by Joanne Glynn
A woman with a plump baby and a plastic handbag flags us down. She has very little English but after a few minutes of silent rehearsal she taps me on the shoulder and says that the baby is sick and she must take him to hospital. This turns out to be a little community clinic in a village about 15 kilometres down the track. She would have walked the whole way if we’d not come along. When we reach the clinic, Neil gives her some coins, knowing that she will have to pay for any medication. She is overwhelmed and kisses my hand. These people have near to nothing, every day must be a struggle for them, and I can only admire their graciousness and humility in the face of misfortune.
iT’S NEVER AS GOOD THE SECOND TIME
We’re heading for the Copperbelt, the industrial heartland of Zambia where Neil’s family lived for many years. The area is in the middle of the country, right on the border with the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC), and I’m keen to see it too, not only to drive the streets of Neil’s old memories and walk on the rugby field of his past glories, but to get an inkling of what it would have been like to grow up in such a remote but dynamic place. A white family employed there would have enjoyed a life of some privilege, with the mines looking after their every need, from housing to health to entertainment. The lifestyle would have been light years away from what Neil’s father could have expected as an electrician back in the Gorbals of Glasgow, or his mother, a nursing sister, would have found in Cape Town’s District Six where she grew up with Malay and Cape Coloured neighbours.
General elections will be taking place in two days time and the streets of Kitwe, the Copperbelt’s main town, are full of rallies and vehicles driving around with young men hanging out of them, singing, waving and generally attracting attention. A rally rouser goes past our guesthouse at 4.15 a.m., waking everyone up. I would have thought that this wasn’t the way to win friends and influence people but these boys, who are trucked in from all over the country, are earning their keep. We are warned that there could be some unrest after the election results are known and that being in the wrong place at the wrong time might be dangerous. Most shops are preparing to lock down for the day, and even brave George at the Acropolis Taverna contemplates closing early but remains open through popular demand. This restaurant is famous all over the country for the atmosphere as much as for the food, and all sorts of debonair and shady characters come and go the night we have dinner there. There in a booth on the side is a Greek family tucking into mezze, while beside us a local man and his four pretty excited daughters are enjoying Fantas all round. A James Brown character in purple velvet suit, stack-heeled boots and gold Stetson moves about importantly, mustering a handful of scantily dressed girls with heavy make-up and high high heels. I can’t quite work out what’s going on here, but it sure beats a night out at our local taverna back home.
On election eve we drive into town to draw money from an ATM. These all have long queues of people taking out money — another sign that there is fear of trouble after the votes are counted. Sata, leader of the opposition, is in town electioneering and as he drives slowly past in his motley motorcade I wave enthusiastically. I glance back at Neil who is still in the ATM queue, expecting to see him give me a cynical smirk, but I see that he’s deep in discussion with the bemused young black man who’s next in line, Neil proudly pointing out the finer points of the Troopy.
On the road to Mufulira, Neil’s hometown, we stop to pick up an old lady who’s waved us down for a lift. When she sees that we’re wazungu, whites, she comes over all shy and giggly but clambers aboard when local boys egg her on. By the time we drop her off she’s composed herself and gives us what Neil recognises as a very gracious thank you speech in Bemba, the local language.
We stop to recalibrate the GPS, then notice a group of women on the opposite side of the road, big smiles, excited, wanting to include us in their happiness. They cross over to show us their treasures: newborn twins, tiny and wrinkly with eyes tight closed, wearing beautifully hand-knitted white bonnets many sizes too big. It is easy to pick the mother, who looks pale and exhausted.
Beside the road, in a field recently green with maize and cassava, are dozens of freshly dug graves. Many don’t have markers but most have a memento of some sort: a little bouquet of plastic flowers, a figure woven from twigs, a toy.
