Post 57 Postscript

When I left Lusaka about two weeks ago, it was a bright, sunny morning. About 20 degrees Celsius. As we zoomed out to the airport, late as usual, the 10-car presidential motorcade forced us to pull off the road and wait, Mwanawasa having returned from another state visit somewhere. Police had lined the highway right from the middle of town to make sure he could get back to State House without the slightest obstruction.

Even if it meant us missing our flight.

At first I was concerned it was a speed trap - in which we'd inevitably be fined for going 150 km/h - but of course it wasn't. The only road police I ever saw in Zambia were the automatons that worked the roadblocks, either giving you a perfunctory wave-through or bribe-inducing hassle for some perceived infraction.

Finally arriving at the independence-era entrance, the national dance troupe - who's always on hand to welcome Father Levy back from a trip abroad - was trudging back to the highway to catch a mini-bus for the long ride back into town. You'd think they'd at least have their own designated transport, being a pretty important part of 'official' Zambian things like plane landings, ribbon-cuttings and NGO conferences. Even the universally hated ZESCO (power company) employees get their own bus.

We got through security alright, mercifully didn't have to pay the arcane Departure Tax and the porters were at their servile best. The only thing preventing me from leaving Zambia was that my flight, even though re-confirmed like they annoyingly make you do, was missing some sort of reference number. No problem, I was told, I just had to go round to the Kenya Airways office in the airport to get everything sorted out.

Now, I wouldn't call myself an 'Old Africa Hand' just yet, but I'd been around Zambia long enough to know that there was no way it would be as simple as that.

Sure enough, I get to the office and it's empty. No, 'will return' sign or posted hours, just arbitrarily deserted. I talk to a security guard, who radios another security guard. Eventually an enormous man in a reflective vest - who in no way looks like he's employed by the airline - ambles over and ushers me inside the empty office. I explain the situation while he patters away on the keypad of his cellphone, eventually making the logical transition to pecking at his keyboard. He has a go at some extensions on the landline. Nothing. Someone who's supposed to be somewhere is gone. They always are.

"Is there some sort of problem?" I inquire, agitated that my flight is leaving in less than an hour and some random guy is just fiddling around with things just to appease me. Before he can answer, an Indian family bursts into the office, a father with two small children. At first I feared they might be rival customers, but even worse, they somehow know Big Guy. Greetings, updates and well-wishes add to my growing frustration, though the presumptive employee is still plying his keypad throughout the interruption. About 10 minutes later, they leave.

"The problem is that your reference number is on our other system at our downtown office, and the girl who knows how to access it isn't here right now," I'm informed with surprising clarity.

Well, where the hell is she? Can't you just CALL the other office and get my number? Or, have all the staff there mysteriously disappeared too? Why do different offices even have different 'systems'? Doesn't this enigmatic employee have a cellphone we can track her down with? Doesn't everyone in this godforsaken country have a cellphone?!

But before I can blurt out my trite Westerner rant, the employee in question - a confident-looking young woman actually wearing a Kenya Airways uniform - comes in, exchanges in local language with Big Guy and smiles at me. With the magic press of one button on the keyboard, the dot matrix printer fires up and screams out my now-precious information.

"I'm so sorry sir," she says, snickering at what I hope to be the incompetence of her colleague, "I hope this isn't your last memory of Zambia!"

"Oh, it won't be," I respond. "I've still got immigration to go through."

'Lusaka's Ditch Flower'

Go for a walk anywhere in Lusaka - even in my yuppie suburb - and you'll invariably come across an empty carton of cheap 'beer' rotting in the ditch.

Owing to the fact that my Zambian friends and colleagues would never touch the stuff and it's only sold in compound areas, I hadn't tried the fabled 'Shake Shake' opaque beer until last night. And soon, provided I can get it back safely, so will you.

Often sold out of a vat in the back of truck, I tried the far less dubious factory-made variety (see picture). For about $2.50, I got four litres in a bag that smelled like stale beer and socks. Not surprising considering the cartons aren't completely sealed; a little hole needs to be left in the top to facilitate escaping gases as a result of the ongoing fermentation process inside. But evidently, this also leads to a little bit of the liquid squirting out from time to time.

And what a liquid it is. Rancidly sour, yet sweet with floating maize meal bits and notes of "sour green apple and barnyard." Stomaching a small glass felt like a Fear Factor triumph.

Read more reviews of 'Chibuku' here. They're appalling. A mouthful is compulsory for attendance at the Importation Party. It is International Beer, after all.

Yay or Nay: Victoria Falls

It's come to my attention that I have roughly two weeks left in Zambia, and have yet to see it's biggest (some say singular) tourist attraction: Victoria Falls.

It's been more coincidental avoidance than deliberate ignorance, but it'll take deliberate effort to make it there. I'm not sure if it's worth it. I made the comparison of 'If you were in Ottawa for 6 months and leaving Canada imminently, would you go to Niagara Falls?'

Thus, I put the question to you: should I take time out of my not-so busy schedule to see what the locals call 'The Smoke that Thunders'?

