COPPERBELT LODGE
LUANSHYA, ZAMBIA
“Elementary, my dear Watson”
“It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts.”
“You see, but you do not observe.”
“How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?”
It has long been an axiom of mine that the little things are infinitely the most important.”
SHERLOCK HOLMES
She did in no way physically resemble Holmes: tall – for a woman, at least in my experience. About 5’7″, her color was closer to bronze than black, strikingly lovely, long, shapely legs, melon-sized breasts, and a constitution few can equal. Bright, educated, devoted. Charity is her name. Sole owner of Copperbelt Lodge by default.
Her husband, a British trucker who hauled copper ore from the mines to an on-site crusher and concentrator. Where it is pulverized and processed into copper concentrate. (about 25% copper). This concentrate is then shipped by rail or truck to a smelter to melt out impurities and finally to an electrolytic refinery for purification into 99.99% pure copper cathodes.
He had died some years earlier, and she operated the Copperbelt Lodge, the fruit of their relationship.
I arrived in Luanshya in 2016 from Tulsa, Oklahoma. Charity and I had met on an African dating site.
October 12, 2016.
6:00 a.m. Swing both feet over the edge of the bed, wipe the sleep from my eyes, and greet the sunrise with bloodshot eyes and an agitated brain. Stumble towards the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth, with my thoughts weaving their way through the cobwebs to reach a safe place to plan my day without interference.
All the while thinking about the joke of a dog’s love vs a woman’s love for a man. The dog loves a man more than a woman. The dog will lick the sleep from my eyes, my wife will not.
My residence is the Copper Lodge, Luanshya, Zambia – a walled compound protecting the seven rooms, side by side forming a short-legged L, swimming pool (kidney-shaped), house, my widowed girlfriend, cook, three maids, two cur dogs ( mother & daughter). A guard shack that was home for an old gasoline-fed generator, often used due to the unreliable electrical grid, that appeared to have lived as long as my present 72 years.
Over the years, the town has experienced economic ups and downs, largely influenced by the performance of the mining sector. In addition to mining, small-scale businesses and agriculture contribute to the local economy.
She sits at an average elevation of approximately 1,229 meters (4,032 feet) above sea level, characteristic of the broader Central African Plateau. The terrain is gently undulating, occasionally broken by low hills. Historically a dense forest, the area is now dominated by open woodland with shrubs and tall grasses. The town takes its name from the Luanshya River, a watercourse that traverses the district and splits the terrain.
The city’s built environment is tightly linked to the Roan Antelope copper mine. The architecture is historically divided into distinct, formerly segregated townships: the low-density “Newtown” (European township), the medium-density “Second Class” trade area (Asian merchants), and higher-density compounds (African labor locations). In the low-density residential zones, streets are arranged in alphabetical order and named after trees, flowers, and plants (e.g., Jacaranda and Flame trees). These neighborhoods feature spacious, well-established public gardens and parks. The landscape is dotted with the heavy infrastructure of mining, including large open excavations, headframes, and smokestacks. The town features an iconic entry wall and metal archway, earning it the nickname the “walled town” of the Copperbelt. Other structural highlights include the Olympic-sized public swimming pool, the historic 1928 Golf Club, and the historically tall goalposts at the Roan Antelope Rugby Club. WIKI
Never was I introduced to the Rugby Club, because neither was I a prominent individual, nor did I own a horse; however, the historic Golf Club will play a major role in these anecdotes.
All were factors contributing to my attitude, demeanor, and conduct during my nine-month stay. As were the HIV statistics. In 2016, an estimated 1.2 million people were living with HIV in Zambia. During this period, UNAIDS estimated that adult HIV prevalence (ages 15–49) was approximately 11.6%, while an estimated 59,000 new HIV infections occurred in the country. HIV always resides in the recesses of one’s mind. Every encounter with a person who romantically piques an interest gives pause to acting upon the inclination.
A few friends and acquaintances died from HIV during my stay.
The Lodge had, over the years, deteriorated and was in need of repairs. New driveway, parking, new roofs on the rooms and other sundry upkeep. Soon, these eyesores would be dealt with.
Often, I would accompany Charity to perform chores relating to the upkeep of the lodge. We made a trip to the local quarry for gravel to rebuild an absolutely useless concrete driveway, after two men broke up what remained, and a parking area that looked more like a spider’s web than a place to park a car.
Hired men to reroof the cabins. Planted trees, shrubs. Additionally, added water features: ponds, lilies, fish. Emptied the swimming pool, repainted the bottom a sky blue, red brick for the cantilever coping.
Met her mother.
Visited her mom. We visited the farm she operated with the help of laborers.
