The Tanzanian Express

As I enter my cabin in Tanzanian Express, I choose a bunk, and shove my pack underneath it. The room is barely larger than a prison cell, and sleeps four. For the first ten minutes I'm the only passenger in my cabin, and I hope that it stays this way.

A Tanzanian enters. I could tell because his dress is starkly different to what I've previously seen. It's a thin colourful cotton garb, more Moroccan than Zulu. Under his arm he carries two black leather bags, and a large black leather jacket. In thirty degree heat I wonder what the jacket is for.

Minutes later, an Asian man enters. He looks inside cautiously and spots me. "Heei." He waves. He's dressed in full khaki gear, vest pockets bulging. He clearly looks nervous, so I attempt conversation. I discover he's from Japan, and has been in Africa for two days. His English is awful, very awful, and I pity him. In Southern Africa, English is spoken throughout, but in Tanzania, it's hit and miss, with Swahili being the official tongue. This man was in for a helluva ride. I try to give him some advice. "Keep your bag with you at all times." He smiles and nods his head furiously, "Ya, ya!" I continue, "Don't change your money on the train, it's illegal, and anyhow, you get a bad rate." His head continues to rock up and down, and his eyes are lit up in a smile. I have no clue whether he understands a word I'm saying. "Do you understand a word I'm saying?" His head jackdaws like a spring, "Ya, ya!" Clearly.

The Tanzanian express runs from Kapiri to Dar es Salaam. It leaves on a Tuesday afternoon, and arrives more or less at lunchtime on Thursday. It skirts through Zambia, before jumping the border, and cuts across Tanzania and the Selous national park. The train leaves on time with a jolt, and we are catapulted forward. After ensuring my pack is firmly wedged under my bed, I take my day pack with my valuables to the lounge and kick back.

The first day of travelling was sublime. I stare out the window, help myself to soft drinks from the bar (a steal at US$0.50 a coke), and set my teeth into a local book on the Rhodesian war. The train rattles and screeches along. It's metal on metal, and it shakes so much I wonder whether bits are springing loose and flying off. Because the train is Chinese built, the rail gauge is narrow, meaning that the train rocks sideways, and lumbers along like a dying horse. At times I could easily jump off and jog along my carriage.

After several hours of slow progress, I need to relieve myself. I make my way to the bathroom, wrench open the door and survey what I assume must be the facilities. Stainless steel, no seat, no lid. Two buckets of water sit next to the toilet. One has a rudimentary scoop, a sawn-off plastic coke bottle floating on top of one of the buckets. I'm too afraid to discover what the purpose of the buckets are, but as I continue to assess the situation, I make a more distressing discovery. There is no toilet paper. The journey is about 44 hours. I wonder how long I could possibly hold on.

My bathroom experience is just a part of this utilitarian journey. The Chinese government have a knack for making things look ugly. The length of the bunks seem to be created by a torturer, designed to be just about too short for comfort. You lie on the bunk and feel alright for about five minutes before the cramps set in. The doors for the cabins are stiff and often requires the effort of two people to open and close. Signs are etched in mandarin, and everything is painted in drab greys. I get the impression that I'm in a submarine, with thick clanging doors between the carriages, and mysterious creeks throughout. I wouldn't feel amiss if I saw sailors in uniform run by to arm the torpedoes.

The first class lounge is the only respite. It contains large red couches, and the bar. Consequently, it becomes my home for much of the journey. With day one of my train journey almost nearing an end, I scoff a dinner of chicken and rice in the restaurant (US$2.50) and retire for the night. I enter my cabin to find that in my absence the leather coated man has taken residence in my bed. I take the vacant and pillow-less top bunk and imagine ways in which a less cowardly man would take his revenge as I try to fall asleep.

But sleep is another luxury you don't get on the Tanzanian Express. You bump and bounce on your bed as the train judders along. There is no peaceful slip into the ether, but rather a series of convulsions, enough to rob you of that precious moment where memory turns to fantasy. The following morning I find I must have passed out at some stage, because I awake to find we're nearing Mbala, the Zambian border.

