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?

Easter travels

This Easter I passed on Jesus, chocolate eggs and hot-cross buns, and opted for Kafue National Park and Zambia’s Western Province instead.

Kafue NP

Kafue National Park, which is a few hours’ drive to the west of Lusaka, is one of Zambia’s most popular game viewing areas. It’s big; it’s the size of Belgium (you know, where Kim Clijsters comes from).

I met a fellow volunteer in Lusaka and we got a bus out to Hook Bridge right in the middle of the park to meet some others. We were collected by Boyd from the camp where we would be staying. He was a small, slight man with bright eyes and a welcoming persona. Straight away we set off in his open top 4x4 – the wind in my face and nothing but glorious bush to my left and right. It suddenly dawned on me that I was away from the dusty, chaotic urban streets and was now in the bush. I immediately felt good.

The camp was set by the Kafue River, so it meant we could take a boat trip and hopefully see some wildlife. Our boat was a simple aluminium piece with a motor on the back. It had space for six patio chairs and a cool-box of beers for sundowners. It cut an amusing sight sat in the shallow waters of the river.

Along the river we came across a host of birdlife, hippos and the odd crocodile. We travelled slowly so Boyd could spot animals. When the engine was cut there was a stunning silence of non-human life, and all you could hear were the birds, the rustle of the trees and the gentle river current. We were never too far from the river banks and you could make out the vegetation over the sides. I could just imagine what was on the other side: lions, elephants, impala…all living in a world uninhabited by humans where it was pure survival of the fittest. Learning about how these animals won and lost in life from Boyd was fascinating as we sipped our beers as the sun slipped slowly over the horizon.  

Mongu

After leaving Kafue we headed to Mongu, the capital of the Western Province. It is very similar to other Zambian towns but definitely more relaxed and less hectic. It is characterised by its abundance of sand which is deposited from the nearby Kalahari Desert. Our reasoning behind visiting Mongu was to hopefully catch the Kuomboka ceremony, but it wasn’t meant to be because the date was put back to May (so they say…). Nevertheless, we still made the most of our time there.

Limulunga

Limulunga: home to the Litunga (or Lozi king), but only when his other place isn’t submerged in water. This place is therefore on higher ground, to the north of Mongu. The king travels here when the rains have ended sometime around April; although, there are times when he stays in Lealui if the rains haven’t been as extensive as usual.

From outside the grounds, the palace looks fairly sizeable with several buildings sitting pretty behind high walls. You cannot take photos of the palace, and we were reminded of this by a guard whose name I can’t recall. He was a strange fellow. We shook hands and loosely talked about the palace. Some interesting talk ensued but I was left perplexed at the end of our conversation. He said he was thirsty as his mouth and throat were dry so I offered him some water, but he declined as he said he didn’t drink water…

As the palace is not open to the public, we were told we were welcome to walk down to the river where the Lozi king arrives on Kuomboka. As we set off we were accompanied by a boy of roughly 13 years. He was deaf and we struggled to communicate with him, but his sunny disposition was a joy to see for one who seemed to live in poverty by the look of his clothes.

At the waterfront there is a ‘grandstand’ where the crowds can gather to watch Kuomboka. Needless to say it was empty, but there was a fair bit of life mingling around this port of sorts. There were youngsters playing in the river, cattle farmers keeping their herds on the right path, and adults toiling in the river for their livelihoods. It really did feel like we had just dropped off the edge of urban civilisation and right into rural Zambia in only a few minutes.

We were obviously the main attraction being white. Cries of makuwa (white person) were immediate from the young. A group of kids were particularly enamoured by us and the feeling was likewise. They kept us amused by running about, screaming and performing amateur gymnastics as we strolled along the river banks. Their eyes lit in pure amazement when photos were being taken and showed back to them on the camera screen by Carole. Whilst we were being entertained by the kids, teenage boys were swimming around in their pants, fishing and posing like Usain Bolt on the sandbanks when the camera was on them.

We left the river and headed back into town with our tour guide and started looking for a place to eat. He took us to the market where we were shown the local nshima foodhall (I say foodhall but it was a concrete shack with two tables inside). It looked hot in there, and I wasn’t sure that nshima was what I wanted but it had to suffice. So, there we were, two makuwas eating with the locals on tables and chairs that were designed for kids. I sometimes looked to my left to see the other people eating and their expression never changed: pure bewilderment at the sight of two white people doing as the Zambians do.