Trips to her mother’s farm, which occupied several acres in the bush country. Here, her mother and two hired hands worked crops, cared for dozens of laying hens, which provided income from the sale of their labor. The hens – not the humans. A few pigs and cows.
The trek, which I estimate was about 20 miles on roads more akin to trails than to anything built for travel, took an hour or more to traverse in a broken-down old British Carryall. Two or three small farms were all the signs of human presence that were encountered. Brush and mango trees abound. After we counted, washed, and boxed the eggs, our return trip took longer due to our fragile cargo and the many stops to gather and eat our fill of ripe mangos.
Africa and her history are always on my mind.
On the way back, I had thoughts of “South Coast.” The Kingston Trio tune. “South Coast, the wild coast, is lonely. You may win at the game at Jolon. But the lion still rules the barranca, and a man there is always alone.” Or, maybe “The Lion Sleeps Tonight.” The Tokens, “In the jungle, the mighty jungle, The lion sleeps tonight, In the jungle, the quiet jungle,
The lion sleeps tonight, ho, ho!” Neither is appropriate in our present surroundings. Probably, I am still hungover.
Sadly, the only lions I have ever seen were in a circus or zoo.
The veranda of the Copperbelt Lodge sheltered the kitchen, tables, chairs, and the Coca-Cola machine, which daily spat out several cases of Mosi beer.
Lager beer.
MOSI LAGER – ZAMBIA As an iconic and truly Zambian beer named after the mighty Mosi oa Tunya (Victoria Falls), Mosi lager is well loved at home and abroad and has been a beacon of national pride and culture. Brewed for over 30 years it’s Zambia’s number one thirst quencher.
Beer, the bane of my existence! In my adult life, and a couple of years during my adolescence, the singular biggest contributor to my ill fortunes was beer. I was continuously cloaked in the arms of the golden elixir of lager beer. Myself and barely pop had a relationship that was severed by old age and ill health. A close friend’s father referred to alcoholics as soaks. Periodically, I was a soak.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference. Robert Frost
The guests were having breakfast.
Businessmen, teachers, government officials, skilled workers, and their lovers for the night were hungry after a night of drinking, and an insatiable desire for sex. The women were girlfriends, sex workers, and others who sated the lust of their companions, for drinks, dinner, and money.
No errands to run today. So, Charity’s friend and I decided to walk to town.
To have a few beers.
John, the youngest of two alcoholic brothers, the issue of the boarder of Charity’s teenage daughter for a duration of time that was, presently, unknown. A prominent white British family living in Kitwe where the daughter schooled.
John was an alcoholic. A functional alcoholic. Started every morning with a half pint of liquor – when he had money. When he had no money, he borrowed from me or did odd jobs, gardening primarily.
He and I, with time on our hands one evening, decided we ought to spend a few hours in a nearby bar. A five-minute walk from the lodge, and we were in a crowded room filled with men and women dancing, drinking, and enjoying the company of each other. We, being the only white men in the establishment, were heavily recruited as dance partners as the jukebox spit out Western oldies, the minutes passed into hours, beers and whiskey flowed freely, and more than one of the revelers was quite unsteady. A lovely lady chose me as her partner for the evening, and we danced to nearly every song. She was sitting on my lap when something with the weight of an anvil landed on the side of my face! Damn. That really hurt. My cohabitant turned, walked, head held high, exited the front door, and was swallowed by the darkness of the African night. My drunk friend and his drunk friend ambled home after another hour and a couple of completely unnecessary beers.
I had just whelped the Zambian Sherlock Holmes.
The golf course had a couple of small ponds that John wished to check to see if they contained small fish and water plants he could remove and transport back to the lodge and use them to improve our small garden features.
While he sipped from his whiskey bottle, I chose another avenue in which I might escape the hot sun.
The day was hot, humid, and insufferable, unless one went to the clubhouse and had a few cold beers or iced libations. My thirst was unquenchable this particular day, and I had my fill. Six or eight Mosi’s and the barmaid was very friendly as I stumbled out the back door with my friend. I was not so drunk that I couldn’t remember to ask her name and phone number. She gave them to me.
Sprinkled with Goofer Dust and hard cheese. Happenstance defines my relationship with Charity. I have just killed Oshun.
The Yoruba religion is an ancient West African spiritual tradition originating in Yarubaland. Modern-day Nigeria, Benin, and Togo. Centered on the supreme creator (Olodumare) and hundreds of lesser deities (orishas), it emphasizes destiny (Ayanmo) and the life force (Ase) connecting all things in nature.
[Oshun is one of the most popular and beloved Orishas in the Yoruba religion, known for her beauty, grace, and sensuality. She is associated with rivers and streams, which are considered to be her domain, and is often depicted as a mermaid or a beautiful young woman wearing flowing yellow or gold robes. As the goddess of love and desire, Oshun is often called upon for help with matters of the heart, including finding love, enhancing relationships, and even increasing fertility. She is also associated with divination, and it is said that she can reveal secrets and offer guidance through dreams and other forms of divination.]
