Peeing in the Bush Read online

  ‘Okay, no big deal,’ he replied calmly.

  For once, we were blessed with a lazy tout who took the first no for an answer. Unfortunately he didn’t go away, and kept looking sug­gestively at me. I did not understand what the big attraction was as my appearance was unkempt and my overweight rucksack made me bend over like a 90-year-old with a hernia. But maybe Zambian guys had a thing for that.

  ‘I shall visit you at Bridge Camp later!’ he hollered at me cheerfully as we moved off. I gave him two thumbs up – the only reaction I could muster from underneath my mountainous pack.

  A rude signpost indicated we still had three torturous kilometres to walk in the direction of a steep dirt road before hitting Bridge Camp. For 20 minutes we were trekking when a Canter pickup truck crunched through noisily and slowed down next to us. The driver stuck out his head.

  ‘Hello! Where are you going?’ he asked.

  We told him.

  ‘I can drive you there. You pay me some money, okay?’

  Paul declined politely and we continued walking.

  The truck moved forward with us. ‘Okay, get in. IT1 give you a lift,’ said the driver, waving us in. ‘For free,’ he added grudgingly, but with a hint of compassion.

  Relieved and grateful, we eagerly occupied the back of his truck, which was already carrying seven other Zambians. Rattling down the rest of the way, I imagined how the locals, being used to this kind of transport, must’ve had developed butts of iron; as it was, the rough terrain made me bump so violently against the steel floorboard that I seriously thought I needed an arse transplant.

  Hopping off at the arched gate to Bridge Camp, I and the gang sang our thank-yous to the kind driver and headed inside. We were pleasantly greeted by the subtly magnificent wooden architecture of the main lodge, which had homely sandstone walls bathed in yellow lights, soft lounge chairs that begged to be fallen on, and an upper observation deck decorated generously with African ornaments. It hinted at warmth and tradition – a perfect halfway house for road-weary travellers with sore bums like us.

  A heavily bearded middle-aged white guy was reading the news­papers on a chunky picnic table with three empty beer bottles on it while a po-faced lady chatted to him from behind the bar counter-cum-reception. We assumed they were the owners and took turns introducing ourselves.

  The man stared at us blankly for a moment after we were done, his red face looking like he’d been playing with his wife’s rouge. ‘Frankly, I won’t remember any of your names tomorrow,’ he drawled drunkenly. Anyway, I’m Will and over there is my wonderful wife ... er ... um ...’ He snapped his fingers a few times.

  ‘Lindsay,’ she chimed in, quite annoyed.

  ‘Yes, Lindsay!’ he said brightly. ‘See, I can’t even remember hers.’

  Thankfully, Lindsay was as sober as a fighter pilot and gave us some forms to fill out at the bar. After checking in, Paul and Amy headed to their campsite while Chan and I walked up a slope to our adorable little stone-and-wood chalet with thatching that resembled Darth Vader’s helmet. The surrounding walls were less than five feet high and had generous openings screened by holey mosquito netting. It provided plenty of fresh air that could potentially freeze us solid while we were sleeping. Our bags were dumped on the concrete floor and we felt up the ragged exposed brickwork for a bit before walking back to the bar for some pub grub.

  It was eerily quiet and remote there as we ate our dinner on the open deck; each footstep, murmur and spoon drop could be heard from the music-free bar and the kitchen behind. Every time oven-tempered Lindsay yelled at the sparse staff of locals, it was so disconcertingly loud that it must have echoed across the land for miles, rivalling even the lion’s territorial roars.

  We slept lousily that night. Even with a pillow pressed against my ears, a bed doused with insect repellent and anti-mozzie citronella patches plastered all around me, I was eaten alive and irritated to death by a thousand and one mosquitoes. The incessant scratching and whining in my ears pretty much drove me insane. By morning, I had received a nice collection of itchy red welts and swollen nail streaks all over my arms and legs. I went out for breakfast by myself as Chan was bent on being a lazy porker until lunchtime.

  The pall of impending malaria was forgotten once I caught sight of the swoon-worthy scenery above an attractive pool and garden on the lodge’s verandah. It was a deliciously wondrous setting featuring rolling ginger hills, a perfectly azure sky and the tenacious Luangwa River which had snaked all the way here from South Luangwa National Park. At this point, the river had receded enough to reveal comfy-looking wide sandbanks for weary creatures to lie on. Admiring nature’s inconceivable beauty, I gobbled four slices of toast liberally laced with gourmet liqueur jam and sat waiting for the high that never came. Just then Paul and Amy dropped in my party of one.

