Lusaka:
|
My name is Paul Cleary. I'm 60 years old, male and currently in Dublin,
Ireland.
|
|
|
Sorry, you cannot edit this review.
|
|
2 of 2 people found this review helpful
.ad_header {color:#a1a1a1;padding-bottom:5px;font-size:0.9em;}
.ad_line1 {color:#FD4C22;font-size:1.1em;text-decoration:underline;}
.ad_line1 hover {color:#FF6D34;}
.ad_text {color:#000000;font-size:0.95em; text-decoration:none}
.ad_url {color:#003399;font-size:0.95em;margin-bottom:12px; text-decoration:none}
.wide_ads {background:#ddf8cc; padding:5px}
I flew from Dar Es Salaam to Lusaka courtesy of Aero Zambia. They had told me to get to the airport early because in Africa planes sometimes leave ahead of schedule if they get enough passengers. So I arrived 2 hours before the plane was due to leave. I came bursting in to the departure hall to find 2 Europeans asleep on their luggage and one old guy leaning on a broomstick. And that was all. No uniformed staff, no facilities, nothing. In the middle of the huge hall was a bucket, into which water dripped slowly from the ceiling. And it wasn't even raining! But it was unbearably hot and caused rivulets of perspiration to run down from both my eyebrows, form a confluence on my temple and send a flash flood of sweat cascading along the bridge of my nose which I then dispersed in all directions by a vigorous shake of the head, rather like a dog when it comes out of water. ’Twas thus that I sat for over an hour. Suddenly a large African lady appeared from a cat flap behind the counter, wrote our flight number on a blackboard and held it aloft. So much for technology.
There were now 9 of us, all thoroughly enervated from the long, hot, sticky wait and just wanting to get to Lusaka without further ado. Our luggage was duly checked in, we paid our $20 airport tax and we were sent up to the departure lounge. ”Lounge” was perhaps a slight exaggeration. The room we came to was virtually devoid of amenities apart from a row of plastic chairs and a make-shift bar selling bottles of luke-warm beer. There were a couple of duty-free shops but they were closed. In fact it was so dark that the whole place looked closed.When we finally came to board the plane, we were led down a corridor that was in total darkness. The stewardess showed the way with a torch. It was more like going to the cinema than boarding a plane.
We came out onto the tarmac and saw a vintage 737 with bullet holes in the side. ”Please God, don't let this be our plane”, I said to myself. I'm not normally a religious man but drastic situations call for drastic measures and sometimes I feel compelled to seek the assistance of a higher being. He let me down. It was our plane. I fully expected them to throw a rope ladder down for us to climb up but they managed to wheel out a rickety staircase just in time. The stewardesses, who doubled as baggage handlers and mechanics (well nobody gets muscles like that from dishing out gin/tonics) welcomed us aboard. Of the 9 of us, 8 were traveling business and one guy had the whole tourist section to himself. The plane must have been the prototype 737. Business class had those imitation “wet-look” seats popular in the early 60's. I'm not saying the plane was old but on the safety brochure was in Latin!
But the service was impeccable. Waited on hand and foot with every whim catered for. And you should have heard some of the whims The 8 businessmen ordered so many drinks that in the end they just left us the trolley and we helped ourselves. Dinner was a bit of a mystery though. Everything was pre-bundled in small psychedelic packages. The words ”Balkan Airlines” were engraved on the cutlery. None of us was quite sure what the packages were and we had to ask the stewardess for a colour guide. Blue was smoked salmon, pink was chicken and green-striped was the cheese. We decided to stay with the beverages.
The door to the cockpit was wide open throughout the flight and the captain was continuously turning round to chat up the stewardesses. I kept wanting to tell him that he should keep his eyes on the sky but felt it may have been inappropriate. I did have a chat with him though and I actually asked him how old the plane was. He didn't give me a direct answer but said that they could be anything up to 40 years old. I got the feeling that the one we were in was pushing 40 from the wrong side. But it got us there safely, although the gin did help a lot.
I couldn't see an awful lot during the short drive into Lusaka but, unlike Tanzania, I could feel that there was a distinct lack of potholes in the road and there were streetlamps most of the way. My hotel in Lusaka was real African style. The door key had an ebony carving attached and I considered bringing it home. I only found out afterwards that they had made a $30 deposit charge on the key. Obviously I was not the only one who had had that thought. Mind you, 30 bucks was a bit steep, I bought similar carvings for 5 dollars the next day but that was probably more due to my superior haggling skills than an overnight drop in hardwood futures.
