December (January?) Vacation – Zambia (Round Two)

We got up early on the second to run some errands before going to the bus zoo to find a ride to Mchinji that is next to the Zambian boarder. We are traveling with two other Malawian PCVs who are going back to their sites. Four Zambian PCVs were going the same way and had arrived in Lilongwe yesterday, but we wouldn’t meet up with them for the rest of our trip. We went to the same bus parking area in town we had gone to with Dani’s family and found a bus that had Mchinji written on the front. We were the first five people so it would be a long wait. The first time we were here, we were the last three people to fill up the bus so we left relatively soon. This time, we got a long wait and came to appreciate the bus window vendors who walk around through the buses trying to sell things. To get your attention, the vendors make a sort of short hissing sound, the way you would imitate a snake, or slowly leaking gas line. So I’m sitting there, minding my own business when I hear a “tss… tss… tss…” over my shoulder. There is a guy standing there holding cell phone pouches and lanyards. I can definitely say at this point, I have no use for either of those. As the hours roll on, we would be offered everything from the normal (corn, water, candy, and bread) to the functional (toothbrush/toothpaste combos, cell phone chargers, pens) to the completely random (shower caps, umbrellas, girl’s underwear).

If you have read everything up to here (thank you, and I’m so sorry) you know that getting back into Zambia was going to be a problem for one of us. The other two had just enough days left on the multiple entry visas that we could get in, but one had expired back in December. Paul, who was supposed to make everything alright, was no where to be seen so we had to go with our powers of luck and charm. We filled out our entry forms all with the exact same information down to how much we estimated to be spending in Zambia. We would come up with our passports open in an order of one, two, and three. The first two people were supposed to get the boarder guard into a rhythm of stamping the visas, so when the third person got there the guard would, hopefully, not think twice and just stamp away. We approached the front with person one ready to go. There was a slight confusion with counting up to fourteen, but the guard figured out that the visa was good. Person number one had laid the ground work. Person number two came up with the exact same visa and turned on the charm. By the time person two’s visa had been stamped, the guard was laughing and joking like an old friend. Person three walked up and the guard glanced at the entry form only long enough to stamp it. It looked like we were in business. Holding the stamp up, he paged through person three’s passport. Then he put the stamp down. The three of us took a breath in and held it. He had turned back from the page person three had left open for him and was going through all the other visas. He came to a stop on the Malawian visa, grabbed the stamp, slammed it on the passport and told the three of us to have a nice day. You know in cartoons when people leave quickly and there is a cloud in the shape of their body still standing there? I think that’s what we left behind.

We walked across the border and were immediately offered a ride by a Zambian couple who were heading into Chipata. This was perfect, seeing as we had no money in Zambian kwacha and didn’t feel like dealing with money changers on the street, or negotiating yet another ride in rand. We got dropped in the middle of Chipata, across the street from the taxi corral we had stopped at the first time we came through. No one rushed us this time, but I think it was obvious we were heading the other direction. We went into a small change bureau to get some Zambian money. The other bureaus we had been at required a passport and had at least some sort of security at the front. This one was just a room with two women sitting behind desks with a large calculator (shared) and the current exchange rate written on a white board. They didn’t want our passports, and certainly had no way of giving us a receipt. I think we had just used the most official looking informal change bureau in the entire country. Whatever, we got our money and it was useable.

We walked to the place where we had ended up in the big bus taxi race from the previous week in hopes of finding a bus to Lilongwe. There was nothing in the parking area except coke (the drink) trucks. I asked one of the drivers, Moses, about what we should do for a ride. He gave us all the information we could need: the correct cost, where to buy tickets, when the next bus would leave (not till tomorrow) and where to stand out on the highway if we wanted to try and hitch. So a guy named Moses gave us all the information we would need to get out of this town. We followed Moses’ advice and walked for forty… minutes… down the road before a bus stopped and let us on. Hmm… someone should write a book about that, or something.