The legacy of AIDS is all around. There’s old William, night manager of the guesthouse we’re staying in, in his seventies and supporting his eleven grandchildren. Their mothers and fathers, every one of William’s children, have succumbed to the disease. The lady who comes in to do the books at the guesthouse has taken in her sister’s children; both parents are dead. In the streets of Kitwe, Chingola, Mufulira, directionless men wander and beg. Illness, hunger, and the burden of unsecured work in a mining industry once vital and an economy once stable have left these souls displaced and bewildered. Up here the land itself has been ravished, with vast open-cut mines and mountains of slag big enough to cover whole cities threatening to swallow the sky. For me it’s a surreal, unnatural place and I can’t dislodge the image of men toiling in an underworld of darkness, the spectre of the Grim Reaper hovering, waiting.
Mufulira is, of course, a disappointment to Neil, who remembers a thriving, prosperous main street and paved roads with manicured lawns in the residential areas. The water in the old municipal swimming pool where he once creamed the opposition in gala races is now scummed and green, but the rugby field is looking both used and well kept. And up at the Top Shops there’s the old Nigger’s Pub, still alive and well, perhaps not yet caught up with the Independence turn of events.
We leave the Copperbelt and head north to Mutinondo Wilderness, a private reserve on a plateau above the Luangwa escarpment. Owned by Lari and Mike, white Zambians with a great love for this part of the world, Mutinondo is an untouched haven of solitude sitting in between giant granite inselbergs. The reserve is famous amongst birders for the variety of birdlife, and as a result of Lari and Mike’s dedicated anti-poaching and conservation stance, wildlife is returning through corridors from the North Luangwa National Park nearby. At present, though, it’s still safe to discover the land on foot and to wander the dales, which are reminiscent of English country woodlands. If you ignore the snakes, jackals and bush pigs, that is.
Over a welcome drink Mike mentions that they have other Australian guests, just returned to stay again at a bush camp he’s set up for them 5 kilometres or so away. They’re very interesting, loners, doing research on sitatungas. Would we like to meet them? Curious, we drive over the following day. The camp is on a lovely site on a rise above the river and is quite established; it even has a kitchen. The Australians are welcoming but reserved at first, and clearly only comfortable with their own company. During the conversation they mention that back home they live on a yacht, which they are progressively sailing around Australia. They like the solitude of the sea and can’t see themselves living in suburbia, or anywhere where there are other people for that matter. The previous night they’d arrived at Mutinondo too late to push on to this site, and they’d chosen to camp on the airstrip rather than stay in the formal camping area because there was another tent there. They’ve been in Zambia for long stretches on and off over the last couple of years and we get the impression that it’s more for the solitude than for the research. When we get up to leave there’s a tangible sense of relief, and when I say politely that we hope to see them again before we leave, a brief look of alarm crosses their faces.
Mike is able to shed new light on a phenomenon uniquely African — the taboo on washing female undies. Way back in 1974 when I first visited Africa with Neil and we’d stayed with his aunt and uncle in Salisbury, his aunt had urged me to give their houseboy all our laundry except my undies. She’d looked embarrassed to me. There was something unspoken going on and I imagined Philip rubbing my Cottontails erotically against his cheek.
Many times since when we’ve been guests in a lodge or camp there’s been a discreet note in the compendium about
putting out dirty washing to be laundered, but ladies, not your personals. I came to understand that the men doing the laundry were not to be trusted: they either saw a girl’s undies as a sex toy, or, to give them the benefit of the doubt, they were too heavy fisted and my knickers would be returned ragged, no longer delicate.
At breakfast on the first morning at Mutinondo Mike suggests that we get our laundry in early, but please, no ladies’ knickers. He explains that his staff, all men, find the undies of female guests disgusting and it is only through great loyalty to Mike and Lari that they even touch the offending articles.
