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.