Slow is good (Tansania/ Malawi)
Dar-es Salam,Tansania. Bus-Station. The guy who sold us the tickets promised us a comfortable and fast bus.
“It’s going to take about 20 hours to get to Lilongwe,” he told us while he scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it over to us.
“Here are the tickets”. Then he pointed to a shining poster on the wall showing the bus, which was going to bring us to the capital of Malawi.
“You chose the best company,” he said smiling content with his success.
The following day we were surprised to find that the salesman’s descriptions seemed to be mostly correct. The bus was equipped with comfortable and designated seats opposed to the wooden benches we’d been squished onto alongside goats and chickens up until then.
The unexpected luxury gave us a feeling of security we hadn’t experienced since we left Johannesburg.
First break down
The monotonous buzzing of the engine at the early hour of our departure made us fall asleep rather quickly. Only at midday we were woken up by the missing wind and an unsupportable heat.
We followed the other passengers outside to stretch a little bit. We joined Jeff, a Canadian student, and Steve a UN worker who we had met that morning.
Steve pointed to a group of men who were assembled around one of the back wheels of the bus. He explained us that we hadn’t stopped to take a break, but to fix a broken coil spring.
“How long is this gonna take again,” he sighed and checked his watch
“The boarder closes at 6 o clock”
The driver, the mechanic and a couple of curious villagers were gathered in a circle gesticulating strongly and discussing about how to solve the problem in the best possible way.
In the beginning we watched them quite entertained, but when they really started the repair we didn’t feel like joking anymore. A youngster who apparently had been sent to search for spare parts came back with a bunch of old and rotten ropes. The mechanic braided the small ropes with great ability into a bigger one. Anxious to improvise he mysteriously fixed the damage and enjoyed the applause of an old white bearded man who clapped his hands frenetically and congratulated him for his creativity.
Full of doubts I looked at the other passengers, but couldn’t find any sign of preoccupation on their faces.
“Well let’s go!” I tried to motivate myself before getting back into the bus, which in the meantime had heated up to the cosy temperature of a hot oven.
Conversation with Steve
Lethargic; I was sitting in my seat and to pass the time I started a conversation with Steve. The shocking facts with which he confronted me jerked me from my apathy
I asked him about the observations I made the last couple of weeks. I had seen some young women who had unnaturally pale faces full of red spots a few times during my travels.
The bulky swellings made me guess that they were suffering from one of the innumerable diseases haunting the continent.
Steve shook his head with a solemn expression on his face “No it’s not a disease. Women with lighter skin have a better chance to find a husband, so they treat their faces with a corrosive herb cream.”
“That surprises you? Then what about all the other things? Think of the circumcision rites, the rejection of medical help, the uncountable wars and disputes between all the different tribes, the overgrazing of the steppe.
Think of polygamy, forced weddings, and the displacement of entire nations.”
Steve didn’t leave one topic untouched. My head was about to explode. I couldn’t put it all together into a cohesive picture. The pieces of information seemed like the sensationalist titles we Europeans had already grown tired of.
Incredulous I listened to the seriousness of the young man. He introduced me more and more into the abysmal depths of Africa. The struggle of the humanitarian organizations to save lifes, -a quixotic fight against windmills.
The impression had been growing in me with a certain pride during the last couple of weeks, that I, as one of few Europeans, had the chance to gain real insight into the continent. All the sudden this notion appeared ridiculous and exaggerated to me. I understood that an entire lifetime wouldn’t be enough to understand the complexity of the countless stories and traditions. I understood that my experiences through the “glasses of the civilized world” could never be more than a scratch in the surface of this exotic land, so fascinating yet so repugnant. Africa, -the cradle of humanity. Hated, beloved mother.
Salomon
Shortly before arriving at the boarder we stopped to pick up some more passengers. One of them was a very colourfully dressed fellow. He discovered immediately James’ dreds and came up to us.
Ya man, howzit?” He leaned with his elbow on the backrest and looked through the window. The last rays of the sun were coloring the countryside in warm red evening colors.
