The Zambian Expedition

October 22, 2020

The Zambian Expedition, Part One:

My relationship with Zambia began 43 years ago.

Aunt Cheryl Lovelace had moved to Zambia to work as a professor of veterinary medicine at the University of Zambia, where she fell in love with the intellectual and charismatic professor Ben Mweene. They gifted the world with the arrival of a flawless baby girl named Machila in 1977, whom I met for the first time when my parents brought us back to London for Christmas, as sacred as any British family gathering can be. At my Nanny’s vast apartment on Eltham Road, I was introduced to my new Uncle Ben. He was Black, and African, and handsome, and had the coolest accent that molded the lovely English sound into something musical, and he was from the exotically named country of Zambia. By integrating our nearly all-white family with his depth and style and cultural background, he changed the course of my relative’s lives.

In the years following, I would receive pictures from Zambia of Cheryl and her baby, and books about Zambian culture and history. More cousins would enter the family when Johnny and Andrew were born. These two, who were raised with Machila in Lusaka, and whose unlimited exuberance and legendary, notorious, heroic, intriguing misadventures have made them famous within our fam also added to my interest in the Zambian character.

In 1982, after seeing how difficult the situation was for blind Zambians, Aunt Cheryl successfully lobbied my father Harold Snider to Do Something To Help Them. My father was a leading expert on disability rights issues. He raised money for supplies and brought with him a couple of mobility and orientation cane travel teachers. He spent several months in Zambia on two occasions, teaching blind Zambians how to use the long white canes for independent travel. The idea was that these Zambians would then teach other blind Zambians how to use white canes. He also brought a mountain of white canes for distribution.

Eventually, my dad’s blind Zambian friends came to stay with us at our apartment in SW DC. Their voices were spiced with Zambian spirit, which survives with a resilience and grit. They told me stories of their childhood, and about their family life. Most blind people in Zambia are never going to get a full education or have consistent employment. But they still wanted to have something meaningful to do, and getting exposed to the American blind community, in which blind people were pushing for their independence and demanding respect. They would return to Zambia and advocate for themselves.

Cheryl and Ben lived on a bucolic heaven called Rosedale Farm, and it grew in my imagination over the decades as an oasis of agrarian life and where two strong minds could raise their family. I really wanted to visit Zambia and see the farm for myself.

Also intriguing me to visit was a group of former diplomats from Zambia that had become my friends through my real estate work. My host in the capital of Lusaka was Joe Chilaizya, who has been the deputy Ambassador at the Zambian Embassy in DC. It was in long discussions with Joe that I found a brother who I admired and respected, and from whom I learned even more about Zambia. Before he returned at the end of his assignment in DC, I promised that I would take care of the embassy staff and the institution of the embassy itself, as an extension of my family.

With my 50th birthday approaching and with Covid dominating the globe, I went somewhere that is difficult and dangerous to get to, and moderately challenging once I got here. In addition to my American Family and my British Family, I’m now embracing my whole Zambian Family, which includes Uncle Ben’s group from his first marriage, as well as Aunt Cheryl's team. The friends from the DC embassy have warmly embraced me since I’ve arrived here 10 days ago.

On my birthday, October 14th, I stepped foot for the first time at Rosedale Farm. “Uncle Ben, I presume!” I said as we embraced. After more than 40 years, I’ve reached the furthest branch of my sprawling family’s tree.

Joe and I came with his nephew Davis, and we sat under a massive baobab tree with Ben’s son Melo and his wife Emma. I watched two of my Favorite People exchange ideas and memories of Zambian politics, and the never-ending search for economic solutions.

October 24, 2020

The Zambian Expedition, Part Two: How I Almost Got Eaten By Lions and Crushed By Elephants In One Day

The day after my birthday, I went on a three day trip to Livingstone, Zambia at the invitation of the brilliant madman, Mutale Mbalamweshi. We met in DC while he was the accountant for the embassy. Over five years and dozens of meals and thousands of provocative and vicious jokes, we became buddies. And now I was on his turf, and he was gonna take me out of Lusaka to see the country’s major tourist magnet.

Mutale’s agenda was to attend a conference for government finance honchos, and being that he’s the director of finance for the Ministry of Tourism, he had to be there, and graciously took me with him.

