Peeing in the Bush Read online

  Although we were nowhere near the city, make no mistake – rural Zambians loved to dress up even if it was for a hard day’s labour. On the runways of dusty gravel and steep bush trails, fashionably gaudy second-hand tops and elaborate chitenje wraparounds were paraded with model-like flair and grace. Ornately patterned head wraps to cush­ion the 25-kilo head-loads were evidently the must-haves of the season, along with the stylish live accessory of an infant, which was best worn haphazardly slung across the body.

  *

  After a hearty breakfast the following day, Lindsay was in a disturb­ingly chirpy mood and insisted on driving the four of us out to the marketplace to catch the next bus back to Lusaka. It seemed like she had been eagerly awaiting this joyful moment and wanted to personally oversee our departure. Bidding her a tearless goodbye, we hustled towards a bus that had stopped for the obligatory pee-and-buy-dried-fish intermission.

  We wheeled out within ten minutes but didn’t manage to go very far before a commotion broke out amongst a few passengers and the bus was forced to pull over.

  ‘Oh, somebody’s been left behind!’ Chan reported after speaking to a man across the aisle.

  Not that it mattered because the driver decided to chug on ahead anyway – no sense in the entire bus going back to pick him up, I guess. I imagined the poor fella tripping over his pant legs while running out of the lavatory with his fly undone, only to be farted on by the bus’s exhaust smoke. The last thing he probably saw was the haughty company slogan plastered behind the bus saying ‘You Snooze, You Lose’.

  With surprisingly few stops, we arrived in Lusaka after three hours on the road – the shortest bus ride we ever took. Emblazoned across the top of the cracked, wobbly windshield – its imminent disintegration merely delayed by lines of cellophane tape – was the bus company’s apt name: Zoom. Back at the Inter-City Bus Terminus, we saw flocks of taxi touts scattered around our bus like dung pellets, waiting to rob us of oxygen and perhaps more tangible things. Before we even had a chance to peel our clammy butts off the seats, the more impatient touts irritatingly scraped and clanked our window with their keys and made alarming hand gestures as if that would make them appear more attractive.

  When Chan and I got out, we were like pop stars getting mobbed by rabid fans. We had never felt so wanted – everyone pleaded for both of us to please get in their car. At a loss over which shirt-yanking, bag-tugging, bra-snapping driver to go with, we unlatched ourselves from them and walked. After an eternity of 15 minutes, I wholeheart­edly regretted the decision as my backpack began to feel like I had packed a cement truck, a kitchen sink and a couple of monkeys inside. I grimaced and whined about how the tight straps were digging into my shoulders and that my fragile vertebra was close to crumbling. Finally Chan couldn’t take my dramatically contorted facial expres­sion any more and saved my spine by carrying my tank pack for me. I happily took over her fuss-free rolling suitcase and dragged it noisily along the pavement.

  We were now in the familiar tree-lined, high-walled suburbs east of the main city drag, Cairo Road. Paul and Amy, who were following our lead because we had the map, were way ahead now on the other side of the road. ‘Amy!’ I called across the street. ‘Just keep on going down that road and you will see Chachacha Backpackers! Our hostel is this way!’ I pointed vigorously to the respective directions. And with that, we parted company with the amiable English twosome. It was an abrupt goodbye and I could tell that Amy wanted to come give us a hug but the four-lane traffic between us refused to give way. So we just stood there across from each other, smiled and waved for a bit before walking away.

  I was experiencing separation anxiety until we turned leftwards and lost our bearings. Hopelessly clueless, I approached a young woman for directions to Ku-Omboka Backpackers. ‘Oh, just follow me,’ she said chirpily. ‘I stay on the same street!’ She then politely asked where we were from, told us she was taking her kid sister out and that she was studying at the University of Zambia – all in impeccable English. In fact, the standard of English in Zambia was impressive even amongst the women selling at street markets in the most remote areas imaginable. This was largely due to the efforts of Zambia’s first president Kenneth Kaunda, a militant former schoolteacher. He had built primary schools across the country in the 1970s, of which a large percentage of children attended until they were 13 years old. Today Zambia boasts a high literacy rate of 81 per cent – one of the most laudable social achieve­ments of the country.

