tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-47105275201870294692024-03-12T19:05:39.007-07:00ZambiaThe Friendly Country.George Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02295687304838054768noreply@blogger.comBlogger40125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4710527520187029469.post-50917185351505784052011-11-18T21:47:00.000-08:002011-11-18T21:50:03.897-08:0040. EPILOGUEFifteen years have passed since we left Zambia, but memories are still fresh in my mind. During my idle hours while I recline at home, far away from the hustle and bustle of the city, I let loose my mind to wander along the streets and by-lanes of Mufulira where we spent a good part of our life: quarter of a century. <br /><br />Pictures of the town depicting house No. 34 which was our home for fourteen years, as my starting point on Faraday drive which was later renamed as David Kaunda drive on either side of which stood the Rose Avenue (Pamodzi) primary school where my son studied and the Mufulira High School where my wife and I taught, the Mine flats at the Top shops where No.3, Mulungushi house accommodated us for another ten years, the Maina Soko road leading to the combined Kitwe-Ndola main road which passes through the edge of the town as Chatulinga road and goes up to the Zairean border of Mokambo giving off a branch namely Chachacha road at the corner of Mufulira Hindu Hall before reaching the town and which goes to the second class trading area passing by the side of Ray's Motti Rozzi garage, bus station and Zesco and then connecting with the road from the second class trading area to Kantanshi while the Jomo Kenyatta road which passes through the main residential area of the upper class miners cuts through the road to Mokambo and becomes the high street which runs in between the Civic centre and the Mufulira hotel leading to the town centre where the main post office and the Zambia National Commercial bank are situated on one side and the Barclays bank on the other, ZCBC shopping mall and Solanki's super market on either side, with a side road to the Malcolm Watson hospital and the posh residential area of the senior staff miners, the high street then giving rise to another road passing in between the second class trading area and the vegetable market, making a semi circle around the grounds of the Ronald Ross Mine hospital and going all the way to the Basuto Road Secondary school (Butondo) and the Kankoyo shaft while the main road from Kitwe-Ndola, after passing along the edge of the town, branching off to the left just before the railway crossing and going straight to the main office and the vast plant area of the Zambia Consolidated Copper Mines, are all etched vividly in my memory. The Eastlea primary school, the Dominican convent, and the Rose Avenue (Pamodzi) primary school where my children Lisa, Liju and Lindsey had their primary education and the High school where my wife and I taught for twenty five years stand up in relief on my mental map of Mufulira. <br /><br />However, my thoughts always come back and revolve around the few acres of school grounds situated in between the Kafironda club and the Liemba road that goes around the Tennis courts, the Foot ball fields and the Teachers' quarters to join with another road near the Top shop high level water storage tank. This is where Mufulira Secondary School, popularly known as the "High School" is situated. The massive "IN" and "OUT" gates on the side of David Kaunda Drive, the semi circular drive way, Davidson’s metal workshop on one side, the cycle shed and car park area, the double-storey main building housing the Administration block, the Staff room, various offices, Jackson’s Technical drawing room, Casson’s Wood work room, Mrs. Costello’s Domestic science room, a number of other class rooms, Banerjee’s Physics lab. and my Biology lab., all built around the spacious quadrangle where morning assemblies were held, Mwambwa’s English departmental office, Mweshi’s Careers room and Asthana’s Science office on the sides, the foyer with its double glass doors on both sides, the show-piece school hall that was once the pride of the school as headmaster A.J.Pillay used to say, the swimming pool, Mrs. Masiye’s Art block, N.M.Pillai’s History block, Mrs. Rajadyn’s Chemistry laboratory on its own, and the new World Bank buildings that accommodated several class rooms are all part of this magnificent building complex. This is where we taught our classes, supervised sports and other activities of our pupils, mingled with them, joked and laughed with them, encouraged and praised them sometimes, reprimanded or punished them at times, played with them and even cried with them whenever tragedy struck the school community and lived for twenty five years. This is where we were loved and admired by our students, liked and respected by our colleagues, trusted and relied upon by our superiors.<br /><br />The other day, a friend of mine asked me an interesting question: What career would I like to follow if I were given a second chance to do it all over again? I did not have to think twice before answering that I would like to be a teacher at my former school for another twenty five years, teaching the same subject to the same pupils I taught before and having the same old colleagues along with me.George Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02295687304838054768noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4710527520187029469.post-27021432514090631542011-11-06T06:57:00.000-08:002011-11-06T07:00:36.771-08:0039. GOOD BYE, FRIENDLY COUNTRY, GOOD BYE !The Kenya Airways flight to Nairobi was announced and the passengers started scrambling down the steep staircase from the departure lounge to the corridor leading to the pathway to the tarmac. The blue and silver Boeing 737 stood majestically in the bright afternoon sun. The date was 25th May 1996 and we were at Lusaka international airport in Zambia, just about to bid farewell to the country that was our home for the past twenty-eight years.<br />My wife and I were the last ones to leave the departure lounge. We had our bags slung from our shoulders and also one or two pieces held in hand. Once in the open, we looked back to have a last glimpse of the terminal building. We knew that our friends who had come to see us off were watching from the balcony on the first floor and waved at them even though we could not distinguish them in the crowd. Two or three hands waved back.<br /><br />The Kenyan air hostess in a smart-looking uniform, on the platform at the top of the staircase, greeted us in Swahili (the language of East Africa) and directed us to our seats. In the limited space of the 737, we walked awkwardly to reach our seats. My wife took the window seat and I sat next to her after stowing our cabin baggage safely in the overhead lockers. Soon, the last passenger also got in and the door swung shut. The "No smoking" and "Fasten the seatbelt" signs stood lit up and soft music from the loud speakers had a soothing effect on us. Before long we felt the aircraft moving, leaving people and vehicles on the tarmac far behind. It moved away from the proximity of the terminal buildings to the starting point of the runway where it took a 90 degree turn and came to a halt. It stood still for a few moments as if taking a deep breath before the final onslaught. The Rolls Royce twin engines worked up to a crescendo and the aircraft started rushing forward at break-neck speed along the long stretch of the runway for the “take off”.<br /><br />It was final departure for us from Zambia, the "Friendly Country" where we had spent the best part of our lives. While I watched for the last time through the double perspex window the Zambian topography falling away as the Boeing rose to new heights I felt a lump in my throat and my eyes clouded. I felt as if I were leaving behind a part of me and the thought that I would not be coming back to this beautiful country ever again made me very sad. Now that the aircraft had reached the desired altitude even above the thick canopy of waterless clouds, it hung as if motionless while moving swiftly along the dazzling blue expanse of the African sky towards its destination while my heart cried out silently the words "Good bye, Friendly country, good bye".George Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02295687304838054768noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4710527520187029469.post-41214080188627151882011-10-12T21:14:00.000-07:002011-10-12T21:21:11.598-07:0038. A PLEASANT SURPRISEWe arrived at Lusaka international airport by the morning flight from Ndola and sat for the last time in the airport lounge awaiting check-in for the evening flight to Bombay. We had lunch at the cafeteria, looked around the duty free shops and watched the arriving and departing passengers by the provincial flights. Our suitcases and hand luggage stood stacked up near our seats. There were still about three hours before the flight would take off. It was almost time to check-in.<br /><br />Some of our Lusaka-based friends had come to see us off. They were discussing about their future plans and giving us some advices for a successful retired life. They brought us some parting gifts as well, which served only to increase my apprehension about the excess baggage we had been carrying. As a matter of fact, each passenger was supposed to carry only one piece of cabin baggage, but we already had five pieces in between the two of us. Moreover our baggage to be checked in exceeded the permissible weight by a few kilograms. Formerly, a lady's hand bag and a lap top computer bag were allowed in addition to the regular cabin baggage, but that was during the days when we were traveling by Zambia airways' D.C 10 flights. Now that Zambia airways no longer operated on the Lusaka - Bombay sector and we had to depend on Kenya airways' Boeing flights, cabin baggage was strictly limited to one piece per passenger. In spite of our best efforts, we could not limit our hand luggage to one piece per person as some of our friends brought us some last minute parting gifts which we could not refuse. Now we were really worried about the excess baggage fare we would have to pay at the check-in counter and therefore could not participate whole-heartedly in the conversation. Our friends realized our predicament and advised us not to rush to the check-in counter too soon but to wait until a long line is formed so that there would be some laxity in the procedure.<br /><br />While we were waiting for the counters to open, I was watching idly people moving about in the main lounge and the adjoining passages. A group of three men, engrossed in conversation in the local dialect passed by. Two of them were in the uniform of the ground staff and the other one was in casual wear. They just passed us and then the one in the casual wear stopped in mid-stride, said something to the other two and retraced his steps. He came straight to me and asked "excuse me, are you Mr. G. John by any chance?"<br />When I answered in the affirmative, his next question was whether I was a teacher at Luwingu secondary school. I answered him "yes" and added that it was a long time ago, in the early seventies. He then smiled broadly and extended his hand saying, "I am Abraham Musonda, one of your former pupils". Even though I could not recall the name exactly, I grasped the proffered hand, said something like "glad to see you" and asked "how are you?" After the exchange of a few more pleasantries, he left and joined his waiting friends. <br /><br />Before long, the counters were opened and quite a number of people lined up at the three economy class counters of the KQ (Kenya airways) flight. The executive class and first class counters also were opened but there were no passengers to check in immediately. The ground staff at the first class counter was beckoning to someone behind me, or so I thought. I turned around to see the person behind me, but there was no one. As I looked at the officer inquiringly, he told me that he was calling me to check in. Sitting where I was, I showed him my ticket and told that it was for economy class. He then told me it was alright and he would check me in. We scrambled to our feet and went to the counter with our baggage trolley and tickets. He asked us to put our baggage on the scales, checked their weight and noted down on the tickets. Then he counted out the required number of tags for our cabin baggage, tore off the airways' coupons from the ticket books and handed me back the remaining part of it along with the boarding pass. To our surprise, he did not mention anything about the excess weight or the additional pieces of hand luggage. As we were just leaving the counter, he said "the supervisor Mr. Abraham Musonda has asked me to convey his regards. Have a pleasant journey, Mr. and Mrs. John".George Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02295687304838054768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4710527520187029469.post-75991739220952797242011-09-21T04:29:00.000-07:002016-09-27T21:45:14.101-07:0037. AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Catherine Sepa was the head girl in Mufulira Secondary School during the year 1975. She was well-liked and respected by the students. The teachers found her as a very reliable person. She left the school at the end of that school year and there was no contact thereafter.<br />
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We left Zambia in 1996. During our stay of twenty eight years in that country, we had acquired a lot of stuff including books and many household things. Most of the old things from way back our stay in Luwingu were still stacked in our store room. We decided to get rid of most of them but to send the books, some crockery, kitchen utensils and gadgets as unaccompanied baggage to India. We got some special wooden crates from the traders, modified them in the woodwork department and packed the articles in those. We used a lot of packing material in between so that fragile items were not damaged during transit. Our home address and the name of the destination airport were stenciled neatly on each box. Arrangements were made with A.M.I (Agency Maritime International) to collect the boxes from our place and send them as air cargo. Accordingly they sent their truck to collect the stuff from our apartment in Mufulira and take it to their office in Kitwe. We accompanied the truck in our car to the Kitwe office where we signed the necessary papers and made the payment. They assured us that the cargo would be sent by road to Lusaka within three days but they could not tell us how long it would take for the Lusaka office to send it by air to my home city of Trivandrum. It may take many days before they could send them. As we would be leaving Mufulira within a couple of days and then staying in Lusaka for a week before our departure to India, we gave them as contact number, the phone number of one Mr. Thomas in Lusaka with whom we had intended to stay.<br />
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Two or three days after our arrival in Lusaka, Mr. Thomas received a phone call from the A.M.I office in Lusaka. The manager wanted to know whether Mr. G. John from Mufulira was staying with him and if so, she wanted to meet him. Mr. Thomas thought that it would be for something in connection with the unaccompanied baggage I sent and he gave the caller directions to reach his house where we were staying. After about half an hour, a white Toyota Corolla car came in through the gates and a well-dressed lady in her late thirties got out of the driver's seat. She was ushered in by Mr. Thomas' wife Molly and she introduced herself as the branch manager of A.M.I, Lusaka. She added that she had come to see Mr. G. John and his wife. Imagine our surprise and pleasure when we recognized her as none other than our former student! While we were wondering how she managed to trace us after all these years, she explained that she saw my name and contact number in the manifest of a recent consignment of goods destined for India and the rest was simple.<br />
<br />
We talked for a while and then she said she should run along. However, she promised even without my asking that our unaccompanied baggage would be sent by the first available cargo flight even though there was quite a considerable backlog of cargo owing to the discontinuation of flights to India by Zambia Airways. <br />