Getting to Livingstone was a seven-hour drive on a two-lane road with no speed limits, which wound through smaller villages and towns that filled in my references for life in other parts of the country.

Mutale Mbalamweshi drove like we were being closely chased by bloodthirsty MAGA zombies, or a cloud of angry African wasps, or a herd of furious elephants, or a desperate posse of matrimony-seeking females. Mutale drove like he was gonna win ten trillion dollars if he got to Livingstone faster than anyone else in the history of Zambia could possibly have made it. Most of the time he was above 90mph, frequently weaving (safely) into the oncoming traffic to avoid getting hemmed-up behind a truck or a more patient driver. I kept thinking, this is how the story of David Snider ends… About half of the 7 hours was spent in the pitch-black unlit night. There were no highways lights, and raggedy edges of the road, and lots of potholes in some places, and many times we barely missed hitting a bicyclist on the highway or a cow crossing the roadway… The sky was so dark that night, and the stars were brighter and more beautiful than I’d ever seen them.

Livingstone is named after the Scottish explorer David Livingstone, who crisscrossed Africa in the mid-1800s to preach the Bible and to protest slavery directly to African tribesmen. Many of his “discoveries” were simply the first time a white man had seen the particular locations and reported them back to his investors in London. David decided to name the majestic waterfalls after Queen Victoria, and the British Empire named the surrounding region after David, who passed away on his knees in prayer.

Mutale went to his conference in the morning, and I was left alone to wander the town. I went to the local museum where I learned a lot of history about the region, then I was eventually surrounded by hawkers and master performance artists that tried to sell me the world, offering their copper bracelets and carved animals at steep “discounts”… I picked up a few items and I allowed myself to pay their white-man’s price, which was still very cheap when converted to dollars.

We went on a “game drive” through one of the protected Mosi-oa-Tunya National Park, seeing the water buffalos, gazelles, elephants, giraffes, baboons up close during the two hour excursion on an elevated platform on the back of a pickup truck. The highlight was seeing the rhinoceroses, who were about a dozen in number. They chomped on hay and snorted softly to each other, ignoring our group who gawked at their majesty from 20 yards away. We were led to them on foot by their guardians, two dudes who packed real assault weapons to protect them from poachers. The guards were solid soldier-types, and although Zambia is a peaceful country, these guys were Defenders that I’d be confident hiding behind when the fan smells badly. I asked them for a job application, they laughed and said I wasn’t qualified…

Later that night over dinner, we scarfed down these massive grilled tilapias, a bargain for $5, and I drank water while Mutale and his posse of accountant and finance pals drank themselves into a frenzy of laughter and good times. A brave praying mantis landed on the top of one of Mutale’s 300 beer bottles, prancing for attention with its intriguing movements.

My second day in Livingstone took us to visit the Victoria Falls. As this is the dry summer season, the falls were a Trickle. If they were in full flow during or after the rainy season, we’d have been forced to wear rain coats like at the Niagara Falls boat ride. The landscape was lush and tropical, and the dry falls revealed a massive abstract wall of the Earth’s crust. The woman who sold us our tickets said that tourism was down 90%, which means that the overall economy in Livingstone has been hit very hard, too.

By far, the most intense part of the trip was visiting the Lion’s Den at the Mukini Big Five Safari animal park. We were led down a dirt path to a huge fenced area where four juvenile sibling lions were calmly sitting. Their handlers led them from the enclosure to a more open area, and Mutale and I were allowed to sit behind them and pat their backs. Their wiry coarse hair, and massive paws, and muscular bodies, and deep deep monster kitty cat purring sounds will always be with me. The reality is that these lions were docile and relaxed, but the danger wasn’t too far away. Mutale got scared at first and had to be convinced that he’d be alright with the lions, so that I could fully document his near-death moments. We were allowed to walk with the lions, and in the end, I perched next to Eric the boy lion for a few photos. Now I know why people go crazy for these damn big cats, they’re stunning creatures. I was so pleased and grateful that I wasn’t a lion’s lunchtime snackeroo that I gave all the handlers an extra $25 tip each.

