Here’s a carpenter bee buzzing away in Pokhara, Nepal, last week.
Here’s a carpenter bee buzzing away in Pokhara, Nepal, last week.
Yes, this is the answer to my question, “Who was the famous daughter of the commander of the Zeppelin which bombed Hartlepool?” Max Dietrich was killed when his Zeppelin crashed in flames into the North Sea less than a mile from Hartlepool.
Pieces of debris were washed ashore and can be seen in the Hartlepool Museum.
Lili Marlene sung by Marlene Dietrich
Outside the barracks, by the corner light
I’ll always stand and wait for you at night
We will create a world for two
I’ll wait for you the whole night through
For you, Lili Marlene
For you, Lili Marlene
Bugler tonight don’t play the call to arms
I want another evening with her charms
Then we will say goodbye and part
I’ll always keep you in my heart
With me, Lili Marlene
With me, Lili Marlene
Give me a rose to show how much you care
Tie to the stem a lock of golden hair
Surely tomorrow, you’ll feel blue
But then will come a love that’s new
For you, Lili Marlene
For you, Lili Marlene
When we are marching in the mud and cold
And when my pack seems more than I can hold
My love for you renews my might
I’m warm again, my pack is light
It’s you, Lili Marlene
It’s you, Lili Marlene
My love for you renews my might
I’m warm again, my pack is light
It’s you, Lili Marlene
It’s you, Lili Marlene
Songwriters: Hans Leip / Norbert Schultze
Lili Marlene lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group
Hartlepools – Old Hartlepool and West Hartlepool (no longer referred to as “British West Hartlepool”) again. Pretty bright colours. There are two museums, one for the tow one for the Navy. I like the door advertising money for old rope.
Easter weekend was sunny and warm. I drove up to see my aged parents and enjoyed the sea air.Hartlepool used to be a grim town, chemical plants, gasworks, steel industry nearby. But it has been spruced up recently.These doors are all from the old town at the edge of the harbour. Some houses have been gentrified, others are in need of tlc.Hartlepool was bombed by a zeppelin raid during the first World War in 1916. It was shot down and all the crew died. My grandmother lived ten miles up the coast and can remember seeing the zeppelin crash in flames into the sea. The airship captain had a famous daughter. Anyone hazard a guess? Clue Lili. Answer next week.Also, this part of Hartlepool was bombarded by German battleships in December 1914 during WW1 killing 130 civilians and a serviceman, the first to die in action on British soil during the conflict.But during the Napoleonic war, a monkey was washed ashore clinging to driftwood. The monkey was obviously not British and couldn’t speak English, so the locals assumed it was a French spy and hanged it.If you ever want to sample NHS care at the local Accident and Emergency department, go into a pub or bar on a Saturday night and shout out, “Who hung the monkey, then?”
My replacement arrived. We had the obligatory sundowners on Kapani Pan (where there had been lions just a few days before). I said my goodbyes to the expats and local staff at the health centre. No tears, just hugs. After my final early Monday morning meeting, I left behind some medical kit for the clinical staff, an electronic thermometer, a thousand candle power head torch to illuminate nooks and crannies, an otoscope which you can’t turn off without dissembling and a few tongue depressors.
It took about an hour to pack. One bag contained 540 origami cranes to be hung at my daughter’s wedding; it weighed less than 2kg. The other bag had my medical kit, some clothes which survived the “Boom” and handwashing of Theresa and a few presents. I travel light apart from technical stuff and electronics.
I had my laptop, mouse, two cameras, lenses, Kindle, music player, binoculars, battery chargers and iPad. This always causes problems at airports because I have to carry them as hand luggage to avoid theft from checked bags. At Nairobi Airport transit, my carry on bags looked so suspicious that I had to unpack completely. The security officer swabbed everything to detect any residue of explosives. I noticed that the screen of my laptop was dusty and asked the officer if he could clean it while he was checking. “Ah, sir, sorry. We don’t offer that service,” he apologised.