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The Branch Manager kept her word. Three days after reaching Trivandrum, we received intimation from the Airport Cargo Complex that our unaccompanied baggage had arrived. And sure enough, we found all of them intact and ready for clearance and collection.</div>
George Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02295687304838054768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4710527520187029469.post-57018688175296589112011-09-21T04:14:00.000-07:002011-09-21T04:16:42.652-07:0036. THE LAST HURDLEI took the payment vouchers from the Finance Ministry straight to the south-end branch of the Zambia National Commercial Bank which handled all the foreign payments of the Ministry. I was accompanied by my wife. We were supposed to get the vouchers converted to the foreign currency of our choice. As there was one day only between then and the day of departure from the country, we did not have any time to waste.<br /><br />We went up the elevator to the third floor where the bank's offices were situated. We were directed by the smart lady in the outer office to the person who handled matters related to the Finance Ministry. We found a lady in her late thirties behind the desk marked "Foreign Exchange" and took our seats. We told her the purpose of our visit and handed her the payment vouchers.<br /><br />The bank official glanced through the papers and assured us that they were in order. She put the bank's date stamp on them and filed them neatly in a box file marked "pending". Then she told us to call back after a couple of weeks, but should phone her first to find out if the papers were processed.<br /><br />We did not understand what she was saying. So I asked her politely what she meant by saying to come back after two weeks. Our flight to India was within two days' time and we were leaving the country for good.<br /><br />She tried to explain by pointing to the "pending" file and saying: "There are about thirty-five people in the waiting list and we are treating each case in the order of priority. It will take at least ten days before we could process your papers and issue a bank draft or traveler’s cheques as you desire".<br /><br />However, we were not prepared to leave the matter at that, especially after all the hurdles we had gone through at the Finance Ministry. We told her of our predicament and how crucial it was for us to have this money in our possession before we board the plane. She would not even listen, but after pestering her for some time, she told us to go and see the manager if we were not satisfied with her reply.<br /><br />We walked to the partitioned off office marked "MANAGER" and knocked at the door. We were told to go in and found a very smart young lady in a well-tailored dress suit behind the manager's desk. We were rather surprised to see so many ladies in that place, but it was none of our business. Zambians are very polite people and this lady was no exception. However, she told us that she could not accede to our request as it would mean overlooking the priority of many others. As a last resort I told her that it would be a disgrace to this country if a foreigner who had worked here for the last thirty years had to go home empty-handed so that he would have to depend on the charity of his fellow countrymen once he returned to his own country. My last remark struck home and the manager told me that she would have to talk to her superior officer whether the rule could be relaxed a bit and she asked us to meet her at 9 a.m. on the next day for a definite answer. With an air of trepidation, we left the bank as there was nothing else for us to do.<br /><br />On the next day we arrived at the bank a little earlier than 9 a.m. and rode up the elevator to the third floor. As we walked in through the main entrance of the bank, we saw the manager, as smart as ever, trotting out through a side door and walking briskly away with the 'clack, clack' of her high-heels. It was precisely 9 a.m. and we thought ruefully,” well, so much for her sweet promises!" There was no doubt that she was now going away in order to avoid us.<br /><br />However, we decided to wait even if it was for the whole day for her to return. We found a pair of comfortable chairs outside the manager's office and sat down heavily. We did not even feel like talking to each other as we were engrossed in our own thoughts. Only when someone approached us after about twenty minutes or so with the words "Excuse me, are you Mr. and Mrs. John?" that we were awakened from our reverie. We answered in the affirmative and looked up inquiringly at the speaker. He had a sheaf of bank-slips in his hand. He asked us to indicate in those slips the type of currency required, denomination of traveler’s cheques etc. as well as the address of the overseas bank and signature of each person. He collected the bank-slips from us, scrutinized them and said the traveler’s cheques would be ready within half an hour.<br /><br />We finished the business at the bank by 10 a.m. and came out with our "life's savings" tucked away safely in the V.I.P brief case I was carrying. Even though we wanted to thank the manager for what she had done, she was nowhere to be seen even by the time we left the bank.George Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02295687304838054768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4710527520187029469.post-61021229193091641472011-09-06T21:59:00.000-07:002011-09-06T22:05:02.693-07:0035. AN ACT OF PROVIDENCEI walked through the massive glass doors of the Ministry of Finance building in Lusaka, out into the bright afternoon sun. I continued to walk slowly along the concrete drive way in between the spacious parking lots on both sides where most of the slots were occupied, into the tarmac road where a few taxi cabs waited for prospective fares. Soon, I would be traveling in one of those, to the intercity bus terminal where with luck I may be able to catch a late bus to the Copper-belt.<br /><br />My heart was heavy. All my efforts of the past three months and the many journeys I had made to the Finance Ministry were in vain. During my previous visit, I was assured by Mr. Ndabala, one of the senior clerical officers, that the papers were in order and my name and my wife's name were already posted in the list of people who would be receiving their terminal benefits that month. However, it appeared that something went wrong and our names were struck off the list. Instead, two new names were added from the waiting list. We were pushed back to the next allocation of foreign exchange which would come only after three or four months. We would not be able to stay back in the country until then and the money would go invariably into the pipeline. In that case it would take a very long time, perhaps a couple of years or more, to reach me and all our future plans would go astray. This realization made me very sad. Even though I talked to Mr. M'hango, the Senior Accountant to expedite the matter, he said he could not do anything about it.<br /><br />I was just about to board a cab when a thought flashed through my mind- Why should not I go and see the Permanent Secretary who was the over-all boss of the Finance Ministry and tell him of my predicament. Perhaps he would do something about it. Anyway, I had nothing to lose.<br /><br />But to see the P.S was not that easy. I could not just go to his fifth floor office, knock and enter. I had to go through the various official channels before I could get an appointment to see him. It may take several days before he would accede to my request to grant me a meeting with him.<br /><br />It was then that I thought of Mr. M.R.B. Nair, the Chief Auditor to the Finance Ministry of whom I had heard sometime back from Mr. Krishnan, one of my friends on the Copper-belt. Mr. Nair was a British citizen of Indian origin, whose native place was Trivandrum in the State of Kerala which happened to be my native place too. Even though, we had never met before.<br /><br />I retraced my steps with new vigor. In the foyer I met a well-dressed lady whom I took for a Ministry official and asked her if she could direct me to Mr. M.R.B. Nair's office. She took me up all the way in the elevator to the fourth floor and along a long corridor to the door marked with golden letters: M.R.B. Nair, Chief Auditor. She did not even wait for my thanks. I knocked at the door, and was bidden to enter. <br /><br />Mr. Nair was alone in his spacious office except for his Zambian secretary. He was very cordial to me and listened patiently to my narration. He told me that the Permanent Secretary was the only person who could do something about my problem. As he was out of the country, Mr.Chipuma, the Deputy Permanent Secretary was in charge. Mr. Nair said he would introduce me to him, in case he was available. He asked his secretary to phone the office of the D.P.S and request for an urgent appointment. The D.P.S was in his office and he would see Mr. Nair without any delay. We went up the single flight of steps and reached the office of the D.P.S. We were admitted immediately and directed to the inner office by the lady in the outer office. <br /><br />I saw a very well-groomed Zambian gentleman with slightly graying hairs at the temples sitting behind a large glass-topped desk. He greeted Mr. Nair with a broad smile and nodded briefly to me. Mr. Nair introduced me to him and added that I had a problem that needed to be sorted out by Mr. Chipuma. He then left the two of us together and departed.<br /><br />The Deputy Permanent Secretary listened patiently to what I had to say. He did not interrupt me or showed any signs of impatience. When I finished my narration, he talked to his secretary on the intercom and asked her to call Mr. Ndabala and Mr. M'hango to his office straightaway, and tell them to bring Mr. G. John's file along with them. <br /><br />The two gentlemen arrived within ten minutes, with a look of apprehension in their eyes. As soon as they saw me sitting comfortably in Mr. Chipuma's office, their face darkened and their apprehension increased. Mr. Chipuma questioned them in such a manner that they had to admit their mistake. He ordered them to rectify the matter within three days' time. They said it would be impossible as the next allocation of Forex (foreign exchange) would come only after a minimum period of three months. At this reply Mr. Chipuma got very annoyed and asked them whether they expected a retired expatriate officer who had neither any job nor any house (the government quarters should be surrendered to the Works Department within a month or so after the last day of duty) to stay in the country for such a long time in order to get what was rightfully due to him from the Zambian government.<br /><br />They had no reply. Finally Mr. M'hango, the Senior Accountant said there was one solution only. That was to apply for a special allocation of Forex from the Treasury. This procedure was adopted in extreme cases of emergency only and the Permanent Secretary had to make a special requisition for the same. Mr. Chipuma told them to prepare the requisition forthwith and get his signature. He gave them one week's time during which they should follow up the matter. <br /><br />It was with clockwork precision that the matter was followed up by Mr. Mhango and Mr. Ndabala and thanks to the kindness of Mr. M.R.B. Nair and Mr. Chipuma, I received the payment vouchers two days before our final departure from Zambia. There remained just one day within which we had to get the Zambian Kwacha converted to foreign currency at the Zambia National Commercial Bank, Lusaka, but that was another story.George Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02295687304838054768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4710527520187029469.post-62357180798993847992011-07-30T00:09:00.000-07:002011-07-30T00:14:42.128-07:0034. "I DON'T HAVE ANY, BUT MATHAI HAS"When Northern Rhodesia became the independent nation of Zambia in 1964, the UNIP (United National Independent Party) government decided to establish a number of new secondary schools throughout the country. They wanted to recruit from other African countries, people with many years of teaching experience in order to fill the vacancies in the new schools. As the Terms and Conditions offered were far better than those of the neighboring countries, there was a great exodus of serving teachers from Tanzania, Kenya, Uganda, Ethiopia, Somalia, Ghana and other African countries to Zambia. There were hundreds of Indian teachers among them.<br /><br />Joseph and Mathai (not real names) were two Indians, from the state of Kerala, working as teachers in a school in Ethiopia. As there were no other people from Kerala in their school, they were very friendly with each other and did many things together. Their families went together frequently for outings and picnics and entertained each other on Sundays and on special days like Christmas, Easter and Onam. They always consulted with each other on important matters.<br /><br />Through one of their mutual friends they came to know about the great opportunity in Zambia and that many of their acquaintances from Addis Ababa, Asmara and other towns had already secured jobs in Zambia. Joseph and Mathai felt that this was an opportunity that they should not miss. Accordingly they took the first step of obtaining from friends the address of the Zambian Education Ministry and writing to them for Application Forms. After waiting eagerly for about two weeks, to their great delight they both received by the same day's mail, a set of forms from the Ministry of Education headquarters in Lusaka.<br /><br />Each application form consisted of four pages. Joseph and Mathai sat together and discussed the manner in which to fill up the form and how to answer the various questions contained in it. Thereafter they departed to their respective homes and embarked on the process of filling up their forms.<br /><br />Most of the details to be given were simple and straight-forward such as full name, sex, date of birth, educational qualifications, and experience in teaching, so on and so forth. There were also some personal questions such as fluency in English language, speech impediment if any, etc. While Joseph was filling up this part, he suddenly remembered that his friend Mathai had an occasional problem of stammering. He thought it was unlikely that Mathai would indicate it in his application form. Therefore as a truthful and honest person, he thought that at least he should mention it in his own application form, in the best interest of the government of Zambia. So in the space against the question "Have you any speech impediment?" he wrote "I don't have any, but Mathai(full name) has". After completing the rest of the form, he enclosed it in a manila envelope along with other relevant documents, sealed properly and walked the short distance to Mathai's house. Mathai had already completed his form by this time. They went together to the post office in the town, mailed their envelopes and returned home with the satisfaction of a job well done.<br /><br />A number of days passed. Mathai and Joseph waited eagerly for the return of the "mail boy" (the school worker who used to collect the mail from the post office) each day. Then on a fine day, the long-awaited official envelopes with the superscription "On Zambia Government Service" addressed individually to Joseph and Mathai arrived by the same day's mail. With pounding hearts, they opened their envelopes and studied the contents. Mathai found a letter from the Ministry of Education containing an offer of appointment stipulating the initial salary and other relevant details as well as the name of the officer whom he should contact in case he wanted to accept the offer. In Joseph's envelope, he found a single sheet of paper on which the following sentence was type-written neatly:<br />"With reference to your application dated.....