  ‘Hey Adeline, we’re going for a walk up to the marketplace. You wanna come?’ asked Paul.

  ‘Of course, sounds great!’ I replied happily. I was just excited to have something to do.

  I hopped back to the room to drag Chan out of bed but she was feeling as productive as a cadaver. ‘No-o-o,’ she moaned as I pulled one of her legs. Still half asleep, she croaked her wish to be excluded from any activity that did not involve lying in bed. So I gave up on her and skipped off with the English twosome. Minus the burden of our rucksacks, it was an easy and enjoyable walk out to the market with beautiful views of curvaceous hills and sporadic mud huts. Mud huts, typically round or square in shape, are exactly what they sound like – compact dwellings made of mud with thick straw propped up by long tree branches for roofs. They usually have no openings save a main entrance, yet were a step up from the equally ubiquitous straw huts.

  Along the way, four barefoot children with dishevelled clothes and orange sand-powdered faces emerged from the tall dense grass beside the dirt road. Balancing hefty sacks of maize in wicker baskets on their heads, the three girls and their little brother of no more than five years old stared at us curiously. After asking, ‘How are you? How are you?’ they promptly glued themselves to our hips and matched our pace enthusiastically. ‘What’s your name? What’s your name?’ they repeated, looking up at us with unwavering rheumy eyes. We, too, repeated our names.

  When Paul asked about their parents, the eldest sibling was immediately confused. ‘Your father and mother. Where are they?’ he rephrased.

  Her cheerful disposition gradually vanished. ‘No father,’ she said, turning her head away.

  ‘What about your mother?’ he asked in a delicate tone.

  ‘No mother.’ She fought back a tear as she gazed up at him.

  My heart dropped. But Paul wasn’t about to bring the girl down. ‘So who’s the boss? You’re the boss?’

  The kids cracked up. Yet, it was an uneasy joke, having realized that I was almost certainly bearing witness to a few of the millions of children tragically orphaned by AIDS in sub-Saharan Africa. You know how prevalent a problem was when a catchy abbreviation had been coined for it: these were OVCs (Orphans and Vulnerable Children) or more simply, AIDS orphans. When these children lose their parents to AIDS, they are typically relegated to the doorstep of elder siblings, grandparents and members of the extended family to be taken care of. Unfortunately, exhausted old granny probably already has her hands full with the kids of her deceased neighbour, daughter-in-law and cousin brother, and can barely put food on their plates as it is. This all-too-common scenario invariably results in the depressing images you often see at benefit rock concerts for Africa: abandoned and abused children suffering from lack of nutrition, clothing, medical care and education.

  Approaching another carbon-copy village of mud huts, we were detected by a down-at-heel boy standing outside his home. He gave a loud piercing screech, triggering a high-pitched chorus of, ‘HOW ARE YOU? HOW ARE YOU!’ from a whole bunch of excitable little people suddenly breaking their camouflage in metre-high veg­etation. Then they all giggled and ran unflinchingly straight for us. Honestly,
it was frightening to see a mob of children charging at you like wildebeests – unless you’re Michael Jackson, of course. I rather cynically assumed they would ask for money but they were simply asking for our names, sweets, pens and a little fun time. Amy and I were a bit freaked from all the attention. If Chan were around, she would’ve climbed up a tree.

  En route we passed more villages of the same mould and even more young scamps screaming, ‘HOW ARE YOU!’ in unison, at which point I realized that it wasn’t a question any more – it was an alarm call for reinforcements to come and intensely observe the travelling freak show that was us. Like multiplying gremlins, we’d now accumulated over 20 inquisitive youngsters who became our shadows for much of the way. Chattering noisily amongst them­selves and chuckling at the weirdness of us, they chanted, ‘How are you, madam?’, ‘What’s your name, sir?’, ‘Sweets, madam?’ in rotation ad infinitum. In between their questions, they recited the sing-song alphabet with us, each time ending appropriately with a cacophony of cheering and jumping high-fives.

