From Lusaka to Ndola
We sat wide-eyed on the bus, waiting for it to depart for Ndola. Our rucksacks were clutched against our chests. The din and the colorful blur of the surrounds made it difficult to converse – all we could do was stare around in wonderment at the VERY unfamiliar collage that was nothing like the Africa we knew.
For Simon and me, two South Africa white boys, who thought they came from Africa, it certainly was a culture shock of note! Leaving our cotton wool box that was the apartheid South Africa of the mid-eighties and trekking across darkest Africa was madness …but, we were determined to do it. We didn’t have the money to fly to Kinshasa, so overland was the only other option. “There must be a way!” Simon had said in frustration, after we had spent days trying to find out what was beyond South Africa’s borders. Under the apartheid government information on what was further north was scarce and outdated. We had managed to find out that it it was possible to get to Harare, but further north…. it seemed as if someone had turned out the lights. “Let’s just go and play it by ear”, suggested Simon.
So here we were in Lusaka sitting on bus waiting to depart for Ndola, a mining town in Zambia’s copper belt.
A chicken with a long piece of string attached to its leg pecked hopefully at my ankle. I looked down just in time to see it being unceremoniously jerked away by its owner’s rough tug. Chicken feathers floated to the floor of the bus as the indignant bird squawked and flapped in protest. A pig grunted from beneath someone’s seat as the door of the bus closed with a hiss and the driver grated the gears.
A building with an ANC flag draped from the second floor window reminded me that we were no longer in South Africa. I nudged Simon who was staring transfixed at a womans hairdo in the seat in front of him. “It must be a bit like having TV aerial on your head”, he mused after a few more nudges.
There are advantages and disadvantages of keeping your luggage with you on a bus in Africa. The driver had wanted to put our rucksacks in the hold beneath the bus, but since we were very skeptical about security arrangements, with much negotiating we were able to keep them with us. After all, if he can have a goat on his lap why can’t we have our rucksacks on our laps? And so that is where they stayed for the entire trip.
Zambian Bus
Our first stop was Kabwe. The bus’ arrival saw sandaled traders sprinting from between tin buildings and from wooden stalls on the side of the road leaving an assortment of hats and shoes in their wake as they jockeyed for first place, trying to anticipate our final resting place. The noise of the trading floor reached a crescendo as desperate merchants tried to sell their wares through the tiny sliding windows high above their heads. Cooldrinks in plastic bags, sweets, biscuits, chickens, cooked meat, oranges and loaves of bread all bumped against our window, held high by the shouting vendors. A big woman whose window couldn’t open leaned across our seat and traded noisily for a homemade ice lolly and a packet of biscuits. Once the price had been agreed, the necessary tender was produced from between her ample bosom and passed it through the window to the grabbing hands. We didn’t feel the urge to buy anything ourselves as Mike Thomas, our host in Lusaka had kindly given us a bottle of coke each and a packet of biscuits for the trip.
Simon had spent about twenty minutes trying to open his bottle. After he had unsuccessfully tried every piece of metal within range as an opener, he gave up produced the packet of biscuits from his rucksack. “We might die of thirst, but not of hunger!” he said and offered them to me. “Do you think I should offer her one?” I asked Simon as I took two, nodding towards a girl across the aisle who hadn’t bought anything at the last stop, “ag shame, maybe she can’t afford anything” I whispered. Simon agreed and I offered the biscuits, the girl beamed as she took the open packet from my hand. Simon waited for the packet to be passed back.
And waited and waited. Eventually the biscuits on the girl’s lap diminished over the next hour until there was no more hope. Once the last biscuit had been eaten, the girl, oblivious to his stare, reached into her bag and produced a bottle of coke. “Look!” exclaimed Simon as he dug me in my ribs with his elbow.
We both watched in amazement as the girl lifted the coke bottle to her mouth, then using her teeth as a bottle opener, prised off the cap with a hiss. She gulped noisily while we stared on. “You think I should ask her to open your coke?” I suggested reaching for the neck of Simon’s rucksack.
“Don’t you dare!” said Simon drily.
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