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.
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.
