40年后，《经济学家》前外交事务编辑约翰·格里芒德重返1965年曾经任教的赞比亚。
上帝来非洲创造赞比亚预算一定是很紧很紧的。在创造维多利亚大瀑布的宏伟工程和其它若干充满活力的作品之后，这个国家的其他地方几乎都被做成单调的矮树丛了。上帝到伦达孜时，口袋里的钱显然是用光了。伦达孜是一个非常不起眼的地方，往东不远是马拉维边界，路通到这儿就没有地方可去了。唯一的城镇(技术上讲只是一个乡而已)，面积与俄亥俄市相同，却仅有一幢象样的楼房，那是上世纪40年代末期英国统治时期一位地区专员仿照小诺曼底式城堡建造的旅馆。城堡旅馆本身倒是一件迷人的古董，可从它的防卫墙向外望去，却看不到任何非洲有名的风景。总体上讲，伦达孜宁谧而显古旧，旱季整日尘土飞扬，雨季也好不到哪儿去。即便如此，这个地方朴实、友好，当地人乐观开朗。
1965年，我18岁中学毕业第一次来到伦达孜时，她看上去就这个样子。40年后，我重返故地，只见一切风貌依旧。1965年，以前叫做北罗得西亚的赞比亚正享受从英国独立第一年的喜悦。与南罗得西亚和尼亚萨兰组成的令人诅咒的联邦已于1963年解散，伊安·史密斯还没有单方面地宣布独立（1965年11月宣布独立时引起整个地区动荡不安）。拥有巨大铜矿藏的赞比亚，是一个潜在的富裕国家，她的领袖是一位正派的先生，名叫凯尼斯·卡翁达。到处都有一种希望感。我分享了这种希望。
然而，后来的几十年对非洲来说却说不上是好年头。政治动乱、经济停滞、腐败以及国内战争搞垮许多非洲国家，赞比亚也饱受挫折。不过，这个国家一直却没有发生过军事政变（1997年发生的小事件可以忽略），没有发生国内战争，也当然没有发生过种族屠杀。对边界外面的人们来说，描述赞比亚的痛苦更多地是国际报告的统计数据，而不是通过晚间新闻中的图像。那么，偏僻的伦达孜究竟发生了什么样的变化？
40年后，从我走过的道路状况看，这里没有多大的变化。道路对伦达孜来说是至关重要的， 但只有从奇帕塔来的这条186公里的道路是有意义的。奇帕塔在1969年以前叫做詹姆森堡，简称吉米堡，是东部省的省会，为以首都卢萨卡为起点的东部大通道的终点。因此，实际上所有出入伦达孜的人都要走到奇帕塔的这条路。1965年时，这里还是一条没铺设的通道，一段坚实，一段坑洼，又一段是松软的沙路，但整个是尘土飞扬。没有标志弯道和看不见的深坑，时常突然出现，使行路充满危险。这是旱季的情况，到了雨季，则是一片泥泞，无法通行。不管是旱季或雨季，树上总有猴子，汽车前灯照射下总有夜鹰， 还有默默的行人，走着的、跑着的，还有不亮灯自行车（经常是两个人骑一辆车）。还有，常常可以看到行过的大卡车，卷起满天尘土，仿佛要将所有想超车的车辆甩到路边的丛林中。
这条公路已经铺上沥青，通往伦达孜的头130公里路段上，4轮驱动汽车以一定的速度隆隆地开过。可到了卡宗德，就再没有沥青了。尽管还在做修修补补，在剩余的50公里路段，所有车辆的速度比步行快不了多少，艰难地通过斜坡和沟坑。整体维修工程早已开始，但因承包商拿不到工程款而停止。2004年，当地居民将新装的金属管道都扒走做工具去了。这里的人们穷到极点，为数不多的路标都得全部专门打上孔洞，不然，很快就会卸走,变成铁锅和盘子。
所有车辆的速度比步行快不了多少，艰难地通过斜坡和坑沟。
