Five days after leaving Bujumbura, we arrived at Mpulungu, the Zambian port city at the southern tip of Lake Tanganyika. Over breakfast, a backpacker at the next table leaned over and asked if we had just gotten off the Liemba. When we said yes, he joined us. “Joe Hollins. I’m going north on the Liemba today. Anything I should know?” After we briefed him on what to expect, we asked for advice on Zambia.
“Be careful. I was under arrest for four days in Lusaka, and Zambian police stations aren’t pleasant places.”
“What did you do to get arrested?” Vivian asked.
“I wrote in my diary.”
“You wrote in your diary?” I said.
“Well, yes. Last week, I was sitting outside the train station in Lusaka, writing in my diary, when a policeman accused me of being a spy and arrested me. There’s a guerrilla war between Zambia and South Africa, and the Zambian government assumes that Whites are spies. Don’t take any pictures, especially in front of government or military buildings. If you have a map, keep it hidden. Find the police before they find you. Show them your passport, ask some bland questions, and say how much you enjoy Zambia. That tends to put them at ease.”
Ron smiled and leaned back in his chair. After finishing breakfast, he went to exchange some money. We never saw him again and occasionally wondered whether Zambia gave him the stories he had hoped for.
I suggested to Vivian that we head to the bus station to catch a ride to the Malawi border crossing. “It’s only about 300 kilometers by road. With luck, we can reach the border before nightfall.”
At the bus station, the agent told us we couldn’t reach northern Malawi. The wet season had been especially bad, and the roads were washed out. “When do you think transport will resume?” Vivian asked.
“Perhaps a month. Perhaps more.”
“You mean there’s no way to get to Malawi from here for a month?” I asked.
“Oh, of course there is. You can go south to Lusaka, then east to the Malawi border. It’s about two thousand kilometers.”
We went off to confer and realized that was three days of riding buses. With no other option, we returned to the agent to book two seats on the bus to Lusaka.
“Ah,” he sighed. “The Chambeshi bridge on the main road is washed out, so there will be no bus service until it’s repaired.”
I wondered why he hadn’t mentioned it earlier. “How long will that take?” I asked.
“Very hard to say. It could be a day or a week, or possibly longer.”
As we faced the prospect of being stranded in Mpulungu, a Zambian trader we’d seen at the dock introduced himself and offered us a way out. Every week when the Liemba arrived, he bought the fish that Tanzanians bartered for Coca-Cola. “If you can go in the next hour, I have a Land Rover that can cross the river at a ford. I’m only going as far as Kasama, but it’s past the washed-out bridge.”
“We’re ready to leave now, if you want,” I replied.
“I have to speak with the constable first. He’s been watching you since you arrived, and I’ll need his approval.”
A few minutes later, the constable asked for our passports. He had us recite our route since leaving Europe. After carefully comparing our border stamps to our account, he told us we could go.
Along the highway, we saw occasional billboards warning Zambians to be wary of Whites. One showed two Black men talking while a White man listened from behind. The caption read, “Be careful around whom you talk.” It reminded me of “The Enemy is Listening” posters from World War II, except that here, Vivian and I were the enemy.
Over the next week, a combination of broken-down buses, washed-out bridges, and a bout with dysentery meant the first leg of the trip took a week. We arrived at the Lusaka bus station, exhausted, dirty, and eager for a break. We asked someone there for a recommendation, not just for a good hotel this time, but for the best in Lusaka. We were directed to the Ridgeway.
Layered in dirt and wearing clothes that were beginning to show holes from frequent handwashing, we entered a pristine marble reception area unlike anything we had seen since Cairo. After a detailed review of our passports and a grilling about our reasons for visiting Zambia, the staff checked us in at a rate I chose not to linger over. We carried our grimy packs past a swimming pool with cabanas, a bar, and thatched rest areas. Fashionable Blacks and Whites lounged and played in the water.
The room was spotless. The sheets were clean, and the bed was firm. The bathroom had real towels. The toilet flushed convincingly. The shower was hot and didn’t belch brown water. There was even a working television with a library of recent VHS videos.
We took long, hot showers and put nearly all our clothes in the tub to soak. Then we splashed around in the pool like little kids. That evening, we enjoyed a cocktail at the bar, then a couple more.
Resisting the temptation to stay another day at the Ridgeway, we had an early breakfast and headed for the main Lusaka-Lilongwe highway. Our goal was to cover the 700 kilometers to the Malawi border crossing at Chipata by evening.
For an hour, we stood at a roundabout holding a cardboard sign that read “Lilongwe or Chipata.” No one even glanced at our sign. Then we spotted a Zambian policeman coming our way. Following Joe Hollins’ advice, we approached him first. “Good morning, Officer,” we said, showing him our passports. “We’re hoping to find a ride to Malawi today, though we hate to leave Zambia. We’ve enjoyed our time here.”
The officer examined our passports and asked why we were in Zambia. Had we ever been to South Africa? Where had we been since arriving in Lusaka? Shabby backpackers staying at the Ridgeway struck him as the kind of thing South African spies would do. “I should take you to the station for interrogation,” he said, then shrugged. “But I’m off duty.”
When he returned our passports, Vivian asked him about being a police officer in Zambia. It wasn’t long before he pulled out a photo of his family. “Follow me,” he finally said. “You won’t get a ride here. I’m heading east, too. There’s a checkpoint less than a kilometer away. People have to stop there, and if they see you with the military, they’re more likely to give you a ride.”
We followed him to a checkpoint manned by three soldiers. There, we repeated the ritual. We introduced ourselves, explained why we were there, showed our passports, and said how wonderful Zambia was. Arriving with a police officer seemed to put them at ease.
Being at the checkpoint didn’t change our luck, though. As we debated our next steps, Vivian noticed that one of the men looked ill. Approaching a soldier with corporal’s stripes, she gestured toward the sick man and asked, “Is he okay?”
“Oh, our sergeant? He has malaria, ma’am.”
“But why isn’t he in the hospital?”
He laughed. “If everyone went to the hospital for malaria, the hospitals would be full. No, here we take pills. Unfortunately, he has none, so he will recover the old way. We hope.”
Vivian opened her backpack and took out the first-aid kit. She found the emergency antimalarials and handed the soldier a blister pack. “This is Fansidar. It’s a new treatment for chloroquine-resistant malaria.”
The corporal took the pack with both hands and excused himself. When he returned, he said, “The sergeant thanks you. He said we are to find you transport to Chipata.”
For the next ten minutes, the soldiers asked every driver they stopped for their destination. A dozen cars later, a Zambian man said he was headed to Chipata. The soldier lowered his rifle toward the driver, not pointing it directly at him but close enough to make his point. Gesturing toward us, he said, “You will take these people.” The driver quickly agreed, and the off-duty police officer came along to keep an eye on us.
We crossed easily into Malawi the next morning. People smiled at us. The suspicion, multiple police checkpoints, and tension in Zambia disappeared. I should have been happy, but my mood matched the gray, lowering skies of the wet season. Malawi meant splitting up for two weeks so Vivian could think, and I had no idea what she would decide. Worse, she planned to do it alone.
“Do you get the tent, or do I?” I asked.
“What?”
“The camping gear and the first-aid kit. Who gets what?”
She laughed. “You make it sound like we’re getting divorced.”
It felt like a divorce. “I don’t like the idea of you traveling alone.”
“That’s my decision, not yours. I’ll be okay. I’ll find a group to travel with.”
I sat there, imagining her finding a group of rugby players to travel with.
The journey continues every Thursday. Join us.