend.

Mulenga wants to reach the Zambian border before 5am. At 5am the Tanzanian police will be setting up plenty of roadblocks waiting for unsuspecting foreigners to charge corrupt fines. Mulenga tells me that the gigantic women were talking about relationships – sexual ones at that. Thinking about them now repulses me. We both laugh talking about those characters.

We pass lots of traffic on the single lane highway. The roads are good, though. We talk widely and quickly. Mulenga likes to use the following sentence openers: ‘let me tell you something’ and ‘let me tell you this one thing’. I stare at the scenery because I have nothing else to do. I think about myself sitting on a stool, alone, in a pub with a log fire and a pint of Guinness sat on the table in front of me. Soon the sun disappears and we are in darkness. I start to get hungry and wonder when I’ll next eat something decent. We talk some more. We talk about solar panels, African women and useless workmates. The fuel light comes on and we start to get worried about when the next fuel station will appear. We come across a few but they are shut because it is past 11pm, though eventually we find one. A full tank makes me sleepy and I recline the seat and tell Mulenga to be careful.

Tuesday 5th March 2013

I stir in the night a lot. I wake up and Mulenga is putting more money in someone’s hand but I can’t tell who it is. I fall asleep. I wake again and there’s a man outside asking Mulenga if I am from Zambia. He says I am. I fall asleep. I wake up and the car has stopped and there’s a man asking Mulenga if he’s ‘with the white man’. He says he is. I start to fall asleep and I’m told that we are not far from Nakonde. I wake up in Nakonde. I feel dreadful.

It’s 6am and people are walking across the border between Tanzania and Zambia. There’s a boy outside eyeing up our vehicle. I give him the thumbs up and I see a huge smile. I get out the car and walk around. I feel slightly better. The boy is called Jarrod. He’s looking for work. Young men everywhere with no jobs but resorting to finding piece work. Jarrod’s friends come over. Mulenga starts talking to them. It’s all Bemba. I get back in the car. The agent meets Mulenga. They talk logistics. A boy outside is carrying a small fire extinguisher and shows Jarrod and his friends. Jarrod tries to take it off him but the boy resists and shouts at him. He probably nicked it from a lorry. He’ll now flog it to some person.

We leave the agent and head into Zambia. We get some money and then head to meet Mulenga’s friend at Zamtel. I buy two bananas, one for me and one for Mulenga. All I can hear is characters shouting sentences that include the word ‘muzungu’. We decide to take a taxi but the taxi guys are asking for too much – because Mulenga is with a white man. We walk on ignoring them and they all shout at Mulenga in Bemba. Translation: ‘You want to shaft your brothers by not giving us ten pin?’; ‘The white man is funding you, we know who you are, you’re a fake’; ‘Why are you walking with a women’s handbag?’ Mulenga roars with laughter and calls them characters.

We meet Mulenga’s friend and he offers to take us back to his house so we can shower and sleep. But we wait a good 45 minutes first. I sit there feeling utterly dreadful. Mulenga’s friend drives us to his home and gives us good hospitality. His wife and son are there. The son is shy and afraid of shaking my hand. I take a shower first. Afterwards the boy opens up and he brings his motor cars in the room. We play motor cars together until Mulenga finishes and the wife brings in some breakfast. We eat and fall asleep.

In the afternoon Mulenga attends to the dealings of his new car and customs whilst I knock around. I take lunch first. Jarrod escorts me to a restaurant on the Tanzanian side of the border. It’s very typical. Dark because there’s no light bulbs and full of flies because no one has bothered with fly prevention methods. I order fish with rice and then look to my left and smile at the waitress. She doesn’t smile back. She gives me void. I buy a Sprite for Jarrod. I think about buying him lunch but then the food arrives. I eat and then pay and then leave.

At customs there is an issue with getting the car checked so we wait at the government offices which remind me exactly of my workplace in Solwezi: disorganised and lots of people waiting. I walk around the complex. Out front trucks roll through the dusty road. I start to feel for the African truck driver. The roads are bad and the border crossings are painfully inefficient. One truck rolls by with its left side caved in. Driver has his arm in bandages. Someone asks him what happened. All I decipher from the sentence is ‘Zambia’.

Mulenga tells me we can’t leave today so we’ll have to leave tomorrow when an officer can check the car. A boy follows me and asks for one pin. He keeps asking me. I wait a while and then finally relent. He has a pained expression on his face like something bad is about to happen. We walk over the border to Tanzania and find a hotel. It’s not as good as the ABC in Dar but it will do. We shower and then crash on the beds. It’s game over for Tuesday 5th March.

Wednesday 6th March 2013

It’s 2pm and I get a phone call from Mulenga. He tells me that we’re ready to leave the border. I grab my bags and leave the hotel. It only takes a minute before people are asking me how I am. One character swoops in and asks me if he can carry my bag. I tell him OK. His name is long and has lots of k’s in it. He wants to improve his English. He lives with his sister who has no job. I ask him questions. I ask him whether he has any formal employment. He doesn’t. I then ask him if he has a girlfriend. He doesn’t. He points to his t-shirt which has the following written in neon: I don’t have money; I don’t have a job; I don’t have a girlfriend; I don’t have shit. He then smiles and he makes me smile. We walk through the border and find Mulenga’s car. I give him some small change and we say goodbye.

I wait by the car. A man comes up to me and tries to sell me a pair of trainers; a man comes up to me and asks me if I want the car to be washed; a man comes up to me with some Tanzanian wooden carvings; a man comes up to me and asks me if I want to buy an iPhone. Mulenga arrives. There’s a small fire on the grassy bank. We get in the car. We drive off but before we can get on the road, a boy sweeps in and catches Mulenga’s attention with CDs for sale. They’re all shrink wrapped so the boy starts unwrapping because Mulenga wants to try then in the CD player to see if they work. Dolly Parton, the Best of African Jazz, Kenny Rogers. None of them work. They are all fakes. A man wants 10 pin. Mulenga laughs. The man says ‘My brother...’

After four or five hours we arrive in Chinsali. It is the home of Mulenga’s mother. She lives in the village. Mulenga’s nephew meets us and transports us through the bush in the pitch black. Acrid smoke hangs in the air. He uses his mobile phone for light. After a few minutes we arrive. There are several people. Lots of handshakes. I greet in Bemba but I can’t say much more because no one speaks English. A woman brings me a wooden stool and I sit and watch family life in the Zambian bush. There are goats and chickens everywhere, and a blazing fire. A man starts speaking to me in English – Mulenga’s brother in law. I have absolutely no idea what is being said amongst the group. We head back to car and organise accommodation. There’s one room available adjoining an incongruous Mosque. A Somalian shows us the room. It’s poor. The mattress is a piece of foam but at least there are sheets. I thank myself for packing my mosquito net.

