Destination: Kasama

Kasama is the head-quarters of Zambia's Northern Province. There was a flight to Kasama from Ndola international airport three times a week which used to go up to Kasaba Bay in the northern border.

On that day, the Kasaba Bay flight arrived rather late and was nearly full. We had no confirmed bookings. However, the airport authorities were very sympathetic and allocated three seats to us even though there were many others in the waiting list. Probably it was due to the fact that we were "new arrivals" in the country and this was the next available connection flight to our destination.

The Fokker Friendship aircraft was not flying very high. Most of the time during the flight, we could see the landscape far below as a map in an "Atlas". Even though a bit "bumpy", we enjoyed the flight. After about an hour and a half, the "fasten the seatbelt" sign flashed on and the aircraft started its descent. It landed smoothly on a grassy airfield and taxied along the runway until coming to a standstill.

The airport building did not appear very impressive. It was a small, low, single storied structure. There were hardly more than two or three vehicles in sight in the parking area. Our baggage were the only ones offloaded from the plane. There were no porters in sight. As a matter of fact, there was no one from the Ministry of Education to welcome us. Some people with long fishing rod in their hands, probably holiday makers in Kasaba Bay, boarded the plane and it taxied away for the take off. Even the few cars in the parking lot have disappeared. We realized that we were the only ones remaining behind. Our baggage stood in a heap where it was put down from the plane.

We were feeling tired and hungry. My five-year old daughter had started complaining already. Leaving my wife and my daughter at the baggage, I walked to the airport office and asked if I could use their telephone. I looked up the number of the Provincial Heaqdquarters from the phone book and the operator got me connected.

A disembodied voice asked in a monosyllable "yes?" and I said in one breath " I am a new teacher recruited by the Ministry. I am waiting at the airport with my family. Can someone come and pick us up?"

The answer came in another monosyllable "wait" and the phone was hung up.

Barely fifteeen minutes elapsed; a maroon Peugeot 404 station wagon pulled up to the parking lot and a man came out of the driver's seat. He was having the dignified appearance of some high ranking official. He came towards our small group and with outstretched hand introduced himself to us " I am Mayondi, the Chief Education Officer, Northern Province. I apologize for any inconvenience caused: Lusaka (Ministry H.Q. at the capital) did not inform us that you were coming today". After shaking hands with each of us, he walked towards our baggage and started picking them up.

I was totally embarrassed. Instead of sending one of the drivers from the motor pool, the CEO himself had come to pick us up. This was something unheard of in the country from where I had come. Not only that, he even apologized for the delay in meeting us, even though it was not due to any fault of his. In addition, this provincial chief was picking up my heavy suitcases and loading them into his vehicle in spite of my vehement protest. I felt ashamed. We were then whisked off to the Guest House where we would stay until we were ready to proceed to our station.

It was our "Day Two" in the "Friendly Country" where we were destined to spend nearly 30 years of our life.