Mike and Lari are the first people Neil really talks to about Itembwe and the problems he sees in tracking it down. Up until now he’s mentioned it in passing, a feeler put out when asked about our itinerary and where we are heading to next. But now we are getting close, nudging the perimeter, and it’s time to seriously start enquiries and follow leads. Although Lari is a Zambian born and bred she’s not been in the north long enough to know old history and old-timers, but she’s able to confirm that the names on our list are the right ones to pursue, especially Hazel Powell. Hazel has a guesthouse in Kasama, the largest (indeed only) city in the north, and she’s reputed to know personally every white Zambian still in those parts and have an idea of how long they’ve been there and where they farm. Another recommendation is Mark Harvey, a larger than life character who has a bush camp in the North Luangwa Valley and a guesthouse at Kapishya Hot Springs further north again.
Neil and I retire early for the night, keen to get going the next day. But we’re unable to sleep and we sit wrapped in blankets in the bay of our open-on-one-side chalet, watching moonlight and shadows move across the valley outside. The landscape is still and everything is peaceful, apart from a bat flapping about the chalet in a holding pattern, waiting for us to move from his exit. Now that the search for Itembwe is imminent it’s occurring to both of us that it’s not going to be straightforward; it could easily fall in a heap. The reality of no phone lines or mobile phone coverage is sinking in, and Mike has confirmed that even with satellite communication, connections are intermittent at best. Simply contacting people will be a major hurdle. Neil becomes more unsettled as he picks over the negatives that are now piling up in his mind while I try to find the right words to say that it doesn’t matter, that he mustn’t forget that it was always about the journey.
On our way to Kapishya Hot Springs, where we hope to find Mark Harvey, we can’t resist stopping off at Shiwa House, of The Africa House fame. Kapishya and Shiwa House are part of the vast Shiwa Ng’andu estate established by Mark’s grandfather, Sir Stewart Gore-Browne, whose life in Africa forms the basis for the book. The original magnificent manor house was built, despite countless obstacles, by Sir Stewart and is currently being meticulously restored by Mark’s brother Charlie, now lord of the manor. Their parents, Gore-Browne’s daughter and son-in-law, were strong and influential opponents to poaching and in 1992 they were both murdered, a crime that has never been resolved.
It’s a wonderful sight after driving through the dry, sparsely populated bush of northern Zambia to come across this estate of past grandeur and privilege. To help boost the massive restoration costs it has been re-stocked with wild game and guests pay large sums of money to stay and to hunt here.
As we pull up at the main gates in the Troopy, Charlie is there, about to set off on a hunt. In the back of his open vehicle are a very big mastiff, staff in finely pressed khakis and three fat cigarsucking Americans looking very impressed by themselves. All except the dog carry guns. They move off in a cloud of importance, the big white hunters eyeing the Troopy with something bordering on distaste — or could it be jealousy?
We arrange to have a guided tour of the public rooms of the manor and before long a very affable young man appears and requests that we walk this way. He shows us the chapel and dining room downstairs, which are wonderful, reminders of times more genteel and refined. The library upstairs is even better: a gentleman’s retreat of dark timber, Persian carpets and comfy armchairs presided over by rows of faded volumes and magazines. Our guide becomes more enthusiastic as our interest grows and after I’ve asked to see the kitchens he decides to give us a special treat. We’re shown the private guest rooms and I’m sure the Americans weren’t counting on outside visitors when they left their clothes in heaps on the floor and underpants hooked over the back of a chair. I’m embarrassed and suggest that perhaps we shouldn’t be wandering through their rooms. Remembering the snooty looks the Troopy received, Neil takes his time and checks out the bathrooms and beautiful timber wardrobes as well.
Kapishya is more down-market, a homely comfortable spot on the curve of a little river where hot springs steam and bubble. We arrive to a jumble of guests, some waiting impatiently to be allotted rooms, others just picnicking on the lawns, there for the afternoon. In the midst of the carry-on is Mark, calm, saronged and barefoot, and as entertaining as we’d been told. He does a bit of shuffling with his bookings and manages a chalet for us for the night, and afterwards we sit with him by the river watching a group of whiteclad African nuns picnic. They have a little tape deck and they sing and dance along to some very un-churchlike music. They are from a nearby convent and Mark gives them this day in thanks for their ongoing help in looking after orphans, grieving relatives, anyone in need of solace. Mark is intrigued by Neil’s mission but is unfamiliar with any long-term farmers still in the area. He suggests that Paul Nielsen, who has a service station in Mpulungu and, of more relevance, a farm in the general area we’re talking about, might well be able to help.