We paid up and decided to leave and get back to Mongu after a drink. We said goodbye to our hero whose smile was still beaming brightly as we drove off. But we never got to know his name…

Lealui

Lealui: the home of the Lozi king during the wet season. After the rains have come, Lealui is effectively a temporary island so a boat is needed to travel from there to the mainland.

So, to visit Lealui we had to organise a boat at Mongu harbour, which proved to be a challenging experience as we had to haggle with the locals. After much deliberation and broken communication we bagged Joseph, a native of Lealui. His boat had a motor which saved us a journey by long oar that would’ve taken hours.

We had to get petrol first. Joseph took us round the harbour to visit various petrol dealers and tried to con us with the price, as expected. Whilst we were being dragged about I took in the sight of the harbour from the water: shanty type shacks built right upon the water edge; hens and pigs running amok; kids shouting after us; women and children bathing in the dirty harbour water.

After an hour’s delay we were on our way. It was a pleasurable experience on the boat: the water was crystal clear and the sun was bright in the sky. We passed many boats carrying people and their goods. Some boats had chairs and tables all stacked on. I was impressed with the strength of the oarsmen propelling these boats over long distances in the heat.

After roughly an hour and a half we arrived at Lealui. We docked and were greeted by the locals. For a brief moment I felt like an explorer from the 19^th century. On dry land, the locals took us around showing us the main attractions of Lealui. It was quite the little community with homes, a market, some shops and a fully functioning school. Our tour guides were welcoming and provided us with the answers to all our questions. However, I was somewhat suffering walking around in the midday heat. I was cursing myself for being inappropriately dressed as I had nothing covering my neck. The sun was relentless and scorching. My body was craving the weather of Wales, where the rain flows and the grass grows.

One of the attractions on Lealui was seeing the canoe that the king is transported in to Limulunga. On Kuomboka, the canoe is stocked with a hundred male oarsmen who take the king over a distance of 20 km. It is considered a great privilege to transport the king and no women are allowed on the boat. It is painted black and white in vertical stripes to signify the dead (black) and the living (white).

To our surprise we finished our tour of the island with a visit to the king’s advisors. They were sitting in a building close to a lake. It transpired that we would have to take a canoe to get over to the building as it was surrounded by water. We had to take our shoes and socks off in order to wade out to the canoe. In two minutes we had arrived, travelling around the rear of the building to a side entrance. I could’ve walked quicker to the building but I don’t think that would’ve gone down well with the locals... It really was a bizarre experience.

The building was simply a shell, akin to one used for an end-scene in a cheap Hollywood action film. It was the size of a school hall and even had school chairs inside. We entered bowing and softly clapping our hands as a sign of respect along with our guides. Inside were two men. They were sitting on chairs: one said ‘Lealui’ and the other read ‘Limulunga’ in painted scrawl. It was almost comical how shoddy the place looked. I never got to know what the intended use of the building was.

So we waited on our school chairs waiting to be introduced, like lemons not knowing what was going to happen next. There was some talk in Lozi (the local language) and then the man sat in ‘Limulinga’ introduced himself. He wanted to know why we were on Lealui and asked us to introduce ourselves. We did so. Then the man in ‘Lealui’ asked if we could write down our names and where we came from for our records. Carole had a pen but no paper. We looked at each other and no solutions came. I then realised we could use the back of a receipt. So we wrote our details down and then passed to the messenger. The messenger bowed, clapped, walked towards the man in the Lealui chair and extended his arm out. The paper was received. Silence followed. Then he put it in his top pocket.

After some more silence, the messenger came and started whispering to Carole. She got up and was led to the back of the hall. I was worried. Maybe they would take her away and I’d be left alone in the hall with the king’s advisors. My fears passed when it emerged that she was asked for some money to be donated. So then came the dilemma of how much to give! We settled on approximately K35,000 (around £3.80). Then man in the Lealui chair put this in his top pocket along with the receipt with our details on. All in a day’s work he must’ve thought to himself.

It was time to go, so we retreated out the building, crouching and softly clapping our hands as we had done when we entered. The canoe took us back to dry land and we began our journey back to the boat so we could leave.

On the boat back to Mongu I began reflecting on my time in Western Province. I was left thinking that I had taken part in a real traveller’s experience, purely because the area had no tourist infrastructure at all. It was immensely rewarding and probably one of the most original travelling experiences I’ve had. Hopefully there will be more to come.

Ndola and the long ride home

There was a public holiday on 12th March so I decided to make the most of it by meeting a fellow volunteer in Ndola for the long weekend.

