40年后，《經濟學家》前外交事務編輯約翰·格里芒德重返1965年曾經任教的贊比亞。
上帝來非洲創造贊比亞預算一定是很緊很緊的。在創造維多利亞大瀑布的宏偉工程和其它若干充滿活力的作品之后，這個國家的其他地方幾乎都被做成單調的矮樹叢了。上帝到倫達孜時，口袋里的錢顯然是用光了。倫達孜是一個非常不起眼的地方，往東不遠是馬拉維邊界，路通到這兒就沒有地方可去了。唯一的城鎮(技術上講只是一個鄉而已)，面積與俄亥俄市相同，卻僅有一幢象樣的樓房，那是上世紀40年代末期英國統治時期一位地區專員仿照小諾曼底式城堡建造的旅館。城堡旅館本身倒是一件迷人的古董，可從它的防衛墻向外望去，卻看不到任何非洲有名的風景。總體上講，倫達孜寧謐而顯古舊，旱季整日塵土飛揚，雨季也好不到哪兒去。即便如此，這個地方樸實、友好，當地人樂觀開朗。
1965年，我18歲中學畢業第一次來到倫達孜時，她看上去就這個樣子。40年后，我重返故地，只見一切風貌依舊。1965年，以前叫做北羅得西亞的贊比亞正享受從英國獨立第一年的喜悅。與南羅得西亞和尼亞薩蘭組成的令人詛咒的聯邦已于1963年解散，伊安·史密斯還沒有單方面地宣布獨立（1965年11月宣布獨立時引起整個地區動蕩不安）。擁有巨大銅礦藏的贊比亞，是一個潛在的富裕國家，她的領袖是一位正派的先生，名叫凱尼斯·卡翁達。到處都有一種希望感。我分享了這種希望。
然而，后來的幾十年對非洲來說卻說不上是好年頭。政治動亂、經濟停滯、腐敗以及國內戰爭搞垮許多非洲國家，贊比亞也飽受挫折。不過，這個國家一直卻沒有發生過軍事政變（1997年發生的小事件可以忽略），沒有發生國內戰爭，也當然沒有發生過種族屠殺。對邊界外面的人們來說，描述贊比亞的痛苦更多地是國際報告的統計數據，而不是通過晚間新聞中的圖像。那么，偏僻的倫達孜究竟發生了什么樣的變化？
40年后，從我走過的道路狀況看，這里沒有多大的變化。道路對倫達孜來說是至關重要的， 但只有從奇帕塔來的這條186公里的道路是有意義的。奇帕塔在1969年以前叫做詹姆森堡，簡稱吉米堡，是東部省的省會，為以首都盧薩卡為起點的東部大通道的終點。因此，實際上所有出入倫達孜的人都要走到奇帕塔的這條路。1965年時，這里還是一條沒鋪設的通道，一段堅實，一段坑洼，又一段是松軟的沙路，但整個是塵土飛揚。沒有標志彎道和看不見的深坑，時常突然出現，使行路充滿危險。這是旱季的情況，到了雨季，則是一片泥濘，無法通行。不管是旱季或雨季，樹上總有猴子，汽車前燈照射下總有夜鷹， 還有默默的行人，走著的、跑著的，還有不亮燈自行車（經常是兩個人騎一輛車）。還有，常�？梢钥吹叫羞^的大卡車，卷起滿天塵土，仿佛要將所有想超車的車輛甩到路邊的叢林中。
這條公路已經鋪上瀝青，通往倫達孜的頭130公里路段上，4輪驅動汽車以一定的速度隆隆地開過�？傻搅丝ㄗ诘拢驮贈]有瀝青了。盡管還在做修修補補，在剩余的50公里路段，所有車輛的速度比步行快不了多少，艱難地通過斜坡和溝坑。整體維修工程早已開始，但因承包商拿不到工程款而停止。2004年，當地居民將新裝的金屬管道都扒走做工具去了。這里的人們窮到極點，為數不多的路標都得全部專門打上孔洞，不然，很快就會卸走,變成鐵鍋和盤子。
所有車輛的速度比步行快不了多少，艱難地通過斜坡和坑溝。
40年后，沿路的許多景象依然如舊：婦女們頭頂巨大的籃子、柴捆、水桶；拋錨的卡車，后軸輪下酣睡的司機；一輛滿載卡車翻在路上，布袋包裝的貨物撒落一地；牛車、自行車，路邊叫賣香蕉、木炭和甘蔗的小販。不過，還是有了一些變化。向北行駛的60公里路段，有學校、磚瓦房和鐵皮屋頂，顯示出超出過去的繁榮。原因似乎在于農作物新的多樣化。過去，農業幾乎全部是為了糊口，種植的幾乎全部是玉米。路邊可見的谷倉說明，玉米依然是這里的主食。不過，現在卻有了經濟作物的跡象，奇帕塔郊外就有煙草種植，115公里以外有煙草倉庫；滿載棉花的卡車；賣甜土豆的人；一塊又一塊的木薯田。還有思想受到給養的跡象。在魯莫孜，有指向一所中學的路標，這是1965年所沒有的。再行87公里，路邊有一個孤兒院，成了上世紀60年代以來最大變化的一個預兆，使人感到不寒而栗。
