Zambia World Wide

Longacres was just slightly better than�my first time impression of it. At least there was food on offer, but my allotted cell was as sterile as before. There was, however, some socialising available and a caf� opposite, which had been shut on my last visit, for some al fresco dining. Admittedly,my initial visit�there was off-putting a touch, when I observed a mammoth nursing mfazi encourage her infant to latch on, by dunking her pendulous, ebony�mammary into the sugar bowl,�before plunging it into�its mouth. Although it could definitely be described as a titillating , if disgusting,exhibition, it did deliver�a lifetime health benefit�by persuading me to have my coffee unsweetened, thereafter.

Next day, I trudged back into Postman Pat territory. This time, however, I started with a few advantages. First, I had a reasonable idea of what was expected of me; second, no-one�with half a brain�wanted anything to do with brown paper and string,�which meant that�I was totally�under-managed,�well suiting�my uncanny ability to irritate bosses. In addition, the role meant that�I fell in with a bunch of cynical expat postal counter operatives, who delivered to me several useful off-job opportunities, not least of which was exposure to the many secretarial types buying services at their counters.

As I settled into life in Lusaka, there was only the reappeared problem of being without wheels again, but re-reading my contract reminded me that the government employment missive that�I had signed, contained a promise to advance me a loan for transport purchase. So, off to the Ministry of Finance I trotted, mis-using one of the GRZ vehicles as a taxi. I wish my life had been one more of co-operation and less of confrontation, but Fate had decreed that it was not to be so, nor has it. Politely told by one of the expat finance geeks that all loans had been suspended, it took much jumping up and down to persuade him, his boss and his boss�s boss that they were contractually obliged to provide one, or, alternatively, a plane ticket back to the UK. They grumpily capitulated and I left with a cheque.

Next stop was Dulys used car lot, where I picked up the least loved auto in their possession: a 1961 Peugeot 203, in a peculiarly French shade of bilious green that resembled the pallor of a corpse�which had expired from Ebola, but which�possessed reclining seats. Proper ones, this time.

I don�t know what it is about me, but (said too�tardily to�avoid severe�grief) my dear�wife apart, I am drawn to the ugly, odd and rejected, in my choice of personal possessions. The Pogo fulfilled those three requirements in spades, as it sat dejected and squat in the corner of that showroom, but, for me, it was love at first sight and I was rewarded by complete reciprocity, from the moment I drove it. BTW, this philosophy can work with the opposite sex too (and probably the same sex, but that�s still untested, as I continue to reject my missus� appalling calumnies). One negotiated deal, including a promise of a colour conversion to grey and the 203 was mine for a modest sum. I returned to the land of tattered parcels and battles with amoral Asian jewellers, with a skip in my step and independent travel in my future.

A week on and things became even better. Number 19, Brecknock Road became the Customs Mess, PWD delivered convict beds and filthy mattresses, plus chunky furniture from around the turn of the century and five of us moved in: His Shagfulness bagged the biggest room, His wondrous infidelities to pursue. I claimed the adjacent space, which meant I almost had a stupendous sex life, apart from being on the wrong side of a studded partition wall. Hey, it was progress of sorts and not much different to living next door to Tommy and Bouncy in Livingstone, apart from the huge variety of�distaff�participants�partnering Browning in the dance of the Beast With Two Backs.

I say five of us were accommodated at #19, but only four were government employees. The fifth was a stray that we had somehow picked up from gawd knows where, probably the gutter, called Tommy Gobey and he bedded down, like the ambulant itinerant he was, in an area through which it was necessary to traverse when moving from one side of the house to another. Audiences didn�t seem to bother him, even when he�d managed to inveigle some half-witted female to share his quarters and the ensuing entertainments were welcome diversions to the rest of�us onanist�perverts. After all, the 1965 Zambia television broadcasts were fairly dire (bet they are still): Gobey in action was much more interesting & instructive. Well, a tad more anyway.