Month: April 2024 (page 1 of 1)

September 10, 2023

On Sunday morning I had moved from Mbeya to Kyela. The mini bus driver raced across the village while I could feel the little rumble through the ground. I said to the driver: “I go to the border.” He did not reply, looking ahead. Boda Boda(motorcycle taxis) drivers was stationed in front of the little roadside restaurant, and some of them wondered around freely. The grocery shops half awakened in the sun.

When I arrived somewhere in Ipinda, a dozen guys shouted outside—how excited they all were—their eyes followed my Asian face, and when I went down out of the bus, of corse they said : “Border!” “Border!” “Come!” I only wished I could stroll around and have breakfast. In a split second I changed my mind and looked around. “Wait, first I wanna go to the toilet,” I shook off the guys and walked away ; a few followed me. At that moment, one motorcycle pulled up beside me. “Hurry up! Let’s go to the border,” a young man patted its back seat. I said loudly. “Two thousand(about 1 dollar)! ” “Yes, yes. Ride on!” Then his motorcycle moved forward, spouting steam, tuning back to me. “Come!” the other guys let out a bellow of rage, I advanced on him and sat astride behind him—and the Boda Boda swung around and pulled out of the village. 

The motorcycle roared and speeded up down the road—Songwe Border three miles to the south of Ipinda—and we stopped near the border. I paid the man, who turned and sped back. And I looked around speculatively at the border—the guys sauntered over—and conjectured the money exchangers may well come up to me.

It felt like middle of nowhere, and the sun grew warm and bright. I begun to walk to the border, wishing to get to Karonga(Malawi) before it is hot. In front of the barracks the middle-aged-men huddled together. One of the standing man spoke to me. “Where are you going?” “I go to the toilet,” this time I really wanted to—every time I was in nervous…especially before the border. “That building,” the man in gray, dirty overalls walked toward it. “Come.” I went to the building ; inside was Passport Control. “I’m getting along with you,” the man said and led the way into the building. There was the washroom. “Okay, thank you,” I said to the man.  

After urinating, I applied the sunscreen on my face in the mirror. When I saw the man standing in the floor, I hurried out and walked recklessly ; wandering back and forth, back and forth along the long corridor where the rooms were arranged. The man in overalls and nothing else, ragged patched overalls. His hair was grizzled, and his face streaked with dust. He sidled near. “I have to get the stamp,” I blurted out, without looking in his direction. The ragged man walked a step or two ahead of me and turned. “This way,” he gestured with just his eyes. 

I had got the exit stamp during which the ragged man awaited my return. “Let’s go to the border,” he said excitedly. “Sorry, sir, I’m not just in the mood right now. Yesterday I was stolen all my money in my hostel. I have no cash!” I sighed with sadness, and his countenance fell. Of course this was an outrageous lie. As soon as I went out of the building I was away from him. For a while I had been watching him going back to the barracks.

I walked again toward the border. A boy, prowling about, came close to me. “Do you need SIM Card?” I stopped and faced him. “I already have one.” And I continued to walk. From Malawi side the bicycles constantly whisked past—I wondered how Malawian crossed the border, and where they were going.

Sure enough, there the confidence men moseyed around. “You want kwacha?” I ignored them and went through the border, however, and one guy jumped on his motorcycle following me alongside, trying to pitch his exchange rate. “Let’s go, my shop. Ride on,” he said. “I was tired now and should be rest,” I sat on sidewalk steps and took the biscuits out of my backpack and ate slowly. And then I saw him idling near the border, conversing with his fellows. I jumped to his feet, putting on my backpacks and walking briskly down the bridge.

With some helpful directions, I found a brick building to get stamped into Malawi. I handed an immigration officer my ID and yellow card. “Do you have a visa?” “No. I’m going to get a visa on arrival,” I answered the stocky woman. “Did you get E-Visa?” “No, because I am Japanese. I heard my Japanese friend was able to get an Arrival Visa here.” she said nothing and took her leave from the tiny space containing an old desk and a chair. 

