Cornishman in Africa ; Whoops I did it again.

Whoops I did it again.
I don’t know if you ever have that feeling when you wake up in the morning and think. What exactly happened last night. Then with no provocation, memories start to come flooding back, and you are not 100% sure what is fact and what is just a dread fear of what might have happened.
I had another of those experiences this morning as I dragged myself from slumber and realised that there was actually no need, as it was Saturday morning and I had no need to wake at six at all.
The sun was not quite coming streaming into the bedroom as I had hung a bed sheet up over the burglar bars in lieu of a curtain(Why or how I don’t know.) I only have one curtain in the house, and that covers the window on the bedroom that looks to the front of the house. The other five windows stare unblinkered out onto the trees, grassland and dam that make up this tranquil wooded enclave that I have come to know as home, away from Cornwall.
The dawn chorus was in full swing with the Franklins, Louries and a hundred and one, different species of birds doing there damndest to drag me into Saturday. They succeeded.
I got up, sat down, got up again sat down, and decided against vertical travel. Crawling was going to be the best mode of transport to the bathroom. Unfortunately the paracetamol were on the top shelf, so I decided they would have to wait. I reckoned that, at best, I could probably reach, up and hopefully remember how to operate the taps of the shower. I did, and as the burst of cold water hit me, with it came some recollection of being very wet not six hours earlier. The million piece jigsaw that was the night before slowly stated to piece itself together.
Matthew and Lorain, and another friend Sally (Who is planning on moving into Kalima) had come round for a few drinks and some snacks the previous evening. The evening started about six, relaxed and sober. Chatting over the previous week and catching up on all the gossip, that manages to circulate around the African communities even faster than the proverbial drums could beat. As the sun went down the pace stepped up, not intentionally but that was just the way things panned out. The conversation was lively and fun, punctuated by laughter and serious moments. It was a lovely evening.
As the laughter became louder and more frequent, the serious moments fewer and further between, we put meat on the braai and the smells of sizzling borrowours filled the still air.
We ate we drank and we were very merry.
Now, sitting beside the dam on a beautiful starlit balmy evening is never a good idea when you have started on the second bottle of “Smirnoff”, the red wine has gone the same way as a number of “Savannah Dries” and a few “Castles”. The setting is idyllic, and I don’t know what it is in the human nature that when someone makes a ridiculous suggestion, you all think it’s a really good idea.
Now I blame Sally, but in fairness it may have been me in the past, on a few occasions. Sally decided that it might be a good idea if we went for a dip. And like a couple of silly school children, Matthew and I thought this was the best idea since dear old Henry Ford thought of his elaborate colour scheme for his “Model T”. We could not get our kit off quick enough.
Lorain had decided that there were enough children in the pool and she was going to stay firmly on dry land. (Well one of us had to be sensible, and dry.)
I charged my glass and staggered roughly in the direction of the dam, slipped on the teflon mud, landed on my arse and slithered unceremoniously into the water wearing nothing but a pair of black M&S underpants and the contents of my glass. Oh but the water was refreshing. Very shortly afterwards the peace was shattered by another two splashes and the sounds of satisfaction as Matthew and Sally both plunged into the crystal clear waters. We sat, we floated and swam about, gazed up at the stunning canopy of stars that had been laid out on the sky for our perusal. It was amazing.
Quite how long we stayed in the water I have no idea but I do remember having my glass refilled a couple of times while in there.
After a time, but how long escapes my memory, we came out and drip-dried in the warmth of the wonderful summer night. Needles to say we did not have the foresight to think about towels.
We settled down into another bout of, less comprehensible conversation and could have gone on till dawn. Luckily for our livers and our sanity Lorain (bless her) decided at about half past midnight that she ought to take her passengers home.
I cleared the decks at the bar and sat and just had one more drink, (that I really did not need (as the following morning pointed out)
How I got to bed, I have no idea. Who did the washing up, the clearing up and got my computer, speakers and other accruements back to my house will remain a mystery until the end of time.
The only thing out of place this morning were Matthew’s grey underpants hanging in the upper branches of a Mango tree about twenty feet from the bar (At least I assume they were his.)
Just don’t ask.

