One of the first things that strikes you about Zambians is how friendly they are. Even people on the street all seam to say “Welcome to Zambia” and everyone wants to know where you’re going, how long you’re staying and when you’ll be coming back to Zambia. When we were at Victoria Falls there was a group of boys wanting their photo taken and at first we though they wanted us to take it for them, but soon realized that they wanted it taken with us. A strange thought because usually the other way around. We got chatting and all ended up at a bar to watch the football (Russia won). They promised to send us the photos and we’re still waiting on them, but was glad to spend a night talking with some local boys who wanted nothing more than to watch the football and chat.
Catching the train from Livingstone to Lusaka was a real adventure. The Zambian boys were surprised we were catching the train, “We’re Zambians, and not even we would catch the train!”. Being my father’s son though, I have to catch a train if it’s heading in the direction of travel, no matter what people might say. Waiting at the platform for the train I struck up a conversation with a friendly freight driver who spied me a few days earlier looking at the station in Zimbabwe, depressed by “the monkeys” that run the country and that destroyed the once mighty Rhodesian Railways, he warned us travel isn’t what it used to be and that with only 3rd class available, to keep one eye open whilst we slept – a sentiment echoes by the ticket seller. The platform gates opened and there was a mad scramble resembling a heard of buffalo stampeding, to board the train. We managed to get a seat with cushioned back and an unbroken window – quite the luxury.
Soon after departure on this 19hour, 450km trip, a group of people at the back of the train launched into perfect harmony for what would become a spectacular evenings performance. It wasn’t an organized thing, they were just normal passengers and we never deducted if they were part of a choir or if every Zambian has a great singing voice. On more popular songs the whole carriage would erupt into harmony and their locals songs sung well into the night were a superb highlight of the trip.
We met a man named Kerry in Zimbabwe; he has been traveling for the last 13 months, from his home in Hong Kong, through The Stans, Eastern Europe, and Western Africa entirely overland before getting to Victoria Falls en route to Cape Town. We met during Italy vs Spain and found he was heading our way. We were happy for the company so he traveled with us to Lusaka. Between the three of us we managed to get a little sleep with someone always keeping guard, but apart from the singing, there’s wasn’t much activity and our goodies we safe and sound.
When light broke the train got very full very quickly, every seat was taken and the isles were full to the brim. The train stopped intermittently and locals would walk up and down the side of the train selling all kinds of goods; fruits, nuts, fish, bread, drinks and chips. I sniffed my bread before munching into it, much to the amusement of the girls sitting opposite us. It must have been strange for them to see white people on the train, as I think we were the only ones in the entire eight carriages.
Stepping into Lusaka, eyes aching, body disagreeing with the lack of sleep and the fact you slapped a heavy pack onto it, we check into a local backpacker where we spent the first and second nights in a dorm, on the third they overbooked us so they gave us a tent, the forth we went into a private room and fifth was booked out so we decided to leave, but the other backpackers was full too, so the fifth night was in a guesthouse before moving to the new backpackers for the sixth, that told us we might not be able to stay for the seventh despite the fact we booked.
We needed some passport photos for our Tanzanian visas and we found a man on the street selling just that. One man held up the blue sheet as a backdrop whilst he snapped your image, a minute later you’ve got four little photos. We wanted a memento of your time with Kerry and though if we got passport photos we could each keep one, but when suggesting this to the photographer he blankly refused. We kept walking and found another photographer, he set up his camera and then we all jumped into the shot. He told us he wouldn’t fit us all in and we insisted there was enough room in a passport photo for three heads. I think he though it was the funnies thing as he couldn’t stop from laughing and even when we passed him a few days later, he just looked at us and began chuckling again.
So now we’re all visaed up, farewelled Kerry and ready to catch another train tomorrow, this one for two night and three days, but we’re traveling in a first class compartment with beds, so it should be a more comfortable, even if it does lack the singing and sense of authenticity.
Next stop Dar Es Salaam, so until then “clickadee-clack”
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