No Beer In Lundazi (Part One)

"I think it's about time you went to the Eastern Province, Chris," said the Chief Inspector, "reports of illegal aquamarine mining are coming in daily."

I had to agree with him, for six months or so we had been hearing about the illicit gemstone mines in the Lundazi District. There were approximately twelve licensed small mines in the area but very little production was being declared to the State and tales of Senegalese and Zairian smugglers were commonplace. One had to assume that either the licence holders were telling lies or there were illegal sources of the gems, probably both.

"I have prepared a letter of introduction to the Officer in Charge at the Office of the President at Lundazi," the Chief explained, "if you get into any trouble, he should be able to help."

And with that I made preparations to leave.

I caught the late afternoon flight from Ndola to the capital. Dark was falling as the Hawker Siddeley 748 roared into reverse thrust along the Lusaka runway. The HS 748 had been around since 1961 and there were still a lot of them in use in Central Africa but in spite of the aircraft's age it was a great comfort to look out of the window and see the world famous Rolls Royce logo on the engines.

Jonathan was there to meet me as I emerged from the steamy, dirty, flyblown terminal building that must have been a source of tremendous pride when it was first opened. Now Lusaka International Airport had become a malodorous monument to lethargy and apathy. Zambia's fantastic tourism potential was crushed right here, at the Lusaka International Airport.

Here the visitor from Europe would arrive after a ten hour flight to find a rugby scrum confronting him at the bottom of which he would find his suitcases, if he were lucky. Here he would find the surly Immigration Officer to welcome him to one of the most beautiful countries on God's earth, if only he could escape the International Airport without being cheated out of his foreign currency by the "helpful" cab drivers. Here he would visit the stinking toilets with no water or paper available - having seemingly been in that condition for years.

But what a contrast if that same visitor could leave the International Airport resignedly and go open-mindedly to the bush, the wild, beautiful, harsh and unforgiving African bush.

"Hello, Mr Chris, it's good to see you again," Jonathan greeted me in the warm African tradition, "and how is the Minister's mbushi?"

Jonathan was referring to the goat that the Honourable Leonard Subulwa, Minister for Mines, Republic of Zambia, had given into my care almost eight months before and which had now become a stock joke among the civil servants and anyone else who knew the story.

Earlier in the year I had been honoured to escort the Minister around the famed Zambian emerald field in the Copperbelt Province. As is traditionally African, the welcome we received was warm and rapturous. At each tiny mine that we visited the mine owner had made a car park with parking bays lined with white stones for our Landrovers and Range Rovers and we were feted with soft drinks and snacks.

On the final day of our tour, we were treated to a magnificent feast in a small grass hut at Chief Ngabwe's mine. There was some confusion as to old Joe Ngabwe's title, it seems he had been drummed out of the tribe for bestowing his chiefly favours on the youngest daughter of one of his headmen but I was introduced to him as Chief and so, to me at least, Chief he remained. We ate our fill of the superbly cooked delicacies and the farewell speeches were started. During the final speech a tethered goat was brought, and handed deferentially to the Minister.

My heart stopped as a thought crossed my mind - "are they going to slaughter this poor goat right here in front of us all and just after a such a splendid meal too?" It would be too much to take. Happily I was wrong. Everyone except myself knew that the Minister had a large farm a few miles outside Lusaka and they thought a healthy young billy goat would be a fitting gift to give him. Subulwa accepted the animal gratefully and as is usual with dignitaries, gave the present to the aide standing closest to him - me!

The damned creature wriggled and bucked taking all the attention away from the Minister and his gracious thank you speech. With the help of the Minister's Under Secretary, Mr Nkana, I wrestled the bloody goat into the back of the nearest Range Rover and swiftly slammed the tail gate closed, leaving the beast peering pathetically at me through its long upswept eyelashes.

We eventually headed back towards Kitwe arriving at about seven in the evening. I dropped the Hon Minister at the splendidly opulent Rokana Lodge where he kindly invited me in for dinner and I accepted. Mr Nkana had meanwhile thoughtfully tethered the goat in the grounds of this, the loveliest house in Kitwe. Needless to say, the billy got stuck into the tea roses that had been lovingly tended for generations. Mrs Laing, the austere, long-serving housekeeper was not happy about that and complained loudly to the Minister.

