Late June 14th early June 15th

The day things went in the shitter. Looking back on it now the whole event feels more like a hazy movie that I am watching at an old run down movie theater; it seems so surreal that I have a hard time believing that the events that occurred on June 14^th actually happened, but unfortunately they did.

Due to the derailment adventure on Tazara, the train did not arrive at the station in Dar Es Salaam, Tanzania until around midnight. Myself and another fellow traveller climb into a taxi and ask to be taken to the YMCA guest house, unfortunately the taxi driver and his friends had other plans. Bear with me because this is where time loses all meaning and my memory returns in short flashes of adrenaline. Adrenaline is a funny drug. I can remember noticing everything about that night. I can remember noticing the drivers face and his friends odd mannerisms; I can remember noticing his shoes and the smell in the car; I remember noticing all of the tiniest details, but the odd thing is that I do not actually remember any of it, just that I remember that I noticed them.  

Anyways, enough of the cloak and dagger mystery, many of you already know what happened and I am sure the other can guest. The driver drove us down a dark ally and four other guys jumped in and demanded our money, debit and credit cards, and the pin numbers. There was a lot of shouting, mainly at each other; I don’t think that they had had much practice at this. I do remember one guy was playing the bad guy and his friend was the good guy; I remember thinking “so this actually happens in real life, people get robbed and people actually use the good guy bad guy technique.” It’s not just for the movies folks. I did not cry or scream or panic; I can recall feeling surprisingly calm and somewhere in the back of my head I recalled an episode of Grey’s Anatomy (yes I am a bit embarrassed by this fact), where someone mentions that high jackers/kidnappers are less likely to harm you if they know more about you. So cue the verbal vomit. I started talking about my sisters and my family and how much I loved them, I talked about how I was volunteering as a nurse; I asked them about their families, and where they were from, and what they did for a living. Hind sight that last question was a bit obvious and redundant. I am not quite sure how long we were in the car, best guess about 45 minutes. The robbers gave us 50,000 shilling (about 30 USD) and dropped us off at a hotel.

As I am writing this the whole ordeal sounds completely horrifying and I can hardly believe that it happened to me, but I am virtually unharmed, still happy, still loving Africa, but a few dollars lighter. Granted I am writing this two weeks after this happened so I have had plenty of time to process the event.  I am still a little weary of taxis, my threshold for suspicion in much lower and my heart has a tendency to race at slight provocation, but I have faith that this will begin to lessen with time. On the bright side I can now wear an official world traveller badge, because I have survived a kidnapping and robbing (although I don’t think this provides any consolation to my family or friends, but I promise I am okay)! 

June 12th-14th

The Tazara! Now the traveling adventures begin. Although I am sad to leave the village behind I am quite excited to begin exploring Zambia and Tanzania. And what better way to see the countryside than a train? The Tazara is a train that runs from Kapiri, Zambia to Dar es Salaam, Tanzania. The train moves at a snail’s pace, makes a hundred stops, bumps, rattles, and shakes worse than a paint mixer, and almost always breaks down at least once each trip. The journey takes three days. I became hopeful half way through the second day that we were going to arrive on time; unfortunately my hopes were premature. No sooner had my brain uttered these words of confidence one of the train cars derailed. No one was injured and only one car was affected. Surprisingly the problem was resolved on only 8 hours and one more railcar entered the railcar gravel yard; the solution was to detach the rebel car and push in off the tracks down the hill… problem solved.

I have never taken an overnight train anywhere else in the world so I have not else to compare it to, but I have a hunch that not all train rides are like this one. This is an African train! True to form the bathrooms are questionable and require an immense amount of skill and creativity to perform the necessary task without incident. I feel as though I have already gone into enough detail about the bathroom science in Africa that I feel it would be a bit redundant to explore the complexities of being a girl in a train bathroom. Just reread the toilet entry and then imagine the target constantly moving.

The food on the train was edible and cheap. The only issue was digesting the food. As I have mentioned before Nshema is a thick doughy/ pasty like substance made from maize meal. It has the same effect on one’s digestion that I assume swallowing a bucket of cement would; which given the bathroom situation was not entirely unwelcome. One of the most pleasing parts of the train ride besides that people that you meet and the beautiful scenery was the endless supply of beer. With little to do to occupy your time on a 56 hour train ride consuming alcohol and playing cards with new found friends is a viable and most often your only option to pass the time, that and staring blankly out the window.

June 10th

So my last day in the village was much like a going away party in the states… kind of. Typical of good American neighbors, the Nyansonso villagers brought over food the only slight difference was that this food was still breathing. As a gift or thank you I received two village chickens. One of those chickens met an immediate death; the other is still roaming around Nyansonso happily pecking and scavenging. I could not bring myself murder or bear witness to the murder of two animals in one day or so that’s what I tell myself; however I think it has more to do with the inability to consume that much village chicken. Only one who has eaten village chicken can fully understand the effort that goes into consuming it. I am not just taking about the throat slitting, the feather plucking, or the butchering, I am talking about that actual consumption of the chicken meat. It is kind of like chewing on leather with a lot less flavor. The flavor can be mildly improved by heaps of salt that would put a Chinese food restaurant to shame; unfortunately not much can be done about the toughness. You will undoubtedly end up with lock jaw.

The ritual of killing a chicken in the village is mildly heart breaking and poetic. Having received the first chicken (the one that gave its life for my dinner) I was required to hold it for about thirty minutes. The time is not all that important but act of holding the chicken, feeling it heartbeat, its breath, and its movement and the chicken feeling my heartbeat and breath was. This act was to demonstrate the appreciation of life and the importance of the chicken’s death. In a way I was making friends with my chicken to show it why it had to die. Beautiful in theory, heart breaking in reality. I walked around with this chicken in my arms and then I had to cut its head off; but the chicken was thanked.

I walked around Ellen’s compound trying to take as many mental and emotional pictures that I could. I repeatedly reminded myself that in all likelihood I was never going to return to this place, and I was never going to see these beautiful people again. Try as I might, I could not make the reality of my departure sink in. That is quite typical of my emotional consciousness; it won’t allow me to feel what I know is reality and then like it has realized that it is late for the party will open the flood gates and I will feel everything all at once. Sitting on the side of the road with my bags packed I patiently waited for my last hitch out of Nyansonso and patiently for the feeling of good-bye. The children passing asked where I was going and when I would be back; everyone had trouble comprehending the permanence of my departure, even Ellen. I did not feel the true pain and heaviness of the good bye until I climbed into the back of the pick-up truck and watched as the village slowly disappeared from view. I suppose that it was a good way to say good-bye to Nyansonso, no prolonged hugs or draw out good byes; I simply climbed in the back of a truck and waved.