At Mfuwe International Airport, the checks were less stringent. I sat in the departure lounge after checking in, chatting to a Naturetrek birding tour party. An airport official interrupted me, “The District Commissioner wants to see you!”
For a brief moment, I thought I was going to be detained. Or perhaps they finally had my plastic Temporary Employment Permit card. But DC Caroline just wanted to bid me farewell and express her gratitude for my work in the Valley. I said goodbye to her and to F who had also come to see me off.
The my flight from Lusaka arrived so I went through security again, telling the staff the same joke about my trousers being about to fall down because I had had to remove my belt. “Those with boarding cards for the Proflight to Lusaka, please come to the gate.” Oops, while I was chatting outside with the DC, they had issued boarding cards and I didn’t have one. (Regular readers may recall that on the flight out to Mfuwe, the airline staff gave my boarding card to someone else.) No problem, they just printed off another card and I joined the queue of Chinese tourists taking selfies on the runway by the aircraft steps.
I feel sad at leaving. It is almost my second home now, my sixth visit to Zambia. But it is time to go, to move on. I have lots to look forward to in 2019. Including my appraisal and revalidation.
Well, only one wheel and it didn’t go bouncing down the road in front of me; it just bent outwards.
I first noticed that the steering was sluggish in Chipata. The car was not as lively when I accelerated. I thought that the power steering had stopped working. Perhaps there was a hydraulic system which needed topping up. However, being 150km from Mfuwe, I decided I should drive carefully home rather than going to a garage in Chipata or calling for help from the lodge which services the vehicle.
The journey back was enjoyable and I didn’t notice a problem with the steering when manoeuvring the car over the high speed bumps on the road. The rolling hills were verdant and fecund. I chased a thunderstorm as it passed through, getting deluged with heavy rain and emerging into bright, clear sunshine.
The following day, the fault seemed to have corrected itself, but I made a mental note to contact the maintenance men to check it over in the afternoon on my way to do a home visit. We did a community clinic in the morning then after lunch I was driving on a bit of road that was part tarmac, part dirt. Driving at no more than 30kph, I suddenly felt the front passenger side of the car dip down and the vehicle pulled to the left. I braked but was unable to control the car’s swerve to the verge of the road. The car stopped before it careered down the embankment. I thanked my lucky stars and got out of the vehicle.
The front passenger wheel was at an impossible angle and the ball joints which attach it to the axle had failed. I am a complete novice when it comes to making mechanical diagnoses, but the clue was the ball (from the ball joint) sitting in the dirt. There was some liquid dripping from the axle. I tried to call the maintenance men, but the mobile network was down. I decided to use the car’s radio instead for the very first time and I was told help was on the way.
It is considered good manners to stop when you pass a vehicle which has broken down to see if there is anything you can do to help. Half a dozen vehicles stopped for me and one chap told me that he had a spare whatchamacallit in his garage if I needed it. Another person offered the opinion that the car had already done 240,000 km and with the state of the roads it was driving on, she was surprised that the ball joints hadn’t gone already. The same problem had occurred with a local chief, but his vehicle careered off into the bush with him frantically turning the steering wheel to no effect.
I was rescued and taken home within the hour. If anyone needed medical attention, they would have to send a car to pick me up until another vehicle could be pressed into service. The next day I grabbed a lift to the village and R took me to the scout training camp deep inside the national park to do a first aid workshop. Gunshot wounds, fractured limbs, vehicle accidents, animal attacks, snake bites? All of the above, but mainly basic hygiene, using medication properly, keeping wounds clean and avoiding infection where possible.
On the day I left Mfuwe, the ball joints and other parts had arrived from Lusaka, but the car had not been fixed. I hope I have not developed a reputation as a car wrecker!
A week before my departure from Zambia I drove to the immigration office at Chipata. I responded to their rather threatening email asking for the location of their office and whether I needed to bring any supporting papers, but i didn’t receive a reply. I used Google maps to get a general idea of the town layout but the red marker pin for the office seemed to be close to the downs, a shambolic local market. I decided to aim for the Boma or administration centre.
