Len had a bad night's sleep: feeling hot and restless. Maybe it was the result of eating late. Over breakfast I promise Gladys that I'll find a way of 'taking out Steven's batteries', and he's been non-stop on the go. George arrives with our lift, and is very concerned for his wife, Yvonne, who's been poorly for a couple of days. With the prayer watch, fasting and running us around he's looking drained. On the way into Kitwe centre, Len shows me a text from Ali saying Yvonne's diagnosis is malaria.
We save a bit of time on the journey. In Zambia, Elecricity is only supplied on a prepayment basis. Kitwe Council have yet again failed to pay the bill, leaving the city's traffic lights out of action. We draw up alongside the familiar dark blue Mazhandu Family coach. Steven is haggling with the main attendant. They've given away our seats, which Steven had booked yesterday. The coach roars off on time, and Steven is left trying to negotiate a refund and rebooking on the next available service.
We shuffle along to the Jitotwe Coaches waiting area, and try to shake off two drunks who keep wanting us to pray for them. Soon we pile on board, and head off just half an hour later. This is a 62-passenger coach with 14 rows of seats where in Uk we'd have 12. Len and I have some bum room, but my knees are jammed. A preacher in a smart while shirt and a tie addresses us in Bember and English. I give him a few 'Amens'. Before he steps off the bus at the city boundary, he walks up and down the aisle to take an offertory.
We thunder in to Ndola for a passenger swop. If there are speed restrictions, we have no evidence. On the Kapiri and then a second comfort break at Kabwe. I ring Mick, as off the bus I can hear myself think and don't have to compete with the wearingly loud 'in coach entertainment'. I finish reading 'Nevertheless', the story of the first seven years of Christians Against Poverty, as I'm defeated trying to doze off by leg cramp.
The final crawl into Lusaka is painful. There's a great sprawl of new building since I was here in 2011. Farayi says it's even bigger on the eastern side of the city. We trundle into the coach station at 4.30pm and are besieged by taxi drivers. Steven has arranged for his old friend Chinwemba to collect us. Steven's son, Tusa, studying business at the university, greets us too. We head off to a guest lodge, and Len likes the vibe. They've let our rooms go, and we have to transfer to their partner lodge nearer the city centre. It's new and posher and boasts a jacuzzi. The four of us agree to share two double rooms, and the price drops to within Steven's budget.
I had a welcome hot shower while Len and Farayi took a stroll round the neighbourhood. At some point the muezzin in the local mosque started up his nasal evening call to prayer over an indifferent loudspeaker system. I prepared tomorrow's teaching ministry. We ordered some food - Kafue bream - and gathered in the dining room some time before 7.00pm. Farayi encouraged me to eat the bream with my fingers. It glared at me menacingly.
Steven looked tired, but painstakingly related tomorrow's arrangements so we're all happy. We tell him St Francis likened his body to a donkey that carried his spirit, calling it 'Brother Ass'. Steven gets the point - when it sits down under you and refuses to go any further, you're stuck. He throws back his head and laughs. "And does Brother Ass like icecream?" I ask. Steven gets the point, and we order some.
Back in the room, I try out the lodge WiFi, but it's not connecting to the Internet. Then I try Len's data dongle, but it can't find a mobile profile that works. Posting the blogs will have to wait. Ah well, a welcome early night.
We save a bit of time on the journey. In Zambia, Elecricity is only supplied on a prepayment basis. Kitwe Council have yet again failed to pay the bill, leaving the city's traffic lights out of action. We draw up alongside the familiar dark blue Mazhandu Family coach. Steven is haggling with the main attendant. They've given away our seats, which Steven had booked yesterday. The coach roars off on time, and Steven is left trying to negotiate a refund and rebooking on the next available service.
We shuffle along to the Jitotwe Coaches waiting area, and try to shake off two drunks who keep wanting us to pray for them. Soon we pile on board, and head off just half an hour later. This is a 62-passenger coach with 14 rows of seats where in Uk we'd have 12. Len and I have some bum room, but my knees are jammed. A preacher in a smart while shirt and a tie addresses us in Bember and English. I give him a few 'Amens'. Before he steps off the bus at the city boundary, he walks up and down the aisle to take an offertory.
The final crawl into Lusaka is painful. There's a great sprawl of new building since I was here in 2011. Farayi says it's even bigger on the eastern side of the city. We trundle into the coach station at 4.30pm and are besieged by taxi drivers. Steven has arranged for his old friend Chinwemba to collect us. Steven's son, Tusa, studying business at the university, greets us too. We head off to a guest lodge, and Len likes the vibe. They've let our rooms go, and we have to transfer to their partner lodge nearer the city centre. It's new and posher and boasts a jacuzzi. The four of us agree to share two double rooms, and the price drops to within Steven's budget.
I had a welcome hot shower while Len and Farayi took a stroll round the neighbourhood. At some point the muezzin in the local mosque started up his nasal evening call to prayer over an indifferent loudspeaker system. I prepared tomorrow's teaching ministry. We ordered some food - Kafue bream - and gathered in the dining room some time before 7.00pm. Farayi encouraged me to eat the bream with my fingers. It glared at me menacingly.
Back in the room, I try out the lodge WiFi, but it's not connecting to the Internet. Then I try Len's data dongle, but it can't find a mobile profile that works. Posting the blogs will have to wait. Ah well, a welcome early night.
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