It was Sunday. Arthur (my friend, fellow roommate and colleague) and I were preparing to depart on a journey to Johannesburg, South Africa via a long 30 hour bus ride that would have us crossing first the border into Zimbabwe, then the border into South Africa. 30 hours seems like quite the trek, though I couldn't help but feel excitement for it. Traveling via ground offers a perspective that air travel does not. And there is no better way to learn a land than to travel through it. We fueled up on food and coffee in the morning, knowing that perhaps that would be the last full meal we would have for the next day, though I was certain there would be ample opportunity to find food along the various legs of our journey. In my daypack was a small assortment of items including granola, raisins, and a single banana to nibble on just in case.
The journey began at the intercity bus terminal in Lusaka, Zambia. Intercity Lusaka can often times be a dangerous place, especially as a white mzungu. Pulling up to the station, we were immediately hassled for money and bombarded by people with questions and answers to questions we didn't even have. The bus station is quite chaotic. Food stalls line the interior of the complex. Loud chatter and the beeping of car and bus horns echo off the cement walls. To me, it seems near impossible that we will ever find our bus terminal. There is no directory. There are no signs. Just bus, after bus, after bus. It is nice being a foreigner in such circumstances though, because everyone seems to want to help- though their real reason for offering assistance i'm sure is driven by the hope that some form of monetary benefit will be provided. Just a few short minutes of aimless wandering and a young man approached. He asked us where we were headed to then offered us tickets. When we informed him that we had already purchased our tickets through Intercape, he kindly led us through the crowd and down and around the far corner of the terminal to the Intercape's check-in station. Ah, time to settle in.
The bus left promptly at mid-day and despite the heat outside, it was nice and cool inside. Our journey began with a blessing and bible readings. After an hour or so of prayer, the officiant ended his sermon and finally settled into his spot in the front of the bus. This was expected, as the words "Note: Christian material used onboard" were clearly written at the top of my bus ticket. We continued the journey along the winding roads of Zambian countryside. The flat horizon gently gave way to a rolling hillscape. Tiny villages made of various sized mud huts littered the land. The air was dusty. It created a yellow haze that seemed to dampen my vision of life outside the window. The bush, dead, yellow, and lifeless after having gone months without a single drop of rain. I knew it was just a matter of weeks though before the rains would come and bring the land back to life. We were three hours into our journey. I peered out the window to see the beautiful Zambezi River meandering its way through the landscape. Ahead of us was a large bridge, which provided us access into neighboring Zimbabwe. As we crossed over the Zambezi, to the west was a second bridge, old and rundown. It appeared to not be in use anymore, though the monkeys seemed to find it a good playing ground.
As we pulled up to border control, we quickly exited our bus and filed inside to fill out the necessary documents that would allow us travel through Zimbabwe. I was greeted with a friendly hello and small conversation by the clerk. I handed over my passport but so quickly received hostility. With a firm, "You can not be here," I gave a puzzled look. "You are illegally residing in Zambia and have been for months. You can not be here!" I was told that my visa was expired as of September 3rd. Of course I knew that was impossible, as I clearly remember visiting the immigration office three times in August to sort out my work visa. My third visit proved successful and I was cleared for a year extension. In true Zambian fashion, however, none of this was documented and the only 'proof'' I had was a little receipt that was so conveniently residing on the bottom shelf of my closet back in Lusaka. Shoot. I look at Arthur and yes, he is in the same boat. We were immediately directed to step outside and ordered to gather our luggage quickly from the bus. It became clear that I was not moving quick enough because the angry official(Who I am now going to call Briefcase, because yes that is an actual name of a person here in Zambia) yelled at me from his car window to get a move on. Arthur grabbed our luggage from under the bus and I hopped inside to gather what belongings we had at our seats. With a bit of hesitation, we