Tired of I.T! » Country

Mixed Up Messages

Dave — Fri, 13 Jan 2012 06:04:00 +0000

Mixed Up Messages
Posted on: Friday, January 13th, 2012 at 8:04am

Sleep has been a bit of a weird one lately, lying awake till quite late and tossing and turning throughout the night, partially from heat, vivid dreams, grief? Who knows. But one thing for sure the energy levels are starting to fade, coinciding exactly about the time where I’m dealing with major hills on a regular basis. It’s not Canadian Rocky style hills, but still something that requires a lot more energy than what was offered in the mostly flat country of Botswana.

I woke up the next morning saying goodbye to the Police Officer and his fiancé and headed back into town to go and find the family of the boy that was killed the day before. Stopping at the ATM I could only make my Visa work (I really need to look into this shortly, my debit card hasn’t worked properly since October) and withdrew as much as it would let me, to the tune of 1.2 million Kwacha (about $220 CDN). I went to the house that I was at the day before and said hello to a grieving family, offered to make some coffee and sat down to make conversation, careful not saying anything that would set them off. I asked a bit about the boy, how he was doing in school, what he aspired to do when he grew up, and what he liked to do. Slowly I slid in questions as to what they were planning on doing for burial, or any sort of funeral procession. They said with a combined income of only 1.7 million Kwacha a month they could not afford anything which is when I offered the stack of bills. Of course they refused, and I repeated my tactic over and over again, finally telling them that they must take it or call the police to get me to leave, going flat out that I felt that I was partially responsible, and wanted to offer what I could to make things a bit easier – at the very least if they could go and get a roadside marker made, not only for the memory but to alert other drivers to slow down. They still refused, and on the way out I left it right beside the front door when tying my shoes quickly to be noticed by the mother who made a fuss as I rode off. I moved forward.

Riding in Silence like I have been for the past week or so without the regular thumping of music I let my mind wander, glad that I was in the headspace to explore things a bit further, rather than simply focusing on the constant pedaling movement trying to get from one place to the other. I couldn’t have done anything otherwise to save the boy, sure I could have been on the other side of the road, or I could have told him to wait, but it all happened too fast. I decided to follow my Rule #1 – Get over it. Letting it go and realizing that its just a part of life, and a part of this grand journey of mine let me focus on the surrounding landscapes.

Zambia is a beautiful country, bright green grass everywhere, trees surrounding the sides of the roads, and great roads at that too. Sure, it has some hills, but passing through the thousands of hectares of farmland put me back into eastern Pennsylvania where I traveled through very similar conditions – only here the focus is on Maize (Corn), fruit like Apples, Oranges and Bananas, and who can forget the Mangos. None of these fruits are native to the area and were brought over by the Portuguese and the British over the past 700 years due to the fertility of the soil, so you see the stuff everywhere. Unfortunately even in the rainy season Zambia is going through a small drought and farmers are starting to get a bit anxious.

Zambia is also a rapid departure from other parts of Africa – There is little to know flashy aspects of the buildings other than the banks that are in bigger villages. Houses are made from Bamboo, mud and brick and if you are lucky in the cities you might find a square concrete building, housing a family. Shopping centres, strip malls are a thing of the past – Huge marketplaces that stretch many blocks appear out of nowhere, offering goods such as food, bicycle parts and repair, clothing and other wares. In fact you’ll see about 10 bicycle repair shops in one block most of them working on wheels – there’s obviously a demand. Using the Zambian Kwacha is also different – there are no coins here so its bills galore, with no possibility of using a credit card except in an ATM. I laughed when I came here, as I had been carrying a 50 Kwacha Bill that was given to me in Ontario in 2010 when I found out its worth no more than 1 penny here. The 500 and 1000 Kwacha bills are also unique, as they are made of plastic! 2011 editions are transparent in one section for anti counterfeiting purposes, and I suppose their reasoning is that they are some of the most popular bills to be used. They don’t look crumpled like a traditional paper bill, but I have noticed fading on some 2008 editions where you can barely see the writing on the bill. With a wad of Kwacha in my pocket its become that much easier to stop at the marketplaces as I ride past every 15km and stop for a Coca Cola to the tune of 3000 Kwacha (60 cents). it’s a 300ml bottle similar to what we used in Canada about 25 years ago, and they go down in a second for me quenching my thirst. I might need to cut back however as I’m finding myself slamming back 2-3 a day right now. Food prices are different – a loaf of bread is 60 cents, much better than $1 or more in the other African Countries, things like Cookies, Peanut Butter, Jam is higher but rice is lower. It makes sense, as not many westerners are here and most of the locals stick to their Maize Meal (think Porridge but used for breakfast, lunch and dinner) and other staples like Mince Meat (no, not the desert, but actual squished pieces of undesirables (in North American terms) that one would fry up. It doesn’t taste so bad, I actually like it!

I rode into the village of Zimba, while large still doesn’t offer a gas station and was talking to a few bike mechanics when they asked me what I was doing there. I pulled out my piece of paper and mentioned I was to find a certain person who my previous nights host had directed me to. One of them took me right over to his house, a 63 year old retiree who was very pleasant and happy to see a guest. I didn’t get too much out of him, but saw that he’s well respected in the community helping out many people as his house was nearly a revolving open and closing door. I tented outside and talked to many of the locals – Zambians speak fairly reasonable English but I found my night was complete when I spent 2 hours with two deaf boys of the ages of 20 and 21, quickly finding out how we could all communicate by way of signals, movements and charade like actions.

