Mohembo leaned over and kissed his wife goodbye before he got out of the car, took his suitcase out of the trunk and walked into the international departures terminal at the airport. Parking was a headache and an expensive one at that. She would drive straight back home, stopping only at the cemetry to visit her aunts' graves, as she did once a year to clean them up.
Being driven by her to the airport was a luxury he seldom experienced. Usually he left home by taxi, before she was out of bed. Sometimes, if his flight left at the right time of day, they would take the commuter train to the airport together, but even then she would leave immediately to get the return trip on the same train ticket - before its time limit expired.
As he walked into the terminal and up to the bag drop-off counter, he realised getting dropped off like a piece of check-in luggage was the story of his life.
In his mind's eye he saw a rickety footbridge stretched 30 meters over a river that rushed by deep down in a ten meter chasm. It was the rainy season somewhere near the border between what was then Northern Rhodesia and Belgian Congo. The road was no more than a track in the forest, and there were no border controls, no immigration or customs posts, nor even a sign to say you had now arrived in Northern Rhodesia. An intense storm had filled the river gorge to overflowing and swept the crude road bridge away, cutting all motorised traffic between the two countries, at least for a couple hundred kilometres. Not that there was much traffic here.
Local villagers had been quickly mobilised to use their considerable improvisation skills to constuct a footbridge. They used two long thick vines attached about a meter apart and in parallel to trees on either side of the river, and then they tied shorter branches between them to provide a rather wobbly platform on which to walk across the chasm. The vines were not flexible like thick ropes, but had their own stubborn twists and curves, so the bridge swayed and moved in totally unpredictable ways as anyone crossed it. There was no hand rail.
In his memory's eye, Mohembo could still see a few sacks of cassava piled up on one side of the river. On this knobbly pile of sacks sat a boy, perhaps 7 years old, clutching a teddy bear. Beside him sat his 4 year old little sister. They, their 10 year older sister and their parents, were on the third and last day of their journey from home to deliver the two older children to a boarding school about 30 kilometres on the other side of this river. They could go no farther by car.
They were not alone. There were a few other families arriving periodically, also expecting to deliver their children to the school, and now frustrated by this act of nature. Tomorrow was the first day of classes and all the children must be safely delivered at least one day ahead of time. It was also one of the very few chances parents got to meet each other, as they came from remote communities in a very large region encompassing parts of three countries.
They waited in the heat of the mid-day sun, talking about what might happen next. New comers would ask in worried tones if anyone had had any contact with the the school...? Oh yes, the school knew about the bridge being "out" and there were assurances that the Principal would no doubt send out the school's 5-ton Bedford "lorry" to pick up the children. Of course, no one knew when that would happen. Perhaps the rain had made the road impassible too. All present knew very well what a single heavy storm could do to a rudimentary track in the forest.
More parents with children arrived from the Congolese side. And each time a family drove up, the conversation was repeated, the chasm was inspected, the quality of the footbridge discussed... how were the children going to get across safely?
Finally, someone thought they could hear a diesel motor in the distance. Yes, some one else heard something, then more and more agreed, that must be the lorry. Maybe even more than one vehicle, the distant sounds were confusing. But the sounds grew louder and louder, and as they did the speculation about what would happen next spread and grew.
Long before the 5 ton came into view it was understood that far from everyone would be able to go on to the school. They couldn't leave their cars alone in the bush, and no one knew anyone reliable in the village 5 kms up the road who would be willing to vouch for them.
Obviously this is where the good-byes would be said, the tears spilled, the sobs of little children swallowed and stifled in a show of young bravery. The children would be handed over to the care of whoever had come in the lorry to pick them up. Out there in the wilderness the little boy with his teddy bear clutched close and his older sister would have to cross the wobbly bridge, trying not to look down, and definitely not to look back. They would have to give their hugs and kisses to their parents, then go their separate journeys in opposite directions. It would be a full 18 weeks before these children and their parents would see each other again.
The truck arrived. Suitcases, one per child, were carried across the river, the children helped across, in a state of high nervous tension, and constant words of encouragement. Safe on the other side, they could take a quick look back to their parents who seemed so very far away now. The feeling was close to abandonment, of being sent off alone, away from home and its special comforts, while parents returned to enjoy those comforts by themselves. Here, in the middle of nowhere, between two distant places, in a situation that blatantly mocked their lack of control, there could be no sense of a proper farewell. This was much more like being dropped off long before the journey was over. Like insisting on a ritual of closure before its time or place.
Inside the terminal, Mohembo thought back over the countless times he had been "dropped off" to go somewhere, often a place he had never been before, and been separated from loved ones at neither the begining nor the end of his journey.