Mulenga’s family bring hot water and I wash in the shower room. The room is not even my shoulder height. There’s no light. I hang my torch in the corner. The floor is slanted for drainage. I have to bend to wash. After showers the family bring food: cassava and maize meal with some village chicken. It’s pretty good. The brother in law arrives to charge his phone in the room. We talk for some time but his English is not great. He asks me what year I was born in so I tell him. He tells me when he was born. I ask him what has been his favourite year and he tells me the year 1988. After he leaves we are so tired we get into bed. I sleep next to Mulenga’s feet and he sleeps next to mine.

Thursday 7th March 2013 and Friday 8th March 2013

It’s 5am. Once again I forget where I am. The Muslim man is praying right next door. He is interrupting my sleep. I give up after an hour and greet Mulenga. Water arrives around 7am from his family. I walk to the shower room. Spectacle: white man walking half-naked in an area where there are no other white people. I bend to wash again. This is what it is like in the mines I think. After we’ve both washed, breakfast arrives from Mulenga’s mother. It is cooked cassava and maize. We put it in the car with the rest of our stuff. Mulenga takes his mother and other family members back to the village. He gives them stuff and they give him stuff – mostly food. I stand around and take photos. The boys are camera shy. There are goats walking around. After ten minutes we are good to go, and leave them for a day ploughing the fields.

I look at the speedometer and Mulenga is hammering his Honda CRV. We pass some commotion and a broken down car. Mulenga breaks and heads back. He wants to help out a brother. Maybe give him a ride to the next town. In the rearview mirror a man is running, but then stops when he sees Mulenga reversing. We laugh at the useless character. He comes to the window and they speak in Bemba. I don’t pick much but words are being shouted. I get the word ‘solution’. The man runs off and gets his bags while two men stand awkwardly behind him. The man is back and gets in but the broken down car and its owners remain. We set off. He smells a bit.

After some small talk between Mulenga and the man (named Chibesa), silence resumes. Mulenga continues to hammer his car – he wants to get to Kapiri before the sun sets. Chibesa makes himself comfortable by taking off his shoes and lying down on the back seat. I wonder if this is acceptable in Zambia. I certainly wouldn’t do that in someone else’s car. I get slight whiffs of his feet but it is not too bad thankfully.

I stare at the scenery, the endless void. The men in the car join to discuss politics. Apparently Chavez is dead. We talk about Rupiah Banda. He is not well liked by Mulenga or Chibesa. We then talk about snakes and how well equipped a cat is to the threat of them. Mulenga says cats are very crafty. Chibesa seems interested in Mulenga’s information. After some time we take a stop to refuel. Chibesa buys some takeaway and eats it on the backseat. I wonder if this is acceptable in Zambia. We arrive at the turning to head north to Copperbelt and the sun has set. Mulenga buys some vegetables on the side of the road. Women crowd his car at both windows. Mulenga has all the power. He can pick and choose and relax – women clamouring for his money.

The drive to Copperbelt is not so long but it is dark and driving is difficult. There are no road markings or lights so cars indicate towards each other to help visualise the edge of the vehicles. It doesn’t look like much fun. Chibesa is very quiet. He doesn’t make a peep until he reaches Copperbelt, Ndola. We drop him at the side of the road in town. He thanks us and gives Mulenga some money. As he walks off Mulenga says that he will head straight into a bar and plough beer. I agree. It transpires he was with the car that broke down back in Northern Province where we picked him up, but did a runner from the guys that picked him up when he saw Mulenga’s car stop. Mulenga calls him a very useless character. We laugh. We laugh at how useless his manners were.

From Ndola we drive to Kitwe. From Kitwe we drive to Chingola. From Chingola we drive to Solwezi. The stretch between Chingola to Solwezi is only 169km but because the road is shockingly bad, Mulenga reckons it will take 2-3 hours. He was right. We arrive in Solwezi at 2am. I am dying for bed. From Chinsali to Solwezi in one day! As we enter Solwezi there is a drunk man stumbling across the road by the junction to the mine. Mulenga starts shouting at him. The man responds, but in that sorrowful way when you know you’ve had too much and there’s nothing you can do about it but wait. It turns out that the drunken man is the last character we come across as I finally reach home. I open the door and dump my bags. Mulenga asks to use the toilet. I say OK. He manages to turn the light off after him this time.

Kasempa

Some 200km from Solwezi is the rather pleasant, peaceful town of Kasempa. Unlike most Zambian towns it has refrained from developing in a linear fashion, and there is a degree of planning that means it does not suffer from the haphazard and disorganised chaos that afflicts many Zambian towns. It is also fortunate to have a landmark in the form of Kamusongolwa Hill, a peak of roughly a few hundred metres. It is nothing astounding, but it is welcome sight after endless miles of gently undulating bush that spans the north-western lands of Zambia.

We went there to hand out questionnaires to house owners in order to get reliable information on land ownership and planning permission. Record keeping systems in the office where I am working are not great (ideally, this information should be recorded adequately from the office as well as getting information from other government departments). The most simple of tasks seem to be difficult here sometimes.

Upon arrival, our first job was to call in at the district council offices. There is a department that manages the opening up of residential areas and handles payments for rates and the like. We requested assistance and we were given the affable Mr Mutoka, who could well be Mr Kasempa if there was such a prize. He seemed to know everyone in town. He would prove to be very useful in helping to escort us around the areas where we had earmarked for survey.

Mr Mutoka wore a body warmer every day in 30 plus degree heat. It made me uncomfortable just looking at him. For a country of men and women that used to go hunting in cloth to cover private parts, I am endlessly amazed at how much Zambians like to wear layers of clothes. Iesu Grist, this is a country where homes do not require central heating!

Nzubo (home)

So with Mr Mutoka in tow and my colleague, Vincent, we went from house to house. It was an interesting experience and provided an insight into Zambian home life.

The majority of homes we visited had someone home even as it was the working day, and there was always someone doing some gardening, some crop work, some food preparation. The front of the house is generally unused and redundant – the back is where life occurs. You rarely see people coming through the front door when they leave or enter. Even in Solwezi my neighbours use the back door and I use the front. Someone can do an anthropological study on that one.

The maids prepare food (and clean) all morning, and most of the time the smell of nshima (maize meal cooked with boiling water) drifts through the air. Kitchens are used but most people prefer to prepare food outside under their kinzana (an open rotund structure supported by wooden poles with a thatched roof made of local plants) with a brazier and some pots. It shows that despite the influence of Western houses with inclusive kitchens, Zambians still tend to enjoy having a kinzanza in the garden. They will sometimes still cook outside using braziers even if electricity is available.