  ‘Your room is currently occupied by a few businessmen from Bombay,’ mean Ken told us when we arrived at Ku-Omboka Backpackers. ‘Grab a seat. I’ll get someone to shoo them out. You know how these Indians are.’ That was probably the nicest thing he’d said so far, bar the part about the Indians. We plopped our bags and ourselves in the sparsely designed lounge area. While waiting, I went up to the notice board and flipped through a panoply of pinned-up flyers that offered many opportunities to worry the participants’ mothers: riverboarding the raging Zambezi rapids, high-speed jet-boating, tandem kayaking, fishing for sharp-toothed tiger fish, microlighting over Victoria Falls, white-water rafting, abseiling, bungee jumping, and gorge-swinging off the edge of Batoka Gorge. As I fingered through the flyers, I could feel the constant breeze of uniformed female staff fluttering about from room to room like their hair was on fire. When one came scuttling in, Ken reminded her that he was ‘retired and don’t need the stress’.

  Grouchy Ken ran a tight ship at Ku-Omboka. Named after Zambia’s largest and most renowned floating cavalcade, the Kuomboka (meaning ‘to move to dry ground’) is celebrated by the Lozi people of western Zambia and marks the ceremonial six-hour journey of their king when the annual floodwaters of the Zambezi River temporarily flush his settlement. The king is carried from his washed-out palace to a drier home on the royal barge – a massive wooden canoe crowned by a black wide-eyed elephant that looks like it was fashioned in a kindergarten papier-mache class. Don’t laugh.

  We managed to get to our large and comfortable room after half an hour and headed out right away to grab a late lunch. As the guesthouse wasn’t within walking distance of any shops, we hopped in a taxi to The Arcades, a spanking new strip mall with a boisterous outdoor curios market. We planned to spend the afternoon loitering around oddments while spotting Lusakan urbanites in their natural habitat. But not before Chan performed her going-out ritual: applying copious amounts of cooking oil – I mean Vaseline – enshrouding her head with a green scarf (but leaving the sides to jut out so that she could pull it together to completely cover her face from the sun), donning large Charlie’s Angels-era sunglasses, and keeping it all down with a company-issued cap. Even though she looked like she was secretly tailing her adulterous husband, no one could argue that hers was not a superb way to protect oneself from UV rays, save the mysterious use of petroleum jelly.

  Exiting the blandness of concrete sprawl and uninspiring asphalt, we followed a line of posh cars and entered a rich oasis of everything upmarket. The dizzying array of snazzy shops and nice restaurants facing the open parking lot was alive with people dressed to impress. Pretty Zambian misses sashayed around with designer handbags, tight minidresses, long crimson-dyed tresses, flower-bedaubed manicures and five-inch platform pumps while jazzy young men sported chic shirts, glinting bling-bling and flip cell phones. Wealth was clearly not something to be shy about here.

  Obviously the majority of Zambians who lived below the World Bank poverty threshold of US$ 1 a day were found anywhere but at The Arcades. I could not believe we were still in the same country – it felt more like an alternate dimension. The contrast to the 80 per cent of folks who lived in squalid shanty towns was bafflingly extreme – there were only rich or poor, the middle class was almost non-existent.

  That this was the playground of expatriates and the privileged was evidenced by the stratospheric prices of everything sold in the outlets. Hopping from menu to menu at each restaurant, we gasped and shook our heads at the steep figures. ‘Ten US
dollars for a measly sandwich!’ exclaimed Chan in disbelief. ‘We can eat 12 plates of fried Hokkien noodles at home with that!’

  With a reaction like that, it was only natural for us to hustle past the wildly fancy establishments and enter a modest fast-food diner instead. Queuing between the crisp and elegantly attired, we couldn’t help feeling self-conscious. Compared to them, our dirty, crumpled clothes made us look like Indonesian housemaids.

  After lunch, we checked out the curios bazaar where an inconceiv­able range of touristy souvenirs were up for sale: exquisitely weaved baskets, lovely paintings of village life, beautifully designed wood carvings of all sizes, complex jewellery, funny drums, scary tribal masks, masterfully dyed wall hangings, quality fabrics and fascinating metal wire sculptures in animal shapes. Amid a plethora of knick-knacks that challenge comprehension, I paused to admire an eye-catching sculpture of a warthog. The intimidating snout, lethal tusks, wrinkly skin and bristly facial hair were freakishly lifelike – a fine testament of Zambian craftsmanship.

