Railway Systems Zambia
Our departure for Lusaka was prefaced by what has become an expected refrain. This time it was given by our hostel’s manager, right after we explained our plan for how we would get to our next northward destination:
“But, that’s dangerous!”
Mark my words: our cause of death will be, “came to ignore honest advice in regard to travel safety.”
The RSZ is a railway connecting southern and central Zambia. From Livingstone to Kapiri Mposhi the secondhand South African train rattles its way through the countryside. Its occupants (us) alternate between sweating (from the daytime heat) and freezing (from the nighttime cold) in the spacious (commuter couches only) and well-ventilated (due to missing windows and broken doors) passenger cars.
There is one class: cheap. Seating is on a first-come basis. And, the most repeated piece of advice was to keep our belongings close.
We got lucky. The day before leaving, our vain attempt to purchase reservations led to an inadvertent befriending of the conductor and security guards. The next evening, when “go time” came, we were invited to sleep in the staff car with the police and soldiers.
This led to a silly vignette:
By three in the morning, everyone on the train had either bundled up or turned into a meat popsicle. I was wrapped up and snoring away in my sleeping bag— splayed across my seat and legs awkwardly hanging in the walkway. Chris was mirroring me in position and snoring soundly.
There had been an unspoken, and promptly broken, agreement for taking shifts on watching our stuff. But, we just didn’t feel danger when every person was immobilized by the freezing cold. So, you can imagine my surprise when I was jolted to consciousness by a man in a ski-mask wielding an AK-47.
Fight or Flight!
I was instantly focused. The four guards in the rear of the car were sleeping. The only other passenger was lightly snoozing two seats to my right. And, our assailant was angled oddly from leaning against the opposite seats.
The train jolted.
I yelled and moved toward his opposite arm, while putting my right hand out to catch his rifle in case it swung back toward us. He fell away and put up his hands, waving them for me to stop. Then he took off his mask— it was one of our soldier friends!
He had put on the ski-mask to keep warm. And, had been trying to move my leg to return to his seat. Everyone had a laugh, and we all settled back into our makeshift beds.
Chris hadn’t even opened an eyelid.