The next day brought 117km of riding into Choma, another busy village with a bit more infrastructure than Zimba meaning both sides of the streets were packed with marketplaces, people standing waiting for busses and making general noise. I’ve been nodded at, waved at and greeted by many other cyclists on the road but notice that in the cities (to which they ride on the other side of the road again, meaning the left hand side) that they seem too busy to notice, likely concerned about keeping themselves rolling and alert from the massive amounts of traffic or people crossing the road in front of them. Choma is where I started to notice a bit frequently that I would be yelled at by some people, often followed by some laughter from their peers. Sure, they are yelling at me, but I’m not sure what it all means. It could mean you are welcome here, or give me some money, or leave white man. I headed to the Police Station and went through the routine of asking them for a place to sleep, where 5 officers helped me find a spot to pitch a tent, with one hanging around for the entire setup process. He was 23 years old, 1 month new to the force and not too happy about being a Police Officer, and would have preferred to be a farmer. I told him that I threw around ideas at 20 for being a Police Officer and said I had a lot of respect for those who wilfully put themselves through daily danger, and said that it can open up a lot of further doors for him in life, stating that his current president was even a Police Officer. The pay isn’t that great ($300/mo.) for those starting out, but I explained that Nothing good happens fast and we left it at that. The Officer In Charge (dressed in a different uniform, more military fatigue like with an AK47 strapped to his back) came up and welcomed me to Choma, and asked if I wanted to go for a walk. I accepted, to which he let Jonathan the officer remove his uniform and walk plain clothed around the town showing me the sights and sounds. We walked through the market place where hawkers were trying to unload cheap cellphones and I was pretty confused when I found a man selling 2012 Calendars each with different pictures of Osama Bin Laden, Gadhafi and recently deceased leader Kim Jong Il.

I began noticing that many people walk around the towns with Soccer shirts on, Soccer is huge here in Zambia and while there is a National team most are interested in what’s going on in the United Kingdom. Bars serving $1 beer (good beer at that!)all show the soccer games and many people are crowded in front of the screens if not playing pool, something I hadn’t seen in other countries. I also noticed while walking around other than constantly being stared at, hearing whispers from passer-by’s followed by giggles that I’m starting to get hissed at. No problem, but it does seem to affect me on a subconscious level. I knew at one time I’d start to experience this as this was one of the reasons why I wanted to come to Africa, to see how it feels to be treated as an outsider of a different skin colour. It’s not violent or aggressive (from what I can tell) and I think one day I will turn around to someone and ask them what they mean by it. I headed back to the Police Station while it was getting dark and cooked dinner (another unsatisfying meal in Africa, beans, pasta and whatever else I could find in a food pannier that seems to have a thick layer of black slime in the bottom, perhaps coffee grounds combined with water, jam, or who knows. I’m not prepared to empty the contents quite yet.

More hills and villages, children yelling to me from their huts as I passed by jumping up and down and screaming in delight when I turn around to wave at them happy that I noticed had me start to realize I need to focus on my balance when switching to one hand riding after I veered right into the ditch. I nearly endo’d the bicycle and thankfully nothing broke or bent along the way down into the thick grass. Arriving in Monze was a different than the other towns I’ve experienced so far in Zambia – people EVERYWHERE. What must have been 10,000 people on the sides of the roads doing their own thing, some crowded together, trying to get my attention (Hey White Man!, Mzungu! How do you do Brotherman!) while I searched for grocery stores, an air pump to fix what seems to be another weird occurrence of thumping with my tire (I can’t figure out if its the front or rear but not interested in looking at until I’m residing in a safe place for a day or two where I went to the district headquarters of the local Police. They said I could stay on their property but I would do much better at the actual station down the road and called over a Woman who was selling cobs of corn to take me over there. Walking through the busy streets with her as she balanced a huge bucket on top of her head we quickly made introductions as she spoke in broken English (I’m not saying it was bad, but sometimes needed repeating more than most) as I replied back in my fake broken English (losing a few words here and there cutting out some of the details – “I come from Canada, and I go to Morocco! it is very cold back in Canada, many bugs!”). Many of the people passed us on the road and said words to her, to which I finally came straight out and asked her what they were saying. They were asking who was the White Man, was he her boyfriend, and those sorts of things. I laughed and made it to the Police Station to which where she took me right behind the counter down a hallway and right into the office of the Officer in Command. She didn’t care for the front desk too much obviously and then left while I explained my situation. The Officer in Charge had never seen a cyclist pass through in his 4 months of working at this location and asked many questions to me with a level of caution before flat out explaining that I was a foreign national and he wanted to make sure he wasn’t doing anything out of line that he could get in trouble with. I asked him to call Choma to which he did where they explained that I was on good behaviour and “didn’t fumble” and he pointed me in the direction of a small corner right beside the jail. The jail itself was packed, 50 some odd men standing by the bars yelling Mzungu at me while I pitched my tent before the woman (Nkuyuna) returned after selling a few more cobs of corn and took me to the front of the building explaining that where I was wasn’t safe. It was at that time a handful of woman came outside of the front doors of the police station and started talking to themselves. Nkuyuna started whispering to me saying that they were talking about me and wanted to talk to me and take me back to their houses. Flat out she said that Monze had many sick people who needed to drink medicine every day, and after one of the women came up to me and greeted me and told me that I should come back to her office with her said to me that I should not go because I would never go back to Canada again, as these women were careless and wanted to spread HIV to me. Fair enough! She then told me that I should come back to her house and shower there and I could return later to the station but not before making me move my bicycle and tent into the Officer in Charges house next door for safe keeping. I felt I could trust her from the things she was telling me even though I was exhausted and wanted nothing but to hide in the tent and not talk to anyone as it’s incredibly exhausting to talk to people all day long.