  When the herd of ankle-biters eventually wised up to the fact that we had nothing on us, they gradually subsided and we arrived without fanfare at the rambunctious marketplace. Long rows of open-fronted wooden stalls on each side of the road were selling everything from kitchen utensils and slingshots to straw hats and razor blades. As we were hungry, we went to the stall selling deep-fried chicken drumsticks, sausages and fries oozing with grease and sat down on a bench to enjoy our fattening lunch. Then who should reappear but my not-so-secret admirer, Victor.

  This time he tried to sell us a boat trip to the magnificent conflu­ence of the Luangwa and Zambezi rivers, which formed Zambia’s natural borders with Zimbabwe and Mozambique. I’d read how scenic it was and we would have gone as well, had we not booked a Luangwa river cruise with Bridge Camp. Although we turned him down, he was extremely gracious and sat down with us. And then he popped the question to me – the most frequently asked question of foreign single girls by Zambian men.

  ‘Can you please take me back to your country?’ he asked in earnest. ‘I’ll be a good boyfriend.’

  ‘I have a boyfriend already,’ I lied.

  ‘Who is he? Tell me, I will fight him!’ he said, cracking his knuck­les. ‘Dump him and take me instead. I am better and I will go back with you.’

  I almost busted a gut trying to contain my laughter. ‘Oh, I would like to but, you see, I have already taken a couple of Nigerian guys back on my last trip to Africa. They’re now busy selling Rolex watches around the city centre to support my high-maintenance lifestyle.’

  ‘What?!’ he exclaimed. ‘Really?’

  I raised one eyebrow and smiled slyly.

  ‘Bufi! (local Bemba word for ‘liar’)’ He rapped my arm and burst out laughing.

  The jokes ended when we heard the sound of drumbeats and gut-wrenching wailing. In the middle of the road we saw a group of heartbroken villagers marching and pounding hand drums while several other men shouldered a shoddily assembled casket.

  ‘It’s a funeral,’ Victor said. ‘Stand up.’

  We dropped our chicken bones and, along with the now-quiet marketplace, stood up to solemnly observe the procession, made more woeful by the half-bawling, half-singing women. For about ten moving minutes, we intently watched them pass us. Once they were out of sight, however, the marketplace was buzzing again as if nothing had happened. This reminded me of morning school assemblies – the only time pupils were forced to be silent. But after the bell was rung and assembly was over, everyone would begin their lessons completely unaffected. Unless, of course, some students were caught smoking or making out in the school toilet – in which case the news would become fodder for gossip during class and recess.

  Victor, too, was notably blasé. Not surprising, I guess, since funer­als were as common as sunrises in Zambia, caused chiefly by – try to act shocked – the AIDS pandemic. As would be expected, the figures of the horrible carnage wreaked by HIV are devastating. A baby born today may not live long enough to celebrate her 36th birthday now that AIDS has slashed an alarming 20 years off Zambia’s life expectancy. Out of the total population often million, 1.8 million people were living with HIV/AIDS as of 2003 – the ones who were willing to be tested, that is. In all likelihood, the actual prevalence is significantly more perturbing.

  Because an estimated 170,000 Zambians die from AIDS-related diseases every year (that’s around 466 people every day), the unset­tling smell of freshly unearthed soil wafts perennially in the air. On weekends when most city folk in developed countries would swarm shopping malls, Lusakans would flock to cemeteries.

  With a new funeral procession arriving every 15 minutes, cemeteries like Leopard’s Hill in the capital have become so horrendously congested that remote pathways have to be dug for graves. Subsequently, to dig the graves of the 50 bodies streaming in every day, at least 126 workers wielding pickaxes, hoes and shovels are needed. It is so crowded and hectic that a typical scene at a cemetery is akin to a mosh pit at a heavy metal concert. If there is a shortage of workers and the bodies start piling up, the bereaved occasionally have to jump in to help excavate their loved one’s grave. Lest you think the problems end after burial and everyone can rest in peace, think again. Grave robbers frequently prowl around expensive coffins, therefore it isn’t unheard of for relatives to visit their dearly departed three days later to find the grave hollowed out and the coffin stolen.

