Chalimbana police station had been freshly painted in horizontal stripes, blue, white and green, the colours of the wide webbing belt that holds up the trousers of the Zambian police force. The officers all looked polished and starched and Madam Chief Inspector, amply filling her blue uniform, greeted Greg and me amiably and insisted on showing me her office. Far too small she thinks for a lady of her position.
Behind the station, a new water tank sits on a high stand to feed a couple of taps, which serve the cluster of staff houses up the slope.
The officers’ wives (and other female associates) were decked out in colourful skirts and clean white blouses, ready to perform for the dignitaries due to attend the ceremony. Greg is well known to all the staff, but he knows that the warmth of our reception is a product of the fact that the station landrover would not be mobile were it not for the diesel and repairs provided by our neighbouring rose business, Khal Amazi.
A new tap sticking up out of a concrete plinth behind the station had a couple of stakes either side of it and strung on the stakes was a faded and oft-repaired gold ribbon. I uncharitably wondered whether water will come forth when the impending act is performed.
Amazingly close to the appointed hour of 2 p.m. the girls suddenly broke into song. It was something about “everyone’s going down to Chalimbana”, wonderfully musical with great rhythm. If they were as creative and co-ordinated in other aspects of life, I think the nation would have got a lot further in the forty-seven years since the station was built.
A couple of cars arrived up the dusty track and out got the top brass. Not only the Chief of Police, Lusaka Division, but the Commissioner of Police for Zambia. A tall, authoritative but genial man, who one would have thought, had better things to do on a Thursday afternoon. The reason for his presence was in the next car: the High Commissioner for South Africa, a well-spoken and smartly dressed diplomat. And in the third car was the huge and crumpled figure of the Permanent Secretary of the Ministry of Home Affairs. Shaking his hand was like grasping a large rubber glove filled with warm water.
An army surplus-looking tent was lopsidedly erected near the tap and in it was a row of garishly plush armchairs into which the dignitaries sank. Lesser dignitaries and assistants sat in rows behind. Greg and I were shown to seats under the tree facing the tent and the tap.
The Master of Ceremonies was a very eloquent and confident young woman police officer who started the long series of word-perfect speeches, each of which began with proper name and full title of all the aforementioned.
The reason for the event was that the South African High Commission had given Chalimbana Police Station a new borehole and water tank. The funds had also stretched to the re-painting of the station. The High Commissioner had come upon this needy outpost one day when his driver lost his way looking for a Lodge he had heard of out along the Great East Road.
The speeches reminded everyone of the life-giving importance of water and recorded the great charity of the taxpayers of South Africa. Commendably, the Permanent Secretary called on the people to look after the infrastructure because Zambia would be a much better place with more attention to maintenance. (I told him later that I appreciated his call since Khal-Amazi was doing most of the local maintenance to date). The ladies sang, clapped and syncopated because they no longer had to carry the water on their heads from the dam down the hill. The television camera rolled and I wondered whether there was a film in it.
In a surprise additional act of great generosity, the High Commissioner announced that the 4×4 he had brought with him was also to be a gift to the station. This gave rise to much cheering and whooping, as the official party rose from their gaudy armchairs and approached the tap. Here scissors were produced, the ancient tape cut (yet again) and to another melodious chant, the tap was turned on, water gushed forth, the Commissioner of Police washed his hands, the Permanent Secretary drank and the High Commissioner beamed.
Three postscripts are typical of Africa. First, the acceptance speech, given by the number two at the station, was highly appreciative but made it clear that more was needed. The officers’ houses were a bit dilapidated and the station was too small and really should be elevated to Grade A. As soon as the gift was accepted with one hand, the other came out for more.
Greg and I made our farewells and, as we walked past the station building, I noticed the detective inspector in agitated conversation with another officer under the rear end of their battered landrover. At my enquiry, they explained that, after the gift of the 4×4, they had been informed that the Chief of Police (Lusaka Division) was requisitioning their landrover. The problem was, they had only that very morning filled the tank (From Khal-Amazi’s pumps) and they did not want to lose 50 litres of precious diesel. The battered old landrover’s fuel tank had an anti theft device which was obstructing the policemen!
Finally, as we drove away, we made a short detour to Neil’s house passing a small cluster of the station’s houses with another tap in a concrete plinth standing between them. The handle had broken and precious water was gushing onto the concrete pad. I pray it is fixed before the borehole motor burns out and the ladies go back to carrying the water up the hill from the dam on the Chalimbana.