This was the moment that Mr Nkana, the Minister's Under Secretary, had his next brilliant idea.

"Honourable Minister," he said, "Mr Skelding has a farm in Garneton and I'm sure he would be delighted to look after the animal until we are able to arrange transport to Lusaka."

And that's how I ended up as caretaker of the Minister's goat or mbushi in the Chibemba language. Mr Nkana tried unsuccessfully for many months to book a seat for the goat on Zambia Airways, and so, Leonard, as he came to be known, lived happily on our farm servicing my own nannies and eating the curtains.

But I digress. Jonathan, always the faithful, slightly cheeky driver, took me to the plush Intercontinental Hotel where I dined on sirloin steak and drank a carafe of cheap red South African wine. I then decided, in view of the long drive the next day, to avoid the casino and so went to bed.

We made an early start on the following morning, heading out through the eastern suburbs of Lusaka where white settlers in their barbed wired fortresses lived cheek by jowl with the poor blacks in their shanty towns. In high humour we set course for Chipata, Provincial Capital of Zambia's Eastern Province. Jonathan was happy, he was going to his home near Chipata. I too was happy, I was going to the lovely African bush for a few days away from the dirty, sweaty, corrupt cities of Kitwe and Lusaka.

We drove for four hours or so on a good sealed highway and arrived at the little market village of Kachalola: a sort of natural meeting place. There you can fill up with fuel, buy a week old meat pie that is reminiscent of an armadillo and swap gossip with a host of other travellers.

We learned from a party of ragged travellers in a derelict, rusty vanette that up ahead at the Luangwa bridge the soldiers had been giving some of their fellow travellers a hard time, searching them for money and cigarettes and abusing them badly if they found none. A little daunted we pressed on and reached Luangwa village, about two kilometres short of the bridge and paused for Jonathan to buy some fresh fish from the market to take to his people near Chipata. For five Kwacha he managed to purchase about two kilos of the freshest perch wrapped neatly in a banana leaf.

Around the bend and down the winding hill we arrived at the Luangwa Bridge. The bridge is a magnificent structure and the Zambian Government is understandably sensitive about it. On the far side of the bridge is the Eastern Province, a very large proportion of the country's food is grown there and were the bridge to be destroyed again, a major food supply line would be cut. In addition to the Eastern Province grain the bridge is the main southern route from Malawi whence comes a large amount of imports.

The bridge was bombed by white Rhodesian Resistance forces during the war of Zimbabwean Independence and Zambia suffered terribly as a result. It is forbidden to photograph the bridge (or any other bridge in the country), presumably so that South African Intelligence forces are not able to see the pictures and sabotage the bridge. The fact that the bridge was built by South Africans and that the blueprints are in Pretoria did not influence the Zambians' thinking in the least.

The permanent squad of military on duty at both sides of the bridge maintain some sort of order by allowing only one vehicle to cross at any one time, and then at a speed of eight kilometres per hour. The bridge is a large, wide structure built to the cable-stayed bridge design with H-pylons and could easily accommodate two fully loaded juggernauts simultaneously on its 300 metre span. But the Zambian Army insists on regulating things in their own fashion, which of course results in long tailbacks that appear most odd in such a remote area.

We joined the queue of thirty or so cars, trucks and buses that waited patiently while the soldiers allowed one vehicle to cross from the eastern side and only when it had completed the crossing did they allow one vehicle to cross from the western side. Progress was agonisingly slow in the heat of the midday sun.

Finally we were first in the line and an ugly army sergeant came to the passenger window and said, "May I smoke with you, sir?" This is a fairly common request by a scrounging official made the more persuasive by the presence of the AK47 assault rifle hanging upside down from his shoulder held precariously with a tatty piece of electrical wire.

Taking my life in my hands I replied, "Mina aikona funa nyika wena fwaka, ini wena azi enza?"

He stood back, shocked and stunned, I imagine no one had ever spoken to him in that fashion. To refuse to give an armed, possibly drunken African soldier a cigarette is a risky action I know, but it worked, as it had done in the past. He said, "Sorry, sir, it is not compulsory to give me a cigarette please proceed with your journey." And that was the end of it, a ploy I have always used is to stand up to extortion and it is generally successful.

