Journey Part 2: Lusaka

Our bus arrived sometime after 4:00 a.m. Most passengers quickly disembarked and disappeared into the night. I only had another bus to catch -- according to my notes, a place called Kitwe was my next destination -- and I preferred to locate it by daylight. So I took advantage of the extra space and the (finally!) silent radio, and fell immediately back to sleep in the parked bus until daybreak.

A few hours later, I descended the bus stairs to a chorus of shouts from people eager to find me a taxi or help me in some other way. I turned to a man chatting with the bus driver and asked him where I could find the bus to Kitwe. The man said he would show me, and we weaved through dozens of buses, hawkers, and cries of “Taxi?” and “Where you from?” until we arrived at the Euro Bus. I bought a $13 ticket for a 5 hour, 300 km ride that left in 30 minutes -- and went in search of coffee.

Again beset by hawkers and other offers of assistance, I ducked into a small tent near the bus terminal and bought a gigantic and almost completely sugarless doughnut and some tea (no coffee available) for a total of 65 cents.

After gulping down the tea and finishing half the doughnut (saving the other half for lunch), I made a very poor decision: I decided to change money in a bus terminal. I had been told that only U.S. dollars are accepted in the Congo, and that certain things, like transportation from the border, can be extremely expensive. In Livingstone, I had managed to change some of my Zambian kwacha into about $160 -- which, combined with the $80 or so I had left after visas, was a pretty good start. But I thought that just $100 more would be about perfect for my month-long stay in the Congo, and I didn't know what money-changing opportunities would arise in the towns of northern Zambia. So I carefully set aside the equivalent of $100 in Zambian kwacha and placed it in a hip pocket, easily accessible for a quick and painless transaction.

As soon as I left the food tent, a hawker came up and began the routine: “Where you from? What you need?” I bit, for once, saying I wanted to change kwacha into U.S. dollars. He was happy to assist, claiming that his “brother” could do that. We weaved through several narrow alleyways and walked into the terminal, which had shops all around the outside, and a booth right in the middle. Near the middle booth, my guide introduced me to a large African in a leather jacket, who pulled out a massive wad of kwacha. I explained that I needed 100 U.S. dollars. He produced two $50 bills, which I said were too big -- I was told that at least in Zimbabwe (where I am headed after the DRC), nobody has change for a twenty. The money-changer dispatched one of the small crowd of men who had surrounded us. He returned with twenties.

We each produced our cash: I had 10 bills of 50,000 kwacha each; the money-changer flashed five $20 bills. Then, we haggled over the exchange rate. Just the day before, I had received one dollar per 5000 kwacha; the money changer demanded 5200. I acquiesced, already a little flustered, in no small part because the gallery of 5 men (plus the guy who brought me here) gave me no room to breathe. The money-changer asked me to count out the dollar bills. I did, one at a time. Then, he had me count out the kwacha. I did, one at a time, and ... oh no. There were only eight bills. I could have sworn I had ten. What happened? Of course! When I counted out the dollars, I placed my kwacha in the money-changer’s hands -- and then stared intently at the dollars as I counted them.

The money-changer performed a classic magic trick: He diverted my attention from an object for an instant, and while my attention was elsewhere, he made it disappear. Here, two of my kwacha notes vanished, never to be seen again (except, I'm sure, by the rest of the guys who watched it all happen). Recognizing what had occurred, I accused the thief, who responded that he was just a simple money-changer. I appealed to the gallery, but they stared back at me with blank faces. I thought of leaving, but ended up changing my remaining 8 notes, garnering $76 dollars for what was once $100 worth of notes. Call it the cost of stupidity -- or a really bad exchange rate.

I learned a few lessons I already knew, such as: Never change money in a bus terminal. A few additional tips for those who, like me, disregard that first one: Don’t let your money out of your hands until you are actually completing the transaction -- and even then, make sure the other party hands you his money first. Take your money-changer aside if he is with a group and demand that he deal with you one-on-one -- or, better yet, bring your own witness. Negotiate terms before you even take the cash out of your pocket. And watch out for magic tricks.