  In an effort to curb the soaring mortality rate, the streets of major townships are lined with numerous billboards preaching the AIDS propaganda – quite the opposite of Kuala Lumpur’s giant advertising billboards which are inundated with the latest popcorn trash flicks or pointless mobile gadgetry. Faded and bleached due to the hot African sun, the billboards we saw shouted such vital messages as ‘Have you heard about AIDS?’, ‘Virgins don’t cure AIDS’, and ‘AIDS is spread by contact – with HIV-infected bodily fluids’, all accompanied by semi-serious cartoon illustrations. These messages may seem simplistic to some – after all, AIDS has been around for ages, how can people not already know this? Yet according to Chris Nickson – an elective medical student at a Zambian hospital – volunteers once roamed Lusaka dishing out handouts on ‘genital leakage’ to increase public health awareness. In return, they were told by the public that, yeah, condoms were a good idea ... for somebody with HIV, not them.

  The bigger towns sported more obvious billboards which were launched following a new major governmental campaign: the 4A AIDS Awareness Series (the 4As being to ‘Act for Your Life. Act for Your Future. Act Against HIV/AIDS. Act for Zambia.’) One such billboard featured the Chieftain for Livingstone, Victoria Falls and Southern Zambia promoting safe sex with the message ‘Act Decently, Always Use a Condom’ whilst another depicted a Zambian actress imploring people to ‘Act Now. Talk Openly About HIV/AIDS’.

  Of course, it’s hard to measure the effectiveness of these billboards in the grand fight against HIV/AIDS. Someone with bad manners might say they were nothing more than passing landscape novelties to distract visitors while the Zambian economy continues to be crippled by the deadliest germs in the world. Still, if nothing changes soon, the running joke could well be ‘Who doesn’t have AIDS?’ as every industry becomes adversely affected. Well, nearly every industry – the undertakers and coffin-makers seem pretty happy.

  At around 4 o’clock the same evening, with the big baking ball of radiation in the sky closing in on the horizon and emanating the kind of heat that could crack walnuts on the ground, Paul, Amy and I embarked on an easygoing river float down the glassy waters of Luangwa River. Carting our complimentary cooler box of drinks, we followed our two polers and crossed the street from Bridge Camp to a steep bank on the opposite side, where a green catamaran-canoe with white polka dots awaited us. Ever so gently we eased into the water, with me sitting on my haunches in absolute bliss. As we glided along the tender current, we kept our eyes peeled and managed to catch a beautiful pied kingfisher hoveri
ng above golden reeds in search of grub. The long, lanky trees on the riverbank seemed to cry for atten­tion amongst the evergreen foliage, extending their bald branches past the top edges of undulating hills.

  I couldn’t wait for Paul to open the cooler box so I did the hon­ours. Rummaging noisily inside the box, I tossed the nerdy softies and Irritable Bowel Syndrome-causing beer aside, and found the white wine. After filling up each of our glasses with it, we sat back and took in the exquisiteness of it all. At this hour, half-naked native women were out in full force performing a variety of household chores beside the river. We waved at them as we drifted past, as is customary, and they returned the favour by staring at us in wonderment and dubiety. I guess weird foreigners do not come floating by very often.

  Watching the women scrub everything from clothes to tin pots to themselves, I reminisced about those I’d seen through blotchy bus windows and open markets. Practically the entire female population were beasts of burden, precariously balancing edifices of maize, bricks, charcoal, agricultural produce and various other neck-breaking items on their heads. On top of that, they had to pop out the kids, deal with their nonsense, clean, cook, transport goods to marketplaces, and fetch water from water sources miles away. In contrast, the men reminded me of the lions I’d seen – lounging about, doing diddlysquat.

  Anyway, it was a non-issue as the admirable iron ladies did not seem to require any assistance. No matter how heavy the stuff they schlepped around, the muscly Amazons of Zambia made it all look terribly effortless. Heck, if you ever caught them in action, and they happened to like your face, they may even have enough strength left from their taxing tasks to offer you a smile. As far as these amazing women were concerned, so long as they had clean water, cornmeal, clothing and a sturdy mud hut, they had the lot.

  As far as I could tell, this was pretty much the real Africa. The real Africa did not consist of fly-friendly children with bloated tummies or shrivelled beggars lying on the streets, nor of violent daylight thefts, burning riots or murders – the only side the media ever seemed to show us. Life here in Zambia, for most people at least, was a mildly adequate one touched by gentle poverty and tolerable inconvenience. Far be it from me to make such a bold assumption, but it was difficult to discern their true dispositions when their clothes were always so darn vibrant and cheery.