We headed back to her place where she explained that she was born in Zimbabwe, but moved to Monze after her parents had died and had been there for 4 years, but did not like Zambia too much. She couldn’t leave as she didn’t have a passport anymore, and not even an identification card. She also went as far as explaining that she had once a white man for a lover from London who she missed very much and while he was supporting her at one time she lost the sim card to her phone and no longer knew where he was. I was starting to wonder if I made the right decision to leave but felt up for the adventure knowing that I could get myself of any situation without much difficulty as we walked back again with her relaying the information of what people were saying to her. A small concrete building consisting of 3 rooms is where she resided alongside another 20 or thirty people in their own small houses. No electricity, but running water outside and a shower that was combined in the same room as the toilet provided a chance to wash up. When I say toilet, I should also explain that Zambia is the first country where on a regular basis the actual porcelain toilet has been replaced with simply an oblong hole in the concrete, where one squats over, hopes that their pants don’t touch the ground on the sludge, and does their best to aim into the hole. I’m 100% so far but its a foul smelling situation when you enter these rooms. Nkuyuna brought some of her friends over and also introduced me to her boys, 3 and 8, where the latter was already in grade 6 due to high intelligence. Her friends explained she wanted to get divorced from her husband as all he did was drink her money away, had no job and didn’t do anything to support her children (were they his I do not know). This all started to sound quite strange to me and a layer of cautiousness started to line anything I said or heard to which the husband actually came home, came inside, grabbed something without even saying hello to me and left.

Nkuyuna told me that I was not to stay at the Police Station as it was unsafe, saying that the other women were going to come back in the night and confuse me and try to sleep with me intent on poisoning my health and that I should stay in their boys bedroom. Of course the first thing that came to mind was I was about to get the lights turned off in my sleep by an angry husband and voiced that quite loud, to which she said that he was just a quiet man, depressed from not having a job and was OK with guests. She had explained to him that I was ‘stranded’ and wanted to help. Why not I said and we walked back to the Police Compound and picked up my stuff, again hearing the taunts from the locals to her, stopping by her friends places so that they could meet me, where she had already told me that it’s probably best we just say that we were friends from when she was a preschool teacher in Malawi. Easier that way. One of the people that passed by apparently was a prostitute and threatened her because she had saw me ride in earlier and claimed that Nkuyuna was taking away her business. “Do you want to go with her?” she said, to which I replied with a flat out “No” – not wanting to explain my African abstinence as I know it always turns into a conversation about how I should be having kids, should be married and such. While walking back she told me she pitied me for putting myself through such tough conditions, where I come from was too far, and that I should stay in Zambia. I wasn’t taking it as any passes were being made, just flat out broken English with direct speaking as opposed to beating around the bush – she obviously cared about my well being and couldn’t quite grasp as to why I would leave my life behind and set forth for something new.

Finally back at her house I introduced myself to her husband, Charles, and found that it was just that, he was a quiet individual, but very friendly and made small amounts of conversation with me as the night went on. It was pitch black and the only light was from the charcoals cooking the Maize Meal and meat “Don’t get close to the burning oil as if you get burnt your family will find out and beat me!”. Bugs were out in full force and I pulled out my mosquito candle that was gifted a few weeks back and surprisingly it worked. Sometime in the darkness after talking about brief parts of our lives, with myself answering questions about how I felt about drinking the local water “Does it not make you sick? Should I boil it for you?”, the food “I hope I don’t make you sick from this” and what I thought about Zambia. I headed off to bed where I assume the entire family went to sleep in the same bed and gave up their pillows, blankets and mosquito net for me. I tossed and turned however, where 5:30am came quickly when Nkuyuna entered my room and woke me up asking me if I was OK. I grumbled and went back to sleep a bit further and made a big pot of coffee and offered biscuits to the family and the other children around before snapping some photos and thinking that I should get moving. Before I left however I took the kids and Nkuyunu over to the local Pep Store (clothing) and started the clothing fund dispersement that I’ve been collecting from readers. Yeah, it’s not Zimbabwe, but close, she was born there, and they were obviously in need. I could trust the family in may ways (one of them being is that the oldest boy of 8 took my clothes after my shower and washed them for about 45 minutes even removing a stain that I picked up way back in Namibia that a machine couldn’t touch!) returning with about $30 of my money that I forgot about in one of my pockets. A genuine family, and although I had caution not really understanding the situation properly I’m sure I’m going to see more of this. At the end we exchanged contact information, and even though I don’t have a phone and they don’t have internet we’ll still find a way to keep in touch. The odd part is that when I left on the contact information and postal address they gave to me was a Bank Account number for the local branch. They may have taken my conversations differently as well and may have assumed that I would support them, but that’s just how it goes.

I’ve been told by many locals that they have been trained to see than when they see a white man they assume that he is walking around with lots of money. I have to frequently interrupt and tell my story, stating that I have no job, with small lies stating that I have to work my way through the countries for 2 weeks on and 2 weeks off to diffuse the situation and move onto next topics. But, you know, they are right. At $90 or $200 or $300 a month for salary for hard labour its a far cry from what 1st world country residents receive each month. I think even someone making $30,000 is classified as under the poverty level if I recall, where earning $3500 a year means you are well off here. I’m starting to see the skewed reality first hand and am sure to see more in coming weeks.

