Lil' Bob and the ZimZam Twins

Writing about Zimbabwe this past week has been as fun as it has frustrating. Because as funny as it is to hear Zimbabwean president Robert Mugabe proclaim to be "bringing sanity to the pricing arena" or fighting "the brazen imperialist conspiracy," it's deflating to know that too many Africans still believe him.

Zambians have a better vantage point than most, perched atop a long land border with Zimbabwe, sharing Victoria Falls and a colonial heritage as the twin Rhodesias. Having a something of a inferiority complex, Zambians still look south with jealousy. After all, Zimbabwe used to be known as the Bread Basket of Africa and had infrastructure to rival South Africa, even if its independence struggle was considerably messier.

“Zambians are just traders,” a co-worker informs me, as we discuss Zimbabwe over lunch. “Zimbabweans are producers. It’s better there, even now. I know it,” he declares with authority.

It’s easy to see how the perception can be skewed. Zimbabweans that make their way to Lusaka are often economic migrants that cross the border, make money and go home. When I go to see a home available for rent, a stylish Zimbabwean landlady picks me up in her sleek SUV, esoteric computer built into the dashboard. An interior designer, she wants to furnish the place with an African feng shui philosophy.

As she drops me off, reality kicks back in when she receives a disturbing phone call. Her friend, a civil rights activist, has been detained by the Zambian police for printing a protest banner at the local office supply store. During last week’s Southern Africa Development Community (SADC) summit, organizers were careful not to let anyone interrupt the careful stage-management of their flaccid debate on Zimbabwe.

Make the perfunctory pronouncements on finding a regional solution. Vaguely acknowledge something generally not good is happening in the country. Let Mugabe do his routine. Agree with him that Zimbabwe will never again be a colony. Don’t ask why he feels the need to keep restating that stupidly obvious fact.

It didn’t make sense to me. Why would SADC leaders allow one of its most prosperous countries (not a long list) to fester and threaten the stability of the entire region? How can you call 5,000 refugees a week ‘economic migrants?’ Why couldn’t they call for regime change when Mugabe’s has already threatened to sic his youth militias on anyone “disrupting” next year’s to-be-rigged presidential elections? When Weimar Republic-type inflation is so bad Zimbabweans are looking to Zambia as a promised land?

Judging by Mugabe’s rapturous audience at the summit, the answer is obvious: his anti-colonial card is still trump. Even leaders who are blatantly pro-Western, like Zambia’s, dare not swim against the tide of populism. Michael Sata, the leader of the opposition here, nearly won the last year’s election on an anti-Western/China platform.

To most Africans outside Zimbabwe he’s still the formerly-imprisoned hero of the independence era, whatever his faults. Like Nelson Mandela minus the magnanimity of forgiving one’s oppressors and moving forward in a spirit of reconciliation. As South Africa prepares to host the World Cup as the pinnacle of sub-Saharan achievement, and as Zimbabwe slides further into chaos, the value of getting over colonialism will become even more obvious.

A Day in the Life

7:15 – As usual, I’m woken up by the Nyanja ramblings of the guesthouse staff as they shuffle about at an unreasonably early hour. Muli bwanji?! Nili Bwino! Groan.

7:45 – I fumble my way through a shower in the hazy morning light that filters through the dingy curtains of my bathroom window. The light’s burnt out, complicating the fine art of balancing the hot and cold taps; in between scalding and freezing, I cleanse.

8:30 – Go to the internet café to put together a document package to extend my 30-day volunteer visa, only good for two more days, as per the instructions on the immigration office’s website. I also print off handouts for a human rights presentation we’re giving to journalism students later in the day.

9:30 – Mini-bus downtown to the regional immigration office to find that my careful preparations are for nothing: the clerk wryly informs me that my covering letter is addressed to the wrong person, too explanatory and that we need to pay, again, to have our visas extended for just three more months. It’s one million Kwacha ($300 CDN), only payable by certified bank cheque. If the chief officer feels like it, he might let the one fee cover my entire stay, but probably not. It’ll likely be 1.5 million next time. That Sinking Feeling sets in – what kind of country desperately in need of tourism and foreign investment treats visitors this way?