I stood waiting, a nervousness discernible for several minutes ; drifting away then finding there were none in the little room. I sighed, wishing I had bought a SIM Card at that time, even though it might be counterfeit. For the next few minutes I found myself gazing out of the window. On the road, tracks and bicycles passed by, but not so many, maybe because it was Sunday morning. “Excuse me.” I turned to find a grim-faced woman in her late thirty. “Do you have wifi?” the woman looked reproachfully at me. “Sorry, I don’t have SIM Card.” “Come.” I was taken to the hallway to be greeted by the sound of a vacuum cleaner.

The doors to the room were closed. The woman disappeared. I stood helplessly comporting myself with proper frigidity and dignity—what shall l do? After a while, the woman walked toward me, opened a door and went inside. I followed her. “Let me show you,”she held out her palm, on which I put my phone. Then a sense of oppression gave way to a expectation that I could enter Malawi, for I got a clear glimpse of the E-Visa text. “Oh, thank you very much,” I said. “I enter my details right away.”

I had already seated myself on a worn-out stool and followed the procedure in my phone. The trouble was that once I uploaded my photo, it backed to the start. Occasionally one person, accompanied by an officer, came to the room and talked with the woman, who released him or her. As my struggles continued, I could see the woman watching me with a disgruntled expression, waiting for the thing to be done.

“Excuse me,” I went to the woman. “Ah…I failed every time I tried,” I showed her the display. “Change the size!” she said harshly. “I know, I know. But…” I came quickly back to the stall.

I drank water from the bottle; and let out my breath, pressing down the dismal fear. She was silent. Time flew away—a separation between her task and mine. It was an hour later that I found a way out; I rose to my feet, stepped to her and said, “Succeeded!” “Okay,” she said with a wry smile. “Do you have the invitation letter?” “Letter…what?” I pretended not to know. “Where are you going to stay?” she went on. “Do you have a reservation?” “Yes. I’m sorry. I did my best but I couldn’t get the letter,” I open the Booking. com app. “I’m going to stay Sumuka Inn…” I said, though I had no intention. “Send an e-mail,” her relaxed face tightened. At the window she loitered there fingering some papers, her back to me as though she went about her new task. Almost simultaneously, I gave up any attempt. “It seems to be impossible to get, I’m sorry for the trouble… I’ll come back to Tanzania.” I gave confused answers and sat on the stall, and fidgeting with my backpacks.

The stocky woman came into the room. “What’s become of him?” she asked the woman. “He doesn’t have the invitation letter,” She was the same taut, undefeated woman. The stocky woman tilted her head to one side, a finger raised to her chin. I thus found myself sitting alone helplessly. On the other hand, I half expected to go through the border. However, there was a conversation that had nothing to do with me. After a few minutes the two were about to go out of the room. Then the woman suddenly turned to me like she would had just remembered something else—and beckoned me to follow her through the door.

“Wait a minute,” she said and entered the next room. The officers loafed along the hallway. The woman came out of the room, “Come!” she said, holding the door open. I entered the room. My attention turned to him, a man who had been sitting by himself in the armchair. At first glance I saw that he was the boss ; he was portly, perhaps in his mid-fifties. “How are you?”he asked, exuding authority. “I’m fine.” “You want to go?” I hesitated but said it anyway : “I’m sorry. But I don’t have the letter from accommodation,” I said, hoping to enter Malawi. “Confound it !” he muttered. Then he turned his chair to make it easy for him to work on his PC. “Sit down,” he pointed to the back in the room, and his face was neither friendly nor unfriendly. For a second or two, I vacillated. Then I went to the disparate assortments of chairs. 