Later I join Mark’s cook in the kitchen where I knock up dinner for Neil and myself under her doubting eye. While she goes about preparing a three-course meal for eighteen people and I boil pasta, I learn that she has four children, seven counting her three nephews orphaned after her sister and brother-in-law died from ‘the disease’. She says without bitterness or anger that she sees her husband infrequently, him being pre-occupied with a new, younger wife.
In the morning she disapproves of the haphazard way I’m boiling eggs and takes over responsibility for our breakfast, sending me out of the kitchen with a warm comforting arm over my shoulder. I promise to try harder so that I might keep my husband from straying.
Before we leave, a Muslim man who has overheard us talking about contacts in the north hands Neil the business card of a friend of his in Mpulungu whom he feels could be of assistance. It seems that everyone wants to help. Neil is buoyed as much by the leads themselves as he is by people’s willingness to give their time and knowledge, and it comes back to him that it was always like this here: people, not always whites, volunteering their help and friendship when you were in need.
It’s Sunday when we leave, and as soon as we drive out onto the road heading north we see groups of locals all heading in the same direction, all in their best clothes and every adult clutching a wornlooking Bible. One family waves us down and indicates that they’d like a lift to the church a few kilometres further on. I get out and help them into the backseat and off we set. Around the corner another small group waves and points, so we stop and they also squash into the backseat. We are now eight, counting Neil and me, and we’re about to take off when a man with two little girls and a Bible comes down the road towards us, indicating that he’d like to be picked up too. Neil is starting to look alarmed but the others in the backseat are already bunching up to make room, so I jump out again to let these ones in, the man into the back and the girls sitting on my knee in the front. This man speaks good English and tells us they are all very late for church. We ask what time the service starts and he says eleven o’clock. Neil looks at his watch; it’s already 11.15 and we’ve still a way to go. ‘It’ll be over by the time you get there,’ he shouts over his shoulder, speeding up.
’That won’t happen, Sir, as I am the minister,’ comes the reply.
At the church they all tumble out, the ladies straighten their clothes and the
girls curtsey to me. One of the last to leave, a roly-poly toddler, stands supported on his father’s knees and very formally leans across to shake Neil’s hand.
A PARADiSE AND A PiPEDREAM
Once out on The Great North Road, now not so great as time and traffic have left it pock-marked with potholes, progress is uninterrupted though spasmodic. We make it to Kasama by midafternoon and find Hazel Powell at the Thorn Tree Guest House. This is the town where Neil worked his first job in the bank, and as it turns out the Thorn Tree is right across the road from where Neil’s accommodation was back then. Hazel and Ewert Powell run the guesthouse like a large family home with relatives, friends and guests all mingling throughout the main house and guest wing in a happy muddle. After a late lunch they take up the Itembwe challenge and out come regional guides and several old survey maps. This is the first time that we’ve seen Itembwe marked on a map, and even though it’s only as an altitude reading, Neil knows that the farm has to be nearby, as this high peak overshadowed the farm and gave it its name. He is beginning to get excited but sees the pitfalls immediately — no roads are marked on the map, and even if there were, which one to take when you don’t know your destination? It’s becoming a rollercoaster of high hopes and low expectations. The Powells not only give us more names, but also try to make contact with several of the people on their satellite phone. Paul Nielsen’s name comes up again, and another hopeful suggestion is a white missionary based in Mbala, the closest town to the farm and where Neil went to school for a while. Hazel reasons that the missionary could have picked up relevant knowledge as he did the rounds of his flock in the outlying areas.
