Expats Beware: Zambia-Part 4-Finally Getting There & The Reality
Day Four
The next morning we headed out (yes, bright and early, clearly we are suckers for punishment) for Kitwe on the Copperbelt. A distance of about 800 kilometres, passing through the capital city of Lusaka, which was about halfway. Day four and we had covered only about twelve hundred kilometres. I think they were quicker with ox wagons.
And yet the “fun” was not over.
The first one hundred kilometres took us four hours. This piece of road surpassed the road in Botswana for sheer disrepair. Potholes the size of the Kimberley Diamond diggings were regular features. Tar was an afterthought. It crossed my mind many times that the HR Manager of my new employer had deemed this car suitable. I cursed her every time my kidneys bounced around like Mexican jumping beans.
Now, in this curious and poverty stricken country, the police do not have vehicles. But they do have roadblocks. Everywhere. At the entrance and exit of every town. And they stop you at each one in order to search your car. You may remember that at this stage the doors on my car only function on the one side and the vehicle is packed with paraphernalia. I think you might be getting the picture.
At about five o’clock we rolled into Lusaka and found a hotel. After dinner and five beers we thankfully hit the sheets.
Day Five
Day five was mercifully without major incident. Apart from being pulled over for speeding (75 in a 70 zone) and being fined 500,000 Kwacha (about $100). Oh yes, and another thing. The ever reliable AA had informed us that we must carry those internationally acceptable red plastic triangle thingies that you place in front and behind your car when you break down. What they omitted to tell us was that in Zambia you have to have metal ones. Needless to say at one of the roadblocks on this last leg (last straw?) it was discovered that our triangles were not legal. So, a crafty looking fellow in a leather jacket hauled me over to a makeshift office on the side of the road, informed me that he was impounding the now tired and terrified Mazda 3 and began tapping numbers into a calculator. By now the long suffering one had suffered too much and proceeded to lose it.
“Get me out of this shitty country” she screamed. “Get me back to Lusaka and put me on a plane. What the hell are we doing in this place? We’ve been here two days and not one person has said anything remotely like “welcome to our country.” No, all anyone ever says is “how much money do you have on you.” “Get me out.” These cries of pure anguish were followed by banshee wails. Which turned out to be quite fortunate as this caught the attention of another senior looking chap in full police regalia. He shook his head at the leather jacket and we were, remarkably, on our way.
I said to the long suffering one, “Well done there, old girl, you really had them going.”
The look I received in return indicated clearly that, should I say one more word, we would be heading back to Lusaka. I shut my face.
From here on in it was pretty plain sailing and at about six in the evening we creaked into Kitwe, found our lodgings, parked old trusty, activated our Netstar (that was just a joke) and booked in. We had arrived. The epic journey was finally at an end.
After dinner and seven hundred and eighty beers we thankfully hit the sheets.
One of the perks offered with this job was a Company-paid, two week stay at a reasonably decent hotel, namely The Mukwa Lodge. This was while we found our own accommodations. We were even blessed with a chaperone from HR who would be driving and showing us around (pretty colonial, hey?). He was a tall, imposing and positively regal Zambian named Kenneth. He dressed in Armani and knew everyone that mattered in Kitwe (and probably the rest of Zambia). He picked us up on our first morning and delivered us to the HR Managers office. We shall call her Prudence. The conversation went something like this:
My first question, “What are the work opportunities like for Vonnie?”
“Oh, women can’t get work in Zambia unless they have a master’s degree, a doctorate and a PHD,” she replied. There was no hint of a smile.
Which was really interesting because at my interview the CFO had indicated that there would be no problem in this area and he had in fact taken a copy of the long suffering one’s CV from me. Another dodgy omen.
I then raised the subject of suitable housing.
“That’s a huge problem in Kitwe,” she said, “there is very little available.” Which was also rather interesting. Again, at my interview the CFO had indicated that there was an abundance of housing available. I started wondering if a trend was developing here. “But Kenneth can help you there,” she continued.
And of course Kenneth did. More of that shortly.
“What is the crime situation like?” I asked warily, watching carefully to see whether her eyes would dart to the left and up.
“Almost no crime at all here in Zambia,” came the welcome reply. “The Zambians are very friendly and peaceful people generally.”
Having just left crime riddled South Africa this was very good news indeed.
However, I guess I should have picked up on the key word “generally”. More about that later (I still have to find a house). However that ominous trend seemed to be clearly emerging.
Vonnie asked about the shopping in Kitwe, as we not only had to find a house but had to furnish it as well.
“No problems there,” was the response, “Kenneth will take you around and show where everything is.” Which, of course, Kenneth did. I think by now you know what’s coming. Yup, more about the shopping later.
Right. Enough of Prudence and her obvious empathy and dubious honesty and out into the streets to find a house. We had left old trusty to lick his wounds at the Lodge and were in a company car with our friend and guide Kenneth. Quite fortunate that. Estate agents in Kitwe (and quite possibly in Zambia as a whole) do not have cars. They ride in your car. OK.
