But maybe not. Maybe, thought Brian, one cannot equate dread with excitement. And at least with bungee-jumping, nobody can take offence. In fact, quite the reverse. Because those observing it rather than participating in it can find it very entertaining indeed. So much so that there was now a group of visitors sharing Brian and Sandra’s lookout spot and enjoying the antics on display. Some of them were also enjoying the spectacle of the bridge itself, a formidable arch of metal that has now spanned the gorge here for over a hundred years. And amongst those focusing on the engineering rather than the insanity were a handful of Americans and their guide. Brian couldn’t help overhearing them – and their guide’s lecture on the bridge’s construction, which included a snippet on its celebrated designer, George Andrew Hobson, who had conceived this remarkable feat of engineering whilst working for a British firm of consulting engineers known as Sir Douglas Fox and Partners. The snippet contained not only the name of the designer and the identity of his employer, but also the fact that this clever Mr Hobson had been assisted by another chap by the name of Mr Ralph Freeman, who, twenty-five years later, went on to design, all on his own, the world-famous Sydney Harbour Bridge.
All very interesting, thought Brian. But possibly not quite as interesting as learning that the Sydney bridge wasn’t quite as world-famous as he’d previously thought. For when the guide had mentioned this Antipodean connection, the question from one of his American clients that followed was: ‘Where is the Sydney Harbour Bridge?’ As the guide then replied in a deadpan voice with the single word ‘Australia’, Brian wondered whether he wouldn’t have done better to have chosen instead the single word ‘Sydney’. But he also wondered what was going on here. For the questioner was a normal-looking guy, probably in his forties, who was sufficiently acquainted with the world to find his way to Zambia, but who had not heard of the Sydney Harbour Bridge. And come to think of it, the fact that he was standing here looking at the Zambezi River didn’t necessarily prove he knew where Zambia was. Perhaps he thought he was in South America – or in Australia – but just not in Sydney.
It reminded Brian of a guide he and Sandra had met in Costa Rica who had lost count of the number of Americans who had asked him what it was like to live on an island – under the mistaken impression that they were in Puerto Rica, or in the belief that all places in the world ending in the word “Rica” had to be islands. And then there was that Californian woman in Brazil who had been shocked to discover that parrots fly, because ‘Back in America, all ours just sit on a perch. Or if they’re feeling really adventurous, then maybe on a pirate’s shoulder’.
Now, Brian believed that the United States of America, for all its many failings, was one of the truly great countries in this world. In its relatively short life, it has produced, through its citizens, some of the best music that has ever been heard on this planet, some of the most outstanding literature in the history of mankind and a wealth of movie-masterpieces that will probably never be equalled. Others in this nation have assembled between them a huge stock of Nobel Prizes, others have been responsible for countless discoveries in every field of science, and yet more have moulded these discoveries into world-beating technologies in every discipline imaginable. Whether it’s space exploration, information technology, communication technology in all its forms – or sophisticated weaponry – the United States now leads the world, and has done for many years. Yes, on any measure one adopts in the field of human endeavour and human achievement, America leads the pack. It is nothing less than a goldmine, a rich store of ability and ingenuity that will never be exhausted. However… within this goldmine, there are some serious geological faults. For running through it there are seams of adamantine-hard ignorance, intrusions of acute dumbness that are virtually impermeable to knowledge in all its forms and, in particular, to any knowledge about the world.
Yes, Brian knew there was no denying it. Within that infinite wealth of American talent, there are a significant number of that country’s population who know as much about the planet outside their country as he knew about the practicalities of gynaecology. And in a way this is hardly surprising. For if one lives in an enormous country and one is saddled with a work ethic that makes it difficult to travel beyond its borders, one may easily begin to settle for just what’s within those borders and pretty well give up on anything else. And this isn’t just sophistry. How, for example, could you explore Papua New Guinea if you lived in Iowa and had, as a boss, someone who thought anything more than a seven-day vacation was a sign of latent communism? Hell, by the time you’d got yourself there it would be time to come back.
