Fled and the African compass

Transport comes with drama, adventure, and a cast of unforgettable characters. In this article, JIM WARD introduces us to Fled, a Zairean turned Zambian with bush smarts and the ability to outwit even the feistiest Pygmy ambushes.

At 18 I was sent off to gain work experience in rural Zambia, where I worked for a fine farmer, whose family lineage stretched in an unbroken line right back to the long-suffering wife of Dr David Livingstone. I spent several months working there, until I succumbed to malaria and had to be shipped out for medical treatment.

I was put to work with a redoubtable, stocky Zairean called Fred. But, as Zambians find the pronunciation of Ls and Rs problematic, he was always called Fled. I worked as a farm mechanic, while he was a sort of handyman. Fled had a wealth of bush knowledge. Accordingly, he showed the young mzungu* where everything was, and how to get to wherever I needed to go. He also gave me some fascinating lessons in life.

He was a survivor of conflict in the former Congo in the 1960s and had walked through the jungle until he reached Zambia (then Northern Rhodesia) and became a Zambian in the mysterious ways that our African cousins easily achieve (which Europeans never can). Fled repeatedly asked me what my tribe was, a question I could never answer to his satisfaction, as I didn’t know myself. He also gave me the most graphic and detailed sex education I ever heard, before or since. But that is another story.

Fled told me that when you walked along roads in the Congo you would often get ambushed by Pygmies, characterised by both their short stature and, indeed, their short temper. You must never act surprised when they stepped out of the bush in front of you, for to do so would be an affront – highlighting their diminutive size, as though deliberately insulting them. They disliked this, and might decide to shoot an arrow through you because you showed them disrespect. The moment you glimpsed them, you should bellow as loudly as you could that you had already seen them from a long way off – right from the top of that distant hill, miles away. This showed them that you acknowledged them as dangerous warriors and a strong tribe. You had shown respect, not mocked them, so they usually refrained from shooting you. The key was to always greet them boldly and emphasise (even if untrue) that you had spotted them from far away, long before they saw you.

I digress so self-indulgently in this off-topic reminiscence because it strikes me that there is a vast store of untapped knowledge lying in the collective memories of our old, experienced, African truck drivers. None of it is ever recorded, and it begins with the way they navigate across the continent.

How does a young man from Lolwezi find his way from Tenke Fungurume mine in Katanga, DRC, to a specific dock in Durban or East London? Remember that he has never studied geography at school and has no map books or GPS in his truck.

When I first arrived in South Africa, I had to find my way to farm entrances and loading zones to which I had never been. I turned to the drivers to guide me – they knew the way, but did not follow the directions Westerners are familiar with.

“Mnumzane**, you see that place where the fat woman sells vetkoek to the school children on the left side? About 250m after you see her is a big guava tree. Opposite that tree is a gravel road to the right – you must take that road. Keep straight until you see it’s like two hills in front of you. The one is big, the other one small, and there are many black rocks lying below those hills. You normally see baboons there. When you see that place properly, look for a plastic on the fence – it is burnt from a bush fire. It’s written Farm 71. Turn when you see that plastic, before a small stream. The road is to the left, that’s the farm entrance. Be careful of the cattle grid, the pipes are buggered and need welding, it can cut your tyres.”

I would follow this and go directly to the farm entrance. We’re talking about a level of detail that only comes from seeing it every day. Now imagine some young driver approaching the old hands on the mine, asking them how to get to Durban docks from a mine in the DRC. He grew up in a village where the most mechanical things he ever saw were a wheelbarrow or a bicycle. Now, he is about to drive a 500-hp truck and its flat deck interlink, with 34 tonnes of copper ingots strapped down under dusty tarps, and set off for a country and city to which he has never been, to find an ocean he has never seen. 

