Memories blur over time, into fragmented moments and broad palettes of color. When I think of Zambia, years after leaving, my mind displays three colors. Green comes first, always green, matching the trees and maize fields that blanket the countryside. Then there is the rich red of the soil that we walked over to work and play every day. Finally, the blue-tinged clarity of water comes, and transitions the memory from the visual to the sensory. I can hear, feel and smell the rivers where we gathered in our best moments, the rains that fell relentlessly, breaching our roofs and stirring the sidewalks into mud, the monstrous falls that took our breath away every time.
We accepted the water, knew it, played with it. We canoed among the hippoes, bathed at the lip of the Mosi-oa-Tunya, and headed to the river every sunset we could. We put buckets under the leaks in our roofs and carried our work shoes to the office in our backpacks. One rainy night, we kept sprinting around shoeless long after the end of the frisbee game, absolutely soaked, totally happy.
One trip symbolizes Zambia’s water for me more than any other. That weekend, deep down backroads in the rural Mpongwe district, it tantalized us in every form. It was gentle, harsh, mysterious, serene; and in the end, it tried to trap us in Mpongwe. We got out, barely, with a story to tell.
To the Sunken Lake
There is one road leaving from Lusaka in each of the cardinal directions. The Great North Road passes through low hills and then flattens, falling into a rhythm of police stops, roadside fruit stalls, and green landscape overhung by a massive sky. Once in a while, there is an endearing surprise, such as the small mug factory before Kabwe. The route forks at Kapiri Mposhi, heading left to the Copperblet mining towns that drive Zambia’s economy into a resource curse, and right to the great open lands and waterfalls of the northern provinces.
Take the left fork, but then turn off the highway before reaching the Copperbelt’s cities, and you find yourself in a region that is purely rural Zambia. There are no major towns or natural wonders to tempt visitors. There are only maize fields, people walking all day down red dirt roads, and a mysteriously deep lake surrounded by legend and tucked back in the forest.
We struck out to Mpongwe during the heart of the rainy season, in an ancient 4×4, and with only a vague idea of how to find the lake. We knew some of the facts and legends. Lake Kashiba, known as Sunken Lake, is a limestone hole straight down into the earth. No researcher has been able to measure its depth, though some have tried. It has no outlet and lies meters below the surrounding forest, taking in their runoff like the hungry mouth of a great spirit. Legend states that you can catch the fish, but they will never cook even if you leave them on the fire all night. Some claim that a great fish inhabits its pristine waters, ready to paralyze and devour anyone whose shadow falls on the lake. Others say that a whole tribe, bound together with rope, once committed collective suicide in the depths to protest oppression of a rival tribe.
The closest habitation was supposed to be a place called St. Anthony’s Mission. Drizzle had started to liquefy the road by the time we reached the Mission. Someone waved us into a loosely gated compound and we huddled under a gazebo, trying to plan our next move. The mission was the one major building in this tiny, far-flung farming community, and the folks who ran it told us to leave the car with them and walk the last hour to the lake. There was a road, they said, but the rainy season had already turned it into a river.
The principle of going and seeing for yourself had served us well in Zambia so far. We decided to try the river-road out. It defeated us quickly. The water was over the wheels, hiding deep ruts that could have us truly stuck. Back to the laughing folks at the mission we went.
Under the gazebo again, we pooled all the rain-gear we had. All valuables went into an inner sanctum in one pack. With great foresight, someone had acquired ten-kwacha ponchos, and we set off like a bunch of garbage bags tossed out into the wind.
The sun peaked through just after the rain had finished soaking us, and we found ourselves on one of the best walks we ever took in Zambia. Long grasses waved in the wind, the gently moving stream massaged our ankles, and the mud was rich and soft on our bare feet. Slender acacias and muscular stormclouds provided the backdrop. We passed a place where most of the stream veered off the road, and continued on dry land into small maize fields and foot trails surrounded by forest. Eventually admitting that we were lost, we found a machete-wielding farmer who pointed us back the way we had come. To find the lake, we just had to follow the river.
Kashiba Hijinks
Having arrived at the lake, we got down to the serious business of making our own fun. We shrugged off the legends and dove into the lake to enjoy the wonderfully cool water. An unknown engineer had even nailed some planks to an overhanging tree, allowing for a rare chance to cliff-jump right off of branches. I had no bathing suit, and the gaping holes in my underwear may have shocked some local fishermen. Frisbee quickly followed, and aquatic disc turned into an aggressive full-contact game of keepaway. The Zambian countryside gave us the freedom to act like kids, and we took it, as we always did.