Denzil Bark. (Recovering slowly)

Cornishman in Africa ; Wet, Wet, Wet.

Wet, wet, wet.
You may recall that I mentioned the weather in my last piece.
Well guess what, I am going to talk about it again. Not that I want to bore you rigid about it, or because I originated from Mud Island and that always seems to be the favourite topic of conversation there.
But because it is truly astounding. When I last wrote I had, had my nights sleeping out arrangements changed by the rain, now it is changing people’s lives.
It was Saturday when I wrote and it is now Tuesday and it has hardly stopped raining since. So what I hear you say, it rains for months non-stop in Cornwall. And, yes I have to agree with you, but when, as was recorded on my friends farm yesterday they had 95mm in one and a half hours. It tends to get a tad damp under foot.
It was five past four when I woke this morning and I could not fathom the reason.
Yes the rain was still pounding down on the single skin asbestos roof. An amazing overture of constant raindrops that almost joined as one to form the background rhythm, then the funky almost melodic beat of the larger drips compounding then dropping from the leaves and branches with a symmetry that was almost hypnotic. I lay there listening to the novel music for a few minutes and was gently lulled back to sleep again. Suddenly I was wide awake again, feeling something on my arm, then it was gone, I drifted again, only to be thrust awake again. I laid there coming round a bit quicker this time then realised what it was.
The water was now coming through the roof running along the beams and dripping down onto the Mozi net where the drips were dissipated into a heavy spray rather than a drip. They were slowly soaking me.
I read for a while as I knew sleep was gone for the night, I read until, when I turned the pages of the book they disintegrated and the book became too sodden and heavy to hold.
Ironically I decided a shower might help. And maybe less ironically there was water for a change. As soon as it was light (which was later than normal due to the grey sky) I thought that I would take advantage of the extra time I had this morning, and took a stroll round the camp in the rain. To see the effects of the water.
It was quite spectacular, the cottage nearest the dam was up to its DPC in water, the normal tranquil waters of the dam were a mass of seething muddy morass. And the water level has come up a good ten inches. Where it is normally mirror still there is now a current flowing across the dam at a good 20 km/h. The sound of a waterfall now verging on obtrusive, from the other end of the dam, where the water normally, gently spills over the dam wall and trickles under the track, it now flows a good foot over the top.
It’s hardly surprising there were drips coming through my roof and it’s still pouring down.
I left for work as normal with an inkling that the bridge at the bottom of the valley might just be impassable. True enough impassable was an understatement. The Amazon rain forest, it seemed had washed downstream overnight, landed up against the bridge and was desperately trying to drag the bridge itself downstream too. (See picture) So round I turned and took the long way to work. (one and a half hours as opposed to twenty seven minutes.)
Mid morning, and I had to make a call across town, the rain had eased but there were still puddles the size of an Olympic pool every couple of hundred yards. Then once again the heavens opened, it was more a waterfall than rain, I can honestly say it was the heaviest rain I have ever seen, and I have seen monsoons. The effect this had on the roads that were already full to capacity was devastating. The water level rose feet in minutes. The world’s favourite car the Toyota Corolla (of which there are probably more of here than people) drowned, they just could not handle the amount of water. They were giving up the ghost left right and centre, the water was up past the trim on the door and over the wheels, the only things still moving were 4 x 4’s and busses, all of which were creating tremendous bow waves that were not assisting the plight of the Corolla. I don’t know if you have ever seen one of those duck races where the release hundreds of those yellow plastic numbered ducks into a river and they race down the river. Well that was the scene down Chandwe Musonda Road about twelve thirty today, except they were Corolla’s not ducks.
I made it back to the office only to find the yard and car park that normally bore the neat painted lines demarcating the parking spaces resembled more the Helston boating lake. (without the Ducks and geese)
The water had reached a level where it was now flowing into the reception and was threatening to lift all the parquet flooring down the passage.
It’s not a week since all the pessimists and tree huggers of Lusaka were saying what a terrible drought we were having and speculating that we had seen the last rains for the season all the crops would die, the dams would be empty and it was the end of agriculture in Zambia. And it was all the fault of “Global Warming” caused by people in Chelsea driving four wheel drive vehicles.
I notice it is no longer “Global Warming” but “Climate Change” so they can blame any glitch in the weather hot or cold, dry or wet on those who choose to drive a substantial vehicle.
I just giggle and wonder how many of those “blame it on others” were driving around Lusaka today in Toyota Corolla’s, and will go home tonight and throw their sodden clothes into their 200kw tumble driers.
I’m just glad it’s raining and wish there was a way we could just manage the storage of this invaluable commodity better.
P.S.
Since writing this I found out that today, three people were swept off the bridge in the picture. Trying to cross to get to School and work. The man who was swept off has been taken to hospital and is in a critical condition.
The grandmother and her grandson have not been found and are presumed dead as nether could swim.
My thoughts go out to them and their families. Africa is a hard and unforgiving place.