鼓起勇氣來，兄弟！
教育從來就不是北羅羅得西亞政府優先發展的問題。上世紀50年代中期，這個國家只有三所中學向當地非洲人提供教育，其中兩所還是教會辦的。60年代有了發展，當時說要在全部7個農村省里每個省建一所中學，但倫達孜是在獨立以后才有了中學。學校再簡單不過了，開始只有兩個班，全是男生，四個教師（我是第四個），書籍很少，其余一無所有。非洲部分地區依然深受大衛·利維斯頓及其長老教會的影響，所以最為重要的是圣歌。然而，基礎設施的匱乏一直影響到圣歌書籍發行。大家想方設法，刻印出一兩本圣歌來，教孩子們背誦。當時最流行的歌是“兄弟, 不要跌倒,鼓起勇氣來!”。每天早晨集合，總是有人會說: “現在,讓我們唱圣歌!”。大家停頓一下后，幾乎永遠不變地聽到“唱‘兄弟,鼓起勇氣來’”， 頓時，空氣中立刻充滿低沉的男聲。
校長是亞瑟·勒瓦尼卡，是洛茲皇家的后代，其王國巴羅茨蘭位于贊比亞西部。在我和阿爾弗雷德到來之前，亞瑟和他的副手羅杰亞·祖魯是學校是僅有的兩名教職員工。阿爾弗雷德來自南羅得西亞，我倆誰也沒有接受過任何正規的教學培訓，至少，我連任何要教授的法語、數學和物理課程的書籍都沒有。外人很難相信我還會教什么課程。不過，這一次在盧薩卡，還沒有啟程赴倫達孜，就聽說我教授過學生中有10個已經大學畢業，有成為工程師的，也有做會計師或律師的。1964年獨立時，這個國家大學畢業生不足100人。
來自周圍地區很遠地方的學生都必須住校，所以學�？偸呛軣狒[�？僧敃r只有2000到 3000人的倫達孜小鎮生活卻十分平靜。到了晚上，除了人說話聲音外，就只能聽到Tilley牌汽燈的嘶嘶聲（當時還沒有通電）和土狼的嚎叫。土狼常常吃掉勒瓦尼卡養的雞，還到我和阿爾弗雷德共住的房子前。當時主要樂趣來自日常生活中的各種考驗。阿爾弗雷德1英里的長跑常常被一群蜜蜂猛追；有一天我的舊車駛過市場起火；為了延長汽車電池壽命，阿爾弗雷德把電池放在爐子上烤了好長時間，結果引起爆裂，沸騰的酸液一直滲到廚房地板上，引得大家一場大笑。
在倫達孜你休想修車，連換電池都辦不到。商店都是賣基本生活用品的。市場上可以買來食品，時而有人上門出售活雞或柑橘。但阿爾弗雷德總是對缺乏選擇感到輕蔑。他說，南羅得西亞的人勤奮多了（當然是在羅伯特·穆加貝毀壞這個國家之前的情況）。所有東西，即便一些稍微復雜的東西，如油燈、毯子，衣料等等都只能在“亞洲人”開的商店買來。最有名的商店是穆拉百貨店，是一位名叫穆拉的老先生開的。30年代，穆拉從印度古吉拉特轉道莫桑比克來到倫達孜。
想出去喝點酒或用餐，就只能去“城堡酒店”。酒店是由我的唯一的“歐洲人” 同胞林·杰奎里經營的。當時在倫達孜，所有的白人都被稱為歐洲人�！俺潜ぞ频辍笔莵碓L的政客、承包商及公務員居住的地方。杰奎里夫人總是將那里收拾得干干凈凈。到了晚上，總能看到她站在酒吧臺后面，態度和藹地分發冰鎮的“城堡”（旅館跟暢銷的啤酒同名），或者從東鄰莫桑比克進口的葡萄牙產葡萄酒，留聲機放著Jim Reeves唱的歌曲。城堡酒店自備發電機。
今天的倫達孜再也不需要發電機了：電力（通常）是由邊境以外的馬拉維國家電網提供的。城堡酒店有了電視機。不過，除了下雨時從屋頂流下雨水，這間旅館至今沒有什么自來水。建筑物本身千瘡百孔，盡管新的雇主切夫穆·班達常說馬上要進行維修了。
班達先生是倫達孜當地人，現為盧薩卡一個有名的律師。他曾提醒我，說我看到現在的倫達孜比過去更加貧窮。不過，學校卻是變了大樣。過去的4個教師和70多個學生現在變成了43個教師和864名學生，學校面積也比以前大多了。雖然已經沒有人還記得最早的教職員工， 但4間宿舍，有一間是以亞瑟的名字命名的。至于學生們的名字，不管是姓還是名，都沒有多大的變化。姓還是尼德赫洛沃斯、菲利斯、尼維任達斯、班達斯等，名字多為貝斯特（最佳）、吉佛特（禮品）、梅杰（中尉）、莫西（憐憫）或邁莫里（記憶）。不過，這次我沒有遇見叫泰姆（時間），密特（肉）或塞克甚·艾特（第八節）。
