Lusaka is not flat.
Like many things about this city, its rolling hills are
subtle and understated. But when you’re pedaling up one in the surprisingly hot
early morning sun, they become slightly more obvious.
This is one of many new things I’ve learned since downsizing
from four wheels to two.
I’ve learned there’s such a thing as bike traffic. Though I’m
usually the one getting passed, I had to laugh the first time I got stuck in a
line of slow bikers- sometimes there’s just no way to escape Lusaka congestion!
I’ve learned that biking alongside minibuses requires
careful study and concentration. It doesn’t take long to notice the subtle
signs that can help you predict their erratic behavior. Sure, the conductor banging
on the roof usually means they’re about to pull out (blindly) into traffic, but
if he hasn’t actually closed the door, it’s probably just a ploy to attract more
customers. Also, take note of whether pedestrians make even the faintest eye
contact with the driver; they won’t hesitate to pull the bus over anywhere,
even if it means running you over. No bus stop? No problem.
On the flipside, I’ve learned Lusaka road rules make for a
unique and entertaining commute. Sometimes I feel like I’m playing one of those
old computer games like SkiFree the way I hop curbs and slalom potholes (don’t
worry Mom, I’m wearing a helmet). I’m just waiting for that abominable snowman
to jump out of the trees and chase me down waving his little stick arms.
I’ve learned that a loaf of bread is a perfectly reasonable
amount of groceries to attempt to carry while riding, whereas a whole chicken,
a 24 pack of toilet paper and other assorted items is most certainly not.
I’ve learned danger lurks in surprising places. Crossing the
railroad tracks with a train approaching? No worries; it’s moving about a meter
a minute. Nor is there any great risk when fording the main trucking highway.
Spot a gap between those diesel fuming monsters, commit, and you’ll be fine. It’s
in the crowded markets where I meet the true nemesis of my commute: the
wheelbarrow. Here they call them Zamcabs; wheelbarrows with rebar extensions soldered
to their ends to allow them to carry extra large loads. They’re the main means
of shipping goods around the markets, and they get paid by the trip so you can imagine how quickly they’re barreling through the crowds. Being unlucky enough to end
up in the path of one of these will really put a dent in your day (and your
shins).
I’ve learned that, for a guy who hasn’t owned a bike since
he was 15, I’m enjoying my new mode of transportation much more than I was
expecting to. Let’s see if I change my tune once the rains start…