Denzil Bark.

Cornishman in Africa. Rain Stops Play.

I love this climate. Where in the world can you fairly reliably predict the weather without the need of thousands of pounds worth of expensive meteorological equipment.
Without too much fear of contradiction I can say that after the first week of April the rains will be over. (You might get the odd isolated shower but that’s it.)
In October you will get the next scattered splatterings, then on the tenth of November the first real rains will start. Increasing each month until February, after which they will begin to become less frequent until April.

Even during the rainy season there is a eighty percent chance that the morning will be dry, with the clouds building as the day wears on, until by five o’clock the sky is a mass of huge thunderheads hanging fully laden waiting for the moment when the relinquish their heavy load over the land.

The temperature too is interesting and varied, with the end of the rains in April the temperatures start to fall from daytime temps of about 28 down to July when at night it can drop to below freezing but during the day the norm is around ninteen degrees. August sees the start of spring and temperatures steadily rise till December when they peak to about thirty four degrees. Then with the rains it starts to cool a bit until April when the cycle repeats itself.

My master plan this weekend was to go down to the Zambezi and to have a look over a plot that I have identified there that would make a lovely place to build a house.
I was going down early on Saturday morning meet the owner of the land and to camp on the land to see what the night time noise was like. It’s very easy in Africa to find what you may think is the most beautiful tranquil spot, only to find when you move in that there is an illegal Bar a few hundred yards away that plays ridiculously overly load and distorted rap music all through the night, bending the ears of all living things within a five mile radius.

Unlike most days it had rained all night and was still raining in the morning. Driving through the mountains I was up in the clouds in what can only be described as fog, a rare occurrence in Africa.

As I dropped down into the Valley the rain stopped and the sky began to clear a little, with small patches of blue appearing more and more frequently. By the time I arrived the ground was drying well and as I opened the car door and climbed out of the air conditioned cab I was greeted by the rich and humid smell of damp drying soil.

I met Charles (again immaculately dressed) by the side of the road and we set off in search of the owner of the plot. We picked up the head man of the neighbouring village as he knew the whereabouts of the owner and continued on our journey.
To get to the plot and the owner, we had to cross the Kafue river which flows into the Zambezi, and in itself, is a none to insubstantial body of water. To do this you have to use a pontoon bridge. Basically a raft with two, one hundred and twenty horse power diesel engines that whir, clatter and smoke as they fight against the current to get you over safely. Fortunately they succeeded. Only last year the entire pontoon had turned over whilst carrying a fully loaded fuel tanker across. The river crossing is only about one hundred and fifty metres but costs a staggering ZMK 40,000 this is £5.33 which in Africa is a ship load of money. And that is only one way. I cannot begin to see how the locals can afford it seeing the general basic wage is only ZMK 300,000 to ZMK 400,000 per month.

We eventually found the owner of the land a lovely wizened old man with grey and black hair and beard and a set of teeth that looked like he may have been chewing on a hand grenade when it went off. He spoke a little English and I regaled him with my finest knowledge of Nyanga, unfortunately, as I was informed on the way back in the car, he spoke Shona. Charles, the owner and the headman thought that was hilarious.
The upshot was that he agreed to sell me the plot, he would speak with his family and inform them of his decision and we would meet again next weekend to negotiate the price. (I had hoped to do that this weekend to save another expensive trip.)
We headed back to the plot to measure the area, I had brought a GPS with me so we could get an idea of the size as it is difficult to judge when you are walking through thick bush. When we got there we also found that it is difficult to walk in a straight line in thick bush and when we looked at the map after walking what we thought was the boundary it was more like a dot to dot drawn by someone having a seizure and bore no resemblance to the plot we were looking at.

