A piece of Kiwi in Kabwe

“Hand built.”

I aah’d. “Aaaah.”

“Well you can’t exactly get the parts round here, mate.”

“True, true.” I replied, but I had no idea. I’m not really a cheese man.

But it’s not every day that I get to see a cheese press. Big steel barrels, temperature controlled rooms. Quite fancy, and NZ owned and operated to boot. We exited and were led out to the yard where I’d interrupted his work on the ute.

The hood was up. He was constructing a grill to stop the tall grass in the paddocks from wrapping around the radiator and overheating the vehicle. As I stared down, inspecting his handiwork, I spotted a tiny LTSA plaque on the chassis. Call me soft, but it caught me off guard. My voice cracked for just a second and I had to feign a sneeze.

The ute, the farm, myself, and this guy were an anachronism. The dairy farm is in Kabwe, about an hour north of Lusaka, which is pretty much bang in the centre of sub-Saharan Africa. After several months of travel, of Afrikaners, Sutu, Shona, and Bemba, I had found myself unexpectedly standing on an island of New Zealand in the middle of Africa. Homesickness hit me like nausea.

Maplehurst farm, as I learnt, was started not too many years ago by New Zealand missionaries under the banner of Bright Hope, a US aid organisation. It’s host to a bunch of Kiwi farmers now, as they spend their days running the place, helping to improve the livelihood of the Kabwe community.

“Wanna come in for a cuppa?”

I did. It was my final few hours in Kabwe, before heading north to take the gruelling TAZARA express to Dar es Salaam, a two day journey taking me through the heartland of Tanzania.

It felt like a dream. I went in, passing the dogs running circles around me, and the kids jumping on the tramp. The farm looks like a kiwi farm. It has the feel of a kiwi farm. For a moment I was having a coffee in Taranaki.

We chatted for around half an hour, about Zambia, the Copperbelt, and the decision to emigrate. I had been trained to write down names, to remember things, but truth be told I can barely recall a word of the conversation. My head was still spinning.

In what felt like moments, I was told we had to leave. There was a train to catch. I agreed, smiling. We stood and the farmer shook my hand. “We’re heading near the Congo border in a few weeks. You’re welcome to join us if you’re around.”

His words were like a punch to the stomach. There was nothing more I wanted to do but stay in Maplehurst farm. Down the driveway was the potholed road into the dusty town of Kabwe. And further along, through the velt and the stalls selling mealies and sugar cane was a Chinese built train waiting. And beyond that? Who knows.

I’d found paradise, and it hurt to leave it behind.