Ndola is quite a large town by Zambian standards. It is built in a Western way with high-rise buildings and tree-lined streets. This is quite a departure from your generic Zambian town where developments over one or two storeys are not standard, and towns usually have been developed in a linear fashion along the main road. 

It was surprising to see such a place in Zambia. You could tell that the place was once booming but had now fallen on harder times. The vacancy rates on retail units must have been near 50%, which meant there were little pockets of business amongst areas of dead retail space. On the plus side there were some nice bits of architecture, and it would have been interesting to see these buildings in their former glory, along with the rest of the town.

The days were spent walking around soaking up the relaxed atmosphere, drinking Mosi and watching Premiership football in the bars. There was little else to do. Although, we did visit the Copperbelt museum which was surprisingly quite good if a little dated and rusty.

I left on the Monday morning. In order to get back to Solwezi from Ndola I had to take the bus. I bought my ticket at the ramshackle waiting shed set which was set in a glorious concrete wasteland. Bus operators don’t dress in uniform so it’s a test trying to find out whom to get a ticket from.  There are a lot of people waiting at bus stations as you may expect, but there are also a lot of people that don’t look like they are going anywhere. They are just there.  There were two men sat next to me on some bricks, the sun beating down on them whilst they gathered moss in a non-literal sense.  What were they doing hanging at the bus station? What did they like to do on a Sunday?  Did they think about the future? There are so many people like this in Zambia…

After waiting over an hour for the bus to arrive, I was told it would be by-passing Ndola and heading straight for Kitwe. No explanation was given, but I accepted the situation because I was in Zambia and I knew that things like this would happen to me, and besides I’d had plenty of practice being tossed about by trains in the UK.

Fortunately I got talking to a local named Alex prior to this issue and he was able to show me where to get the next bus. Upon arrival a bus-boy came over sniffing out an opportunity to make a cut. He assured me that I would be able to get on a bus to Solwezi but would have to sit in the conductor’s seat until we arrived at Kitwe. Alex was not so sure about this, but the only other option would be to wait until 4pm (or 1600 hours in Zambian parlance) for a more dependable bus (it was now gone 11am). Alex left me and said he’d call to check up on me later.

Now alone, my bus-boy came over, cigarette in mouth (smoking is uncommon in Zambia) with his baseball cap tilted to the side exuding a coolness that I hadn’t come across before in Zambian men. He asked me where I was from so I told him. He nodded half-interested. We sat in silence for 60 seconds and then he left to go hang out with the other bus-boys under a tree. He said he’d come get me when the bus came in. I nodded.

I got talking to the guy next to me and he told me to ignore the bus-boy and ask at the counter again. So I got up and told the counter guy that I needed to get to Solwezi, and like lightening he took me the bus that was parked up. I half expected my bus-boy to come running after me but I must’ve slipped his gaze. I paid the counter guy the cash and he got me on. There were three blokes standing near the entrance. My notes went into a variety of different hands and yet I had no ticket. They offered me a seat on a box in the aisle. I said no chance and they offered me the conductor’s seat, which had no seatbelt and a view of the cracked windscreen straight in front of me (cue visions of crashing and flying through the glass). As we got moving, my fears passed and I was quite content sat there amongst the hustle and bustle at the front of the bus. Besides, it was only 45 minutes till Kitwe where I could get a seat. Everything would be just OK I said to myself.

The journey from Kitwe

At Kitwe I got my seat.  The two lads I was sat near on the way to Kitwe seemed to be running operations. They packed on everyone who was waiting at the bus stop and then we were left waiting for a long time for the driver... Where was he? What was he doing? Why do people here put up with such shoddy customer service when they pay good money? Why isn’t there communication between the driver and the customers? Why is that so difficult? Why can’t anyone else see that this is not acceptable?

We set off eventually to Chingola, and as we did I looked back and saw the jam-packed bus: people standing in the aisles; kids sitting all over the floor; mothers, holding two or three babies covering just a one-person seat. In front of me was a woman and her four children sat on a box. Because it was so cramped she used my knees as arm-rests to support herself. It was quite unbearable, and I think if I had had to stand I would have collapsed. Before I could even attempt to relax, a suitcase fell off the luggage shelf onto my head. Not one person asked me if I was OK, not even the woman sat next to me eating boiled eggs. I began dreaming of the Megabus.

Chingola was our penultimate stop. The usual process continued here with people concurrently getting on and off the bus. The only attempt to organise the situation was from the two bus-boys who brilliantly shouted at people to move further down the back. A woman who had been travelling from Lusaka had finally had enough and starting shouting at the bus-boys about how disorganised the operation was. They both looked uninterested, and to me it looked like they couldn’t understand why she was getting upset. Then, as we set off, a pastor appeared out of nowhere… (I’d had a brief experience of one before on an early morning bus where prayers were given in an evangelical fashion before the journey started.)