dropped our bags in the back of Briefcase's 4x4 and quietly took a seat inside. We were immediately rushed back to the Zambian side, forced to exit the vehicle, and were led into an office along the northeast end of the building. "You are under arrest!" Briefcase said. Wait....is this really happening? I couldn't actually believe the situation. Picture this, Arthur and I pleading our case. Briefcase sitting behind his desk, legs crossed. Hands raised behind his head in relaxation. Turns on his radio. Not even listening to a word we are saying. "You have one phone call. " He turns to look at me, "Why do you think you can get out of this? What's your story? You'll need to present your case to the man in charge" Well Mr... let me tell you... While I explain my case, Arthur calls someone back in Lusaka who is able to retrieve those much needed documents. And because Zambia is all official, Briefcase tells us to have our friend send over those documents via WhatsApp. It wasn't until those documents arrived that Briefcase finally budged. He dropped the attitude and the game. I looked at Arthur in complete relief. We quickly traveled back to the Zim side via Briefcase's 4x4 to find that, great, our bus left us, the only two white passengers on board. You think it might be obvious that we were missing? Okay, well Briefcase then told us to go inside and get our Zim visa. For some reason, we did and I was still holding out hope that there would be a way for us to find our bus, to continue our journey onward. Briefcase gave us three options. 1. He would happily drive us Fast and Furious style down the road to track down our bus but he was sure it would ruin his reputation and definitely would look like he was smuggling people across the border. Really, we had two options. Option 2. We could chase after our bus via taxi, but that would surely cost no less than 100 USD. Option 3. Return to Lusaka. Feeling defeated, we opted for option 3. Here is the kicker. Option 3 meant that we had to return to the Zambian border and purchase yet another visa, because as of two minutes ago, we were officially in Zimbabwe. Hadn't we just proved though that we had a year long work visa in Zambia? Why did we have to pay to get back into Zambia? Briefcase.. playing the game and there we were, back in his office, paying for a visa. Funny, that while all of this was happening, another woman entered the room. She 'unknowling' purchased an illegal document from a stranger to get across the border. She explained to Arthur and I that she had no money and no family near by. She wanted to be our friend. And because we were her new friends, it meant we were obligated to give her money to get her our of jail. Hm, sorry. We just got arrested, missed our bus, and were forced to pay two visa fees. No money to spare.
Okay, so now that we had a plan, we just needed to put it into action. Lusaka, our destination. How to get there? We weren't sure. Well, there happened to be a very large bus sitting outside the Zambian border control with a flat tire. Briefcase asked the driver if we could hitch a ride back with them. Funny that Briefcase now was helping our cause. He was not the same person he was inside that office. The driver said yes. We wait for the bus to get into working order. Turns out, they couldn't fix the tire, so I kid you not, it was driven with one less tire. Arthur and I each pay $10 to hop on the bus. We had to carry our bags on board with us because the storage underneath, which I found out during our bus ride, wasn't used for luggage, though I didn't find out what it was actually used for. Also in true Zambian fashion, this bus was already overbooked, which meant that I, along with nearly 15 others, stood the entire 3 hour ride back to Lusaka. It was hot and we were cramped. I felt bad for the little boy sitting on the seat that was just next to me, because the sweat dripping from my face and arms dripped onto his lap, on numerous occasions. He also had sitting on his lap his dinner. which consisted of rice and chicken. Oops. I apologized as many times as I could. Along this journey home, we crossed through several police check points. Hilarious. At each one, a man from the front of the bus yelled "Everyone, quiet! Get down! Get Down!" Right, because we were illegally transporting people on an overcrowded bus from Zimbabwe to Zambia.
Well, Arthur and I made it back to Lusaka after dark but unfortunately, we never made it to Johannesburg. The beginning of our journey so quickly became the end and what started out like any ordinary day of travel, proved to be quite the opposite. It goes without saying though, this surely was an adventure to remember.
In the words of Julie Platt, AWA!!.. meaning AFRICA WINS AGAIN!