I had noticed as we had been walking around the plot that the bits of blue in the sky had given way to bits of black, not grey, black. And with a sound that appeared to go straight through me and a flash of light that almost blinded me it seemed that Victoria falls had moved four hundred km downstream. Within seconds we were soaked to the skin and the ground had turned to the surface of a giant bar of soap.
We slithered our way back to the car and decided that camping out was no longer an option. Our sounds of the night would have to wait for another weekend. I dropped Charles (Now looking rather more bedraggled than dapper) and headman, (Still grinning at my linguistic cock up) back to their respective homes and headed back to the City.

The journey back was incredible, punctuated by the most fantastic electrical and torrential downpours I have witnessed in years. Vehicles were coming to a stop on the road as they could see nothing with the rain so heavy. The thunder and lightning were simultaneous. The massive cracks of thunder making you physically jump, even through the insulation of the car and over the sound of of the engine and rain.

By the time I got back to Kalima, the rain had stopped and the sun was out. The smell of freshly mown grass greeted me as I climbed wearily from the car.
The bar was calling me, so I went and had an ice cold Mosi Gold. I sat and gazed out over the dam watching a couple of Purple-crested Louries jumping from branch to branch, up a tree, as the sun lowered itself gently over the horizon.
Not what I had intended this weekend, but still an interesting day out.

Denzil Bark (Back in time for tea.)

Cornishman in Africa: So follow me follow, down to the hollow!

So its Saturday morning the sun has not even thought about hauling itself up into the sky.

Twenty to four to be exact when for some reason, unknown to me, I woke up.
Seeing as the alarm was due to go off in twenty minutes anyway I thought I might just as well get up, have a nice relaxing shower and leave a few minutes earlier. As I have sort of come to expect, don’t expect anything.
You guessed it, no water. I wandered over to the new water tower stood clad only in my usual night attire and was pleasantly surprised to find that the tank had just drained over night and all that was needed was to turn on the pump and refill the tank. Sorted.

I eventually got on the road by five o’clock and had a nice slow drive down to the Valley. The slow drive was not entirely out of choice, the turbo on the car packed up last week so the car now has the performance characteristics of an asthmatic slug. But the journey was pleasant enough and the scenery fantastic as the orange sun reflecting bright reds and then yellows off the underside of the storm clouds that dared to linger around the peaks, then they in turn disappeared as the sun rose up behind the mountains that demarcate the boundaries of the Zambezi valley.
I was sitting beside the river having a full English breakfast by seven o’clock and the sun was now hot as it played down upon us. I had arranged to meet some friends there, Koob and Jeanette, they had travelled down the night before. The breakfast was good as usual at Zambezi Breezers where I stay when working down there. Once finished I made my way down to Chrundu to make a few calles there and to pick up a friend and colleague Charles. Charles was as ever immaculately dressed.

We were going out to some rural areas along the river to try and find a suitable piece of land, The piece I had identified before was a bit too close to human habitation for my liking and add to that the fact that the owners were asking about three times the going rate for the place.

We got to a place called Lilongwe were we left the tar road and headed into the bush, asking for directions we picked up a chap who said that he knew the area well and that he could direct us to exactly where we wanted to go. We travelled through small thatched villages with their red sun baked clay walls and smoke stained roofs, scabby chickens running around looking thin and emaciated. (I suppose they daren’t put on weight) Dusty children in ragged clothes, but with great big smiles snotty noses and waving arms.

I never could understand why the Africans never built chimneys in their houses. If you have ever been to visit or been to a meeting in one of these houses you will know that 5 minutes in one of these houses is the equivalent of seven years smoking twenty Capstan Full Strength. I mean it can’t be that difficult to have a hole in the roof with some sort of raised cover to stop the rain coming in, but no they would rather choke and go around with red eyes and smelling like a bonfire. Anyway the villages looked good.