Yay
- With the rainy season at its peak, the Zambezi is going to be in full flow going over the edge
- As co-workers that have seen both Niagara and Victoria Falls attest, Vic is bigger, better and far less gawdy
- After seeing the better part of the entire country, a trip to Southern Province would be a good Zambian capstone (note: I hate the word 'capstone')
- Mosi, the national beer that I've drank in copious quantities, is named after the waterfall
- The vendors might be selling 'The Smoke that Thunders' bongs
- My Scottish ancestry and interest in African history dictates that I should learn more about Livingstone (the explorer who 'discovered' the falls)
- If there are any retarded curios I haven't bought yet - like that life-sized buffalo coffee table - they'll have it down there
- I can see Zambia's last remaining rhino with it's two-man anti-poaching security detail

Nay
- It's six hours (at best) by bus or a ridiculous 18 hours by train
- I promised myself I'd avoid road travel and potential 'Bus Plunge Horrors'
- It's allegedly one of those 'Now what?' natural wonders
- I think other people will be more disappointed than me if I don't go
- Everthing there is overpriced, of course, and I'm running seriously low on funds
- I might find myself in the ultimate annoying tourist situation: not being to take a picture without getting other picture-takers in the shot
- The river might be so raging as to prevent good views (from the mist), flyovers or rafting
- A bridge or road washout could mean not getting back to Lusaka in time to go back to Canada
- I'd like to perplex people by not doing the 'Annoying African Safari-Goer' things

Rules for My Return

With February 18 fast approaching, social obligations are starting to add up. Thusly, as a general guide, I'd like to lay some ground rules to avoid oft-asked questions, gross speculation and misconceptions.

1. Don't ask me: "How was Africa?" I wouldn't ask you about North America. Zambia, fine. Lusaka, better. But not the entire continent. Unless you have an entire night for a ground-covering conversation over drinks, which I'm fine with. I'll blab for hours if asked this question.

2. Don't expect a curio: As much as I would love to bring everyone an ebony serving spoon with a warthog carved into the handle, I hate craft markets.

3. If you ask me questions I've obviously answered through the blog, I'll be mildly annoyed: Not to be a jerk, but if you really wanted a general sense of what I was doing here or the places I visited, you could have checked this place out once a month.

4. No, I didn't get (too) sick: Save a month-long bought of diarrhea at the start, I've been as healthy as I would have been in Canada. Knock on wood - no malaria, worm infestations or flies laying eggs in me. Thanks to a much more natural diet and climate conducive to outdoor exercise, I actually feel great.

5. Yes, I got robbed: But it was all in the totally-my-fault-for-being-careless kind of way. One Gillette Fusion razor shaft and a few hundred dollars in Dar-es-Salaam isn't too bad, but I don't want have to recount it over and over again.

6. Don't ask me to speak with clicks: I have the most superficial knowledge of Zambia's predominant languages - Nyanja and Bemba - neither of which have clicks. Those are South African languages like Zulu and Xhosa, of which I'm totally ignorant.

7. I haven't become a bleeding-heart 'save the world' type: I'm not about to organize any benefit concerts, toy drives or go on any Bob Geldof-approved rants about how we need more foreign aid. If anything, I'm more skeptical about the West's attempts to help places like Zambia, including things like CIDA internships, media training and importing our idea of human rights.

Soccer Night in Africa II

Over at Out of Africa I've been blogging about the African Cup of Nations, and figured I would offer something of a more candid update in here.

Despite heartbreaking power cuts (see: in the middle of Nigeria - Ivory Coast), the tournament has been a cultural spectacle and a convenient excuse to socialize and drink. The perfect way to ride out a mostly reponsibility-free last month. And the football's been pretty damn good, too.

On Sunday, Ghana belted a last-gasp winner to start the tournament. Monday, the Ivory Coast narrowly edged fellow West African favourites Nigeria through Salomon Kalou's zig-zagging wonder goal. Last night, Egypt stormed out of the gate with a surprise 4-2 victory over Cameroon, including this cracker from the auspiciously-named Zidan.

Later in the evening, it was Zambia's turn against hard-to-cheer-for Sudan. With the power out again and only two hours until game time, it was a race against time to find an adult beverage establishment with a back-up generator. We ended up at Smuggler's Inn, the same seedy joint that I wrote about in September when Zambia shocked South Africa to qualify in the first place. After hearing horn-blowers and seeing national kitsch for the better part of the day, I was ready to brave the near-riot atmosphere, pesky prostitutes and eventual drunk drivers to see the nation's gloriously-named Chipolopolo (Copper Bullet) Boys.

Though Sudan's equally ridiculously-named Nile Crocodiles are previous tournament winners, they looked wholly outmatched by Zambia's enthusiasm, and, dare I say, organization. It was champagne football from the Copper Bullets; three minutes in, a clever one-two passing move opened up space for Chamanga, who drove in a determined shot from the edge of the box. To everyone's delight, domination ensued and Zambia ended up winning 3-0, sending us into a night of erratic, honk-filled driving.

"We want Eto'o! We want Eto'o!" was the chant nearing the end of the match (Eto'o is one of Africa's most famous players and plays for Zambia's next opponent, Cameroon). I can't wait until they get him on Saturday - I'll be watching intently.