Jesus is King! Kabwe, Zambia

“Welcome to Kabwe, Where Jesus is King!” says the sign outside the town. If Christ reigns here, he rules over a poor kingdom. Inside, it’s a dirty, dusty town in the middle of Zambia. Shops lack the sophistication of any you’d find in developed nations. They’re rudimentary buildings, whitewashed and crumbling. Indecipherable posters hang, half torn on the walls. Few areas in the town are grassed, and for a westerner like myself, fewer are maintained.

But there is a magic to this place. My host, Jabez, has accepted me into his family, and I spend a leisurely week with him as my escort. Jabez works with the Ebenezer Tabernacle, one of the largest churches in a town, which to no surprise, is predominantly Christian. I pass signs everywhere to that effect including, notably, a grocery called “God Knows The Rest,” and a truck with “My dream comes true, thank Jesus,” painted on the back. In the shops there are God posters on the walls and Christian tracts on tables. Jabez tells me there are fourteen Christian television stations that broadcast into the area. Flicking through the stations, I’m taken aback by the amount of expensive suits, attentive audiences, and forthright preachers I see. I turn the telly off, mostly to avoid my rising cynicism.

The broadcasts from God TV and TBN are a poor reflection on the type of people I meet in Kabwe. They’re just so friendly, by far the friendliest I’ve encountered in Africa. I’m regularly stopped in the streets by locals who don’t want to sell their wares or beg for money, but just to chat. I’m obviously a stranger, and with untypical good grace they’re interested in finding out about me.

Take this: a few days into my stay, I discover I need to get my visa extended. We turn up to the immigration office, and I end up in conversation with the immigration officer. After chatting about our respective countries, he stamps my passport for an extra fortnight and shakes my hand like an old friend. No administration fees, the African byword for a bribe, and no dirty looks, which is the typical fare. The procedure was so smooth, in fact, that I felt like I somehow cheated the system.

****

In Kabwe, it’s hot, well over 25 degrees. For several hour stretches during my week’s stay, I’m left to my devices in Jabez’s home. Reading books in the shade quickly makes me restless, so it wasn’t before long that I decide to wander around the town.

The people in Kabwe don’t have cars, so transport by foot is the most common method. The sun is low in the sky as I walk out Jabez’s house and down the street. I was envisioning walking into town, but as is custom, I find myself instead trekking the opposite direction, and through its back streets.

There is a liveliness to the place which cannot be experienced in a safari, a guided tour, or a town centre. Walking down these dusty roads, I pass a group of kids playing soccer in a local field. Sticks have been tied together to create rudimentary goalposts, and children chase en masse after a soccer ball. Further down the road, I pass a Roman Catholic church and hear choirs practicing outside with gusto. Here people are relaxed, and smile as I walk past them.

Two teenagers are playing chess by the side of the road. I stop and ask whether I can take a photo. They’re rather amused by this, and fix me a quizzical stare. “Where I come from, we also play chess,” I blurt realising only too late how stupid it must sound.

One of the teens asks whether I want a game. I refuse at first, but he persists, and soon I am lost in amongst pawns and knights with my newfound nemesis, George. He takes the black pieces for himself and offers me the white. I don’t know whether he saw the irony.

The game begins, and I play as someone with the air of confidence. Soon enough, I lose all sense of time while sitting on a block of wood next to the dusty road. We plot and battle over the chequered board as we attempt to dominate each other. It’s a stalemate for a while, but eventually George strikes, and minutes later it’s all over, leaving me to hold back my disappointment. As I shake his hand I realise that I still hold a notion that poor black Africans are primitive, and while I walk away, gingerly rubbing my wounded ego, I appreciate his lesson.

