Meditations from the Bush
Chapter 2: Road Trippin’ to the Kafue
1.
Long weekends offer the Lusaka soul two options: prolonged drunken escapades at some of the city’s finest establishments (which have now, thanks to the pandemic, been relocated to an undisclosed number of ‘chill’ spots at people’s houses), and long drives to the national parks spread across the country. My family chose the latter. And so, with all work responsibilities cast to the wind, we packed our bags – we were going camping in the Kafue National Park.
A road trip really begins a few weeks before one’s departure. The realisation that you can only pack so much forces one to consider only the necessities: a couple coats, a warm blanket and some crackers. In our attempt to feign simplicity, we were faced with a much more profound problem: (Well), if this is all we need then what is my house filled with? What do the myriad possessions that fill my house actually mean? (Side note, my parents recently informed me that the true sign of adulthood is the accumulation of furniture; I currently own one armchair.)
So the stage was set: five of us bundled into a 4x4. We left early enough to watch the marketers set up their stalls at Soweto Market. We headed West on Mumbwa Road, left the rising sun in our wake as we progressed from warehouses and factories to pivots and trees, and finally to the savannah woodlands of the bush. With only the clothes on our backs, the crackers in our trunk, and the automatic Japanese car below us, it felt like we were recreating the many migrations of our forefathers - whether down from West Africa or across an ocean from the British Isles.
2.
There is no easily recognisable culture of leisure travel in Zambia. Apart from the odd baby-faced European backpacking through Livingstone and riding across to Dar-es-Salaam along TAZARA, travel is largely limited to rural-urban migration that attempts to relieve rural poverty. So successful has migration to the cities been historically that during the 1980s Kaunda advocated a return to the village as a way to cope with an increasingly poor economy. In a gesture that seems to mock the first and second Republican president (how many presidents can claim to have survived two republics?), many city folk return to the village for short periods of time. As inscribed on our NRCs, one always has a chief and a village - no one is ever fully ‘urban’ in Zambia.
Travelling to camps around the country is reserved for the privileged few. Their remoteness means that only those with 4x4s can go, and rates are quoted in dollars. The more remote the destination the more sophisticated the vehicle, and the higher the price. Some camps can only be reached via aeroplane, and charge visitors thousands of dollars per night. I guess you’re supposed to accept such prices because you’re paying for the experience of wilderness. The romance of it is sold all the time in advertisements in high-end fashion magazines in Europe to billboards lining every other street in the city. It is a clever tactic – you can price lodging and food, but you can rarely price an experience.
Somewhere between the vagaries of everyday consumer experiences and the rejection of material possessions, the scene was set for my trip to the Kafue.
3.
I felt claustrophobic in the car. I often feel claustrophobic in cars. It is ironic because the act of travelling is supposed to be deeply freeing, supposedly casting off one’s possessions and environment. On this trip, however, I think I managed to pinpoint the root cause of my claustrophobia: leg-space. You see, I am a tall man, and I have grown up in the bush, which prides itself on space; whether it be the moral space to think through problems, or the space to stretch out one’s legs.
I am sure there is a philosophy somewhere out there that links leg-space to moral-space. Such a philosophy would rightly explain the moral bankruptcy of urbanites, cooped up in their small homes, stretching their legs out on their Lazy Boys. It would also explain Jesus a little better to my heathen self: perhaps the reason the cross was so painful to bear was because his legs were nailed to it - he wanted the moral-space to enlighten this world, and was abhorred by the decision to bind his legs. Now, in the imagination of millions of his followers, Christ’s legs are bound. But I digress.
Five and a half hours of being cooped up with four other beings is itself deserving of biblical praise. At least the road to Mumbwa wasn’t too bad: it could only boast potholes in a few places, and the checkpoints were easily negotiated. No one goes to Mumbwa – they have a petrol station that appears to be the life of the town – so no official effort is spent making the journey particularly pleasant or awful.
Aside from the spiritual issue of leg-space, the defining feature of the drive to the Kafue was the incessant drone of the late 80s and early 90s, brought to life by such figures as Whitney Houston and George Michael. I once thought of this time as some taintless utopia, filled with the hope in humanity that the fall of communism was supposed to bring. (My feelings are more likely a reflection of my adorable baby pictures than anything else.) But at this point I gave up on the myths of nostalgia which so plagued me. My head was pounding and I could not open the window because of the tsetse flies that swarmed our car on the hour-and-a-half dirt track drive. Sleeping sickness didn’t sound half-bad, actually, at this point in the trip.
4.
The camp was nice. Well laid-out and with modern amenities. It was well-located too, adjoining some rapids that we managed to swim in. To get to the rapids we had to climb over large boulders. I spent the weekend photographing these rocks, and the trees that grew between them. They offered a certain silence that only comes with age. They were here long before we arrived, before the river settled in its course. After the trip, bursting with excitement, I developed my negatives, only to ruin them. It seems that I could only witness these timeless memorials in passing, never to contain their place or meaning.
Being so far from the city was liberating. The campsite had enough room for my legs. I did very little pondering, instead spending most of my time swimming or taking photographs. There is a certain carelessness of nature that one wishes to take in, to bathe in. It is very pleasant to sit next to the fire in the evening, unattended by technology. It allows for brief moments of thoughtlessness and thoughtfulness. Swaying between the two I could not help but remark upon the absurdity of modern life: we have to drive five and a half hours from our ‘life’ to live carelessly, freely. But even here there are subtle prompts that this carelessness and freedom comes at a price. Seeing the elephants across the river bank reminded me that they were trapped in a reserve for our pleasure. Our freedom can only come at the expense of others. We spent three nights in this fashion, spectating.
On the way home, still plagued by problems of leg-space and the 90s, I felt happy but restless. The trip home did seem shorter, but then again I knew what to expect. It was the end of the long weekend and the streets were still quiet. Perhaps everyone was still hungover. When we got home we unpacked the car, and spent the rest of the day cooped up in front of our television, my legs stretched out on my one piece of furniture – the Lazy Boy.
Bazzi, the author, is a 20-something cliché: an aspiring writer and photographer, unemployed for the most part. When he’s not bitter at the world he’s to be found walking around the city, usually, basking in the universe of moral poverty.
