Zambia World Wide

The independence that my little automobile brought to my life was immense and the impact on my sagging spirits matched my feeling of freedom. There was nowhere to go, of course, other than the big, noisy, watery thing about 15 miles out of town, but now I could get there under my own steam; plus I qualified for the all-important window decal that allowed me to cross the border without having to encounter bureaucracy.

Not that the old Ford could be trusted to venture much beyond that, mainly due to the fact that the car featured a vacuum system of windscreen wipers. When driving through the Falls rainforest area and encountering a hill, Prefect drivers had a choice: ascend the incline or have forward vision, but not both. This was because Ford accountants had encouraged the engineers to use engine power to work the wipers, not via a separate motor as in other makers’ cars, so a Ford engine under labour had no spare energy for clearing the screen, which certainly added to the adventure of the overall drive somewhat, especially for nervous passengers.

So there I was: settled in Livingstone. Not exactly over-fulfilled, it’s true, but free from reliance on others’ wheeled charity, a freckly, barely horny when pissed, nurse by my side and enough cash to fund a frugal existence. Relative contentment beckoned, at which point, the Great Impostor in the Sky intervened and a command to transfer to Lusaka was received by the overjoyed crone PA to John Capeling, which she relayed to me with what I considered to be an excess of vindictive enthusiasm for my upcoming disappearance. ‘It’s Thursday’, she trilled, ‘report to Collector McCormack in Lusaka on Monday’.

Excitement mixed with trepidation licked at my still unsullied loins. On the one hand, the capital city beckoned and surely it would prove to be a hotbed of disgusting vice and other filthy activities, into which I could contentedly immerse myself. On the other, I had yet to transport there and it certainly would take a more threatening weapon than a big stick with a nail through the end of it to persuade me to make the endless, dusty journey by RR train again.

Then the thought struck me that I was worrying needlessly; I had my own conveyance for the 300 mile journey through wild bush, mountain ranges and unsettled territory. No matter that a flock of unidentifiable avians still had many of their mortal remains contained within it, or that rainfall was a deadly enemy or that the seating had been maintained by the questionable welding skill of a pioneer man-woman: it could be done and I would do it.

To the slight relief of us both, the ginger Florence Nightingale was released unbroken, my maternally selected, scratchy, Arctic wardrobe was donated to a pathetically grateful houseboy and I was almost ready for round two of my mismatched battle with Zambia Customs and Excise and Central Africa.

Lusaka and, particularly, its unsuspecting womenfolk, here I come! The Scots Lad Rules, OK?

Copyright Gerry Hodes: April 2013