Crazy In Zambezi
Trip Start
Apr 26, 2005
1
10
42
Trip End
Nov 17, 2005
Zambezi,
North-Western,
Zambia
Sunday, June 26, 2005
Our first order of business is to get paperwork signed by the director of the local Health Management Board, a process that often takes longer than our work on-site. The Kabompo director is a mammoth woman who sees to the papers with efficiency and sends an aide with us to locate the billboard. It had fallen within days of being put up three months ago, and was being stowed behind a small yard near the site.
A man who seemed to be the owner of the yard pumps my hand vigorously, describing with evident frustration the efforts he went to to contact the authorities and have the thing put up again
Crazy Central, Zambezi
. He'd gone to the local hospital, where some official said it wasn't his job to deal with the billboard. I'm impressed with his indignation that the sign had been down for so long and that people weren't getting the message. Still his concern doesn't extend to his wallet, and he charges us 50,000 kwacha for "storage fees". We're falling further behind schedule as the job takes more time than usual. On any site we need sand to mix with, and rocks to anchor, the cement. If the billboard is standing and materials abound the job can take half an hour. We're on-site in Kabompo for nearly two hours. With the job done and one tyre mended we're on the road again. It's over 100 kilometres to Zambezi, our next destination, on the worst road we've seen.
The route is jaw-shaking, covered with sharp, ominous looking rocks, and within a few kilometres the inside left tyre blows. Again we trudge on but within ten minutes the outside right tyre hisses and the tension mounts.
As an atheist it's not often that I think about praying, but surely this is the time to seek higher powers. As if to condemn my lack of belief the inside right tyre goes a moment later
Mumbeji Kids
. The sun is at its unforgiving peak, and small flies buzz around our faces while we put the spare on. It's our only one; if we get another flat before Zambezi we're in serious trouble. I'm not the only one shuddering to think what it will mean to be stuck in the middle of nowhere. One of us will have to go back to Kabompo with one of the flat tyres, and judging by the almost non-existent traffic, the process might take a full day.
Back on the road the usual random thoughts give way to a concentrated awareness of the road. The only town between Kabompo and Zambezi is Mumbeji, and Bwalya doubts we'll find a tyre mender there. Zambezi is still over 70 kilometres away.
A dreary little town, Mumbeji is our oasis where, despite Bwalya's doubts, we find a tyre mender and breath a little easier. Children crowd around the truck hawking bananas, oranges, cold drinks and roasted peanuts, and trying out their English. We're stuck in Mumbeji long enough for most of the crowd to get bored and wander off.
It costs us 80,000K to fix the punctures
Struggling in Mumbeji
. Bwalya grumbles that the same job would cost less than would cost less than 20,000 in Lusaka, but we're a long way from home. Arriving in Zambezi just before sunset we find the billboard standing and decide to put the support beams on in the remaining light and get the paperwork signed the next day. We're on-site less than five minutes before the mad men arrive.
Mentally unhinged homeless people are about as common in Zambia as they are in the west, but Zambezi seems to have a particularly unruly population of nutters. An elderly man in a dirty suit jacket shows me his alarm clock, muttering something or other in a local dialect. He takes a seat by the billboard to watch us work, the alarm clock beeping in his pocket. Near him a strange young man with one flip-flop eyes us with a wild look.
Down the street another man walks by with a bag of sugar and some scones, having a full-on conversation with himself. A grizzled old beggar strapped with dozens of half-empty plastic bags confronts me, demanding to know if I have any idea how much money I owe him. "Billions of kwacha," he says.
Sunset with Billboard, Mpongwe
These people are sane compared to the Kaiser of Crazy, an old man in a filthy shirt and baggy pants which have an unpleasant tendency of falling down. He accosts us as we're digging holes for the support beams. He throws small, rocks and dust around, muttering, yelling, growling in a mix of English and dialect. "I come from Heaven," he spits. "I am Hitler. I will kill you."
His actions are less farcical than his words though, and he begins to physically interrupt our work, kicking our materials around and getting in our way. When Brian pours water into a pile of cement and sand the man bends down and drinks from the mixture.
There's little we can do to stop him, and while local people on the sidelines call after him they aren't trying very hard to get him off our backs. I ask for help from a local shopkeeper, who nods in sympathy and does nothing. "When there are mad people you know that witchcraft is at work," says Bwalya. And at this point I'm ready to believe him.
Of all the towns we've worked in so far Zambezi is the most repellent. Even the dogs are against us, barking and chasing after the truck. At a local store peddling phone services--we've been out of cell phone range for three days--we try to reach Lusaka as the fluorescent tube overhead flickers on and off in an ominous strobe-light show.
With the job done and the madness behind us, we find a guesthouse and settle in for the night. At the reception office I whack my head on a low roof beam and decide I've had enough of Zambezi.
Postscript:
With a few exceptions the rest of our trip through Northwest province and the Copperbelt was uneventful. We found a pair of new tyres in Zambezi and travelled with more confidence, avoiding any more punctures and checkpoint bribes. We even made up the two-day deficit, returning to Lusaka a day ahead of schedule.
We'd found a good rhythm; Brian and I working on the job and Bwalya getting the paperwork done. We travelled well together and were efficient, and "head office" was happy with our work. But with another trip ahead of us, through Luapula and Northern province on the opposite side of Zambia, we had only a few day's respite before heading out again.
I didn't expect to be doing HIV/Aids awareness work in Zambia. The sad story of the epidemic belongs in another story, but on this trip it was barely an issue as we cruised from town to town securing the billboards or putting them back up.
It was a Saturday afternoon when we reached our last job, in Mpongwe, a small town south of the Copperbelt. We found the health director, a massive man built like a line-backer, relaxing at his house in a t-shirt and immodestly short boxers. He crushed my fingers in an unusually strong handshake and took us to the site.
Like a half-dozen billboards we'd encountered the sign in Mpongwe had fallen. But in a rare example of independent initiative the director had not only put it back up but secured the billboard with iron legs welded to the originals.
The billboard had collapsed in a storm not long after it had been installed. "The people weren't getting the message," explained the director. I felt like giving him a medal. The job was so well done that ours was moot, and I happily subject myself to another crushing handshake. As the sun sets we push off for the city, and I look forward to our next journey almost as much as I do a hot shower.
http://www.travelpod.com/members/darkstar
