 Amidst the few bellowing horns and diesel chugging mini-busses racing along Great East road, cries of “Pa Bwato”, “Hichilema” or “Rupiah Banda” can be heard being belted out of loudspeakers attached to rusted roof racks as the country voted during the Presidential by-elections last Thursday, 30th October 2008.
Untypical to Zambian street life and Election day in Malta, where cars stream along stretches of road with party revellers hanging out of windows and crammed into the back of quarry trucks, and various make-shift party-vehicles, surprisingly the streets in Lusaka are noticeably deserted.
The usual raucous replaced by only sporadic shrieks from bus windows or pick-up rear cab’s from chibuku inebriated canvassers of the one or the other of the four presidential candidates, seeking to fill the vacancy let by the late President Levy Mwanawasa who died in France on August 19 after suffering a stroke in Egypt during a meeting of the African Union.
It has been a busy jam-packed couple of weeks as on the 24th of October Zambia celebrated their 44th Independence Anniversary. Only a month separates Malta from the butterfly shaped country’s right to autonomy in 1964, further underscoring Britain’s retraction (willingly or not) from colonial territories, faced with claims for post-war reparations and a rapidly re-shaping politico-economic scenario.
The nation was therefore called upon to continue exercising the right fought for nearly half a century ago, to determine the continuity of its sovereignty, even though three years prematurely, and settle the debacle of who should be the most appropriate candidate to replace the highly respected former President Mwanawasa.
All political parties have powered through the past month campaigning with typical African resolve and untiredness. The main contenders, current acting vice-president Rupiah Banda from the Movement for Multi-Party Democracy (MMD) and the closely defeated candidate from the 2006 elections, Michael Sata who was elected to represent the Patriotic Front (PF) Party, both travelling to the furthermost corners of the very incongruous Zambian territory, with faithful followers flocking to every rally with bountiful fervour.
United Party for National Development (UPND) representative Hakainde Hichilema and, the Heritage Party (HP) with Godfrey Miyanda complete the list of candidates on the ballot sheets. The former whilst backed by the young and intellectuals of the country, is not considered to be a contender for these elections, but will dent the overall performance of the leading candidates and prove to be the face of the new generation of voters in the 2011 parliamentary and Presidential elections.
Due to the particular nature of the current Presidential election, it being a by-election, only those registered voters who cast their opinion in the 2006 elections were eligible to vote this time round. Out of a population of nearly 12 million, only one third of the populace are registered voters, with less than 50% of the 3.9 million people eligible to vote actually turning out on the day (45.43%) making it to the 150 constituency’s polling stations.
Polls prior to October 30th suggested a 6% turning of the tables by the PF from 2006 election results, however the outcome has once again proven pre-election polls wrong, with the majority of voters (40.9%) actually bothering to vote giving the plush seat at the Head of the State to Rupiah Banda and the ruling MMD party, beating his closest contender Michael Sata by just over 35,000 votes. The young and wealthy businessman HH as he is known here, earned himself 353,018 votes and has also been criticised for his country the change that was needed by refusing a coalition party candidature with the PF, prior to campaigning.
In his inauguration speech yesterday, RB has promised to purge poverty which sees “nearly 64 percent of the country's 11.7 million people are still living in poverty, and 51 percent are considered to be in extreme poverty, surviving on less than one dollar a day” (source; AFP online, 03/11/2008), fight corruption and, reach out to the losing parties to bridge the divide that has split Zambia in the run-up to these elections.
The results were met with relative calm, even though sporadic clashes between pro-government cadres and opposition supporters were reported in the Garden compound, where stones were thrown and market stalls set alight. However, Zambia woke-up in peace amidst certain anxieties to the verdict (which have not been officially published by the Electoral Commission of Zambia yet due to claims of rigging by the PF) and confidence in the Zambian economy has also risen after a sharp drop in trading of the Zambian Kwacha in the run-up to the elections last week.
People on the streets are however, still divided over the results from Friday’s elections. Whilst all have been urging the new incumbent to work for the whole of the populace, others have been a little more critical about the outcome. Many declaring outrage at the way polling took place and claiming various cases of ballot paper rigging. This was furthermore “substantiated” by those against the final results, as proof of RB’s alleged corruption track-record.
It is well known that PF candidate Michael Sata had the backing of the “Joe plumber’s”, as another presidential hopeful, Senator John McCain in the US likes to call the people on “main street”, but this has also led many to believe that it was precisely due to the relative educational inequality that gave RB the edge on the day, as many succumbed to the financial hand-outs (little over 50 euro cents) offered to voters by MMD cadres during campaigning in order to win “sympathy for the devil” as verification of the promise “more money in your pockets”.
