peregriNation: No Man's Land

No Man's Land. It is a bridge over the Songwe River between the borders of Tanzania and Malawi. A bridge suspended between two different countries. It is a void, an empty crossing-over from one land to another, one culture to another. There is a feeling of uncertainty, as one walks through this limbo. For me, the pathway was about leaving the known, for the unknown.

The journey started at 5:00am the day before at the bus station in Dar Es Salaam. It was still dark and there were fifty buses all packed together, rows and rows on a huge lot, with hundreds of people swarming around them. I had my ticket in hand, but how would I know which bus was mine? Fortunately a porter appeared. Good, I thought, I’ll gladly pay him money to get me to the right bus.
On the way, the porter tried to increase the price several times, and I said no, we had already agreed on the price. We wove in and out of people, frantic and loaded down with all types of baggage and goods they had purchased in the big city, trying to get to their bus on time. In all of the confusion I kept my eyes on my bag he was carrying, making sure no one took it from him, all the while he continued discussing the price. We stopped at a bus that I confirmed with the driver, was mine. I put my bag under the bus and hoped it would still be there when we reached Mbeya. I handed the porter my Tshillings and he took off into a run, disappearing in the crowd.

“Hey, my change!” I yelled.

I couldn’t follow him and leave my belongings. He had ripped me off and gotten his price. I was so angry. I was stewing when I got on the bus. It wasn't a large amount, but still, it wasn’t right. I sat waiting for the bus to fill up, and I began to calm down. I knew I couldn’t have found the bus without him, though small consolation it was when I was feeling so violated. I looked around me to see the Tanzanian people I had grown to love, getting settled into their seats for a long day of travel, and I smiled. I was excited to see the landscape of southern Tanzania, plus, this bus had air conditioning, a screen in the front for videos, and trashcans so I wouldn’t have to haul mine around. It was luxurious.

As soon as we left the station, the driver put in a Live Concert of Celine Dion from the nineties, because they LOVE Celine Dion in East Africa. We drove straight through to lunchtime and stopped, but the line at the squatty potty was so long, that I ran out of time to get food. Back on the bus I opened a bag of peanuts and a bottle of water I’d brought with me. Staring out the window of a bus for fourteen hours gives one plenty of time for self-reflection, and I went through every part and parcel of my life.

There was one more unofficial stop in the day, which was by the side of the road. Only men got off to use the bathroom near the trees. Our driver took the two trashcans, and I watched as he emptied them into some bushes. Oh no! Out of sight, out of mind I suppose. The Celine Dion DVD went back in for round two (just in case we forgot), and we moved on down the road.

It was late and dark as we pulled into the bus station in Mbeya, which for me was unnerving. Young men trying to get to our bags immediately swarmed our bus. I got off the bus as fast as I could and pushed my way through the people to the undercarriage. I was four people back when, through the crowd I saw a man reach for my bag! Instinct took over as I literally climbed on top of people to get there in time. Just as the bag was coming out, I lunged with a final push and grasped the handle. The crowd surged back taking me with it, but I held on for dear life to the bag. The bus driver was trying to push the men back away from his customers and a small fight broke out.

I backed away from the bus and a man approached me.

“You need a taxi?”

“Yes, to the Moravian Youth Hostel, do you know it?”

“Yes, come with me.”

He flagged a car and as it came over, we both got in.

“You’re not the driver?”

“No, he is my friend.”

“Then why are you in the car?” I asked.

“I must show him the way.”

“He’s a driver, he should know the way. No, I won’t take a cab with two men.” I started to get out and realized there were no more cabs anywhere in sight, as most people had been picked up by family. I had no choice but to take this one.

“I want you to know they are expecting me.” I reached into my bag and found the only defense weapon I had, a pen, and placed it in my hand. This could at least put an eye out if necessary. Besides, the pen is mightier than the sword, right?

“Yes, yes, we will take you, it’s no problem.”

My only consolation was that in a few minutes I would be in familiar territory. I have been a Moravian all my life. My family is Moravian many generations back, and even the name Lucetta is a Moravian name. We are a Protestant faith similar to Methodists or Lutherans. There aren’t many in the United States because we are mission oriented thus are mostly in underdeveloped countries, the reason most people have never heard of us. Our motto sums up how we operate within our faith: In essentials unity; in non-essentials, liberty; in all things love. I think that’s beautiful. Southern Tanzania is full of Moravians, and I was about to stay in one of their hostels.

We drove for quite a while, but I knew the hostel was supposed to be close to the bus station. I was becoming more and more alarmed.

“I am Moravian. They know I am coming and they will be looking for me.”
I was hoping that was true. My only defense was to make them realize they would be held accountable for their actions. He mumbled something in Swahili to the driver, who turned the car around. I held my breath until I saw the big gates with the Moravian symbol painted on the front.

I paid the driver and the man got out of the cab. He carried my bag, which was an unusual thing to do, and found the night watchman to check me into my room. The taxi drove away while the man stood with my bag. What? The watchman opened my door and the man went into my room with my bag, all the while talking about bringing a taxi to get me at six forty-five in the morning. I picked up the room keys the watchman had placed on the dresser, and discreetly put them in between my knuckles. I stepped out onto the stoop, which faced the parking lot, and looked for the night watchman. I gestured for the man to come out of my room and loudly said good-bye. He hesitated, but finally walked out. Glaring at me, under his breath he said,

“I’ll see you at 6:45.” That would give him plenty of time to make a plan.

I ran into the room, locked the bolt and slid down onto the floor, my back against the door. I was shaking and my heart was pounding. I took a few deep breaths. Just get me to the border. Get me to the border.

I felt pangs of hunger, but there would be no going out to find dinner. It was ok though; many Africans go to bed hungry every night. I searched for my small bag of peanuts and began to ration them, because tomorrow morning I would have to be out at six-fifteen flagging down a new taxi.