Northern Road Trip 1
Trip Start
Apr 26, 2005
1
12
42
Trip End
Nov 17, 2005
Nakonde,
Northern,
Zambia
Tuesday, July 5, 2005
His heart and internal organs were buried here, though according to at least one historian--Philippa Pullar in her brilliant history of British food, "Consuming Passions"--Livingstone's organs were not interred by his loyal attendants, but were ceremonially eaten. A century and a half later it's still difficult to find a decent meal in northern Zambia.
I was forewarned about the lack of food by Bwalya
"Road"
. After a few days rest in Lusaka we're off again on another road trip, into Northern and Luapula provinces, to the borders of Tanzania and the Congo, with 23 billboards to reinforce on a 12-day schedule. We've already finished two jobs when we reach Livingstone territory. The first was the nearest billboard to Lusaka, in Chibombo, a deadly little highway town where drunks from the local beer hall harassed our work. One local, a bashed up young man with his arm in a sling and a fresh gash on his forehead, tells me he's HIV positive. I'm impressed with his candour and tell him so; most people are too afraid of discrimination and harassment to announce their positive status. Obituary notices invariably announce death "after a short illness."
But his courage is unmatched by his peers, who on an early Saturday afternoon are fuelled with liquor. Between putting the sign back up and dealing with the locals it's our longest job so far, three hours start to finish, and we're relieved to get back on the road.
At Serenje, not far from Livingstone's memorial, our billboard is standing just outside the local hospital. It's a smooth job for us but a bad day for others, the sound of weeping and wailing issues from the hospital mortuary while we work
Isoka Billboard
. As we pack up to leave a swarm of bees drones overhead like a bomber plane. An elderly man with an IV tube in his wrist approaches the truck and asks to speak to me. He says he's a patient at the hospital, shows me a card with his figures and charts and asks me for money. I've gotten used to beggars and now can't differentiate between people who really need support from those looking for beer money. I give him a 1000K (about 25 cents) and mumble something about being on a tight budget. I should have given more. The man is dispirited. I feel bad. We move on.
We spend a night in Chinsali, a happening little town where Bwalya knows a decent guesthouse. The place is lit up with strings of multi-coloured patio lanterns, and music echoes from inside. The security guard remembers Bwalya and we're promised hot water and a meal in short order. In the bar a small crowd huddles around a television watching a football match between Mexico and Argentina.
My room is the closest to the bar area but the guard says they shut things down around 10. After turning in early I'm awakened by blaring music and shouts and whistles from the bar. I'm not sure if the music has started up again or ever stopped as I reach for the button to summon the guard
Roadside Village
. I ask him what time it is (4:18 a.m.) and try to explain that we have to get going at 6:30. The guard offers to give me a wake-p call at 6. Our luck continues in Nakonde, a wretched border town on the edge of Tanzania, where the billboard had been run over by a truck. If there is one photograph I missed--and there are many--it's the sight of that mangled sign. We unscrew the billboard from the badly bent legs, snap the legs from their cement anchors and hoist the billboard onto the truck. The panels are coming off the frame and need to be welded back on, so we cart the billboard off to find a welder, leaving Brian and a casual labourer to dig new holes for the legs and support beams.
As a general rule border towns are lousy places, but Nakonde must rank among the worst. The frontier between Zambia and Tanzania is an open one, established decades ago to facilitate trade between two of Africa's most peaceful countries. Locals pass freely across the border, and even foreigners can cross without having to show their passports.
A Zambian man approaches me with Chinese yuan, asking if I want to buy it for him. It's not the first or last time I'm mistaken for a Chinese, and not surprising since the Chinese are doing so much business in Africa. Nakonde is teeming with trade on trucks, bikes and foot, everyone with something to sell. Or steal. A middle-aged Zambian man looking to buy black market diesel approaches the ngwangwazi, or hoodlums, milling around near the truck.
Later I hear from a talkative young ngwangwazi, that one of the diesel boys stole a tyre off the man's car when he refused to pay. I stay close by the truck as Bwalya supervises the welder. Three young boys drift past the truck, the oldest putting out his hand. "Give me money," he says in a squeaky voice. They start so young.
We return to the site to reinstall the mended billboard, and with the job almost done Bwalya leaves to chase up the paperwork. We're still working when he returns with a local Health Board official who wants to inspect our work. The man is tall and slim, with buck teeth and a cell-phone hanging on a string from his neck, and about as wretched as the town he serves.
When he arrives on site he ignores Bwalya and goes straight to me, wringing his hands with worry at the fact that we haven't completed the job yet, insisting that we finish before he signs the papers. I tell the man who I am, that I'm my father's representative and that he can take my word. We've hardly come all the way from Lusaka just to leave the job unfinished.
Still, he says, he's put his name on paper and doesn't want to get in trouble. With all due respect, you should be more concerned about maintaining this billboard than signing your name on a piece of paper, I think but don't say. I've summoned all my diplomacy to avoid an incident with this man, and add that to the list of things I'd take back if I could.
It's the worst dereliction of duty we've seen on from a local Health Board, and if I'd had a picture to go along with the man's words I'd have happily made a full report to the Central Board of Health. Instead an incompetent bureaucrat remains in office.