學校的用水是自備的（從3口鉆井中抽水），還有一個魚塘，養了4頭肥豬和幾只綿羊和山羊。顯然，在距今不遠的過去，玉米粥這種苛刻的食品曾引起了抗議。學校幾乎沒有什么維修費用，但還在更換被打碎的玻璃。學生干部現在戴上了“管理者領帶”，圖書館里也藏有一定數量的各類書籍，還有10臺電腦，但沒有網絡連接。（昂貴的通信費用和超負荷的中繼站依然使倫達孜的大部分地區無通信聯系，雖然移動電話剛剛開始興起）。另一個變化就是在1965年阿爾弗雷德書在黑板上寫“拖延就是盜竊時間”的周圍，門上現在的標語是“千萬別相信那些腐敗的政客”。
新的瘟疫
基本學費是免費的，但每年的住宿費用與附加課程的費用差不多需要200美元，另外服裝費用還需要大約50美元。對于大多數家庭來說，這是一筆不小的金額。大約70%的贊比亞人每天的生活費用還不到一美元。然而，過去攢錢送孩子上學的家庭通常還承受得起。現在這種說法已不真實了，其原因是許多家庭已經破裂。在學生名單中，可以看到字母S和D標記。S代表單親孩子，既失去一位父母的，D則孤兒。年紀越高，標記字母越多。9年級14個，10年紀 60個。罪魁禍首就是愛滋病。由于后到的這場瘟疫，全校864名學生中喪失一位父母或者喪失雙親的學生已經超過120名。
倫達孜并沒有遠離艾滋病。這個地區就有一個名叫克里斯塔的艾滋病協調員。盡管常年資金匱乏，她仍然努力開展工作。教堂也在竭盡全力，里佛長老教堂就在幫助照顧幾個孤兒和55位HIV陽性的人員，其中有些人已經發病。從城堡酒店出來，沿路就有一個“互助中心”，提供艾滋病的咨詢、幫助和檢驗。該中心于1999年在過去一間雞尾酒巴（外頭的文字依然可以看到）建立的，據說是一個模范的非政府組織，但不提供醫療服務。
這里不再有雞尾酒
治療是在倫達孜地區醫院，或者說應該在此。問題在于這家醫院太陳舊了（上世紀50年代設施），只有兩名醫生（服務全地區29萬人），必須向受感染病人要收取抗病藥品費用。只有20%極端貧窮的病人才可以享受免費藥品，其他人每個月則要支付大約10美元的藥費。結果，已知需要治療的超過500的病人中，只有114個得到醫治。實際上，應該得到治療的人有數千人。學校中孤兒的數字和離醫院不遠地方的“棺材鋪”就足以說明問題。
好在在倫達孜， 棺材并不是創造工作機會的唯一來源。還有一個是蓬勃興起的二手衣服市場。在一塊骯臟的地上，堆積著整箱整箱的西服。這些衣服多半是中國或亞洲的其他地區制造的，西方人穿舊后，贈給慈善機構，在非洲以很便宜的價格出售。倫達孜也不例外。由于這種被稱為salaula的現象， 路上已經難見到穿傳統服裝的婦女了。經�？吹降氖�，窮得連鞋子都穿不起的人，卻穿著正裝襯衣，騎著自行車。貿易為許多過去根本不敢問津的人提供了T恤衫、襯衣和褲子，也為那些銷售這些貨物的人提供了工作。但是，這種做法卻擠垮了贊比亞紡織業， 成為一種真正意義上的傾銷。
對于倫達孜來說，比較有希望的是農業方面遲到而緩慢的改進。在倫達孜鎮的郊區，美國的一家跨國公司新建許多煙草架。這家名叫Stancom的公司, 向小農戶提供貸款，培訓農業技術，并向農戶銷售種子和化肥以及樹苗。農民需要砍樹作燃料，需要補栽樹苗。一家名叫Limbe Leaf的馬拉維公司也來到倫達孜。還有幾家棉花公司，Dunavant是家美國公司，Clark Cotton來自南非，Chipata Cotton是一家中國合資公司�，F在，倫達孜的棉花產量占整個贊比亞的12%，據說，Dunavant要建一座扎棉廠。
盡管有了這些令人欣慰的變化，但倫達孜周圍農業的落后狀況卻令人沮喪。由于莊稼歉收，過去幾個月許多人都在挨餓；在2004年到2005年莊稼生長季節里，雨水下得并不均勻，而是過早的下起了暴雨。然而，土地是沒有問題的，如果灌溉正常，每年可以收獲兩季，完全可以提供更多的食物和經濟作物。多年失修和淤積后，人們到現在才開始對殖民時代的一些水壩進行維修。