Two more days of riding through gruelling climbs started to sap the energy out of me – I could only muster 80km on one day finally caving in to the lure of the community police station in the middle of nowhere, built only for protection of the many farms that are near by. I walked around the police station hoping to find someone available but after many knocks on the desks, doors, and yelling out hello I went ahead anyways and setup the tent just before darkness fell. I eventually heard some movement and introduced myself to where the police officers were OK that I had stopped there for the night, to which I offered them coffee in the morning. On the way out however, I managed to leave my coffee cup there not noticing until reaching Lusaka – I went through a no coffee period last year while travelling through the USA, and hope to find a suitable mug that I can use for further travels until I once again purchase another cup.

Due to the inability to clear 100km as planned the day before it was 115km into Lusaka, hereby violating my rule of never crossing into a major city after 2pm – I was still 40km away by 1 thinking that it would be an easy ride in until the rain started coming down in torrential forces thoroughly soaking every piece of clothing on my body bringing on chills and destroying any sort of momentum. It’s a 300metre climb into the city and once I was about 15km away I started feeling a sag in my ride, looking down to notice that my rear tire had gone flat. No problem, I have slime in it, I will just pump it up further and it should seal I figured. 2km later I was at the filling station using their compressor to again refill. Nervous about a looming flat while I entered into the city centre I weaved through the massive amounts of traffic, people, before finally losing all air forcing me to stop in a very busy area where many locals were coming up to me to tell me to go to the other side of the road where it is more safe. My bike was completely pulled apart so I just told them no, this is where I am staying and I’ll deal with it trying to keep an eye out on anyone who would want to grab something really quickly while I focussed on putting a new tube in the wheel, also pulling out a huge chunk of glass that had penetrated the outer part of the tire causing the repeat flats. My patience was testing me, I just wanted to scream and knew that I had to make it the next 10km to my hosts location without freaking out, where the tar roads forced you through gridlocked traffic, horns beeping, people yelling at the Mzungu, and the side roads were not even suitable for those with a 4×4, huge puddles and potholes in the dirt roads bringing the speed down to little more than 3km/h. I focussed and made it into the compound of the restaurant I am staying at, met the woman with the Pink Hair (Siri) and promptly lost a bag of cookies while a monkey jumped off her back and grabbed her new treasure. It’s a 4 month old monkey that has been raised from 10 days old after her mom was killed during a rally race. The plan is to wait until she can be weaned off of milk before she ends up at the Lusaka Zoo to meet a group of other monkeys. Once they form a troupe they will be taken into the wild and released. Very cool and energetic little thing who notices and grabs everything in sight and constantly needs 24hr attention.

Such a wonderful space to rest at over the past 2 days where the owner and his wife operate a very popular catering company and restaurant. The husband, Gerritz and Siri are hippies of some sort, filled with stories of adventure starting with Gerritz leaving East Berlin at 18 to not return for 19 years bringing back the doorknob to the house that he lived in along with a piece of the Berlin Wall. Since arriving in Africa he’s been managing wildlife lodges, zoos, and his business and is full of conversation. They’ve rolled out the red carpet for me, offering me a guest house, food from the kitchen, and I must have drank more beers with Gerritz in 36 hours than I have in the past 2 years. Always accept is one of the other rules I’ve been taught along the way.

I changed the oil inside the Rohloff Hub which should give a bit of smoother movement for me while riding, and performed some minor maintenance before I will head out to a Bike Shop and work on getting my wheels looked at and hopefully buy a few spare parts before figuring out where I want to go next. Muwumba is about 150km west of here where I have a friend I’d like to meet up with for a few days, and then east of here is Zimbabwe. I’ll figure it out after I’ve had a few days off.

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Crossing Lines

Dave — Fri, 06 Jan 2012 20:33:00 +0000

Crossing Lines
Posted on: Friday, January 6th, 2012 at 10:33pm

I’ve got good news – I’m riding again! I crossed into the Zambia border after losing the coin toss of entering into Zimbabwe for half a day and crossed into a new country leaving fond memories of my time in Botswana. Seriously – you want to go to this place and meet the people. It’s a dream to cycle in with the flat terrain, good roads, courteous drivers, great prices on food and other services, and the amount of wildlife that you will see running around at any given time. Zambia has been wonderful so far – with a dark cloud however.

I stayed with my friends Shedrick, Michael and Bee and their family for a total of three nights, where we would spend many hours in the night-time talking about differences in the world, way of life, countries foreign policies, and I must have repeated myself 5 times throughout the course of 3 days to new people arriving about the Inuit people in Canada, who have been living off the land for tens of thousands of years, kissing with their noses and using dogs for travel. They couldn’t believe it! One day I went down to the river where Alligators and Hippos reside and illegally caught what the locals call a Bubble Fish which served as dinner for all for the night combined with Macaroni and some beans. A bubble fish is actually a cat fish – not too hard to catch and you just have to hold on tight to the flimsy rod and not let it go. I also sampled many local birds for meals throughout my time which was interesting – I’ll try everything twice in my life, and would go back for more for both of these.

