Zambia World Wide

I still feel guilty about my time in Livingstone. Not because I embarked on a crime wave or started a series of race riots or condemned the earnest activities of the local Caledonian Society, but by failing properly to appreciate the place until it was too late. I can be forgiven for this, for, in 96 hours, I had moved from Glasgow through London to Lusaka and now Livingstone. It was a little like compressing an entire Life, from birth to geriatricity, into the same period.

As I stepped down from the unending mobile incarceration, that had been the tedious rail journey down from Lusaka and, without regret, watched the RR carriages set off for the next leg of their Bulawayo odyssey, it occurred to me that I had been transported back to Dodge City, circa 1880. The station itself was no larger than a village halt in Lanarkshire, as if to remind the ghost of the town�s eponymous sponsor of his country origins, yet different in so many ways. A cocktail of scented warmth, mixed with clear, fresh air and sharp sunshine settled around my shoulders and it felt good. All I required was a six gun on my hip and a hat with a decent brim and the transformation would have been complete, but I didn�t have long to absorb the fantasy.

�Err yeow Jirrrry?� enquired a southern African accent from out of the camouflaging sun. For I moment I thought that weasel-features might have followed me from the train, but, on admitting that the ID was close enough, a lean, blonde, hard-looking guy in uniform thrust out his hand and grasped mine in a bone-crushing handshake. � Emm, Toammy Fin Der Vallllt end dees is moh fianc�e Treesha� he said, indicating a not unpleasant looking, simpering, wobbly girl in ridiculously out of context heels and hooped dress: �Willkum ta Leevingstun�.

(At this juncture, I should re-assure my no doubt rapidly diminishing band of faithful readers that I will desist from future attempts to phonetically describe the peculiar accent of the native white southern African; and, simultaneously, offer grateful thanks for their indulgence thus far. Fresh off the inbound plane, however, it was a most odd encounter with this English language variant, although, as close to the end of my allotted span as I am, I�ve heard weirder: the white Bahamanian, for example, who speaks in exactly the same dialect as his black neighbour. It might be a logical by-product of sharing the same environment, but it ain�t half odd to hear a white guy sounding like Vivian Richards, even now. Anyway, henceforth, straight quotation will be my guiding style. Promise)

Weekends obviously started early in the Livingstone Customs service and, as my introduction to the new job wasn�t to start for nearly three days, we all piled into Tommy�s Austin Cambridge for a whirlwind journey to the Customs Mess, a modern bungalow on the outskirts of the town. Actually, I think he felt he was showing me the town, but a single trip along Livingstone Main Street more or less fulfilled that requirement and I was so pleased to be clear of clattering railway carriages and bile-saturated Jaapies that I wasn�t complaining. This went double at night time, when I realised that I had a room to myself, implying that my days of sharing malodorous accommodation with a bunch of over-sexed, provincial perverts were at last at an end.

That said, apparently my nights of listening to the wiry Tommy bouncing happily on top of his pillow top fianc�e were just starting and the aforementioned perverts definitely topped her in the quietness stakes. Add to that some urgent, throbbing drum action, emanating from an adjacent African township, and it was like snuggling down in the middle of an X-rated version of King Solomon�s Mines. Not to worry; on the plus side, the pollution-free night sky was a brilliant canopy of unfamiliar brightness that would have begged a closer look from the exterior, had I had either the nerve or the energy to venture outside. My neatly folded laundry having been carefully placed on a chair, eschewing the instruction from Mr. Bouncy next door just to �throw it on the floor for the boy to wash�, I gratefully entered the hard world of government issue bedding and abandoned myself to deep sleep and lewd dreams.