姍姍來遲的希望
離開倫達孜的時間到了。40年來似乎未見一滴修繕油漆的穆拉商店外邊，有一些人在聊天。自行政中心方向有一兩個人騎著自行車來。你再次感到，幾乎什么變化也沒有發生。走在去奇帕塔坑坑洼洼的路上，在盧邁孜教堂拜訪神父莫里森和其他神父之后，這種印象更為強烈。不過，看到了相當多標記的學校：小學、“基礎”學校(提供一兩年的初中教育), 還有盧邁孜中學。這是令人鼓舞的現象，農業也是如此。但是，四處可見的樹枝卻預示著新現實更黑暗的一面，鋪在路上的數枝預示著有人在辦葬禮。出于尊敬，騎車人會下車，卡車和小汽車會慢下來。我在猜想，也許是瞎猜，艾滋病又奪取了一個受害者的生命。
對在倫達孜看到的情況我是有思想準備的；按人均收入計算，半個世紀以前，贊比亞和韓國基本上是一樣的，而現在韓國是贊比亞的32倍。我期望看到40年來毫無必要的貧窮、治理不善和一閃而過的希望的積累見證。我體會過許多一閃而過的希望。但我的最大的遺憾是即便當時沒有這方面的書籍，我沒有去教韓國研究，而是去教法語和物理。也許，其他人現在做也算太遲。
韓瑞國 譯自 英國《經濟學家》
2005年12月20日
Return to Lundazi
Dec 20th 2005
From The Economist print edition
John Grimond, our former foreign editor, revisits the corner of Zambia where he taught in 1965
GOD must have been working to a budget when He came to make Zambia for, after the spectacular creation of the Victoria Falls and a few lesser bursts of exuberance, it was nearly all monotonous bush for the rest of the country, and by the time He got to Lundazi the cash was clearly at an end. Lundazi is an unremarkable place, way out east on the Malawi border, and on the road to nowhere much. The only town—township, technically—in an area the size of Ohio, it has just one building of note, a hotel built in imitation of a small Norman castle by a district commissioner in the late 1940s, when the country was run by the British. The Castle is a charming curiosity, but from its battlements the horizons hold none of the views for which Africa is famous. For the most part, Lundazi is quiet, mildly decrepit and, in the dry season at least, always dusty. Yet, for all that, it is unpretentiously welcoming, and its people are delightful.
