Adventures in Lundaland
How I Found Livingstone, or, My Bender in Livingstone
This report may sound disjointed, slightly deranged, and mixed up. This is an accurate description of my time in Livingstone so it is only appropriate to leave it as such. What follows is essentially a run down of the hazy, indulgent time I spent in that city that I will not soon fully remember.
The key players met up in Lusaka, at an inconspicuous Wimpy's nestled within a strip mall. There are three of them, a convocation of the utmost colonial trifecta: Sir Stanley Morton, Dr. Livingstone, and Sir Richard Burton. Sir Stanley Morton is a man as possessed by his indulgences as his anger towards the locals. Dr. Livingstone is an agreeable pastor who also well versed in the ways of the weaker sex. And then there is Sir Richard Burton, who the locals call Jesus while looking and speaking like Satan. He is also sometimes called Leopold, due to his obsession with severed body parts and his proximity to the Congo. They shared great tales involving snake attacks, getting into scuffles with the locals in their bomas, and generally remarking upon how they resemble white trash while living in the Dark Continent. After this was some amount of drinking at a local movie theater, which is proven to make any film more enjoyable, and then it was off to Livingstone later the following morning.
The bus to Livingstone was not unlike any other long distance bus trip in Zambia. To purchase tickets one must fight against a small herd of locals, who will use every trick in the book to cheat you. Your fellow travelers will cut in front of you in line, reach over your back and try to buy tickets on top of your person, and even argue with the ticket salesman for nearly any reason including why the bus isn't leaving sooner, later, or to an entirely different location than the one posted. The ushers, people who tell you which bus to buy tickets for, may either ask for bribes (or gifts or things to remember you by) or may just send you to the entirely wrong bus line so they can earn a commission of some sort. Eventually we got on the correct bus and left, only to be subjected to holy men who say (or yell) a quick prayer on the bus and then beg for handouts (their “payments” for a job well done) before exiting on the next possible stop. There were also the usual numerous stops and terrible roadside toiletries, but those are to be expected in this place. But it was all worth it when you finally roll into Livingstone.
When first arriving there our colonial party found a room at a nearby motel, which only costs a small amount more than staying at one of the trendy backpacking places in town. We put our things away and hit the town. Olga's Pizzeria was an immediate stop, owned by a non-profit that teaches the locals to cook Italian food (and does a fantastic job at it), followed by a stop to the trendiest backpacking lodge in the area. Jollyboys is the type of place to appeal to the young euro-trash backpacker who is often seen in Sub-Saharan Africa. It fosters an environment of casual friendliness where backpackers can make friends with the “noble locals” (read: grifters and con-artists) and hear “traditional” music (a few drums with local women dancing to them), both of which are often the bane of volunteers who spend any appreciable time living and working in villages. After people-watching at Jollyboys we retired to our room across town, and prepared to hit Victoria Falls the next day.
We outfitted ourselves with the appropriate gear immediately upon waking: shawarma for breakfast (a requirement when available), strong pharmaceuticals (opiates and viagra are both sold over the counter in Zambia), a few shots of Southern Comfort, and a Nyami Nyami necklace. A quick aside, Nyami Nyami is the God of the Zambezi river who is typically depicted as being something like a river dragon who drowns disbelievers and protects those who believe in him. He gave his flesh to hungry Tonga villagers when they were in need and is said to have left the world of man when a dam was constructed in the river. With the right equipment on hand we took a minibus to the Falls and got in for very cheap since we are residents of the country. To say the least, the Falls were spectacular and everyone should go see it once in their lives if at all possible. This is, of course, after you run the guantlet of local con-artists who will try to give you “gifts” (cheap soapstone creations) to induce you to return to their shops after seeing the Falls. But putting that unpleasantry aside, I think it is hard to look at the Falls (and I mean really look) and not see some grand stroke of beauty within its smoking face. I personally felt as if I were looking at some timeless visage and through non-euclidean eyes it starred back into my soul, as I said a short prayer and left to see the rest of the Falls.
At one point you have to leave the park and cross into Zimbabwe, where you have to get a small slip allowing you to visit Victoria Falls Bridge and see people bungee jump off its side. But before one actually gets to the bridge, one must brave yet another gauntlet of con-artists and their wares. You can buy Zimbabwean currency, like a Fifty Billion Dollar note or even a Trillion Dollar note, usually for about One US Dollar. Zimbabwe, of course, now uses the US Dollar as their main currency anyway since they destroyed their economy when they killed and otherwise removed the white farmers who were the backbone of their agribusiness economy. Once getting to the bridge you can see people pay money to throw themselves off of it, buy a beer and a hamburger, or even tour the small historical room there. The room gives a short run down of the bridge's construction, information about Cecil Rhodes, and even a little bit about Livingstone himself. One older woman with white guilt commented upon Rhodes saying something about the poor locals being conquered and how psychopathic it was for Rhodes to name the country (Rhodesia, then composed of present day Zambia, Zimbabwe, and Malawi) after himself. I remarked that I wish I could have a country named after me and she promptly went somewhere else. I remarked that I wish I could have a country named after me and she promptly went somewhere else. I myself happened to bungee jump and it was fully worth the money, though even at that height (the world's second largest), it was half-way over by the time my brain registered the fact that I was falling. There is something marvelous, however, about bouncing over a large body of water and then have it nearly hit you in the face. It was a good prelude to the night and its pleasures.
