Early the next morning I got out of the destitute hotel I had stayed at and began the usual period of wandering around a new town. The roads were all packed sand; a few relatively tall buildings, like a bank and an office building; and finally a paved road heading south, and a big "shoprite" sign pointing in the direction of a supermarket. And another sign, as you can see - The Zambians certainly are doing their best at being poetic about women's rights.
My GPS actually had Mongu's coordinates keyed in, but I was soon to find out that whomever had put them in had surely been on Crack, or flying from a plane - their arbitrary centre of Mongu was in a pile of bushes about three hundred metres south of the bus stop. Small town indeed, I thought.
The kid I had met last night finally caught up with me as I returned to the bar beside the hotel to try and find something to eat - they had nothing, except two bags of nuts in a cupboard. I'll pass for now. "I was looking for you, but you were gone," he said. After experiences in Haiti, a guide was not an appealing option.
"Oh, I went looking around. Sorry."
Here he was now; wearing sandals, must be about 13, and smelled perpetually of alcohol throughout the entire day. He led me to a minibus that took us in the opposite direction of the GPS's pile of bushes, and two kilometres north we entered the downtown strip of Mongu.
Now this certainly looks like a wild west town, a la Africa. Very much like Kaoma, except bigger. Imagine your usual main street, your sandy sidewalks, and your stone buildings. Minibuses and the occasional white person zipping by in a Range Rover, although a lot of Africans had fancy new Range Rovers as well. Two Lebanese men run a deli and a restaurant just east of the BP gas station - now if you know anything about Lebanon, you'll know that many Lebanese left their country and began businesses in all corners of the world. But this corner? Something tells me, from what I know of Lebanon, that perhaps these two men do not want to be found. I never had the chance to ask them, but two men from Lebanon in this little part of the world, obviously are trying to avoid something. And on the other hand, perhaps they do just like it here, and decided to stay.




The boy pointed out the bus that was heading south tomorrow - at 2:00am. Strange time for a bus to leave, I thought - he explained to me that in mid-day the bus might overheat, so it was best to start the journey early. I bought my ticket for a measly US$7 and then hopped on a minibus with him to the town of Limilunga, the small town which is the capital of Barotseland. I suppose I should explain that -
Western Zambia is actually a monarchy called Barotseland. There are dreams of independence, but not fierce dreams. They have a king who lives in two castles - one is on the flood plains to the west, just before the Zambezi river, and when the plains flood he moves to higher ground in a big boat - apparently the ceremony is spectacular. In Limilunga lies his highland castle, and a few other points of interest. After about 30 minutes of rolling along a potholed but paved road carved through tall stalks of grass, we arrived at another sandy little village. Getting out of the bus I heard an odd accent - "Hi there! Where are you from?"
I had met my first tourist of the trip, in an odd place. He was a Belgian fellow, and like me, was visiting Zambia and didn't want to do the typical Lusaka - Livingstone journey; he wanted to see more of the country. So there he was, in Mongu. He had taken an air conditioned bus the day before, the same day as me, and it sounded like it took half the time that it took me. We agreed to meet up in the evening, and chat more. Then I continued on with my guide through sandy pathways between mud huts and small children and thatched fences and cornstalks, searching for the castle.




I finally found it, and the two "guards": two old men with canes debating politics in english. I asked them if I could take a picture, and they apologized profusely: I couldn't. Alas. Oh well, you'll just have to go there and see it for yourself. Besides, it's not my wish to go against the wishes of such incredibly nice people. I would genuinely feel guilty for disrespecting their wishes - if they were a bunch of bastards I would gladly have snapped one or two, but this was not the case.
Also beside the castle was a small museum, which had some good exhibits and artifacts of ancient weapons and witchcraft tools. The curator gave me a long lecture about what they were trying to achieve with each portion of the exhibit; it was certainly worth the US$0.75 it cost me.




And then after a walk down to the plains to see the other palace in the distance, we headed back to Mongu; there seems to be an aversion to turning over the engine here in Zambia - instead, they get whoever is hanging around to push the minibus so they can pop the clutch to get the van running. While I was watching this an African lounging on the sand spoke to me - "We have food, yes, but we have no jobs - all there is to do is sit here. If you do not want to be a teacher or a policeman, then you have nothing else to choose from."
Another man on the opposite side of me asked if I would take a picture of him - sure, of course! I asked all of the men hanging around to gather in the picture - these people seem to love getting their pictures taken. And it's symbolic of their incredible friendliness and hospitality.



Back to Mongu, and then to the canal which connects the town with the Zambezi river. There is a small village here, of people who bring their wares to sell in Mongu. The moment I saw it, was the moment that it finally occured to me that I was in Africa.




The endless plains, the wooden boats, the smell of dried fish and a fellow asking me if I wanted to see some diamonds - Angolan diamonds, I asked? Yes, he said. Well, no thanks. I just have this sneaking suspicion that even if I wanted diamonds, to buy them here would mean to support Angola's UNITA rebels. We are, after all, less than 100 kilometres from the Angolan border, and undisputed UNITA territory as far as I know.