(date), I regret to inform you that your application for the post of a secondary school teacher has been unsuccessful". Underneath were a signature and the words "Yours faithfully," "for the Permanent Secretary." <br /><br />Mathai and his family left Ethiopia for Zambia within three month's time. Joseph remained in Ethiopia until the end of his contract and returned to India without leaving any forwarding address. And that was the end of a beautiful friendship. <br /><br />None of us was aware of this incident until a few months later the matter was disclosed by an official of the Education Ministry to one of the expatriate teachers, during a friendly conversation.George Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02295687304838054768noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4710527520187029469.post-72416840245530030412011-06-05T21:17:00.000-07:002011-06-05T21:20:00.285-07:0033. "GOOD MORNING MR. THAEMAANI"My good friend Daniel was a man of great knowledge. He used to give unsolicited advices. There was no doubt that those advices were well-meant, but they didn't work well sometimes.<br /><br />He was the one who mentioned about Temani. He pronouced that name as "Thaemaani" and I thought that was how it should be pronounced. According to Mr. Daniel, Mr. "Thaemaani" was the right person to be approached, in case you needed any assistance in expediting your terminal benefit papers at the ministry of education. My terminal benefit papers were submitted to the ministry sometime back and I wanted someone to give them a push. As there were more than a hundred people working in the ministry offices and it would be difficult for me to locate Mr."Thaemaani", Mr. Daniel gave me a brief description of his appearance and the approximate location of his "office" so that I could go there as early as possible and get hold of him before he got himself involved in some other serious matters at the ministry. <br /><br />Accordingly the very next morning, I posted myself at the main entrance to the long corridor that led to many important offices within the ministry. As it was nearing 8 am, people started trickling in. Seeing an expatriate(term used for foreign nationals working in Zambia) standing near the entrance, some of the in-comers gave me a casual glance and proceeded. There were no familiar faces. Well-dressed ladies passed by, clicking their high heels on the polished wooden floor, chatting in high pitched voice with their counter parts and hardly paying any attention to me. I stood to one side, with my brief case under my arm and scrutinizing every male person to determine whether he fitted with Mr. Daniel's description of "Thaemaani". And while I was waiting patiently, someone just breezed in.<br /><br />Even at the first glance, I decided that he must be the person I was looking for. He was short, stout, slightly bald and was wearing a dark blue jacket. Some official files were under his arm. On the whole, he had a very official look about him. I did not have to ask for any introduction. I just stepped forward and greeted him in a familiar manner, "Good morning, Mr. Thaemaani...."<br /><br />He stopped abruptly in his stride and stared at me. Then he asked me in a severe tone "Do I look like Mr. Temani?" and walked away. <br /><br />I did not know what to say, but one thing was certain. This gentleman was not the "Thaemaani" I was looking for. Then who was Thaemaani?<br /><br />Soon I found out. Mr. Daniel's friend "Thaemaani" was none other than an office orderly (peon). His job was to carry files from desk to desk and his name was Temani. He did not have any permanent office, but found generally in the vicinity of the main registry. However, the description fitted someone else also, I thought wryly. <br /><br />Later in the afternoon, I was told by the lady at the "Enquiries" desk to go and check with Senior Accounts officer Mr. Kasanda in room 24, whether my papers were ready. As I entered his office, I realized to my embarrassment that Mr. Kasanda was the person whom I mistook for Temani that morning. However, it appeared that he did not recognize me as he gathered some papers from a tray in front of him, glanced through them and handed to me. As I was just about to leave his office, he said with the ghost of a smile, "Mr. John, Mr. "Thaemaani" has done a good job for you, I hope”.<br /><br />I thanked Mr. Kasanda for the speedy processing of my papers and apologized for the mix-up that morning. He said it didn’t matter and I just walked away, admiring his sense of humour.George Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02295687304838054768noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4710527520187029469.post-76914487070196570102011-03-24T08:02:00.000-07:002011-03-24T08:04:25.820-07:0032. A CLOSE SHAVEIt happened during the pre-electon days towards the end of President Kaunda's regime. The country was going through a period of political unrest. The Movement for Multi-party Democracy (M.M.D) under the able leadership of Frederick Chiluba, the popular trade union leader was gaining momentum. There was no part of the country where its reverberations did not reach as they radiated from the the hub of the movement - the Copperbelt.<br /><br />There was a lot of dissatisfaction among the local people. The country's economy was in shambles and the common man could not make both ends meet. Teachers, underpaid and overworked as everywhere else in the world, rose up in arms against the Kaunda regime. Exceptions were the expatriate teachers whose conditions were a little better than that of their Zambian counterparts and who were under contractual obligations.<br /><br />The local teachers found it an opportune time to ask the government for higher wages and better terms of conditions. Meetings were being held at national, regional and district levels. The expatriate teachers were very much sympathetic to the cause of their colleagues but refrained from expressing their feelings in public for fear of disciplinary action or even deportation. <br /><br /> During this period of unrest on a Friday afternoon, as I was going out to the parking area after my teaching session, I happened to notice an unusual gathering in the school hall. I heard someone calling out my name and saw Mr. Muzeya, one of my colleagues, standing at the entrance of the hall and some others behind him. Mr. Muzeya told me that the teachers of Mufulira district were having a meeting in the hall and if I would step in for a few minutes as an observer, they would appreciate it. I thought I would just go in for a short while and then depart.<br /><br />Soon the meeting started. There were about fifty people altogether. Half a dozen men were seated on the stage. One man whom I recognized as the teacher of a neighbouring school was addressing the meeting through a cordless microphone. A sheet of paper was being circulated to mark the attendance. The speaker went on talking about the present economic situation in the country and the necessity for a massive pay rise. After listening for about twenty minutes or so, I left the place, un-noticed.<br /> <br />On the next day when the headmaster summoned me to his office, I thought he wanted to discuss some school matter with me, as he used to do in the past. He bade me to take a seat and I noticed a trace of anxiety in his voice. Without any introduction, he asked me about the previous day's meeting. Even before I could say anything, he told me about two policemen from the Secret service who visited him last night at his home to gather the details of the meeting. They wanted the names of the people who organized the meeting and those who addressed. In addition, they specifically asked for the name of an expatriate teacher who was known to have participated in the meeting. The headmaster gave them a list of over fifty names, that of all the Zambian teachers in the school. As far as he knew, all of them were involved. He did not know of any expatriate teacher who attended the meeting. The S.S. men were not happy. They said they would come back for more questioning and left.<br /><br />During the following days, many of the Zambian teachers of the three secondary schools in the district were questioned by the S.S. men. One thing they wanted to know very much was the name of the foreigner who attended the meeting. However they flatly denied the presence of any foreigner in their meeting. Even though many years have elapsed since that incident, I want to thank all my Zambian colleagues, who were at that meeting and who refrained from disclosing my name to those men. If someone had given even the slightest hint, they would have pounced on me and put me through the mill. Any way, after a few days of coming and going, the S.S. men stopped pestering the teachers as they too realized that the political trend was changing. By then, everyone in Zambia was almost certain that the Kaunda regime was falling apart and would be coming to its end within a few days' time.<br /><br /> And the rest is history.George Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02295687304838054768noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4710527520187029469.post-65424074332718183002011-02-23T20:09:00.000-08:002011-02-23T20:13:39.609-08:0031. EXCEPTION TO THE RULE<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkM2obhNGuD-C7s1nsVhao18S7R1s2-qqYef1XvD2z5QpKBeSHDg21Al1Qc0R_yLjDCJbDhPQrwsbeyKqkzrg4R8Lfart3jtabh_e4g1CUuZfbr46f7D9BezzLbLy8-diZL_8mPRDS-0fe/s1600/NEW++SCHOOL+CERTIFICATE+BIOLOGY-+MANUSCRIPT+002.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577104188546916594" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkM2obhNGuD-C7s1nsVhao18S7R1s2-qqYef1XvD2z5QpKBeSHDg21Al1Qc0R_yLjDCJbDhPQrwsbeyKqkzrg4R8Lfart3jtabh_e4g1CUuZfbr46f7D9BezzLbLy8-diZL_8mPRDS-0fe/s200/NEW++SCHOOL+CERTIFICATE+BIOLOGY-+MANUSCRIPT+002.jpg" /></a><br /><div>Zambians are generally friendly people. That is why Zambia is called the "Friendly Country". They are very grateful to foreigners who assist in the development of their country and sometimes they go out of the way to show their gratitude. However, there could always be some exceptions.<br /><br />When I met C.B for the first time, he was a non-descript person, working as a teacher in a township school. I noticed him because of his regular attendance in conferences that were held in the region by the Science Association. I was impressed by his keenness and in my capacity as the chairman of the Association for the region,I decided to give him a chance to go to higher levels in the organization. Accordingly, when the central committee of the Association asked me to recommend someone for a sponsored foreign trip, it was C.B's name that I put forward for consideration.<br /><br />That trip was a turning point in C.B's career. He became well-known in the Association circle and also in the Inspectorate. Being an indigenous person, soon he was in line for promotions. Once he got established, he started to reveal his true nature by throwing his weight around.<br /><br />It was about that time I decided to write a text book in Biology and a work book to go along with it, for the use of the secondary school pupils in Zambia. Most of the Biology text books available in the country were written by British or Irish authors and the examples of flora and fauna referred to were of non-Zambian nature. It was my intention to present a book that would be in strict conformity with the Cambridge O-level syllabus that was being followed in the Zambian secondary schools. Accordingly, I started working on it.<br /><br />The work was interesting but time-consuming. I managed to get a number of reference books to assist me in my pursuits. The notes and diagrams that I had prepared for my teaching sessions became very handy. Now, all my available free time was being utilized in writing, typing and drawing. As a result, the work progressed very well.<br /><br />It took nearly two years of hard work for the completion of the project. Bro. Kirk, one of the Catholic brothers working as a voluntary teacher in the English department did the proof-reading of the manuscript. Fr. Mc Kinney, a co-worker and book-writer, gave me many valuable tips that helped me a lot in my work. During this period, I happened to meet C.B at a conference and told him about my project. Contrary to my expectation, he did not appear very enthusiastic about it and tried to discourage me. However, I did not pay him any attention. Moreover, there were many friends and well-wishers who gave me a lot of encouragement in my project.<br /><br />Once the manuscript was ready, I had to find a publisher. I knew there were some publishing houses in the country among which the most well-known one was the Zambia Educational Publishing House (ZEPH), formerly, the Kenneth Kaunda Foundation, in Lusaka. I wrote a letter to ZEPH about my book and soon the publishing manager of the company contacted me by telephone. He directed me to send them a copy of the manuscript so that their book committee could examine it and decide about its suitability for publication. Accordingly, I mailed them a photostat copy of the original.<br /><br />Thereafter things moved very fast. The book committee scrutinized the script and gave their unanimous approval. ZEPH informed me that they would be pleased to buy off the copy-rights by paying me a sum of four million kwacha (equivalent to four thousand U.S. Dollars according to the exchange rate at that time). An initial payment would be made at the time of signing the contract, and the remainder would be paid immediately after obtaining the approval of the Curriculum committee of the Ministry. This would be just a formality.<br /><br />I drove down to Lusaka early next week in order to sign the contract. I met the publishing manager as well as the M.D. After signing the contract and handing me a cheque for the initial payment, they told me that the book was accepted by their book committee and therefore, they were going to start working on it without waiting for the Curriculum committee's approval. The remaining amount would be paid to my bank account and I was asked to give them the details.<br /><br />Three weeks later, I received a phone call from the publishing manager. He said that the report of the Curriculum committee had come. It was the most adverse report they had ever seen. There was no doubt that someone in the committee was trying to block the publication of the book. Later, I came to know that the committee consisted of four people and C.B was the leading member of that committee. The others were chosen by him from one or two schools in the capital. However, I do not want to say anything to the effect that C.B might have influenced the other members to give such a damaging report. In spite of such a bad report, ZEPH decided to go ahead with the publication of the book.<br /><br />ZEPH kept their promise. My only regret is that I was not in the country to see the book in its printed form. It is my firm belief that the NEW SCHOOL CERTIFICATE BIOLOGY has been accepted by many Zambian secondary school pupils and is found useful to them at least in a small way.<br /><br /></div>George Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02295687304838054768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4710527520187029469.post-84689256908483437882010-12-04T07:37:00.000-08:002010-12-04T07:39:29.028-08:0030. ".......GIVE HIM WHAT HE WANTS"Soon after a robbery at my previous residence where we had stayed for more than 14 years, we shifted to one of the mine flats in the Top Shop area. These flats did not have any servant's quarters. I considered it as a good excuse for getting rid of Richard, my servant whom I suspected of having collusion with the robbers.<br /><br />We employed a maid-servant who was sharing accommodation with another girl in a one-bedroom house in a nearby area known as the Mokambo compound. There were many such houses in that area, owned by the Zambia Consolidated Copper Mines for accommodating the servants of those mine employees who were staying in the flats. Many low-paid mine workers also stayed in the compound. It took almost six months for my wife to train the maid adequately for our purposes and she thought the maid was doing quite well.<br /><br />Then one day she came and told my wife that she was leaving because of lack of accommodation. The girl with whom she stayed was getting married and asked her to vacate. She had no place to stay and therefore would have to go back to her village. However, she would stay back if “Bwana” (means ‘master’) could get one of those houses in the Mokambo compound for her. <br /><br />I made some preliminary enquiries to a senior official in the mines and he told me that as I was a non-miner my servant could not be accommodated in the Mokambo compound which was reserved for the servants of ZCCM employees.