10:00 – We regroup at an Internet café. I call the Canadian consulate, where they proceed to make things worse: they tell me that even though I’m volunteering I have to apply for the more complicated work visa. Better still, I’ll have to leave the country while it’s being processed, then re-enter at the magical date it’s been activated. The closest border to Lusaka in Zimbabwe. Great. Hello Bobby Mugabe!

10:15 – New information leads us to believe we can get our visas renewed at the national immigration office, back in the suburbs we just came from. We cab it back.

10:30 – Signing the registry, we’re ushered into a room entitled ‘Investigations.’ A lady flips through our papers nonchalantly, eventually saying we still have to pay the one million, but that it’ll be good for however long we stay. The only thing is that we still have to get the certified cheque, take it to the cashier and we’re good. We sign another registry as we leave.

11:00 – At the local bank, I withdraw money only to find that certified cheques are only available to account holders, and it somehow takes 48 hours to sign up for one. We’ll be illegal immigrants by then.

11:45 – Desperate and half-convinced exile is imminent, we return to the office without the Hallowed Cheque to try our luck with cash. I’m more than ready to start offering bribes at this point.

12:15 – After a horrendously nervous wait in line, we finally see the cashier. He informs us that yes, cash is indeed acceptable, but only US dollars. Wad of Kwacha purposely in hand, I conspicuously start counting out one million before he can protest. “Give me the money so I can count it,” he laughs, “I don’t steal that much anymore.” Unsure of how much I actually give him, we get a receipt and are sent down the hall to get a temporary stamp while our visas are processed.

12:30 – To our horror, a cacaphonic horde of American peace corps volunteers pack the hallway leading to The Room. We push our way in to see passports already stacked high on the clerk’s desks for processing. If they break for lunch and we have to wait, we’ll probably have to cancel the presentation we’d spent two days preparing for.

12:50 – Mercifully working through lunch, the clerks finally stamp our passports, giving us 30 more days in the country in which to pick up our new visas which are now in the works. We sign a registry for a third time. The name on the front of the book is ‘Goofy.’

13:15 – Hurriedly order lunch at the ill-named LA Fast Foods. It takes 30 minutes to get our food.

13:55 – Arrive at the University of Zambia, to find we’re supposed to give our two-hour workshop in a stuffy computer room. I respectfully request a new space.

14:15 – In an airy, if rundown, classroom, we finally start the presentation. Compared to the rest of the day, it goes well: we don’t bumble too much, students ask insightful questions and we leave the MA students with an assignment to write a human rights article. Done.

17:00 – Arrive back at the guesthouse, just bushwhacked. I contemplate going to a glad-handing cocktail party, the only real draw being free booze. Even that’s not enough to make me dress up and schmooze.

18:00 – Get groceries, Mosi and some fresh peri-peri to prepare a masochistically spicy stir-fry. The burning hurts so good.

20:00 – I sit and wrote this entry, half in the bag, listening to Mwanawasa butcher yet another prepared speech on public television. He’s imploring the Zambian people to “act in their true character: with order and stability,” during an upcoming Southern African summit in Lusaka. The irony isn’t lost on me as I flip the TV off and finish my post, exhausted.

Colophon

As has been my staunch (one-time) tradition at the beginning of a blog: a word on the nomenclature. Because I'm not actually there yet, and still have no real idea of what to expect, I have to go on what I know. Which isn't much.

Even for sub-Saharan Africa (a bad qualifier for anything), Zambia seems relatively inconspicuous. Sure, it's rife with AIDS, malaria, food insecurity and dollar-a-day poverty, but compared to its more infamous neighbours - imploding Mugabeland (Zimbabwe) or schizophrenic DR Congo - poor ol' Zambia seems a tad plain.

But, of course, any nation of 11 million (not to mention the 39th biggest in the world) is bound to be full of intrigue and, dare I hope, good stories to tell. That's what Lusaka Sunrise, the short film, is all about. With any luck, that's what this namesake will come to impart as well.