“Beau-tiful, beau-tiful” he commented with a dreamily expression on his face. He turned to us. “Hey sister, hey brother, what’s your names? I’m Salomon.” He admired James hair “You’ve got nice dreds bro’ ”
Touching his cap which sat surprisingly flat on his head he said, “They cut my rastas in jail… and that only ‘cause of some harmless plants. People don’t need to be surprised then about the quarrels in the world. Crazy world, don’t you guys think so?” Without really waiting for an answer he added: “But you are good people, I can feel the energy.”
With glassy eyes and despite of the poverty surrounding him he declared the world to be
beau-tiful “but look at the children”, he said, “ as long as the African children are still smiling, there’s hope”
A little after the sunset we arrived to the boarder.
“Nah, today we wont be able to continue the journey”, blurted the driver whose mood seemed to be deteriorating “If you don’t want to sleep in the bus you should look for a hotel around”
I looked at the accumulation of earthen edifies and wooden shags but couldn’t really spot anything that appeared remotely like a hotel.
Nevertheless we went with Steve and Jeff to ask the locals who pointed us to a place at the end of a winding trail.
The chubby lady at the reception brought us to our room through a courtyard in which a bunch of people were gathered in front of a small, drizzly TV.
Moving apathetically she opened the door. When I asked her where I could take a shower she answered “Well, the showers don’t work, you have to use the sink over there”
Before leaving she pointed out the luxury of mosquito nets, which her hotel generously offered.
Germany vs. Italy
“Oh, ya right. It’s the semi-finals of the World Cup today”, we remembered. “Germany against Italy.” So, we joined the others spectators in the courtyard where the beer was already flowing and the hoarse voices where already singing. With my arrival most of the spectators started cheering for Germany.
We squished in between the festive villagers
With the kickoff the chanting and yelling got even louder.
In the middle of the party I stood still for a moment, thinking of my country, which right in this moment had to be completely out of control. Black, red and golden colored banners everywhere. Everything, I imagined everything must have been dominated by these colors. Black red and yellow jerseys, make up, aprons and polished toenails.
Big screens with thousands of fans screaming and partying in front of them. My friends, my family and even my grandma who doesn’t know the difference in between a football and a balloon were sitting somewhere back home in front of a TV, cheering for our team.
A teenager pushed me in my ribs “Go Germany go!”
For 90 minutes the villagers were supporting Germany, but then in the extra-time between the first and second goal by Italy most of them changed sides. They let me suffer alone from the defeat. They didn’t want to renounce their reason to celebrate.
So, I went to hide from the world in our little airless room and rolled up under the mosquito net. The noise of the party and the humid heat wouldn’t let me sleep until the early morning hours. Restless I kept turning from one side on the other until I finally fell into a fitful sleep.
Walking through “no man’s land”
The following morning Steve hammered loudly against our poorly carpinted door. “Wake up! Wake up! The bus has already gone, we have to hurry to catch up with it on the other side of the border,” he shouted through the fissures of the wooden planks.
We dusted off our clothes from the day before, hastily grabbed our few things, and followed Jeff and Steve.
We abandoned Tanzania on foot and found ourselves walking quite a while in the strip of land in between the two boarders before reaching Malawi.
There were shanties and huts lined up along the street, which connected the two countries. People lived there whose land had been declared “no mans land” by arbitrary contracts of seemingly incompetent officials.
Women in bright-patterned garments were washing clothes in a little milky stream while others were working in little vegetable gardens in their backyards. Meanwhile the men were trying to convert passersby into potential customers.
They traded with everything and money was far from being the most valuable currency. Chicken for seeds. A donkey for a portable radio. A pair of worn-out shoes against a faded colored shirt. They even promised us a Rolex.
Since we neither had money nor other dispensable possessions we had to disappoint the hard –working fellows.
Arriving at the other side we were relieved to see that the bus was still there. All the baggage was distributed around it to be inspected by the border officials. In the stifling customs office we filled out immigration forms with a certain routine and lined up to get the stamps.
When it was my turn the bullnecked official looked up sluggishly and asked me with a certain practised apathy:
“Please show me that you have enough financial means to travel in our country, credit cards, cash, anything you else you might bring with you.”