We got deeper and deeper in the bush and eventually it began to thin again as we reached the place we had been looking for. I must admit I was rather disappointed, There were hardly any trees left, the cultivation that had taken place was half hearted and weed strewn. It was definitely not what I was looking for.
We decided to strike right along the river towards Siavonga to see if there were any more suitable places down there.
It was not long before we were back in the thick of the bush and far from civilisation, only the birds for company and whatever wild life lay hidden away in the brush. The ground was a richly punctuated mosaic of Hippo and elephant spoor with a neat overlay decoration of bird and insect prints.

The ground was getting softer and we had to pick our way through, at one place in particular we had no choice but to drive through a particularly wet bit, I felt confident as I had four wheel drive so that should not be a problem. I had checked the depth and bed before entering so launched in. We made it about three quarters of the way across before we had ceased all forward motion, and were instead heading more in a vertical direction. This did not bode well. The vehicle eventually came to a complete rest with the minimum of wheel spin and absolutely no wheel spin from the front wheels as for some reason unbeknown to me the drive to them had disappeared into the either somewhere over the past thousand or so km, thus rendering the vehicle a very heavy two wheel drive car. About as much use where we were as a chopsticks in a jelly eating competition.

Talking of jelly, when we exited the car that’s what we found ourselves up to our shins in, but this was thick and black and smelly.
I looked at Charles and saw how immaculately dressed he was and thought, Oh dear. But it did not seem to faze him, he just whipped off this socks and shoes rolled up his trousers and got stuck in
First off we tried the usual rocking back and forth with plenty of manpower pushing and pulling but realised fast that she was stuck fast and we would need to make another plan.

The area was mainly scrub bush about ten to twelve feet tall, quite dense and interspersed with grassy tufts, the occasional Mopani tree growing taller every hundred yards of so.

We cut small branches from the scrub bush and pushed it as far as we could under the tyres and tried again. Still nothing.
Normally in Africa, as I have mentioned before when you stop, no matter where you are, people just seem to grow out of the ground. But not today. We were miles from anywhere, phone signal? Not a chance, and to cap it all the bush was so dense that if we did set off to find help we would never find the car again for days. And if and when we eventually did we would probably find it had either been used as a climbing frame or a toilet by the local Hippo population. And from all the tracks about there were thousands of them.

So we had no option but to stick with it and get it out. The next plan was jacking the vehicle and get something with a little more traction than jelly, right under the wheels. Now jacking a car with a bottle jack in mud was never going to be easy, it entailed getting down in the mud, digging a hole in the mud pushing a strong piece of wood down into the hole to place the jack on and trying to raise the car. There was no chance of getting under the axles so we had to jack on the chassis. Which as you can imagine raised the body but not the wheels. It was hot and filthy work, but after an hour we managed to get some branches under the wheels by jacking up and down, getting a better purchase each time. We laid a track of branches to the edge of the hollow and finally we were out. We were all by this time covered from head to toe in thick black mud.

It took another hour to get back to the tar road. We dropped of our guide where we had met him, gave him the equivalent of four days pay and got back to civilisation just before dark. In time for a shower and clean up before dinner and a well deserved beer.

We had not achieved our aim for that day but we had another African experience. The sights the sounds the wildlife the challenge, that all add up to change what may seem a fairly arduous task into an adventure. You just don’t seem to get that elsewhere in the world.

Denzil Bark

Cornishman in Africa : Tower of Bubble.

