Zonked in Zambia

22nd May 2011

Sleep, who needs it! No one apparently who
stays at the Eureka Camp near Lusaka the Capital of Zambia. The clowns who run
these camps in the big cities want to make a buck on every angle. They appear
to believe that if you combine a bar, a disco and a campground you can’t lose.

We have had a great run with our campsites
up until the present, but Zambia ain’t no tourist magnet so places to camp
where you won’t get your washing stolen our your throat cut during the wee
small hours are few and far between. Having recently spent two nights at the
overland mission, where the loudest noise was the sobbing as the novice missionaries
unloaded their guilt baggage at the pre breakfast singsong and confessional. We
have been spoiled, no make that "blessed".

We are trying to decide whether to drop into the town I used to work at over twenty years ago as we head further north towards Tanzania . Luanshya, where I used to teach, is on the copper belt near the border with what is now the Democratic Republic of Congo. It’s a heavy mining area so camping sites are non- existent.

Well decided against the trip down memory lane. Too far of our intended route, nowhere to camp, and the Chinese own the mines now and pay the locals who risk their lives underground b***** all. Anyway walks down memory lane aren’t really my bag!

Last night we were within a couple of
hundred kilometers of the above mining area and still found ourselves having
difficulty finding somewhere to camp. In desperation we resorted to stopping at
guest houses to ask if they could think of any campsites on the road ahead. We
were given a few suggestions, like, I think there is one about ten kilometers
up the road, to no; I think you will be very lucky to find something. Finally
in desperation we stopped at a roadside truckers bar, where information was
sort. We received no joy re a campsite in the area but we were offered the
opportunity to park behind the bar. Being out on a limb we took up the very
generous offer as at least there would be people who we hoped wouldn’t take
advantage of us. All that was asked was that we by a couple of beers at the bar
if we wanted a drink.

Well, Gael thought it was a great idea and
could see an opportunity to mix with the locals. I wasn’t quite so keen! The
music videos being played fifteen meters from the truck were loud and not my
taste, and the main truck route was twenty meters away and they travel the
route all night. Well Gael was out of the truck as soon as it stopped moving
and was building international relations immediately. No one was safe, from the
girl doing the cleaning to the barmaids, and any locals who happened to wander
by.

Gael had a ball with the girls talking
about the usual stuff women well talk about, and great difficulty explaining that she/we were in our sixties. Given that the average life expectancy of a Zambian is about forty two
years we are remarkable examples of homo erectus. It also dawned on Gael during the night as to why the girls were so confident, outgoing and dressed so smartly. Needless to say the truck drivers don’t pull up there only to sleep and have a beer. Anyway the bloody music went
on to all hours, the trucks ran all night, the generator ran most of the night,
I got b***** all sleep but Gael did. However on the positive side we didn’t get
our throats cut.

But seriously, it was very generous of the
owner to let us stay the night. It certainly provided the locals an opportunity
to observe a couple of aussie travelers close up as whites rarely stop at these
bars and certainly don’t camp out the back. Zambians have nothing, but so far
they have been very welcoming and giving.

Africa’s National Parks are like little
islands floating in a sea of humanity. Little islands constantly under threat,
under threat from those undernourished hordes on the outside, those who see the
riches (puku steaks) that could be theirs if they just take a bit of a risk.

For the last two nights we have been
staying at Kasanka Trust National Park. A Park funded by public donation from
people mainly living outside Africa. Donations and our camp fees go to
employing locals to keep other locals from shooting the **** out of those Puku
and the odd pesky Elephant that wants to feed on your field of maize, the maize
that you have been growing for the evening meal.

This approach does work, as since the trust
was formed twenty odd years ago the local’s consumption of Puku steaks and
Elephant burgers and fries has declined. Although some of the locals apparently
are slow learners, this being evidenced by the Puku we saw eating its evening
meal with only three legs while looking decidedly undernourished and still
trying to bring up its fawn.

We were assigned our own personal guard,
entertainment booking agent (via walkie talkie to the main camp), fire lighter,
shower water heater and shower drum filler and lifter at this camp. Not quite
used to all the help, but he appeared to be a real gentleman who always had a
smile, and was only visible when something had to be done. Anyway the local
people need work and we’re loaded by comparison.

It’s the evening of the 26th May
as I write this enlightening piece. We pulled up for the evening at a camp in
Northern Zambia as we slowly make our way to the border with Tanzania that
never seems to get any bloody closer. We started upon our merry way at 9am this
morning and didn’t stop driving until 5pm. During all those mind numbing hours
we covered stuff all by way of kilometers covered. But I am rooted!

Driving in Africa, and more so Zambia,
means you are constantly trying to avoid the apparent millions of kids, adults,
cyclists, heavy haulage cyclists (those carrying massive loads that they never
seem to let topple over), goats, cattle, chicken sellers, etc , who use the highway.
Whilst doing all this you also have to avoid the crater sized pot holes, and
the un-roadworthy semi trailers that would rather hit our truck than damage
their suspension on the same pothole that we both zero in on at the same time.

On another level you have to contend with
at least three or four police road blocks. Some, and only some, see you as a
means of increasing their retirement fund. I have decided we will stay at this
camp (Kapishya Hot Springs) for two days so that I can try to pull myself together
to enter the fray again.

Sorry no happy snaps. The internet is too
slow for such luxuries.