I reached Chipata Boma just before 10am and found the office in the next street. At the front door a guard from the private security firm Octopus asked me to fill in the visitors’ book. While I was completing the details (identity document number, car registration, address, etc) I asked the guard if he had eight arms so he could capture any wrong doers. He looked blank. “The Octopus has eight tentacles,” I explained. His facial expression didn’t change, “What, bwana? Testicley?”
I should have known by now that many Zambians don’t get my weak attempts at humour. The security guard was not familiar with octopus anatomy. He directed me down the corridor. Immigration Officer Priscilla was staring at a computer screen while finishing her breakfast at her desk.
“You should have come here immediately after we sent the email,” she chided me. “But I asked for my authorisation to be sent to Mfuwe Airport Immigration Office when I applied online,” I replied.
“The plastic cards are not yet in stock, so you have to come here, to the provincial centre,” she said. “What have you been doing in Mfuwe?”
“I’m a volunteer doctor at Kakumbi Rural Health Centre,” I replied.
“What kind of doctor? I am getting these headaches…”
I explained that I didn’t have my medical equipment bag with me and my practice was restricted to the Mfuwe area. She pressed me further, so I asked for more history concerning her mutu.
“Are you very stressed?” I asked. “That can cause mutu like you describe.”
She agreed and went back to picking at the keyboard, filling in data fields. There was a scuffle in the corridor and two officers entered the room with a man wearing handcuffs. He sat on the floor leaning against the wall and smiled at me.” Illegal immigrant. Second time he’s come here from Malawi,” explained one of the officers.
“Next time, turn right instead of left and go to Mozambique instead,” I told him. I will never learn; Malawians don’t get my facetious humour either.
Officer Priscilla left her ornate, highly-polished Chinese desk with my passport and papers. I chatted with the dusty Malawian until he was taken to be charged. Priscilla returned and made a great show of stamping a page in my passport. I am never sure if the violence used to do the stamping is to emboss the paper or if the ink pad is dried up and worn out.
“This will take you to 15th of May, then you return here and I will give you another three months and another. We want people like you here, doc.”
“Thank you so much, but I am leaving next week.”
“No, but when are you coming back from leave?”
“I’m not leaving to go on leave. I will be departing, going back to my family.”
She understood the importance of family ties and I told her about my daughter’s impending wedding.
“But you must come back. We need you here. There are no doctors in Mfuwe. You have been helping us. God bless you.”
I took my passport, signed the security guard’s ledger and left. Legal again. I took the opportunity to visit the town’s two supermarkets, Spar and Pricerite.
Whenever I have been working in rural Africa and I return to the UK I marvel at the variety and opulence of the food on display at supermarkets, even Aldi and Lidl. How can anyone need so many types of breakfast cereal? I used to buy coffee in bulk because of my subliminal thinking that “it might not be available next week”.
So visiting Spar, even with its depleted shelves, was part of the process of readjusting to life at home. There was even a small coffee shop to remind me of Waitrose. Only patrons could sit here and use the toilet facilities. On the wall above the key for the toilet was a sign “New. We now offer iced coffee!” It was hot and humid so I ordered an iced coffee and went to the toilet.
When I came back, there was a mug of lukewarm grey liquid on my table. “But I ordered iced coffee,” I protested. The people at the next table volunteered the information that they saw the waitress adding the ice to my (hot) coffee at the table. Coffee with ice, rather than iced coffee.
I looked at my email. Priscilla had sent me a message – a notice to appear before an Immigration Officer (Section 14 of the Immigration and Deportation Act 2010). “To Ian Cross of Mfuwe Middlesbrough United Kingdom”. I was required to return to Chipata at 10am on May 8th to receive the temporary employment permit in plastic card format. “Failure to comply constitutes an offence punishable with a fine not exceeding 200,000 penalty units (?) or imprisonment for a period not exceeding two years, or both“. But I will be in Nepal then…
There’s a set of traffic lights in Chipata just outside Spar. They are so slow to change that impatient drivers cut through the fuel station and supermarket car park to avoid waiting. I noticed that the car’s steering felt stiff and sluggish as I pulled away from the lights. “Perhaps it’s because I’m driving on tarmac not dirt tracks,” I thought. Big mistake.