I reached in my bag and all the sudden I was horrified, I couldn’t find my credit cards. Hectically I started searching every corner of my pockets until the man said impatiently:
“So what young lady? I can’t allow you to enter without any money”
I was about to break out in tears when James who just had finished the formalities at the other window came to my rescue.
“Sir, she belongs to me. We travel together,” he said
“And you have money?”
“Yes sir, your colleague verified that five minutes ago, but I can show them to you again if you want”
The official exchanged an interrogative look with his partner. My heart was beating fast; I had the sensation that my thoughts were written on my face. James credit card wouldn’t help us; he was still waiting for the PIN from his bank. Verifying, the official looked at me once again. Finally after the other one nodded his head he stamped my passport.
I still couldn’t breath.
I tried to put things in my head in an order, went through situations trying to find the place where I had last seen my credit cards. The only hope I had was that they were still somewhere in the hostel in Tanzania.
Steve, who had observed the whole scene said compassionately:
“If you want I’ll go back with you to the other side and check to see if the cards are still there”
Thankful I accepted his offer, but when we arrived the tired receptionist just shrugged her shoulders. She wanted to know “What’s so important about these plastic things anyway?”
Disgruntled I walked back silently next to Steve, ignoring the new attempts of the salesmen which we recognized from our first border crossing.
Steve assured a youngster: “No, the Rolex is not the reason why we’ve come back”
He smiled benignly and looked at me with complicity. My thoughts were somewhere else. With sunken shoulders I gave James the bad news. I would have loved to tell him something different when he looked at me with hopeful eyes upon my return.
A day at the boarder
Waiting. We couldn’t do anything but wait. There wasn’t Internet or a telephone close to cancel the credit cards, and the bus didn’t look like it would be ready leave within the next few hours either.
Restless, I walked up and down in front of the office. My head was about to explode: we didn’t have money and I was scared that right in that very moment one of the villagers might be out shopping with my money in the next neighbouring big city.
Irritated, I checked every once in a while on the luggage distributed around the bus. In doing so I glimpsed the boarder officials lazily having lunch in the shadow of a tree.
I had probably passed by my three fellow travellers for the tenth time when Jeff got up and laid his hand on my shoulder: “Chill out. Sit down! Wanna play some chess with me?”
Before I could answer he fetched the miniature board and the small magnetic figures and looked at me challengingly.
“Well since there isn’t anything better to do…” I answered resigned and sat down on his backpack, decorated with inumerous banners, which he had offered to me as a seat.
Jeff, who obviously liked his role as a globetrotter, showed a tendency towards holding monologues and told us uncountable stories of his adventures.
With eyes wide open I listened to him. I felt like a stupid inexperienced girl who had stumbled into the big world without any preparation. I was ashamed for losing my head. His unmoveable confidence that there was a solution to every problem was transferred to me with every new story.
Knight to C6 Crossing the Bolivian jungle, overloaded busses in the Ecuadorian highlands. Rock to E5. Armed robbery in Costa Rica. Everything had had a good ending for him and that moment he didn’t worry about the delay, which had amounted to an entire day either.
“Checkmate ” he said. My concentration had died away while listening to his captivating voice.
A little bit of jealousy mixed into my admiration for the lighthearted, easy-going Canadian who gesticulated with his skinny arms as if he wanted to embrace his memories. His eyes shimmered absently as he dove deep into one of his tales. His repertoire of experiences seemed inexhaustible.
I wanted to feel like him, experience like he did. Imperturbable and composed as if nothing could weaken my foundations.
Steve suddenly destroyed my fascination: “I’m hungry!”
The other two agreed. “ Yeah it’s about time to eat something”
James and I offered pasta and instant sauce whereas Steve and Jeff bought some tenacious goat meat to spice up our meal.
Cross-legged we waited for the little flame of our portable gas stove to cook the noodles. As our mouths began to water, we realized that we hadn’t eaten anything for more than a day. The food was barely ready when we started to eat hastily and we licked our plates as if it was a gourmet dinner to a man dying of hunger.