Unfortunately due to the holidays the courier offices were closed down for longer than expected. Botswana takes 2 extra days off for New Years and Christmas so I waited patiently for news when things would open up again so I could see if I could find something in one of the 3 China Shops which could get me on my way – One of the owners produced a picture of a cyclist in China loaded down with Panniers explaining that this was his friend, but unfortunately he had nothing to offer me in terms of parts. I later found out that the spokes would come from this fellow in Gaborone via DHL courier by plane, and I prepared to undertake the task of truing my wheel – something I’ve done in such a basic fashion before my skill level is novice at best. I had met a man outside of a school where I could been loitering about during the day due to the open wireless network who had offered to give me a ride in his truck with my bicycle to the courier shop the next day and I waited around at the agreed upon time. While I was waiting with my bicycle a man stopped on a motorcycle and asked me if I was Dave from Canada – stating that he had saw my name appear on Couchsurfing. Jean from France is touring Africa by Motorcycle and has just started his 6 month journey last week from Johannesburg. He’s hoping to find a job as a tour guide in Botswana otherwise will head north into Zambia or into Tanzania.

He gave me a lift on his motorcycle to the courier location where we found out it would not arrive for another 2 hours and I thumbed a ride back into town 10km away and waited patiently, talking to locals in the spot where I had been over the course of three days. The manager of the school, a man from India was very friendly each day and yelled to me Hello my friend! and didn’t seem to care that I was hanging around – I’m sure if he knew I was leeching his internet connection dry it would have been an different encounter. One day while I was sitting there having some lunch I heard a noise to my right and saw a pack of Baboons running around knocking over garbage cans, before turning towards me darting at lightning speed grabbing my bag of bread siting beside me. These things bounce off the side of trees, swing off branches and the next thing you know they are on the roof of a building making noises to each other for signalling. One of the Adults had a small baby riding on my back, and didn’t fall off when it decided to go for a jump to the top. These things are dangerous and likely carry some vicious disease and I’m glad nothing further happened. Warthogs also appeared making a mess out of everything before being shooed away by the owner.

Anyways, back to the Repair – The manager of the DHL office went out of her way to deliver the parts to me in a rather large back. Opening the bag up I was pleasantly surprised to find a bag of ground coffee from Ethiopia inside alongside the 6 spokes and nipples that were the right size for my bicycle. I contacted SJS Cycles a few days earlier and was dismayed to hear that it would take 25 days to get new parts to me, so this Saint from Gaborone I cannot thank him enough. I had downloaded 5-6 videos from YouTube on how to true a wheel and saved a bunch of webpages for offline review so that I was sure I knew what I was doing. Taking off the Rim, peeling off the Rim Tape and inserting the spokes slowly tightening them while attached to my bicycle, and spinning the wheel to see if the rim rubbed on the brakes, which I had tightened to their max level. It’s not perfect, but I managed to get it fairly straight, even though I used the wrong size spoke tool and stripped the 3 nipples along the way. They’ll be ok until Lusaka I would imagine where I can get some proper wheel service done. I haven’t ridden with rear brakes in almost two weeks so this was strange to be back doing a 2km test run loaded down to notice any wobbles and actually be able to stop. It felt weird, but it turned out it was just low pressure in my rear tire – I had a puncture from a large thorn in my tire – when I pulled it out no air came out, and I proceeded to fill the tire with 47psi – where it has stayed solid ever since. I know a few readers have ragged on the Slime sealant that I put in the tires, but it seems to be working out OK at this point in time.

It was off over to my hosting families house for a goodbye, where they were surprised and sad to see me go – as were all the neighbours. I had made some news for venturing into the area where everyone lived, as they were under the impression all the white people didn’t like them as they only went to the lodges. Other than a shower, I see no benefit to going to one – those who travel here, ride in buses and sit behind gated walls need to get out and actually see the real parts of the countries they are visiting, as it seems to be a little bit watered down. I never ran into Shedrick or Michael, so called one of them before I left so that I could get their postal address, wanting to send them my shoes when I am done with them and some letters as they are not on any online communities and I think in this case written words are much stronger and set off. Michael showed up on the road beside me 2 minutes later saying that he left his job for an emergency because he wanted to say goodbye, giving me a hug, shaking my hand, telling me that he is really going to miss me and if I ever wanted to come back to Botswana he would support me for a work permit and permanent resident status, even would give me land in the bush where his family owned a parcel. I hate goodbyes, so left him with a ‘See you soon” and rode the 10km hoping to make it to Kazungula where the border is to Zimbabwe and Zambia. I didn’t make it, as I ran into Levy, the man who had offered to give me a lift in his truck with my bike, where asked me if I received his note at the hotel (I didn’t) stating that he was there for me and didn’t see me. He even went as far as removing his canopy off his truck to fit everything in properly. Many other locals who I had met over the past few days stopped to say goodbye to me and make conversation, so what was expected to be a 45 minute ride to the border turned into 2 and I ended up going over to where Jean was staying by the filling station temporarily and pitching a tent there, meeting two girls who worked at the Police Station and chatting away into the night. Jean and I get along great, we both noticed similar things in our travels so far – The dogs in Botswana all look the same, the things we would say to locals that would be misinterpreted and utter disgust towards what people are being paid for hard work each month. For example, the family i was staying with each person was making no more than $90 USD a month – it hurts my head to think that I charged much more than that for a single hour of work when working in the computer industry.

