Chapter 10 - Lusaka and Pleasant Valley

We drove into Lusaka, the capital, in the afternoon. The main road at that time was long, with the shops on one side only, the railway running parallel on the other side. It looked a small and unimportant place to be a capital, but there were colonies of houses built and in the course of construction which were not seen on our casual entry, also a fine Secretariat building which teemed with Government office workers, was a swimming bath, club, tennis courts, a few churches, two banks, a picture house and three hotels. The main landmark was a dominant flour mill. I was surprised to find that the hotels still had sanitary pails, emptied each morning! The hotels were crowded as people were coming in daily to find work at the many new projects, and as yet housing was inadequate.

 We were very fortunate in getting rooms the first night, through cancellations, but the next night we were obliged to go out of town a bit and sleep in the car! We were in a quandary, and had decided that our best plan was to turn back to Salisbury, capital of Southern Rhodesia, and to that end we enquired of a passer-by, where we might get petrol. He looked us over slowly and said in a Yorkshire accent 'You won't get petrol now - everything is shut till Tuesday'. It was Easter. We had nowhere to sleep but in our car, and no way of leaving till Tuesday. We mumbled to each other of our dilemma. 'Tell you what', said our Yorkshire friend, 'I'm building a new garage up the road, you're welcome to stay there until you get fixed up, if you like!' We were very glad of his offer and he led the way out of town to a whitewashed building with an inner room, and a large empty outer one. Here we set about making ourselves comfortable. It was fun, and our new friend's wife sent down a table and beds and it looked quite homelike. These people and a daughter had trekked out with the 'overlanders' just after the war through the desert, and they knew all about roughing it.

The children from neighbouring farms called on us to inspect our queer 'house' and at night our friends came for a chat. They were in lodgings themselves and could not easily invite us to their rooms, but the owner himself did, and it was most enjoyable. A queer Easter. A native died in a neighbouring compound and the heart-searing wailing of the women went on for hours till the body was taken off on a cart surrounded by mourners towards their burial ground.

As soon as the holiday was over, my husband went to the Secretariat with a view to joining the Government. We were not used to the processes of this great and unwieldy body, and after filling up forms of his life history from birth, and cabling home for necessary references, he was informed that it would be a matter of perhaps two or three months before he knew whether they had a post for him. Obviously we could not occupy the garage much longer - men were working on it, and our friends were moving in as soon as possible. We got into a hotel for a day or two, but nearly all the rooms were permanently occupied by people awaiting homes.

We met a man and his wife in the lounge, and he was complaining about the neglect of his farm seventy miles away. He had left an 'old-timer' acquaintance to look after it, but the old timer's hopes and ambitions had turned to drink, and he had been obliged to send him away. Now, he said, he'd be glad if we would live there in the meantime and keep an eye on things, but he had a couple going to see it with a view to buying, that very day. We swallowed our disappointment.

That evening again chatting with his wife in the lounge, he burst in. 'The car has gone over the Munali Pass and our driver and the couple who wanted the farm are in hospital!' So, through the misfortune of strangers we came to Pleasant Valley Farm where we were able to stay until the call came from Government Headquarters to proceed north. I am glad to say that the couple and the driver were not badly hurt, just enough to change their plans, though the car lay upside down at the bottom of the pass for a long time.

Pleasant Valley Farm was a wonderful spot. The house overlooked the valley from which it took it's name, over to far distant hills where the natives had a reservation. Nearly every night drums beat continually, stridently, defiantly, then sleepily and slow. I wondered if their children slept through it. Our foreground view was a solid mass of sunflowers, and through these we meandered to sit by the earth dam and watch the brilliant butterflies flirting in the mud.

We got the garden under control again and my son spent hours there working, clearing the banks of the stream that blocked the flow to the dam. He found an old well hole and got it cleared completely and built a brick wall around it for safety until it was like the Ding-Dong-Bell well of the nursery rhyme. The dam was almost empty and the rains not long past.

We organised the chickens - there were plenty, but no eggs. We mended their run but the round up at night was tricky, as each hen and cockerel had become used to roosting in a tree and it was many nights before they learned to go inside. Then came the day of the pep talk. I found my husband haranguing them thus; 'Now! If you hens persist in laying no eggs, you get no scoff! I'm not climbing up trees after a lot of useless birds. You'd better do something for your living.' I could see that the birds were impressed. We did get some eggs after that, laid in proper nests under proper cover, the Africans were disappointed, chickens were counted in at night. Sinoia, the head boy actually gave up a few eggs which had been laid in his hut.

This head boy was a murderer. He had killed his wife with a chopper and had done ten years in gaol, but the King and Queen in their clemency had forgiven some prisoners, when they were on a visit here, and Sinoia had been a lucky one. He was a nice polite African with rather fine features, probably in his thirties, and he lived alone, as far as we knew. Drink was his weakness and unfortunately one day we left him in charge while we went thirty miles into Mazabuka for supplies, and returning early and unexpectedly found him rolling on the grass in front of our house, singing uproariously and quite out of control.