<br /><br />But being a very stubborn person, I decided to put in an application at the Estate office. The guy who was in charge of processing the application was very friendly. I filled up the application form and left it with him. He told me that he would give me a call within a couple of days.<br /><br />But the call never came. After waiting for a week, I made another trip to the Estate office. The same person was in the office. He asked me "Why didn't you tell me that you are not a miner?" <br /><br />"Well, that is what I have indicated in my application" I told him. "But since I am occupying a mine flat that has no servant's quarters, where am I supposed to accommodate my servant?"<br /><br /> "Look here, my friend, ‘that’ is your problem”, he told me. “You are just wasting your time. Your application has been turned down by the Estate manager".<br /><br />There was no point in arguing. I left crestfallen.<br /><br />The maid was supposed to leave her employment with us the next day. But in the morning, I received a call from the Estate office asking me to see Mr. Musonda in charge of housing. I met the same guy whom I had seen twice during the past few days. As soon as he saw me, he greeted me with a broad smile and offered me a seat. Then he took a neatly typed sheet of paper, put it inside an envelope and handed it to me. It was a letter from the Estate office, allocating in my name one of the houses in the Mokambo compound, for the use of my servant. He added that the keys should be collected from the Quarter master’s office. <br /><br />I was greatly surprised at the turn of events but did not express it. Instead I thanked him for his kindness and bade him good day. As I was coming out of his office, he asked me "Mr. John, may I ask you something? What is your connection with Mr. Phiri?"<br /><br />I did not know what he was talking about. So I asked him, "which<br />Phiri?"<br /><br />"Mr. Michael Phiri, our boss in the General Office! Who else?" he said.<br /><br />I asked him why he wanted to know. He replied that Mr. Michael Phiri was on a visit to the Estate office the other day and he found me leaving Mr. Musonda’s office and driving off. He wanted to know what I was doing there, and when he heard the story he told the manager, "You just give him what he wants". That was why he asked.<br /><br />"Oh, we just know each other" I said as I did not know what else to say.<br /><br />However, a few months later, I came to know from someone that Michael Phiri was one of my former students at Mufulira High School.George Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02295687304838054768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4710527520187029469.post-79687877539069249982010-09-23T08:22:00.000-07:002010-09-23T08:46:25.036-07:00".........WE HOPE YOU ENJOYED THE FRIGHT"The Nairobi flight from Bombay arrived late. I was in transit on my way to the Zambian capital of Lusaka. As the connecting time was less than three hours due to the lateness of the AI (Air India) flight from Bombay, no hotel accommodation was provided. The passengers were made to sit and wait in the departure lounge of the Jomo Kenyata airport without any lunch. We were told that lunch would be provided onboard.<br /><br />The QZ (Zambia Airways) flight to Lusaka was scheduled to depart at 1.50 p.m. There were no announcements about our departure until 1.45 p.m. On enquiry at the QZ checking counter we were told that our plane which was supposed to arrive from Lusaka at 12 noon had not arrived yet. Consequently, the return flight would be delayed.<br /><br />I was returning from India after a short visit. My journey had commenced from Trivandrum on the previous morning. The Juhu beach hotel where I was accommodated in between flights was not one of the best. As a result, I was feeling tired and sleepy.<br /><br />At 1.45 p.m. there was an announcement that the QZ flight to Lusaka was delayed by 90 minutes. That meant the plane would leave by 3.20 p.m. only at the earliest. I noticed that the Zambia Airways checking counter was deserted. There was no one to whom the passengers could complain about their plight or request for some lunch coupons. Those who did possess any foreign currency moved to the restaurants at the airport and got themselves some snacks while the others remained hungry.<br /><br />The call to board the flight to Lusaka came around 3.30 p.m. There was a great scramble among the hundred and fifteen passengers to make a rush and get into the plane, lest it would depart without them. However, it was 4.15 p.m. by the time the plane took off. As soon as it was air-borne and we were well on our way, lunch was served but I was not feeling hungry. The only thing I wanted was to reach home as early as possible.<br /><br />The first jolt came as we were just cruising over Mount Kilimanjaro. The pilot interrupted his scenic description over the public address system to warn the passengers about "a little turbulence". The "fasten seat belt" signs flashed on. It was followed by a second jolt, more frightening than the first one as the Boeing 737 aircraft plunged into another air pocket. It made some babies to scream and some grown-ups to become uneasy. Even though there were a few more jolts, the passengers got used to the pattern and the pilot managed to keep the plane on its course. However we all heaved a sigh of relief when it was announced that the plane would land at Lusaka International Airport within ten minutes' time.<br /><br />It was with a severe jolt that the wheels of the aircraft touched down on the tarmac accompanied by a deafening roar of the jet engines as if it were going to pieces. Everyone thought that we had crash-landed and this was the end. However, we soon realized that the plane was taxiing smoothly on the runway while we heard a sweet melodious voice announcing through the plane's public address system ".......Captain Gilby and his crew thank all the passengers who have been frying with us and we hope you enjoyed the fright".<br /><br />There was no doubt that we did!George Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02295687304838054768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4710527520187029469.post-22478991870507081872010-08-27T09:24:00.000-07:002010-09-07T09:22:32.527-07:00THE BRIGADIER'S SONKing George High School at Broken hill was one of the best schools in Northern Rhodesia during the colonial rule. Even though its name was changed to Kabwe Secondary School soon after Independence, the headmaster Mr. R. M. Brown did not spare any efforts in maintaining the high standards of academic performance and discipline for which the school had a reputation.<br /><br />Broken hill was the provincial capital of the central province. Its name was changed to Kabwe soon after Independence. Before the formation of Zambia and the establishment of Lusaka as its capital, Broken hill was the head quarters of the Northern Rhodesian Army. Even after Independence, it continued to remain as the army H.Q. During the early days of Independence, there were still many "whites" occupying key positions in the army, railways and government ministries. The government's policy was to have zambianization done in a slow and steady manner.<br /><br />Mr. R. M. Brown was from Britain. He was a good teacher and a strict disciplinarian. After serving for some time as the deputy head of Mufulira high school on the Copper-belt, Mr. Brown was transferred to Kabwe Secondary School as the headmaster.<br /><br />There were many "whites" among the students. Some of them were quite arrogant and tried to "boss" over the African and Indian students. Even from the very beginning Mr. Brown made it very clear that he would not tolerate any racialism among the students or the teachers of his school. Soon it became evident that if anyone thought he would have any special privilege because of his racial superiority or social status, he was grossly mistaken.<br /><br />One day during the morning assembly Mr. Brown noticed a few senior students with "Beatle-style" long hair among the population of nearly a thousand students. Mr. Brown did not want his pupils to look like "hippies" and he made it very clear during his announcements that day. He gave them three days' time to get their hair cut short in an acceptable manner so that they too would have a decent sort of look like the rest of the pupils.<br /><br />Mr. Brown kept his word. After three days he made another inspection of the students during the morning assembly and found that all the long-haired students except one had complied with his orders. After the assembly, he summoned that one to his office and asked the reason. The student replied that he had spoken to his father and he allowed him to have long hair and as such he did not see any reason why he should cut it short. Mr. Brown told him that he would still have to comply with the rules and regulations of the school as long as he wanted to be a student of that school and he would not be allowed to attend lessons until he complied with his instructions.<br /><br />Mr. Brown had a good view of the front court-yard of the school, from his office. Precisely at 9 AM the next morning he noticed a massive motor car bearing the flag and emblem of the Zambian army pulling up in front of his office and a man in the army uniform getting out of the car while another army man stood aside reverently, holding the car door open. After a few minutes, he heard a brisk tap on his door and bid the visitor to enter. A huge white man in full military uniform strode in. He introduced himself as brigadier John Smith of the Zambian army and sat down heavily on a chair even before being invited by Mr. Brown to sit down. Mr. Brown politely asked him what he could do for him. The brigadier told him in an authoritative manner that he should allow his son whom Mr. Brown had sent away the previous day on a silly charge of having long hair, to go back to the lessons. Mr. Brown, very politely told the brigadier that he could not change the school rules for any particular pupil, even if his father was a brigadier or even general of the army. Now that the father of the pupil had come to the school and talked in an offensive manner, the pupil would have to make an apology in public, at the school assembly when he returned to the school after getting his hair cut. Mr. Brown indicated that the interview was over and the brigadier left in a great fury, promising to have a word with the President so that Mr. Brown would not be sitting in that chair for very long.<br /><br />Nothing happened for a few days. Then, about a week later, Henry Smith, the son of brigadier John Smith, returned to the school with his hair cut short in an acceptable manner and presented himself to Mr. Brown just before the morning assembly. The headmaster allowed him to say a few words of apology after which he congratulated him for setting an example to the rest of the school by complying with the school rule even though he was a bit reluctant about it at first.<br /><br />After the above incident, Henry Smith became the most law-abiding student of Kabwe Secondary School and completed his high school education in due course with flying colors before returning to England for higher studies.George Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02295687304838054768noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4710527520187029469.post-2316271760752257672010-08-03T21:35:00.000-07:002010-08-04T01:49:36.903-07:00WELL DONE MR BROWNMrs. Njovu (pronounced as 'Injovu') was a member of parliament. Even though she was not considered as a very popular person, she became M.P. through her activities among the UNIP (United National Independence Party) Women. UNIP was the ruling party and President Kaunda liked hard-working people.<br /><br />Mrs. Njovu used to make some caustic remarks from time to time against the foreigners who worked in that country even though she knew fully well that her country depended very much on them and could not survive without their assistance.<br /><br />During the colonial days the entire civil service of Northern Rhodesia was under the control of the British, but soon after Independence, top officials were replaced by competent Zambians. As a number of new secondary schools were opened under the T.D.P. (Transitional Development Plan) in many parts of the country, there was a great demand for secondary school teachers. Even though the Zambia government had a preference for British and Irish teachers, soon it became evident that the demand was so great that they had to look elsewhere as well. India could have supplied easily the required number of teachers, but the Zambia government did not want all and sundry. They put up advertisements inviting applications from those who had some experience in teaching in other African countries. They offered better terms and conditions than in most other African countries and as a result there was a great "exodus" of teachers, mainly of Indian, Pakistani and Sreelankan origin from east, west and north African countries to Zambia. Many of the newly recruited teachers were sent to the remotest parts of the country so that even the new schools in the "bush area" could function properly.<br /><br />Of all the leaders, Mrs. Njovu was the one who apparently had some grudge against the Indians and she used to express her feelings from time to time, but nobody paid any attention to her utterances. However, things came to a head on one occasion when a scathing remark made by her appeared as a front-page headline in the prominent national newspaper, the "Times of Zambia".<br /><br />It was a Monday. As soon as I reached the school along with my wife, where both of us used to work, I had a feeling that something was wrong. As we stepped into the staff room, we found our colleagues, especially the Indian teachers, standing in a group in the middle of the room and engaged in animated conversation. There were more than twenty Indian teachers among a total of nearly sixty, the rest comprising mainly of Zambian and some European personnel. It was one Mr. Varghese from Kerala who called me by name and asked whether I had seen that day's newspaper. I hadn't. He thrust a copy in my face and asked me to look at the main headline on the front page. It appeared in big bold letters as follows:<br /><br />INDIAN TEACHERS HOLD FAKE CERTIFICATES says Member of Parliament.<br /><br />The entire text of the M.P's speech was given below along with the picture of a smiling Njovu in her full Zambian gear. Her speech purported to say that fake B.Sc, M.Sc and Ph.D degree certificates were available in India and could be bought from the streets of Bombay, Delhi and Calcutta by anyone who wanted them at a very cheap price. She had even quoted the cost of each in Indian rupees and the equivalent Zambian kwacha.<br /><br />Just then the bell was rung for the morning assembly. The pupils started taking up their position in the quadrangle. Our school, one of the biggest on the Copper-belt, had more than fifteen hundred pupils. The Indian teachers were considered in great esteem by them. As they were lining up for the assembly, we still continued with our discussion. We were debating what action we should take as none of us was prepared to face the students that morning. We knew that most of our students would have seen the morning newspaper by this time.<br /><br />The headmaster Mr. R.M. Brown who also was an expatriate, poked his head into the staff room, on his way to address the school assembly. He said casually, "ladies and gentlemen, it is assembly time" and without waiting for any response, proceeded to the podium. It was unusual for the headmaster to remind us of the assembly. Probably he might have got wind of our hesitation to face the students that morning. We looked at each other and followed him silently to the veranda where we took our stand as usual.<br /><br />The morning assembly always started with a prayer. This was the common practice in all Zambian schools, whether run by government or mission. Contrary to the usual practice, Mr. Brown spread out that day's newspaper so that everyone could see the front page and spoke: "I am quite certain that most of you might have seen today's Times of Zambia newspaper. It contains a serious allegation by a person no less than a member of parliament, against the Indian teachers who are doing an excellent job in this country. Every pupil in this school or elsewhere who has ever been taught by Indian teachers should know how incorrect this allegation is. As a headmaster in this country for the last fifteen years, I can say with all sincerity that the Indian teachers with whom I have come into contact during my career are the best teachers I have ever known. I therefore condemn this article in today's Times of Zambia whole-heartedly and advise all my listeners to do the same."