But time had passed, and the sun now wanes in the sky. I backtrack but for once I am not lost, so I stop by a street vendor. They operate tiny stalls, the size of two phone booths side by side. His name is Godfrey, and we soon fall into conversation. I want to buy a Fanta from him but he refuses to sell it to me. It’s too warm, he tells me, so instead we chat. He’s a thoughtful youth, and we continue to talk about his life in Kabwe until the sun begins to set. I’ve been out for a few hours, and wonder whether my host family might be getting worried. Not at all, it seems. I make my way back to discover dinner has just been served, and relax while eating mishna, chicken, soup, and stew. A feast.

Each day, I would wake at around seven thirty, and Jabez and myself would have breakfast. Eggs, baked beans, toast, and corn flakes. While eating, we would craft our plans for the day. One day he told me that he was heading to Lusaka, capital of Zambia. He explained that he was going to be gone until sundown because he was asked to speak to a family on behalf of the suitor of their daughter.

“Our custom eez deferent to youz,” he explains. Amongst most Zambians, a suitor has to enter negotiations with his future family when he wishes to betroth their daughter. The negotiations can last several days, and often become heated affairs. The family supposedly acts in the interests of their daughter, probing to discern whether the suitor can fulfil his obligations to his potential wife. It actually sounds wise, like pre-marital counselling, something I’ve seen work very well in New Zealand. I tell this to Jabez.

But that’s not the end of it. Jabez continues. After sufficient justification is provided of the suitor’s suitability, the poor man has to settle on a price for the daughter’s hand in marriage. This is, provided he still wishes to unite after arguing for days with his prospective in-laws. The bargaining begins, which typically lasts another day. Jabez was asked to mediate the process. Several days later, I learn that the family had accepted the marriage offer, and had settled to agree to hand the daughter over for a reasonable price of five cattle. I ask Jabez how the negotiations went. “Tiring.” He responds.

****

On Sunday morning Jabez takes me to his church for their three hour service, God help me. The music is mainly in Vemba, so I don’t understand a word, but the congregation sings in beautiful harmonies, and before long everyone is up and dancing. The front of the church before the stage is filled with dozens of men in suits and women in their Sunday best dancing their African jigs. There’s a backing band, but because the choir doesn’t bother performing with a band, it struggles to perform with the singers. Songs often begin in acapello while the band hits random notes in a mad effort to find the key of the tune. The result is a discordant mess for the first minute, frustrating everyone but myself. I actually enjoy the spectacle; the dirty looks between the musicians, and the sideward glances from the choir. But when the band finally starts pumping, it’s quite a site to see. The crowd is animated and happy, and I wish I could bring some of this enthusiasm back to New Zealand. After an hour or so of this, the musicians walk off stage, and a lady gets up to speak.

She screams down the microphone and I wince. The volume is so loud that my ear drums are being torn – what’s with Africans and loud noise? She’s praying for the offering they’re about to collect for the church, and I’m horrified as she recites: “We pray for raises and bonuses; we pray for dividends and surpluses; we pray for jobs and promotions...” she continues on this theme for a while. It’s certainly not the meek and mild faith I was expecting, and I worry whether the mainly poor congregation feel as though they have to pay God off for the chance of a better lifestyle. Whatever reason, it just feels wrong. She yells down the microphone for another hour or so, barraging my ears with her cries, and then just as suddenly, it’s all over. Freedom.

****

The days pass quickly, and I find that my time in Kabwe has nearly ended. I spend some more time with my New Zealand friends, mainly playing with the kids and watching rugby, and I wander some more in town by myself. Even on the edge of nowhere, life had begun to settle into routine. I was already used to being the only white guy around, and I was used to having people stare at me. It was a sign that complacency had set in, a sign that it was about time to move on.

Kabwe also marks two months of solo travel in Africa, and I had previously decided to make it my turning point before I head southward, and back to Cape Town. I was becoming restless and knew I needed one last adventure before I returned to civilisation. My plan was to cut through Botswana and maybe Namibia, but I wasn’t interested in seeing yet another game park. While contemplating my next destination over a map of Africa, a name jumps out: Dar es Salaam. The name sounds exotic. It’s the capital of Tanzania, and more alluring, it’s in East Africa.