This bus was a full on long haul bus. Large, with room underneath for luggage and high backed seats that reclined straight into the lap of the person behind you. The bus did, however, follow the same pattern as the smaller buses. We still stopped every ten to twenty kilometers to load or unload people or things. This was a little nerve racking since our stuff was in the storage compartment and we couldn’t see what was going on while sitting inside. I have a preference of sitting either on my bag, or at least within sight of it when I’m hiking and breaking that rule had me pressing my forehead up against the window whenever we stopped to try and see what was happening.

Since we had such a late start, we wouldn’t get to Lusaka until ten at night. That’s fine by me though, since the road going through that section of the country is extremely narrow and winding. During the night, we passed an overturned semi and I think one other accident of some kind. We got to the bus station in Lusaka and got a taxi to the backpacker’s place we had stayed at before, Chachacha’s. Tent up, we bedded down for yet another night. The climate of Malawi and Zambia this time of year is hot and wet, which had made it difficult to dry anything. Our tents were starting to smell a little, and the clothes I had washed in Lilongwe hadn’t dried and were starting to mold inside my pack. The cleanest things I had were the things I had been wearing for three days and I was starting to appreciate the excruciatingly dry and hot climate of Namibia.

We got up the next day and realized we still hadn’t changed enough money to pay our bill, so it was back into the fun filled town center of Lusaka again to change money before we left. It seemed to be the pattern for this trip that we would always be about ten percent short of the last bill we had to pay whenever leaving a country. We got the money changed and went to the bus station. On this trip to the bus station, we were able to gain a full appreciation for the madness of it. The bus station in Lusaka more resembles a small airport terminal, but without the runway. Full size tour buses are everywhere, dwarfing the small minibuses we had grown accustomed to. I can tell that there’s some sort of system here since when we say, “Livingstone” we are taken to a specific area. The large buses want 65000 for each person, but we think we can get away with fifty. The ride is short and we have all day so we just keep walking along repeating “Livingstone, Livingstone, Livingstone” until someone comes up to us. At this point, we’ve figured out the most efficient method of negotiating is to agree on the max price between the three of us beforehand and then claim to have exactly that much and no more. Dishonest? Maybe, but not anymore than negotiating down to that same price (and we are on a budget.) The guy that has grabbed my arm after I said Livingstone is dragging me towards a bus. I tell him that we can only pay fifty each. He thinks this is a bargaining opportunity and says to just make it sixty-five.
“No, we only have fifty each. I’m not trying to talk you down, this is all we have”
“Oh, just make it sixty-three and we can go.” We are starting to attract a crowd of others who also want our money. Excellent.
“No, really. Fifty is all we have and that’s it.”
“Ah, you won’t find anyone who will take you for fifty” he says.
“I will, come with me” says another man. Ha! In yo face, other guy!

We get led to a small minibus where the guy who agreed with us starts talking to another man who is holding a receipt book. The second man writes us each a receipt takes our money and loads our bags in the back. We find seats inside the almost empty bus and start waiting. After getting the bags completely squashed in the luggage spot, the man with the receipt book comes back wanting another fifteen thousand for each bag. We repeat that all we have is the fifty each. He says he’ll knock it down to ten, then seven, then five. We get up and start to ask for our money back and magically it becomes no problem and we can stay. We are the masters of negotiation! Offer three quarters of what the cost should be and then threaten to walk every time more money is asked. The only problem is that we have to stick to our story which means we can’t buy water, toothpaste, shower caps or underwear from the vendors who come to our window for the next two hours while we wait.

When we finally do get going, we do the same bus thing that we’ve done the whole trip. Stop, unload, reload and start driving. Someone comes running up to the closing door, get them in, they don’t have enough money, slow down and push them out, close door and keep going. That last part only happened once, but it was entertaining. We got to Livingstone at nine-thirty at night. We seem doomed to always arrive at our destination after dark, regardless of how early we leave. We get dinner at one of the pubs in town. Tonight, they have a live band playing, of all things, Elvis and Bob Marley covers. Over our pizza dinner, we listen to four Zambians belt out remarkably good versions of ‘Jail House Rock’, ‘Hound Dog’, and some Marley songs. I can’t remember the Marley songs since they seemed normal when compared to hearing and seeing someone do an Elvis strut that would put many Vegas impersonators to shame. The best part: the band had the requisite blind old man sitting on the side with a cane, bobbing his head to the music.