One only hopes that, for the sake of the majority of the people of Zambia who live in dire poverty and those that did not vote, the President will remain true to his pre-election and inaugural speech to feed the hungry, tackle inflation and corruption.
My engagements over the past weekend took the Amateur football team to two games within a 24 hour span. The first was away to the Zambian National Service football team in Lusaka West on Saturday 11 October, to whom we succumbed 4 – 3 after numerous blunders by our defensive line and the incorrigible partisan officiating by the referee who was found drinking Chibuku (corn beer similar to the Chicha I found in Cusco, Peru but stronger in alcoholic content due to its longer fermentation period, and definitely fouler in taste) with the team officials before and after the match. The second, took us to the water-logged Church grounds by the bustling Chawama (meaning nice in Nyanga) market to play the local team Tiyanjani (meaning to reconcile in Nyanga) where, even though the pitch had enough water for toddlers to frolic joyfully, to the amusement of all around, performing Olympic medallist antics, rewarded by cheers and laughter from their newly-found supporters, we won convincingly 5 – 2. Apart from my sporting commitments as assistant coach to the BSA Amateur team, I have also become involved with a relatively small orphanage that is the brainchild, or more aptly, the heart’s work of Teddy Kalimanshi, the younger brother of the lady who is hosting me during my time in Lusaka. Teddy is 24 years old, from the Kamwala (meaning literally small stone, but representing the fact that it is a place with many small stone, similar to what in Malta is Bahar ic-caghaq) Compound in Southern Lusaka, an employee with the Coptic Hospital in Northmead, just behind the school where we practice on a daily basis. Since 2006 he has been taking charge of the livelihood of 30 children ranging from new-borns to teenagers, that have been left, due to various illnesses, misfortune and fate, with no one else to fend for them during the long journey childhood can be in such forsaken circumstances. In order to try and make this journey a little more comfortable for these children, Teddy has been contributing the entirety of his own salary to the children and the carers in order to ensure (at least) a daily meal, an education to speak for them, and a roof over their heads. During the past 6 weeks here in Lusaka, we have been meeting to see how it would be possible for me to provide any assistance to him and the children. He has been as forthright and open with me like a brother, with the humbleness of the most charitable of beings I have ever met. Thanks to the joint cooperation of family and well wishers, during the course of these past 6 weeks I have managed to receive and collect a consignment of second hand clothing from various donors, including the Malta Football Association, which included second hand football wear, as well as other used sports wear from friends and clothing from family. It was in this respect that a “party” was organised on Sunday 13 October, at the house of his Cousin in the Kabwata compound dotted with small round mud huts with grass thatched roofs and known, more respectfully, for the cultural village where local display their artisan skills in wood carvings, and a stone’s throw away from Lusaka’s central prison, its perimeter outlined by the tear-welling sight of decomposing and putrefying garbage. With the usual African timing of things I was up at 7am for my 8am pick-up, which only rolled into the driveway at 8:45am. By 9:15am we parked in front of a string of blue painted wooden doors, their bottom edges eaten away by the water that flooded the parking lot, leaving a residue of maggot eaten frills, scratching the tiled floor with every gust of wind. The government housing blocks are lined parallely, mirroring their weathered facades and humble interiors through the gaping windows, decorated only by the fading colours of strung washing across the dark holes concealing the mundane activities of the families living within. Spaces are tight. Corridors just wide enough for a fully grown man to walk through, dented only by the doorways leading into a single bathroom, a bedroom, kitchen and living-dining room. Barely enough for a single person, let alone a family of four! For this occasion, the apartment was a hive of bustling activity. Television blaring some cheap American martial arts movie, children running around, in and out, around the legs of people entering and exiting the living room where the meeting was to take place. 
Children sat sunken shyly in the worn out green and white stripped sofas. Others were perched on the knees of the their older “brothers and sisters”, some were sitting on a glass-less window frame, whilst most sat quietly on the lanoline covered cement floor in between dangling, barefooted legs that never touched the floor. Teddy had prepared everything, from an Introductory speech narrated by a teenage, soft spoken girl named Jessy, to a programme for the smooth and timely unfolding of the morning’s activities. These were kicked off by a few church songs sang my Charles, a 13 year-old boy with a heavenly voice that reverberated beyond the walls of this tiny theatre, into the dryness of the barren exterior through the open windows and doors. A welcome addresses by Teddy and myself followed, both accentuating the importance of education as a means to work their ways to a brighter more comfortable and prosperous future for themselves and their families. All the children repeated Teddy’s calls to assure him their dedication to their schooling and thanked him profusely for his tireless work for them. 