A month after my last visit to the Immigration Office, I returned. All three immigration officers were at their desks, dressed very informally. “Good morning,” I said, cheerily. “Am I at the correct office for immigration services?” They all laughed at me and said that they didn’t need to wear uniforms on “dress down Friday”.
I told the senior officer that we had finally managed to pay the extension fee on line and I showed him the receipt. The website said that when my permit was ready at Mfuwe, I would receive an email telling me to collect it, but there had been no email.
But the problem is that Zambia is introducing a new system of plastic cards to replace the green booklet with gold-embossed state seal. And the plastic cards are not ready yet. So I got another 30 day stamp in my passport, an updated letter and a stamp on the receipt.
“That will take me to 15th April,” I said. “I will be leaving Mfuwe on the 15th for KK International Airport in Lusaka, from which I will depart at 02:00 on 16th. Can you give me just one extra day so there are no problems when I leave the country?”
“No, that is not possible. Please come at least a day in advance of the expiry date to get another extension.”
“The 13/14th of April is a weekend. Do you open at weekends?”
“Only by appointment.”
“Can I make an appointment?”
But today I received an email from the Immigration Department: “Kindly come through to Chipata region immigration office to finalize your temporary employment permit application. Failure to which may result into prosecution.” That’s a two and a half hour drive away. I hope I can sort it out at Mfuwe Airport immigration office.
This is the concluding part of yesterday’s blog about my quest for a visa extension and work permit.
I drove back to the village where I had left the vaccination team. They had given up waiting for me and had returned to the health centre under their own steam. I had no time for lunch so I popped into a local NGO office and asked to use their internet to do the online application.
Three hours and several handfuls of hair later, I gave up typing in all my details for the tenth time only for the system to crash or hang. “Come back in the morning at 8am and you can try again,” said K.
The following day, I woke up illegally in Zambia. Amazingly, the website accepted my application without a single blue screen of death. Instead of loading up several individual scans of supporting documents, K had merged them into a massive jpeg file which was still less than the maximum permitted upload size. This had been one of the major sticking points the previous afternoon.
But the next level of hell awaited me. Making payment. I have no bank account in Zambia, so I had to ask D if he would pay for the application using his local credit card. This failed authentication. Then he tried his personal Zambian bank card, which also failed authentication. Finally, I asked one the NGO administrators, and she gave her UK bank credit card details, which also failed authentication.
I had to go to the local school to administer diphtheria and tetanus boosters to the students so I couldn’t sit sobbing in front of the computer for long. I contacted J who said, “I will sort it out, don’t worry, they won’t deport you as we’ve only just got you here.”
Halfway through vaccinating over 200 students, I received a text message saying that I should return to the immigration office at the airport and pick up a paper which would cover me for a month while they sorted out the problem of payment.
It was 2pm by the time we had finished vaccinating and I had dropped off the team at the health centre. There was no time for lunch as I needed to get my hands on the paper which would allow me to stay in Zambia legally.
“You’re back again,” said the guard on the airport perimeter. “Yes, but hopefully I will get my papers sorted out now,” I replied. There was no guard in the sentry box so I walked through and knocked on the door of the Immigration Office. The senior officer was there alone and I explained that the application was successful but the payment had been declined.
“What did you do wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing, but I think that it is because I don’t have a bank account here and when other people use their banks or credit cards to pay for my application, their bank security systems refuse to endorse the transaction,” I said.
I explained that I had used an NGO credit card, an expat’s Zambian bank card and another expat’s Barclaycard from the UK. Why would a bank allow a transaction paying for a random person’s visa application and work permit to a government agency?
“No, you are wrong. The system was set up to cater to people who had no bank account in Zambia. You could have used PayPal,” he said.
“Paypal wasn’t on the list of options,” I replied. “Have you ever tried to use the system?”