Another noticeable characteristic of Zambian homes, especially in areas where the houses are quite close together, is the garden life. Gardens tend be an assembly of plants, crops, mud, and rubbish – which is randomly strewn everywhere by the wind. As there is no collection by the council people bury rubbish in a ditch in their back garden and then burn it once in a while. You also get animals walking around – chickens, dogs (always barking – no one seems to walk their dogs), goats... It’s anyone’s guess who owns the animals. We even saw a magnificent turkey at one house. I asked the boy we were talking to if he was getting it ready for Christmas and he just looked at me like I was a can of Ronseal.

The greetings

Kasempa is a Kaonde town so Kikaonde is predominantly spoken. Greeting one another in Zambia is an important part of the day. Here you shake hands every day when you first meet.  A ‘hello’ followed by a ‘how are you?’ is standard if one is speaking English. It’s almost as if ‘how are you?’ is unnecessary. You just automatically reply that you are fine. You’re not going to stop and tell someone you don’t know you have haemorrhoids or something, are you?*

As we went round the houses it was interesting to see how I was greeted. Most people would address my colleagues in Kikaonde and then address me in English with ‘How are you, sir?’ There were times, though, when I was addressed in Kikaonde, and luckily life in Solwezi has equipped me for such questions. Here are three select classics:

Byepi, mwan? (How are you?)
Bulongo tu, mwane (I am fine)
Mwane sank you, mwane (Your welcome)

Interestingly the Kaondes adopted ‘thank you’ as a ‘you’re welcome’ gesture, but for native Kikaonde speakers pronouncing the ‘th’ like in thank you is difficult, so it became ‘sank you’. I do find it strange how they adopted this into the language. Mwane is an honorific particle and is widely used in the languages of North Western Province.

I like to watch people greet in the street, at the market, etc. For those greeting without being in contact, the process involves crouching slightly and slowly clapping the hands together then gently opening and closing several times. The right arm is also drawn across the chest and patted slightly on the left breast. There is also a slight crouch, almost like a curtsy, which is chiefly used by women. And as for greetings by hand, well, there are several different handshakes that would take up a whole new blog post...

Plots and plots of issues

The trip to Kasempa gave me a visual understanding of the many problems that occur in urban areas. I want to now discuss this riveting topic so get ready for a rip-roaring ride of entertainment.

The districts councils and the government (Ministry of Lands) set out areas for development. Once an area of land has been chosen for development, it is then the responsibility of our department to do a plan for the proposed area – demarcating plots, etc. Once this has been done, it is sent to Lands for numbering (I don’t know why this is done – it would be far easier if our department did it). The survey department then do their stuff, e.g. implementing beacons to show the boundaries of the plots. As it takes a long time for the plots to get numbered, the public are entitled to buy up the plots and apply for permission to build.

Now this is where the problems start. Firstly, people own plots and are building on plots that don’t actually have a plot number. Secondly, the areas that the local authority open up should be ready before people are allowed to move in and build. When I say ready, I mean roads and utilities being put in place. The latter doesn’t seem to be a problem, but the road implementation is. The local authorities should be tarring the roads that are set out in the plan. In Kasempa, all the new areas that have been opened up for development have no roads, just mud tracks.

So when you don’t have a plot number or a tarred road, you don’t have an address. This is not a problem in post delivering terms as the post office has hundreds of post office boxes that you can rent. Nonetheless, even when the plot numbers are known, there is never any visual notification on the house or at the entrance to a house. So without named tarred roads and plot numbers it is very difficult to get an understanding of an area.

It is also difficult to get a sense of where one plot starts and ends. The map we were working from was different to what was on the ground in many cases. For example, plot owners had nibbled away and taken a bit of land here, a bit of land there. The beacons that had been originally implemented by the surveyors were buried in most cases. Sometimes you’d see a beacon within a property, proving that the owner had taken over land, be it from another plot or some amenity land or a road. So what you find is the majority of homes have merged into each other without any clear physical indication of the boundaries between plots. Fencing is rarely used so people are free to walk around in and amongst houses. Security does not seem to be an issue in a small town like Kasempa.

Houses

Generally, houses in Kasempa, and across North Western Province, are built in a bungalow style. These are all modelled on the houses that were built by the British in colonial times. Building over two stories is just unnecessary when land is cheap and plentiful, and because of the extra cost. The bungalow influence is all over Zambia. It is a shame as I have not yet seen any high-cost homes in urban areas that incorporate traditional styles of construction and design. It is only those who have limited funds that will build traditional styles in urban areas.

The traditional Zambian home involves several separate structures; for example, one structure for the bedroom, one for the cooking area (the kinzanza as mentioned above), one for the toilet, and so on. Using burnt brick and thatched roofs, the houses are very simple and straightforward to construct. But obviously the materials and construction methods do not allow for solid homes that last decades. So when the Western style bungalow was introduced, it was seen as the way forward. The bungalow, then, is a symbol of progress in Zambia – the machine playing its part.

People don’t want to live in separate buildings like people still do in the villages. Give a human being a better tool to make life easier and nine times out of ten they will take it up. This is the case with the bungalow over the brick huts and straw roofs. But like most things that we take to be better and make our lives easier there are drawbacks. In this case there is the gradual loss of traditional forms of housing as the country becomes more urbanised; the loss of character and identity; the greater impact on the environment from using Western styled houses; homogenous residential suburbs; the dulling of the senses. So for the ever-growing Zambian middle-class, the dream is to have a nice bungalow.

Construction

When a plot of land is purchased (in Kasempa a plot goes for roughly K 2 million – about £250) the first thing is to construct a small caretaker’s building or servant’s building so that some people can live on site. Once you have your land you can’t afford to leave it vacant or the council will just sell it on it someone else through corruption or bad management. Getting title deeds here is also hard work because of the bureaucratic and slow government departments.

People build houses themselves enlisting a foreman and some helpers as there are no construction firms or large house builders in Kasempa. On the whole, these people are not qualified builders and most will not have taken any formal education in construction. Knowledge is passed down from job to job. It is only in the large towns like Kitwe, Ndola, and Lusaka, that you will find construction firms. The dearth of qualified builders is a problem in these parts. You come across many instances of bad workmanship and botched jobs. Even on our field work we came across some foundations that had skewed angles and oblique lines that were so easily visible to the naked eye. There was one house that was built to a decent standard but the owner had decided to construct an extension himself, by using his bare eyes it seemed. It was a shocking sight, and the original building looked sad having this sham adjoining it. The naked eye: it’s good, but not that good.

You come across a lot of houses that are unfinished or remain on the verge of breaking point. The paint work chipped and faded; the drainage pipes half broke; the plaster breaking; doors falling off hinges. You see a lot of houses like this in Zambia. Put it down to a lack of capital and different priorities, or just a lack of interest in caring for your home. Like living a hand-to-mouth existence, many Zambians will get the foundations up first and then move in; the rest of the house will be finished when the money comes in.