This lead on to the exchange of gifts he had prepared for me: a shirt and trousers made from the traditional chitenge material (a wrap worn by women around the waist and also to carry babies or shopping on the back of their mothers) in the bright colours of the Zambian flag – Green, orange, black and red, and the Chipolopolo (National football team) in respect of my role as a football coach with BSA. I was also presented with a Beanie and scarf which I duly endorsed to the laughter and cheers of all those around me. Still donning my newly acquired garments (beanie and scarf included) I took over the “award ceremony” to present Teddy and the children the garments that had been provided by well wishers in Malta to the delighted faces and enthusiasm of the children tugging at my shirt and trousers beneath me. To my surprise, the handing out of scarves from the Valletta – Juventus match held in Malta in January this year received the most resounding wave of acknowledgement and celebration, with all wearing them around their necks notwithstanding the 30 plus degrees, as decorative headdresses, around their waists, arms and wrists. The scene was typical of the fervour found at a football game around the stalls of the stadium, to which the scarves were waved in a chorus of cries in Nyanga, Bemba and English!  
As he children settled down quietly to munch on their snack of sliced bread, a chocolate biscuit and juice, carers thanked both Teddy and myself for our contributions to the children’s future and the ongoing support they are assured, will continue to be provided from us. One by one children came up to me to take photos, some even requesting my phone number and a specific gift the next time round I visit.  
I left the home amidst embraces from all the children as well as the carers present. Little hands and boney arms groping to get a strong enough hold around my back to hug me closer to their nimble bodies, which I was scared to embrace too strongly in fear of cracking a rib or too. All had gleaming eyes, sprawled smiles on their faces and a renewed joy characteristic of their youthfulness and appreciation of the smallest of all worldly things. I promised to be back, and I just can’t wait! 
Last weekend was one that saw the Academy involved in many activities including two football matched over the weekend for the Amateur team I coach, and one each for the U14, Girls and U17 teams. Due to the fact that the U14 and U17 coaches are part of the U17 and Amateur teams respectively our teams and the staff were stretched to their limits, with inevitable delays causing a little disruption to the various teams’ scheduling.
It was however great to see the commitment put into the games by the boys and girls, especially the Amateurs who played two away games within less than 24 hours rest in between the two.
Whilst the fitness and discipline of the boys themselves is bettering by the week, I cannot say the same with regards the situation of the Academy, which continues to suffer from the financial difficulties all small NGOs seem to face.
Project proposals are drafted, reviewed and submitted on a very regular basis I must admit, but hardly any of them actually tackle the very core aspect of BSA’s activities … the sports academy!
The focus has been mainly on trying to establish BSA as a leading youth development through sports institution in Zambia, and to their credit, they have a done a relatively good job to come this far in just 5 years. However, whilst efforts have been channelled to secure a more National and even international standing in this domain, it has left unfortunate gaps in the running of the organisation at the core level, whereby the boys and girls attending the academy’s various training grounds have to dribble the balls around construction debris, peeping boulders from beneath the dry, hard dirt grounds, at times even barefoot.
Truth be told the situation with regard to equipment isn’t as bad as I had feared, due to past contributions from donors, sponsors and the children’s own merits, who after having participated and competed successfully in various Europe-based tournaments came away with either football tops or boots.
The local community has also provided its support, albeit meagre.The main difficulty I find in digesting the situation the teams face on a weekly basis, is the lack of financing league game costs. These include transport to away games, food and payment of the referee when playing home. The costs range from a mere €12 for the referee when playing home games to a maximum of €60 for away games which covers transport (in a 12-seater minibus) and some food for those that wouldn’t have managed to eat before heading out for the game – as most do!It has been cause for much frustration and discussions between myself and the Academy’s staff.
I have proposed to have a look at the budget allocation and even accounts to try and fathom a way out of this situation, if indeed there is. But my appeals have fallen on deaf ears as if wanting to hide dark secrets from prying eyes.Thankfully, due to the generosity of friends and family, I have managed to fund raise enough money to cover the transport costs for the Amateur team whilst I am here, but this is only the tip of the iceberg!
The success of the organisation to deliver youth education through the programmes it promotes, is taking a bit of a beating due to the way both human and financial resources are being used. It is needless to say that human resources are very limited and increasingly so at the moment as the Founder has moved to England to complete a Masters in Sports Management and the Director is involved in a Social Work Degree at the University of Zambia.