Although we were desperately short of money and with no job my father always managed to find in a pub, someone who would help us, a great testimony to his charm and bonhomie..he was good company, hard working and always popular.

 The house we occupied was badly built and unfinished. Untidy pole rafters loomed over us menacingly as we lay in bed and I used to trace them across the roof to see which supported what. Many burnt bricks had been left which we were told we might use, so my husband and son built a low wall round the bare veranda and steps leading down to the garden. It looked quite old English manor house. He also built a brick sink and bath lined with concrete, which, though rather clumsy, was useful. The house was well furnished and comfortable and our stay there most happy, though as the weeks passed we wondered what was in store for us. At that time the farmer contemplated selling it and we had one or two people out to look at it. His wife was very keen to keep it, and we did not know what the final decision would be.

Our son had made friends with a young Afrikaaner farmer on the adjoining farm and took turns with him night and day ploughing the land, as he had rented the farm late and was trying to catch up with the work of the season. Fires were a danger, and fire breaks had to be cut all over the property. One started on a nearby farm so all hands were needed to beat it out and the boys came in black and hungry with singed eyebrows. The farming community was simple and friendly and worked hard with the Africans. We were included in their parties too, where young folk for miles around came and danced to the music of a gramophone, drank a few mild drinks and ate some wholesome snacks.

The evening before we left, my son shot a wild cat of some kind lurking round the chicken pen. Strung up to the branch of a tree for skinning, it was about four feet of lithe sleek muscle. It seems such a pity to kill these lovely animals of the wilds - survivals of the fittest of their kind - but civilisation marches on, and for protection of food it is necessary to have a gun. There is no excuse but the love of shooting, for those men who shoot on sight any and every animal they see. Large tracts of land are now devoid of game. Buck of all kinds used to be plentiful, but now in many places are almost shot out.

The Afrikaaners seldom travel without a gun, and give shooting a large place in their lives. There is sure to be animated conversation on this topic, if on no other. They are passionately fond of biltong which they make by cutting strips of the raw meat, and hanging it, salted, to dry for a week or two. It is a splendid idea for men in the bush out of the way of supplies - first the new meat to live on while the biltong is drying and then the biltong indefinitely until the next kill. They carry it in their pockets for long journeys; it weighs little and takes little room. If it is well dried it is very good to eat, and satisfying, but under-dried it tends to taste 'bloody' in the mouth.

I helped out on the neighbouring farm of Gery Momberg and ploughed for him during the day while he ploughed at night. The 'field' was about a mile long and took about half an hour for each furrow.

The fire was a very frightening event. It started at sunrise on the farm of my friend Gerry Momberg, and swept across a very large area. All available men spent the time with shovels and tree branches trying to create fire breaks or beat out the flames. I remember vividly that when the flames were finally put out and I went home with the sun still low... but it was not still morning as I thought, a complete day had passed in what had seemed like a couple of hours.

 Night shooting is against the law, but still indulged in at times. All that is required is a good torch and a gun, then into the bush to shoot at the first pair of eyes shining in the light of the torch. It can be dangerous of course, for a leopard or lion may be wounded. You may think it very unlikely that the law could catch up with night-shooters on the African bush but if there is a kill, Africans for miles around come to hear of it, and it percolates to the ears of the District Commissioner, whose business it is to enforce the law in his own district. Many natives are pleased to inform, as they get a modicum of reflected importance by imparting the news to the D.C., and others, aggrieved that they may not have received a share of the coveted carcass, get satisfaction in reporting.

Just before the rains they choose part of the bush for a garden, chop down all the trees and burn the stumps. This gives potash and the rains soak it in. Then they plant their beans etc. on mounds of earth and the women tend these gardens, but pass on to another place for the next rains. The men and boys make breaks of brushwood and along it a series of loops of their homemade string (lushishi) from the bark of trees. These often catch birds in the slip knots. My little daughter found one swinging in a noose hung from a stick stuck in the ground and was so happy when we released it and it flew into a faraway tree. My eldest daughter on holiday made a practice of looking for bird snares and breaking them. I could not blame her, though I wondered what else the African had in his larder. They make catapults and hunt little birds. I can well remember a kitchen boy coming to me with a broad smile on his face and two little blue birds fluttering feebly in his hands. He could not understand my order to him to kill them quickly and mercifully.

They are very fond of eating flying ants which teem out of a hole in the ground or a wall, during the rains. These can be up to an inch in length, and they catch them in their hands, pull off the wings and eat them raw. Small mice, rats, moles, are all eaten. Some tribes eat monkey though others seem disgusted at the idea, and a joke appears to exist about a tribe who eat monkey, but turn its head away from them while doing so. They are deeply offended if a white man calls them 'a monkey', even in fun, if they were climbing trees well, it is considered an insult. Nowadays there is a law which protects them against being called practically anything they don't like. They complain to the Boma and the aggressor can be fined. But I digress. We were about to start a tour of three years among these people, but at this stage we were only on our way to the Secretariat to get our orders.