“Yah man, how are you folks doing?” Salomon joined us again. “I just send a boy to look for screws to repair the bus.”
“What? Repairing? We have another problem?
“Yeah, but don’t worry, from now on I’m responsible for the repairing. Salomon tried to cheer me up. “Meanwhile I show you some pictures of my lit-tel darlings.
He started digging in his holey sailor’s bag and pulled out some faded color photographs He didn’t seem to worry much about his post as our official automotive repair- technician. Proud of his beautiful ganja he explained:
“He causeth the grass for the cattle and the herb for the men” He laughed resoundingly.
“Yeah brother, Psalm 104: 14”. Right at that moment a fellow Rastafari joined in. High spirited about the random reunion they didn’t stop laughing and talking.
The older one had silver-grey streaks in his hair and his dreds were so long that they reached over the hips. He started telling his story of the boarder crossing.
“They were searching me like always. Down to the bone. Haha, down to the bone. But in the end they are poor bastards, you know, slaves if the law.” He seemed driven by the adrenalin of the danger just endured.
Naked like Adam I stood in front of them. “Haha by the way, my name actually is Adam!” he joked.
“And Adam is smart” proud of his deceitful sin he let us in on his secret. He showed us his elaborately sewn up scarf. There was a secret pocket hidden in the red-black plaid pattern.
“My friends I don’t traffic drugs. Nah… I surely don’t but one needs some little flowers on such a long trip. Don’t you agree my friends?”
The other companion, who had his hair pulled back under a huge cap in the form of a balloon, agreed.
Visibly delighted by the support, Adam nodded. He integrated thoughtful pauses to add importance to his story and to share some moments of mutual consent with his fellow Rastafarian. His compatriot laughed warmly with his incomplete denture and repeated that they were “no criminals under no circumstances”
Instants later the comrades left again but not without turning around, waving contently, and calling out a last “Jah bless you”.
By then the setting sun announced the end of the day with luminous colours and Salomon decided that it was about time to finally “fix the bus”.
Meanwhile we passed the time in a sketchy dive to watch the match between Portugal and France. I couldn’t raise any real emotion and I felt uncomfortable in the poorly carpinted bar. The men were drinking and the few women with over exaggerated makeup were laughing boisterously at the men’s dull jokes.
I was relieved to hear soon that the repairs were done and without waiting for my friends I hurried to the bus. Filled with joy about the continuation of our journey.
Continuing the Odyssey
The feeling of elation didn’t last too long though. When I got into the bus I found out that there were no restrictions in Malawi about how much cargo a bus could take in addition to the passengers. The bus driver, delighted about the extra earnings, rubbed his hands while we were trying to get to our seats, scrambling over fish nets and tow-sacks filled with beans. There was hardly space for our backpacks, which were placed in the corridor close to the exits. Everybody getting off or on the bus had to climb over them.
With a bitter smile I thought of the promises the salesman at the bus station had made, while trying to make some space to sit down.
I had learned from the Africans to put up with the situation with a close mouth so that a short exchange of looks with James was enough to comment on the predicament.
Apathetic, I closed my eyes and fell into a fidgety sleep. My dreams were confuse. I found myself encircled, hunted, surrounded by warriors pointing their spears at me. When the potholes in the road made my sleep unbearable I awoke in a terrible frightened state.
Sinister silhouettes. White, shy eyes. What was reality? What was dream?
I spotted James form. He embraced me comfortingly.
Apparently, while I had been asleep, the bus driver had stopped somewhere in the bush to load up a dozen or so extra passengers. They were now trying to find a perch somewhere on the arm and back leans.
The eyes of a lanky boy next to James kept closing but every time his head nodded off, he was startled awake and looked around intimidated, as if he didn’t know where he was.
The new passengers didn’t know the local language or English so there wasn’t much we found out about their story -Somali refugees who tried to make their way down to Durban-, but their faces, their slumped down bodies told the rest.
Thinking about what they might have been through I felt a knot in my throat.
Lethargic, eyes filled with emptiness they sat on their narrow seats, staring into the darkness unable to find rest. Uncomfortable silence.