I have recently spent two and a half weeks back at home in Sunny Cornwall. Sunny it wasn’t but fantastic it was to be back with my family again. It was four months since I last saw them and that was far too long.
It was nice as well, to have such little luxuries as water that came out of the taps (it tasted like crap admittedly) but it was always there, electricity that did not go off when it rained. I used to creep downstairs in the middle of the night just to check. But sure enough it was still working.
I am now back in Africa and getting settled into the routine of things.
I say routine but to be honest the only routine that there is, is that it gets dark in the evening and light in the morning and as far as I know that has not gone wrong for some considerable time. But don’t bank on it.
Now as you may know if you have been following my antics that I always seem to be having a few issues with water where I stay, and after a major overhaul of the entire system, it seemed that it was just about sorted out. Apart from just a few leeks (4 to be exact) between the main 10,000 litre tank and the Bar (the furthest point where there is water) These leeks have been turning the ground around them into a perfect swamp the ideal breeding ground for my favourite insect, mosquitoes. They also have the added disadvantage of being able to empty the main tank in about an hour (the leaks not the mosquitoes) when there is a power cut, which just goes to show that they are fairly substantial leeks.
Shortly after I got back from the UK the plumber came around to have a go at fixing the leaks and to finesse the water system as the automatic ball valve had stopped working and the staff were having to turn the water on and off manually.
This plumber is a lovely guy, friendly smiley face and ever so helpful. Unfortunately he is to plumbing what Genghis Khan was to babysitting. And the only reason that he has such a lovely smiley face is that if he didn’t he would have had it punched in months ago.
Anyway whilst he was round we had the inevitable power cut that went on for about twelve hours,(I am sure that it was not the plumbers fault, but I bet if he was not there it would not have happened. He’s just lucky like that) when it did come on it unfortunately only came back on one phase. Now our borehole pump is a three phase one and does not take kindly to being asked to work on one third power, so it objected in the strongest possible manner and curled up its toes and died. So again we were with no water. So it was down to the dam twice a day to bathe and wash in the somewhat murky waters that I shared with the Leguvaans (big lizards about 1- 1.5m long that eat most things but tend to disappear when you approach) fish, frogs, snakes, numerous species of water birds and a few snakes, then there is the leaches,, eels insects and billhazia carrying snails that frequent the shallows too. Add to this the fact that there is a crocodile farm just across the valley and you never know when they may have had a break out. So as you can see a bathe in the dam while sounding vey romantic, the novelty can wear off quite quickly. But as there was no immediate alternative, it did the job.
Fortunately within a couple of days a brand spanking new shiny borehole pump arrived, and the plumber fitted it. Water was returned to Kalima Camp, and all was well again on the water side of things. (even though he still had not fixed the leeks.)
Or so we thought.
Now our water tower is a concrete block built structure some twenty feet tall, this is then topped by a ten to fifteen foot tall steel structure that carries the 10,000 litre water tank. This gives a very good head of water and wonderful pressure – normally.
It’s difficult to know just where to start and I don’t want to attribute any blame or speculate on whose fault it was. But that bloody plumber.
I mentioned the nice new borehole pump? The one the plumber fitted?
Well he decided that the best place to fit it would be at the bottom of the borehole, by that I don’t mean a meter or two from the bottom but right at the bottom. In the sand and silt.
So while the pump struggled to pump mud and silt up forty feet to the water tank, once there, in the tank it settled, and as I am the only resident at the camp currently, I was not pulling off very much. So the tank managed to fill to within about one foot of the top, before it gave up.
Now I don’t know what 10,000 litres of wet sand weighs, but obviously more than just water, as it was at this stage that the entire water tower decided that it too had, had enough of the plumber and threw itself mercilessly to the ground with such force it could be felt in Haiti. As you can probably imagine the mess and devastation were tremendous, and it was obvious that this was not going to be a quick fix but would take a good couple of weeks to put this right. Luckily I have a good selection of friend who have invited me around for baths and showers so I am not having to resort to the dam too much.
The plumber has not been seen or heard of since, and he was not as many suspected under the collapsed water tower. But don’t worry I am not looking for him. And if I ever do bump into him I wonder if he will still be wearing that happy smiley expression.
Not for long.

Denzil Bark

Cornishman in Africa: One Hell of a Run.

