Zambia World Wide

One glorious�afternoon, aware that he was�immersed in his custom of�brown-nosing the bosses elsewhere in the building, I managed to purloin his adored, pristine,�peaked�Service�cap and, repairing to the lavatory, I posted a chunky, very�personal, steamy deposit plumb in the centre of it, before replacing it in his burrow. It would have been utterly orgasmic to be able to report that he had�plonked it on his skull without noticing the augmentation, but it was sufficiently satisfying�to hear of the wail of horror that he emitted when he discovered my generous�contribution to his headgear.

The rest of the week he spent attempting to detect the culprit, but I was�above suspicion, believed to be�permanently ensconced in my cavern�des parcels. One grudge repaid, joy & satisfaction in abundance and�sunshine let�in on my sad, bitter world. Once again, hurrah for pre-DNA days.

What I was unaware of was that, whilst I was entertaining myself scatologically at Bryson�s expense, a certain Ian Smith was plotting to disrupt the universe of fun-loving, Civil Service secondees in Zambia, by giving my (then) hero, Harold Wilson, the Rhodesian runaround; first�at sea on HMS' Fearless & Tiger, then subsequently�raising the stakes, by declaring a complete rebellion against the Mother Country.

Incidentally, I managed to procure copies of�both UDI editions of the gigantically headlined Rhodesia Herald and�Times of Zambia, which I dispatched to my Dad in Glasgow. In due course, I received a polite thank you: he had read both from cover to cover, enjoyed, particularly, the classifieds section,�and disposed of both newspapers with the kitchen waste. He had a fine sense of history, my dear old father.

I can�t say that I was ever much involved with our southern neighbour, beyond previous short trips across the border at the water park in Livingstone, but they seemed decent enough for a bunch of alleged�rabid imperialists and pretty orderly, if dull. I knew also that the country was the transport hub for most of Zambia's imports,�especially fuel and was a manufacturing base for many desirable luxury items,�for example�Supersonic car radios, after which I lusted as an accessory for my own transport, given that the supplied radio was sufficiently elderly to have seen duty as a communications medium for the French underground in WW2.

Suddenly, though, Rhodesians became, at least in the Zambian press, racist slavers in the Nazi mould and a face spiting, nose-cutting episode ensued, as politicians scrambled to condemn and proscribe all relationships with the South. Confusion reigned throughout the land; petrol rationing was speedily introduced; licences were required for most imports, adding substantially to bureaucratic delays and my personal workload. The comical Zambian Army started digging foxholes in all the wrong places; and the Nkunika-types, plus�their imported acolytes, were incandescent with rage at it all: not that that represented much change from their normal position.

Apart from loud rhetoric and extra politicking, in a country that would have benefited from�a lot less of both, there wasn�t too much change, although squadrons of the RAF suddenly appeared, with�the mandate to keep the country running with flown-in fuel. This was brilliant news for we customs types, because free air trips opened up to other countries, mainly the Congo and Tanzania, but also Kenya, the most desirable destination. In due course, a�few mates and I managed to visit all three, but more of that, later in the sequence.

Seeking experiences not to be found in E. London's Shadwell Pier Head, emphatically was one of the reasons I had signed up for Central Africa in the first place. Now, thanks to intransigence in Cecil Land, the opportunities for these had multiplied manyfold. Bless you Smithy. Harold may disapprove of you and most of independent Africa had uprated that to vitriolic�hatred, but thumbing your nose at The Queen had just improved the�variety in�my life substantially, so what�s not to like? Hey! I never said I possessed political nous. Who does, at age 19?

All I knew was: if this is what happens after 6 months in the country, what would transpire over the next 30? The answer was: plenty and not too much of it palatable to Paddy, it has to be said.

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Copyright: Gerry Hodes January 2014