WORDS: The Best Defence
Trip Start
Aug 18, 2005
1
17
26
Trip End
Feb 20, 2006
Livingstone,
Zambia
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
I am at the hostel bar enjoying beers and kicking back with my good friend and travel companion Claudia. We are joined by Simba and Jeremiah, whose jobs help keep the wheels of tourism around Victoria Falls rolling, and Andrew, a traveling Brit with a good sense of humour.
Tomorrow, Claudia and I have to catch the express coach back to Gaborone tomorrow. We've been advised that we have to be waiting in a parking lot at 4:30 a.m. It will be dark and we are apprehensive about getting mugged.
But, according to Simba and Jeremiah, we two women have nothing to fear.
Surrounded by mango trees in dim light, Simba reveals how many Zambians are afraid of being beaten up by people from Asia--such as the Chinese, Japanese and Koreans--because they are assumed to be masters of martial arts.
This draws a huge burst of laughter from the trio of us Westerners. He must be joking.
But Simba's eyes are wide with conviction.
"I am serious, Cynthia," he says. "All it will take is for you to do a simple somersault and they will go running."
We laugh at the preposterousness of this scenario.
"You have been watching way too many Jackie Chan movies," pipes in Claudia.
It gets funnier still. Since we have arrived in Zambia, Claudia, who is Canadian with a Chilean family background, has been repeatedly mistaken for Japanese and Chinese even though her appearance has no resemblance to these cultures at all.
Simba and Jeremiah say neither of them believe the stereotype but that others do and it may be just enough to deter us from attackers.
"These Asian men, they are smaller but I heard about one time when a really big local guy," Simba says, gesturing with his arms to show us just how big, "got into an argument with a Japanese man."
"The big guy was trying to rough him up and the next thing you know, he's lying on the ground on his back."
The non-locals crack up again.
"Oh great," says Andrew. "You just need one incident like that to reinforce the stereotype."
It's so ridiculous. I don't really know what to make of it. But I entertain the idea that it may be true because it was only a few days ago that I met up with a new friend from Tanzania who was giving me travel advice for my three-week trip to East Africa next week.
He, too, told me that pickpocketers in Dar es Salaam may avoid me because they would be afraid that I would karate chop them.
Growing up in mainly multicultural Canada, I never had to deal very much with blatant stereotypes of my Chinese descent like this. But since moving to Botswana, I've received many different reactions, ranging from benign curiosity and friendly gratefulness that "someone like me" has come to work in their country to staring and, my pet peeve, those who speak "pretend Chinese" when they see me.
From my previous travels to small-town Europe and in Lebanon, I've grown accustomed to my presence being a novelty in some parts.
But fear of my fighting skills totally breaks new ground. Maybe I shouldn't admit this, but I can't help but think I could use this to my advantage.
************
Unintentionally posing as a dynamic martial arts-fighting duo, Claudia and I, both half asleep, set out when the stars are still twinkling in the dark sky.
We fumble through the empty streets of Livingstone, working our way to the parking lot of the post office where we expect the Zambia-Botswana express to pick us up at around 5 a.m.
But it never comes.
Instead, we wait in futility-our bags and eyelids growing heavier with each moment of the 2½ hours we spend observing the community awaken from its quiet slumber before giving up on the bus.
Despite our fears, we do not suffer any harassment or become the victims of crime. (The reason for this I can't speculate on, but surely it doesn't ruin the credibility of Simba's assertions.)
Instead, we engage in conversation with locals. There's Ntongo and his two colleagues, drivers who spend every morning from 4 a.m. transporting workers to and from a hotel near Vic Falls. There's also Justin, a young man who drives cabs after his family moved from the Zambian capital Lusaka a year ago. He accompanies us, also waiting in vain since 3:30 a.m. for the coach. He's supposed to give a message to its driver who is a friend of his sister, now living in Botswana.
Like almost all the locals we chatted with over our two-day stay, they are friendly and try very hard to be helpful. Unfortunately, everyone has differing opinions about what's happening with the bus.
As the sky brightens, security guards in uniforms arrive to stand outside a handful of businesses and banks. Here on Mosi-O-Tunya Road, Livingstone's main street, two boys each spread out the flaps of a flattened cardboard box and lie down for a rest. The noise from passing cars and trucks raise the decibels of surround sound on the street. Employees of tour companies, conspicuous in their khaki uniforms drive around in open-top safari vehicles. In the morning light, Livingstone begins to bustle.
At 7 a.m., we give up. Our string of luck seems to be going in the complete opposite direction on the return to Gaborone.
We get a lift from Justin to the hitching point where we are told to pick up a combi to the Kazungula border. There we sit in a mix of heat and buzzing flies, waiting for what feels like forever for the combi to fill up with passengers so the driver can make as much money as possible on the drive to the border. I fail to convince him to depart with my offer to double the price of the usual ride to 30,000 kwachas (about CDN$10/US$8) each.
I get impatient and get out to investigate other alternatives. But none of the taxis that stop are willing to go to Kazungula for any affordable price or any price at all. Nor can I secure a safe-looking hitch. After spotting a family car with Botswana plates, I muster up my best Setswana. This prompts the sweet-looking couple to smile and greet me warmly but no ride. Alas, they aren't going back to Bots today but simply dropping someone off at the junction.
When I return to the combi, there are no more passengers than the three others that were there when I had left. We have no choice but to wait.
After nearly an hour and a great deal of nagging from the small but growing pool of passengers, the driver (who Claudia thought looked like Chris Rock "but not as funny") decided we could go.
A fast and friendly immigration check, a ferry trip and another combi ride later, we are sitting in a minibus in Kasane. When the engine finally roars to a start, it has taken nearly 7 hours for us to travel 90 km.
We try to make the best of it. For a few moments during the combi and bus rides, it does feels like the game drive that never ends. En route, we spot a huge family of baboons crossing the street and sight huge, solitary elephants several times. At least, we don't have to pay extra.
Claudia is a real trooper. I highly recommend her as a travel companion for these spontaneous adventures. In a pinch, she's great at helping dig us out. And patient.
In a rush to catch the next connecting bus from Francistown to Gaborone-we hope our last one of the trip-we pile on to one with standing-room only. We get separated and I somehow end up with a seat while Claudia endures another nearly two hours of discomfort having to stand up while grabbing onto the overhead luggage ledge.
"Don't worry, I needed to stand anyway," she says to me good-naturedly when we are finally seated next to each other again.
I hope she can forgive me for putting her through all these trials and tribulations during our trip, which clocked in over 2000 km and where the only plan was really none at all.
