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| David : 30 June 2007 : C&S current location - Livingstone, Zambia Latest info from Simon and Craig is : "In Livingstone for a few days...feeling much better, though still having some stomach problems again! Hope to sit down and type in some blogs today...though may just laze by the pool and rest! Sim's sending through a decent blog though!" |
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Simon : 29 June 2007
First impressions - Patricia and the lions – fried
chicken and more of the same - a gestalt shift, the rabbit for the duck and the
magic restored – a common view of South Africa – like an 18th
century prize fighter – mooi manne, mooi!
There may have been no stark desert sands, mountains or a lake to set the tone as we rode into Zambia, but my first impressions will be just as lasting for the little incidents of our first days. Like the enormous, fat sow somehow strapped to the back of a bicycle, grunting at me as I passed just to remind me it was still alive; or the truck driver in goggles that waved at us through his vacant front windscreen; and then there were the coal sellers, grubby hands waving while shrill voices ululated a generous welcome. Leaving Malawi we chose a less direct route south from Chitimba so that we could follow the lake. We cycled through Nkhata Bay, Chinthetche and Kande Beach, heading back inland and east at Nkhotakota so as to avoid Lilongwe and the predatory driving we have come to know so well in African capital cities. Soon after the turnoff we were surprised by a passing van that shuddered to a halt and deposited a flustered warden in over-sized boots, ancient rifle slung over his shoulder. Now there are no signs to tell you that cycling or walking is prohibited in the Nkhotakota Game Reserve (we have ridden through others) and the gate unmanned, so we were fortunate to meet this man, all aquiver with excitement at our pending stupidity. We were told that the reserve is heavily populated with lions and it is mating season, so flagging down a passing truck we hitched a lift through the reserve. From atop sacks of sugar we looked for lions in the yellow grass flanking the road, so tall it brushed our legs as we drove past. And while we never did see any lions, on the 8th February 2002 Patricia H. certainly did. A simple cross marks the spot at the roadside where she was eaten. The roads we have followed have taken us through many towns that usually seem different in name only. Take-away restaurants and banana sellers cluster round a dusty bus stop; a bar/guest house blares music so loud all sound is distorted and one's skin crawls; a poorly lit supermarket selling nothing but warm soda, biscuits, soap and Super Maheu maize meal drinks; and a butchery with carcasses hanging out in the open, a leg or ribs of your choice hacked on a tree stump before you. Towns like these punctuate the long road between cities, small interruptions in otherwise empty plains. These are towns where progress is measured by the number of take away stalls (menu: fried chicken, pork sausages, chips, mielie meal) that can be supported by the passing trucks. I want to know what community spirit ties the people or what celebrations and events mark the passage of time, but this is impossible to know for an outsider drawn only briefly through these apparently unremarkable towns. When it is not possible to camp without being seen or we need water and supplies, we stay in guest or rest houses, cheap accommodation that makes no bold claims. These have been the same in each country: rows of small rooms surround a dusty yard, wooden doors hanging limply on old hinges, rusty corrugated tin roofs, inside a sunken bed smelling like it has absorbed the sweat of all the lives before, and in the corner a chair, for some reason almost always three legged. The toilet is an unlit concrete cubicle where you squat in squalor and it's a toss up if whether the stench of faeces or chemicals will make you gag that day. Like some twisted community outreach project you would think that the local lunatic asylum had come to paint the walls for all the brown smears. But whatever you do, don't look down the latrine. The waters writhe with the maggots that feed there. There comes a time on any journey when the longing for people and places that are familiar becomes too much, when the magic and excitement of this new world simply seems to have run out. In Petauke I had that inevitable gestalt shift. Like the picture of a duck that if turned 90 degrees suddenly appears as a rabbit, at the God Gives Resthouse I saw the rabbit and it definitely wasn't cute. It's true you get what you pay for, but dignity is free and that night I thought I was no longer prepared to humour a lack of it. But the road and moods change, small incidents stoke one’s passion once more, and it seems the magic has been restored on the road to Victoria Falls. It is fascinating to see first hand how South Africa is perceived in many parts of Africa. Just as many South Africans will do anything for a European or American passport, so many ordinary Ethiopians, Kenyans, Tanzanians, Malawians and Zambians tell me they want a South African passport. A ticket to a good job and wealth they say. And yet people are also so very conscious of the crime and violence there, and it is almost always the first thing they associate with the country. I point to the current, massive public service strikes and unemployment figures no better than in their own country, but it makes no difference. South Africa it seems is a huge exporter in Africa of not just consumer products (even the smallest Malawian store is full of them), but also a wealthy lifestyle image that promises much. Entry into Zambia will also be memorable for the uncertainty over the malaria that still persisted in Craig's blood, causing him to lurch each week from apparent recovery to vomiting, nausea and severe stomach cramps. Like an 18th century prize fighter blinded by his own blood, Craig has fought on for two months against his own, cycling when others would have stopped and gone home. A third course of medication was prescribed in Chipata, Northern Zambia, but the symptoms continued worse than before and by Nyimba it was clear we needed to get to Lusaka for further tests and treatment. Having now rested in Lusaka, it seems the malaria has been beaten even if full recovery is some way away. Lusaka is a low-rise city that has a comfortable, open feel to it, even downtown along Cairo Road. Yet for all the indications of being a modern and cosmopolitan city, adults still occasionally find satisfaction in grunting at you that ridiculous statement of fact, mazingu!, as they pass or serve you in a bank. Talk like that can land you with an anti-social behavior order in politically correct London! Right now we are in Livingstone where we will finally hear the roar and see that great African landmark, the Victoria Falls. Apart from the first signs of winter that tell us we are getting closer to South Africa, we are increasingly passed by cars and trucks bearing GP number plates, even an occasional mooi manne, mooi! in greeting as we cycle by. Next up, Botswana. |
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