I was warned. Once the bus pulls into the terminal in Nakonde, Zambia I will be left to fend for myself against the swarms of hustlers desperate to show me how to cross the border into Tanzania.
I was not warned of the extortion provided by the police awaiting on the other side.
The bus ride from Lusaka Zambia to the Tanzanian border took about 16 hours along a road just wide enough to barely qualify as two lanes. I lost count of the number of police check points that we had to stop for, not to mention the potholes that were really more like craters 2 meters wide which our driver had to maneuver around. It was an overnight drive and suffice to say that it was one of the worst nights of sleep I’ve had yet.
I awoke at 4 in the morning to the bus pulling into the final station and I snapped into the mindset of a hyper aware traveler. Despite my utter lake of sleep I found myself surprisingly awake and lucid. After securing the zippers on my backpack (Making it much harder for a pickpocket to sneak in there) I look up from my seat and realize that they are already infiltrating my “safe space”.
The hustlers have arrived.
To make eye contact is futile.
After a long night with less than 3 hours of sleep I was in no mood to play nice. I make my way through the crowd of men greeting me saying “Sister, good morning”, “Hello, how are you”, “Sister, let me help you to the bus, yes?”, “Sister…sister”. So many strange hands tapped my shoulders and one man even tried to put his arm around my shoulders, at which point I whipped around and told him to take his hands off of me. That was probably an attempted pick pocket. Thanks to my handy-dandy Pacsafe backpack I wasn’t worried that he got anything. I finally located my dusty little suitcase from the storage of the bus and of course had a group of 10 or more hustlers following me.
Don’t get me wrong, they were all very polite despite the fact that they blatantly ignored my constant stream of no thank you’s. About half way to the border- less than a 1/2 mile walk, I was left with two final stragglers hoping I’d change my mind. I reminded them painfully once again, I didn’t have any money, but this time I offered them my leftover chicken. He agreed and I was happy to give him something useful.
I was out of the woods. I had already bought my visa at the Tanzanian Embassy the day before so it should be a breeze getting through the border.
Oh, Heidi, how ignorantly hopeful you are.
After getting my exit stamp for Zambia I walk a short distance and am greeted by a man wearing a green hat with a large black trench coat and a red scarf/blanket wrapped around himself. He instructs me to enter this small check point closet building that fits about 6 people so they can inspect my luggage. “Sure no problem, I’ve got nothing to hide” says the sleepy American.
Lucky for me, the first thing they spot as I unzip the bag is my camouflage hat.
Don’t try to bring any type of camouflage ** anything ** into Tanzania.
I quickly learned that to impersonate a soldier is an offense. I debated with them that I was unaware of this policy and that I wasn’t actually wearing the hat, it was just in my luggage when they found it. In reality I wasn’t especially attached to it so I didn’t care if they kept it. I said over and over, just keep it then, I don’t need it.
But the man with the trench coat kept saying that it is an offense. At this point, I knew something was up. This is when he continues to tell me that I will be fined. I smile because I couldn’t really believe it. I asked him how much. What I witness next is a huge indicator that this was not “official police business”. The simple fact that he had to confer with the other man in the room to decide on how much I should have to pay them was enough for me to piece together that this was a bribery situation.
When he said $150 I kinda flipped. I said that is ridiculous. He reminded me that I had committed an offense and my options were to pay the fine (bribe) or else he’d be forced to take me to the police station. I called him on it and said ok, take me to the police station. The man seemed to not have understood me correctly. He couldn’t understand why I would volunteer to go to the police station when all I had to do was pay him $150. Nah, I wasn’t having it this time, “Take me to the station” I repeated. I even brazenly asked him if he was a police officer, he assured me that he was. I believed him. Not because he showed me his badge. No, I believed him because the man behind the counter adjusted his sweatshirt to reveal to me his semi-automatic rife. That sent a shockwave of reality through my body. I was easily reminded that I was far from home.
When he didn’t right away take me into the station, I knew I had him. He said again, just give me $150 and you can be on your way. I told him that I didn’t think it was right, and that I’d prefer to just go to the station to sort it out there. He finally realized that I wasn’t going to budge and reluctantly told me to take my things and go.
Hallelujah!!
Thanks to a past experience with the police in Zambia I have a better understanding of how “the system” works. Lots of police like to work traffic duty because they are able to find minute discrepancies and threaten the drivers of a massive fine at the station, unless you pay them a comparatively smaller fine (bribe) to them- which they pocket, and you can be on your way. Yes I took a huge chance not paying him, and I could’ve easily ended up in jail in Africa for months with a massive bill to pay. But I blame my hunger and utter lack of sleep on my reckless abandon.
I am absolutely not advising anyone to risk what I did. This isn’t the U.S. where the citizens still have a taste of freedom in that they are free to criticize and even film the police officers. No I’m in a foreign country a far far way from home where I know that everyone sees me as pretty much a walking money bag, and I don’t blame them in the least. I’ve seen the evidence of the corrupt governments here and I’ve seen how they take the wealth (what little there is) for themselves while the rest are left to fend for themselves and who won’t dare question the authority.