  Of course, the vendor saw me inspecting it and called out with great salesman enthusiasm: ‘Ah, nee hau ma! China and Zambia are best friends!’

  I smiled. ‘I’m not from China.’

  He examined me thoughtfully and then laughed out loud. ‘Aha ... Japan and Zambia are also best friends!’

  ‘I’m not from Japan, either.’

  ‘Korea? Hong Kong? Taiwan?’ he asked in rapid-fire succession, his eyebrows dancing about.

  ‘Nope, nope and nope.’

  The guy was confused. ‘Then where are you from, madam?’

  ‘Um, Malaysia.’

  ‘Mala ... sha? I know Maleesha. We are best of friends! I give you good price!’ he beamed.

  ‘No, not today. Thank you,’ I said, shaking my head.

  But he wasn’t taking no for an answer. Grabbing my wrist to thwart my escape, he proffered a rhino ornament with a tapering gargantuan horn and almost impaled me with it.

  And with that, a fool and her money were parted.

  Straight after a yummy dinner of samosas, we unwound at the guest­house’s open bar just outside the restaurant. It had a cosy African-themed atmosphere complete with a life-sized replica of a scantily-clad African tribesman balancing a wicker basket on his head. It was the piece de resistance amidst hairy witchdoctor masks and brightly framed paintings. Chan and I polished off a glass of classy white wine each, on the basis of its very low price, and went back to the room early to pack for our four-day canoeing safari the following day.

  We were going to canoe the marvellous stretch of Zambezi River that is flanked by Zimbabwe’s wildlife-rich Mana Pools National Park and Zambia’s scenic floodplains, right up until the river confluence of Chongwe at the entrance of Lower Zambezi National Park. Paddling our survival equipment to camp every night on secluded islands along the Zambezi was the ultimate rite of visitor passage. It’s the single most novel and unobtrusive way to view game, all while soaking in the sun-drenched freedom of the wild outdoors. Nothing could beat creeping up on drinking elephants, examining the dental work of yawning hippos and inviting crocodiles over for tea by dipping our fingers in the water. It was going to be the thrill of a lifetime ... as long as nobody dies.

  10. HAVE TORCHLIGHT, WILL TRAVEL

  It took about three hours to stuff my daypack to implosion point. If I had not been so busy imagining worst-case scenarios out in the wild, I probably would have taken less time. Gravely anticipating hypothermia, I made doubly, nay, triply sure that I brought my gloves, thermals, down jacket, woolly hat, thick 100 per cent polyester pants and the most necessary invention in the world: the instant hand warmer. Not forgetting the toasty sleeping bag I’d been schlepping around to keep my tootsies warm at night.

  I packed with vim and vigour, confident that I was being suf­ficiently prepared for any disaster that nature may throw my way. I was really pumped up until I realized, to my horror, that the new torchlight I had bought specifically for my canoeing trip was missing! My indestructible aluminium Vortex, equipped with a retina-melting LED bulb to guide me through freak blackouts, pitch-dark lion-infested jungles and dangerously dim village washrooms – no more! Seriously, I could live without my undies, toothpaste or sanitary pads but I could never leave the house without my source of guidance and enlightenment. Darkness was not my friend.

  So I totally flipped. Chan watched in silent fear as I frantically tore the room apart, flinging my clothes, flapping the bed sheets and scratching the drawers. Even after disembowelling my rucksack and going over the stuff I had put in my daypack several times, it was nowhere to be found. It was a catastrophe. Devastated, I dropped my butt on the cold concrete floor and cracked my befuddled brain to recall where on earth I had left it.

  ‘Did you take my torchlight?!’ I queried Chan in more of a desper­ate than accusatory tone.

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘Can you just check your bags? You could have packed it by accident.’

  As she searched through her junk, it struck me: Bridge Camp! Before we checked out, Paul and Amy had popped by our chalet when I was halfway packing. I must’ve been distracted by the company and forgot my torch was hidden beneath the bed sheets.

  Just great – how was I going to survive the evil of darkness now?