Heritage

On our travels we came across the oldest houses in the urban area of Kasempa. The British built them when they first settled in Kasempa to house the civil servants. Some of these houses were sited on a bank overlooking a vast plain offering good views for miles. I have come to notice this in other parts of North Western Province where colonial housing was built. It is then that you see the European influence of siting houses to maximise a vantage point.

When the British started to leave in the 1960s, following independence, the locals began to move in. From going house to house, some of them had not seen a touch of maintenance; you could see the original paintwork completely faded and the roof completely battered. It was a sad sight to see, and it was a struggle to imagine them brand new. These were historical houses with heritage value, but in Zambia there exists no process whereby you can protect a building like in the UK. But it is more likely than no one really cares about historic buildings. There are more pressing matters – the priorities are different. Soon, in the not too distant future, the homes will crumble, slowly eradicating the built history of the British in Kasempa. But fear not, the legacy of the colonial style bungalow will live on instead!


* I asked a man I barely knew how he was, and he told me he had haemorrhoids.

Minibuses

A ride on a minibus in Zambia is nothing like my childhood memories of riding the Cardiff Clipper. It’s uncomfortable, hot, cramped, smelly, but definitely not a dull experience.

Minibuses are the principal form of public transport, and are ubiquitous in urban areas. Apart from taxis, they are the only way of getting around quickly for the car-less masses.

The buses are all Toyota second-hand imports – old HiAces. They are not owned by the local council, but by some kind of oligopoly: a bunch of moneyed men who ship over a bundle at a time from Japan to an African port for collection. Once in the country they are stripped inside of their (what I imagine to be) reasonably comfortable seats. Then a new interior is fitted to minimise space for the passenger and maximise the amount of seats for profit (ah, capitalism!). There is no permanent isle space for walking along as fold-down seats are used, so there are four lateral rows spanning the area behind the driver.

Inside, the interior is nearly always dilapidated. I wonder if the buses ever look reasonably new once the interior is fitted and the van painted, or whether they are just made old. I am yet to see a minibus that looks like it has just been fitted out. The benches are not particularly strong and the metal rigging to hold the seats in place is usually broke. Everything just looks like an accident waiting to happen.

More often than not, there is a large portrait of Jesus hanging above the driver. And the rows that you sit on mimic pews in a church, so you find yourself in a mini mobile church of sorts. Fortunately there are no preachers. The exterior of these buses is also pious, with tokenistic Christian phrases painted on the top of the front or back of the bus. Classics such as ‘Jesus wept’, ‘In God we trust’, and ‘Forgive us Father’.

Routes bloody routes

The buses are used not just within towns, but also for inter-town/city travel. They are not safe enough to be used for this in my opinion. You often hear about one of these buses rolling and crashing, and people dying. In towns, though, they are reasonably safe as the driver cannot get up to high speeds because of the constant stopping to pick up and drop off.

In Solwezi, the minibuses ply the same route from the hospital to the western end of town. Two pin a journey (approximately £0.25). There are no formal bus stops. If you want to get on you just wave your arm.  All that health and safety guff about not being able to stop away from a designated bus stop does not exist here. To get the attention of potential customers, the driver will beep his horn in short sharp bursts of two to three beeps at a time every few seconds or so (rarely do you see the people using the horn for its original purpose in Zambia).

Getting on

The buses are not designed to allow for ease of entry. Anyone over six foot, overweight or old will have trouble getting on. Forget health and safety and compo culture, if you injure yourself it is your own problem! Your human instinct is all you have – the assessment of risk. The side door is the entry point. You look inside and just see cramped darkness. You think that there is no way bodies can move around in there. And you can never clearly make out where the space is to sit.

One time I got my approach all wrong. I put my left leg in and thrust my hips forward and just got stuck between the seats and the entrance. I didn’t rectify immediately. I just stopped and laughed at the situation; laughed at how ridiculously small the buses are. People inside were laughing with me (but probably at me) as well. Once I managed to re-thrust my body onto a seat, the guy in front said, ‘Nice experience, huh?!’

No.

Ride with us

Once you’re on, you just have to hope that the journey passes without incident: that you don’t break down or stop too much. If you’re wedged in at the back, you have to hope that no one wants to get off otherwise you have to get out with bags in hand and then get on again. This is not easy when you have long legs.

I always (after many learning experiences) try and find a seat up front with the driver, thereby avoiding the chaos of the back. If I can’t get one up front then I try and take a seat in the front row of the rear. Sometimes a bus will stop and I will see only seats at the back, so I pretend I don’t need a ride and wait for the next one. Oh, and never sit next to a heffer, because you’ll have room for only one arse-cheek.

When in transit everything is OK, but when the bus stops, the heat is oppressive and the body odour of some people is unbearable. Sometimes I have to breathe through my mouth. It’s almost as bad as a 1990s boys’ changing room at a state funded secondary school, after the relentless pumping of Lynx Africa under bare armpits. (By the way, Africa smells nothing like Lynx Africa.)

The conductor

Perhaps the most interesting aspect of the minibus experience is the conductor. Predominantly, the conductors are young men in the late teens or twenties. Utter characters, they are. They have two jobs: to get business in and to handle payments.

To garner business when in motion, the conductor will hang his upper body out of the side window. One arm is raised in the air out of the window, whilst the other is holding a large bundle of cash (there are no coins in Zambian currency). When raising the arm in the air, the hand is fixed with four fingers tight together and the thumb just behind the forefinger almost in parallel. The arm is held up in the air and the hand is flicked in a forward motion to passers-by. The following are usually shouted depending on the type of human being:

Ma mi
Ma sister
Big man
Mama
Papa
Chief
Boss

The conductors are like hawks. They will spot custom a mile off, and they won’t give the signal to the driver to move until the bus is full. Sometimes a conductor will spot someone waving down a side road, and before you know it, the minibus is in reverse to mop up more business. Even as I walk towards the main road from my house I’ll see a minibus waiting with a conductor whistling and waving his arm. You can be 400m away and he will wait for you if you wave back. Never has getting a ride on a bus been so easy.

The advantage of all this competition is that there are always buses going by so you are never stuck waiting. You will often see conductors beating of rival conductors as they try to get a potential customer in their bus – fighting over another two pin for the coffers. The more business a conductor gets in, the more money he is paid at the end of the day.

Once in motion, the conductor will start collecting fares. This is usually done a few people at a time to avoid confusion when handing back change. Like mobsters with a thick wodges of fresh cash, they thumb through the notes with expert ease. If the conductor has managed to fill the bus, and thereby forsaking his own seat, he will stand half crouched over the person sat on the seat by the door to collect the cash. This is the worst place to be sitting because you get a box-office view of his crotch.