Now, whether this was the full story, Brian had to concede, was open to question. After all, many Americans were still able to develop an interest in world geography – and world events – despite their being stranded on a huge landmass and being saddled with some rather odd attitudes to holidays. So, for those who made up those resistant seams of rock in the goldmine, perhaps it was something more, something to do with an inbuilt indifference to the wider world – rooted in a simple lack of confidence. Stick with what you know. Embrace the familiar. Embrace America. And not only don’t travel outside it, but don’t even give what’s outside it any thought at all, let alone learn about it. And if you do have the misfortune to find yourself beyond its boundaries – in let’s say a place like Zambia – don’t, under any circumstances, step outside that American bubble. Pretend you’re still there. Take pride in your patriotic isolationism as you do at home – and in your patriotic ignorance – even if it means that some supercilious Brit overhearing you will steam into superior mode, and (despite being in a bubble of his own) get all philosophical within seconds. It’s just his hard luck. ‘And don’t these Brits know that they’re all washed up? Shit… who the hell cares what they think anyway?’
Oh dear. Brian’s own lack of confidence was now surfacing. Possibly it was time to moderate his opinions. Yes, maybe he was being a little hard on America. After all, it was indisputable that every country in the world has its own share of dummies and drongos, people for whom enquiry and curiosity are anathema, but not in every country was this “battalion of the ignorant” so blatantly obvious. And it is so blatantly obvious in America because this is a country that is endowed with so many capabilities and achievements as already revealed. So it’s the contrast. Like white against a black background, the unenlightened minority stand out against a sea of the erudite and the informed – in precisely the same way as they don’t in many other countries, because in these countries the erudite and the informed are nowhere to be seen…
Oh god, here he was still looking at bungee-jumpers, and Brian had managed to let a casual remark by an American tourist lead him into another mope about all those countries in the world where ignorance is a way of life, where medieval values are sewn into the fabric of their culture, where enlightenment is a word that can’t be translated into their native tongue, and where you would be bloody surprised if you met anyone who did know the whereabouts of the Sydney Harbour Bridge. But he couldn’t help himself. It was just the way he was, especially when he was becoming concerned about the onset of dehydration and the consequent urgency of administering to his person a couple of glasses of hydrating Windhoek Lager. Sandra, it transpired, had the same concerns, and it wasn’t until she vocalised them that Brian abandoned his reflection on the intellectually moribund of the world and instead considered further his rather too severe judgement of the American psyche. And he did this on the way to the bar.
Well, today there was a gratifying absence of posing pouches, but still rather too much pneumatic flesh on display to encourage Brian and Sandra to linger very long. Instead, they would make use of the hotel’s other facilities and, in particular, its air-conditioned rooms and its satellite TV. Yes, they would retreat from the furnace heat of the exterior to the cooled comfort of their bedroom interior, and first of all take advantage of the coolness… and after that they would switch on the telly.
Initial
ly, this switching-on decision proved inspired, as they just managed to catch the end of the final of the Rugby World Cup, which resulted in an almost deserved victory for New Zealand – and a lot of very dejected French guys (none of whom, apparently, had participated in dwarf-throwing contests on their way to the final). However, after this fragment of sporting spectacle, Brian could find only news channels to fill the screen. And after two weeks away from any news, it was all as predictable and as depressing as usual. Serbia was still being obnoxious to the Kosovans, public workers were still on strike in Spain, everybody was still on strike in Greece – and the latest octogenarian successor to the Saudi throne had renounced his claim to the throne, on account of his being indisposed as a result of his not being alive. He had apparently keeled over within grabbing distance of kingship, even though he was still in the prime of his twilight…
This got Brian thinking again. And this time he didn’t keep his thoughts to himself. Instead he assailed Sandra.
‘They’re all mad,’ he started. ‘And even if they weren’t mad to start with, they very soon become mad.’
