Fail Zambia

(sorry to my Zambian friends for any overstatements in this post)

For the most part, I try to post the happy, fun adventures of life in Zambia. 

Of course, there are other adventures too.

at inter-city bus station in Lusaka

One of my goals for living in Zambia is to appreciate the local culture and consciously recognize positive aspects of said culture. There are many parts of living in Zambia that I love and appreciate.

But I have to confess a cultural mind-boggle-ment. At the bus station.

In general Zambians have been warm, welcoming, and friendly to me. (As long as we’re not counting the hundreds of pupils who poke fun at me if I make myself visible between the hours of 06:00 and 08:00 in the morning or 17:00 and 18:00 in the evening, or the fellows in town who call out to me nearly every time I pass certain areas, making cheap marriage offers because my skin is white…) We’re talking over-all…

But not at the bus station.

No, not at the bus.

There, I find myself surrounded by drones of rude, pushy, and utterly selfish people. Especially during school holidays when everyone is traveling.

Would you like to come along to the bus terminal with me?

First, let me describe the Lusaka Inter City Bus Terminal: crowded, noisy, full of vendors, lined with small bus company shacks (where tickets are sold), and littered with scraps of rubbish.

Next, let me detail the ticket counter: On the way (let’s assume you know where you’re going) you’re bombarded with countless taxi drivers and other guys who hang out in the fenced terminal area. They beg for your attention and call out all the popular white-people destinations, asking to know where you’re going so they can help you (to their credit, I have found helpful information from these fellows).

You wade through the guys, refusing to make direct eye contact or to appear interested in anything going on around you. You dodge taxis and make way for buses that are slowly turning around and pulling in and out of their designated areas.

Eventually, you’ve reached the ticket shack for the bus service you want to take. There are two windows and two queues. You would choose the shorter queue, but you know that’s the wrong window (because you already made that mistake).

There’s an old crate-like pallet on the ground by the ticket window, because the window is too high for an average person to see into when standing on the ground. A couple of the slats on the pallet “step” are broken, so you have to be careful where you step when you go up to the window, or, you’ll wind up back on the ground.

But, wait… you can’t get to the window because there are so many people already on the crate. As soon as one person has secured his tickets, someone else jumps onto the platform. There is no such thing as a single-file queue. It doesn’t matter who got to the window first.

In fact, those waiting patiently at the back of the congested “queue” will never reach the window, and those inside the shack behind the window will only help those whose arms are at the window. The name of the game is pushing and shoving to be first. There is no such thing as personal space. There is no regard for privacy or orderliness.

A few weeks ago, I was standing just behind the crate waiting my turn to reach the window. I figured there was no hurry, as there were at least 8 people in front of me. A spot (large enough for ¾ of a person without the addition of personal space) opened up on the crate, but I didn’t jump for it, as I saw no reason to crowd the others’ space. I knew my presence was well-established (hard to miss a mazungu in the terminal); it was obvious I was waiting for a turn at the ticket counter.

A young fellow from behind me pushed his way around to the side of me and hopped up onto the crate in front of me. I made a “no” noise and looked at him with a look he knew what meant (language is only a small portion of communication). He looked at me smugly and smiled. “What?” he said, “I want to buy a ticket.”

“Me too.” [um. Hello? Why else would someone wade through this mess?!]

He looked down at me (semi-triumphantly) from his perch, “You will…” he said and turned away ignoring me.

I watched as he shoved his arm to the counter and after some minutes disappeared into the crowd with his sought after bus ticket, proving that pushing wins.

I stood back and watched once more as our taxi man (who had just arrived) stepped onto the crate and waved his hand full of our Kwacha up toward the bus shack window. He’s a stout fellow and stood his ground at the back of the crate.

Ten minutes later we were in his taxi with our tickets secured for our bus the following day.

And I wondered if I could ever get used to this bus station pattern of physical force to advance my purpose…

And I wished that writing a letter to the bus line’s customer service to complain would bring about desired results…

And I was troubled the rest of the day… thinking about selfishness…

Thinking of how friendly and how rude people can be.

inside our bus from Harare, Zimbabwe to Lusaka, Zambia

customs at the Zim/Zam Chirundu border

prepping to leave after boarding a bus

*Thanks to Sara for so many bus pics (she even got in trouble for taking them)*