So it certainly seemed in 1965, when I went there first, as a British 18-year-old filling the gap between school and university, and so it seemed again when I revisited it a few months ago for the first time in 40 years. In 1965 Zambia, hitherto called Northern Rhodesia, was enjoying its first year of independence from Britain. The hated federation with Southern Rhodesia and Nyasaland had been dissolved at the end of 1963, and Ian Smith's Southern Rhodesia had not yet made its unilateral declaration of independence, which, when it came (in November 1965), was to bring turmoil to the entire region. Zambia, with huge reserves of copper, was potentially rich. It was led by a man of some decency, Kenneth Kaunda, and, all in all, there was a sense of hope. I shared it.
The next decades, though, were not good for Africa. Political instability, economic stagnation, corruption and civil breakdown overtook many of its countries, and Zambia had its share of setbacks. Yet it suffered no military coup (overlooking a little incident in 1997), no civil war and certainly no genocide. To people outside its borders, its travails were portrayed more in the statistics of international reports than in images on the evening news. So how had things changed in out-of-the-way Lundazi?
Not much, to judge by the state of the road I was again travelling, 40 years on. The road is important to Lundazi. There is only one of significance, which runs the 186km (116 miles) from Chipata, which was called Fort Jameson—or, more familiarly, Fort Jim—until 1969. Chipata is the capital of the Eastern province, and pretty much the end-point of the Great East Road from the capital, Lusaka, so virtually everyone going to or from Lundazi uses the road from Chipata. In 1965 it was an unpaved artery, alternately hard and corrugated, then soft and sandy, always dusty and often, when unmarked bends or unseen chasms suddenly appeared, rather dangerous. That was in the dry season. In the rainy season it could be so muddy as to be impassable. Wet or dry, there would be monkeys in the trees, nightjars in the headlights and silent figures walking, running or mounted—often two at a time—on unlit bicycles. Sometimes, too, there would be huge trucks, throwing up clouds of dust and threatening to send any would-be overtaker hurtling into the bush.
The road has since been tarred, and a 4X4 can now bowl along the first 130km of the approach to Lundazi at some speed. But then, at Kazonde, the tar stops and thereafter, despite the patching and grading in progress, all vehicles must slow to little more than walking pace to navigate the slopes, trenches and pot-holes of the remaining 50km. Repairs had been started before but the contractors stopped work when they were not paid, and in 2004 locals removed many of the new metal culverts in order to fashion tools from them. The people here are so poor that all road signs—there are not many—are deliberately perforated, for otherwise they would soon be removed and turned into pots and pans.
Many sights along the road are unchanged after 40 years: the women carrying huge baskets on their heads, or bundles of logs, or drums of water; the broken-down lorries, one whose driver is asleep beneath the back axle, another whose sackclothed cargo has tumbled off and burst on the ground; the ox-carts, the bicycles, the wayside hawkers selling bananas, charcoal and sugarcane. But there are changes, too. For the first 60km going north, schools, brick houses and tin roofs suggest greater prosperity. The source of this seems to be a new diversification of crops. In the past, farming was almost entirely a subsistence affair with little grown except for maize, and the granaries visible from the road show that this remains the staple food. Now, though, there is evidence of cash crops: the tobacco sheds just outside Chipata and a store 115km beyond; two lorries laden with cotton; people selling sweet potatoes; patches of cassava under cultivation. And minds are evidently fed too. A sign at Lumezi points to a secondary school that was not there in 1965. More sinisterly, after 87km, an orphanage now stands by the road. This turns out to be a portent of one of the biggest changes since the 1960s.
Courage, Brother
Education had never been a priority for the authorities in Northern Rhodesia. The country had only three secondary schools for Africans in the mid-1950s, and two of those were run by churches. An expansion began in 1960, with talk of a secondary school for the capital of each of the seven rural provinces, but it was not until independence that one was opened in Lundazi. It was a simple affair: two classes to start with, all boys, four teachers (I was the fourth), few books and not much else. The dearth of equipment extended to hymn books, important as they were in a part of Africa which still showed the influence of David Livingstone and his Presbyterian beliefs. One or two hymns, however, had been cyclostyled, taught to the boys and committed to memory. “Courage, Brother, do not stumble” was particularly popular. Each day, morning assembly would start with the words, “We will now sing our hymn.” A pause followed, just long enough to allow the possibility of suspense as to what the choice would be. Then, almost invariably, came, “Let us sing ‘Courage, brother',” and the air swelled with a lowing of deep male voices.
