by Adeline Loh
ABOUT PEEING IN THE BUSH
When Adeline Loh could no longer endure the zombie training camp that is the office, she did what any sensible person would do: flee Malaysia with her paranoid vegetarian companion Chan to explore the lion-infested wilderness of southern Africa.
Landing in Zambia, the bush virgins soon realized that nothing from the Animal Planet documentaries had prepared them for survival in the savannah. With hippos and buffaloes conspiring to kill them, our addled heroines had to rattle along crater-pocked tracks, canoe through crocodile-filled Zambezi River, fly over panties-soaking Victoria Falls, stalk incestuous rhinos, and pee amid deflowering shrubbery.
Under more life-preserving circumstances, Loh thoughtfully unravels one of the world’s least explored yet most heart-stopping countries; all the while hoping to achieve her main goal – not to get eaten.
ABOUT ADELINE LOH
Since being convinced that she was a danger to herself and others, Adeline Loh has been travelling to warn people around the world. Nine years before that, she relished the torture of being a one-staff editorial team in etc, Juice, The Professional and Architecture Malaysia. She has also contributed to FHM Malaysia and worked as a TV scriptwriter. In 2005, she coauthored the second edition of the Malaysian bestseller Don’t Sit On This Book, a funny collection of quirky Chinese taboos with feng shui master Philip Cheong.
Despite such diverse literary achievements, her lifetime’s ambition remains to become the deadliest female kung fu fighter on the planet.
DEDICATION
To the ones I adore ... and who adore me back
PUBLIC DISPLAYS OF AFFECTION
Mountainloads of love and gratitude to Mum and Dad for always being there for me. You are the best parents in the entire known galaxy. All my friends are envious. Also, thanks to Adrian for being my big brother.
Tons of appreciation and respect to the lovely Zambians and travellers with whom I laughed and possibly annoyed.
And most importantly, to my accomplice Chan – the bravest and most unpretentious soul I know – for daring to travel with me.
1. DEPARTING FROM SANITY, HEADING TO ZAMBIA
I swore that if I heard another person ask if we were going to get gang-raped or HIV-infected, I would scream. Unfortunately this is what happens when you tell people in Malaysia that you want to go to Africa.
Apart from the fact that I’m terrified of all creepy-crawlies (I don’t like to discriminate), I would say that I’m a pretty intrepid traveller. Every year while holding down a hectic full-time editorial job at a magazine publishing house, I’d take leave and sneak off to some exotic destination, ably create problems for its inhabitants and return home rejuvenated. But like most of the cubicle-hugging population of Kuala Lumpur, I was enslaved by job appointment letters that dictated I could take no more than 20 days off to have a life every year. Any more than that and I’d probably come back to find a just-graduated brat called Moira sitting at my desk, asking me if I’m the tea lady. I envied those goateed European backpackers who could travel for years without a care in the world. In contrast, my brief breaks overseas felt like those free shampoo samples stuck in women’s magazines: by the time I was beginning to enjoy them, they were finished.
Late one night while I was staying back at the office for the umpteenth time on the eve of another impossible deadline, I had a vision. Okay, it was more of an annoying memory of the previous night’s family reunion dinner. My frail old relatives had just returned from a group tour to China and instead of pelting our ears with boring descriptions of their holiday, they were complaining.
‘I tell you, all that walking almost broke my back,’ Auntie With Jade Bangle said.
‘Yeah, the mountain scenery was nice. But we couldn’t climb up the steps, my knees were killing me,’ added Uncle With Badly Capped Tooth.
Auntie With Bad Perm Or Dead Black Poodle On Head spat out a few grains of rice in overexcited agreement. ‘Exactly! I don’t understand why they can’t build more roads so that the tourist buses can drive everywhere instead of making us get out and walk.’
Of course, like many Chinese elders will tell you – they dislike using their legs. Screw the fresh air, landscapes of unparalleled beauty or astonishing adventures. Make us walk more than ten minutes anywhere and we will gripe till your nuts fall off.