A habit I acquired was a morning walk to the center of town, approximately one mile from the lodge. The markets, retail outlets, and a small mall. Occasionally buying fruits and veggies, a gift for Charity at one of the shops.
This morning, I was ambling and took in all the details of the surroundings, landmarks, trees, foliage, buildings, and as I looked behind me to see if I had missed anything of interest, I noticed an odd occurrence.
Following me was one of the maids. A harbinger of ill winds that will carry the seeds of woe to Copper Lodge. And, weigh upon my life.
On one occasion, while walking to town, I turned to see if I was again being followed. She was there, maybe one hundred yards behind. I motioned her to come to me so that I might make inquiries as to why she had, in recent weeks, followed me everywhere I went. She informed me that the madam had told her to follow me and inform her where I had gone.
Then I understood. Once, I had gone to the bar where the aforementioned golf course bartender had invited me. My shadow had, on this occasion, followed me to the bar and reported to Charity where I had been drinking beer with a woman unknown to her. She was a sex worker, too.
Not being physically appealing to me and in a state of continuous worry, apprehension, and psychological distress regarding HIV, therefore avoiding sex with anyone other than my partner, I nonetheless found her interesting, and I enjoyed her company.
Now, whenever I walked to any place, I always looked behind me to see if Sherlock had sent Holmes to tail me. If, indeed, she had, I would begin my evasive maneuvers as soon as we had arrived at one of the many malls along my chosen path to the downtown area.
Most of the time, it was fairly easy to lose the tail. Once in a great while, she was an ectoparasite. Nearly impossible to stop the irritation. On such infrequent occasions, I would walk slowly towards her and tell her to return to the lodge.
If she refused, I would resort to my modus operandi – bar hopping. My yet-to-fail-me method had served my needs well over the past several weeks. These little clusters of rooms inside the malls were much like a honeycomb or a labyrinth. The building housed six bars. Stop, sit, drink a lager, out the door to the hallway, where one could choose to turn left or right to enter the adjacent watering hole. I loved this nightlife hub. The bloodhound never followed me inside. I always slipped out a side door undetected.
Once, old John and I decided to entertain the local merchants, their customers, and anyone who might be within hearing distance of the boombox carried by my drunken friend. I, too, was schnockered. We were outfitted quite well, as I remember. Boombox volume turned high, small cooler of Mosi, station playing oldies we both knew, and we performed dance after dance for all the local spectators. A sold-out concert – perhaps a hundred or more year-rounders. Yes, sir, we stumbled around the horseshoe-shaped shopping area for some time, stumbled, fell, got up, resumed what was, to us, a rousing show worthy of an encore. But it was a wonderment never before seen in Luanshya, Zambia. After the conclusion of our performance, we careened our way back to the lodge and passed out.
“The conquest of the earth, which mostly means the taking it away from those who have a different complexion or slightly flatter noses than ourselves, is not a pretty thing when you look into it too much.” HEART OF DARKNESS – Joseph Conrad.
In my youth, I always loved the movies about Africa, the dark continent, with its astounding assortment of wildlife, Tarzan, Jane, Boy, and Cheeta. My secret practice of the call of the wild, Tarzan’s iconic jungle yell, “AHHHHH-EE-AHHHHH-EE-AHHHHH! Pounding his chest, I assume he learned this behavior from a male Silverback gorilla. I found myself daydreaming about one day visiting and joining my jungle family, calling the animals with my own version of ahhhhh-ee-ahhhhh-ee-ahhhhh. Growing into manhood to challenge Tarzan for the title of “Lord of the Jungle.”
Africa called. Movie Tone News at the local theater, National Geographic (where I learned about the female anatomy -breasts). Comic books. Tribal chiefs and sweaty, loin-clothed warriors challenging the white invaders, colonists.
Dreams of Vachel Lindsay’s “The Congo” swam in the pools of my subconsciousness.
Yes, the jungle called to bwana.
“Then along that riverbank
A thousand miles
Tattooed cannibals danced in files;
Then I heard the boom of the blood-lust song
And a thigh-bone beating on a tin-pan gong.
A rapidly piling climax of speed & racket.
And “BLOOD” screamed the whistles and the fifes of the warriors,
“BLOOD” screamed the skull-faced, lean witch-doctors,
“Whirl ye the deadly voo-doo rattle,
Harry the uplands,
Steal all the cattle,
Rattle-rattle, rattle-rattle,
Bing.
Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, BOOM,”
A roaring, epic, rag-time tune
With a philosophic pause.
