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.