So there I was, in mid-daydream at the office, pulling out jammed paper from the blasted photocopier when a feeling of dread descended upon me. I realized that if I did not do something different soon, I was doomed to tussle with inanimate office appliances for all eternity. I imagined myself all raisin-like and dull as dishwater, wishing to recapture my lost youth after wasting the best years of my life being a pencil-pushing corporate pawn. By that time it’d be too late – I wouldn’t be able to go to the places or do the things I had always wanted due to the cumulative long-term effects of stress caused by paper-devouring photocopiers, bleeping fax machines, staple wounds and chain-smoking colleagues. In addition to the ageing symptoms of liver spots, hair growing in places where there were none, sagging boobies and orange rind-like cellulite, I’d be lucky if I could still wear my bikini without giving onlookers stabbing pains in their eyes.
Uh-uh, no way I was going to let that happen to me. I decided that I was going to live my life. In the now. To the fullest. That entire night I couldn’t sleep, becoming increasingly obsessed with the idea of breaking free. My imagination thundered with magnificent discoveries, foreign smells, strange weather and mysterious bathroom configurations. Yes, I was going travelling, job be damned.
Marching into my boss’s office the very next day, I plunked the dreaded white envelope on his desk and gave him the good news.
‘WHAT??!’ He said, his eyes bulging out in disbelief. ‘Let me get this straight. You’re quitting, for no reason whatsoever, but to go have fun?’
‘Yeah,’ I replied nonchalantly.
He regarded me suspiciously. ‘And this isn’t because you’ve got another job offer?’
‘Nah.’
‘So where are you going?’
‘I dunno.’ I shrugged. ‘Africa, perhaps.’
He dropped my resignation letter. ‘Better don’t play the fool over there,’ he warned. ‘People on the streets will poke you with AIDS needles.’
Liberated from all commitments, I was free to research Africa assiduously, and immediately eliminated all the countries that required yellow fever vaccinations for entry. (The one per cent chance that I’d actually contract yellow fever from the vaccine freaked me out.) I also struck out over-trumpeted safari destinations such as South Africa, Tanzania and Kenya as I imagined them to be tourist-infested. I was looking for a place untainted by crass commercialism, a place where I would feel more like an explorer than a vacationer, some place like ... Zambia.
Located in south-central Africa, Zambia is a pretty haven of peace and stability despite squatting in a continent not terribly famous for being peaceful and stable. The republic is a natural safari paradise teeming with wildlife, stunning sceneries and first-rate adrenaline activities, yet it is very much a well-kept secret from the mass tourist hordes that visit Africa.
The more I read about this landlocked country – once the world’s largest producer of copper in the developing world – the more I liked the sound of it. Combing through countless Internet message boards, I was given the distinct impression that the roads were absolutely dreadful, public transportation was unreliable, First World amenities were questionable and the infrastructure had not changed since prehistoric times. I guess the Zambia National Tourist Board weren’t exaggerating when they chose ‘the real Africa’ as their official tag line. Those none-too-encouraging descriptions could only mean that this was one nat
ion still safe from the invasion of honeymooning white couples. It also implied that getting from place to place would drive me to new depths of madness and cause me to tear my hair out.
How absolutely delightful! That seemed like the perfect destination for a quasi-gruelling, pants-muddying, character-building adventure.
I’m sure that to most people, being alone in a foreign place is the route to self-discovery and spirituality. To me, that’s just sad. Where’s the challenge in that? There would be no one to smack you upside the head to tell you that you were going the wrong way, yank the map from you, argue about where to eat and stay, disagree with each decision you make, and generally be difficult and querulous everywhere you go. Frankly, that’s what I think real travel is about.
Furthermore, my appalling sense of direction aside (Pisces + woman = very lost), I just did not think of myself as one of those pretentious, contemplative travellers who embarked on solo soul-searching journeys abroad. You would have undoubtedly spotted this peculiar, antisocial species before: the type who would often be balanced uncomfortably on some big grey boulder at the beach reading an Osho book, or furiously scribbling their innermost feelings and adjective-riddled observations in a little notebook as they sip low-fat lattes at a bohemian cafe, or trying not to look too clueless in a temple so they keep bowing asininely to every passing monk.