So, there he was, in his clothes that were too big for him with a small satchel over his shoulder, holding the Bible. He began to preach some text in his mother tongue. He was loud – he had to be to speak over people. He just stood there, staring blankly into space, wedged amongst passengers, imbibing the spirit of the Lord and offering his sermon to the bus. No-one looked interested. He continued and got louder and more aggressive with his delivery. It was unbearable. The journey had already damaged my body physically and now this man was delivering hammer-blows to my mental state. There were a couple of moments where I nearly got up and asked to be left by the roadside, but my rationale overcame me and told me to sit tight.

The show must’ve gone on for a solid 20 minutes, if not longer. There were moments where he would pipe down and it was almost tolerable, but then he turned up the volume and I was screaming internally. He came closer, stood over me and started talking in English. He told the bus that here was a white man, a privileged man who had come here and we should show respect. I closed my eyes and pretended I was asleep, and hoped he would soon pass and feel my apathy. He did.

Some time passed and he was dropped off by the side of the road at some small community. I breathed a sigh of relief and sat back knowing that we were on the final stretch. Five minutes later a watermelon fell off the luggage shelf and hit me on the shoulder and then onto the boy sat on the floor next to me. I watched it roll along the floor as it found a new home next to my feet. No-one claimed it; no-one came to pick it up; no-one apologised! It was a big watermelon as well. It could’ve landed on a baby and caused some serious damage.

Thankfully, the slow remainder of the journey passed without incident, and when we arrived in Solwezi I powered my way back to the guest house as the sun set on another African experience.

The road to Solwezi

My time in Lusaka was up and I left to travel to Solwezi to start my placement on Sunday 4^th March.  I was greeted by my counterpart, Chilombo, at the Commonwealth Youth Centre and her companions. There were 6 of us travelling to Solwezi: Chilombo, Chipo (Chilombo’s son of two years), Holland (Chilombo’s colleague), Gerard (the driver), Chilombo’s nanny (it took me a while to work out who she was and why she was there) and myself. The reason for the packed car was that they had attended a training course in Lusaka over the week. So…we were squashed into a Toyota 4x4 and about to embark on an eight hour journey! Holland told me to sit back and enjoy the ride so I did.

Our first stop was in a village just south of Kabwe. This village was built around the main road – it becomes very clear that the main road in Zambia is the lifeblood of traders: stalls are set up very close to the road to capitalise on those who drive by. Traders don’t just sit and wait in Zambia, they come to you; they walk up to you with goods in tow and keep staring at you hoping for you to break and buy something. Holland and Gerard were all over this and were seasoned professionals. This was a place where you could get bargain fruit and vegetables. I watched them do the rounds: picking, sniffing, tasting and bartering.

Next stop was Kabwe, a fairly sizeable town. We would get food here for lunch (it was 10.40am) as future stops wouldn’t have many eating options. The group descended on a fried chicken shop. This was a good place to eat apparently, but I wasn’t so sure. It was similar to the fried chicken establishments that permeate London high streets. I could even see better places to eat across the road (Subway!) but I wasn’t going to go and do my own thing, so I ordered two pieces of chicken, chips and a can of cola - urgh. I completely demolished it, though.

By this time I had worked out that Holland was the character of the group. I watched him work effortlessly amongst the roadside traders, sifting his way through the tat and junk that people try to make Kwacha (the Zambian currency) out of. Holland purchased a best of Tuku Mtukudzi for the journey. This would be played on loop for the next four hours, with particular repeat plays of certain songs at Gerard’s discretion (tracks 3, 8 and 13 were particular favourites).

We reached Ndola after noon, which is pleasant town with wide streets and plenty of trees thereby giving off a European vibe. We called in at Holland’s brother’s place (a watermelon dropped off) and his mother’s place (bags of tomatoes and nuts dropped off). A short distance from Ndola was Kitwe – a large town with a gritty feel. At Kitwe the heat and the cramped conditions were getting to me and I was really desperate to get to Solwezi. Holland decided to change the CD at this point from Mtukudzi to a best of Phil Collins instrumental CD. As much as I like Phil’s music, the sombre sax solos in place of his voice really started to compound my tiredness and frustration. Waves of melancholia washed over me when I heard I Wish It Would Rain Down, although things perked up when Sussudio came on.

