Riding The Red Bomber ... Any Time From Now

Transport in Zambia is something that is quite possibly the greatest exercise in character-building I've yet experienced. You all are aware of what that phrase refers to, right? An uncomfortable experience that makes you somehow a better person. I doubt that definition is universal; many people would rather be a better person as a result of something enjoyable, like being at the beach or eating a really good dinner. Also, the result may not include betterment; some might react in strange ways to difficult situations; i.e., they retreat into some small corner of their mind and wait for it to be over.

I guess these days, I measure my development as an actor on the stage that is Zambia by my reaction to transport conditions. At first, it was cool, largely because it was new. Back in 2004, when I had a fine head of hair and an overgrown beard wreathing my face, I thought nothing was cooler than sitting on the back of an ore truck waving at kids who thought I looked like Jesus. That evolved into anger after awhile. Anger because of (oh boy, I found numbers):

1. The constant stops to buy fresh vegetables at nearly every stop in 150 miles.
   
2. The breakdowns, blowouts, engine knocking, and poorly loaded trailers that seem insistent on spilling their contents all hell-to-breakfast.
   
3. The music that never played at less than full volume.
   
4. The questionable men who stepped on the bus to preach at every stop, passing the hat after their "sermons".
   
5. The reckless driving by men who reek of opaque beer or tujillyjilly (small sachets of spirits).
6. The lack of personal space. If your lap is empty, there is room for another passenger, because your lap can stow someone's katundu. That can range from small children, chickens in woven baskets, and, in my case, large bags of small dried fish called kapenta.
7. Buses never leave until they're full. And I mean kaikuta (really full). This is an effort on the part of the conductor and the driver to get as much bang for their buck as possible. Therefore, the answer to the question of "When is the bus leaving?" evokes quite possibly the greatest expression of time ever created: "Any time from now."
   

What really got me was the passiveness of passengers regarding this transport. People complained to no end, but nothing seemed to change. That opens a significant space for much of what is hindering development in Zambia, but that's a topic for another blog.

Happily, the anger gradually passed. With my job as a Volunteer leader in 2006-07, I drove a Toyota Landcruiser some 43,000 miles around large parts of Zambia. This job woke me up to the nearly constant dangers inherent in being a driver in the Real Africa. You are nearly insane from the high alert you must maintain at all times to avoid children, goats, weaving bicycles, blowouts, potholes, errant tractor-trailers, etc. Nearly every day, I literally took my life into my hands, or at least, placed it in God's; too many days to count, I nearly met God thanks to the rigors of the road. In a sense, it built a strange respect in me for the denizens of the highway.

Now, I don't really get angry much. I might talk with whoever's sitting near me, or simply look out the window and let the erstwhile socio-ecologist in me track the landscape and how it is shaped by, and in turn, shapes people. Or sleep; though I can't rightly call the exercise by that name; it seems more like not being awake.

The last few instances have been the real test. Mongu to Lusaka is approximately 600 kilometers (360 miles). In a fast car, it takes about seven hours; the condition of the tarmac isn't great, and you can't blaze through Kafue National Park (which the route bisects) because of speed bumps designed to keep the big buses from killing thousands of impala or themselves upon the flank of an elephant.

Thursday we left Mongu after a workshop in a Volvo sedan at around 16:00. Lacking a spare, we proceeded cautiously through most of the journey; by 23:00, we were nearing Lusaka and on good tarmac when our luck gave out. Then we spent four hours finding someone to repair the tire; thanks to some people drinking large quantities of beer along the roadside, we managed to find the mender's house around 1:30. Now imagine for a minute three men knocking on your door to ask you to patch a tire at 1:30 in the morning and your reaction considering the situation. However, in Zambia when opportunity knocks, you answer and our tire was hand-patched and remounted in a little over 80 minutes.

Sunday, I boarded a Higer bus in Lusaka called the Red Bomber (the fact that it was blue didn't seem to influence its name). We left at 14:00; somewhere before Mumbwa, we blew a tire in the back, but the driver decided to continue onwards w/o any repairs; it was, of course, a double tire, so like kidneys, we still had one left. Somewhere in the dark forest west of Kaoma, I woke to men shouting ... we had stopped to pick up a child who appeared to have the worst broken femur I've ever seen. The shock of the noise and the sight of the girl's foot twisted 180 degrees off true woke me up a bit, so minutes later, when the other tire let go, I was little surprised or shook. It took awhile, two hours, to change the tire, as there was no spare (deja vu), and tools were at a minimum. My flashlight and multi-tool were a big help for the wheel caps, which require an Allan wrench to remove normally. After the change, we crept along on four wheels rather than the usual six or eight, and made Mongu sometime around 02:00. I staggered to a taxi, got to the Concern office, and passed out in the open guest room.

I never really was perturbed by the 24+ hours on the road. In a sense, it was a great learning experience:

• Take spare tools along, such as hex (Allan) wrenches.
• Keep spares handy.
  
• Never ride the Red Bomber again.

Part of the reason I can keep my cool is that I know that a) the world is not going to end if I'm late, b) me losing my temper does nothing to improve the situation, and c) I'm not by my lonesome being stuck out in the willies; there are others stuck as well. People were telling jokes in Nyanje and Bemba; some were asking questions of me; others were chatting by the side of the road or smoking. One woman, who repeated numerous times that we were being shepherded by Jesus (of which the situation demands warranted consideration), made a good point: at least we hadn't had trouble in the park, where there were numerous man-eating critters. As for Thurs/Fri, my two companions were from work, and we had great conversations the whole time about development (another topic for later), sang along to Louis Armstrong, and actively discussed the merits of jazz. In a sense, we were having a rough time, but we were in good company. This bears heavily on whatever I do here; nothing is easy for anyone, but responses to situations often outweigh results.