Today has been one of those days, incredible. But true!
I knew yesterday that I had to attend a meeting in Ndola at 10:30 this morning so I prepared last night to leave about 05:30 and take a steady drive the 350 km to my destination.
I woke at 05:45, and thought bother. I dashed around getting ready, relieved that we had water as we had been without for the past two days, due to a power fault on one of the phases that burned out the borehole pump. I left the house at ten past six feeling fresh having just had a cool shower. I must admit though that I was not feeling 100%. I was not sure if it was the salad I had eaten the night before or what.
The day was cool with many clouds but with blue all around them, which made it bright and pleasant. The rich greens of the surrounding foliage at it’s best in the rainy season, adding to the enjoyment of the drive.
I made it about 100 km when I had no option but to pull over into the bush as things definitely were not right below. Now, I was dressed in my best meeting attire, white trousers and neatly pressed shirt, tie and nice shiny shoes. There are no nice toilets or washrooms on this route (or any other for that matter.) so the bush is the best one can hope for. Its surprising how awkward you feel when you know what you have to do but the logistics of carrying out the operation are not that simple. I first had to remove my trousers completely so as not to mess them up before the meeting. Secure the car then wander deeper into the bush.(a fine sight I’m sure as I wandered into forth, perfectly attired except for the small detail of the lack of trousers and carrying my bog roll) Find a suitable place and to execute the job in hand. I cannot believe the number of passersby in the bush who just sprout out of nowhere, look surprised and mutter a polite good morning. Anyway, job done get dressed again quick wash and off down the road. Happy comfortable and clean.
Well I was for about another 50 km when another bout of the old peeping tortoise heads occurred again. Same routine, off into the bush, disrobe, job done and back again to the road. This happened four times before 09:30 when I finally arrived at Ndola having pushed on as hard as the poor car would go, to take my mind off other things.
When you get to Ndola you come to a big roundabout and turn left for the city centre where I was headed, to try and get some bread or something similarly bland to give my tummy something to work on.
Unfortunately I turned right and realised my mistake almost immediately. I found somewhere safe to turn and did a U Turn in the road to take me back to the roundabout. As soon as I turned a policeman sprouted forth from the ground and pulled me over. By this time I was feeling rough as rats and was not at my best.
The policeman sauntered over to the car and explained to me that I had crossed a solid white line down the middle of the road, and that this was in fact dangerous driving, an imprisonable offence.(I’d heard this line before.) He would not accept the fact that you could see for a good 2 km in both directions where I turned, and there was not another car to be seen, heard or even feel the slightest presence of. He said that I would have to accompany him to the police station.
He jumped in and off we went. I tried on the way, to explain my predicament and surely there was another way to resolve this situation, but he was having none of it. We arrived at the station and I was shown into the duty sergeant’s office, where I had explained to me the gravity of my offence. It was apparently two offenses, crossing a solid white line and causing an obstruction. Though who I was causing an obstruction to, I will never know. The fine was to be ZWK 270,000 about £33.75. I explained that I was on my way to a meeting and that I only had ZWK 150,000 on me. He said “That will do but I can’t give you a receipt”. So off I went all charges dropped.
I went off to my meeting, which coincidently was very successful, and I set off for home again at just before midday. My tummy having seemed to have settled a bit by now.
The journey back was fairly quick with very little other traffic on the road and I started to relax as I approached Lusaka. The speed limit on this stretch of road is 100 km/h and I was cruising just above this.
I had been stopped for speeding a couple of weeks previously and during a long debarkle with the lady police officer, she said they do not waive speeding tickets unless it is an emergency. At that time it was too late and I would have looked pretty dumb if I had tried.
Anyway I was trolling along quite happily when out from the side of the road jumped a male police officer and flagged me down. I parked up on the left side of the road whist he went back to his speed camera and the female constable who was manning it.
I thought it had to be worth a go, so I half tumbled out of the car clutching my side and forcing myself to go red in the face as I struggled and stumbled across the road clutching my side. I recognised the police woman straight away as the one who had stopped me no less than two weeks previously and to whom I had promised that I would never speed again in the hope of leniency, I thought I was done for.
As I hobbled to where they stood. She said “You were flying.” I said through my best pained, red faced, dribbling expression that this was an emergency and that I had to get to the hospital as it was agony. They looked at me a bit oddly with the first signs of panic starting to show on their faces. “It’s kidney stones and I’m going to pass out if I don’t go now.” Of all the cheek, she said “All right then just give me ZWK 70,000.” I showed her my empty wallet and screamed, “I haven’t got any bloody money, I have to go, NOW”. (still dribbling) They said “Ok off you go, quickly!” (They were looking very worried by now)I struggled back to the car and set off towards Lusaka.
I stopped laughing by the time I hit the outskirts of town. Having had kidney stones I know just how painful it is.
Yes, I know it’s bad, but I could not have been doing more than 110. And she did give me the idea.
As you near Christmas especially, and always towards the end of the month, the occurrences of roadblocks at least quadruple as they all try to get a little extra cash to bolster their paltry wages.
It is a corrupt place, as are so many places in Africa, and yes I should follow all the rules and be a good citizen. (Yeh, right)