After recovering from the lion’s visit, we found a cultural center where Zambian musicians and singers were in an amphitheater, playing an irresistible chorus of music to the audience. I recorded them with my phone, and as I was watching, a muscular man with an outrageous costume of animal furs and skins came in front of me and started screaming to me and everyone, screaming like he was trapped in the car with Mutale… He was one of the performers, and he came onto the stage and danced around while the rhythm throbbed. Later I picked up an amazing shirt made of patterns from the Zambian flag’s design.

As if that wasn’t enough for one day: we were heading towards a riverside restaurant to watch the sunset over the Zambezi river, when a herd of huge fucking wild elephants started coming outta the trees, coming right for us and blocking our road. Mutale cut right and we booked outta there, he said they were dangerous. I was intrigued. These incredible ten-foot-tall bad boys with huge tusks could’ve crushed our car. I watched as a driver drove backwards to avoid another elephant that came towards our hiding place at the riverside spot. It was badass; those elephants have everyone in check.

We watched the sunset over the massive, third largest river in Africa, and the sky shifted into rusted orange and dark red hues, a timeless event in an ancient land. A tour boat full of jolly dancing fools rolled past us, playing and singing an addictive Africanized version of “When The Saints Come Marching In” with a live band. My phone battery died, but the camera in my head was recording it for the old memory bank.

October 26, 2020

The Zambian Expedition, Part Three

Zambia is intriguing and inspiring. A young democracy that gained its independence from Britain in 1964, its society includes dozens of tribes and dozens of languages, and has the largest amount of freshwater in Africa.

When I arrived, my ride-or-die mates Joe Chilaizya and Edward Kapili drove me back to Joe’s place. On the side of the long, hot roadway, I saw some people walking and struggling with their suitcases by the side of the road. Imagine driving for 5 miles down a hot highway and seeing people walking with a damn heavy suitcase to the airport. This was my first and overriding impression of Zambians: determination.

Every day, I’m seeing the complex on-the-ground reality of a developing country. I imagine that the young United States was in a “developing” status as well in the 1830s. But actually, Zambia is ANCIENT. I’m talking older than Europe, the US, China, everywhere. There are skulls in the Lusaka National Museum that are over 1 million years old. This is where History began. And I love history. And I love Zambia.

Going from Joe’s place on Great East road into central Lusaka, I’m counting the countless displays of grit and hustle on the road side: men, women and young people selling tomatoes, watermelons, charcoal, soccer jerseys, iPhone charger cables, slingshots, chickens(!), car batteries, fresh chilis, shoes, dog leashes, loveseats, huge goddam conga drums, wood carvings… I see dozens of roadside stacks of huge rocks that've been broken off from larger rocks by Rock Sellers (!)(?)(!), and stacked carefully into pyramids, next to their pile of sand, next to their piles of slate…

The city of Lusaka is sprawling with very modest, low-income neighborhoods of endless one-level concrete block houses, but some of the high-wall protected compounds and estates could resemble the upper crusty Beverly Hills, Buckhead or Spring Valley. There are modern shopping malls full of convenient and trendy shoppes for the middle and (very small) upper class.

A place called City Market is a human ant-farm of maximum density micro-shops and small stalls, sort of like a compressed and oversized Zambian flea-market version of Covent Garden in London, or Canal street in NYC, that sell everything you could ever ever want in this lifetime and the next lifetime, teeming with overpacked sidewalks of too-many thousands of hardscrabble working-class people, everyone going everywhere, carrying too many packages, pushing heavily overstacked wheelbarrows, pulling nearly-busted carts, dodging between the jammed traffic of triple parked beat-down trucks, hoopdees and jalopies, belching gray and black diesel smoke for additional aromatic pleasure. These shoppers don’t go the malls…

I am humbled; I’ve never worked as hard for one day in my life, like most Zambians have to work every day.

Every single person that I’ve met has been gentle, welcoming and kind to me, without an agenda. Zambians have solid gold character.

Everywhere I go, I’m the only white person. I stick out like you wouldn’t believe. It reminds me of 9th grade at Jefferson junior high, where I was the only white boy, surrounded by black friends I’d had since first grade. Zambians everywhere are giving me the loooonnnnng look, saying to themselves “what the helly hell?”, evaluating my fish-out-of-water, white American, old-teenager, style-less style (white shirt, tan shorts, old-man shoes), and my passionately-interested-visitor existence; I look back at them in the eye and I smile and say hello to everyone. I respect them. I acknowledge them. I’m just a person. They smile and say hello too. I came here to meet them. They’ve been waiting for me all this time. Zambia has been here forever.