The border crossing was chaotic as usual, leaving Botswana you need to get your passport stamped, and take a ferry across the river while you go through the mess of Zambia Immigration. It apparently costs money for using the ferry, but I managed to play aloof and sneak on for the 3 minute ride. Pure chaos comes at you when you get off the boat with many people swarming you for questions, help with filling out forms, currency exchange and the like. Zambia charged me $50 USD for 30 days of entry into the country, and I was lucky that I hold onto a few greenbacks for this purpose, rather than having to risk getting ripped off by the shady brokers. That being said, they were all very nice, interested in my bicycle (even though I was very leery about telling them my plans and costs of parts etc.) and I rode off into the new country when they started asking to look at my phone after twice trying to get me to give it to them – sorry pals!

It was a hot day and I rode on the tar road turning east towards Livingstone, knowing that it was only 60km to the City Centre. Nice roads along with lush greenery provided scenic backdrop while I met familiar territory before – hills. Up and down undulations that weren’t exactly difficult to deal with, but certainly had different muscles working again. About 15km in I stopped under a tree and talked to a group of children, only getting the “yes” response back, but still managed to get them to make a funny face and gave them a handful of cookies that I had in my pannier. Again 15km later I ran into some more children, who all come out of straw huts, or any residence for that matter in any of the countries I’ve been and make noise, waving and wanting to get a close look at this white guy riding a loaded down bicycle. This set of children were incredibly intelligent, ranging from 8 – 14 telling me about the different languages they spoke, geography lessons on the country, and were even able to pull out some French when I told them that I knew the language! They were a bit thirsty but I had no water to spare, riding light in fear that I would have another spoke meltdown when I saw a Van pull up across the street with a pin up lady airbrushed to the side and sign that was labelled something something German Catering. The driver called me over and told me he had brought me lunch and supplied me with 2 granola bars and 3 bottles of water telling me that he was from Lusaka and heading to find his son who was diagnosed with Malaria. His wife was in the vehicle and said I needed to come visit with them and came out of the van with pink spiky hair and colourful clothing. I can’t pass this one up, and when they left the man passed me the remains of a cigarette package winking at me and telling me to not throw it out as it wasn’t garbage. I looked in the pack later on down the road and found two rolled _somethings_ in there. it didn’t smell like marijuana, but more like Hickory – Who knows what it is, I’m not feeling too adventurous. I passed on a bottle of water to the kids and turned up the music on my Mp3 Player for a while and they nearly lost their minds listening to 160bpm pounding tekno and drum’n'bass – curious as to where they could get some more of it – It seems Sleizure, my old radio show back when I was living to Canada appeals to some people in Zambia! I had a laugh and took some video of them going crazy dancing to the sounds and headed off on my way leaving them with high fives.

In less than 4 hours of being in Zambia I had seen 3x the amount of total bikes I had seen in all of my travels through Africa – They are everywhere, and in good condition too! Loaded down with supplies and gear all the riders give friendly hellos and thumbs up while riding past me on the side of the road. I thought in my head that they needed to get on their own side, before I was told that in Zambia you ride on the right side of the road like in North America – so that you can see what car is about to hit you. I laughed, but not for long. They also explained it was the cheapest form of transportation and made them feel good – I can vouch for that! The last 10km into Livingstone puts you into a National Park, where I chatted with the entrance guard for a while while he listed off all the animals that run wild – noting that no lions appeared in the list. Cars would pass me while on the proper side of the road cheering and honking at me saying nice things to me and overall has been a dream to ride in so far. The women are drop dead gorgeous – seriously, every one and I’ve got to make sure I don’t stare with my mouth wide open and get caught in the act. I was riding in the park when I noticed a statue on the side of the road that looked like a giraffe and stopped, realizing that it was a 25ft tall live one eyeing me wondering what I was up to. I spoke to it for a while before I noticed a few more grazing nearby and flagged down a cyclist to get him to snap a few photos of me head standing beside these docile creatures. They walk very strange and are incredibly fascinating to observe. Burning my hands on the hot tar I managed to get a few good photos in before heading. I left the video camera on and rode in towards Livingstone losing myself in thought over the experience and wondering how weird it is to ride on the other side of the road when I spied the buildings appearing knowing I was getting close noting a cluster of people about 100 feet away at a T intersection.

(hold onto your hats here folks)