  ‘Don’t worry, you can use mine,’ Chan attempted to placate me. She then unashamedly waved her itsy-bitsy torch, one of those expendable keychain types that came free with every purchase of a promotional AA battery pack. She pressed a tiny button and out shone a pathetic ray of light. Then it blinked twice and faded out. She whacked it against her thigh and jiggled it. There was a short burst of light again momentarily before it passed away peacefully.

  ‘That’s not going to cut it!’ I cried. ‘Have you any idea how many animals are starving now in the bush? We’d be ravaged, eaten and digested along with your sad excuse for a torch before we even know what hit us!’

  ‘Hmm.’ Chan wasn’t paying attention to my melodrama, still try­ing to figure out the little gadget she swore had been loaded with fresh batteries. She fiddled with it for a while and after banging it against her headboard repeatedly, got it to work again. ‘Don’t get neurotic, Adeline. I’m sure it’ll be fine.’

  When Chan was the one telling me to stop being neurotic, I knew I had to snap out of it.

  *

  The two of us left Lusaka on Monday morning with our transfer driver Martin for the three-hour journey southeast to Chirundu, a small town straddling the border between Zambia and Zimbabwe. Just as we were making our escape out of the city, we were confronted with a police roadblock. Stopping cars to find imaginary problems and to ‘collect revenue’ was a favourite pastime with the police here – definitely way more enjoyable than catching criminals. On any ride from town and back, it’s almost guaranteed that we’d pass through no less than three checkpoints. What piqued my curiosity was that almost all of these roadblocks were manned by lady officers. Certainly one up for the empowerment of women in this country – feminism, in law enforce­ment at least, appeared to be alive and well. Given my questionable morals, I was pleased to note that there was equality in bribery.

  A couple of metres before approaching the checkpoint barrier, Martin scripted my lines should we be questioned. ‘Just say I’m a friend giving you a ride. You know, to avoid unnecessary problems.’

  ‘Right.’ I nodded and put on my best poker face.

  After we pulled in, the female officer came from behind and scrutinized us through our window. My composure crumbled as she strip-searched Chan and me with her piercing gaze. Smiling weakly, and suddenly feeling very guilty, I was close to confessing that I was an incorrigible bathrobe thief at hotels when she let us pass.

  ‘Man, that was intense,’ I wiped my sweaty palms on my pants.

  Martin laughed. ‘Do you want to buy anything before we go?’ he asked.

  ‘A torchlight!’ I told him without missing a beat.

  So we took a short
detour and stopped at a shabby supermar­ket that looked more like a drugstore with excessive floor space. As expected, the torchlights on sale were the unimpressive battery brand variety, albeit more overpriced. None was a worthy successor to my valuable Vortex but anything I grabbed here would still keep us breathing longer than Chan’s weak keychain light. I dusted off an attention-seeking pink Eveready torch and felt sublimely protected the moment I wrapped my palm around it – bright enough to light my way through an escape and sturdy enough to fling towards an attacking feline if need be.

  While we shopped, Martin filled up on gas at the filling station opposite and was approached by a man carrying a plastic bag burst­ing with canned and bottled goods. Having agreed to let him ride with us, the hitchhiker called Everisto thanked me and sat up front next to Martin.

  ‘I think he must be some poor guy working hard in the city. Now that he’s earned enough, he’s bringing food back to his wife and kids in the village to restore their dwindling health,’ Chan said in Cantonese sympathetically.

  As if he understood us, Everisto craned his neck in our direction. ‘I’m working in the government as an export goods quality controller.’

  I smacked Chan in the arm for her wrongful assumption.

  ‘I’m bringing all this stuff back to the office for testing,’ he went on.

  ‘Wow, that’s interesting,’ I said.

  ‘Whoops,’ Chan uttered to me, giggling and sticking out her tongue.

  With the mannerism of an academic, Everisto pointed out inter­esting factoids as we drove past seemingly insignificant towns and villages, much like our very own tour guide. The first of many was Kafue town, dominated by drab, abandoned factories. ‘In Zambia foreign investors don’t stay long. An average company’s lifespan is only about three years,’ he explained. ‘This is why half of Zambia’s population is unemployed. There are just not enough jobs.’