Next morning, I met �the boy�, a man of middle years, as he scuttled around serving a disappointingly un-African meal of cornflakes and toast. I�m not sure what I expected, since my only experience of local dining was my recent confrontation with the pair of appalling boerewors on the train, but I just hadn�t considered that the Kellogg Corporation might have captured the breakfast time tastes of Central Africa as much as they had the so-called developed markets. How naive was I? I was rapidly to learn that it was probably ONLY the thought of one day enjoying Dundee cake, Tetley�s tea, Camay soap, Wall�s bacon and all the other entrenched brands, not to mention white-sliced loaves, from their home markets that drove on the first pioneers through untamed wilderness, hostile natives, ferocious carnivores and virulent insect life in the first place. Not exactly an edifying ambition, but, if it worked for them, who am I to knock it? Whatever the spur and even in remote Livingstone, the shops were full of actual British, ersatz British and knock-off South African British merchandise and foodstuffs. Excellent stuff for the slightly homesick, but not exactly the new world that I had been anticipating.

Not that I was complaining. For a start, I was now down to the five pound note that I habitually carried in my footwear. If you were brought up in the Glasgow of the 1950�s, you�d understand this. If you were a Jew in that environment, doubly so. Not that I am claiming to have been persecuted on the grounds of religion. Far from it: I claim to have had a religion on the basis of persecution. Let me explain that apparently anomalous statement. The Glasgow in which I grew up was split neatly down the middle into two camps: Fenians and Proddies. Neither of them was particularly devout, but, without really understanding why, they hated each other and pitched battles between the two sides were frequent occurrences and it was easy for us Hebes to stay out of it by claiming no particular affiliation. The difficulties arose when they�d fought themselves to a standstill and then decided to join forces and turn on the murderers of the Son of God. That�s when claims of neutrality failed totally and only bribery provided protection from a good hiding. And that�s when I learned to carry only coinage in my pockets and the folding stuff in my shoes. Later on, when I developed muscles, a robust atheism and a lifelong love of mayhem, hidden lucre became less important than did a developed skill with the Glasgow kiss, but, by then, the habit was embedded, along with a bit of a limp.

So I was happy to be outside of a free breakfast, or at least I was until all the sordid memories of my previous career in mass masturbation returned with the enthusiastic conversation around the table, within which the word �wanky� was frequently repeated. It turned out, however, that my fears of new sexual challenges were groundless: the general opinion was that the mess residents should take the new boy on a jaunt to a game park of that name: Wankie Reserve, some 40 miles into Rhodesia. Within 18 months of that day in May 1965, such a trip was as unthinkable as a bicycle ride by Utah Mormons through N. Korea might be today, but, then, each side�s border officials hopped backwards and forwards across the boundary barriers on production of an officially issued windscreen decal. Happy, sensible times, never to be repeated and, probably, quite the opposite will obtain, given present terrorism neuroses.

With Tommy, Wobbles, another couple of mess residents and I all squeezed into the Austin, we headed southwards at breakneck speed; with a pause at the staggeringly impressive Victoria Falls, where solemn reflection of the recent demise of a senior Customs official, Roy Barker, who slipped to his death whilst framing a picture opportunity, was observed. Blimey, the journey was impressive: the road was just a narrow ribbon of tarmac with shingle shoulders either side, into which it was necessary to make a sandstorm escape when encountering traffic on the opposite side. The bush came right up to the edge of the road and it seemed possible to see some insouciant wild animals through some of the foliage - at least that�s how I remember it. Tommy drove like a maniacal Jaapie Mr. Toad and gave no quarter to oncoming drivers, except for the giant trucks hauling coal from Wankie colliery. Just as well, as they were at least six feet off the ground and, I�m sure, unsighted where other road users were concerned. Soon, the entrance to Wankie Game Reserve was in view, to the enormous relief of all terrified passengers.

