The Longcut to Kabompo
Trip Start
Apr 26, 2005
1
9
42
Trip End
Nov 17, 2005
Kabompo,
North-Western,
Zambia
Saturday, June 25, 2005
In Africa road quality, rather than distance, is the arbiter of surface travel. It can take hours to travel just 20 kilometres on a bad road, and Zambia has some choice examples.
This road starts well enough, off the tar road a few kilometres from Mwinilunga, and we make surprisingly good time. We reach the checkpoint early on, and Bwalya speculates that somewhere in the area is one of the backwater barracks favoured by Zambia's old military establishment
Beehives, Kabompo
. Later we see signs of the refugee camps where many Angolans still live, waiting to be--or trying to avoid being--repatriated after that country's long civil war. At any point on the road we're only a dozen or so kilometres from the border, though far enough away from Angola's remote Northern province where the latest outbreak of Marburg hemorrhagic fever is only now coming under control. Also more or less controlled is the flow of weapons from Angola into Zambia, a trade that made the foreign press and caused major concern in Lusaka.
Wherever these villagers are from they're friendly, and I find myself waving to cheering children along the way like some small-town politician in a county fair parade. They stand well back from the road though, often running a dozen metres or more into the bush to avoid the noise and dust from the truck.
We pass a sprawling, modern-looking farm operation which Bwalya guesses is owned by a muzungu. Many Zimbabwean farmers relocated to Zambia after being forced out by the Mugabe regime, but this area is far from that border. With comedic timing we pass the white farmer just down the road.
Like other routes we've travelled there are dozens of hopeful hitchhikers along the road, but Bwalya is wary about picking anyone up
Roadside Bath, NWP
. When we do it's a couple of able-bodied young men, guys who seem to know the road and can help if we get stuck anywhere. Which we do in short order. There had been a debate back in Lusaka on the state of the truck's tyres. It was decided that we'd run on the ones we had, already in pretty bad shape and causing us frustration at police checkpoint. The first to blow, the rear inside right tyre, brought us to a short stop as Bwalya inspected the damage; slight. We move on.
But the tyres weren't our only concern. Just outside a sizable village we hit a foot-deep crevice washed into the middle of the road by the last rains. The front axle gets hung up when the left wheel veers into the crevice, and as we try to push the truck out we're surrounded by villagers. They seem to come out of nowhere, dozens of people chattering, laughing, some of them urging the others not to help us. They want us to give them money, says Bwalya, but I've already guessed as much.
We manage to free the truck, but the clamour from the peanut gallery turns to laughter as the wheel falls back into the trench, this time more hung up than before. Bwalya distributes the shovels and pick from the truck and brings out jack. He and the boys dig out the axle, and with the help of one or two locals--harassed in their efforts by the others--the truck is ready to roll again. I look around to offer a cigarette to the guys who helped but they've disappeared as we prepare to move on.
The sun has set with no end of the road in sight, and we begin to suspect that the boys in the back have no more idea than we do of the distance to Kabompo. It's not far, they insist, but it's not the first time we've heard this said.
It's pitch black when the second tyre, the rear outside right, blows with the sickly, high pitched whine we get used to fearing. With both tyre on the rear right side punctured we have no choice but to put on the spare. Even with the engine running, hazard light and the radio on, it's dark and quiet on the road. The hitchhikers jump into action as Bwalya sets the jack, and it takes little time to change tyres. But now the fear sets in. With only one more spare, a smaller front tyre, we're screwed if we suffer another puncture.
And the road just seems to keep going on and on. When we do find a sign of civilization it's a rickety bridge that looks ready to fall into the small river below. I get out to check if it's safe to cross, jumping up and down on the wooden beams straddling concrete piles.
At last we reach what looks like a small junction town and must guess which road at the fork to take. In this case we choose the one that looks most travelled. It's close, says yet another villager we consult. But it isn't. The road is even worse than what we've travelled on so far, and when we stop beside some villagers to ask once again for advice we're mobbed by a dozen children who appear out of the bush. By coincidence we've stopped at the exact spot the hitchhikers are travelling to, and there's a happy reunion on the roadside.
And like a good omen, a little while after dropping off the boys we see electric lights and the glow of Kabompo. But our good luck doesn't last though, as the billboard has disappeared from its place beside the highway and we get stuck in deep sand on the outskirts of town.
The route was supposed to be 140 kilometres. It's almost 10 p.m. when we finally arrive, having driven 226 km in just over 7 hours. After the goose chase of Jimbe and the shortcut to Kabompo, we're two days behind schedule. We find a clean and pleasant guesthouse and I have my first proper wash in three days.