40年后，沿路的许多景象依然如旧：妇女们头顶巨大的篮子、柴捆、水桶；抛锚的卡车，后轴轮下酣睡的司机；一辆满载卡车翻在路上，布袋包装的货物撒落一地；牛车、自行车，路边叫卖香蕉、木炭和甘蔗的小贩。不过，还是有了一些变化。向北行驶的60公里路段，有学校、砖瓦房和铁皮屋顶，显示出超出过去的繁荣。原因似乎在于农作物新的多样化。过去，农业几乎全部是为了糊口，种植的几乎全部是玉米。路边可见的谷仓说明，玉米依然是这里的主食。不过，现在却有了经济作物的迹象，奇帕塔郊外就有烟草种植，115公里以外有烟草仓库；满载棉花的卡车；卖甜土豆的人；一块又一块的木薯田。还有思想受到给养的迹象。在鲁莫孜，有指向一所中学的路标，这是1965年所没有的。再行87公里，路边有一个孤儿院，成了上世纪60年代以来最大变化的一个预兆，使人感到不寒而栗。
鼓起勇气来，兄弟！
教育从来就不是北罗罗得西亚政府优先发展的问题。上世纪50年代中期，这个国家只有三所中学向当地非洲人提供教育，其中两所还是教会办的。60年代有了发展，当时说要在全部7个农村省里每个省建一所中学，但伦达孜是在独立以后才有了中学。学校再简单不过了，开始只有两个班，全是男生，四个教师（我是第四个），书籍很少，其余一无所有。非洲部分地区依然深受大卫·利维斯顿及其长老教会的影响，所以最为重要的是圣歌。然而，基础设施的匮乏一直影响到圣歌书籍发行。大家想方设法，刻印出一两本圣歌来，教孩子们背诵。当时最流行的歌是“兄弟, 不要跌倒,鼓起勇气来!”。每天早晨集合，总是有人会说: “现在,让我们唱圣歌!”。大家停顿一下后，几乎永远不变地听到“唱‘兄弟,鼓起勇气来’”， 顿时，空气中立刻充满低沉的男声。
校长是亚瑟·勒瓦尼卡，是洛兹皇家的后代，其王国巴罗茨兰位于赞比亚西部。在我和阿尔弗雷德到来之前，亚瑟和他的副手罗杰亚·祖鲁是学校是仅有的两名教职员工。阿尔弗雷德来自南罗得西亚，我俩谁也没有接受过任何正规的教学培训，至少，我连任何要教授的法语、数学和物理课程的书籍都没有。外人很难相信我还会教什么课程。不过，这一次在卢萨卡，还没有启程赴伦达孜，就听说我教授过学生中有10个已经大学毕业，有成为工程师的，也有做会计师或律师的。1964年独立时，这个国家大学毕业生不足100人。
来自周围地区很远地方的学生都必须住校，所以学校总是很热闹。可当时只有2000到 3000人的伦达孜小镇生活却十分平静。到了晚上，除了人说话声音外，就只能听到Tilley牌汽灯的嘶嘶声（当时还没有通电）和土狼的嚎叫。土狼常常吃掉勒瓦尼卡养的鸡，还到我和阿尔弗雷德共住的房子前。当时主要乐趣来自日常生活中的各种考验。阿尔弗雷德1英里的长跑常常被一群蜜蜂猛追；有一天我的旧车驶过市场起火；为了延长汽车电池寿命，阿尔弗雷德把电池放在炉子上烤了好长时间，结果引起爆裂，沸腾的酸液一直渗到厨房地板上，引得大家一场大笑。
在伦达孜你休想修车，连换电池都办不到。商店都是卖基本生活用品的。市场上可以买来食品，时而有人上门出售活鸡或柑橘。但阿尔弗雷德总是对缺乏选择感到轻蔑。他说，南罗得西亚的人勤奋多了（当然是在罗伯特·穆加贝毁坏这个国家之前的情况）。所有东西，即便一些稍微复杂的东西，如油灯、毯子，衣料等等都只能在“亚洲人”开的商店买来。最有名的商店是穆拉百货店，是一位名叫穆拉的老先生开的。30年代，穆拉从印度古吉拉特转道莫桑比克来到伦达孜。