The climate in Lusaka was much pleasanter than in Dar. The town lies much higher up and inland, making it both cooler and drier. However, in terms of street safety it is more intimidating and I was advised by my hosts not to go out alone. As far as infrastructure goes, it was a big improvement on Dar (but then so was Hiroshima).
There was one pretty impressive building in the middle of town. I asked my driver about it
”Yeah, it looks nice from the outside but the lifts and the air-conditioning have never worked since it was built, several years ago”, he told me.
”Who's on the top floor?”, I asked him.
”A lot of very skinny businessmen !”, came the reply.
The traffic seemed to flow smoothly enough, but then it would do when cars overtake on both sides. Such manoeuvres were of course forbidden but with no police to enforce the rules, people did as they liked. However, soon afterwards we did come across most of the Lusaka police force - they were all guarding the president’s car. We had to stop at an intersection to let the cortège go by... first a dozen police bikes, then the presidential stretch-limo, followed by a spare limo in case the first one broke down, then an ambulance in case the Pres got sick en route and then half a dozen squad cars. No wonder every villain in town was having a field day with the tourists when all the fuzz were out guarding el Presidente.
I was used to seeing pick-up trucks with gangs of men sitting in the back but then we saw one with several families in and all its blinkers going. My driver explained that the blinkers meant it was a funeral. I asked where the coffin was and he said the body was wrapped in cloth on the floor of the pick-up. So while the Pres rode around in air-conditioned luxury, some poor old bloke making his last journey was bundled up in an old pair of curtains, thrown on the truck floor, trodden on by dozens of pairs of feet and then made to wait in 35 degrees C while the head of the country drives by on his way to lunch.
In the evening I went out with my hosts for dinner to an Indian restaurant on the edge of town. The food was great, including the huge grasshopper that flew in through the open window into the vat of vindaloo on the table. The fun came when it was time to pay. The restaurant boasted international cuisine but not international credit cards so it was either hard cash or wash the dishes. The unit of currency in Zambia is the kwacha which is not exactly one of the world's stablest currencies. Its fortunes on the foreign exchange markets have been, to put it mildly, unfortunate. Roughly 1,200 were required to purchase one lousy greenback. The bill came to just over 100,000 kwachas, not a princely sum for 4 huge dinners but the bad news was that the highest denomination kwacha note is 500. Attempts have been made to introduce larger notes but they have been so riddled with forgeries that they have given up. So we had to fork out two hundred 500 kwacha notes. The table looked as if we had been playing monopoly. We got up to leave but the waiter asked us to stay until he had counted the money. I mean, do I look like a crook? It took him 3 attempts to count to 200 before we could finally vacate the establishment. It's no wonder pickpockets are rife in Lusaka when everyone has to walk around with huge bundles of cash about their person. With wads of notes bulging from every punter's pocket it must be a paradise for the nimble-fingered.
Of course I couldn't leave without buying a few souvenirs. I was provided with a driver/chaperone/bodyguard because they told me that the local populace would not be safe if I went out on the streets alone. His name was Simba and he looked like a line-backer for the Chicago Bears. He drove me to the tourist village in Lusaka where a lot of mock-adobe huts had been erected amid blocks of flats. Between the huts were stalls laden with African craftsmanship - drums, carved ebony figures, jewellery etc. Thankfully, there were no animal hides, gorilla paw ashtrays or ivory keyrings. I picked up one of the artifacts and began to haggle. The guy's price dropped like a stone. I was beginning to believe that my negotiating prowess was improving until I saw Simba standing behind me glaring at the chap and dragging his finger across his Adam's apple in no unclear manner.
Laden down with my Zambian memorabilia, I took to the skies once more and headed northwards to Nairobi.
Tags for this Travel Tip:
flights
buildings
traffic
currency
|
Was this Travel Tip helpful to you?
Yes
|
No |
Leave a Comment!
Bookmark this page on:
Leave a Comment!
|
|
|
Helpful comment? Yes | No
Very vivid. Very informative.
Helpful comment? Yes | No
Helpful comment? Yes | No
Enjoy your stay!
Helpful comment? Yes | No