Denzil Bark. (Out on good behaviour)

Cornishman in Africa : Another Great Idea?

I have been considering an idea for a while but it was not until a friend decided that he wanted to do something similar that we agreed to go for it, and share the price of the container.
My master plan is to buy an old Land Rover, either a 1996 Defender 90 or a 1998-2000 Discovery which should come in at about the same price of about £2500.00 if you shop around a bit. Then have it done up ready for the African Bush. By this I mean
Recon engine, gearbox, diffs, prop shafts, brakes.
Raised suspension with all the correct ancillaries associated with that to help you over the lumpy bits.
Front guard incorporating winch to pull you out of the squidgy bits.
All the under body guards to protect the tender bits.
Roll bar to protect the occupants when I get a little over zealous and also to stop elephants squashing the cab when they sit on you.
Rock runners with jacking points to change the tyres that have just been holed by the acacia thorns.
A decent set of wheels and tyres to grip the surface of Africa.
And all the other little bits and bobs that end up costing and absolute fortune, lights, poly bushes, water pump fan and new radiator.
For those of you who have no interest in cars, I apologise for boring the pants off you for the past few minutes. (I expect I will continue to do so for the next 10 as well. Sorry) I will try and not to get into specifics any more. The long and the short of it is, that I want to bring in a car (Land Rover) in that looks like crap, is over twelve years old, but runs like a dream and will do for another fifteen years.
The thing with this is that when vehicles come into the country they get valued, and those who do the valuing have their own rules, laws and weird idiosyncrasies. So much so that a good friend of mine bought a Toyota Prado in the UK for an absolute snip and brought it over here.
The problem was, that although he had the genuine receipt for the vehicle. It was in such good condition it was decided at the border that this car was far too good to have cost that so they banged on another £4,000.00 to the value.
You may not think that is too bad, but the problem comes because you then have to pay duty, on THEIR value + the cost of getting it there, and then you have to pay Vat on the cumulative amount of that.
Let me explain better.
Cost of Car £ 5,000.00
Cost of transport here £ 1,000.00
Customs value cost + £ 4,000.00 (that’s the scary bit)
Total duty value £ 10,000.00
Duty @ 25% £ 2,500.00
Sub total £ 12,500.00
Vat @ 16% £ 2,000.00
Grand Total £ 14,500.00
So as you see the good value car you bought in the UK cheap, has all of a sudden spiralled out of proportion and turned into an expensive one.
My plan is instead of having a car that looks great, have one that looks tatty at best. Bring it through at the value I bought the vehicle for and have the body and paintwork done over here where it is about a quarter of the price of the UK.
The other thing is that if you sent over a commercial vehicle. Duty is only 15% not 25%. If you sent over the parts separately most are at 25%. Fit them to the car and they are also 15% as they are part of the car.
This means.
Cost of Land Rover. £2,500.00
Cost of doing up. £ 4,000.00
Cost of transport here. £ 900.00
Customs value cost (minus ) £ 4,000.00
Total duty value £ 3,400.00
Duty @15% £ 510.00
Sub total £ 3,910.00
Vat @16% £ 625.60
Grand Total £ 4,535.00
What spend doing up £ 4,000.00
Total cost of vehicle here £ 8,535.00
So the long and short of it is for a car that costs £1,500 more you actually end up spending nearly £6,000 less.
As to whether this idea will work, who knows. But I think it has got to be worth a go. If it does I will drive the vehicle for a few months while I have the next one built. Then do it all again.
And besides at the end of it, I end up with the ultimate Bush vehicle and I will end up never selling it. Which was not the plan.

Denzil Bark