<br /><br />Everyone was stunned. There was absolute silence for many seconds and then Mr. Brown said "let us pray" and continued with the morning assembly.<br /><br />There was no further hesitation on the part of the Indian teachers to go to their classes and face the students. Mr. R.M. Brown had spoken for us as no one had spoken ever before knowing fully well that he was not only risking his career but also would be liable to imprisonment and deportation. However, no such things happened.<br /><br />Well done, Mr. Brown, Sir, we admire your courage and the way you stood for us. It is a privilege to have worked under you.George Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02295687304838054768noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4710527520187029469.post-27439848067603497982010-06-20T08:08:00.000-07:002010-06-20T08:10:37.848-07:00INSIDE A MILITARY CAMPThe military camp of the Mufulira Engineering Corps was situated about a kilometre away from my school. During my stay of twenty five years in Mufulira, I had gone there two or three times on some business related to my school, but never had taken my vehicle beyond the sentry box at the main entrance as civilian vehicles were not allowed in without a special pass. I was always accompanied by a Zambian colleague who would talk in 'cibemba' (local language) to the sentry who would then allow us to go in after leaving the vehicle outside. There was a government primary school within the campus. It was mainly for the children of the military personnel. Some of the teachers of that school were our former colleagues who used to drop in to borrow some science equipments or for a friendly chat. Major Mwambwa, one of our colleagues who used to be in charge of the cadets in the school had acquaintances among the army people. Being a foreigner working in Zambia, I did not have any close contact with the army people.<br /><br />It was my final year in Mufulira. About three months before my retirement, there was an 'end of the term’ party, at the school. Party times were when all staff members would come together and spend a lot of time singing and dancing. Some of us who were not singers or dancers would be merely sitting around sipping a Coke or Fanta and watching. As in most get-together parties in Zambia, a lot of beer would be flowing and those who were habitual drinkers would be having a ‘really good time'. <br /><br />We could hardly make any conversation because of the music that was blaring. The volume knob of the amplifier was turned to the highest degree. The pupils were given a "free" afternoon because of the staff party. Even the clerical staff and laboratory assistants left their cubicles and joined the crowd of dancers in the school hall.<br /><br />While I was trying to make some conversation with one of the colleagues sitting next to me, Mr. Mweshi came to me and said he wanted to talk to me. Mr. Mweshi was a good friend of mine. He was one of the organizers of the staff parties. I asked him what the matter was. He wanted me to go with him to the military canteen and bring from there a few crates of beer in my station wagon. I said I would talk to the boss and then accompany him. In fact it was a common practice among the staff that those who had their own vehicles would make trips for the school or for other colleagues if the need arose, as the school bus was not available most of the time due to one reason or other.<br /><br />When we reached the camp, I was about to park my vehicle outside the gates as I had done in the past. Mr. Mweshi told me that we would have to take the car inside as the canteen was situated at some distance away from the main entrance. He talked to the sentry in the local language and mentioned the name of the officer whom he was going to meet. The sentry talked to someone on the telephone and then opened the gates for us to take the vehicle in. Mr. Mweshi got in beside me and gave me directions. We travelled some distance and reached an area where some large trees stood majestically. I could see many low, single storied buildings beyond the belt of trees. Mr. Mweshi told me to park the car under one of the trees and wait for a few minutes so that he could go in and organize the stuff. I settled down in the front passenger seat and started reading a book which I had with me in the glove compartment of the car. <br /><br />As I was deeply engrossed in the reading of the book, I did not realize the passing of time. When I checked the time, I was surprised to note that almost an hour had passed since Mr. Mweshi left me for "a few minutes". Before I diverted my attention to the book, I noticed someone standing at a distance, without any movement. I watched him for a few minutes and realized that he was looking intently in my direction. He was in army uniform. Even though it was not uncommon to find a uniformed soldier in an army camp, I felt a little discomfort at seeing him there, probably watching me surreptitiously for how long, I did not know.<br /><br />He might have stood there for another ten minutes or so and then walked away. By this time I had lost all interest in my reading and followed him with my eyes. He went inside one of the buildings and remained there for some time. Then he came out along with another uniformed soldier who had a rifle slung from his shoulder. They walked slowly in my direction and stood at the border of the belt of trees, presumably watching my vehicle and waiting to find out what my intention was. <br /><br />I panicked. I have heard of stories of foreigners who had strayed unwittingly to sensitive areas having been apprehended and then disappearing without trace in some African and Latin American countries. Whatever the military would do to a suspected “spy” was their business and was beyond any routine enquiry. Occasionally we used to read in the newspapers about people of other nationality who were "found spying for an un-named foreign country" and taken into custody by the security men. Here I, a foreigner, had been inside an African military camp for the past hour or so with no legitimate explanation to offer and could easily be mistaken for a spy. There was no sign of the person whom I accompanied and I did not know even the name of the officer whom he had gone to see. In the meanwhile, I thought that the two soldiers whom I had noticed before were advancing slowly in my direction.<br /><br />While I was thus engrossed in my thoughts in a panic-stricken state of mind, I hardly noticed someone coming from the other direction. He too was wearing an army uniform and glanced casually in my direction as he passed on. All on a sudden he stopped in mid-stride and came back to my vehicle. He looked in, addressed me by name and asked me what I was doing in their campus. He was smiling broadly. I got out of the car, still wondering who this person might be . In the same instant that recognition came to me, he said, "I am Mishek Musonda, your former student, now a captain in the Zambian Army" and caught hold of my hand in a firm grip as a prelude to a hearty shake-hand. He asked about my family and we spent some time chatting. Then I told him the reason for my presence there and added that I had been waiting for more than an hour for Mr. Mweshi who had gone in. The captain remarked with a smile that Mr. Mweshi might have been doing a little bit of "warming up" in the canteen and forgotten all about his errand. He promised to go and look him up. He also said he would find some "boys" (junior soldiers) to carry the crates to my vehicle and then left.<br /><br />After the captain's departure, I remembered about the two soldiers who were watching me and who, in all probability, were about to pounce on me, but could not see any sign of them. They might have made a hasty retreat when they saw the familiarity with which the captain treated me.<br /><br />I got into my vehicle and settled comfortably in the driver's seat, awaiting Mr. Mweshi's return.George Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02295687304838054768noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4710527520187029469.post-72610438046767830122010-04-04T08:30:00.000-07:002010-04-04T08:33:25.169-07:00AN UNFORGETTABLE EASTER WEEKEND (Part 2)While I was away, someone had telephoned the local police and I found an inspector accompanied by a couple of policemen on my return to the scene of the accident. By this time, many of the onlookers had dispersed. However, a number of people lingered around, most of them at a respectable distance. There were some eye witnesses among them. The police took their statements and cautioned them to be available for further clarification if necessary. As soon as I appeared on the scene, they turned their attention on me. I answered their questions and told them exactly what had happened according to my knowledge. It seemed they were satisfied with my answers. As they had already taken a statement from the driver of the vehicle involved in the accident and the eye witnesses corroborated his statement, they wanted the car to be moved to the police station for fitness examination by their experts and the driver to accompany them for other formalities. <br /><br />With the help of the police and that of the on-lookers, we managed to push the Volkswagen up the gradient to the road. We noticed that the laminated wind screen had cracked all over but still the pieces held together. The right headlamp was shattered and its reflector with a broken bulb in it, hung out on a wire. The engine started easily and as the clutch was released, the vehicle moved forward smoothly. Obviously it was in running condition. My friend drove the car while a policeman sat in the front passenger seat and gave directions. The rest of our party crammed into my car and we followed the Volkswagen to the police station.<br /><br />We sat on some benches and waited in a narrow hall for at least three quarters of an hour before the driver of the accident car was summoned to the presence of the officer in charge. I accompanied him without being invited. The officer waved us to a couple of straight-backed chairs and asked the driver to narrate in detail the events that led to the accident. He interrupted him at times to ask him a question or two, while making a note on a notepad in front of him. He asked the questions in a friendly manner and there was no threat or intimidation in his voice. Later he asked me also a few questions pertaining to my role in the whole affair. By the end of the session, it appeared that he was convinced that the cyclist was at fault and the motorist could not have avoided hitting him as he crossed the road so suddenly into the path of the oncoming vehicle. Just a few minutes before the accident, the red Volkswagen had overtaken my friend's vehicle and the cyclist might not have seen or even heard the car behind.<br /><br />Now the big question in our mind was "what next?" As if reading our thoughts the officer said that the driver of the accident car would have to stay behind until certain formalities were done including the fitness examination of his vehicle by an examiner from the police headquarters in order to find out whether the vehicle was in a roadworthy condition at the time of the accident. The rest of us were free to resume our journey. At this point, I politely told him that we would not leave our friend alone in a foreign country under such circumstances but would rather stay around until he was allowed to proceed along with us. He replied that there was a government guest house nearby where we could find food and accommodation and gave directions to reach there. However, he wanted the driver of the accident car to return to the police station as soon as possible after arranging accommodation for his family at the guest house. In the meanwhile his passport, car keys and blue book (car's registration book) were to be left behind.<br /><br />All of us piled into my Datsun and went in search of the guest house. Soon we found the place and secured a couple of rooms for our overnight stay. We had a bite of lunch after which we left the ladies and the children at the guest house and returned to the police station.<br /><br />The officer in charge had gone out and the door to his office was found closed. Someone had moved the accident car to the far end of the court yard, close to the inspection pit. One of the policemen told us to wait in the same dismal hall were we had waited earlier. We sat down on a bench and soon got immersed in our own thoughts, presumably on our present predicament and how and when we would be able to get out of it. <br /><br />By 6 PM, it was quite dark outside and we could see the headlights of a few motor vehicles moving on the highway nearby. It was Easter Saturday and the traffic was very sparse. Most people were enjoying their long weekend either with their families or elsewhere. We were told that a radio message had been sent to summon the vehicle examiner from the police headquarters but no reply had been received so far. May be he was out of town, enjoying his Easter weekend or out of range to the radio call. Any way we had to stay around until we were permitted by the O/C to leave. <br /><br />At 7.30 PM the officer in charge breezed in. He was no longer in the police uniform but smartly dressed in a sports jacket and dress pants. He nodded to us and went in to his office. There was very little activity going on in the building. As the night progressed, the temperature dropped and we felt a chill in the atmosphere. The yellow light from a single electric bulb in the hall made the place appear all the more gloomy. Two or three policemen on the night shift were seen moving around and no one paid any attention to us.<br /><br />All on a sudden we noticed the bright headlights of a vehicle coming in through the gates. The vehicle, a Peugeot 504, came up to the car port in front of the building and screeched to a stop. A tall stout man wearing a long, white overcoat came out of the car with a clip board in one hand and a Hunter lantern in the other. We realized that the vehicle inspector had arrived. After reporting to the officer in charge, he went out to the parking lot accompanied by one of the policemen and began his work. However, his inspection did not take too long. He examined the condition of the tires, brakes, steering mechanism and the general condition of the car and noted down his findings and comments on a single sheet of paper. After handing his report to the officer in charge, he got into his car and drove away. <br /> <br />After a while, a constable came and told us that the officer in charge would like to see us. We went in and he pointed to the chairs so that we may sit down. The case file was in front of him. He told us that the vehicle examiner's report was sufficient proof to the fact that the vehicle was in a roadworthy condition at the time of the accident which meant that the accident was not caused by driving a faulty vehicle. As all other factors such as drunken driving, careless driving, exceeding the speed limit etc. had been ruled out in the earlier report by the police, the only charge applicable would be "unintentional man- slaughter". He added that after giving a signed statement to the effect that he would appear at his own expense for the trial whenever he was summoned by the court, the driver was free to leave the country. Then he handed back the car key and the documents he had taken earlier from the driver.