Getting off

If you want to get off then you tell the conductor your stop. Although there are no designated bus stops in Solwezi, there are landmarks: Zanaco, Shoprite, Mema House. The conductor will tap his fist on the roof of the van as a signal to the driver to stop.  If you’re up front with the driver you just need to hope that the door opens using the latch otherwise you look like an idiot trying the lock over and over again. If you’re in the back, just hope you don’t trip on the metal rigging.

The relief at getting off is a good feeling. The only thing left to do is to check you have the essentials with you:

Wallet
Phone
Keys

And then you walk off and watch the sun glimmer off the cheap alloy wheels as the bus moves away.

Zambezi and Chavuma

Another field expedition came soon after the Ikelenge trip. This time it was way out west to two districts known as Zambezi and Chavuma. The department was requested by the council in Chavuma to do some layout planning (involving using a GPS to pick up out potential roads and boundaries for residential areas, and then producing a plan using GIS) for an area of the Chavuma township. There was no Mulenga this time, just me, Vincent and Nasun (known affectionately as ‘Baby Nasun’).

There were no vehicles available to us at the office, and we had no driver, so one was sent from Chavuma (it seems ludicrous to send a driver over 600 km to pick up 3 men, but, hey, this is the way it is here). Our man on the accelerator was called Clifford. He picked me up first from home. He was wearing an Arsenal replica shirt (2010/11 season – no name or number on the back), so we talked Arsenal – nothing else. His vehicle was a white Toyota Land Cruiser with ‘Ministry of Agriculture’ written on the side. Inside the van, there were two uncomfortable benches in the back and just the one seat up front. Knowing that I wouldn’t get the seat up front (that would Baby Nasun’s pleasure), a slight twinge of pre-journey pain ran through my body.

After getting the other guys we shopped in Shoprite, which was arduous. Picture the scene: three men walking around with a trolley trying to decide what to eat for a week.

‘How much toilet roll do we need?’
‘Do we need all that sugar?’
‘We don’t need that much water.’
‘I forgot to get some glycerine.’
‘We can get meat there.’
‘What tea do you want?’
‘I’m easy.’
‘OK.’
‘We should get some more water.’
 ‘Where’s Vincent* gone?’
‘Fish?’

Inevitably kick off was delayed because of some serious faffing (aside from Shoprite). What should have been a midday departure turned into a 17.00 hours departure, right amongst the thick Solwezi traffic. In true Zambian style there were a few stops before we eventually left town. Interestingly, when we picked up bread from the bakery we managed to pick up a human being. He had a box with a home cinema system in it but the box was for a vacuum cleaner; he also had three loaves of bread. I had no idea who he was – nor did Vincent. It transpired he was a teacher from Chavuma who needed a ride back. Fair enough.

So there we were, Vincent, me, bread-man and an entire week’s worth of food and water packed into the back. It was uncomfortable, but the moment Clifford hit top speed the warm, smoky air flowed through the van and it was just about OK considering we had over 600 km to go and the sun was going down. Vincent and I flirted with some ribald banter, but when bread-man (real name Joseph) eventually left his role of pot plant in the corner and joined in, the conversation moved towards second gear small talk.

Clifford got us to Mufumbwe around 19.30 so we decided to stay the night and head out early in the morning to reach our destination. Mufumbwe was another bog-standard Zambian linear town. Dust everywhere, lots of people loitering around, buildings with faded paint and chipped concrete, the stench of burnt plastic in the air, chickens and dogs wandering around...

Chavuma – but Zambezi first

The next morning we breakfasted at the guest house watching ZNBC. There was an interview with Macky 2 - the less said about him the better. So with our bellies full and brains fried, we set off to finish the last leg of the journey to Chavuma.

The road was very good, which surprised me. After a bad stretch between Kabompo and Manyinga, where the road was being tarred, the road to Zambezi was brand new. Fresh tarmac laid by the Chinese. There were even road markers indicating the distance to Zambezi (road signs are virtually non-existent in Zambia), and the tarmac didn’t spill towards the edge of the road akin to dried lava flow like it does on other roads in Zambia.

When we got to Zambezi, Joseph dropped off some loaves of bread to some family members whilst we got some refreshments in the form of fizzy pop (I had a Sprite, Vincent had a Coca Cola). Baby Nasun called us and we were soon on the road for our final stretch to Chavuma. After some time Clifford hammered a left turn – I gathered we were taking Joseph home but everyone was talking in Bemba. Like a captured fish returning to water, the Land Cruiser came into its own here, taking on some 6 km of rough track towards the Zambezi River. We eventually came to a stop near the river where a bridge spanned the water. It is known as the Chinyingi Suspension Bridge. An Italian missionary built it over 30 years ago, and it looks it. It wobbles as you walk over it. You wouldn’t want to fall down as crocodiles roam around the river banks. Joseph even entertained us with a story about a man getting chewed up. Yeah, cheers Joe.

We said goodbye to Joseph and I watched him walk over the suspension bridge with his remaining loaves and home cinema system. I wondered if he had that intense feeling of excitement you get when you buy a new electrical product that has the sole purpose to entertain... Anyway, we returned to the main road. Not soon after we hit detour after detour as the road was being tarred. It was an uncomfortable experience. Hot, dusty, bumpy, hot – nothing more, nothing less.

Chavuma

We arrived in Chavuma around 13.00. It was like the Wild West. Even the buildings looked dead and deserted. We came to a roundabout. There was a sign: head straight to the Angolan border, or turn right, or turn left. We turned left and soon found ourselves at the council offices where we were to meet the district commissioner who would escort us to our accommodation for the week.

Baby Nasun called him and found that he was out of town much to our frustration. So we had to sit around and wait. Fortunately Clifford took us to his home and sat us down in the living room. It was full of boys just watching TV. The Zambian tradition of respect your elders came into effect here, and within seconds the sofas were vacated.

After watching a fair chunk of West Ham v Fulham, Mr DC finally arrived so we went to meet him in town. We were taken to see some private accommodation because the guest houses were fully booked due to the road construction. Most districts have a council guesthouse which is primarily used for government workers when they have to travel around the country. Unfortunately there was no such facility here.

We arrived at the house after a short drive through town. The house looked quite nice from the outside. After a few minutes waiting, a caretaker came with keys to open the door. She must’ve had about 100 keys on her. To my dismay she didn’t know which one opened the door. So we all watched her go one by one through the keys. I was getting agitated. I just wanted to scream. Why hadn’t she thought of putting tags on the keys so she understood which keys were for what?

Meanwhile, whilst the keys were being tested, some drunken man came along with the intention to entertain, I think. He was absolutely smashed: wobbling, slurring, singing, dribbling. He had probably been drinking (the now banned) tujilijili – a strong spirit that is sold in small transparent bags like the ones you get goldfish in at the school fair. Our court jester came towards me first, clearly because I was the white man. You get all the attention – good and bad. This was bad. It was the wrong time to approach me. I was close to meltdown after the long drive and waiting all afternoon to wash, as well as the oppressive afternoon air. I had to get up and walk away. ‘Welcome to Africa,’ Clifford said with a grin on his face. Yeah, cheers Cliff.