I was riding closer to the 2 girls and 2 boys when the smallest one, who I later found out was 8 years old ran from the other side of the street towards my side. Their was a white Van oncoming in the distance at extremely high speed, obviously frustrated from the many speed bumps that he had to deal with when I went through the absolute worst moment of bicycle touring since 2009. The man didn’t see the boy in the road, and drove right into him, where the front of the van hit the boy directly in the face, launching him 20 feet onto the side of the road less than 5 feet in front of me. The driver lost control of his vehicle and drove off the road into the field about 15 feet in and was jostled around while continuing to bounce around. I didn’t spend too much time looking at that part as I immediately threw my bicycle down and ran towards the boy. Across the street the two girls were screaming, and the other boy about 14 was in total shock frozen. Face down on the ground the 8 year old boy twisted into a position not moving and I rushed over to him and tried to make vocal contact, getting down to the ground seeing if I could see any movement from his eyes. His head was crushed and blood was pouring out of his skull with fragments of bone and brains making a mess of everything on the ground. His jacket lie in the middle of the road alongside one flip-flop where he was lifted off the ground. The other boy had appeared staring in disbelief while the driver was saying something out loud that he can’t believe that this was happening just walking around in a circle while I felt the boys back to feel any breathing and gave him a pinch to note any twitches. Feeling his pulse returned nothing from his wrist that I could find and I straightened his legs and arms and slowly rolled him onto his side so I could see the situation a bit better. Forever burnt into my memory will be this young boys destroyed upper torso and face. He was gone, likely died on impact and I rolled him onto his back yelling at the driver to get his phone and call the police and if he had any blankets. People were starting to crowd around now, hearing remarks of “Gross!” from the children and lots of clicking from the youths and adults shaking their head. The boy gasped 3 breaths and vibrated a small amount about 2 minutes after he was hit before going silent yet again. This had the driver run over to him pick him up and put him in the backseat of a car that had appeared yelling take him to the hospital. Likely a blast of energy from the body’s reserves, there was no hope. Frowning and looking up at the other boy who was now shedding tears I grabbed him, gave him a hug and told him to be strong and asked if it was his brother. It was his cousin and I managed to get information as to the general vicinity of where they lived. I raced off on my bicycle asking every person I could see even the ones that were hiding 15 feet in the trees (?) if they knew the boy and his family before I finally found someone who pointed me to where he lived. I got off my bicycle and walked up to the house and walked right into the house surprising the mother and two older boys in the early 20s. I asked her if she had a boy by the name and she replied yes, to which I responded that she needed to come on down the road to 1km as there had been an accident. She got up, asked me if everything is all right, which is where I lost eye contact with her shuffling my feet and saying no, that this was serious. She screamed, bursting into tears, came towards me holding onto my arm asking me to tell her if her son was OK to which all I could do is hold onto her and give her a hug and say that there had been a terribly fast moving car. I couldn’t hold on any more bursting out into tears as I watched the family go through the realization of what could have happened and I detached turning around saying that they needed to come with me. I rode while they all ran beside me to when I returned there were must have been 100 people gathered around the scene with 7 police officers, water trucks on standby and the driver waving his arms frantically. Some of the original crowd alerted the police officers that I was back and I introduced myself to them all, letting them know I would stand back and wait while they dealt with the situation and be there if they needed me. In the meantime more people were showing up, many coming to me asking if it was the drivers fault, to which I responded that I didn’t know and he was going awfully fast. The police wanted me for questioning and a statement at the station and I happily obliged following the White Van that had been pulled out of the grass loaded with the driver and 4 other police officers. It was then I realized that my camera was still going and had the entire incident from start to finish on video. Arriving at the police station I was then told that the boy had arrived DOA to the hospital, and that the man was charged with Careless Driving Causing Death and told my side of the story – pulling out my laptop and having to watch the footage over and over again in choppy slow motion as my computer isn’t fast enough to view 1080p video properly. Once was enough and this was making me feel ill watching the event unfold as more and more police officers appeared. I left the station in a haze and proceeded to ride 15km south towards the border of Zimbabwe towards Victoria Falls, trying to get my mind off things every group of children I saw that was waving at me trying to get my attention. starting the whole grieving process all over again. RIP Mongo Nizolonge – I’m sure you would have made me laugh if we could have talked. I’m debating whether will return to the boys house tomorrow but I think I would like to offer to contribute some of the funds for the funeral or however they’d like to proceed to deal with their lost son.

(ugh)

Victoria Falls is one of the 7 Natural Wonders of the World – and I wasn’t really interested in the beginning to go and check it out. I figured a few days back that since I was in the area I’d eat the $10 entry fee but lucked out meeting two girls who were from NYC heading over to Zanzibar and roaming around the southern/eastern part of Africa until the end of February who gave me their pass to get in. I didn’t need it anyways, as I managed to wow the guards with my bicycle quickly deviating from the ticket purchasing process to trying to explain to them how I made it all the way to Zambia. I told them I needed a shower and headed off towards the falls meeting many people along the way trying to open my self up again and get my mind off things. Victoria Falls is jaw dropping – massive amounts of water pouring down off jagged cliffs completely soaking anyone who gets remotely close to the many pathways that can take you around the falls (It takes a couple hours to get around it!) and I had the opportunity to try out a few headstands quickly drawing the attention of many of the tourists who were there. It resulted in a major Question and Answer session back at the bike parked beside a man with a Submachine Gun, with more and more people arriving each with their own question. This helped get things off my mind for a while – and I was even offered free admission the next day if I wanted to come early where one of the staff would take me in when the falls were closed to the public and get some promo shots of me and my bicycle by the falls. I said I’d think about it and pedalled off towards the city of Livingstone, a very busy seemingly modern city that obviously caters to tourists. Bicycles everywhere, shops overflowing with people and a general good energy flowing from everyone watching as I rode past heading again back to the Police Station where I wanted to see if I could grab a place to sleep for the night in their compound. They were all aware of me by this time, women and men from the force coming to thank me for my actions, stating that they needed more people like me who could help them to which I just replied that I’d been treated nicely by the Police in every country that I’ve lived in, know people who service in the same duty in my own country, and it’s the least I can do in return, trying to get them to stop congratulating me. It sort of sounds more sick and twisted when I think about it over and over as we’re talking a human life here.