We also got our Jugaad [MacGyver] skills in action. Our tent was one that Will had scored in exchange for a 12-pack of beer, and while the included poles were not enough to keep it slumping over, it stood right up with the addition of a few sticks. Dinner was spaghetti sandwiches and a can of chili cooked over the fire. We had neglected to bring any cooking implements at all, but stabbing through the side of the can and impaling it on a stick to roast like a marshmallow worked well enough.
Two local guys chopped us a heaping woodpile to keep the fire going. They may be the caretakers of the lake, which may be a national monument, but no sense of bureaucracy ever intruded. As of our visit in 2018, it was just a stunning lake entirely circled by healthy forest and announced by one small hand-painted sign. I hope that Sunken Lake can stay as it is, a pristine far-out refuge for the rare traveler and a source of local pride and occasional tip money.
When the rain came again, we retreated under a thatched hut. The Old Monk and Mosi started flowing and the night devolved into the special kind of hilarity only achievable in the middle of nowhere. We tried to wait out the rain but eventually realized that it was only increasing. The only solution was a mad dash to the tent, where we munched on a dessert of cheese and passed out completely. Morning revealed that we had crushed the cheese while asleep and managed to coat a surprising amount of the tent with it.
Escape from Mpongwe
Our hike back out to the mission the next morning was full of excitement. An Indian family from Kitwe, in the Copperbelt, had tried to drive their gleaming new 4×4 all the way to the lake. They almost made it. By the time we found them, axle-deep in the river and fully stuck in the mud, there was already a team of three locals using logs to leverage them out. Every attempt to move forward just meant gunning the engine, blowing river water out of the tailpipe, and getting stuck deeper. We threw our backs into the effort and the whole crew managed to budge them half an hour later.
A growing crowd, probably coming to town for Sunday church, joined us through the streams and fields back to St. Anthony’s. They had guarded the car so well that we did not even need a push start to escape the mud. More endless red roads brough us back to the pavement at Mpongwe village, where the rain swelled so much that we could barely see the road. We decided to stop at a small lay-by to wait out the deluge. It turned out to be a fateful decision.
The first half-hour was peaceful. We got some Mosis and ordered chicken. The rain pounded the tin roof, startling and fascinating in its power. In the rainy season, it is easy to believe that Zambia borders the impenetrable jungles of the DRC. The rain ensured that we and the fellow lay-by customers had nowhere to go. It was noon at the latest, but this state of affairs had in turn ensured that some of the other customers were already many drinks deep.
The action started when a few ladies started getting friendly. They made it clear that they needed us to buy them drinks. Lots of loud laughing and a few aggressive smooches on the necks of one or two of us later, our group split up in a diversionary tactic and one group headed inside off the covered porch to see about those drinks.
Two of us stayed on the porch at our table, mostly to guard the chicken. A skinny man with bloodshot eyes came up and slurred to us that, since this was their town, we needed to be drinking with them rather than by ourselves. Not liking our answer, he made a grab at the chicken. I knocked his hand aside and stood up. He decided to let us alone for now, but we were quickly realizing that we should leave soon. The rain was only picking up, though.
Krishna, Clayton, and I were back at the table now, trying to fend off the women, but Will was into a good conversation with the bartender inside and oblivious to our plight. We yelled inside to him and tried to hide in the car but the ladies wouldn’t let us go. They squeezed halfway through the doors before we could close them and kept up the aggressive half-flirtation, half-requests for money. Will was still inside, totally calm. Someone ran back in and grabbed him. We finally all jumped back in the car and negotiated to leave at the price of one kiss on one of our necks. I can’t remember who it was, but they paid up, and we crawled away from through the pouring rain. Mpongwe let us go.
A shower from the Gods
The highway wound back south to Lusaka, and we reflected on another unpredictable, unforgettable Zambian weekend. The rain did not stop.
In the last few hours before the city, the storm produced an epic show over the land of low green hills and long views. A massive lightning storm flickered for hours in front of us and we drove right towards it. I ended up with DJ duty, which I’m never any good at, but felt inspired to hit a string of 2000’s bangers. Thunder rumbled, Kiss Kiss boomed out of the speakers, and I felt the contented kind of friendship that gets so hard to find as life goes on.
The storm brought us home, smashing down huge beams of lightning all around us as we crossed the final ridge into the city. Traffic snarled and we settled in for a grind back to Kabulonga. I already missed the wet green spaces that had treated us so well. The Zambian rains would keep falling, though, and they would watch over us as long as we were ready to accept them.