Inside the house was...well, nothing. No furniture, no kitchen, no kitchen utensils. I couldn’t believe our tour rep took us here. Was he taking the piss? How would we sleep, cook and bathe? Apparently the water could be connected easily, but that was only a slight help considering all the other problems. We left after our quick tour and went to another place in town.

The second place was located round the back of a shop right next to the market. They were tiny bed sits that opened out onto a small patio. There were two rooms, and inside each room was a double-bed, a fan and a TV. There was just enough space for you to take your clothes off. Again, I was incredulous! Our tour rep’s entourage all had annoyingly patient smug faces like Phil Spencer. Just by looking at their facial expressions I could read what they were thinking:

‘What do you think of this?’
‘It’s alright this, yeah?’
‘Not bad, this...’
‘Now this is where you wanna be.’

This really wasn’t it. After a while it dawned on me that we were only shown two rooms. Three into two just doesn’t go unless one wants to share a double bed. But then I saw a third door and opened it – it was a toilet. I said Vincent could stay in there. Baby Nasun enjoyed that joke, but the man showing us the accommodation just didn’t get it. His face didn’t contort, and his head didn’t tilt back to let out laughter. As we walked off I was still wondering how staying there would have worked logistically considering there were only two beds.

So after waiting all afternoon to see two sub-standard places to stay we figured we’d have to go back to Zambezi to stay the night. Baby Nasun told the DC that he needed to prepare the house for living in by getting some mattresses, the water connected and some kitchen materials. I wasn’t confident that it would be completed on a Sunday for us to move in on the Monday. All I wanted was a cold shower to wash away the day’s trivialities.

Sunday in Zambezi

It was noticeably hotter in Zambezi than Solwezi. The kind of heat that when you first put your clothes on after a cold shower you're starting to sweat. We loitered around the lodge in the morning, and after lunch the three of us went for a walk through town and then down to the Zambezi.

We approached the river by passing through a lodge that overlooks it. The views were stunning, but the lodge wasn’t. It was clearly built well over 30-40 years ago. Now it was looking extremely unloved and tired. This is the type of place where tourism could flourish if there was a demand for it. Maybe one day.

We made our way down the banks to the river. As it was Sunday it was very busy. There were no adults around, just kids – mainly boys. They were everywhere! Running around and jumping into the river in their underwear. The Zambezi was a good 500m wide so there were boats that could take you to the beach on the other side. We stood and just soaked in the views and the life happening around us. One boy came up to us and shared our space for a while. He had a pet monkey tied to a rope so he could walk it like a dog. I asked him what the name of his pet was. He told me he was called Gilbert. I couldn’t stop looking at Gilbert’s bare arse.

Vincent disappeared after a while, so Baby Nasun and I started walking back. We stopped at the top by the lodge to wait for him. The sun was beginning to set over the horizon, so I found a place between two trees to watch the colours change. Vincent never came. He did one of his specials by disappearing without saying where he was going. That didn’t matter. The view was all that mattered. Another day in Zambia and another Zambezi experience notched to my belt. They never fail to disappoint.


*It turned out Vincent forgot the onions. Yeah, cheers Vin.

Ikelenge

The Zambian government is busy in the process of decentralisation since President Sata’s rise to power in October 2011. The main aim is to empower districts councils so to reduce reliance on the provincial offices. As many districts cover large areas it is now seen as practical to start creating new districts to help share the administrative burden. In North Western Province, an area of Mwinilunga district was sectioned off and designated a new district. This district was named Ikelenge.

The establishment of Ikelenge was of consequence to our office (Department of Physical Planning and Housing) as we were tasked with creating a planning boundary for the township area (township in Zambia means the urban developed area – outside of township areas land is owned by the chiefdoms). We also were required to create a masterplan for an area of land that will be the district’s main urban area. At present, there is only a high street type settlement that serves as the district’s business centre.

Onwards, to Ikelenge...

The trip to Ikelenge was my first trip into the field for what is known as ‘field work’. The department has two vehicles for such trips. Unfortunately we had to make do with the forlorn Nissan Hardbody (silver) over the Toyota Hilux. Mulenga (Field Survey Officer) picked me up at 4.30am to load up our food, water and petrol (there are no pumps in Ikelenge, just black market fuel) from the office.

The road from Solwezi to Mwinilunga is adequate, without too many potholes. However, it is still not a pleasant drive, especially when the tyres and suspension on the Nissan were not in the best shape. It takes roughly 3-4 hours to reach Mwinilunga, and from there it takes another 1-2 hours to reach Ikelenge. The road to Ikelenge is sporadically developed. When you travel north from Mwinilunga the tarmac stops and gravel/dust/mud takes over. Momentary respite from the bumps came when we travelled on patches of tarred road which were apparently done for the election campaign in 2011.

The journey was very picturesque, driving through open plains and passing numerous villages, under canopies of trees and fading leaves that reminded me of autumn on that sceptred isle. The road was busy with people traffic as standard in Zambia. In particular there were a lot of bicycles where men would be carrying obscene amounts of cargo (chairs, tin roofs, animals, wooden beams). We passed one village where a man was holding a replica copy of the African Cup (Zambia were champions earlier this year). Through my sleepy haze I initially thought I was seeing the real thing, but clearly a man sensed an opportunity to sell something when he heard a car coming.

There’s a section of road on the way to Ikelenge that skirts the border of the DR Congo. You certainly wouldn’t want to stray off track here as there are meant to be landmines in the dense bush. You also pass the turnoff for the source of the Zambezi River. A tiny drop through some rocks sets it off. From here it travels north and loops through Angola and back in Zambia, down through Western Province and follows the southern border until a 100m drop famously known as Victoria Falls. Approximately 550 million litres drops over the edge each year. Then the river moves through Mozambique and finally it meets the Indian Ocean, 2,700 km from where it began.

Town (or village...)

In Ikelenge, the main hub of life is focussed around a small strip of shops and a market. The market is a reasonable structure by Zambian rural standards and even has a roof. Nevertheless, the entrepreneurial spirit in Zambian people takes precedence, and because of the lack of regulations and enforcement, the traders sell their goods by the side of the road. This has advantages and disadvantages.

The advantage is that as you pass you can easily pick up goods and be on your way without having to divert and stop your car to pass through the market. It also adds to the vibrancy of Zambian streets/roads and gives a real distinctive African feel. The disadvantage is that these people are not paying rates trade and therefore money is not collected for the authorities to pay for better infrastructure and services. In addition, the space they take up can cause hazards and create a hectic feel especially when you are trying to walk by when cars are passing. These traders are very close to car traffic.