The headmaster was Arthur Lewanika, a scion of the Lozi royal family whose kingdom, Barotseland, lay in western Zambia. He and his deputy, Roger Zulu, had been the only teaching staff until I and another recruit, Alfred Zaranyika, a Southern Rhodesian, arrived. Neither Alfred nor I had had any training as teachers, and I at least had no books for the lessons in French, maths and physics that I was supposed to give. It is difficult to believe that I taught anyone anything. Still, I had heard in Lusaka before returning to Lundazi that about ten of my former pupils had eventually graduated from university and some had become engineers (Alex Barton Manda), accountants (Major Mkandawire) or lawyers (Masuzu Zimba). At independence in 1964, the country had had fewer than 100 graduates.
The students, who came from far and wide within the surrounding area, were boarders, and so the school was always busy. But life in Lundazi, a town of perhaps 2,000-3,000 in those days, was quiet.。In the evenings, the only noises apart from human voices were the hiss of the Tilley lamps that provided our light—no electricity then—and the calls of the hyenas that sometimes ate the Lewanikas' chickens and often came right up to the house that Alfred and I shared. The main amusements were provided by the trials of daily life: Alfred's mile-long sprint pursued by a swarm of bees; my old car catching alight as I drove past the market one day; Alfred's attempt to extend the life of his car battery by warming it up in the oven, an experiment that caused Arthur huge amusement when “over-baking” led to muffled explosions and quantities of boiling acid that seeped on to our kitchen floor.
It was almost impossible to get a car mended in Lundazi, or even to replace a battery. The shops were basic. Food could be bought in the market and sometimes people would come to the door offering a (live) chicken or some oranges. But Alfred was always scornful about the lack of choice: people were so much more enterprising, he said, in Southern Rhodesia (that was, of course, before Robert Mugabe had done his best to wreck the country). Anything even slightly sophisticated—oil lamps, blankets, cloth for chitenges, the nearly universal garment for women in those days—was available only from the shops owned by “Asians”, notably Mulla Stores, founded by old Mr Mulla, who had made his way to Lundazi from Gujarat via Mozambique in the 1930s.
For a drink or a meal out, the place to go was the Castle, which was presided over by Lyn Jonquière, the only other “European”, as whites were then called, in Lundazi. The Castle was where visiting politicians, contractors and civil servants would stay. It was kept spick and span by Mrs Jonquière. Of an evening, she could be found behind the bar, genially dispensing cold Castles (the hotel shared a name with a popular beer) or Portuguese wine brought in from Mozambique, Zambia's neighbour to the east, while Jim Reeves played on the gramophone. Thanks to its generator, the Castle had electricity.
You do not need a generator today in Lundazi: electricity is (usually) available from the Malawian national grid across the border, and the Castle now has television. It does not, however, have running water—except through the roof in the rainy season. The building is in a sad state, though its new leaseholder, Chifumu Banda, promises improvements.
Mr Banda, a native of Lundazi who is now a prominent lawyer in Lusaka, had warned me that I would see that Lundazi was now “worse off”. The school, though, is vastly improved. The four teachers and 70 or so students have become 43 teachers and 864 students, and they occupy a bigger site. Though no one remembers any of the original staff, Arthur's name is memorialised in the name of one of the four boarding houses. As for the students' names, neither their first nor their surnames seem to have changed much: there are Ndhlovus, Phiris, Nyirendas and Bandas galore, preceded perhaps by Best, Gift, Major, Mercy or Memory, even if, on this occasion, I meet no Time, Meat or Section Eight.
The school has its own water (pumped from three boreholes), a fish pond, four plump pigs and several sheep and goats. It grows its own vegetables. But only rarely do the students eat meat, and the relentless diet of nshima—maize porridge—has apparently provoked protests in the not-too-distant past. Little money has been available for maintenance, but broken windows are being replaced, prefects now have “executive neckties”, the library contains a modest variety of books and there are ten computers, though not, as yet, an internet connection. (High telecoms charges and an overburdened relay station still keep most of Lundazi offline, though mobile phones have just arrived.) Another sign of change is that, in place of the “Procrastination is the thief of time” written on the blackboard by Alfred in 1965, a notice on a door now reads, “Don't trust corrupt politicians.”
The new plague
Basic tuition is provided free, but the fees for boarding and any extra lessons come to nearly $200 a year, and uniform costs almost another $40. For most families, that is a fortune: about 70% of Zambians live on less than $1 a day. But in the past a family that could muster enough to start sending a child to school would usually be able to see the endeavour through. Today that is often untrue, simply because so many families are falling apart. In the list of students, the letter S (for a “single” orphan, ie, a child who has lost one parent) or D (for a “double” orphan) occurs ever more often against the names as the classes grow older: 14 in Grade Nine, 60 in Grade Ten. The cause is AIDS. In total, over 120 of the 864 students have lost one or both parents to this latter-day plague.
