Kitwe, September 20th 2012
My dear friends
and family, here I am and happy to be giving an account of myself at last! I hope that you are all well and enjoying the
gift of life and loved ones. I am amazed
that I am in the same year that we were burying father! I am sure that you are
also wondering at the elastic quality of time!
I was on holiday a few weeks ago and after spending a great nine days at
the Poor Clare monastery outside Lusaka, headed off to Copperbelt and then
Kasanka for another ten days. I was
wonderfully restored. Below, I travelled from Kitwe to Luanshya to do a few
jobs, and was inspired to scribble a bit of a letter!
I was lucky, the
last of 20 passengers of a mini bus headed off for Luanshya, but the seat was
at an odd angle, supported as it was by a 50 kg bag of cassava underneath, and
my long knees were meant to hold the sweet potatoes in front- so that I
muttered in Bemba under my breath, “I’m to suffer for luck here!” At the same time as I was hastily scrambling
into place, the kid of a conductor was also commenting, “Is a Musungu (white
person) joining us? Will I need Chi-sungu
(English)?” “Ah no, she’s Bemba! Didn’t you hear her?” This was from the passenger
in front. I liked his face; lined, and
leathered by philosophic experience and humour.
No, I was wrong- there was one more place, because a young man
managed to insert himself next to two front -seated, serious looking business
men. Entry for him was via the vacant driver’s
seat. So, we sat alert and ready, cloths
tying up personal belongings, suitcases held on laps and faces peering over,
merchandise in cardboard boxes for selling … “Where’s the driver!” That question came from behind, and over the
suitcase. He smiled at me when I looked
around. Sure enough, there the driver
was – in post box red cap and T shirt looking upset, because as he told us, he
had been forced by the police- I could not catch it all- to pay a fine, and the
conductor, who looked only 16 years old himself, was respectfully listening,
and addressing him as “Bashi Michael,” the father of Michael. Paying a fine would upset the fine balance
between a day’s profit and loss.
Everybody else seemed to listen sympathetically too, as the police don’t
enjoy a good reputation in Kitwe. (See below)
Well, Michael’s
father (the driver) was moving out onto the congested road, pulling on his required blue shirt
uniform, strapping in his seatbelt as he changed gears , ( reminding me of one
of my father’s inherited driving habits,) and we were on the road. Businessman
no. 1 was on the phone as the conductor called for money up front, especially
money with CHANGE. “This could be
interesting,” I thought, “a corporate effort;” so I obediently checked my purse
for small notes and handed them over. So
for the next ten minutes, “Who gave me 20? Who gave me 50?” as money travelled
around in exchange. I was glad things
were getting organised because the potato sack was threatening to escape my
grip of knees and hand by this time and I called for conductor assistance.
“Ngafweenko!” I sensed the deep
satisfaction of my friend in front, listening to my Bemba accent. I was enjoying myself immensely.
A few weeks ago
in Lusaka I attended an unusual meeting representing the Drug and Alcohol set
up I work with in SHARPZ. (Serenity Harm Reduction Programme Zambia) In that meeting, different associations had
gathered to pool their resources to work out what could be done for drivers,
conductors, call boys- all the casual workers of Lusaka’s public transport system-
and who were dying of HIV and AIDS.
Peter, an older man and drivers association representative had written a
comprehensive account of the life of thousands who lived off the returns of
organised chaos; introducing us to the “scene” whereby so many of his colleagues
had since died, and he counted himself as a survivor who needed to use what he knew,
to find a way forward for the ones following behind.
Why? Why were so
many dying in this time of media and health delivery? Many who thronged the transport centres for
work are uneducated and casual workers.
Many are positive but in such a rough and volatile environment few would
admit this for fear that at the next dispute when insults flow freely, one’s
status would be out and public consumption within hours. Not only would this mean humiliation and derision
but one’s job would be in jeopardy where the pool of young, unemployed is never
slaked. Many of these teeming youths are
up at first light and most get home very late, perhaps drinking on the way as a
means of relaxation. The daily pressure,
and the reason for hell bent driving is the fact that these are drivers for
mini bus owners who exact a starting fee of K350,000 ($70) before any income
comes their way- both driver and
conductor. Daily passenger trips into town would be K5,000 ($1) so we get packed into buses
unceremoniously. It’s a transaction
executed swiftly and roughly! It’s understandable.
So if a driver
is HIV+ often he sends his conductor or “boy” to the ART (Anti Retro-viral Therapy)
clinic to collect his medication and by the time he has “signed” for it, the
bus is full, the engine running as he has “diverted’ a block from the bus route
to do so without losing vital time and passengers. So, no counselling, no
education on medication, side effects, information or prognosis, no liver test,
no blood or urine analysis; running blind. No chance to check in his or her own
language why the head aches and dizziness.
Many rely on each other for exchange of “information,” like “If you sleep
with her, you need at least two condoms!” And the women are there too,
equally needy and financially strapped. Sometimes (Peter explained) not all
passengers will disembark, but a woman remains riding on the bus. Then there
are the women fruit and vegetable vendors. The question has to be asked “how do
they manage such a turnover of fresh produce each day, for the pitifully small
returns sold daily?’ Sadly the answer
is in supplementary income, so that often a small girl will take over the stand
while, “Aunty” disappears for a while as an escort.
Yet there is a
network of support in the loose associations of the industry, so that with informal
dues paid monthly for funerals for example, a bus can be packed off with
mourners for the cemetery for several hours and on its return be ushered
straight into the loading station for passengers without queuing- an
unscheduled trip quite unknown to the owner.
One planned health
intervention was to set up running DVD with educational messages in the
vernacular languages whilst buses queued for their loads, which often take 40
minutes or so. This could be good together with a small health station to
educate and counsel to break down some of the stigma and fear. I came from that
meeting softened and more enlightened as well as wanting to reach out to such
people caught up in such a web of need and want.
Well once again this comes with blessings and love,
Marie