I became restless in the chair when he sat with hard condemning face and watched the display. “Make yourself comfortable,” he said, eating the bread. My eyes moved secretly up to the face of the boss, and watched for his lips to move. Then I took my phone from my pocket. With tiredness, I started to reenter my details again. After several minutes I went by instinct toward the boss and said. “Whenever I upload my photo, the error occurs again and again.” He turned to look it and said,  “Your phone(iPhone8) is too old.” That seemed odd—Malawi is a poor country. 

His face hardened. “Yes…” I recoiled. Then he said with some irritation. “You are going to stay Mushroom Farm,” “I’m sorry,” I said, genuinely puzzled. “Mushroom Farm? Very far. You mean, do I have to stay there?” “No, listen,” he said. “I help you.” His expression grew severe and he put a paper bluntly before me. “Take a photo. Attach your visa.”

*

Dear Sir / Madam

We are writing this letter as an invitation and request for Laurent Stephane  K to enter Malawi on 08/09/2023. They will be traveling across the border and staying at the Mushroom Farm during their time in Malawi. Thank you so much for your consideration, and we hope they will be welcomed into Malawi. 

Sincerely

Fiskani Mhango

Mushroom Farm, Manager

August 21, 2023

At Julius Nyerere Airport there was a taxi ticket counter—the price list on the window, its shutter closed. I was wandering in, confused, needing a means of transportation. “Taxi?” I ignored the small-middle-aged man. I never heard anything good about taxi driver in Dar es Salaam. I went to the information center. “Please tell me a safety taxi,” I asked a woman, who pointed at the small man, whom I had ignored a moment ago. I inspected him oddly : he wore beige pants and a yellow vest as an airport employee, and an ID hung on his chest.

The small man wore a faint smile, and approaching me. “Taxi?” he said again. I distrusted the taxi driver entirely, but I had no choice but to ask him.“How much, to the city?” “Forty dollars,” he said. “No, I’m not stupid, know the average,”I walked off. “Wait. How much do you want to go?” “Thirty five Shillings,” I said. “Forty five.” “Forty.” “Come.”

He began to walk away from me and went out the door in the airport, and I followed him. The sun was hot, palm trees waving. I walked past a group of taxi drivers in a jolly good time, passing rows of neatly parked cars. At the end of the parking area there was a stationary vehicle. “Get in that car,” he said. For a moment I hesitated uncertainly. I supposed it was not kind of taxi, yet at the same time had felt as exhausted as ever—I had been having trouble keeping up with me from Addis Ababa Bole Airport—it was tempting to rest the hostel and simply got into the back seat with my backpacks.

“I go to L&J Modern Backpackers. Do you know?” I opened the booking.com app in my phone, its address displayed, and my hand held out for the small man to take. “Yes, I know,” he said, and then started the engine.

Julius K. Nyerere Rd is the main road—we moved on eastward, where there was my hostel by the beach. I drank water in little sips and there was no talk in the taxi : I do not to intend to talk with a kind of person who tries to rip you off. Then gradually, I got bored and I opened the MAPS.ME app in my phone, sometimes gazing at where we were going. Just in case. 

The driver drove straight on. I was in a kind of daze and looked out blankly. At an intersection, he turned to the left and there was more traffic. I wondered about his going northward, and then checked the map on my phone while we moved slowly behind the vehicles. However, tiredness warped my judgment. Detour, I guessed.

At the next intersection, the driver turned to the left again and speeded up for a while. The sandy ground under the highway were almost shade as walls. Against the fences were piles of empty bottles and cans, and rusty ruins lying on the ground. We moved on the road, shooting the dust ahead of us, making it spread out—I had been growing restless and uneasy. Then leaning forward, I grasped the headrest of the driver’s seat. “Where are we going, sir?” I asked. ”My stay is on the east coast. Near the beach. Very opposite.” I showed him the map on my phone. “I wanna go here,” I pointed out my destination. He glanced at it and then turned the steering wheel to the right. “It’s not good, incorrect…” he murmured. “This time of the day, traffic is busy.”