My pictures to accompany this essay are in the Garry Winogrand through-the-car-window style, quick shots of the human river, flowin’. Someday I’ll get inside the circle with the rock-breakers and dig their real lives, someday…

October 28, 2020

The Zambian Expedition, Part Four

My Somalian-born American friend of a dozen plus years, the polymath and journalist Dr. Ayan Ahmed lives in Lusaka with her husband Tony Grant and their prince Soliman. They rolled out the red carpet and treated me to an overnight stay at the famous Chaminuka Lodge, in the “bush” just north of Lusaka. “You’ve got to see the cheetahs,” she said. My cousins and Aunt Cheryl all had good things to say about the Lodge, but they all left something out.

Nobody said that the journey to Chaminuka included a 10-mile-long gauntlet of pure, undisciplined dirt and gravel. My poor taxi driver Derrick and his 30-year-old Toyota hoopdy didn’t stand a chance. When the violent bumping got too much, we crawled at 5-10 mph like we were in rush hour on the Beltway… for 10 miles. And therefore, we took one hour to drive ten miles through the “real” Zambia, being harassed by bigger trucks that kicked up clouds of dust for me to enjoy through the rolled-down windows, because of course there was no air-conditioning… I am too pampered, but anyway.

Arriving at Chaminuka erased the injuries to my tender constitution. What a spread! The lodge was really a resort, and the staff hooked me up with the huge lunch buffet and an appointment with the cheetahs.

The 7-year-old cheetahs were brothers which had been raised since they were pups by a surly fellow who never smiled, but who was clearly devoted to them and in control of them, and us visitors too. We were told where we could position ourselves and where we could touch them, and not. Sitting behind them and patting their necks, I could feel their soft, fluffy fur and the neck muscles. Later I walked with them and patted their backs, with their handlers very close nearby. They are the sprinters, the fastest land animals. The physical design of their long and slender and strong bodies is impressive. They have a compressed-spring quality, ready to bolt.

I took a dip in the pool and recovered my cool, and washed away the frustration from the long drive and the gritty residue from massaging those killer kitties. I went on another game drive to see the ostriches, antelopes, giraffes, elephants, sables, gazelles, snow monkeys, and the zebras. Did you know that a zebra’s stripes are like fingerprints, and that no two zebras have the same stripes?

The landscape in Zambia is defined by the current summer season. Dry, hot air surrounds me, and the trees and brown grasses remind me of the cloudless skies in New Mexico and its scrappy, arid theater. There are trees I’ve never seen anywhere else except here in Zambia, and in nature films about Africa. The rainy season is coming soon, showering life and green color back into this ancient land. Everyone is looking forward to the relief.

Last week, while we were driving back from Livingstone in the full daylight, Mutale pointed out some small “traditional” villages that were located in the most lonely and obscure positions between bigger towns. I could see houses made of the dense, thatched straw sticks. The modest entrepreneurs from these villages would set up their small stands on the roadside, selling freshly harvested bananas by the dozen for 50 cents, and perfect watermelons and tomatoes. Apparently their farming and their lives are made possible by the water resources below ground, connected through wells and borehole drillers. I wondered about them, and what their society was like, and if they desired more prosperity or resources. He told me that they’re quite happy where they are, unbothered by modern life’s pressures. Like Biggie said, “more money, more problems.”

This very same wind that carried away Thomas’s verbal hieroglyphics also breezed through the hip and stylish outdoor restaurant where I was seated with an assorted gaggle of the Family while we feasted in the shade, next to a delicious swimming pool that I wanted to live in, to escape the summer heat. Above the pool’s surface, I noticed an enormous orange dragonfly was flying a disciplined flight plan, back and forth from one side of the pool to the other, hunting for mosquitoes. I’d already received dozens of affectionate love bites from these cowardly beasts, leaving me not with the itchy welts that I was used to, but with red dots that didn’t itch but were annoying nonetheless. I should’ve hired that dragonfly to be my personal assistant. I’d call him Jeeves, and he’d help me manage my schedule, respond to my fan mail, arrange my grocery deliveries, and get my Porsche Cayman detailed, as well as savagely murder all of the mischievous mosquitoes that wanted to assassinate my peace of mind.