‘Who’s that?’ responded Sandra. ‘Lighthouse-keepers?’
‘Lighthouse-keepers!’ shrieked Brian. ‘Lighthouse-keepers? No… of course not lighthouse-keepers. I mean, they don’t even have them anymore. No. I’m talking about the people who run the world… ’
‘I think you mean that you are about to talk about the people who run the world. Or am I mistaken?’
Sandra followed this question with a pointed squint of one eye – and Brian followed this with a resolve not to be deterred. He was going to talk about the people who ran the world and his wife would listen. She had to. It was part of their unwritten pact. He did the heavy gardening, the bins, the money stuff and the tax returns; Sandra did the cooking, the cleaning, the light gardening, ordering the fuel – and listening. And anyway, what he had to say was worth listening to. It always was.
So Brian barely hesitated before carrying on. And he carried on first with an answer to Sandra’s question.
‘No, you are not mistaken. I am indeed going to make just a few observations… ’
‘Promise?’ interrupted Sandra. ‘Just a few?’
But now she was smiling, and Brian could see that she was really quite interested in what he had to say. So he carried on again…
‘Well… ’ he said, in a Robert Peston sort of way, ‘you see, you only have to look at some of their weirdo behaviour… ’
‘Such as?’ encouraged a still-smiling Sandra.
‘Such as dyeing their hair. It’s what all those Chinese geezers do. And what sort of behaviour is that – for people running a third of the world’s population? It’s bonkers. It’s like having a politburo full of Silvio Berlusconis – only without the grins and the whores… And then there’s all these Saudi princes who, apart from all looking identical, all have the same appalling taste in armchairs. All that gilt and carving and all those terrible fabrics. I mean, it’s not normal, is it? And they all have those trimmed beards as well. Not the chairs, the princes. It’s as though they’ve not got minds of their own… ’
‘It doesn’t mean they’re bonkers,’ suggested Sandra. ‘I mean, have you ever looked at all the young women in Britain. They’ve all got straight hair. And they’re not mad. Well, not all of them… ’
‘OK, how about bad haircuts and boiler suits… ?’
‘You mean that guy in North Korea?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, he is mad, isn’t he? Everybody knows that.’
‘And forgetting how to shave?’
‘Well. He’s mad as well. Anybody who claims that there are no gays in Iran has got to be completely round the bend.’
‘And thinking you’re Napoleon?’
‘You mean Sarkozy?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, he is very small.’
‘OK. But how about believing that people will mistake a KGB mafia for a government if its head-honcho is filmed bare-chested on a horse – or sitting at the end of a long table berating some of his stooges for the latest mafia cock-up… ?’
‘Ummm… ’
‘Yes, they mount up,’ announced Brian triumphantly. ‘And then add to these real weirdoes all those bleedin’ idiots who have run Europe into the ground, all those despots in Africa and Central Asia, and all those feudal lords and villains in the Indian sub-continent – most of whom probably think they’re doing an absolutely sterling job – and you can easily see why I think that they’re all completely loony. All completely bonkers. Or if not out and out bonkers, then so bloody deluded, it really doesn’t make any difference. And it’s the whole world. No wonder we’re in such a mess… ’
At this point, Brian hesitated in his polemic. He was looking for a response from his wife. But when it didn’t come, he continued. But what he said was a bit half-hearted. He now knew that Sandra remained unconvinced.
‘Well, I just think it’s a reflection of the human condition. As a species, we are just incapable of running ourselves as a society on any scale. And when you’ve scaled things up to the size of a country, it’s completely hopeless, and you end up with a load of nutters in charge – who, when they’re not erecting bloody great posters of themselves all over the place, are buggering up people’s lives – and buying oversized baroque furniture… ’
Sandra smiled and her smile turned into a grin. Then she spoke.
‘You forgot Gordon Brown.’