“I am not allowed to,” he said. “But I don’t understand why a local bank, Zanaco, declined the payment. Let us go and ask the bank manager of the branch at the Airport.” He picked up his officer’s cap, its peak decorated with gold piping, and we marched to the 100 metres to the airport.
The bank manager listened to our story and suggested that we should try to access the eservices.zambiaimmigration.gov.zm website. I used my local phone, which has a small amount of data available. It refused to allow me to log in. We tried the bank manager’s computer, with the same result. Then the immigration officer asked me for my username and password so he could inform the IT officer who would try to track down the fault.
He noted that the bank manager’s computer had limited internet connectivity, which may have prevented access to the site. The manager showed that his computer could access other sites without any issues.
“What happened when you tried to pay?” he asked again.
“I was informed that I would be leaving the Immigration website and joining Barclays payment website. In order to make the payment, I had to write the name, address, email address, etc of the person making the payment for me, along with their card type, number, expiry date and code.”
“That’s where you went wrong. You should have entered YOUR details, not the owner of the credit card’s details,” he said.
“I disagree,” said the bank manager. “You know in Zambia, it takes time for new systems to bed in.”
“Well, what can we do now?” I asked. “Is it impossible to make the application using paper and paying in cash?”
“Yes, that should be an option with a new system which has not been fully tried and tested,” said the bank manager.
“No,” the immigration officer replied, “I will have to give you a piece of paper allowing you to remain in the country for 30 more days until we sort this out.”
Before walking back to his office, I stopped by at the Airport Post Office as I had been told that there was a letter waiting for me to collect. The lady sitting behind the counter had her head slumped forward and I thought she was either dead or asleep. In fact, she was fiddling with her smartphone, hidden out of sight, under the counter. I told her I had been informed that a letter was waiting for me to collect at the airport. She flatly denied any knowledge of a letter. “What is it? Who is it from?” she asked. I said I didn’t have a clue. But my mother had sent me a birthday card to Mfuwe in May 2014 which was not delivered. “Five years ago? We only keep undelivered mail for six months,” she said while hunting through a large cardboard box containing dozens of packets and letters. She found nothing addressed to me and went back to her social media.
The immigration officer was waiting for my passport. He connected the printer to his computer and printed off two forms, which he clipped together and added a sheet of carbon paper. He instructed me to complete and sign the bottom section of the form and handed me my right to stay here for another month. Now was not the time for light-hearted comments about whether the online system would ever allow me to pay for the visa/temporary work permit. I smiled, shook his hand and said goodbye.
On entry to Zambia, I was granted a 30-day business visa. This was about to expire so I needed to visit the Immigration Office at Mfuwe International Airport. I had all the paperwork I needed to extend my stay: a photocopy of my passport, medical license, medical registration, letter of appointment by the non-government organisation who brought me here, two passport photographs (which make me look like a Mafia henchman), my passport and 2,250 Zambian Kwacha. I telephoned the Immigration Officer to see if he was in the office. He told me he wasn’t, but his colleagues would deal with me.
The guard at the entrance to the airport recognised me and waved me through without inspecting the underside of my car with a mirror on a stick. I left my vehicle in the Airport Car Park, illegally occupying Kapani Safaris’ slot, and walked to the checkpoint. Another guard asked me not to sign the admittance register under the last entry, but to give my details after the previous day’s list. Apparently, he should not have started a new page for a new day, and he was trying to fill the gap.
The immigration office is beside the Airport Control Tower. It is a small room, made even smaller by the stacked cardboard boxes against one wall. There are two desks and a table for the printer (you have to connect the printer cable to each computer manually, it isn’t networked). There are some plastic and metal seats for visitors. The walls are decked with torn and drooping posters warning of the dangers of illegal immigration and the benefits of foreign investment. I remember it well. On my first visit here, I urged the outgoing senior immigration officer to apply for Sir Alex Ferguson’s job at Manchester United (the Premier League is a very safe topic of conversation in Zambia) and got my visa extension and work permit on the spot.
