Middle of Nowhere

Post 2

A year later, and I was ready to return. But this time, I wanted more. I wanted to experience life at a mission hospital, out in the Zambian bush. Doc and El would be out there and I wanted to join them. I had no idea what I was in for. I arrived back in Lusaka, this time having no idea who to expect to see at the airport. As I left customs, a young blonde Canadian guy approached me and asked if I was Robin. I suppose I was hard to miss. A blonde American woman travelling alone. Not something you saw much of. His name was Alex and he took me to Subway for a sandwich before dropping me at the UCZ church grounds. It was the home of the Bishop, Paul Makai. I didn’t know Paul, but he knew of me. Paul and his wife Febe, set me up with a room, a light meal and Paul told me to get some sleep. He would get me to the bus station in the morning.

Paul dropped me at the bus station. It was crazy. More people had tickets for the bus than there were seats. The bus was old, tight quarters, smelled of body odor and fish, dead fish. People threw mattresses into the luggage hold. People took chickens on board the bus. Paul grabbed me a seat next to an old man he called Moses. A young kid named Brian was seated in front of me. Brian’s mother, Agnes, was the matron at the mission hospital.  Paul assured me that Moses and Brian would tell me when to get off the bus. He put most of my bags in the luggage hold and shoved the remaining bags to me through the window. He said a prayer for my safe journey and I was off. Albeit a much delayed departure. At the time, the roads through the western province were poor to say the least. There were road blocks, police would board and count passengers. Children would duck under the seats. We drove for what seemed like forever. In reality it was about a 10 hour drive. We made random unplanned stops in the middle of nowhere. There were no villages, not that could be seen. Just tall grass. Must have been 6-8 foot high. And there were tiny walking paths into the grass. But where were the people going? And what else was out there?

 

The Great Western Road leads to Kaoma and Mongu, two major towns in Western Zambia. The road goes directly through the Kafue National Park and the bus has to drive through the park. From the bus, we saw elephants, impala and lions, just below us, walking beside the bus in the grass.

We got past the town of Kaoma. The Great Western Road stretches on forever. A long straight road. Full of pot holes. The bus would literally dodge the pot hole, banking in to the grass ditches on the sides. It probably wasn’t the safest mode of transportation but it was my only option. There are no street lights. No signs. No sign of civilization. And it was past sundown. The African skies are black. Dotted with stars like you have never seen before. You can see the Milky Way, the constellations. The Southern Cross. But you can’t see your hand in front of your face.

The bus pulled over. No one moved. And Moses said to me, “Get out.” I got off the bus. The driver took my luggage out of the luggage hold and tossed it on the ground. I couldn’t see anything or anyone. I was alone, in the tall grass, in the darkness of the African night. There was a small grass hut with a few men gathered around a fire and chickens running around. But they didn’t seem the least bit interested in me. Before I could decide what I should do next, a 4-wheel drive vehicle approached out of nowhere. The man introduced himself as Kennedy, asked if I was Robin, and told me, “Get in.” It didn’t seem like I had a lot of options other than blind trust. So I jumped in. I wondered how he knew when I would arrive. I was hours overdue. I asked how long he had been waiting and very matter of fact, he replied, “5 hours.” A few women showed up walking out of the grass. I’m still at odds where they came from. They jumped in the back of the vehicle. We drove for close to another hour, but this time through an opening in the grass, through tracks in the sand. And there it was. Luampa. The village I had heard so much about. A few concrete block houses with tin roofs, scattered dim lights and a candle lit on the porch of one of the houses. Doc came running out and said, ‘Thank the Lord you are here. What a site for sore eyes. We were getting worried. Expected you a few hours ago.” I went inside and sat down, thoroughly exhausted. Doc later told me that Ellie said, “If something happened to Robin, we can never go home.” I was safe and ready for a good night’s sleep.

my home away from home in Luampa

I could see lights at the hospital and a dim light bulb hanging from the ceiling in the house. But the lights wouldn’t be on much longer. The mission hospital receives power from a generator. The generator also feeds the few houses built by the missionaries that surround the hospital. But fuel is a luxury and it doesn’t come cheap. Nor is it even always available. I learned to make the most of any quick spurt of electricity that we got. The general rule of thumb was that the electricity ran for 6 hours a day, 9am to noon and again from 6pm to 9pm. I quickly found out that this is the best case scenario and in reality, time with electric was much more limited. They try to spare any fuel, if possible, so that power from the generator is available for hospital emergencies.