This had the clearly desired effect. Brian laughed out loud, he abandoned his appraisal of the sanity or otherwise of international leaders, and he suggested that instead they prepare themselves for an early drink and an early dinner. After all, they faced another bout of driving in the morning.
So, soon they were back in the bar, and soon after this they were partaking of another buffet dinner. It was very enjoyable, but not quite as enjoyable as the Asian fiddler who appeared on this eve. And no, this wasn’t a new breed of giant crab, hell-bent on displacing Britain’s own domestic varieties, but a Chinese-looking lady who, with her violin, had been hired to entertain the hotel’s guests from its pool-side stage. She was brilliant – and Brian thought it unlikely that she dyed her hair.
When back in his room, he then had another thought, not about hair-dyeing but about bungee-jumping and a madness index. For he reckoned that if one constructed an “insanity gauge”, calibrated from one to ten – where ten was “as mad as was conceivable” and one was… well, somebody like himself – then one could soon arrive at an inescapable conclusion. And the first element of this conclusion was that, with characters like Mugabe, Kim Jong-un, Ahmadinejad and Chavez around, all of whom merited a ten – and with seven-plus scores for most of the other guys in power – the mean madness for all the world’s leaders must be well over eight. And the second element of the conclusion was that, no matter how hard one tried, it would be difficult to argue that the mean for all bungee-jumpers was much over seven. Which meant… that the final element of the conclusion was that the world would be a measurably better place if it were run by a cadre of thrill-seekers, if every country had, as its leading elite, a bunch of people who threw themselves off bridges. Hell, this was worthy of an academic paper. One could discuss one’s reasoning at length, one could construct some elaborate models to underpin one’s case, and one could even explore some of the self-evident advantages of this new breed of rulers. Like, for example, their obvious ability to bring a new perspective to politics – by hanging upside down. Or how about the ease of dispensing with their services when they were getting things wrong? (One would need only a large pair of scissors.)
Yes, Brian was sure he was on to something here. And had it not been for a sudden onset of sleep and a tendency to forget immediately any project that might involve more than a token effort, he might well have pursued his idea. And he might even have found a way to include in his work his concerns about American parochialism – and his views on how its stubborn durability might fina
lly be overcome – by installing in that famous Oval Office, a world-savvy bungee-jumper…
11.
Shortly after breakfast, Brian had in his pocket more than a third of a million kwacha. He had not won the Zambian National Lottery, but instead had bought this small fortune at the hotel’s on-site bank – for the express purpose of topping up the Land Cruiser’s fuel tank for the forthcoming journey. He reckoned that the 350,000 kwacha he had acquired would be more than enough for the half-tank’s worth he needed, as this considerable quantity of the local lucre had cost him all of forty pounds.
All these noughts in his pocket made him think. Because he had now calculated that one kwacha was equivalent to no more than about one hundredth of a British penny. And why would any country want to operate with a national currency, one unit of which was effectively worthless? For, after all, there was no way that a single kwacha would buy you anything whatsoever in Zambia – other than possibly a couple of Frankie Boyle DVDs. And not only was there this “worthless” taint to the local currency, but there was also its potential impact on Zambian society. How would it manifest itself in everyday life here? So, for example, was there a chain of cheapo shops in Zambia known as “Ten-thousand-kwacha-land” or, when you went to the loo here, did you announce that you were off ‘to spend a hundred’? And if you had to get by on just a million a year, were you classed as being below the poverty line – and as one of the country’s near-destitute millionaires? Well, Brian had no answers to these questions, but he did believe that the Zambians would be a whole lot happier if they had a currency that bore at least some relation to those of their neighbours in Botswana and Namibia and that didn’t put all their visitors in mind of the Weimar Republic. And, apart from anything else, it would make primary school maths lessons a great deal more relevant. For what must all those young Zambians think when they were obliged to learn their two to ten times tables, when within them the biggest figure that they’d ever encounter had just a trifling two noughts. It could hardly prepare them for the multiplicity of noughts that they’d soon have to deal with.
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