So I searched for a travelling accomplice. I was optimistic that it would be a snap, that people would be breaking down my door once they heard I was going to this wondrously exotic destination. I started my quest by looking at my list of friends and crossing out all the ones who were boringly employed and burdened with kids. Then I crossed out the ones who couldn’t live without their mobile phones or 1,000-ringgit Louis Vuitton handbags. Lastly I crossed out the ones who were spoilt, unfit or hated to walk anywhere. In the end, I was left with no one.
With a resigned sigh, I ran through the list again and thought I’d ring them anyway. Needless to say, it did not go well. The initial pretence of, ‘Oh, I knew Zambia was there,’ was frequently followed by, ‘Why’d you pick some backwater place? We’ll get raped!’ Subsequent high-IQ responses were: ‘Do the toilets there have doors?’; ‘Are we gonna, like, be infected with Ebola?’; ‘Will I still have email access?’; ‘Do they have KFC in case we’re forced to eat fried cockroaches?’; and of course, ‘I’m scared of AIDS! I hear people there go around poking you with liquid-filled syringes laden with HIV!’
But, without a doubt, the cream of the moronic crop was: ‘Is it safe?’ Safe? Despite all my efforts, I couldn’t convince anyone that nowhere on earth is safe! Crime, disease, bomb threats, cyclones, earthquakes, disgruntled housewives on penis-chopping rampages – they’re a universal menace. Life is so unpredictable. Quite plausibly, one could be taking a benign stroll outside on a bright sunny day, a million miles from care, when suddenly a potted plant falls on her head. I mean, who can tell?
Back on the home front, Mum nagged me about going to places she had never heard of. That meant everywhere except the US, England and Australia. What she had failed to realize was those three countries combined probably had higher murder rates than anywhere else in the world. When I broke the news to Dad, he said, ‘Be careful now, the Negroes are very big! They all carry rifles, you know? If the situation looks dire the minute you land, make sure you jump on the next flight home.’ He then relayed his vision of camouflage-painted wooden posts bristling with AK-47s and ribbons of ammunition at disputed borderlands, guerrilla fighters in periodic struggle with the Zambian military, bandits hijacking our taxis, terrorists bombing our hotels and cooks lacing our food with poop. Goes to show that there is such a thing as too much CNN.
*
The first time I saw Chan, I thought her an old-fashioned auntie; her hair was parted at the far right, she had on thick nerdy glasses and wore track pants so daggy that I suspected she nicked them from her granny. In short, she was the epitome of un-coolness and looked frightfully out of place in our rough-and-tumble dojo as she watched us from the sidelines. Ours was a freestyle fighting class based on kung fu principles and our extremely good-looking instructor, sifu Show, was a six-time cage-fighting champion.
As we brutally punched, kicked, threw each other around and twisted each others limbs on the mat until we looked like human pretzels, Chan was palpably shocked. Every time someone’s kick connected with the heavy bag, she jumped and had to readjust her glasses. She edged a little closer to Show, who was observing us intently so we don’t cripple ourselves too badly, and tapped his shoulder. ‘Um, I thought you teach t’ai chi ch’uan here?’ she asked nervously.
Show grinned. ‘Yes, we do t’ai chi, but that is mainly for internal training. That won’t keep you alive on the streets – this will,’ he said, pointing at one of our sweaty mates who just sent a focus mitt flying across the room with a punch full of bad intentions.
It was certainly not what Chan had in mind when she came for a trial lesson. She was 34 years old and the kind of person who could not hurt a fly, let alone box someone in the face. Having turned both devout Buddhist and rabid vegetarian, she was the typical sheltered goody-goody: did not drink, never stayed out late, drove her mother everywhere and refused to kill insects because of the karma thing. Straitlaced as she was, she was powerless against sifu Show’s charms and ended up joining the class anyway. After several weeks’ worth of training, she became my regular sparring partner as she was the closest to my size. I was still the most petite student in class, but at least I had reduced the frequency of getting bruised by the brawny guys and sat on by the fat chicks during grappling sessions.