I learned a lot about village life. I crushed corn into meal, learned to eat cassava. 

crushing corn into meal

Cooking in the village. Indoor kitchen risk setting
the grass roof on fire and destroying everything.

                       

I met a lot of the locals and learned that the area is still divided into tribes, and although Christianity been accepted, tribal beliefs, medicine men and their own form of justice still exists.  Some of the stories kept me awake at night. Where was I? Was I safe? I couldn’t imagine Doc would put me in a situation where I was less than safe. But those first few nights, well, I had my doubts. The told me that they killed a cobra in the village just a few days before my arrival. I later found out, this really wasn’t that unusual. But it had me terrified and every night, I checked my bed, my closet, my drawers and any crevasse I could find, just to be sure I was free of snakes.

Maybe I didn’t have snakes but I sure had spiders. I remember getting up to go to the bathroom. Bear in mind, there’s no electricity so I took my flashlight. And there on the bathroom counter, was a HUGE spider. Maybe the shadow cast by the flashlight made it look bigger, or more threatening. It could have passed for a tarantula in my opinion. Oh, how I HATE bugs! I screamed. Doc came to take care of the spider and told me that it was called a “flatty.”  Ellie tried to reassure me, stating that “flatties” are friendly.  It didn’t look so flat to me and words like friendly and spider don’t belong together.

I met a few young people who worked at the hospital who have over the years become close friends of mine, even a world away. Oliver helped in the operating room. He seemed to do everything from prep the patient, give spinal anesthesia, close incisions and clean the room.

the operating room

This will become far more impressive in a future story but I’ll save it for now. Let’s just say, Oliver is a very talented guy!
Mary is a maternity nurse. Well, sort of. 

Mary Moka and the medical supplies I brought from home

Many of the nurses don’t have a formal education and 12 years after my first visit, Mary is officially in nursing school, living away from her husband and children to complete her studies. Even on my first trip, Mary knew more about childbirth and was as talented a nurse as I had ever worked with. Samuel and Kazito were both young, single clinical officers, sort of equivalent to a physician’s assistant but as close to doctors at that time as you could hope to find and they taught me about tropical medicine, diseases I never heard of and conditions I couldn’t imagine. 

Samuel Shikalwe and Kazito Muleya (my Zambian brothers)

And the three of us became very close. I have a bond with both men that I can’t truly put into words.  They will become important in stories moving forward and I will speak of them often. Thanks to text and apps like WHAT’s APP, today, I am in communication with them on a regular basis and frequently receive texts just to see how I’m doing and tell me that I’m loved and missed.

Kakweji was a nurse that also worked in the operating room. One day, after our shifts at the hospital were complete, Kakweji invited me to the village to see her home. I was honored. The walk to village is breathtaking. It’s really just a path in the sand. You cross under canopies of eucalyptus trees, pass women and children carrying babies in a sling with sticks, or water or cassava on their head. I’m still in awe of the strength of their necks.

I even once saw a woman, leaving the hospital, returning to the village, carrying her suitcase on her head. I now travel for a living and I’ve told my boss, “the day I have to carry my bags on my head is the day this all ends."

We crossed the Luampa River, a favorite place to watch the sunset.
















It’s also a popular fishing spot with locals and a place for many to bathe.

In the village are small shops, and an open market.

                 

The homes are tiny, with very few windows and thatched roofs, surrounded by banana and mango trees.  We arrived at Kakweji’s house and went inside. I sat on her sofa and she got me a bottle of coke. To the left of the sofa was a bookcase and on the shelf was a microwave. Puzzled, I questioned Kakweji. “Kakweji, you have a microwave?”

 She said it was her most prized possession. I continued, “but there is no electricity in the village. How can you use a microwave?” Kakweji replied, “yes, I use a microwave.” And she opened the microwave door. Inside the microwave was an open bag of flour. The microwave, though it didn’t work as you and I would use, was important to Kakweji. It kept food airtight and free from bugs. And so she could use a microwave. Ingenious really.