I leaned right back in my seat, not knowing what else to do. It was hot and dry inside. I was so jittery but tried to come to my senses, and I drank a little more water in the bottle, and then—suddenly I entered a quite different atmosphere. The road was straight and along the sand. There were fewer people wandering about the shacks built of scrap lumber and pieces of tin. If I were alone here, what on earth could I be doing out there? Quite certain, I could not have seen a shop to buy food or drinks.

The small man was talking with someone on his phone. I did not even know what he said because of the local language. I felt the creeping fear—perplexities, danger, and the end of my journey. I caught hold of the back of the driver’s seat. “Where are you going?” I interrupted, and then hardly had he hung up his phone when he called again.

What is he up to? I knew the taxi robberies from the internet—the taxi driver stop somewhere, and from both sides his fellows get into the back seat and sat down. I find myself caught between the two. When one man hit me, another robs me of money ; and force me to withdraw up to the daily limit at ATM.

In no time I slipped all my money and cards into my security porch underneath my t-shirt, without reflecting my stealthy movement in the mirror. “You are going in the north,”my voice trembled. “Yes, sir,” the small man replied coolly. Dread began to gather rapidly in my mind, and out of dread came panic. This small man, a complete liar. Fucking the son of a bitch! “Stopping! I’m going down.” I reached for the doorknob but the car moved on. “Wait, wait,”said the small man. At a big intersection, he turned to the left and into the outskirts. “Just a minutes, we’ll arrive there.” “No, drop me off, I have no money. Are you really a taxi driver?” I muttered, panting. “Who are you?” “Yes, yes. I been taxi driver for long. Been to L&J,” he said. “That’s enough. Go back to the Airport, please,” I whined.

The motorcycles overtaking us viciously, a tuktuk whizzing by the other way. I could catch one kind of shop or another, encircled by the iron bars—a woman outside handed bills into the bars, as if a prison guard gave a prisoner something. Obviously, the sight that greeted me showed signs of crime : robbery or burglary. 

I immediately wanted to go back to Japan, flashing back through the times I had considered where to stay in Dar es Salaam. I had been reading the blog that recommended L&J Modern Backpackers, examining the hostels, assessing their difference. If I stay here, then… If stay there, then… All of this was working in my head in an instant. I had never expected that. Oh shit!

“Excuse me, sir. L&J has two locations?” I asked, trying not to sound afraid. “Yes, we are going to Kinondoni,” the driver answered, and then pulled the car to the side of a street. “You just got here. Look out, this is L&J.” I took a little peek outside—the gray walls—and nothing but the gray walls. “Do you have a reservation?” he asked. “Yes, yes,” I said lamely. “You can see… ,” he said when I looked over out of the window. “Let me take you,” he said. And I got out of the car, carrying my backpacks. “ Look,” he pointed to the small square board : L&J BACKPACKERS KINONDONI. I looked around restlessly, covered in confusion : the gray wall fences was completely encircled the hostel as if in the jail. “Go inside. Check. See if you have a reservation.” The small man rang the doorbell instead of me. There was no response and he knocked on the door. 

After a while a woman opened the door and let me us. We followed her. Everything was so different then—under the thatched roof a half-naked white man chilled out, a few Asians wondering about a big palm tree. I was bemused by this transformation, and at the same time a huge embarrassment engulfed me—I guessed how hard I was pressing this small man.

The yellow sunlight fell over the ground, and we entered a room. At the reception desk the owner sat in front of the PC. A chinaman sat near by, working on his. “Excuse me,” I said. “My name is K. I’d like to confirm my reservation.” The owner looked at its screen. “Two nights?” he asked. “Yes,” I relieved. And then I turned to the taxi driver, who stood in the back of the room. “Sorry. I’d made a mistake,” I said, feeling real shame. “You were right. Thank you very much.” I handed him forty Shillings. “No, no,” he smirked. “It was very very far. Fifty.” “No, you said forty,” I said fiercely. Mumbling to himself, he walked off looking crestfallen.