Almost There

It was a ten-hour flight from Singapore to Johannesburg.

Stepping off the plane, I go through the ritual of clearing immigration, picking up my backpack from luggage claim, and walking to the arrival hall of the airport. I have four hours until my flight to Lusaka. As I look up to search for signs that point to departure, a couple of people dressed in airport staff uniforms approach me and ask me where I want to go, then point me to the escalators to the departure level.

When I step off the escalator, another guy dress in a polo shirt with “Airport Aid” embroidered in the front asks me what airline I am flying. He then walks me down to the end of the terminal to the South African Airways counter, gets my backpack weighed, and gets me in line to check in. I look up to thank him but am met with his right hand extended, palm up. “Tips,” he whispers. “Excuse me?” I am taken aback, “I don’t have any rand.” “Tips, any currency,” he repeats under his breath.

I realize I’ve just been had. Man, I should have known better. But he has already “helped” me, I don’t want to cause a scene. I take out my wallet, thumb through my Australian dollars and Singapore dollars, and stop at the American singles. I knew those $1 bills would come in handy when I was packing. I take out US$2 and hand them to him. He takes a glance, pockets them, and disappears. So within a half hour of setting foot in South Africa, I have been taken for a sucker.

I remember the time a couple of years ago when I was crossing from Cambodia into Vietnam. A couple of guys “helped” me fill out the arrival form and submitted it to the immigration officer, then asked for a dollar for their service. I learned that whenever someone decides to “help” you with something straightforward like filling out a form and handing it to someone or, in this case, find the check-in counter and get in line, it’s better to politely decline the “service” they offer.

After window-shopping at the duty-free shops and bookshops, I board the flight to Lusaka. The one-hour-forty-minute flight to the capital of Zambia brings me and what appears to be a large group of expatriates to the dilapidated Lusaka International Airport. I pay through the nose (US$100) for a three-year multiple entry visa, the only one available to US citizens. Stepping outside the arrival hall, I am greeted by Mr. M., my local contact who had basically set up the elective for me. He takes me through the suburbs of the city and into the city center to the college where he is studying. Full of squat, drab, and utilitarian buildings, the city center is nonetheless humming with enough pedestrian and vehicular activities to cause a minor traffic jam during rush hour. The main road, Cairo Road, is one dilapidated building after another housing various small shops punctuated by big and bright South African supermarkets.

I find out that there are two daily buses that go to Samfya, the nearest town to Lubwe where the mission hospital is located. One bus leaves at 4 p.m. and arrives in Samfya at the ungodly hour of 1 a.m.; the other bus leaves at the ungodly hour of 5 a.m. and arrives in Samfya sometime in the early afternoon. Well, it’s probably better that I arrive there in the afternoon when sane people are awake. Mr. M.’s friend has graciously offered his dorm for me to have a few hours of shut-eye before catching the 5 a.m. bus.

At night, while eating dinner at Mr. M.’s dorm room, the power goes out. Apparently the whole country is experiencing power shortage because the main generator at Kariba Dam, the main source of electricity for the whole country, is having problems. I am sensing this may be a sign of things to come.