<br /> <br />By the time we finished the formalities at the police station it was nearly 10 PM. As it was too late and we could not resume our journey during the night, we wanted to leave the accident car on the station premises until next morning. Our request was granted. When we thanked the officer in charge for all the kindness shown to us in spite of what had happened, he pointed to a framed photograph of the President of that country and told us in a matter of fact voice, "it is the wish of our President that we should be as helpful as possible to innocent people, especially to foreigners, who get into difficulties while they are in our country due to circumstances beyond their control. Gentlemen, I wish you and your families a safe journey back home".George Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02295687304838054768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4710527520187029469.post-2387427085447687282010-02-26T20:29:00.000-08:002010-02-26T20:31:22.620-08:00AN UNFORGETTABLE EASTER WEEKENDWe were on our way to Lusaka after having a very pleasant holiday in the tourist capital of a neighboring country. It was the Easter weekend. Our party consisted of two families, travelling in two motor cars. The friend and family who were accompanying us were stationed at a rural area in Zambia near the border. Our aim was to reach that place before nightfall so as to have a good night's rest and proceed to Lusaka early next morning. <br /><br />The tar-macadam road leading from the capital to the border was well-maintained and the traffic was not heavy. We came across an occasional truck or car moving towards or away from the capital. We overtook one or two slow moving vehicles hauling boats on trailers, probably heading to the well-known holiday resort at the lake-side. <br /><br />By 8.45 AM, we passed through a fairly large town on our way. The town was in the process of waking up and a number of shops still remained un-open. We were feeling quite hungry as our early morning breakfast was very light. We thought we would find a lay-by somewhere in the outskirts of the town where we could stop for a few minutes and fortify ourselves with some coffee and snacks that we were having with us.<br /><br />I was driving a Datsun 1600, with my wife and the two children along with me. My friend and family travelled in the beige Volkswagen that followed us. Even though there was some distance between the two cars, being the driver of the car in front, I made sure that the Volkswagen was always visible in my rear view mirror. <br /><br />A few kilometres away from the town, I noticed in my mirror another car far behind. It was a red Volkswagen. It was coming at a steady pace and kept its distance. Sometimes it went out of my field of vision in the mirror. <br /><br />The road rose into an incline and I thought my engine was dragging a bit. I stepped on the gas pedal and the ninety-seven b.h.p engine responded quickly. The car surged forward. By the time we reached the top of the incline, we lost sight of both the cars behind. There was some level ground to the left, sufficient to park two or three cars, and we decided to pull up and wait for the other car. We moved to the side of the road and I switched off the engine.<br /><br />We might have waited for five minutes at the most when we heard the familiar sound of the Volkswagen’s air-cooled engine and looked back expectantly. It was the red Volkswagen with its lone European occupant that passed us at a brisk pace. We looked for the other car but there was no sign of it. <br /><br />All on a sudden I had a strong feeling that something had gone wrong with the other car and its occupants. I started my car and took a U-turn. We had to go back and find out the cause of their delay.<br /><br />From the top of the incline we had an uninterrupted view of at least a kilometre of the road. Far away, we saw a crowd on the road and no sign of the car. "Oh God, what could have happened?" We rushed to the spot. <br /><br />I stopped my car just a metre away from the crowd and jumped out. At a glance I saw the disheveled forms of my friend and his wife and children standing on one side of the road, a little distance away from the crowd and their car in a shallow ditch below the road, but on all four wheels. It had a funny, lop-sided appearance. A number of people stood in the middle of the road, forming a circle.<br /><br />The realization that my friend and family were unhurt, not seriously anyway, sent a wave of relief through my mind, but it lasted only until I pushed through the crowd and had a look inside the circle of people.<br /><br />A man lay crumpled on the ground littered with broken glass, near the twisted remains of a bicycle. There was blood all over his body. His right eye was popped out and his left eye looked at me in a fixed stare. Even when I asked the onlookers to put the man in my car and at the same time my wife and children got out hurriedly to make room for him, I knew he was either dead or dying. However I had to take him to the nearest hospital.<br /><br />At first the people around were not too eager to comply with my request but when I implored to them, two or three people obliged. I told someone to get into the front passenger seat and direct me to the hospital. A young man got in reluctantly. We had come a little over seven kilometres from the town. The district hospital was situated near the centre of the town. I drove back along the same way we had come just a while ago until the large sprawling structure of the district hospital was seen. We passed through the gates and travelled a few metres before I could see the red bold sign of the Casualty. I took the vehicle as close to the entrance as possible, jumped out and ran in to some kind of a waiting room where there was no one. I passed through another door and entered a hall where a number of people were seated and a man wearing a doctor's white overcoat was examining someone through a stethoscope.<br />"Doctor, there is a dying man in my car. Can you please come out and take a look at him?" I almost screamed.<br /><br />The man in the doctor's coat came out to the car without any hesitation. He briefly examined the injured man and said, "But he is already dead. There is nothing I can do for him."<br /><br />I was totally disconcerted. "Oh God, what do I do now?"<br /><br />"You drive along this road and take the first turn to the left. You will see the mortuary at the far end. Leave the body there and report to the Police", he said.<br /><br />I got back behind the wheel as if in a trance and drove in the direction indicated by the man. <br /><br /> (To be continued)George Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02295687304838054768noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4710527520187029469.post-62425723885201233812010-01-27T07:44:00.000-08:002010-01-27T07:45:36.099-08:00DAYS OF ANXIETYAfter twenty-seven years of undisputed leadership, President Kenneth David Kaunda was losing his popularity. The economy of Zambia was in shambles and the once prosperous African country was on the brink of bankruptcy. The Zambia Consolidated Copper Mines (ZCCM) which was formed after the nationalization of the mines to prevent the drain of foreign exchange proved to be a mammoth white elephant that contributed to the depletion of the country's economy as never before. <br />ZCCM along with a number of ‘parastatal’ companies went on such a rampage that they spent much more than what they could earn by digging deeper and deeper into the country's resources and left the nation literally penniless. It was the common man who suffered from the ill-effects of the economic decline. Food, clothing and other essential commodities became so expensive and unaffordable. Working class people found it impossible to make both ends meet. The rich man, to the contrary, became richer while the political leaders and their minions thrived beyond description. The realization by the people of Zambia that they needed something better than Kaunda's principle of Humanism and United National Independent Party's(UNIP) One Party Participatory Democracy led to the formation of the Movement for Multi-party Democracy (MMD) under the leadership of a trade union leader by the name Frederick Chiluba.<br /><br />In spite of all the fringe benefits given and unfulfilled promises made, the people of Zambia were not willing to be satisfied with nothing less than a general election. Chiluba and his followers held meetings, rallies and demonstrations throughout the country in which thousands of people participated. The momentum increased and the pressure on the government was so great that a general election was declared towards the end of 1991. <br /><br />Even though the thousands of foreigners working in the country had no voting right and had nothing to do with the election, they had become very apprehensive about the after-effects of the election especially as there was a lot of resentment among the local workers towards the expatriates who were earning more than ten times of what their Zambian counterparts were earning. There was a strong rumour of the possibility of a military take-over either just before the election or immediately after it. In either case it would have meant disaster for the foreigners, especially for members of the Asian community.<br /><br />And with good reasons too. The Asian businessmen had the monopoly of trading in Zambia. They were exploiters of the worst kind. Even though many of them were citizens of Zambia by birth as their parents or grand parents had migrated from India long time back, they had all the savings stashed away in foreign banks and were in the process of working out the formalities of emigrating to Britain, the United States or Canada. There was no doubt that if there was a military take-over, the Asians would have been the first victims. In such case, there would not have been any differentiation between the expatriate Asian workers and the Asian business community.<br /><br />Even the Indian High Commission, in their circular to the Indians in Zambia, outlined in no unmistakable terms the procedure they should adopt in order to make a speedy exit from the country in the event of a military coup. The circular contained guidelines on various precautions to be taken, the preparation of survival kits and emergency contact addresses. On the whole, the Asians in Zambia were the most frightened people on earth during the pre-election months.<br /><br />As a result, many expatriate and resident Asian workers decided to leave the country for a "holiday" during the election month. To be on the safe side, many businessmen made arrangements to send their wives and children to Zimbabwe, East Africa or India just before the election. However, things were not so easy for the expatriate workers employed in the copper mines, parastatal companies and government departments. The authorities being aware of the Asian workers' intention to leave the country "en masse" made it clear that no leave would be granted except in emergencies. Some of the clever fellows managed to obtain telegrams from India saying that one of the parents died suddenly or was in the process of dying and managed to get compassionate leave but when it came to the attention of the Zambian authorities that too many parents in India were dying all on a sudden, they realized that they were being tricked.<br /><br />Those expatriates who could not get permission to leave the country or those who decided to stay on come whatever may, made some preparations to stay strictly indoors for a couple of weeks or so, in case of a military coup or popular agitation. These included fortifying the doors and windows by means of iron bars, storing all sorts of provision to last at least a month and making alternate arrangements for cooking and lighting in case of massive power failure.<br /><br />At last the much dreaded election day arrived. As it was a normal working day, we went for work as usual. One of our school buildings was taken over and converted into a polling station. We saw a long line of people waiting patiently for their turn to go in and cast their votes. There were two or three policemen lazing around and the atmosphere was quite peaceful. There were no party militants or "booth snatchers" and no surreptitious canvassing.<br /><br />With thumping hearts we listened to the radio and television newscast at lunch time and also in the evening, bracing ourselves to hear the worst possible news but came to know to our great relief that polling took place peacefully in all polling stations throughout the country and there was not even a single incident of blood shed or violence in connection with the election anywhere in Zambia.<br /><br />The days that followed during which the results were announced and a new government was sworn in, were equally peaceful and the transfer of power from UNIP(United National Independence Party) to MMD (Movement for Multi-party Democracy) was the smoothest ever seen. The days of anxiety were over.<br /><br />The credit goes mainly to that great statesman of Africa, President Kenneth Kaunda, who ensured that the Zambian election would be free and fair and also to the peace-loving people of Zambia who did not interfere in any way with the procedures of the election.George Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02295687304838054768noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4710527520187029469.post-90724631622941582512009-11-23T08:12:00.000-08:002009-11-23T08:44:13.611-08:00ORDEAL AT THE AIRPORTOur flight from Ndola reached Lusaka international airport at 10 AM exactly. The Bombay flight was scheduled to depart from there at 5 PM. Check-in was at 2 PM and so my wife and I had about four hours at our disposal. Since our two suit cases were tagged for Bombay at Ndola airport, we had our hand luggage only along with us.<br /><br />The date was 23rd December 1989. Christmas was just two days ahead. As the Bombay flight was a weekly flight, we knew the plane would be crowded. While we sat in the main lounge idly watching people arriving by flights from Livingstone, Kasama and other places, we could see suit cases labeled for the Bombay flight. The vast parking area in front of the main building which was visible through the glass walls had many empty slots that would soon be filled up.<br /><br />It was not only the thought of going on vacation leave that excited us but also the fact that our daughter, the eldest of our three children, was getting married within 10 days' time. The arrangements had already been made and the people at home were waiting eagerly for our return. As my wife and I had many things to talk about, we did not notice how quickly the time passed. It was about 12.30 PM when we decided to have a bite of lunch at the restaurant on the second floor. Instead of taking the elevator, we used the stairs and reached the restaurant. We occupied two seats in a corner and ordered our lunch. After lunch, we spent some time in the duty-free shop, looking at the various articles on display. We found the prices were too high and refrained from spending our foreign exchange on such items that could have been bought from the second class trading area in the city at half the price. However, I bought some Duracell batteries for my 8 mm. movie camera that I used to carry with me during my journeys.<br /><br />We returned to the main lounge and found most of the seats occupied. The clock above the check-in counters showed five minutes past two. A few people had already lined up in front of the economy class check-in counter of flight QZ 951 to Bombay. We waited until the initial rush was over to collect our boarding cards and hand luggage tags. There were a number of empty seats at the far end of the main lounge where we decided to sit and wait until the call for customs, immigration and security check came.<br /><br />It was nearing 3.30 PM and we knew the call for immigration and customs would come soon. While my wife went to the wash room, I got busy installing my movie camera with the new batteries and pulling the trigger to see if it worked well. As my attention was on the camera, I did not notice the policeman who was approaching me. He came straight to me and asked whether I had taken some pictures of the airport. I told him the camera was not loaded with film and I was just trying if the new batteries worked well. He said I could explain everything to the magistrate on Tuesday (as the next two days, Sunday and Monday were holidays) and the device that I called a "camera" could be examined by experts to find out whether it was some sort of a secret weapon. In the meanwhile he was detaining me.<br /><br />While we were talking, my wife returned from the wash room and was startled to learn what was happening. The policeman led us to a small office at the far end of the main lounge and asked for our passports and tickets. He placed them in a drawer and locked it. We told him again and again that we did not violate any rule and we should be allowed to proceed as we did not want to miss our flight which was secured by making reservations a month in advance. We told him about our daughter's wedding which was scheduled to take place within ten days' time and how important it was for us to reach home without being held up. He said that my wife was free to go as he had no case against her but I had to remain behind. Any amount of pleading fell into deaf ears. We were quite desperate.