The reason the roadside economy continues to flourish is because Sata, in his ascension to power, promised these people that they could remain trading on the streets and would not be removed if he got to power. So far, there has been no broken promise, but for the public on the street going about their daily business the traders can be a real problem, causing congestion, noise and disorder. Sata also promised that he would rule Zambia in line with the Ten Commandments.

The roadside sellers are predominantly women. Many working beside their children, with babies strapped to their backs. They come from the villages, probably having walked miles just to get to town to make some money. Many women mix Western and African clothing, blending an array of colours and styles. On the bottom half, the chitenge to ensure that the knees are covered – a shibboleth that will remain for some time yet; and the upper half, tops sent over from charity shops – you can even recognise some from the time they were in fashion in the UK. I do find it strange when they are walking around in the Manchester United 2006/07 replica kit, with ‘Rooney’ emblazoned on the back. They probably have no idea who he is or what he gets up to in his spare time.

Aside from the groups of women selling goods, you also notice a lot of kids playing around. It is clear that there is little to do for the youth of Ikelenge. Entertainment in the village centre revolves around the pool table. It’s crowded with boys every day until the sun goes down at 7pm (there is a bulb allowing for post-darkness play but, apparently, the owner of the shop near to the table has not been around to turn it on). The boys still play in the semi-darkness – what else is there to do?

Villages

Out of the ‘town’ and into the rural villages. The poverty is clear to see. These people have nothing but the clothes on their back and whatever excess food they have grown that can be sold in order to buy stuff. The economy is based primarily on selling pineapples, or makondi in Lunda. There are fields everywhere. The patriarch will set up his home near his field and toil in the day to make sure the pineapples are tended to. Constant care is required as it takes roughly two to three years from planting to ripe fruit. So, whilst the men work in the fields, the women fetch the water, clean and prepare food.

If men are not working then they are being idle. It makes you realise how much unemployment there is in Zambia. In these chiefdoms, the men don’t have the role that they had many years ago when they were responsible for hunting for food. If they don’t have a trade then they will be doing some small-scale subsistence work like crafting chairs, selling bricks, or selling a chicken to a neighbour. It is evident that it will come to a point where the money they make from selling pineapples (or other items) won’t be enough for them to feed their families. And so to the towns and cities they will go. This is a classic example of why there is so much urbanisation occurring in Africa, and will keep continuing for the next few decades.

Pineapple hunt

One of the highlights of being in Ikelenge is the availability of pineapples. They are everywhere. To shop for pineapples the process begins by a simple beep of the horn. It is all that is needed to get the attention of the villagers. They know that business has arrived. Kids come first, running because of the excitement, followed by the elders...

Mulenga does the talking. His scratchy Lunda is just enough to communicate. I have no idea what is being said so I just watch the body language and use my instinct. Before I know it we are out of the vehicle and into the fields. Boys follow me, staring at me in their rags. Just a wave to them and eyes beam brightly – smiles are wide. I like to think I make their day.

Mulenga is a pro at this game. Before I know it he’s down the bottom of the field, picking out the best pineapples. The women are in tow to collect the ones he points at. After the collection a man comes over with his knife. He expertly shaves the pineapple and cuts it into segments ready for consumption.

So there we were, surrounded by undulating pineapple fields somewhere near the 11th parallel. No roads, no pedestrian crossings, no places of worship, no Smirnoff Ice, no iPhones, no health clubs, no broken glass, no cigarette butts. Just men standing on the scorched-dry dust-ridden earth sucking on pineapples so sweet. Taking in a life-enhancing fruit; feeling one of those rewarding moments; being a sentient being; tasting the life flow. My bad childhood memories of Asda frozen ham and pineapple pizzas firmly banished.

Sh*prite

Shoprite is Solwezi’s only supermarket. A South African export, it’s kind of a blend between Iceland (without the ice) and Lidl. It has an awfully cheap corporate identity that looks like it was designed by a five-year-old, and the colour scheme is particularly bland (red, and shades of). The logo on the building façade reminds me of the faded plastics you find washed up on the beach, which sets the tone for what’s inside the store I’m afraid. They really should have a rebranding exercise.

The store is set right in town. It must have been built near 20 years ago as it is starting to show its age around the edges. You can tell it was built in the time before the mining boom because there are only 25 parking spaces. When you walk in you feel like you’ve stepped right back to 1993 or some other non-descript year, as you stare aghast at the cream walls. And more often than not Dancing Queen is often playing over the sound system, which seems to fit perfectly with the shopping experience for some reason. (There’s something about that chord change before ‘you can dance, you can jive...’ that gets me every time I hear it.) Personal gripes aside, the supermarket is a fairly standard affair, though there are certain sections which require further discussion.

First is the deli counter, which is very popular. There is no wondrous range of sliced meats, foreign cheeses and stuffed olives to peruse over here; there is simply a large selection of fried meats and chips served by large women wearing white wellington boots. You can also get macaroni and rice, just so you know. At lunchtime this is one of the busiest parts of the store as the workers of Solwezi flock here. I stand with my basket in hand and watch a national obesity epidemic unravelling before my eyes. I can see it getting worse as well, especially as the African continent is moving rapidly towards urbanisation. Fewer than 40% of the African continent’s population lived in urban areas in 2009. In the next 30-40 years, it is projected that 60% will be living in urban areas. You know what that means: more people in more towns eating more junk.

Next to the deli counter is the bakery where you can get your bread, your loaf, your duck feed. But only white bread. Even so, I’ve never seen such a voracious demand for it in my life. There are large queues at times and often arguments break out. Queues for cake, on the other hand, are not so dramatic. Though there is a reasonable selection, you’ll never find anything as exciting as a pain aux raisin. I tried a doughnut once, but it was s***. And that is your Shoprite bakery, people.

It all sounds reasonable enough, doesn’t it? However, there are two issues that cause this store to become unbearable. The first is that when the end of the month comes (or ‘month-end’ as it’s termed here) the store becomes increasingly congested as people come to stock up for the month. Because this store is the only supermarket in the region, people come from far and wide to buy food and drink. So you get people loading their trolleys full like they are at a cash ‘n’ carry. Queues are ridiculously big at this time and the stock seems to vanish within days. I’ve learnt not to visit the store after its first hour of opening between the last week of the month and the first week of the following month. The management don’t even bother to open extra tills to cope with demand. You start to see baskets full of items left by the tills because people haven’t been able to endure to tedium of the excessively long wait just to buy some stuff.