Lundazi is far from insouciant about AIDS. The district has an AIDS co-ordinator, Christa Nyirenda, who struggles to carry out her work in the face of a constant lack of money. The churches also do their best. The Rev Frighted Mwanza's Presbyterian church, for example, is helping to look after several orphans and 55 others who are HIV-positive, some of them chronically ill. And along the road from the Castle, the Thandizani (meaning “Let's help one another”) centre also offers advice, support and HIV testing. Set up in 1999 in a former cocktail bar, whose name is still clearly legible outside, it is considered a model non-governmental organisation, but it does not offer treatment.
That is done at Lundazi district hospital, or rather it is meant to be done there. The difficulty is that the hospital is old (1950s vintage), has only two doctors (for all the 290,000 people in the district) and has to charge for the anti-retroviral drugs that can arrest the ravages of AIDS in infected people. The very poor, about 20% of those who receive these drugs, get them free; the others must pay about $10 a month. The result is that only 114 people are getting treatment out of more than 500 who are known to need it. In reality, hundreds, if not thousands, should be receiving drugs. That is evident both from the number of orphans in the school and from a sign not far from the hospital: “Coffin Workshop”.
Fortunately, coffins are not the only source of new jobs in Lundazi. The second-hand clothes market that has sprung up is another. On a dusty patch of ground now stands rack upon rack of western clothes, made perhaps in China or other parts of Asia but already worn in Europe or America and then given away to charities to be sold, for very little, all over Africa, even in places like Lundazi. This phenomenon, known as salaula, explains why so few of the women along the road now wear chitenges, and also why a man on a bicycle too poor to have shoes may be wearing a formal dress shirt. The trade provides T-shirts and skirts and trousers for many who could not afford them in the past, and jobs for those who sell the clothes. But it has made it difficult for Zambian textile producers to compete; this is dumping in the true sense of the word.
More hopeful for Lundazi is the slow, belated improvement in agriculture. On the outskirts of town are some new tobacco sheds, built by Stancom, an American multinational. It provides loans to small farmers, trains them in agronomy and sells them seeds and fertiliser, as well as the saplings they must plant if they cut other trees down for fuel to flue-cure their crop. A Malawian company, Limbe Leaf, has also come to Lundazi, as have several cotton companies—Dunavant, an American firm, Clark Cotton, from South Africa, and Chipata Cotton, a Chinese joint-venture. Lundazi now accounts for about 12% of Zambia's cotton production, and there is talk of Dunavant building a ginnery.
For all these welcome developments, agriculture around Lundazi is woefully undeveloped. Many people have gone hungry in the past few months thanks to a poor harvest: instead of falling evenly through the 2004-05 growing season, the rains came all at once, mostly early on. Yet the land is good. It could provide much more food and cash crops too, perhaps two harvests a year, with proper irrigation. But only now are some of the dams of the colonial era being restored to use, after years of neglect and silting up.
Hope on hold
It is time to leave Lundazi. Outside Mulla Stores, which seems to have had not even a lick of paint in 40 years, a few people are chatting. One or two others are bicycling from the direction of the boma, the administrative centre. Here again not much has changed. The impression is reinforced on the journey back along the pot-holed road to Chipata, even after a brief stop to greet Father Morrison and the other Catholic Fathers at Lumezi mission. But then there are the signs, really quite a lot of them, to the schools: primary schools, “basic” schools (which give a couple of years of secondary education) and Lumezi's secondary school. That is encouraging. So is the farming. But every so often are reminders of a darker side of the new reality: branches, laid down on the road to indicate a funeral. Bicyclists are expected to dismount, and trucks and cars to slow down, out of respect. I assume, perhaps wrongly, that AIDS has claimed another vicitm.
I had been prepared for most of what I found in Lundazi: I knew that half a century ago Zambia and South Korea had had roughly the same income per person, and now Korea's was 32 times greater. So I was expecting the accumulated evidence of 40 years of needless poverty, misgovernment and dashed hopes. Many of those dashed hopes I shared. But my main regret was that, back in 1965, I had not been able, instead of French and physics, to teach Korean studies, even if I had had no books. Perhaps it is not too late for someone else.