Thereafter, a new, wondrous world opened up for this Scots lad. The place was crawling with game, all of it seemingly happy to share it with goggle-eyed visitors. Dainty antelopes scurried across our path, a truly monstrous buffalo faced us down before swaggering off cockily into the bush and we passed several, loping giraffe, so close I could almost reach out and touch the markings on their leathery hides. A herd of elephants delivered the same impact as the coal trucks, by persuading Tommy to halt while they ambled across the roadway, trunk to tail. A giant bull came last of all and turned towards us, raising his trunk in salute. At least I prefer to think that it was an elephantine wave: he probably was saying �come closer if you dare, tiny people�, but that wasn�t the softer greeting he imparted, in my recall at least. Most exciting of all was the feeling of being watched the whole time by other mysterious denizens of the inner forest. Too imperious, or suspicious, to emerge for our pleasure, they nevertheless communicated their existence with the odd roar of complaint at our proximity and I found myself gently edging up the window a little more with each encounter.

The word �thrill� doesn�t have sufficient import to describe how this pale-faced city boy felt. I was overwhelmed with the beginning of comprehending just how different my upcoming adventures were to be over the next three years, quite neatly encapsulated by observing a labouring dung beetle coping resolutely with an enormous elephant turd, which it was rolling purposefully towards its own ordure-furnished domicile. What a day; what brilliant country.

Despite my current position halfway along my sixth decade, I�m fortunate still to have an inspirational uncle alive, who has always been as much of a father to me as my own Dad, of blessed memory. His contributions to my lifetime development have been manyfold, including unobliging cantankerousness and extreme pedantry, where use of language (especially mine) is concerned. Foremost of these, however, has been his love of automobiles, with which disease he thoroughly infected me, despite his regrettable failure to pass on his technical skills to this mechanical dumbkopf.

I mention Uncle Harold just because the journey back from Wankie imbued in me the same feeling of sated happiness that he generated, when he merrily transported his family and mine down to the Ayrshire coast, most weekends. How he managed to cram eight people and several pressure cookers, each filled with soup, dumplings and potatoes, plus a couple of primus stoves, assorted rugs and, at least, a hundredweight of bakery goods, choc-a-bloc with heart-stopping fillings, into an old Morris shooting brake will always be a triumph of his masterly seat allocation over designed interior capacity and a supreme mystery to me. I�m sure that 21^st century health and safety commissars would be hysterical with regulatory disapproval, but I cared not a jot, then or now. All I knew was that I was plonked ecstatically in the middle of the front bench seat and encouraged to time the gear changes whilst he worked the pedals. Seat belts, pah! Uncle Harold rules, OK?

All that was missing from our Wankie sojourn, was a stop at a delightful caf� such as Nardini�s of Largs, to use as a midway resting place, as did mon oncle. This world-famous art deco watering hole enabled us kids to gorge ourselves with fish & chips and home-made Italian ice cream, even though, mostly, we puked it up just outside Elderslie, nearer home, but the magic was there anyhow. Still, the Victoria Falls hotel was not a bad stand-in for tea and perfect scones, plus the sight of an exquisite frame of the spray from the Falls, reaching up towards the heavens. Some 46 years later, I�m memory perfect on the Wankie trip, just as I am on Uncle Harry�s seaside charabanc from a decade before that. Fairy dusted journeys all.

Back at the Customs Mess, Tommy and Wobbles retired to their room for their customary sexual gymnastics, whilst the frustrated rest of us extended the evening into the night, settled out of earshot in the living room, with beers and chattering recall of the amazing sights we had just experienced. Given the dire state of my financial liquidity, the coming Sunday was definitely going to be a non-spending day of rest for me, so I was happy to toddle through to my room in the wee sma� hours, to be confronted by the unlaundered laundry that I had refused to throw on the floor, on the Socialist basis that it was demeaning to our house servant. It was early in the trip to be instructed on not messing around with long-established domestic mores, but properly educated I certainly was. Drunk or sober, onto the floor it went, from then on.

Dung beetles, dusty roads and dirty laundry filled my slightly tipsy head as I drifted off to sleep on my second night in Livingstone. The Scots Lad had almost three years of this ahead of him. Would he cope? Could he cope? Bien sur!

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Copyright:Gerry Hodes 2011

Episode #6: The Scots Lad at the feet of a Bronzed God