Whilst this will undoubtedly strengthen the reputation and quality of the management and direction of the organisation in the long-run, currently, in present day Lusaka, I feel that the academy is suffering from the loss of man-power to support the children who are working so hard to reach their own goals in life, without the appropriate support.
I have made a promise to the boys in the team I am coaching that as long as I am involved with the Academy, nothing will fail them. However, this has also led me to assess the real impact of such short-term commitments, when it is quite reasonable to think that following my departure, financing will seize to exist as before and the team will fall back into the difficulties it did beforehand, nullifying the efforts they would have put into their training and stall the progression the team and the Academy has done so hard to achieve so far.
It is the perennial problem with such undertakings when financial support is limited to projects that, I order to help the global development of the organisation, tend to fail the very same at the grass roots.I have now been here for 6 weeks. I can see that on the pitch, the boys and girls who come under my supervision during training and at match games, they are responding: performance is improving. They have adapted not only their training and match attitudes, but the fighting spirit I try to instil in them - to overcome not only the inevitable obstacles confronted during the preparation of the games, as well as on match day itself – but also those barriers that invite themselves without fore warning to spoil the party at the end of the day.
They have become more respecting of opponents and the people trying to assist them; They have become more determined to succeed, seeking solutions to problems rather than complaining about restrictions; The team spirit I see with these guys is greater than any I myself can say I had when playing football myself!
So if this doesn’t deserve my full commitment, on and off the pitch I don’t know what does.
Even if I will only be here for another 6 weeks, I am adamant to show these kids that I am not the random muzungu who comes along waves his hands and screams out loud professing from the pulpits like the many church preachers dressed in rich garments, pointing fingers at culpable sinners whilst hunkering greedily over their meagre possessions, fattening themselves whilst their congregations go hungry, in the name of what?
The cogs are all tightly interlinked, without the Academy, project proposals will not be accepted, without which there is no possibility for the organisation to provide the children with educational opportunities and necessary support staff to mentor the young. The success of the former is crucial for the delivery of the latter, somehow though the mathematics is not working out, and at times I find myself wandering into oblivion, struggling with the calculations to find the right fix to this equation!
It has been an intense, emotionally charged week. The weekends’ happenings topping up the adrenaline rush that runs through my veins.
After having managed to gain repossession of the sports wear sent to me from Malta, I had the first close encounter with what could have been a very uncomfortable, albeit, interesting way to spend the night in Lusaka.
On Thursday evening, walking home from Hayato’s (Japanese friend of ours) house, Isabelle – my tandem partner for the project – and myself were accosted by a white car and four individuals at the corner of the street were we lived.
No more than 2 minutes away from our home, brandishing three feet long batons and a machine gun, we were greeted by shouts of “Policey” by these night time individuals.
Distrustful and cautious at the same time, I moved Isabelle to get behind me whilst trying to see who it actually was that was addressing us.
They branded themselves as officers of the Zambian Police Force even though only one produced a very worn out and “unofficial” identity card, the authority of their brandished weapons was more than I could resist to.
We were being charged of “loitering”! On asking to repeat the charges, the main man in charge asked me whether I knew what loitering was, I retorted by asking him the same question back. Loitering according to Zambian “law” – it is yet to be determined whether this is in fact a national law – is actually a curfew period that starts at 22 hours and ends at 05 hours, preventing any individual of walking in the streets, and charging them of the solicitation of illegal activities, improper conduct, or even worse, assault, theft, trafficking.
Amused at first, I couldn’t resist a little chuckle, that was however washed off my face by the irritated shower of spittle as the lead officer continued to scream orders to me I couldn’t actually comprehend due to the seeming absurdity of it all: “To serve and protect”, “killed”, “in the car”, “dangerous”, “jail”, “fine”, “in the car”, “cell”, “colour”, “in the car”, “loitering”, “in the car”.
Both Isabelle and myself were dumbfounded by all this and, if there was any doubt as to whether we were going to get off lightly out of this dramatic comedy, when they starting pulling at my shirt and arms to force me into the car, like the saliva in my mouth, there was none left now!
Pulling Isabelle behind me, I resisted a couple of times the jerking and ensuing squabbles indicating the door to our house and Isabelle’s evident worry and flailing knees.
After some convincing, the officers agreed to accompany us home in light of the possible problem of an emotional crisis Isabelle was (seemingly) facing. They marched behind us chattering along the way, snickering behind us at my name which they pronouncewith the car in tow. At the gates to our house we banged the compound awake and the sleeping souls in it.