After Kitwe we had another short stop in Chingola, where a large mine is based, and from there we joined the final stretch of road to Solwezi. The natural environment emerged following the urbanised copperbelt towns: a cornucopia of green vegetation spread over undulating hills. It was at this time that I became conscious of the sheer number of people I had seen on the journey so far. They say that the population of Zambia is 13 million, but it felt like I saw more than that. I also saw a lot of churches, particularly Seventh Day Adventist churches on Chingola-Solwezi stretch. 

After about an hour, lo and behold we had another stop at a small village. There were plenty of food stalls which Gerard and Holland lapped up. I was at breaking point: tired, hungry, hot, sweaty, and sick and tired of instrumental Phil Collins. But I checked my perspective and reflected that a driver needs plenty of breaks on a journey that takes 8 hours, especially when the roads require serious attention when avoiding potholes and deciding to overtake vehicles. After our final stop it wasn’t long until we finally arrived in Solwezi. The odyssey was over.

Some thoughts from my first week in Lusaka

Arrival

So I arrived in Lusaka on Saturday 18^th February.  I was expecting the airport to be considerably larger than it was, and I couldn’t help feeling that it has shades of Cardiff International Airport. The first thing I noticed was the sun-scorched plastic windows on the terminal building which had been exposed to fifty-odd years of intense sunlight. I was also expecting some kind of melee considering I had arrived at an African airport but passing through customs was relatively straightforward, and we (VSO volunteers) were met by representatives of the VSO Programme Office to take us onto our lodgings for our in-country training at the University of Zambia.

Taxis

I saw Ban Ki-moon. He was part of a motorcade heading into the city on some business. I caught a glimpse from the rear seats of a clapped-out Honda that was proudly owned by Duvee, my taxi driver. Duvee told me that Mr Ki-moon said it should be OK for civil partnerships in Zambia (homosexuality is illegal and taboo in Zambia) to occur and if they wanted children they should be allowed. He was completely opposed. I could not understand half of the conversation so I just rattled out ‘yeah, yeah’ after every sentence to keep the conversation going. He blabbered on about Jesus, Muhammad and some other stuff and then I heard him talking about reproduction. I lost interest at this stage so just kept the show rolling with some more yeahs until I heard him talk about Colonel Gaddafi which is when my ears pricked up. I’ll never know how he actually got from religion to Gaddafi, though…

Taxis are a real experience in Lusaka. Apparently they have licensed taxis but I haven’t seen one, therefore I have become accustomed to using the unlicensed ones. The taxis are all moribund Japanese cast-offs that have been refurbished and shipped to Africa for re-use. The fumes that come from these cars are a saccharine petrol smell very different to the smell of fumes in London. Bartering a price for a ride is interesting. The drivers obviously overcharge you because you are white – they charge muzungu (white person) prices. So you have to be stern and try and get the price down. This can be done by walking away with your final price. You then have to hope they come crawling after you.

Town

Lusaka is quite hectic from my point of view but apparently it’s nowhere near some other African cities. After a week of being shepherded around town by VSO I eventually got my first walking experience near the centre and it was a real experience. There is so much life to see. It’s a different kind of life that you see on the high streets and town centres in the UK. The people here are driven by different needs, and the streets are covered in human traffic. People are selling, sitting idly about or simply getting from one place to the next. And when the rains have come down the mud pavements are covered in puddles so just adds to the drama of it all.

Cairo Road – the main drag – is the heart of the city. It is a long dual-carriageway and is packed with traffic. Taxi drivers just shout at you because you are white and they think you need a lift out of town, but apart from that the locals don’t hassle you. I walked down the central reservation where there is a track amongst trees – it is very pleasant and a lot easier than walking down the busy shop-fronted pavements. When I got to the end of the reservation a group of lads were just hanging out; one of them acknowledged me and put his fist out to touch mine, so I touched it and mumbled ‘alright’ and I moved on quickly with my backpack in tow. No matter how hard I try here, I’ll never be able to look cool! Who knows what they thought of me.

The other striking scene that Cairo Road offers is the on-road economy. As you near the northern end the road breaks into three lanes where the majority of the action occurs. All through the day there are people walking towards the traffic in-between the cars selling stuff: hazards lights for cars, fruit and vegetables, newspapers, mobile phone top-ups, trainers, cutlery… I could go on. It’s mind-boggling. It’s like 99p stores but on the streets. I’ve seen people buy newspapers and mobile top-ups, but I’ve never seen anyone just stop and try on a pair of trainers right there on a busy carriageway. I would love to know if these people make any sales on their trainer stock.