We stayed one more day in Livingstone to get our bus tickets for Intercape (the South African bus company that runs all over South Africa and parts of Namibia). And, of course, we had to go to Subway one last time. Subway had just opened when we were there the first time, so we excused the fact that they were missing at least a third of their menu. We were hoping for a little more selection this time, since they had now been open for a couple of weeks. When we got there, though, they had even less. Lettuce, tomato, pickles, any cheese except parmesan, cookies, chips, oil and vinegar were all missing. Not only that, when we tried to get them to compensate for the lack of lettuce and tomato by putting extra olives on, they refused! We are only allowed six olives per foot-long. This is a crock! They aren’t YOUR olives! Some things I’ve grown to appreciate in America are the little benefits to working for “The Man”. When you work for The Man, nothing you are selling is yours and the customer is always right. If the store ran out of a staple like lettuce, something that goes on each and every sandwich, it is your duty as the corporate worker to dump an entire olive tree on that sandwich to quell the frustrations of the customer. The Man won’t come in and make sure there are the exact number of olives on that sandwich, but you know that the customer is feeling gypped already and you have the power to decide where your relationship goes from there. You can pledge allegiance to The Man and deny olives, or you can be the hero and create a solid five minute bond with that customer and pile on olives even though both of you know you’re not supposed to. I think this is yet another skill that must be transferred to developing nations, so starting next year, I will have a few mini-lessons on the concept of The Man in western culture. If these countries are going to have places like Subway and KFC, they need the training that we, in our teenage years, take for granted: the power of the lowly food service worker to make or break any person’s day with something as simple as a hand (or fist) full of olives.

We boarded our Intercape bus on the fifth and rode that all the way back to Namibia. I got to Megan’s at a little before three in the morning to find the gate locked. So there I am, tired, dirty, and smelling fairly rank staring up at the fence I had jumped back at the start of this vacation. It’s appropriate that this is where this story will end and I will return to the ‘normal’ routine I’ve come to appreciate here in Namibia. Yes, it’s an expensive, corrupt, hot, sandy country with an unforgiving climate and could possibly have a massive overpopulation of volunteers, but it’s mine. I complain and make snide comments on most every detail, but deep down I appreciate what the country has to offer, what it has done for me and what it has changed within me.

With a running start, I javelin my bag over the top of the fence, snagging the waist belt, and sending it into a flip before crashing to the ground. I climb up and over, gingerly negotiating the two overhanging rows of barbed wire and descending the other side. If a guy with a thirty pound pack can get into this place in under two minutes, who exactly are they keeping out? Crippled old women and paraplegics? The back door is open and I quietly sneak in and crash on the floor.

Acknowledgements:
I’d like to thank Silas again for unknowingly loaning the tent, sleeping pad, and guide book. Thanks to Carl for organizing the first half of the trip and continuing to join me in doing stupid extreme sports in Africa. Thanks to the Malawi PCVs for letting us crash the New Years at their place. As their shirts say, “Quite possibly the best volunteers on the planet” (second of course to Namibia!). Thanks to Megan for letting me stay at her house for the past week to type all this madness (and letting me watch the first two seasons of ‘Lost’). Special thanks to Angie and Robin for sharing in this experience. I had a blast and I hope you did too. Finally, thanks to my parents, family, and friends back home for staying in touch and giving me the best reasons to count the days in this final year. I hope you’ve enjoyed this and I’m sorry for any and all errors, offenses, shocks and/or awes I may have caused or included. It takes me long enough to write this that I have no desire to proof read. Hats watt spell checks are four. Please submit any complaints by yelling them into the screen now. See ya!