You have no new mail

It was not such a clever idea to bring several copies of "Katie Morag Delivers the Mail" with me I realise now: for most of the children that we see, there may as well be no such thing as mail, let alone postboxes or postmen. In fact according to Kelly (book bus leader, and my chief informant) there is no regular mail service at all, at least in this part of Zambia, unless you pay for it. If you want mail sent to you, you pay for a mailbox at the nearest post office, something most people cannot afford.  Not only is there no mail, there seems to be no system of public litter collection -at least not in the places we visit where rubbish lies around in heaps by the side of the road, waiting perhaps to be burnt or buried. Needless to say, there is no recycling either, so buying anything in plastic feels slightly shameful. The school we went to yesterday is in a compound ("suburb") of Livingstone. Most of the houses have no indoor plumbing and rely on a cold water tap in the yard - so there is no hot water either and certainly no indoor toilets, just what look like old fashioned outdoor privies. After a week here, I am beginning to realise that our campsite is really quite luxurious.  Nor is there much of the old health and safety that we know and love, though some of the taxi drivers are  strict about seatbelts - or at least if it exists, it is not always followed. We passed some workmen putting up what looked like a small mobile phone mast. There was a line of men pulling on a rope to  haul the parts up to the top, while others climbed up the mast to fix things in place - not a hard hat in sight.   I have also yet to see a pushchair or a pram - well I did see one which looked  at least 30 years old and was probably used for pushing other things in. All the mothers carry their babies tied on to their backs with colourful cloth. The babies look very cosy and comfortable and you never hear them crying, so maybe they are the better for it. It seems as if they are carried until they are maybe about  two  and can walk confidently on their own. Then, in the compound anyway, they seem to run around everywhere, even little three year olds, often running a long way from home to keep up with the bus. So since there is virtually no traffic in these areas, they have much more freedom than our children.

Luckily I did have some success with the football books and magazines I brought. A group of boys at the orphanage today looked at them avidly for an hour, while another older boy went straight for the childrens's version of Nelson Mandela's autobiography, which we read some of together so that was a relief.

It takes longer than a week or even four weeks to really get to know a place, and I feel like a very, very raw beginner.