Three months into my fruitless search for a travel mate, I was ready to give up. Then at class one day, Chan suddenly told me that she was quitting her job. I was pleasantly surprised, partly because we rarely talked during training – we were too busy pounding each other like hooligans and panting after. Even after-class bonding didn’t usually go beyond rubbing ointment on each other’s sprained ligaments and grunting our gentlewomanly goodbyes with a respectful kung-fu salute. So upon hearing this piece of serendipitous news, I immediately pounced on her like an infernal cat and asked if she’d like to travel with me. Even though I knew full well that she would be the last person on the planet who would want to. For while she was unnaturally kind, genial to a fault and more honest than a nun with a gun to her head, she was also too pampered, excessively paranoid, and disgustingly hygienic. But I was getting desperate.
‘Sure, I love travelling!’ she said brightly. I’ve been to India and most of Europe. The subway trains there are so efficient!’
‘Oka-a-y. Let me guess, you went on those package tours, am I right?’
‘Eh, how’d you know? I really enjoy going on tours, they are so comfortable! We stayed at all the nice hotels and ate yummy food.’
‘That’s nice ... for a senior citizen. There’s nothing worse to me than being stuck with a bunch of whingeing grandparents and getting woken up military style at 5 a.m. every day just so the bus can take us to the next cutthroat jade showroom, bee farm or bird’s nest factory. That’s not a vacation. That’s like being in a chain gang at a retirement home.’
‘Er, I see.’ She looked tentatively at me. ‘So ... where are we going?’
‘ZAMBIA!’ I cried excitedly.
‘Bless you.’
‘No, that’s the name of the place,’ I explained slowly. ‘Z-a-m-b-i-a.’
‘Oh! So what kind of place is it?’
Great, she hadn’t heard of it. So I began to paint her a beautiful image of this awesome paradise on earth, spouting tourism-brochure lines with the enthusiasm of the Crocodile Hunter on speed. ‘Zambia is the ultimate undiscovered adventure travel country, Chan!’ I started babbling, widening my eyes and waving my hands about passionately. ‘It’s home to Victoria Falls—the world’s widest waterfall—and the awesome Zambezi River! We’ll go on unforgettable safaris where you’ll have real close encounters with unique mammals! I
t will be like we’re in a perpetual Animal Planet documentary! And the wild scenery ... mmm, you’ll be picking your jaw off the floor! Can you believe all of this is found in one friendly country? Trust me, you won’t regret it – it will be the trip of a lifetime!’
‘Wow wow wow!’ her eyes instantly lit up. ‘Where is this gorgeous place at?’
I paused. ‘Africa,’ I said softly.
As I had feared, she became hesitant and started rubbing her temples worriedly. Before she could react like the others, I pre-empted her. ‘Look, I know what you’re thinking. I can assure you that we won’t catch a disfiguring disease. Zambia is a very safe country. Plus I have a great itinerary planned. You will be too busy enjoying yourself to think about anything else!’ Naturally I left out any mention of possibly contracting incurable parasitic infections, dying from malaria, barfing our insides out from typhoid fever, and getting trampled and/or eaten by wildlife.
‘You promise it’s not dangerous?’
‘I promise,’ I said with fingers crossed behind my back.
‘Okay, I guess I will go with you.’
Yes, the magic words at last! I was beside myself with glee. I had finally snagged a willing victim, er, travel companion and after voracious research, a rough itinerary sketched on a piece of notebook paper. In the limited span of one month (Chan did not have enough moolah to travel for longer), we were going to take in wonder of the world Victoria Falls along with the country’s four most renowned game reserves.
The very next day I set upon the vertiginous task of scanning the multitudes of safari options and lodging prices on the Internet. Most people think going on safaris is heinously expensive, but it only is if you are looking for blood blister-free, five-star comfort. The more you pay, the more royally you’re treated, natch. Personally, I thought it was preposterous to pay a gazillion dollars to live like you never left home. We were going there to rough it and stare nature in the face, warts and all. Also because we didn’t really have a gazillion dollars.