The night-life in Livingstone has something for everyone. There are clubs, even a jazz club, for those who are into that sort of thing. You can sit down to a good dinner and have all the game-meat you want, or save your money for more shawarma. You can drink at a small musical event or do so at a lodge, the latter of which I preferred because it allowed me to yell in fits of brandy-induced rage at a captive audience of posh (and naïve) Europeans. This much I don't remember very well but I do recall hitting nearly every bar and club in the area, for the sake of educational pursuits such as beer-pong and breaking bottles on street corners. Nights like those in Livingstone taught me many a thing, like the importance of not chasing women (it's improper) and that one should never be too hasty in mixing a grab-bag of potent potables. Dr. Livingstone got a little too ambitious after hitting the sauce one night and we found him half-naked locked inside of the motel's bar, which we quickly got him out of and into our room. This was a mistake on our part as he decided to nearly throw himself out the bathroom window, destroy the room, and call his ex-girlfriend in America. It took about an hour but we took his phone, roughed him up a little, and got him to sleep on the floor.
One thing a man cannot forget to obtain in Livingstone is imported Chinese fireworks, which provide hours of entertainment at a cheap price. Additionally, they are dangerous as all Hell. One night I bought a Roman candle that shot fifty balls and I decided to shoot them off in the parking lot of a bank outside of Jollyboys. I found a suitable target, an electric power-box, and it was quite bully to see how many times we could hit it in order to stop power in the area. A security guard came to talk to us about this and we gave him the Roman candle to try out, much to his joy and he proved a good shot as well. I hoped to find some Zimbabwean street peddlers to try my aim at but alas it was not meant to be. We also fired off some mortars, though we lacked the stand for them so we had to light them and quickly run, as without the stand they are essentially bouncing grenades. My hearing was not back to normal for about three days after this, since on top of these pleasantries I also had a triangle (a small paper triangle filled with gun powder) blow up next to my head. But these are the risks that come with delightful things that explode.
Aside from the fireworks, there were a few notable events worth discussing here. I met a man who we'll call William Wallace, who informed me about Barotseland and its current political issues in the country. To sum it up quickly, it was a protectorate of the British Empire that was merged with Zambia as the latter got its independence (because the British didn't want to deal with them anymore). Barotseland is composed of what is now the North-Western, Southern, Western, and Copperbelt provinces of Zambia. The Barotse people now say their rights are being infringed upon by the Zambians and want to become their own nation, which I hope does happen soon and without bloodshed, though I doubt Zambia will give it up at all. He was also one of the only people in Zambia to thank me for my work here (the other two were a white game guide and an Indian mine manager from the States), which says a lot in my mind. Shortly after this night we happened to stumble upon one of Livingstone's greatest pleasures; High Tea at the Royal Livingstone. For about twenty US Dollars you can get unlimited tea and sweets and savories from 1500-1700 hours at a colonial-style five-star hotel, with a view of the Zambezi going over the rear of the Falls and a chance to see random game animals walk about the grounds. It is well worth every penny, though the well-to-do who stay at the hotel will look at you like garbage.
Without a doubt, however, the most notable occurrence during this trip was New Year's Eve. I accidentally drank a bottle of brandy before going to a booze-cruise on the Zambezi, due to the fact the time of the cruise kept changing and thus tricking me into drinking so much so quickly. Once on the cruise I drank roughly thirty (give or take a few) gin and tonics, for the sake of my health of course. From there I was just about browned-out and decided to hang out with some hilariously racist South Africans, who taught me the terribly offensive term Kafir (Arabic for “Non-Believer” but is used to mean the equivalent of the US term “Nigger”) and taught me a few really awful jokes. It was a rollicking good time which amused, offended, and confused me all night long. Some rich black Zambians, on the other hand, knew none of this and fed me a torrent of Red Bulls and shots of Johnny Walker Green Label and Absolut Vodka. As I was quickly becoming enraged at the New Year as a whole, I danced to techno music I haven't heard in about a decade, threw my walking stick into the Zambezi as a sacrifice to myself from myself, and then stumbled into the darkness back to the motel (roughly half-way across town). I got a taxi called for me by some drunk locals who, in my haze, resembled carnival gypsies who tried to get me to drink their corn beer. I got back to town and found a free lift in a Jeep from a bunch of random sex workers, and once I collapsed into my bed that was the end of my trip. On the way back to Lusaka I saw a naked woman getting beat by her husband on the side of the highway, which I suppose was a fitting end to my otherwise lovely Christmas vacation.