From the mouth of the Congo
To the Mountains of the Moon.
Death is an Elephant,
Torch-eyed and horrible,
Shrilly and with a heavily accented metre.
Foam-flanked and terrible.
BOOM, steal the pygmies,
BOOM, kill the Arabs,
BOOM, kill the white men,
HOO, HOO, HOO.
Listen to the yell of Leopold’s ghost
Like the wind in the chimney.
Burning in Hell for his hand-maimed host.
Hear how the demons chuckle and yell
Cutting his hands off, down in Hell.
Listen to the creepy proclamation,
Blown through the lairs of the forest-nation,
Blown past the white-ants’ hill of clay,
Blown past the marsh where the butterflies play: —
“Be careful what you do,
Or Mumbo-Jumbo, God of the Congo, All the “O” sounds very golden. Heavy accents very heavy. Light accents very light. Last line whispered.
And all of the other
Gods of the Congo,
Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you,
Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you,
Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you.”
When my interest in my dedicated trailer, the housemaid, who continually followed me, began to flag, slowly, I lost the sense of self-preservation, and my avoidance of discovery slackened. I let my guard down.
Charity didn’t.
On an exceedingly hot day, I decided a couple of cold brewskis and some good conversation would fit the bill for the afternoon. Without a thought in my empty head, I briskly set out for a warm welcome from my acquaintance. I never looked back.
I should have.
After I was seen entering the bar, my trailer immediately headed to the lodge to give her mistress the information on the depth and seriousness of my perceived infidelity.
My hostess’ apartment was at the back of the bar, housing her and two children. The kids would play in the living room, she and I would sit in the bedroom, watch TV, drink beer, talk, and enjoy ourselves.
On this fateful day, when I had ignored all prudent measures to ensure the privacy of my presence, a commotion ensued where the children were playing. The lady of the house went into the outer room to see what was happening. Then, she rushed into the bedroom, quickly closing the door, and informing me that Charity, the maid and houseboy, were outside and desired my attendance.
Well, while I had not, nor would I, ever have sexual relations with anyone other than my partner, I did, however, have enough values to see that my behavior was inappropriate.
Acute Stress Response. Fight or Flight. Yes. I had no desire or intention to answer Charity’s summons. Cowardice and fear overcame me, and my only thoughts were how to escape from the unsettling situation.
Do the right thing. My mind teased me into thinking I should face her and accept the consequences of my actions. Or run.
There was a side door to the bedroom, and I hastily exited, began my search to find refuse within one of the watering holes encased within the confines of the L-shaped shopping center. I had to traverse, maybe, 200 yards of open ground before I spotted a tavern with open-air seating. I went inside the unlit bar, waited for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, and ordered a Mosi. Chugged the bottle. Ordered another. Now, bravado kicked in, and I was prepared to face whatever punishment was to be meted out by Charity.
Picked out one of the better-located chairs. Shaded. Propped my feet upon the table and waited for the unknown. As though an apparition, a car filled with individuals who, presently, held no compassion for this sinner began circling the parking lot at the speed of a sloth. Spotted.
The moment of truth. Confrontation. Punishment. Groveling.
In my pocket was a cell that belonged to Charity. I had to borrow one of her phones after a guest of the lodge stole mine.
“Give me my phone,” she demanded.
“No. I need it.” Replied I.
Her retort: “Give me my phone, or I will have you arrested!”
She spoke the truth. I had already spent one night in the Luanshya jail because I verbally abused her in violation of Zambian law. There was little doubt, given her present state of mind, that she would have little compunction about incarcerating me again.
“No.” Once again, I refused to return her the phone that had suddenly taken on a life of its own and held within its inanimate framework more value than I could have ever imagined. It held, perhaps, another lost day locked in a jail cell for the night.
She turned and walked maybe 100 feet to another bar, then returned with a burly guy who proclaimed himself a policeman. Not in uniform, but I never doubted him, considering my dear companion knew every influential person in the city.
“Now give me my phone or go to jail!” In a no-nonsense tone.
My hackles were raised, and I gave serious thought to going to jail again just to prove a point. The unidentifiable-to-the-naked-eye cop chirped in with his own “Give her the phone, or I’ll arrest you for theft.”
C’est la vie!
You catch more flies with honey than vinegar.
I delay my reply as my brain enjoys the alcohol dancing in my mind. A few precious moments to savor before my decision. I have already spent one night in jail, so no new experience to be gained. I haven’t been assaulted by the goon squad. Yet. Charity seems to be remarkably composed. Everything considered, I have fared well.
I give the phone back. Sherlock and her subordinates walk to their vehicle and, similar to an apparition, disappear into the midafternoon traffic.
I return to drinking beer.
“In heaven, all the interesting people are missing’ Nietzsche
Leave a Reply