As with everything else, a chat amongst compatriots, admittance by our host that information on the imposed curfew had not been given to us and a little “petrol money” quickly brought the episode to an abrupt end which also included an exchange of handshakes and invitations to join the force and warnings from the tall uniformed man that no one is above the law!
The next day, as Isabelle headed off to Livingstone for a weekend amidst the raging waters of Victoria Falls, I stayed behind in Lusaka as the Under 17 and Amateur Teams under my “supervision” had weekend games.
Both ended relatively well, a walkover and a draw, but the same cannot be said for our host who was involved in a car accident. A ht and run that pushed the vehicle she was travelling in over the security guard rail to the left of the street, over a metre wide gutter and into a tree by the lay-by.
The action was witnessed by a drunken heading towards his next watering spot. His version of the event was all the more accentuated by his slurry tone and hand movements (his whole body was actually swaying as he “stood”) and he even asked for drinking money as a reward for his citizenship duties performed.
With the police the onlookers dwindled and to our surprise rather than setting out to look for the culprit fined the driver of the vehicle that stood with all four tyres busted and bent, for dangerous driving, no tax registration stamp or drivers license on the scene!
No offer to accompany the two injured and shocked to a clinic or as much as a we’ll look into it.
So after another hour or so waiting in the plain reception area of the Mum’s clinic along Great East Road, we finally made it home at 01:30 in the morning, with a couple of diclofenac tablets, bruised arms and butt’s and an action packed weekend to mull over.
The follow-up to the Peace Day Tournament has left all involved with BSA even more breathless than the games we played during the event. Meeting, PR activities, thank you letters and evaluations, have left all grappling with the limited resources at hand and the bureaucratic obstacles to deal with.
The main problem dealing with customs officials for the release of the sports wear and clothing donated to BSA before I left from Malta.
I take this opportunity to thank everyone who helped with the donations: from all those who contributed financially, donated sports wear and material, to those who facilitated the freighting of the garments to Lusaka safely. The list would be too long to mention everyone individually here, but as our friend George W. Bush would put it, “make no mistake” you will be all thanked personally and rewarded for your generosity and good-heartedness.
To cut a long story short and avoid boredom, the ordeal lasted a total of five days, endless telephone calls, e-mails and personal pleas to everyone we knew could possible help. The main problem being the hefty import duty customs wanted to slap on me for the release of the goods.
No amount of personal letters from myself or the director of the academy would convince the stone-faced officials to waiver even a cent of the duty. Registration certificates, description of activities, letters of introduction, even the times article featuring yours truly collecting the goods were enough to break the seal of officialdom in this case.
Several factors led to this stand: primarily the addressee of the consignment – Me; secondly the price of the freight as indicated in the freight statement – way too high; thirdly the description of the goods – sports wear; thirdly, the addressee of the consignment – Me, a Muzungu.
Nothing would bend the resolve of the uniformed barrier behind the desk. They even pocked their fingers through the boxes to verify that the goods were actually second hand and not new, and the sight of a brand new football did not help amidst the 130 kgs of otherwise used garments.
In the end, with storage charges looming for every further day the goods stayed put, I decided to consult the donors who had contributed financially to the project before I left Malta, to see whether they were willing to spend their money on the taxes that needed to be paid. Thankfully, their understanding was overwhelming and I rented the first truck I could find that would not charge me an arm and a leg to take me to the airport.
Papers were presented … again, please made unsuccessfully and the gates only opened once the fresh colour of the Kwachas (Zambian currency: €1 = KWA 5000) I held in my hand were seen by the watchful eyes of the unsympathetic taxman.
Truth be told, a sort of discount was given to us when instead of using Euros as the currency denomination for the calculation of the charges, the weaker Dollar was applied to the formula and resulted in a € 100 reduction of my tax bill. Instead of KWA 2 million (€ 400), I paid KWA 1.5 (€ 300), with the academy paying the clearing charges and fees they would have had to do so in any case.
So six and a half hours later, I was squeezed between the front seat of the 4 x 4 used to transport us back and the boxes of sports goods for the children - the truck having abandoning us after having filled-up with diesel and an hour of waiting around.
Christmas became a mid-September feast as I anxiously unwrapped and ripped the boxes apart to ensure everything was there. I counted and re-counted; folded and re-folded; packed and re-packed several times in sheer glee until I slumped into bed past midnight with exhaustion and peace of mind.