We continued eastward into what seemed like another country. The Eastern Province of Zambia is populated by industrious, intelligent farming tribes - Ngonis, Nyanjas and Tuombokas - who have given the province its reputation as the granary of Zambia.

There were many goats on the roads, small market villages abounded and occasionally a young urchin stood at the roadside displaying a gemstone in his hand in the hope that a passing motorist would stop and make a purchase.

Late in the afternoon just as the sun slipped over the horizon behind us, we entered the provincial capital, Chipata. This pretty colonial town was once known as Fort Jameson after Starr Jameson also immortalised for his ill-fated Raid on Johannesburg in 1894.

Chipata is a pretty, slightly faded town these days, a number of Indian businessmen still run the trade stores and filling stations. Business seemed fairly brisk with locals buying provisions for the outlying villages and travellers to and from Malawi filling up with supplies. The centre of the town is dominated by the presence of both a mosque and a Hindu temple.

Jonathan dropped me at the Chipata Motel, a somewhat flea-bitten hostelry which had the two things I was looking for - a hot bath and a cold beer. The bath was delightful after ten hours rocking and rolling in the Landie, and the beer was very cold and invigorating. In the bar, I sensed an urgency amongst the customers who seemed to be drinking the Mosi-A-Tunya beer as if it was going out of fashion. And that is exactly what was happening - the beer stocks were down to the last crate and I managed to order myself another two bottles before they ran out completely. Beer shortages are all too common in Zambia and even Lusaka has "dry" periods, but here, 800 kilometres from the brewery it was an everyday event.

I went to the dining room and in that cock-eyed African way I was asked if I would like a beer! Thankfully they had reserved a crate or two for diners and hotel residents, and I was content and happy again. I ordered a chicken dish with nshima and sank two more beers before taking a walk through the motel gardens to digest my dinner.

The sun sank swiftly in the direction of the capital as I went to my room, chased a cockroach around the floorboards, climbed into bed and slept the sleep of the exhausted.

In the morning, after a breakfast of baked beans and nshima Jonathan returned to collect me and we went to the Provincial Headquarters to pay a courtesy visit on the Permanent Secretary for Eastern Province. Sadly, the Permanent Secretary had just departed for Lusaka but his Deputy greeted me, invited me into his office and waved me to the sofa that was exuding wads of horsehair stuffing.

He immediately brought up the subject of mining and told me that his Provincial Police Commander had been informed the day before that a death had occurred at one of the aquamarine mines in Lundazi. Would I have time to see the Police Chief before I left, he asked.

"Of course, sir," I replied "the investigation of accidents at mines is a major part of my job and this will probably be the first time an inspector has had an opportunity to study at first hand the sort of fatal accident that one imagines takes place and goes unreported at these illegal mines."

The Police Chief met me and gave me brief details of the accident he promised to radio to his officers at Lundazi and ask them to give me the fullest cooperation. I thanked him and left to return to Jonathan and begin the final leg of the long journey to Lundazi.

The Chipata to Lundazi road is unsurfaced yet fairly smooth in the dry season, the scenery typically savannah scrub bushland blending into barren grasslands as the Luangwa escarpment is reached. There is much activity along the roadsides with the small farms and gardens being worked industriously and the resultant produce marketed vigorously.

With fifty kilometres to go to our destination the road deteriorated to a rutted track that made the journey most uncomfortable. It was about 3.30 pm when we had our first sight of Lundazi and its crumbling, shabby dwellings.

I went straight to the Police station to inform them of my arrival and to make arrangements for a police officer to accompany me to the aquamarine mines the next day.

The steps leading from the dirt of the main street to the Police Station door were rickety and broken and I imagined generations of criminals, ne'er do wells and the plain unfortunate being hurled and kicked against them over the forty years or so since the place had been built.

Oh, how different my welcome here than at Police Headquarters in Chipata. The sergeant was most surly and unhelpful, more or less telling me that I was not wanted here and that my warrant card counted for nought in his domain. Perhaps this is why the Chief Inspector had given me the introduction letter to the Office of the President. I politely bade the policemen goodbye and went to check in at the oddest hotel in Africa.