I tried to pitch my tent in the back before being greeted by a Victoria, a very chatty off duty police officer who was curious to my doings and why I was there, who was having nothing of me staying in the back and wanted to ensure safety. She fetched another police officer, told him the story in her language and said that I was to stay with him for the night, to which he loaded my bicycle in a car and took me over to his Fiancé’s house where I again pitched my tent (this time in the pitch black fighting off mosquitoes) grabbed a shower (ok that was worth the relocation), made dinner and reflected on the day. We’ll see how easy sleep comes – I’m exhausted but resonating over the chaos of the past few days. Emotions running wild, but I know I’m in good hands in Zambia – I was given places to stay for the next 5 nights, which will help immensely as I head over to Lusaka to find a Bicycle Shop. So far the bicycle is standing up , it’s just my head that is breaking.

Zambia Statistics

Dave — Fri, 06 Jan 2012 07:03:55 +0000

Zambia Statistics
Posted on: Friday, January 6th, 2012 at 9:03am

My route while traveling through..

Information

Info:
Formed: 1964
Population: 12,935,000 people
Area: 752,618 sq/ kilometres
Languages Spoken: English, Chewa, Bemba, Lunda, Tonga, Lozi, Luvale, Kaonde
Currency: ZMK Kwacha (One Zambian Kwacha equals 0 CAD)

Zambia, officially the Republic of Zambia, is a landlocked country in Southern Africa. The neighbouring countries are the Democratic Republic of the Congo to the north, Tanzania to the north-east, Malawi to the east, Mozambique, Zimbabwe, Botswana and Namibia to the south, and Angola to the west. The capital city is Lusaka, located in the south-central part of the country. The population is concentrated mainly around the capital Lusaka in the south and the Copperbelt Province to the northwest.

Originally inhabited by Khoisan peoples, the region which comprises modern Zambia was colonised during the Bantu expansion of the thirteenth century. After visits by European explorers in the eighteenth century, Zambia became the British colony of Northern Rhodesia towards the end of the nineteenth century. For most of the colonial period, the country was governed by an administration appointed from London with the advice of the British South Africa Company.

On 24 October 1964, the country declared independence from the United Kingdom and then-prime minister Kenneth Kaunda became the inaugural president. Kaunda’s socialist United National Independence Party (UNIP) maintained power from the 1964 until 1991. From 1972 to 1991 Zambia was a single-party state with the UNIP as the sole-legal political party, with the goal of uniting the nation under the banner of ‘One Zambia, One Nation’. succeeded by Frederick Chiluba of the social-democratic Movement for Multi-Party Democracy in 1991, during which the country saw a rise in social-economic growth and increased decentralisation of government.

Chiluba’s privatisation of the mines backfired when investors closed operations. He attempted to run for an unconstitutional third term, which was stopped by mass protests. Chiluba selected Levy Mwanawasa as his successor, Mwanawasa presided over the country from January 2002 until his death in August 2008. Mwanawasa is credited with initiating a campaign to rid the country of corruption and increasing the standard of living from those left by his predecessor. After Mwanawasa’s death, Rupiah Banda presided as Acting President before being elected president in 2008, he is the shortest serving president having held office for only three years. Patriotic Front party leader, Michael Chilufya Sata defeated Banda in the 2011 elections. In 2010, the World Bank named Zambia one of the world’s fastest economically reformed countries. The Common Market for Eastern and Southern Africa (COMESA) is headquartered in the capital Lusaka.

Currency

The Kwacha name derives from the Nyanja and Bemba word for “dawn”, alluding to the Zambian nationalist slogan of a “new dawn of freedom”. The name ngwee translates as “bright” in the Nyanja language. All notes have a fish eagle on one side, and the reverse feature a man breaking free of chains. Zambia is the first country in Africa to use polymer (plastic) notes since 2003. The lowest denomination currently in circulation is the 50 Kwacha Note as of 2012.

(One Zambian Kwacha equals 0 CAD)

Total Days: 15	Total Cost: 249350.00 (16,623.33/day) Canadian Cost: $ ($0.00/day)
Distance: 913.87 km (Most: 2012-01-20 – 158.21 km)	Food Cost: $46.07
Ascended: 4,220 metres (Most: 2012-01-11 – 804 metres)	Drink Cost: $2.32
Energy Consumed: 39,958 calories (Most: 2012-01-20 – 7,700)	Equipment Cost: $0.00
	Transportation Cost: $0.00
	Lodging Cost: $0.00
	Entertainment Cost: $0.00
	Misc Cost: $0.00

Below shows the statistics while traveling through the area. Click on a date for more information!

Date	Location	Distance (km)	Cost	Map
2012-01-20	Lusaka, ZM	158.21	11000.00	Chart
2012-01-19	Mumbwa, ZM	3.63	0.00	Chart
2012-01-18	Mumbwa, ZM	70.39	22000.00	Chart
2012-01-17	Unknown Village, ZM	90.37	6000.00	Chart
2012-01-16	Lusaka, ZM	0.00	0.00
2012-01-15	Lusaka, ZM	0.00	0.00	Chart
2012-01-14	Lusaka, ZM	0.00	0.00	Chart
2012-01-13	Lusaka, ZM	0.00	0.00	Chart
2012-01-12	Lusaka, ZM	0.00	0.00	Chart
2012-01-11	Lusaka, ZM	114.92	31600.00	Chart
2012-01-10	Middle of Nowhere, ZM	81.87	42850.00	Chart
2012-01-09	Monze, ZM	104.27	87900.00	Chart
2012-01-08	Choma, ZM	114.87	12000.00	Chart
2012-01-07	Zimba, ZM	78.66	26000.00	Chart
2012-01-06	Livingstone, ZM	96.68	10000.00	Chart

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