The 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.
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'.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
I got into my vehicle and settled comfortably in the driver's seat, awaiting Mr. Mweshi's return.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Sunday, April 4, 2010
AN 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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".
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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".
Friday, February 26, 2010
AN UNFORGETTABLE EASTER WEEKEND
We 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
"Doctor, there is a dying man in my car. Can you please come out and take a look at him?" I almost screamed.
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."
I was totally disconcerted. "Oh God, what do I do now?"
"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.
I got back behind the wheel as if in a trance and drove in the direction indicated by the man.
(To be continued)
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
"Doctor, there is a dying man in my car. Can you please come out and take a look at him?" I almost screamed.
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."
I was totally disconcerted. "Oh God, what do I do now?"
"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.
I got back behind the wheel as if in a trance and drove in the direction indicated by the man.
(To be continued)
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
DAYS OF ANXIETY
After 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Monday, November 23, 2009
ORDEAL AT THE AIRPORT
Our 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
IN THE WRONG PLACE AT THE WRONG TIME
When 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Monday, September 28, 2009
IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE
It 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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”.
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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".
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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”.
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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".
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