<br /><br />While we were frantic with anxiety, the policeman was behaving as if he had all the time in the world. He decided to make a few lengthy telephone calls, speaking mostly in Cibemba (pronounced "chibemba") with some occasional words in English. It was quite evident that his fake calls were to prevent any further dialogue between us. I checked my watch for the umpteenth time and found it was nearing 4.30 PM. All the passengers would be seated by this time inside the plane. Now anything short of a miracle would not be sufficient to save us from our predicament. We prayed silently.<br /><br />Then it happened. The policeman apparently concluded his phone calls and talked to me: "you said you are going for your daughter's wedding. There will be a big party and a lot of enjoyment. What will you give me if I allow you to go?" This was the opening I was waiting for. I told him to take everything we had in our possession except the tickets and the passports, but he was not interested. He asked me how much foreign currency I had in my wallet. There wasn't much, less than a hundred dollars or so. He did some mental calculations and said he would accept that money in exchange for our freedom and I gave him the whole lot without any hesitation. As we gathered our hand luggage and departed hurriedly, he called from behind to tell us to bring from India if possible, a pair of size ten shoes on our return and send them to the name and address he mentioned. We did not bother to reply but kept running to the Immigration & Customs.<br /><br />There was not even a single passenger in sight. The immigration officer stamped our passports without wasting any time and directed us to go straight to the Security check, by-passing the Customs. The security man just waved us through his office to the Departure lounge which was quite empty. We traversed the whole length of it and reached the door opening to the staircase that led down to the tarmac. One of the ground staff stood there chanting the words "hurry up! hurry up!" and pointed to the aircraft.<br /><br />At a distance, the Bombay flight stood on the tarmac, in readiness for take off. The "Nkwazi", the wide-bodied DC 10, wearing the green and silver colors of Zambia Airways appeared magnificent in the evening sunlight. Some ground staff standing at the bottom of the massive staircase were waving frantically at us to hurry up. We ran like some runners in a race and reached the top of the staircase. Air hostesses relieved us of our cabin baggage and showed us to our seats. The door swung shut behind us.<br /><br />Soon we realized that the aircraft was moving and we could no longer control our emotions. Tears were streaming down our cheeks and we did not care if the other passengers were watching. The "Nkwazi" was air-borne, reaching to higher and higher altitude while the Lusaka international airport became a dot in the postage stamp scenery far below and soon lost from sight as the huge aircraft settled in its course to its final destination- Bombay.George Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02295687304838054768noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4710527520187029469.post-80607323630099794932009-10-29T08:44:00.000-07:002009-10-29T08:46:01.307-07:00IN THE WRONG PLACE AT THE WRONG TIMEWhen the Zambian lady teachers of my school heard that the prime minister would be making an official visit in the district and addressing a public rally at the civic centre in the town, they approached the headmaster for permission to attend the meeting. The headmaster gave permission without knowing that the ladies had a secret agenda. They wanted to demonstrate against certain discriminations that existed in the newly-introduced housing allowance rule. The political situation in Zambia was in turmoil and the Special Branch (secret police) was on the look-out for dissidents. Had the headmaster known the intention of the ladies, he would have advised them not to stick their neck out.<br /> <br /> As I was pulling out my Nissan station wagon from my slot in the parking lot with the intention of going to the post office in the town, a number of Zambian ladies came running out of the staff room, shouting for a "lift". Four of them squeezed themselves in to the rear seat and one got into the front passenger seat. Only then I noticed the placards in their hands with the words "STOP DISCRIMINATION, GIVE HOUSING ALLOWANCE TO ALL" written in big black bold letters. As soon as they got into the vehicle, they started talking aloud excitedly among themselves in cibemba (pronounced 'chibaemba' which is the local language) and I could not follow what they were talking about.<br /><br /> Soon we came to the main junction where we had to cross the Kitwe-Mokambo main road and go straight to the town centre. There was a police officer on duty. Even though I stopped at the cross roads, he indicated to proceed. The town hall was within sight and the place was overflowing with people. As we came closer, in spite of the chattering in the car, I heard the singing of the Zambian national anthem through the loudspeakers and pulled over to the side of the road. I told the ladies not to get out until the singing was over and they complied with.<br /><br /> I was just about to pull out of the curb after the departure of my passengers when a police man appeared in front of my car apparently from nowhere. He approached me and told he was going to arrest me for not honouring the national anthem. I tried to explain to him that I stopped the car as soon as I heard the national anthem and my passengers did not get out until the singing was over, but he insisted that I should go with him to the police station immediately. I was wondering whether he saw the placards in the hands of the ladies but he did not make any mention of that. However he was quite adamant that I should accompany him.<br /><br /> I was worried a bit. It was true that I had not committed any offence, but the police station was the last place I wanted to go. I have heard of people being treated like dirt once you were in "custody" and harassed unnecessarily by some sadistic elements in the police force. I, who always tried to be on the right side of the law, was now being confronted by this miserable fellow in uniform for no reason at all. But there was no choice and I had to go with him. The police station was not very far, but I did not want to leave my car on the main road. So I asked the police man to accompany me while I drive to the parking lot at the station. As he was getting into the car a senior police officer approached us. He probably was taking a walk from the police station to the prime minister's meeting place. He came to us and asked what the matter was. The police man smartly saluted the officer and told him what my offence was. The officer asked me for an explanation and I told him exactly what happened except the matter of the placards which had no bearing on the story. After listening to me he talked briefly to the police man in cibemba and then turned to me and said “It is alright sir, you may proceed". I thanked the officer, heaved a great sigh of relief and let in the clutch so that I may put as much distance as possible between me and the prime minister's meeting place.George Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02295687304838054768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4710527520187029469.post-26250003630301981312009-09-28T23:29:00.000-07:002009-09-28T23:32:16.821-07:00IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHEREIt happened during one of my trips from Ndola to my hometown of Mufulira. I had gone there that morning on official business and was returning in the evening after a very tiresome day.<br /><br /> Ndola and Mufulira are two towns on the "Copperbelt" at a distance of sixty-five kilometres. The Ndola-Mufulira road is one of the loneliest roads in Zambia. It stretches through an area of "bush land" very close to the Zairian border. During the early days of our stay in Zambia, we used to travel along this road very frequently without any fear of intimidation. However, in recent years there had been many incidents of robbery with violence in which lone motorists were attacked in broad daylight. Therefore I decided to travel by public transport during my Ndola trips.<br /><br /> I found a Mufulira-bound bus at the bus station and boarded it. It was four o'clock in the evening and the bus was slowly filling up. I managed to secure a comfortable seat in front and decided to wait. The starting time of the bus was mentioned by someone as four-thirty. In that case I should be able to reach home before night-fall.<br /> <br /> It was almost five o'clock by the time the bus left the bus station. All the seats were occupied. A number of people came running towards the bus as it finally started off. The bus stopped for them to get in. I was wondering where the new-comers were going to sit. To my surprise, the driver's mate pulled out some "jump seats" in between the main rows of seats and seated them all. By this time there was hardly any space in the bus for anyone to sit without being crushed by his neighbours.<br /><br /> As I was occupying a window-seat, I could look out and watch the trees and shrubs on my side of the road. They looked alike and there was nothing else to break the monotony of the bush land.<br /><br /> After a while I looked at my wrist watch and noticed that it was more than half an hour since we started. Every one in the bus was involved in animated conversation. I was the only exception. In the background, there was the smooth roar of the engine.<br /> Suddenly there was the noise of something tearing apart or breaking, and the bus went lurching for some distance. There was also the noise of some heavy metallic object being dragged underneath. Soon the bus came to a stop and many people got down to investigate. I thought the problem was that of a blown-tyre.<br /><br /> Before long, it was established that the propeller shaft was broken into two and the bus would go no farther. I got down from the bus along with the few remaining people, mostly ladies, and joined the rest of the passengers who were either trying to get their fare back from the conductor or looking out for some on-coming vehicle for a “lift”.<br /><br /> I asked someone how far we might have come and came to know that it was about less than halfway. There were no signs of any human habitation as far as I could see. It was getting late. Some of the passengers were already talking about finding refuge in some<br />Villages in the neighbourhood. I started wondering what a foreigner like me would do, if I had to spend the night on the road. Apparently I was the only non-African on the bus.<br /> <br /> It was twenty minutes past 6 PM. Even though we had been waiting there for three quarters of an hour, no vehicle had passed either way so far. As the day gave way to dusk, the chances of getting a lift became more and more slim. Some of the passengers had drifted away, probably in search of a village. As I stood there with a heavy heart, a cold shiver ran through me. Obviously, the atmosphere was getting cooler.<br /> <br /> We heard the sound of a motor. Some vehicle was coming from the direction of Ndola. People rushed expectantly to the middle of the road. However they moved to the sides when the vehicle came into full view. It was a police land cruiser.<br /><br /> The vehicle came nearer and screeched to a stop. About twenty-five people ran to it and tried to board through the wide opening in the rear. The officer in the front passenger seat ordered them to wait. He looked at the crowd and then told that as many ladies as possible who were travelling unescorted, could get in, but they should allow the 'usungu' (foreigner) to get in first.<br /><br /> There was just enough space for five or six of us to squeeze in. There was no other alternative but to leave the rest of the people behind.<br /><br /> While we were travelling towards our destination, I heard one of the ladies asking the officer in a not too subdued voice why he gave such preferential treatment to a foreigner while some respectable Zambians were left behind. His answer was "because he is not a Zambian and I doubt very much whether he would have survived if he were left behind and had to spend the night in the open".<br /><br /> When we reached our destination and as I got down, I had no adequate words to thank the Zambian police officer, but he waved me aside and proceeded on his way.George Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02295687304838054768noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4710527520187029469.post-8503591358129800862009-08-30T22:37:00.000-07:002009-08-30T22:40:30.892-07:00THE DAY AFTER THE ROBBERYAfter the gruesome experiences during the night, we might have dozed off for a few minutes before the house servant knocked at the back door. I was startled into wakefulness and realized that it was broad daylight already. I felt as if waking up from a nightmare into reality and the happenings of the night were just a bad dream. However, a shooting pain on my left shoulder where the intruder's iron bar had fallen, reminded me that the robbery was real.<br /><br />I opened the kitchen door and found Richard, my servant, standing there. A large window-grill was lying not too far. "So, they left it here", was the first thing he said. A thought of doubt flashed through my muddled brain. What was he talking about and who were "they"? Did he already know about the robbery? Then why didn't he come to my assistance when the siren screamed its head off unless.....? My thoughts trailed off.<br /><br />It was past seven in the morning. I decided to go to the local police station and report the matter. The sleepy policeman at the counter wrote down the F.I.R. When I gave him the list of articles that were taken away, he was asking me whether that was all as if a bit disappointed. However, I could not think of anything else. By the time he finished the F.I.R, a gentleman wearing a sports jacket whom I came to know later as the Officer in charge, breezed in. On seeing a foreigner near the counter, he approached me and asked what the problem was. After hearing my story he told me that it was a matter for the "Anti-robbery squad" and would be passed on to them. He further assured me that the culprits would be apprehended soon.<br /><br />My next stop was at the office of the Ministry of Works. The windows that were damaged by the thieves had to be repaired. The maintenance officer promised to send his crew by mid-morning so that they could finish the job by late afternoon.<br /><br />By the time I reached home, I found the police had arrived. There were three of them, including the finger-print man. He was dusting the window sill and frames, door handles etc. for prints and collected some. He would have to compare them with the collection of prints at the bureau. The other two were talking to Richard in a very friendly manner and smoking the cheap cigarettes he offered. As they were talking in bemba, I did not understand what they were saying. Anyway, it sounded like a friendly conversation, let alone any police interrogation.<br /><br />The maintenance officer kept his word by sending his crew to repair the damaged windows and fix the protective grills. The phone line which was cut off by the thieves was also reconnected. In short things were back to normal once again.<br /><br />During the lunch hour, the maintenance officer paid a visit to my place to see how the work was progressing. As the official vehicle was not available, he decided to walk, taking a short-cut through the town cemetery. He was walking along a well-defined path when he noticed a number of oblong objects on the ground nearby. He picked up one of them and found it to be a cheque book. He examined the others also and found them all cheque books of certain foreign banks. As my name was stamped on them, he concluded that the thieves might have tarried in the cemetery for a while in order to divide the proceeds of the robbery between them and the cheque books which were found among the spoils were discarded as they were of no use to them. The officer brought them along to me.<br /><br />After the workers and some friends who had gathered at my place left, we felt very lonely. In fact we did not relish the idea of spending another night at No.34, David Kaunda drive. So we ate an early supper, gathered some clothes and rushed to the Top shop flats where some friends were staying. It was there that we slept for the next seven or eight nights until we left permanently the house that was our residence for the past fifteen years and moved to one of the ZCCM (Zambia Consolidated Copper Mine) flats with " round the clock" security.<br /><br />Note: Securing a suitable alternate accommodation at such a short notice was not an easy thing. For this, I am indebted to a number of good people who sympathised with me at my predicament, like my colleagues Silumbu and Sakala, who were sharing one of the mine flats allocated to the housing pool and who agreed to swap with me, Mr. Zumani, my boss and Mr. Phiri, the district secretary of Mufulira who was also the chairman of the housing committee who both approved the proposal for the swap and made it possible for me and my family to move to the new premises within the shortest possible time. Undoubtedly this was another occasion of Zambian goodwill experienced by me during my long stay in that country.George Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02295687304838054768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4710527520187029469.post-57087265966205322012009-08-03T23:46:00.000-07:002009-08-03T23:50:40.195-07:00THE NIGHT THE DOGS FAILED TO BARKIt was the final day of the World Cup Football and the date was June 30th, 1986. I was recouping from a three week-long viral fever and the night was very cold.<br /><br />Even though I went to bed at about 10.30 PM I did not know how long it took me to fall asleep. I was sleeping soundly when some strange noise woke me up. I was not sure what it was. I lay awake, listening for any further noise.<br /><br />There it was again. It sounded like the creaking of a bed spring. I slowly got up from my bed and went to my son's bedroom to see if my ten-year old son had been turning in his bed during sleep. I found him sleeping peacefully. I returned to my room and found my wife already awake and looking out through one of the windows. I happened to note the time on the bedside clock as five minutes past two in the morning.<br /><br />It was very quiet outside. There was sufficient light for us to see the plants in our garden, the wire-fence at the far end of the property known as No.34, David Kaunda drive, part of my drive-way, the double-gates and the trees on the other side of the road, in the compound of Pamodzi primary school. There was hardly any movement. The trees stood mute and motionless, bathed in the dim silvery moonlight and there was not even the distant hum of a motor car on the highway or the barking of stray dogs in the neighbourhood.<br /><br />Suddenly it struck me very odd that my two guard dogs, Snowy and Sooty were nowhere to be seen. At night, they always used to be somewhere around, but not far from the vicinity of our bedrooms. I looked through one of the windows into the second garage where my Fiat was parked. The car stood bathed in the bright light of the overhead fluorescent lamp but there was no sign of the dogs.<br /><br />The silence was ominous. I shuffled on bare feet through the narrow corridor in between the bedrooms and the living room to reach the door at the far end that gave access to the kitchen. That door was bolted on the inside with a heavy brass bolt. I did not notice the light that was filtering in through the small glass window at the top.<br /><br />Without any hesitation, I pulled the bolt and opened the door. What happened during the next few moments took place so fast that I could not comprehend fully what exactly was happening. I had an impression of three or four people rushing in through the door and I felt at the same time as if some heavy object was falling on my left shoulder. However, I did not feel any pain but only heaviness. Then I felt being pushed backwards as if in the midst of a crowd along the corridor until I found myself in my bedroom and my wife standing at the far window, still clutching the pull-switch of the security alarm which I could hear wailing like a banshee from the roof-top. As its shrill cry shattered the silence of the night air, one of the intruders managed to grab the cord of the pull-switch and stop it. The apparent leader of the gang brandished a gleaming knife at us and ordered both of us to lie down on the carpet and we obeyed promptly.<br /><br />There were four of them. One appeared very huge and wore a face-mask. He gave short, crisp orders and the others complied with. They forced open locked cupboards and ransacked shelves and drawers. They pulled out the contents and scattered them on the floor. The leader kept on asking for American dollars which we did not have any. They gathered electronic equipments, wrist watches, and anything else that attracted their attention, but very little money as we did not keep any large amounts at home. They looked into my son's bedroom briefly but did not take anything from there. Then they left, taking the house-keys and the car keys along with them so that we would not get out of the house immediately and follow them or go to the police. However, we were too scared to even move out of the bedroom.<br /><br />As soon as I heard the front door bang indicating their departure, I ran to my son's bedroom and carried him to our bedroom. The child was shivering. In fact he was awakened by the wailing of the security alarm and had seen the thieves, but was so scared that he pulled the blanket over his head and remained motionless until I gathered him in my arms. After putting him down on the bed, I lifted the receiver of the telephone and found it dead. It was obvious that the thieves had cut the telephone wires before entering the house. There was nothing else for us to do but to huddle together under the same blanket and sit, waiting for the apparently never-ending night to end and the dawn to come.<br /><br />There was one question that pestered us while we sat there, awaiting the morning: "Why didn't our guard dogs bark that night?" We got the answer the next morning: The dogs were poisoned by the thieves.<br /><br /><br />NOTE. We are very grateful to the Zambian officials for the sympathy they had shown to us and for rendering all possible assistance during the period that followed immediately after the above-mentioned incident. It was found out later that the crime was perpetrated by dissidents from a neighboring country who infiltrated into Zambia through a common border.George Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02295687304838054768noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4710527520187029469.post-29073155463531810572009-06-09T23:14:00.000-07:002009-06-09T23:33:05.327-07:00"AFTER THIRTEEN YEARS OF MARRIED LIFE....."As I was driving along Lusaka's Cairo road, I saw an Indian gentleman walking along the side-walk, with a brief-case in his hand. He had the appearance of someone from the outstations. I thought of offering him a lift to his immediate destination and pulled up near him. He looked up, saw a fellow-Indian behind the wheel and stood patiently for me to invite him into my Nissan. As it was one of the mid-morning lull periods, there were no "honkings" from behind while other cars swished past.<br /><br />Soon I came to know that my passenger's name was Meendi Rattha (pronounced 'maendi rath-tha') and he was working as a teacher of English in the Luapula province of Zambia. He was from the uttar pradesh in north India. His immediate destination was the office of the Indian High Commission. As I also wanted to collect a few application forms from there, I assured Mr. Rattha that I could drop him there and he thanked me profusely.<br /><br />After parking my car we went up the steps to the "Reception". There was a lady in attendance. She smiled at us and asked what she could do for us. To my great surprise Mr. Rattha burst out into a small speech which ran out something like this: "After thirteen years of married life my wife decided to go to India on account of her brother's son's marriage which is supposed to take place by the end of next month and as a result...." By that time, the lady behind the counter managed to stop the monologue and asked him what he wanted exactly. Without being interrupted, Mr. Rattha told her in so many words that the reason for his visit was to apply for a separate passport for his wife as they were on a joint- passport at present. The lady directed us to one of the inner rooms. It was a large room with three people sitting behind their individual desks. I saw the desk marked "Application Forms" and went there to collect the forms that I needed. In the meanwhile Mr. Rattha approached the central desk where a distinguished looking gentleman was seated. As he looked at Mr.Rattha enquiringly, he exploded into his monologue "After thirteen years of married life...." and went on about halfway through the story before the gentleman managed to stop him. He then told him very patiently that his wife would have to apply for a new passport and her name would have to be deleted from the joint-passport. He was asked to go to the next room and meet the Consular Agent who would assist him with the procedure and tell him what all documents would be required.<br /><br />As I had already collected my forms, I thought I would now leave the office and go home. Mr.Rattha was in good hands and the teachers' hostel where he stayed was within walking distance. I made my departure as he was just entering the Consular Agent's room. While I went down the steps I could hear once again Mr. Ratha's voice echoing from somewhere inside the building "After thirteen years of married life, my wife..........."George Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02295687304838054768noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4710527520187029469.post-91026962332674619802009-04-20T21:01:00.000-07:002009-04-20T21:04:33.314-07:00THE SCHOOL FETEIt was headmaster Pillay's idea that a fete should be organized in order to raise funds for the School Bus Project. During the previous P.T.A (Parent Teacher Association) meeting the School Bus Project was approved and the headmaster was authorized to raise funds using whatever means he deemed fit. The suggestion to conduct a fete was received whole-heartedly by the staff and a committee consisting of volunteers was formed forthwith. The headmaster and the deputy-head being the ex-officio members of this committee, it was empowered with the task of planning the details and forming various sub-committees for the execution of the plan.<br /><br />It was decided to conduct the fete in the school-campus itself which was large enough for the purpose. A suitable date was fixed and various sub-committees such as the planning committee, the publicity committee, the seating and room-allocation committee, the entertainment committee, and the reception committee were formed.<br /><br />Starting from the very next day after the formation of the committees, there was a flurry of activities as the various committees began their work. Workers got busy trimming the lawn, clearing the grass and weeds around the football field, painting the posts and railings around the tennis and basket ball courts as well as the swimming pool, putting a new coat of paint on the old buildings, the compound wall and other structures. Lessons were either interrupted or suspended as urgent meetings were called or pupils were pulled out for rehearsals. Various departments started organizing their exhibits for display during the fete. The Needlework section of the Domestic Science department concentrated on making dresses, baby-ware and dolls while the Cookery section made plans for baking cakes, scones, doughnuts and other eatables for sale on the big day. The Science department decided to put up exhibits of a competitive nature in all the three laboratories. Participants had to pay a small entry fee, but winners would be rewarded adequately. The English, Geography, History and Mathematics departments made arrangements for the display and sale of books, charts, maps, models, souvenirs, replicas etc. and for some competitions using electrical quiz boards on which coloured bulbs would light up when correct answers were given. The Art department built up a collection of magnificent paintings, clay models, statues and pottery. The Metalwork and Woodwork departments got busy making knives, shovels, tool-boxes, stools, cabinets etc. for display and for sale. In addition to what the departments put up, there were other interesting items like a jumble sale to sell hundreds of surplus items such as disused shoes, ties, caps, clothing, dolls, toys or any other useful article donated by pupils and teachers, a shooting range where you could try your luck by shooting with an air gun at paper ducks that were kept moving and also a "fish pond" where you could "fish" for gifts. It was also decided that an entry fee would be collected at the gates. <br /><br />As the fete-day drew nearer, the air of expectancy deepened. The sub-committees started meeting almost every day to review the progress. In the meanwhile an advance amount was paid from the PTA fund to Toyota agents in Lusaka to book a 26 seat Coaster for Mufulira Secondary School and a huge poster bearing the picture of the mini-bus was posted on the main notice board with the caption, "Our School Bus- Soon A Reality".<br /><br />At last the great day arrived. All the arrangements had been finished by nightfall of the previous day. There was multi-coloured bunting all around the central court-yard and on both sides of the paths leading to the amphitheatre, football field and gymnastics court. Hundreds of coloured flags were hung from clothe-lines stretched all over the place and massive multi-coloured umbrellas were placed in different parts of the main court-yard, with chairs arranged in circles. This is where people would sit and enjoy the refreshments that were on sale. As the fete would start at 2 PM only, the morning session was devoted for applying finishing touches. We could see the Cadets practising already their march-past in the football field and hear their band. The prefects in their smart uniform were at the gates and all over the school campus keeping an eye on the pupils who were moving about either on duty or on various other pretexts. <br /><br />When the gates opened at 2 PM there was an onrush of people who were waiting outside for a considerable time. The prefects at the gates handled the crowd well and ensured that each one would get an entry ticket before being admitted in. The band at the reception foyer struck a welcome note and volunteers among the pupils led the visitors to the starting place from where they could follow the signs that were put up by our artists throughout the school campus which had been transformed into a wonderland of fun and amusement.<br /><br />It took more than two hours for the spectators to pass through the departmental stalls, science laboratories, art, woodwork and metalwork rooms etc. Once they came out in the open, there were many other attractions such as Indian and African dances, plays in the amphitheatre, cadet march, gymnastics etc. which everyone was free to watch.<br /><br />Soon it was 5 PM and people were still coming in. As the campus was overflowing with spectators, it was decided to close any further entry. The cadets allowed people who wanted to leave to use the exit gates, but the entry gates remained closed. However, those who were within the grounds were free to remain until 8 PM to listen to the melodious Indian music concert organized by the Hindu Association of Mufulira as a tribute to the school, which was scheduled to take place soon after the stalls closed at 6 PM.<br /><br />It was a day of great enjoyment to the people of Mufulira, young and old alike. Not only that the fete was a very successful event, the takings of which enabled us to reach much closer to our target amount for the school bus project, but also was one of the most memorable days in the history of Mufulira Secondary School, under the able leadership of Mr. Arthur J. Pillay.George Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02295687304838054768noreply@blogger.com0