想出去喝点酒或用餐，就只能去“城堡酒店”。酒店是由我的唯一的“欧洲人” 同胞林·杰奎里经营的。当时在伦达孜，所有的白人都被称为欧洲人。“城堡酒店”是来访的政客、承包商及公务员居住的地方。杰奎里夫人总是将那里收拾得干干净净。到了晚上，总能看到她站在酒吧台后面，态度和蔼地分发冰镇的“城堡”（旅馆跟畅销的啤酒同名），或者从东邻莫桑比克进口的葡萄牙产葡萄酒，留声机放着Jim Reeves唱的歌曲。城堡酒店自备发电机。
今天的伦达孜再也不需要发电机了：电力（通常）是由边境以外的马拉维国家电网提供的。城堡酒店有了电视机。不过，除了下雨时从屋顶流下雨水，这间旅馆至今没有什么自来水。建筑物本身千疮百孔，尽管新的雇主切夫穆·班达常说马上要进行维修了。
班达先生是伦达孜当地人，现为卢萨卡一个有名的律师。他曾提醒我，说我看到现在的伦达孜比过去更加贫穷。不过，学校却是变了大样。过去的4个教师和70多个学生现在变成了43个教师和864名学生，学校面积也比以前大多了。虽然已经没有人还记得最早的教职员工， 但4间宿舍，有一间是以亚瑟的名字命名的。至于学生们的名字，不管是姓还是名，都没有多大的变化。姓还是尼德赫洛沃斯、菲利斯、尼维任达斯、班达斯等，名字多为贝斯特（最佳）、吉佛特（礼品）、梅杰（中尉）、莫西（怜悯）或迈莫里（记忆）。不过，这次我没有遇见叫泰姆（时间），密特（肉）或塞克甚·艾特（第八节）。
学校的用水是自备的（从3口钻井中抽水），还有一个鱼塘，养了4头肥猪和几只绵羊和山羊。显然，在距今不远的过去，玉米粥这种苛刻的食品曾引起了抗议。学校几乎没有什么维修费用，但还在更换被打碎的玻璃。学生干部现在戴上了“管理者领带”，图书馆里也藏有一定数量的各类书籍，还有10台电脑，但没有网络连接。（昂贵的通信费用和超负荷的中继站依然使伦达孜的大部分地区无通信联系，虽然移动电话刚刚开始兴起）。另一个变化就是在1965年阿尔弗雷德书在黑板上写“拖延就是盗窃时间”的周围，门上现在的标语是“千万别相信那些腐败的政客”。
新的瘟疫
基本学费是免费的，但每年的住宿费用与附加课程的费用差不多需要200美元，另外服装费用还需要大约50美元。对于大多数家庭来说，这是一笔不小的金额。大约70%的赞比亚人每天的生活费用还不到一美元。然而，过去攒钱送孩子上学的家庭通常还承受得起。现在这种说法已不真实了，其原因是许多家庭已经破裂。在学生名单中，可以看到字母S和D标记。S代表单亲孩子，既失去一位父母的，D则孤儿。年纪越高，标记字母越多。9年级14个，10年纪 60个。罪魁祸首就是爱滋病。由于后到的这场瘟疫，全校864名学生中丧失一位父母或者丧失双亲的学生已经超过120名。
伦达孜并没有远离艾滋病。这个地区就有一个名叫克里斯塔的艾滋病协调员。尽管常年资金匮乏，她仍然努力开展工作。教堂也在竭尽全力，里佛长老教堂就在帮助照顾几个孤儿和55位HIV阳性的人员，其中有些人已经发病。从城堡酒店出来，沿路就有一个“互助中心”，提供艾滋病的咨询、帮助和检验。该中心于1999年在过去一间鸡尾酒巴（外头的文字依然可以看到）建立的，据说是一个模范的非政府组织，但不提供医疗服务。
这里不再有鸡尾酒