We were shown three houses that first day and, whilst they were all huge with really generous gardens, they also all appeared to have been empty for the last twenty years with basics such as electricity and water somewhat derelict.
The following day we found a house which the long suffering one decided would do as it appeared to be “structurally sound”. The badly leaking water booster pump and the very dodgy electrics we could live with. The roof not about to cave in was definitely more of a priority.
And the Shopping Experience. I’m sure you can’t wait.
Only one supermarket (in the loosest sense of the word) paraded its wares with air conditioning that worked on a whim surrounded by a plethora of begging urchins, occasionally chased from the parking area by a soldier waving his AK-47 at them!
Our first experience of said supermarket went something like this:
Whilst queuing to pay I noticed a bit of a scuffle between two guys down one of the aisles. This was followed shortly thereafter by some serious and blood curdling screaming coming from beyond the walls. The long suffering one looked at me in alarm and just then an expat acquaintance in the next queue calmly informed us that “Store security” had apprehended a shoplifter and, as the police do not react particularly strongly to this type of offence, had dragged the offender to the back of the shop where anyone who feels so inclined could go and beat the shit out of him. On this occasion at least, the opportunity was clearly taken advantage of by many. The felon is then thrown in an alley behind the store to literally lick his wounds and presumably to learn his painful lesson.
Modern rehabilitation techniques are not that big in Zambia.
Then there are the discount furniture shops (on the side of the road) selling chairs and couches of such dimensions that Shrek, his wife and three cousins would be required to fully occupy one couch. Such furniture carried a six month warranty.
Say no more.
And finally, a kind of a quick shop, quaintly named “Bippos”, which was mostly frequented by expats as there was ample, secure parking, sans urchins. Prices, needless to say, reflected such luxuries.
We left the cosy comfort of the lodge and moved into our house. It was huge and our newly acquired furniture struggled to conquer the empty spaces. The garden was slightly smaller than the Dallas ranch with a huge, but empty, swimming pool that appeared to have not seen any happy frolicking fun seekers for many a year. The absence of any kind of filtration equipment may well have had something to do with that. However, water was not an issue. On the contrary, there was water everywhere.
Except in the bathrooms and the kitchen.
We could only assume that the special booster water pump was unionized as it only worked when the urge took it. But it leaked like a true professional. And though we had it repaired four times in the three months that we stayed at this house it never managed to raise its performance beyond, at best, occasionally reliable.
Now, interestingly enough, this house came with an unusual accessory.
Michael.
Yes, I kid you not. A young kid, about twenty, with a smile that Colgate marketing department would pay a bundle for. Whilst Michael was not in the fine print of the lease, he nonetheless became our Houseboy, garden assistant and security guard. How? I don’t know. He was there when we moved in and I didn’t have the heart to throw him out. Another error of judgement as you will see later. Perhaps I need to change my name come to think of it.
And then of course there was the robbery.
Or was it the fire?
No, that’s right, the robbery came first.
The Robbery:
So, after retiring for the evening on a Sunday night, in “crime free” Zambia I awoke on Monday morning to discover that the empty spaces in the lounge had won the battle over the furniture. This was mainly due to the fact that there was no longer any furniture. The back door hung precariously on its hinges at the entrance to the equally empty kitchen. Michael, whose room was directly adjacent to the kitchen, claimed to have slept through whatever nocturnal shenanigans had taken place.
At work, on hearing my sad tale everyone, without exception, advised me to get full time security. I had been there for four weeks and not received this advice. Go figure.
It is becoming increasingly obvious to me as I put this down on paper that changing my name would be a sensible thing to do.
In the immortal words of Jeff Foxworthy, “here’s your sign”. And now I know that you are dying to hear about the fire.
Well, hopefully not dying as such. That seemed to be my fate at the time.
The Fire:
It was an idyllic weekend, weather wise at least, and in a peaceful moment, while the long suffering one had everything under control in the kitchen for a serious Sunday afternoon lunch, we were talking a stroll around our considerable garden.
Until we noticed smoke coming out of the kitchen roof area.
We looked at each other.
We ran inside.
The stove was on fire and enjoying itself so much that it wanted to spread its warmth. In fact, by know, the kitchen cupboards had joined in and the ceiling was licking (forgive the pun) its lips in anticipation.
Always the intrepid action man, I grabbed a chair, the garden hose and proceeded to tackle the blaze. However, I might have mentioned a slightly dodgy water pump previously? Yup.
My garden hose was almost as effective as my favourite uncle’s prostate plumbing when he was seventy-four.
Meantime the long suffering one was hurling buckets of sand over anything flaming, of which there was quite a lot.
We did our best, got it reasonably under control and made many frantic phone calls.
By late afternoon we were entertaining a large crowd. By late evening we decided to look for a new house.
To be continued…
If you enjoyed this part of the story but somehow missed the previous part, here is a link:
