Posts Tagged With: Lusaka



“Huh?” I snorted to wake.

“Are you awake?” Max asked.

“I am now,” I yawned, not bothering to correct him on his mistaking my name while peeking at the time:


“I am dozing,” he attempted focus as we bounced along the dirt road (an unfinished highway was not in the brochure). “You need to talk to me so I don’t have an accident.”

Max had picked me up about 12 hours before from the outskirts of Zambia’s capital. I was dropped off via taxi provided by Mojo New Media at a junction where I met Kelvin who, along with three other guys, were loading his truck with about a hundred 25-kilo bags of industrial lime (the powder, not the fruit).

“Are you going to Chipata?” I asked, referring to the border town 20 K’s from Malawi.

“Yes,” he said.

I gave him my spiel of moneyless travel and offered to, “Help load the bags in exchange for a ride.”

“Wait,” he said.

I did.

For about three seconds.

IMG_6273Then I took the initiative and helped load. And, like the other guys, got covered with lime powder. The guys were impressed (not by my getting-covered-in-lime. For helping. I think…). Apparently, they’d never seen a muzuhungu  do physical labour.

“So can I ride with you?” I asked, dusting myself off.

“I’m not sure if I have the room,” he said. “And I’m only leaving at seventeen. I’ll arrive in Chipata at zero-four tomorrow.”

I looked at my phone.


“Shit,” I was hoping to reach Malawi by the end of the day but that wasn’t going to happen. “That’s late.

IMG_6279And that’s when Max rolled up in a Volvo truck carrying another, identical Volvo truck in his tray. He was practically cornered by ten guys persuading him to take me to Chipata, his final destination.

“He’s a good man,” they kept repeating (a little bag-handling goes a long way).

Max was worried about the police demanding bribes having a muzhungu passenger.

“You don’t’ have to take me if you don’t want to,” I said. “Someone else will help. Don’t feel forced.” I stepped back a bit as the guys drew in a little uncomfortably close. “Really, I’ll be fine.”

Max was cornered like a mouse and in the end agreed to cheers and backslaps from the crowd. One guy bought us sausage rolls and two drinks – a water and a soft drink – which I gave the driver as I don’t really drink softies (unless mixed with whiskey or brandy).

His other passengers were a grandmother with her 3-year-old grand-daughter (whom I offered one of the sausage rolls to) and Alec, a 32-year-old local. We had 574 kilometres to cover, according to Google’s map app and we were averaging 60 K’s an hour.

574 K’s.

We reached the first roadblock where the police pulled us over. Max was asked to present his papers at the station. He left for about 25 minutes returning a little flustered.

“How’d it go?” I managed to cough out nervously.

“Paid,” he said, clambering back on board.

Was that a bribe demanded because of…(insert dramatic music) because of…(slow zoom in, chokes back tears) me? “So is it OK?” I asked.

“No worries.”

I was getting weird vibes off Max. Nothing heavy but he began to open up and ask me the regular, “How do you survive without money? Why aren’t you married? How come you don’t have any kids? Have you never fucked a woman? (seriously) How come you aren’t married? (they tend to repeat) Are you gay?”

“What?” I tsk-tsk-tsk-ed to myself. “No, I like women I’m just not married.”

I was tired of explaining myself. Besides, it could cause tensions in the cabin. Sometimes I know when to shut up and sometimes I try my best to hold my opinion in.

I fail.

On both accounts, I fail.

“It’s not easy the way I travel,” I hoped to finish it.

He blinked at me and returned to focus on the road.

Great. It just got weird.

Just before reaching the Luangwa River, bordering Mozambique, we dropped off the grandmother and the toddler.

The police at the roadblock before the bridge fined Max for not having a red flag at the end of the truck as his load was sticking out (alright, alright. Don’t make it dirty). Once we crossed the bridge (where a soldier also demanded a bribe) the road went from sealed tar to a dirt track that had me bouncing all over the cabin.

IMG_6292As the sun set we stopped in a village where Max bought three packets of biscuits and two Miranda softies.

“Open one for me,” he said, “the other two are for you and friend over there to share.”

I took a couple of sips as I needed a sugar boost and knew that if I ate more than two biscuits my stomach would reject the contents via the back door (processed foods and I don’t mix well). Still, I was hungry and ate four.

As we drove through the last police roadblock (cop didn’t even see me and still demanded a bribe) my stomach began to growl.

Shit. I knew this would happen. Whatever possessed me to go for those last two?



Not now.

I clenched.

As we plodded along I noticed Max kept covering the gauges on his dashboard with a cloth.

“I want to focus on my driving,” he explained. “So I cover the petrol gauge so I don’t get distracted and worry about fuel.”

Huh. That’s… er… logical? He seems to know what he was doing.

I mean… at least playing the part.

We stopped to pick up a madala (term of respect for an elder man) who had cut branches at 6-9 feet lengths to take home.

On his push bike.

We happened to stop right in the middle of a swarm of white-winged ants that were aiming for every sleeve opening and wherever there was light. I was slapping about like a mad man. Nevertheless (he said with boasting chest), I helped pile the branches under the undercarriage of the truck Max was carrying. Then we heaved up the madala’s push bike to the tray of the truck where he positioned himself for the ride.

Ten minutes later we dropped him up the road then an hour later we dropped off Alec.

My stomach was slowly churning.


We were plodding along the unfinished road, eating dust from buses and trucks that were overtaking us [to close or open my window we needed to hook up two wires – the red to the metal on the door, the blue to the fuse in the fuse box.

“You do opposite to close,” Max demonstrated.

Or was it the opposite..?

I was too tired to focus on electrically pulsating wires on a bumpy road in a stranger’s truck so I chowed on dust and attempted sleep. My eyes were already closed, squinting against the thick, red cloud. Might as well try to get some shut-eye (while slapping at the flying ants that still flappered about in the cabin).


“I want to sleep with a white woman,” Max said after waking me at zero-two thirty.

Aaand I’m awake.

“For any specific reason?” I asked.

“I want to taste,” he said. “Maybe you can help. Ask one of your friends to travel with you and sleep with me.”

I stared at him as he tried to keep his eyes open. He was dead-pan serious.

Uh-huh. “Sure.” Not a weird thing to ask anyone. At. All. “Let me get back to you on that one.”

After an hour, when Max was no longer responding to my conversation. I suggested to, “Pull over so we can rest.”

40 Ks outside of Chipata, at zero-four, we parked and slept. As in, Max conked out. I tossed, assuming different positions failing to re-discover that one-and-only comfortable position which can never be replicated after being woken.

40 minutes later Max’s wife called, storing him back to life. Refreshed, he fired up the truck and we chugged off as the African sun rose on a new day. Kelvin, the lime-bag truck, over-took us with beeping horns.

Max and I waved.

90 minutes later, the announcement that, “We’ve run out of diesel,” didn’t surprise me as the truck rolled to a stop, the engine silently passing on. We debarked and broke off some green-leafed branches as was custom to place behind and in front of a broken down vehicle.

Parking on the side of the dusty road I sussed out my options:

Wait to get refuelled (which could be in the next five minutes or five hours) or hitch a ride to Chipata and make some head way.

As I contemplated my options I spied a ripe mango on the side of the dirt road.

Max declined my offer to share. The clock was ticking on the day. I was really hoping to reach Lilongwe, Malawi’s capital, by lunchtime.

I decided to thank Max and, “I’ll continue hitching,” I said.

“Yes, it’s better,” he concurred. “It might be in fifteen minutes, maybe five hours. You know how it is.”

“Oh I know,” I grinned, grabbing my gear with his help.

Within 20 minutes Simba, a magistrate in a very old bakkie with massive cracks in the windshield pulled over and happily took me, squeezing me in the front seat with his daughter. He wished me well as he dropped me off at a corner where I began to walk, fending off taxi drivers when Kelvin, the lime-bag truck driver came after me on the street.

A taxi pulled up beside us.

“I don’t have money,” I said, explaining my chosen life style.

“I’ll take you to where you can hitch,” said the driver. “I’m happy to help.”

I grinned, hopping in. A few K’s later Samson dropped me off opposite Shoprite so I could hitch. I, “Zikhomo-”ed, thanking him and began walking past the taxis already parked, each driver trying to hustle me in.

“No money,” I said, pointing to my guitar. “I play music for food and bed.”

“I’ll take you,” said Gift (appropriately named), offering me a free ride as I squeezed in the front with him and another passenger, three more in the back and two bikes in the boot to the border post at Mwami some 20 K’s away.

I shook hands with Gift, “Zikhom-”ing him and fending off the money exchangers who rushed up to seek Zambian Kwachas in exchange for Malawian Kwacha. I was back in the mix of higher domination that made everything sound absurdly out of proportion (“5,000 Kwacha?” I’d laugh at an offer I’d later receive in Malawi for a 300 K ride.

“That’s about $10 USD,” Englebert would later convert for me off the top of his head on a hitch right after declining said offer).

My stomach reminded me that an impending force needed to be set free in the next ten minutes or Malawi would be the first country (and indeed, the first time since I was in diapers) that I might shit my pants.

A border post is not the place you want to look like you’re about to explode (in more ways than one). I breathed in deeply and calmly got my passport stamped out on the Zambian side and walked across the border, noticing that all the trucks were facing Zambia.


Continued in post: HITCH HIKING IN MALAWI – PART I

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IMG_6255Since entering the land of Zambia some three months ago, I’ve been rechristened ‘Jesus’ on the streets (see what I did there?). From Livingstone to Lake Kariba to Lusaka to Kasama and everywhere in between. I’d grin, respond with the occasional, “Yes, my son?” and play along with it.

I never thought it would get me walking with cheetahs, playing tennis, going on a game drive (all at Chaminuka Lodge, 40K’s outside of Lusaka), two weeks accommodation, food, partying, recording a track, voicing a radio advert and playing the man himself in a music video and an advert.

I had met John, owner of Mojo New Media, through his sister, Janet, who works in the sales department for Paratus whose manager, Marius (and one night at Jeremy’s), graciously hosted me for two weeks in exchange for assisting his installation team on installations (I know as much about installing IT services as I do about splitting an atom.

I cannot split an atom).

As soon as John met me at the Chit Chat bar (the night I helped our team win the trivia) he said, “I want to use your Jesus look. Let’s talk tomorrow.”

Initially, he had offered to pay for my talent.

“I don’t do money,” I said, giving him my philosophical spiel. “But if you provide me with food and bed I’ll do what you need.”

“How about also something off your list?” he added.

“Er,” I really needed a new guitar bag. I gave mine until the end of the month before completely falling apart (it’s not me, it’s weak material. I don’t wanna judge a certain country, China, but you could have put a little more effort in), “Would you happen to have an extra guitar bag lying around?” I pushed.

“We can manage something,” and then he offered me some gin.


A week in and I happened to offhandedly mention it to John that I’d completed a voice-over course and, “I can do some voices if you like.”

“Give me a cockney accent,” he requested.

I could only hope that my, “Oh-right ‘en guv’nah?”, would pass the impromptu audition.

“OK,” John grinned. “If you can produce it, as in, write it and get it recorded I’ll speak with Josh we can tick something else off your list”.

“A small backpack to replace my stolen one?” I put forward. “I’ll write it up tonight, get it done by the weekend. Monday the latest.”

“Done,” we shook on it.

I was housed with Stan (one of the photographers) who I shared his room with for the two weeks along with his two room-mates, Eddie and Evan. Eddie also works at Mojo and together with Evan is part of an a capella group called, 14.

Their neighbour, Daniel (whose welcoming me too the neighbourhood resulted in the consumption of four bottles of brandy and a blacked out memory) publishes Agriculture, a free magazine about – you guessed it – agriculture.

“I’m a writer if you need some articles or editing done,” I offered and then declined his offer to pay me. “I don’t do money. Happy for the exposure. Or a waterproof tent.”

“Lemme talk to my partner and I’ll let you know,” he said.

The next day we made borscht soup as both our mothers are from the Soviet persuasion (I’d never once thought that I’d end up make a traditional Russian soup in Africa). By mid-week Daniel returned with a better barter.

“My partner had an idea. We’ll provide you with a hat with our logo on it,” he said. “You take photos of it around the world and we’ll throw $200 your way.”

“Like I said,” I countered. “I don’t do money. But I would need a camera to take the photos with. My waterproof one just died and they go for about $200.”

“Lemme get back to you,” Daniel said.

The next day he came back to me with an incredible barter that I couldn’t say ‘no’ to.

“We’ll sponsor your visa fees for the African countries you’ll visit. In exchange, you do the photos with the hat and send us a story for each edition,” he stuck his hand out.

It would appear that my mojo was working over time.

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IMG_5735“We thank you for your music, your presence and know that we will never forget you,” said Chris as he drove me to Chazara, the entrance to Kasama on the morning of my departure back to Lusuka.

“Aww,” I grinned, “you guys are my Zambian family. Thank you for having me and helping me get healthy again.”

We hugged by the side of the road and Chris drove off to work.

It was just on zero seven thirty and the sun was beating down as though the world were missing some heat.

Jesus. Not even zero eight and it’s gotta be at least 30 degrees. Kids running by to school stopped to stare at me as I set up by the side of the road and stuck my thumb out.

When I first arrived in Zambia, I didn’t mind the stares. I figured the locals were contemplating whether I was in fact the Second Coming or just a crazy muzhungo (‘white man’ in Bemba) with long hair and an almost as long beard. But after two months in Zambia I was getting a little over the whole staring thing.

Sure, my caveman looks have made toddlers burst into tears – not of joy, mind you. Sheer fear. The mothers would laugh as would I. And then, to completely blow their minds, I’d greet them in Bemba or Nyanji (depending on the province).

The best reaction I got was that very morning on the side of the road in Chazara. A girl of maybe 13 years walked by carrying either her baby sibling or, quite possibly, her very own child. She was behind me and as she passed by she turned to look at me and stopped, her jaw hittin’ the ground runnin’.

A local that had decided to hang out with me even though he didn’t really speak English (I think he was enjoying the expression on the people’s faces) was looking at me looking at her looking at me.

“Moolishani?” I asked to her well being.

She gasped, as though I had just turned water into wine. She turned to walk away and then looked back at me, hand to forehead in absolute astonishment.

“Bwino?” I asked if she was good.

She nearly dropped the baby as she spun around, almost collapsing. She decided the best thing for her would be to walk off, muttering incomprehensibly. I shook my head, trying to grasp as to what had just happened, the local hanging out with me laughing.

I grinned at him as out of nowhere a road works crew pulled up, jumped out of the back of a truck and began to set up signs of road work. The traffic control girl with the red flag (who had the power to stop cars) decided, out of her own goodwill, to ask the passing drivers if they could take me to either Mpika (211 K’s south) or Lusaka (850 K’s south-west).

After two hours I finally managed to pull up a bukky.

“You don’t have money?” asked the driver after I explained my bartering ways.

“I play music for food and bed and ask good-hearted people if they can help me get to where I’m going,” I said. I could see the wheels in his head turning. I needed just one more line to make him laugh and I was in. “I have good stories.”

He cracked up, almost choking on the sip of water he had just taken. “OK,” he said, “let’s go.” My three favourite words in Africa.

He colelcted another hitcher, a local who sat in the passenger side. Since I barely slept a wink the previous night for reasons unknown, they conversed in Bemba while I dozed off for almost two hours. An hour later I was dropped off in Mpika. I was aiming to reach Lusaka by sundown.IMG_5662

It was just on 11:30 when I set up by the side of the road, sticking my thumb out. I said my ‘moolishani’s’ to the locals hitching rides and waved on the kombi buses that seemed to purposefully attempt to run me over. After two hours I knew my chances of reaching Lusaka by evening were out the window.

It was hot but clouds began to roll in, relieving me of the sun’s harsh African heat. Finally, just before fourteen, almost two and a half hours of sun-baking by the road, a truck pulled up.

“Moolishani,” I greeted the driver, “are you going to Lusaka?”

“Yes,” he said. “How much can you pay?”

“Here’s the thing,” and I explained my travel methods.

The driver stared at me then to the horizon. “Get your bags,” he finally said.

“What’s your name?” I asked him after climbing in.

“Everest,” he said, pulling onto the road.

“Everest?” I repeated. “Like the mountain?”

He laughed. His brother-in-law, Thomas, sat on the bunk, squeezed in between my guitar and North Ridge backpack and two huge sub-woofers that thankfully, Everest didn’t utilise at the ear drum ripping decibel that Africans have a tendency to play their radios. He had a great collection of reggae which I tapped along too.

As usual, Everest and Thomas struggled with my choice of lifestyle.

“You’re not married?”


“No kids?”


“When will you go back to your country?”


It’s as though its the most alien thing they’ve ever heard. And it just might be.

Along the way we passed through several police checkpoints. Just after the sun set, we reached one before Serenje. The officer climbed up to the cab and when he saw me asked, “Are you a Jew?”

I cracked up laughing. “No.”

“What country are you from?”


“Are you sure? You look like a Jew.”

Stereotypes aside, I shrugged him off with a laugh and he let us ride through. When we reached Kapiri, the town where the Great North Road ends and we turn directly south to Lusaka, Everest asked me to run the paperwork to the window of the weighbridge station.

Approaching the nearest window, the girl behind the screen did a double-take at me and then started giggling that turned into laughter, mumbling something in Bemba.

“What is it?” I grinned, knowing it was my beard.

“She thinks you look like Jesus,” said her co-worker, smiling broadly.

“I am Jesus,” I said, winking. After the small exchange, getting the paperwork done was a breeze (maybe even a blessing).

200 K’s later, we reached Kapwe. It was twenty-thirty, still three hours outside of Lusaka when Everset stopped to chat with group of drivers from his company. He offered to buy me a sausage roll but I politely declined. I wasn’t hungry and didn’t feel like eating crappy food. He did insist on buying me a drink so I opted for a ginger beer substituting one crap for another (I love ginger beer. It’s the only soda pop I’ll drink by choice).

As we plodded along sirens flashed behind us. “What are you carrying?” I asked.

“Cigarettes,” Everest casually said.

A few hours before we had stopped in Mkushi, an out of the way town to collect some goods. I didn’t think about much of it until now, when the Tax Corruption Investigation unit pulled us over and attached a soldier to ride shotgun with his AK-47, forcing me to squeeze in with Thomas in the bunk.

I was quite tired by this point and had been dozing off peacefully, awakened only by the few bumps in the road. Even with a loaded soldier onboard, I dozed off, using his shoulder as a pillow (he didn’t seem to mind). We were lead to a parking area a half hour outside of Lusaka and it was here that we waited for the paper work to clear through, have the cargo checked and verified by calling in Everest’s boss.

Three hours later, at zero one in the morning, I was dropped off at the first police roadblock on the outskirts of Lusaka, just before the stadium from where I had first started my hitch hiking journey just over two weeks prior.

“Is there somewhere safe I can pitch my tent for the night?” I asked the police officer.

He kindly escorted me to the cop-shop, a tiny little building and, pointing at a slab of concrete that acted as a porch and said, “Here is OK.”

I pitched, slept four hours, awoke at zero five twenty (exactly 24-hours after I had woken up in Kapata the previous day) and somehow managed to hitch a free ride on a kombi that took me to the Lima Tower bus station from where I walked the 4 K’s to the offices of Paratus from where I am now finishing up this post.

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