治疗是在伦达孜地区医院，或者说应该在此。问题在于这家医院太陈旧了（上世纪50年代设施），只有两名医生（服务全地区29万人），必须向受感染病人要收取抗病药品费用。只有20%极端贫穷的病人才可以享受免费药品，其他人每个月则要支付大约10美元的药费。结果，已知需要治疗的超过500的病人中，只有114个得到医治。实际上，应该得到治疗的人有数千人。学校中孤儿的数字和离医院不远地方的“棺材铺”就足以说明问题。
好在在伦达孜， 棺材并不是创造工作机会的唯一来源。还有一个是蓬勃兴起的二手衣服市场。在一块肮脏的地上，堆积着整箱整箱的西服。这些衣服多半是中国或亚洲的其他地区制造的，西方人穿旧后，赠给慈善机构，在非洲以很便宜的价格出售。伦达孜也不例外。由于这种被称为salaula的现象， 路上已经难见到穿传统服装的妇女了。经常看到的是，穷得连鞋子都穿不起的人，却穿着正装衬衣，骑着自行车。贸易为许多过去根本不敢问津的人提供了T恤衫、衬衣和裤子，也为那些销售这些货物的人提供了工作。但是，这种做法却挤垮了赞比亚纺织业， 成为一种真正意义上的倾销。
对于伦达孜来说，比较有希望的是农业方面迟到而缓慢的改进。在伦达孜镇的郊区，美国的一家跨国公司新建许多烟草架。这家名叫Stancom的公司, 向小农户提供贷款，培训农业技术，并向农户销售种子和化肥以及树苗。农民需要砍树作燃料，需要补栽树苗。一家名叫Limbe Leaf的马拉维公司也来到伦达孜。还有几家棉花公司，Dunavant是家美国公司，Clark Cotton来自南非，Chipata Cotton是一家中国合资公司。现在，伦达孜的棉花产量占整个赞比亚的12%，据说，Dunavant要建一座扎棉厂。
尽管有了这些令人欣慰的变化，但伦达孜周围农业的落后状况却令人沮丧。由于庄稼歉收，过去几个月许多人都在挨饿；在2004年到2005年庄稼生长季节里，雨水下得并不均匀，而是过早的下起了暴雨。然而，土地是没有问题的，如果灌溉正常，每年可以收获两季，完全可以提供更多的食物和经济作物。多年失修和淤积后，人们到现在才开始对殖民时代的一些水坝进行维修。
姗姗来迟的希望
离开伦达孜的时间到了。40年来似乎未见一滴修缮油漆的穆拉商店外边，有一些人在聊天。自行政中心方向有一两个人骑着自行车来。你再次感到，几乎什么变化也没有发生。走在去奇帕塔坑坑洼洼的路上，在卢迈孜教堂拜访神父莫里森和其他神父之后，这种印象更为强烈。不过，看到了相当多标记的学校：小学、“基础”学校(提供一两年的初中教育), 还有卢迈孜中学。这是令人鼓舞的现象，农业也是如此。但是，四处可见的树枝却预示着新现实更黑暗的一面，铺在路上的数枝预示着有人在办葬礼。出于尊敬，骑车人会下车，卡车和小汽车会慢下来。我在猜想，也许是瞎猜，艾滋病又夺取了一个受害者的生命。
对在伦达孜看到的情况我是有思想准备的；按人均收入计算，半个世纪以前，赞比亚和韩国基本上是一样的，而现在韩国是赞比亚的32倍。我期望看到40年来毫无必要的贫穷、治理不善和一闪而过的希望的积累见证。我体会过许多一闪而过的希望。但我的最大的遗憾是即便当时没有这方面的书籍，我没有去教韩国研究，而是去教法语和物理。也许，其他人现在做也算太迟。
韩瑞国 译自 英国《经济学家》
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.