A weird mixture of distrust and curiosity from the natives against the refugees was in the air. Tense minds.
Suddenly we heard a sharp whistle and our driver slammed on the brakes.
Men in uniforms with shouldered guns blocked the street.
Boarder official came into the bus only moments later. They lurched through the luggage and asked for our passports.
Knowing looks were exchanged between the passengers and we already feared ourselves witness to an awkward scene, – the arrest of the “illegals”.
But the inspectors just left them out of their search.
After the officials had left, rumors about corruption spread quickly.
“Just as probable is though that the boarder officials knew about the destination of the Somalis and didn’t want to be bothered with the paperwork and formalities of an arrest, explained Steve.
“Welcome in Africa” he added.
We wouldn’t find any rest that night. Shortly after the incident the bus stopped at the foot of a mountain. Swearing and blustering the driver tried to get up the hill in the first gear. A howling motor and a smouldering exhaust were the only response. After firing out more profanities which were rudimentarily translated by an agonizingly-grinning Steve the chauffeur accepted the hopelessness of the situation and barked at us:
“Come on, get your fat asses moving, with you lazy fatsoes we’ll never get up the hill.”
I looked at James, terrified. Then we followed the example of the other travelers who silently submitted to the circumstances.
The African bush drew frightening shadows under the silver moonlight. I was tense, listening to the nocturnal sound-scape, trying to keep up with the tenacious Africans.
Every cracking in the branches that differed from the constant chirping of the crickets and the eerie yelling of the birds accelerated the beating of my heart.
Instinctively I grabbed James’ hand.
Every once in a while I saw the flash of some glowing reflections in the bush.
“Where those eyes? Nah, now you are going crazy, you got a lively imagination”, I tried to dismiss my observation as a trick my tired eyes were playing on me.
Nevertheless, I hastened to search for security in the middle of the silent spooky looking group.
Finally, behind a turn, I caught a glimpse of the outline of the bus waiting for us on the crest of the hill. I breathed a sigh of relieve.
After getting in the bus I didn’t even worry about Jeff’s remark about the incline of the road and bad brakes.
I couldn’t imagine the trip getting any worse.
The following morning when the driver told us that we would arrive in Lilongwe around noon we were encouraged to have hope that things wouldn’t get worse.
Our spirits seemed lifted and the people around me started to talk comfortably, exchanging their stories and motives for traveling.
James and I got drawn in by the general relieve and we started commenting on the beautiful landscape around and the extraordinary experiences we had lived.
Suddenly! Bang! Terrified screams! Luggage flying around! The bus started flinging, hurtling uncontrolled. Gaining speed because of the incline.
My heart seemed to stop. It was only seconds in which I saw in front of my eyes, like in a 1920 motion picture, my life passing by. I saw clearly the faces of my parents, my friends, unsuspicious and safe back in Germany while I was sure to find my end as a young girl somewhere in the African wilderness.
It felt like eternities had passed by when the bus at last stopped in a precarious lean.
Motionless, stock-still, I sat in my seat. Shocked without a clear thought.
I tried to recapitulate the just experienced, to place my mind into time. Eventually I managed to liberate myself from the vacuum, which had overwhelmed my senses.
I perceived my surroundings, the glaring sun, the smell of sweat, the agitated chatter of voices of the people trying to make their way out.
We followed them, and one after another, we looked at the damage. The left front tire had literally exploded, not leaving anything but frazzles of smouldering vulcanized rubber. Nobody knew what had happened.
For the first time I realized that we had been driving during the whole trip with only 6 instead of the required 8 wheels so that now there were only 5 left.
Bewildered I observed the work of the relatively unconcerned looking men changing one of the middle tires to the replace the indispensable front one.
In my mind I tried to find another way to continue our travels. The realization though that it might take days for another vehicle to come by on that deserted dirt road suffocated such thought from its onset.
Helpless I joined our fellow travelers who again were waiting patiently and quietly. After asking the mechanic how long it would take to continue I could only smiled in resignation when he answered: “No hurry Ma’am, slow is good, slow is good, slow is Africa”
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