And then a long walk from the fishing village back to the town demonstrated the vastness of the plains around us - the flat floodplains stretch on for hundreds of kilometres east and west. It's striking, and grand in its emptiness. And yet all of this land is arable - please think twice when you see the starving african kid on television next time, because the Zambians surely are not starving.
I had lunch and paid my guide about US$10 - he was well worth it. For the first time, I can really say that he was a great help to me, and explained his town in great detail. Yes, he smelled like booze the whole day, and spoke english in a droned, stoned voice, but his help was well worth it. I was prepared to give him twice as much, and was a bit shocked when he said "pay me what you feel like." Gladly.
In the evening I caught up with the Belgian fellow - we had dinner together at the Lebanese restaurant, although it wasn't Lebanese food. I met a waiter there who was Somalian - I asked him where the tourists were; everyone in the town seems to be familiar with tourists, but there's only two of us here today. "Some times in the year this restaurant will have nothing but white faces in it," he tells me. I guess we're just in the low season.
The Belgian and I headed over to his hotel and bar for a beer, as I was waiting for the two in the morning bus to Sesheke. Mosi beer isn't bad beer, and cheap - it was on him, he said. More interesting than our conversation were the Zambians who gathered around to talk with us - the gentle but bear-like security guard, the young boy, everyone had a few stories to tell and none were begging for money - all were just happy to share some time with two foreigners. It was nearing midnight, and I said that I guess I should get down to the bus station. "You should not walk," the security guard told me, "there was a policeman killed a few days ago when he was walking at night."
Great. So what do I do? He said there were no taxis; but he would go and ask if any of the people who drove the land rovers would drive me. Coming back several minutes later, he said that someone had agreed to drive me - for US$7, which seemed rather preposterous. I said that I would pay half. And then he disappeared again, and then came back - "perhaps you should talk to them yourself," he said, and led the way to two men sitting out on the porch drinking beer - a gigantic African who looked like a drug dealer, and a smaller African man who spat a lot but still had the same air to him.
"I saw you walking around today near the town," the large man told me.
"Yes, I was looking around," I said to him. He smiled and took a sip of his beer.
He gave me a long look. "When I say that I saw you walking around, I am trying to build a connection with you," he said. "I am trying to build a sense of respect between us, of trust," he said. "Why do you not want to pay us twenty thousand Kwachafor our ride?"
"Because I can't afford to pay you that much," I told him.
He smiled, and sipped his beer again. "Yes! We understand that!" he exclaimed, trying to emphasise his discovery. "You see, we were once young too, and travelled also. I studied in Europe!" he proclaimed. "But what can you pay us?"
I offered him half of the price, still a good deal for them. "Okay. But remember what we are trying to build with you: we are trying to build trust, and respect, so that when we see you on the road, we will have a connection. We will know each other, and if either of us are in need, we will be there to help."
The smaller man was agreeing: "Yes, respect, trust, these are what we are trying to build with you!" he exclaimed while spitting.
I smiled. "Yes, of course, and I will certainly trust you two," I said. I wondered to myself if this little philosophy lesson was just drunken talk or if the two men were actually trying to explain a key point of Africa social interaction - I think it was a little of both.
"Okay, so we accept that you pay us 10,000 Kwacha," the big man said. "But I have one condition - promise to send us both postcards once you reach home. Do you have paper? We will give you our addresses."
I handed them a piece of paper and a pen. As you probably know, there's nothing I love more than mailing people postcards.
I hopped in the rattly Land Rover of the smaller man, and he fired it up. There was a kid snoozing in the back - "don't worry, that's just my son," he said. I guess it should have occured to me that I was riding with a drunk driver, but you take what you can get in these parts.
He babbled for the whole way there, and I couldn't hear him over the grinding of the engine and his gears. Finally rounding the bend to the bus, and rolling to a stop, I heard him clearly say "... and we will praise the lord when we get your postcards, for then we will know that you are safe!"
I waved goodbye to him and ran into my former guide. The bare light was giving a dim illumination to the bus, sitting there quietly in the night. He asked if he could give me his address, so I gave him my little book and a pen and watched him write it out. I was looking at his feet, and his shoes, but couldn't figure out why I was staring at them.
Then he asked: "Please, you see I have bought shoes with the money you gave me. I also put a payment on some shade, and only need 3000 more Kwacha to get it. Can you help me? Please?"
"Shade?" I asked. "Shade is free, you know. You shouln't be paying for shade."
"No, Shit," he said. "Can you give me just 3000 Kwacha so I can buy this shit?"
"Shit? Why would you want to buy shit?" I was playing dumb. Was I supposed to support this kid's drug habit?"
"Please...." he said, staring dazed off into the distance.
I gave him some spare change - about half of what he needed. It was useless to me, although I didn't want to help him and his drug habit along. But what can you do? These people have no real future, their only life is a small one on the edge of existence. I was very impressed, though, that he had bought shoes with the money I gave him.
"Will you take a picture of me?" He said, "for memory?"
"Certainly."




And then it was up into the massive but beaten school bus for the long ride into Senanga and Sesheke. I saw Senanga in the dark - a small, boring town, to be sure. And then at four in the morning, someone poked me on the shoulder. "We have to get out," he said. I wondered what was going on........





To Sesheke, & Beyond
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