Mainza is the second born. He and Rex are both within one year of my age of 600 months. Laid back, thoughtful, hard working and without an ounce of fat on his frame nor in his world, Mainza has the patience to see things through. Touring his plot, his creative landscaping caught my eyes. Taking 20 years to train a system of trees to into an arched passageway is par for his course. Who does this sort of thing? An Artist. Trees that he planted thirty years ago have exploded into massive arboreal specimens, which he points out to me with father’s - or a farmer’s - pride. His house and yard are under siege from his restless design initiatives. A new pergola, a brick patio, more stuff is coming, just you wait.

Misozi is Mainza’s sweet and generous second wife and mother to his older children Mainza Jr. and Avelina, and their little boy Joshua. Mainza the Younger is running their auto parts shop in downtown Lusaka, and plotting a future as a business magnate. Avelina is studying to become a gynecologist, and I believe she will. Joshua is smart and nice, and is expected to develop into a substantial character.

On Mainza’s plot, I found my own little slice of heaven. The late afternoon sun was casting a light yellow wash over the back field next to his house, which hadn’t yet been firmly developed like the other side. The birds chirped, the breeze was soft. A small vine was caught up in a wire that he’d strung up, the germ of another idea from his head. I saw a timeless scene of rural tranquility, and I recorded the moment as a video haiku.

I first met Meebelo “Melo” Mweene 25 years ago when he was 12, when he came to England with 16 year-old Tinta and Aunt Cheryl’s brood. Tinta was a delight as she still is, but Melo was such a great boy, a kid that would’ve been my friend if we were the same age. And now he’s still the same great kid but all grown up, with a savvy, talented wife with a green thumb and landscape design chops named Emma, and a beloved daughter named Kazzi. Along with his brothers, he manages the farm’s business and keeps the milk a’flowin. He and Emma extended their hospitality to help me enjoy the farm and to get around Lusaka.

Melo shared his frustration of the government’s mismanagement and mediocrity. Corruption is rampant, apparently, but it’s that way everywhere... Melo and Emma made the ridiculous and rare mistake to purchase a female Husky canine beast named Alice that whined and cried worse than any dog in forever. I thought the dog was being murdered when I heard the ruckus at a distance, but she was just upset that she was being held back from rampaging uncontrolled throughout the globe. Lastly, she scratched the holy hell outta my leg with her sharp nails in a frenzy of excitement while I un-playfully attempted to shove her into a wooden crate to China, where she would serve as the entree for a family of four...

Melo lived right next to me, as I was renting cousin Johnny’s swank new house for a modest steal. I could build myself another house just like it for a bargain at about $30k. Someday... I'ma do it and that’s where you’ll find me, and Jeeves.

Tinta’s birthday gathering brought all the forces of heaven and earth and family together to her Compound for a rapturous, decadent feast. Dancing and drinking, drinking and dancing... her brothers fully embraced the pathological consumption of toxic brown liquids long ago, and expertly led the party’s unfortunate victims in an unforgiving and exciting whiskey roulette game that required imbibing the poison when your number came up.

The brothers merrily addressed each other as “Uncle” so-and-so, and finally I was granted the lofty demarcation. “Uncle David, you’ve only had two shots while Uncle Melo has had 150 and Uncle Rex has had 188. Are you not a man?” “How many shots have you had?” Mainza said, “Five hundred forty seven thousand, nine hundred and eighteen shots, but I stopped counting them ten years ago...”

I herded the Uncles and their flowers into small group photos before the sun set, and after countless jolly rounds of thirsty roulette, Rex was later observed desperately holding onto an invisible wall to keep himself vertical...

I cried when I left the farm, and thinking about it makes me cry now. Going there for my birthday vacation was perfect. I found a new enthusiasm for living my life by stepping in fresh snow. I think it’s the right approach for my future.

All text, pictures and video © Copyright David Snider 2022

THE END