Lessons learned: Address goods directly to a registered and certified tax exempt NGO; Do not include hefty freight costs on statements; Account for “mishaps” (as one wise person pointed out to me recently!); Never pay your transport bill before you actually get home! Keep your resolve – at the end of the day if you give up, the kids will suffer!
On the morning of the morrow, after a very restless first night of sleep on the Tazara, I was woken up by the cries of the vendors selling their goods as we stopped in one of the numerous stations along the way.After nearly 20 hours we were still in Tanzanian territory and would only reach the Zambian border by sunset. From leather belts and shoes, to shower caps, electrical tools, fried chicken, freshly picked carrots, potatoes, onions, garlic, knives, radios, practically everything may be purchased along the route.  After a cup of tea and a banana, I settled into reading Hemmingway’s “Green hills of Africa” given to me by my grandfather before departing as he knew “it was fitting for my journey”!
Days can be very long as you sit in a steel compartment for such a long period of time, however the colours and the continuously changing backdrops of the landscape provide interesting enough diversity to keep your mind off the clock and just wonder, mesmerised by the expanse and livelihood of the populations scattered, seemingly haphazardly in the middle of these great arid plains, unfazed, unperturbed. My travel companion for the duration of the journey was a guy named Freddy Tshibanda from the DRC. He is a frequent traveller on the Tazara and quite an authority on anything African. 
A graduate in computer programming his business has been diverted to importing of goods from Tanzania and supplying schools and industry with his merchandise. His English is better than that of many English folk I know and he is as widely read as any intellectual I know. His sense of humour and inquisitiveness characteristic of many I have met along my travels, especially when talking of Malta and the little Island Republic I hail from. For many, it is nearly incomprehensible that a place housing just over 400,000 people has its own internationally recognised language, President and currency. In a land that expands beyond the setting sun, where one country hosts 72 diverse tribes in peaceful cohabitation, where one city is home for over millions and, 76 distinguished languages are shared amongst its people, it is nearly understandable that the level of curiosity reaches astonishment at times.At around 17:00 on our second day of travelling we reach the Zambian border post of Kuenda, where little boys and girls gather curiously at first on the top of the dust banks divided by the train that pulls into the station tentatively. With increasing confidence they perform playful rituals for the onlookers perched on their elbows from the dark holes in this tin can on wheels … a pre-emptive show of juvenile zeal and nimble acrobatics to attract sympathy and the odd Kwacha (Zambian currency). On the other side of the tracks, peeping through the wire fence separating the platform from the near by settlement, a little kid has his glance fixed on me and the camera. His facial contours reshaping, from his initial curiosity to doubtful shyness, until he reconvenes with his mother selling charcoal grilled corn outside a mud-brick shack.  Night falls rapidly upon the African expanse and after a relatively appetizing dinner (for train grub) of fried chicken in a tomato sauce and Nshima (Zambian staple food made of corn flour and water, stirred until like a thick porridge eaten with your hands, breaking off little pieces and rolling them into mini rugby ball shaped portions in which you create a little dimple with your thumb in order to “scoop-up” sauce, vegetables or other contornos for a very tasty morsel), sleep is an inevitable consequence. As the Nshima settles deeply at the base of your stomach, your eyelids are brought down heavily in a blurry descent to the rhythm of steel wheels over steel tracks. By 09:30 of our third day of travelling the Train comes to rest at its final stop in Kapiri Mposhi. From there it’s a packed 200 km mini-bus ride with 19 other passengers (plus luggage’s) towards Lusaka. Luckily Zambia is one of the most urbanised countries in Africa with a road network that is the envy of most of its neighbouring countries. Even though the driver was booked for over-capacity of the mini-bus, the trip into town was relatively comfortable and unhindered. Arriving at Lumumba bus station, the hustle and bustle of local transportation terminals is immediately overwhelming with the presence of haggling porters, street vendors, the diesel exhaust, bleating horns, smoke from burning coals and, blaring Zambian music from the packed mid-day eateries! Weaving my way through the serpentine line of mini-buses making their way to their pre-destined dropping stations, I haggle with various taxi drivers to take me the final few kms to Kuomboka backpackers where Petr and Achim are waiting for me. There I also meet with Isabelle, my tandem partner for the project as well as Malanga Jeff, Director of the organisation we will be working with, Breakthrough Sports Academy (BSA). It is Thursday, 4 September by this time, and I am to spend a couple of more nights at the backpackers until the last arrangements with our host family are settled and, I can finally move into my new home for the next 3 months.
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