I investigate and discover a flight to Dar for US$90 from Lusaka. When I tell my kiwi acquaintances, they add an additional attraction. “Don’t bother flying. If you go to Dar, you have to take the train.” It’s a two day journey, and the station is in the town next door, a mere sixty kilometres from Kabwe. I take the plunge and book a ticket.

The Tanzanian express is a two-day sleeper, with restaurant and lounge. First class cabins cost K180,000 (US$45), and sleep four. It’s anyone’s guess how colourful the journey will be, but I intend to find out.

Shortly after booking, I learn exactly how colourful it could become. An American who’d lived in Tanzania told me about the perils of the Tanzanian express. Trains break down multiple times a journey, thieves steal your bags as you sleep, pickpockets take your wallet in the lounge, border officials refuse you entry without a bribe, or worse, men dress as officials take your passport, and never return. It’s the type of stuff that makes travellers’ blood run cold. I ask around, and these stories are all corroborated.

And then I hit a real roadblock. Two days before I leave I discover that I need a yellow fever certificate. This is a major problem. Yellow fever is a live vaccination. The good doctor doesn’t inject you with a vaccine, but rather with the virus itself. I was advised that subjects routinely fall into a fever for several days as the (admittedly weakened) strain courses through their body. Finally, the immune system kicks into gear and develops the antibody to destroy the encroaching hoard. Voila, a week later you are immunised, and earn yourself a stamp for your troubles.

I don’t have a week. This is a problem, so I tell my hosts that Dar is out and Botswana is back on the menu. Jabez is two-minded. He’s been across a number of times and thinks I ought to take my chances. I have a restless night where I began to plan an alternative Botswana route through Maun and to the Kalahari desert. The following morning I tell Jabez that Dar is definitely out. He responds by taking me to a clinic to talk to a local doctor.

A tall man with glasses and greying hair steps out of his surgery. Jabez shakes his hand like an old friend and proceeds to enlighten the doctor about my predicament. I’m travelling tomorrow, and need the vaccine. The response is animated, and after some discussion the doctor turns to me and tells me his thoughts on yellow fever in Tanzania. “It’s ridiculous. There’s barely been a case of yellow fever in Dar es Salaam. You’ll be fine.” He continues to mutter to himself about paranoid officials and senseless bureaucracy. It doesn’t make me feel any better, but apparently I should be safe.

Still, border guards might ask to see a yellow fever certificate. Jabez has to busy himself with work for the afternoon, but he can still help. “I teke you to Pastor, he can teke you the hospital and get you yellow fever certificate.” Shortly thereafter, I’m driven into Kabwe’s town centre and introduced to Pastor, a short dumpy man with a gruff voice. I never learn his real name, but I’m told to follow him.

Pastor takes me to the local hospital where he stops a nurse on her duties. He explains my problem, and the nurse says she will help. “Fifty, fifty kwacha.” For a yellow fever book? “Yez for everything.” She disappears for a few minutes and we are left in a waiting room inside the hospital.

While sitting in the hospital, contemplating my peculiar fate, I discover that Pastor must be some minor celebrity. Women approach him and bow low as they take his hand. Some kneel before him to speak. Several guards are escorting convicts in the local maximum security penitentiary, and abandon their prisoners to walk over to shake Pastor’s hand. Clearly this is a man of influence, however I’m disturbed by the reverence they afford this man. In Kabwe, Jesus is king, but his shepherds, it would appear, don’t mind cashing a little credit on the side.

A few minutes later, the nurse reappears and asks us to follow her. In her office, I’m handed a yellow fever book, and inside is a stamp. It’s backdated. I’m not sure if this is finable, or a imprisonable offense, but apparently I’m now inoculated.

The train leaves the following morning. A part of me will be sad to farewell this tiny town, but most of me wants to move on and see new things. The only thing I know at this stage is that the following afternoon I will be on a train to Dar es Salaam, and two days later, I’ll be on the tropical island of Zanzibar for six days.