I'm still lying half naked in my bunk when a stranger enters our cabin. "Change money?" he asks. The Japanese man flaps his hand in the air excitedly, the universal sign for 'screw me over', and proceeds to empty his vest pockets of vast quantities of Kwacha. The cabin window is open, and so is the door. My cabin-mates and I have barely spoken a word, but now we stare at each other in a language we both understand: shock.

The money changer sets to work, grabs the fistful of cash, and proceeds to count. He takes a roll of Tanzanian shillings out of his pocket and makes the exchange. After a few minutes he asks, "Change US?" Our Japanese friend's eyes light up as he understands. Out of his other pocket he pulls a large wad of US dollars. It's Christmas to the money changer, and leather jacket man and myself just stare at the Japanese man's naivety.

Leaving this scene, I make my way to the lounge and prepare myself for immigration. Shortly, a young Zambian enters. He falls down on the seat opposite me and smiles warmly. "How are you?" He asks. I respond that I'm tired, but enjoying the trip. We make conversation, which appears to be the Zambian way, and after a few minutes he asks for my passport. Digging it out of my bag, he promptly stamps it and wishes me well. My stay in Zambia is officially over.

Half an hour later, we've rolled into the Tanzanian border town of Tunduma. A man in different coloured uniform walks in, takes a seat and asks for my passport. Tanzanian immigration. He smiles as he leafs through my passport, but it doesn't set me at ease. "You have entry visa?" he asks, turning pages. "No, I need to get one." I respond. "Fifty US." I hand over the money as another official enters, an older man. They speak to each other in Swahili, and the younger man hands my passport to his senior. The older man flashes a smile, but his eyes are hard. He tells me he'll bring my passport back shortly. I begin to protest, but he pulls out his warmest tone, chilling my blood in the process, and asks, "Do you trust me?" I want to yell 'Hell no!" but all I manage is a pathetic whimper. "I get nervous when people take my passport away," I tell him. Another smile, a promise to return shortly, and off goes my passport.

I try and return to my book but find I'm too anxious to read. My fingers drill on the table, on the window. I scratch my itchy scalp, well aware that it hasn't seen a good wash in over a week. My mind flutters, "your passport, your passport, your passport, your passport." I can't stop it, so I check the time and bargain with myself. Ten minutes. If I don't see the immigration crew in ten minutes, I'll begin the hunt.

I console myself by asking the barman about the officials. "They took my passport. Is that normal?" He shrugs and tells me that there's nothing untoward about it. It settles me a little, but I still can't relax. Ten minutes pass, and I reason with myself.

"Perhaps I was too hard on them, they look legitimate."
"Aha! They appear to look legitimate. How can you tell?"
"But there were several of them. One had a stamping device."
"A prop, to fool tourists like yourself."
"But the barman, the barman..."
"Perhaps he's in on it too, you only met him yesterday. Who can you trust?"

My mind is playing games and I become more worried. I approach the barman again and ask where the immigration officials are. "Third carriage down, last compartment." I take a seat and decide to wait a few more minutes.

Half an hour passes, and I can't stand it any longer. I jump to my feet and stride out of the lounge. I count the carriages, one, two, three. As I near the end of the third carriage, my nerves are playing up. "You're being robbed!" they sing. I'm considering life without a passport in Tanzania and curse myself for not writing down the number of the local embassy.

A compartment door slams open and out comes the gang of immigration officers. The senior officer immediately sees me and strides toward me, shaking his head. "You didn't trust me, did you?" In his hand is my lifeblood, my passport. I could have hugged him, but instead in my relief I blather reams of apologies, take his hand and shake it like a pump. He's given me a visa for three months.

Like the flick of a switch, the world changed. The hallway became lighter, and I could see that these men were as relaxed as the Zambians. The older officer carries himself in a grandfatherly manner. His smile wasn't diabolical, but genial, as of a well-mannered officer. "I've been doing this for five years, you shouldn't have been worried," he tells me. We move to the lounge where they laugh at my expense, the break in tension is palpable. I return to my seat buoyant.

The officials take a set of couches behind me and chat amongst themselves. I want to join them, but a wave of drowsiness has just swept over me. I open my book and within minutes I find that my head has dropped. The clanging of the train becomes a distant noise, and my thoughts slip through the fingers of consciousness, and gently succumb to the void.