The other issue is that the store management actually let this happen. There are no rules on how much food you can buy. You get the situation where those who trade on the streets will come and buy all the stock of bread for the day leaving chumps like me staring at empty cages by the time the cocks have stopped cock-a-doodle-doing. You’ll walk in and see by the checkouts a woman with three trolleys full of bread (hence the aforementioned arguments at the bakery). It’s lunacy.

So then there are times when you want to buy something but it’s not there because the stock hasn’t been replenished as it’s been wiped within a day. I learnt this the hard way, but I have now become greedy like all the rest. I once saw some sultanas in stock. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I grabbed five packets just in case I wouldn’t see them again in stock for the next few months. I know...sultanas.

Once you’ve decided enough is enough for today the checkout awaits. If all runs smoothly you will pass through without trouble. Keep your receipt, though, as you have to show it to the security guard from G4S at the exit (pointless). At the exit you are well received by a barrage of young men waving keys at you, shouting ‘Taxi, boss?’ You just have to shake your head and pass the commotion. Once you’ve passed the taxi drivers (all illegal by the way), you face boys selling plastics bags that have ‘Tanzania’ written on them. I admire their resolve considering the supermarket provides you with free plastic ones.

And yet there are more opportunist entrepreneurs. There’s the man who stands in a yellow hard hat selling talktime (mobile phone credit) who I have nicknamed him ‘Talktime’ because that’s all he says; there are the blokes that walk around the car park selling curios tat (no, I don’t want to buy a hand-carved toy elephant or some women’s perfume); and the woman who has a whole showcase of illegal DVDs for you to buy on the first step outside the entrance – Nigerian romcom, anyone? Bilge!

After you’ve left the car park, just ten seconds walk from the store you’ll see people selling products that have been bought inside the store. Those people that bulk-buy. There’s all the bread that should be in the store, fruit, vegetables... All sold with a slight increase in the price. They prey on passers-by and those that do not want to enter the maelstrom of Shoprite when it’s month-end. Zambian microenterprise – you have to admire the entrepreneurial spirit of these people.

The locals...and I

In Solwezi I get stared at by the locals. Whether I’m in a car or just walking around, there will be people watching me. It’s just a matter of how many people actually are. Most of the time I keep my head down and act as if I fit in with my surroundings (I completely don’t), but if I raise my head and look around I will definitely catch someone looking at me. Out of the people I pass on a daily basis I reckon a good third of them look at me incredulously. It still astounds me now even though I’ve been here five months.

There are a lot of white people in Solwezi because of the mines (mostly Canadian, Australian and South African expats) so the locals here have slowly become used to their presence. However, sometimes I feel I’m a special case because of the attention I get. Maybe it’s because of what I wear as I’m certainly not dressed like a miner…

The (white) miners all look very generic: late 30s, baseball cap on, tasteless sunglasses, stale stubble, and that salmon-pink glow on the face and shoulders from being blasted by the sun. Whereas, I’m the opposite: cheap Debanhams shirts, sensible black trousers and square shoes. I think I’m the only white man dressed like it in Solwezi. Perhaps this is why I get the attention. But it’s not like I’m wearing clothing of the highest quality. The guys in the office say, ‘Ah Robert, you dress so smart!’ Well, yeah, but it’s not like I’m wearing a suit.

So when I am walking around or in the car, the standard play is that my observer looks at me, and when I look back they look away almost instantly. It was tiresome to begin with but now I like to play games to make it interesting. My favourite is to look straight back and hold my observer’s eyes and give the same look of bewilderment that he/she is giving me. I also like to look, look away and then check to see if I’m still being watched hoping to catch the person in the act.

I was walking into town on a Saturday some weeks back – it is a rare sight to see a white man doing this (I even get looks from the white miners in their 4x4s, and yes, they stare at me like I’m crazy). This one man was particularly fond of me. I caught him once and he looked away instantly. I walked on another hundred metres and had a peek at him again and caught him out. So I walked on another hundred metres and caught him in the act again! He obviously wasn’t reading my body language. This man was my toughest opponent yet and he didn’t budge. I eventually lost him as he took a turning. I really wanted to know why he kept looking. I think that’s the thing I want to know the most – what goes through these people’s minds when they stare at me?

I sometimes think about making some t-shirts with smart-arse sentences on so I can walk around hoping that the ones staring at me will read and take note. Some ideas that have come to mind:

• Jesus was white*. I’m white. You like Jesus. You’ll like me
• I have an Indian, an Aborigine and a Mongolian at home if you’re interested?
• Yes, I also came out of a women’s vagina

I’ll stop there.

Perhaps the more interesting experiences are with the roadside sellers. There are three women who sell talktime (mobile phone credit), the papers and other stuff near my office. They sit on breezeblocks under the shade of the tree for roughly the working day. In the beginning they liked to say hello and ask me how I was as I walked past. I thought that these locals are pleasant people. Anyhow, I was walking back from town with Vincent, my colleague, after we had paid a trip to the tailor. One of them uttered to Vincent in Bemba, ‘Vincent, your friend is getting fat.’ The cheek of the woman! I now steer clear of them, but I can still feel their eyes watching me, weighing me. And I refuse to buy talktime from them unless I’m desperate.

Muzungu

The term 'muzungu' is not derogatory and is widely accepted in Zambia, but I find it mildly offensive. Although there are certain occasions when I don’t mind it. This one time I was in a car on the way to Lusaka, and we came across a serious crash where a lorry had jack-knifed and blocked the road. There was a crowd of school kids hanging out watching the mayhem unfold. As we drove past one the kids caught my eye and saw that I was a white man in a car full of black people. I could see his lips open and his eyes dilate at the sight of me, and I could make out his mouth forming m-u-z-u-n-g-u. I think I made his day.

However, there are times when I’m walking down the street and some guy just starts shouting muzungu as if I’m some novelty. (Yes, oh look, it’s a white person. I simply must pass comment on this irregular situation and bark at him. Then I can sleep tonight because I’ve done my duty. Just wait till I tell my mates.) Just hearing the word now makes me cringe.

Another time it irritated me was when I was on my way to lunch once. On the side of the street a woman was selling groundnuts. She babbled something at me in Kikaonde and I could decipher you-know-what. I put two and two together and figured she was asking me to buy her groundnuts. A man who was walking by asked me if I knew what she was saying to me and I replied that I did, sort of. He confirmed for me that she said, ‘Hey, muzungu, buy my groundnuts.’ Top-notch customer service.

This story is trumped by one I heard through a friend. A middle-aged white expat woman who works for UN was shopping in Shoprite (more on this half-arsed excuse for a supermarket later). She was minding her own business and doing her shopping. With her senses alert a strong smell of sweat and body odour seeped into her nose. She felt a presence close by. She turned to see who it was. A man was pointing to a product in his hands. Before she could register the situation and ask the man what his business was, the man said, ‘Muzungu, buy me these sausages.’

No need for pleasantries in Zambia.





*Or was he?