How Much?

I couldn’t resist the allure of Lusaka’s Agricultural Show. Saturday, I spent the morning there -- and loved it. But as a result, I missed the morning bus to Harare, Zimibabwe. My future hosts (parents of a friend from Washington) expected me on Saturday, so bus or not, I intended to keep my word.

In the afternoon, I took a taxi to the south side of town and waited for a ride. Before long, a big semi pulled off the road. I said I was going to the border. “How much?” asked the truck driver as he leaned out the window. I told him that the bus ride from Lusaka to Harare is only $15, so a trip to the border (about 140 km) should cost me less than 5. We agreed on 5, and I hopped into the passenger side of the truck.

Three young boys sat in front. Two shared the passenger seat, the third squatted next to the gearshift, between the two front seats. I took my place in the back, which doubles as the driver’s bed. Not bad, I thought. I have a comfortable seat and a good place to nap, if I choose. Let’s hit the road!

Except that’s not how it works. The driver held court as a steady stream of hitchhikers walked up to the window. “How much?” he asked each of them. Those who couldn’t pay were turned away. He bargained with those who could. Most ended up paying about half my five dollars.

By the time we left the edge of Lusaka, there were ten people in the cab: The driver, the three boys, myself, four women, and a small child. I had forfeited my center seat and was now scrunched into a corner.

In addition to the ten of us in the cab, another handful of people, including the “Cabbie!” -- an assistant at the beck and call of the truck driver who is always summoned with a shout and never referred to by name -- hopped into the empty truck bed. (The driver was on his way to have the truck repaired.)

Finally, we were off. It was almost 4, but I was told that the ride to Harare was about 5 hours. If we got through the border without any difficulty, I’d still arrive at a respectable hour to call my host.

It was not to be. The truck driver stopped every 10 minutes (it seemed) to allow additional hitchhikers into the truck bed (“How much?”). And he made about 4 stops to conduct mysterious business deals along the way. By the time we arrived at the Zambia-Zimbabwe border, it was already dark and the border had closed.

I asked my fellow travelers where they were staying. They said that the driver might let us sleep in the truck, and then give us a ride the next day. I wasn’t thrilled, but the prospect of a guaranteed ride in the morning seemed worth pursuing, and there were no Motel 6’s in sight. After the women shouted and negotiated with the driver at length, we were given permission to sleep in the truck.

By “in the truck,” I mean in the big empty truck bed in the back.

Before I retired, I had a beer with a few other truck drivers. They told me about the difficulties of being away from their families most of the time. They said that many drivers frequented prostitutes or had second wives or mistresses in different border towns. They talked about having to support extended families because driving a truck earned a decent salary. Midway through one conversation, a driver asked me to prove that God exists.

I also learned that Zambian truck drivers have a meager fuel allowance. To conserve fuel and avoid paying for diesel out of their own pockets, they tend to shift their trucks into neutral when going down hills. Neutral is known among the drivers as “Zambian gear.” The strategy works well for fuel conservation, but while in neutral the air tends to leave air brakes on big trucks. So when a distracted downhill driver needs to slow down, he may find that his brakes don’t work. This explains many of the truck carcasses littering the road from Lusaka to Harare.

(The following morning on the road to Harare, I saw a huge truck, mangled and recently overturned, with its load of timber logs strewn across a hairpin turn. A lone man sat on a mound opposite the wreckage. It was either the driver or someone paid to watch the site while the driver got help.)

After my evening with the truck drivers, I joined about 15 people for a night in the empty truck bed under the stars. It was no worse than many nights camping on rocky terrain; at least the ground was flat.

I woke up while it was still dark. The others in the bed were already up. They quickly moved on, planning on crossing the border on foot and looking for another ride on the Zimbabwe side My driver woke up after a while. Once the “Cabbie!” finished making the fire, washing the dishes, inspecting and maintaining the truck, washing the windows, bringing water for the driver, and performing various other errands, the three of us drove off.

The Zimbabwean border post was virtually empty. In the 20 minutes my driver and I waited for service from the two employees at the cavernous post, only a couple of other people arrived.

I paid $30 for my visa and we were back on the road, this time in Zimbabwe.

Within moments, the driver stopped the truck and began collecting hitchhikers. “How much?” “How much?” At one point, our cab had 12 people in it. A few left out of frustration. Many more piled into the truck bed.

As we proceeded, someone in the cab gave word that there were police a few kilometers ahead inspecting trucks for hitchhikers. Undaunted, the driver pressed onward. When he got to the police checkpoint, he kept driving right on through. When the truck was maybe 50 meters past the checkpoint, the driver slammed on the brakes and jumped out, walking back towards the checkpoint. He met with the police behind the truck, and after some sort of negotiations (and payment, no doubt), he hopped back in and we moved on.

The truck stopped well over a dozen times to pick up additional people. It is no exaggeration to say that the truck carried at least 30 hitchhikers at one point. The driver collected money from each and every one. By the end of the day, he had taken in over $100.

We arrived in Harare around 3:00 p.m. Thanks to our profiteering driver, a ride that was supposed to take 5 hours by car took nearly 12. I wouldn’t call it fun, but it was quite an experience.