When Lusaka went smoke free, they really went smoke-free. Photo by Michael Musenga.

As the wheels hit the hot asphalt of the runway, I look up to see the frenetic expressions on the faces of my fellow passengers—a look that falls somewhere between anxious and anaphylactic, and it’s clear they’re desperate to get off the plane. It’s been a short and relatively painless flight from Nairobi, Kenya, to Lusaka, Zambia, our final destination. But these people obviously need a cigarette. Once nearly ubiquitous, smoking has been on the wane, particularly in Canada, where it seems new antismoking legislation comes into effect almost biweekly. First it was bars, then restaurants. Now even some patios are off limits to those who like to suck back thick blue smoke in the great outdoors.

There are new no-smoking laws cropping up in nearly every country, from Argentina to right here in Zambia. The developing world has been the tobacco industry’s cash cow for years now, as cigarette companies have replaced lapsed smokers in the United States, Canada, and Europe with millions of new ones in Asia and Africa.

Zambians aren’t much for smoking, actually: about 22 percent of Zambian adults light up, about the same as Canada—but Zambia’s anti-smoking laws are a lot more stringent. When I arrived in Lusaka, a new public smoking ban had been in effect for a little more than a month. On the surface, the ban is similar to legislation you might find in any other country in the world: smoking is prohibited in public spaces, and failure to comply is punishable by a fine of 400,000 Zambian kwachas, or around $100 (roughly the average monthly income in Zambia) and up to two years in prison.

But in Zambia the term “public space” has been left entirely open to interpretation. In fact, any public space under the jurisdiction of Zambian law must adhere to the new smoking ban. This includes restaurants, bars, and shopping centres, but also open-air markets or parking lots—effectively any space outside of your own home. The ban is further complicated by the fact that it may be enforced not only by police officers, but also “complainants,” essentially any civilian who finds your smoke offensive and decides you’re violating the law. A spokesperson for the Lusaka city council went so far as to suggest that the law might be enacted retroactively against a person who still had the lingering smell of cigarettes on him or her, even if he or she weren’t actually smoking.

I don’t smoke, but a straw poll of friends and colleagues who do suggested they were confused and concerned. The police themselves, who are tasked with enforcing the new law, have few directions as to what constitutes a “public space.” Smoking friends worried they may have to pay a “fee” (in reality, a bribe) to avoid arrest. It remains to be seen whether the new law will improve the health of Zambian citizens, but it certainly means my fellow plane passengers will have a while yet to wait before crossing the tarmac, claiming their bags, leaving the airport, and finding a secluded place to furtively strike a match.

Four of the country’s 16 medical schools admitted to accepting research-targeted grants between 1996 and 1999, and three said they accepted donations, which are not tied to specific research projects. The average grant was for more than $160,000, while the average donation came in at $18,000. “It’s not surprising that the tobacco industry gives money to medical schools,” says Joanna Cohen, the study’s principal researcher. “I am disappointed that the medical schools would actually take the money.”

The figures might actually be much higher considering five medical schools refused to disclose financial information.

Cohen can’t name the schools that admitted to accepting the cash because researchers promised respondents they would remain anonymous. “Anonymity is a common research practice as far as individuals are concerned, so we decided to extend this to the universities, to take all precautions to get the best results.”

None of the schools that participated in the study has a policy preventing it from accepting money from the tobacco industry. Cynthia Callard, executive director of Physicians for a Smoke-Free Canada, says that’s a huge problem and something medical schools have to change soon. “It was a little bit of a hidden issue,” says Callard. “But now it’s been brought to light and something should be done about it.”

In Australia, 70 percent of medical faculties have policies against accepting tobacco funds. Unfortunately, things do not seem to be moving very quickly here in Canada. Audrey Cheung, director of research grants at U of T, says the school has no policy regarding the acceptance of tobacco funding, nor does the university plan on adopting a ban. “I’m not aware of any move in that direction,” she says, “either at the university or at the faculty level.”