There were two new immigration officers, one with two gold stripes on his epaulettes and one with just one stripe. I made my first mistake by handing my paperwork to the more junior officer. He shuffled the papers and passed them to his senior.
“Where is your supervisory letter from the District Health Officer?” he asked.
“Last time I applied, Dr Mashanga telephoned your boss and complained that he had more important things to do than to write letters for a doctor who was helping the country for free,” I said.
“But he still had to provide the letter requesting your services, didn’t he?” replied the officer. “You will have to get his letter before we can process your application.”
“And all applications now have to be made online on the Immigration government website,” he added.
“But I have brought all the paperwork, the cash, everything, so you can process it here today? It is the last day of my visa.”
“We do not have a scanner and we cannot access the internet,” he replied.
I looked downhearted and asked if he could make an exception if I managed to get Dr Mashanga’s letter to the office by this afternoon. Perhaps it was a moment of weakness, or I may even have treated one of his relatives, but he called his boss who gave his approval. He even told me to leave the documents and the money with him so he could process my application as I drove to and from Mambwe.
I telephoned Dr Mashanga and asked him if he could write a supporting letter for the Immigration Department and he agreed. I drove to the District Health Offices in Mambwe and asked a colleague if he could photocopy my Zambian medical license and registration while I saw the boss.
Dr Mashanga was very relaxed and asked me how I was getting on. I had seen him just a few weeks ago but I gave him an update. “We have no paracetamol, no small catheters for giving intravenous fluids to children, no sterile gloves, no non-sterile gloves, no antibiotic eye ointment…”
“But thank you for the medication to manage diabetes and hypertension. I would like to make a register of patients suffering from these conditions so you can make an estimate of what medication we need to manage the patients. Unfortunately, we have no antidepressants or antipsychotics yet.”
“That’s an excellent idea. Please go ahead,” he replied.
We chatted for a few more minutes about my concern about the magnitude of the impending malaria season. I had imagined that Dr Mashanga’s secretary would be typing my letter as we spoke, but he suddenly said, “What dates should I put on your letter? When will you be leaving us?” Clearly, he hadn’t started the letter.
He took a pad of lined paper and wrote out in block capitals (probably necessary given the reputation doctors have for appalling handwriting) a draft for my approval. I scanned it and agreed. He asked me to look again, as there must be no errors when dealing with Immigration.
He took the letter to be typed and a Home Economics teacher from the town entered the room to discuss donations for National Women’s Day on the 8th March. “How will you be celebrating the day?” I asked her. She replied that it was National Women’s Day as if that answered my question. On being pressed, she said that they would be highlighting local women entrepreneurs. “In class, the girls learn domestic tasks which can earn them money when they leave, such as handicrafts.”
Dr Mashanga returned to the room and explained that the Department had no funds at present, but the event was several weeks away. Intriguingly, he added, “We want to avoid the situation which occurred last year.” I didn’t dare ask. I wanted my letter for my application which needed to be filed today.
The letter arrived in quadruplicate. He signed two copies, gave me one and I thanked him as I left the room in haste. My colleague handed me back the originals of my registration and medical license, saying, “Sorry. No toner.”
I drove back to the airport but this time I had to explain to the guard why I had returned. He nodded and waved me through. I photocopied the two documents at the Airport Gift Shop. There was no need to sign the attendance book again at the sentry box. Perhaps the space below yesterday’s visitors was now full. The senior immigration officer (three gold stripes on his epaulettes) shook my hand and told me that his boss had overturned his decision to process my application in person, not online. “Unfortunately, the website is not accessible in this office,” he said. I said I would try to complete the online application today, but what if I didn’t? What if some officials came to the health centre and demanded to see my visa and work permit?
“But that would be us, and we know that you have all the paperwork prepared,” he said.
“When I have completed the application online, when should I come to pick up my work permit?” I asked.
“When will you be leaving the country?” he asked, depressingly. “We no longer use the embossed green booklets, we have introduced plastic cards now. However, we don’t have any cards at present so we will give you a paper.”
To be continued