He must drive 3,000km through four countries, through towns like Lubumbashi,  Lusaka, Livingstone, Francistown, Palapye, Modimolle, and Johannesburg, then down to Durban Docks. The grizzled old driver begins…

“First you keep straight on the road until you see that place where the women are washing laundry in the river. After crossing there, you see a road to the right, it’s a very bad road. Leave that one, but take the next one, it’s written Blue Minerals DRC, but the sign has fallen; it is now on the ground. Turn there, and carry on for nine hours until you reach the border. No signs, one road.”

Then he explains the following day’s landmarks, the next day, and the one after that. He tells him where it’s safe to eat, where the food or water makes you sick, where they mix old refrigerator oil with cooking oil to fry the chicken, where the burgers contain dog or monkey meat. Where the soldiers are so drunk you can drive safely past them, and where they use drugs that make them aggressive and dangerous; how to negotiate your way past the camps and what should be carried as bribes. Where the sex workers are working with armed gangs and where they are simply propositioning truck drivers for US$3.

He will explain where to safely park and sleep, and where he must never, ever stop for any reason – even if a tyre bursts – because they will steal his batteries and wheels, and he will be robbed, beaten, and bound to the steering wheel.

The driver is going to cross six international borders and 12 provinces, traversing a range of roads, from corrugated gravel to a six-lane freeway – through jungle, desert, tolls, bridges, tunnels, and mountain passes. He must negotiate his way through corrupt roadblocks and past crooked immigration officers and idle customs officers. Then there are the marauding bands of armed thugs determined to steal fuel, food, his shoes, or the truck itself. 

He must deal with five different currencies and learn to tell the difference between diesel and diesel cut with old paraffin. Yet that driver will go off with a load worth R5.4 million, deliver it to its destination, meet the right ship, offload the copper, and return with his truck, trailers, and tyres all complete – all without any written directions or a map.

I wish some bright PhD student would write this thesis: Pathways and the Cultural Compass: How African truck drivers navigate the continent’s borders – an analysis of the traditional methodologies employed.

I would love to read it. It’s not all road numbers, distances, or compass bearings; it’s  Baobab trees, split mountains, rock falls, the zebras at the water hole, the burnt-out trucks and T52s. It’s Mama Matsenjwa selling her boiled eggs and sweet buns, the cafés selling bush meat, and the yellow painted tavern “Drivers Heppiness & Deluxe Salon” – that disreputable old container on blocks, lurking between the Police Station and the brothel. These are the landmarks that will guide the young man to his destination.

That collective knowledge is out there – unrecorded and undocumented. It’s like an open treasure chest of priceless gemstones lying out in the sun for anyone to see, but no one is brave enough to search for it. Step up, you intrepid young student planning your socio-anthropological doctorate, who speaks several of our 11 official languages. Go and spend days at the truck stops, the eating houses, and the secure parking areas, and interview old African drivers about how they navigate. Do it before they return to their ancestors and leave us. It would make fascinating reading, and would encompass a great deal of Ubuntu.

I already hear the cynics: “Aah, but drivers have maps on their cellphones now.”

Well, yes, some do – assuming they have a smartphone, there is reception, and they have data and roaming. But most of them still begin by learning routes the old way.

Never make the mistake of equating wisdom with education. Don’t assume you can’t have the former without the latter; they are two different things. Knowledge is knowing that a tomato is a fruit, but it takes wisdom to know that it doesn’t belong in a fruit salad. Mama Matsenjwa knows that.

* The word “mzungu” originates from the Swahili root “zunguka,” which means “to wander” or “to go around”. Historically, it was used to describe foreigners or explorers. In modern times, it is typically used to refer to white people or foreigners in general, regardless of their specific nationality. The term can be neutral, affectionate, or even humorous, depending on the context and tone in which it is used.

** “Mnumzane” is a term used in Zulu and other Nguni languages in Southern Africa. It translates as “sir”, “gentleman”, or “master of the house” in English. Traditionally, it would be used to address a man of stature, authority, or respect in the community, but it can also be used in polite conversation.