Yes indeed, he seemed to have spent many many hours in the drop-off zone, alone in crowds of other lonely people. And no, he didn't have a teddy bear to confide in as he did that time by the Mukulwezi River, but nor would he ever feel "at home" in the drop-off zone.
Being driven by her to the airport was a luxury he seldom experienced. Usually he left home by taxi, before she was out of bed. Sometimes, if his flight left at the right time of day, they would take the commuter train to the airport together, but even then she would leave immediately to get the return trip on the same train ticket - before its time limit expired.
As he walked into the terminal and up to the bag drop-off counter, he realised getting dropped off like a piece of check-in luggage was the story of his life.
In his mind's eye he saw a rickety footbridge stretched 30 meters over a river that rushed by deep down in a ten meter chasm. It was the rainy season somewhere near the border between what was then Northern Rhodesia and Belgian Congo. The road was no more than a track in the forest, and there were no border controls, no immigration or customs posts, nor even a sign to say you had now arrived in Northern Rhodesia. An intense storm had filled the river gorge to overflowing and swept the crude road bridge away, cutting all motorised traffic between the two countries, at least for a couple hundred kilometres. Not that there was much traffic here.
Local villagers had been quickly mobilised to use their considerable improvisation skills to constuct a footbridge. They used two long thick vines attached about a meter apart and in parallel to trees on either side of the river, and then they tied shorter branches between them to provide a rather wobbly platform on which to walk across the chasm. The vines were not flexible like thick ropes, but had their own stubborn twists and curves, so the bridge swayed and moved in totally unpredictable ways as anyone crossed it. There was no hand rail.
In his memory's eye, Mohembo could still see a few sacks of cassava piled up on one side of the river. On this knobbly pile of sacks sat a boy, perhaps 7 years old, clutching a teddy bear. Beside him sat his 4 year old little sister. They, their 10 year older sister and their parents, were on the third and last day of their journey from home to deliver the two older children to a boarding school about 30 kilometres on the other side of this river. They could go no farther by car.
They were not alone. There were a few other families arriving periodically, also expecting to deliver their children to the school, and now frustrated by this act of nature. Tomorrow was the first day of classes and all the children must be safely delivered at least one day ahead of time. It was also one of the very few chances parents got to meet each other, as they came from remote communities in a very large region encompassing parts of three countries.
They waited in the heat of the mid-day sun, talking about what might happen next. New comers would ask in worried tones if anyone had had any contact with the the school...? Oh yes, the school knew about the bridge being "out" and there were assurances that the Principal would no doubt send out the school's 5-ton Bedford "lorry" to pick up the children. Of course, no one knew when that would happen. Perhaps the rain had made the road impassible too. All present knew very well what a single heavy storm could do to a rudimentary track in the forest.
More parents with children arrived from the Congolese side. And each time a family drove up, the conversation was repeated, the chasm was inspected, the quality of the footbridge discussed... how were the children going to get across safely?
Finally, someone thought they could hear a diesel motor in the distance. Yes, some one else heard something, then more and more agreed, that must be the lorry. Maybe even more than one vehicle, the distant sounds were confusing. But the sounds grew louder and louder, and as they did the speculation about what would happen next spread and grew.
Long before the 5 ton came into view it was understood that far from everyone would be able to go on to the school. They couldn't leave their cars alone in the bush, and no one knew anyone reliable in the village 5 kms up the road who would be willing to vouch for them.
Obviously this is where the good-byes would be said, the tears spilled, the sobs of little children swallowed and stifled in a show of young bravery. The children would be handed over to the care of whoever had come in the lorry to pick them up. Out there in the wilderness the little boy with his teddy bear clutched close and his older sister would have to cross the wobbly bridge, trying not to look down, and definitely not to look back. They would have to give their hugs and kisses to their parents, then go their separate journeys in opposite directions. It would be a full 18 weeks before these children and their parents would see each other again.
The truck arrived. Suitcases, one per child, were carried across the river, the children helped across, in a state of high nervous tension, and constant words of encouragement. Safe on the other side, they could take a quick look back to their parents who seemed so very far away now. The feeling was close to abandonment, of being sent off alone, away from home and its special comforts, while parents returned to enjoy those comforts by themselves. Here, in the middle of nowhere, between two distant places, in a situation that blatantly mocked their lack of control, there could be no sense of a proper farewell. This was much more like being dropped off long before the journey was over. Like insisting on a ritual of closure before its time or place.
Inside the terminal, Mohembo thought back over the countless times he had been "dropped off" to go somewhere, often a place he had never been before, and been separated from loved ones at neither the begining nor the end of his journey.
Yes indeed, he seemed to have spent many many hours in the drop-off zone, alone in crowds of other lonely people. And no, he didn't have a teddy bear to confide in as he did that time by the Mukulwezi River, but nor would he ever feel "at home" in the drop-off zone.
