Alone in Lusaka

M. left for a conference in South Africa, and I moved to hotel. She said I could stay, her sister was moving in to take care of the girls. But I’m ready to step out on my own. Although now I’m in the hotel I feel like I’ve left Zambian life and entered the world of the expat where Zambians become receptionists and waiters rather than friends and acquaintances.
I sit in the lobby listening to groups of NGOs discuss the country’s problems while the waiter brings them coffee. I watch one group – an EU male, two Asian women and two Zambian women. The four women listen while the man talks. “I don’t think they’ve analysed….” “I talked with the minister…” The Asian women eventually enter the conversation, but the Zambian women stay silent. This feels like the old country, not the Zambia I visited at the weekend. But we are less than five miles from where M.’s friends discussed Darfur, Muslim extremism and the crime rates of South Africa, and I listened while they debated the solution to Zambia’s problems and came up with solutions such as no 4x4, stabilise business tax so that companies aren’t afraid of investment, make it easier to have contract staff rather than casual labour, and paying farmers early and giving them the same rate paid for imported maize so they can invest in the next year. It all made so much sense, and it was Zambian – all home grown.
Up in the hotel room there are British and American television programmes, but I watch the Zambian channel. There are great some great African soaps – A young Malawian man regrets bringing his sister to the city when she goes astray – a Nigerian comedy about four young bachelors living together – and a Burkino Faso film that focuses on religious parents who realize they must talk to their teens about HIV.
The Zambian news has a single camera and poor echoing sound, but I love watching its rawness. There is no teleprompter, and the anchor has to read and look at the viewer.
Down at the restaurant, I have my first Mosi beer since ’82 – tastes great, but is clear, no sediment and the bottle has a label. When I was here before, Mosi was the only beer available and it didn’t need a label. We bought it by the crateload – usually a crate a week. And then there were the weekends at our bush parties. Professional Zambians and whites all had an account at the IRDP clubhouse – but there was only one drink to buy – Mosi – it was warm, but we didn’t care.
Mosi left us with a lot of hangovers and occasionally worse – a bad batch of beer that came from the bottom of a dirty barrel and you’d feel the gastric effects for several days.
The Pamodzi Hotel is such a different world from M.’s house, and I suddenly feel lonely. There is no one to talk other than the waiters and I worry that they think I’m flirting with them – I’m not – I’m just social.
I could talk to the other whites but, as I listen to them drone on about their trips – “We had great showers, not just a barrel but a good flow of water.” “The animal just wanted water.”
Who wants to listen to this? They almost sound like the happy Valley Crew.