tazara tazara tazara ...
Am I this one?
Which one?
This one!
Or even this one? ...
tazara tazara tazara ...
... Suddenly, no monotonous rumbling
anymore
instead:
tazara tazara tazara ...
... Like rolling over a bridge! It always
rattles on bridges because we never
welded there. Bridges never belonged to
the programme
However, no bridge is that long!
Which means, we may have crossed the line
which marks the end of financial aid
no more rattle-free
welding-joints, the rails, piece by
piece, rattling again on cement-sleepers
like thirty years ago, each single one
marked with Chinese symbols, laid down by
twenty five thousand Chinese and fifty
thousand African labourers, through
valleys and tunnels, crossing rivers and
ravines in Eastern Africa
three
hundred and ten thousand tons of
steel-rails, three hundred and twenty
bridges, twenty three tunnels, one
hundred and forty seven railway-stations
The Great Uhuru Railway
...
tazara tazara tazara ...
one thousand, eight hundred and
sixty kilometres, two nights and almost
three days if they stick to
schedule
tazara tazara tazara ...
Which means, we are some six
hundred kilometres closer to the border
also to an answer? Or is the
distance growing?
Am I this one?
Which one?
This one!
Or even this one? ...
It must be clarified, it is always
clarified once someone starts to narrate
otherwise, you must not even
start. Who is narrating this? He wants to
know, or she ...
tazara tazara tazara ...
But, what if this one or this one
does not know who is going to tell
what? In addition, I am not sure who I am
of all those around here
did
someone of those start to narrate
already? Or is it me?
Am I the one whom I have heard only but
not seen so far, the lady in the next
compartment?
Not true, I have seen her hands
and her arms when she grabbed a bag of
mangoes from the head of the woman below
her, at the end of the platform, when the
train started to move slowly, and her
down-reaching, manicured hand dropped a
small bundle of money into the
up-reaching, callous hand.
But, above all, I did hear her voice, and
voices of the other women in the
neighbouring compartment
a
compartment reserved for women only
Who did introduce such a thing
gender separation on a train
perhaps the Chinese? Like the
hot-water-tap at the end of each
first-class-coach for what
purpose? Probably, to re-fill their
thermos flasks to have
always-fresh tea self-catering!
How different from our men then
and now! They like to be served,
especially by women, especially when
these women kneel in front of them.
WOMEN ARE BEARING HALF OF THE FIRMAMENT
Ha, Mao, old sly boot
friendship
is not reaching that far!
But, if I would be the one next to
the compartments door, looking like
someone not from here rather
yellowish, no African! Did he slave away
along the rails in those days? Too young!
Around forty, I guess! He would have been
ten, thirty years ago
rather
result of a peoples get-together
left and right of The Great Uhuru
Railway, that one there, next to
the gliding door
perhaps, he may
be from here?
By the way, what does this mean:
here? This here
is moving! From here to there from
there to here! For someone who might
narrate: once upon a time there was
a train, it might even move from
there to there
only, any train full of stories going to
nowhere
And, if I would let loose of everything
and jump up, would it roll away, under
me, this here? Without me? At
least for a moment?
He always looks at me, once he thinks I
dont notice, this one at the window
blasting white fellow. The
Mercedes Benz, which delivered him, came
from nowhere right to the platform,
stopping just in front of the
carriages entrance. Didnt
have to wait in the stations
crammed hall, was told the real
departure-time delayed by six
hours.
And the other one, who arranged himself
on the top-bed comfortably,
travelling-rug up to chin, slippers on
instead of patent leather shoes which he
placed next to a plastic-bag. It made a
clinking noise when he positioned the bag
close to his suitcase
beer-bottles.
He knows his way around, is not a first
time traveller is aware that they
cool beer-bottles back in the dining car
with ice-blocs in a metal-box, melting
after hundred kilometres. The beer is
getting warm if any is left! This
one got his own supply, but he cant
finish it on his own as long as it is
still cool
I do not drink beer,
never! How should he know? He didnt
offer any!
What are these two tourists looking for?
Seat-reservations will be controlled
Oh, the ponytail belongs to a man!
Seats for a couple? They can forget it!
Only women are allowed to stay! A pity,
actually
Dar-es-Salaam let us sneak away
away from its swampy traffic, away from
its brooding heat, out of the stuffy dome
of its Chinese celebration hall without
power, only some emergency lights high up
under the ceiling, at the walls splendid
crystal-candelabras from China
without lumination
Is this one now narrating?
Which one?
This one!
Or even this one?
arazat arazat arazat ...
If we would roll into the opposite
direction, from West to East?
arazat arazat arazat ...
Into the dawn?
arazat arazat arazat ...
Into the direction, the Chinese have laid
the rails
arazat arazat arazat ...
in solidarity with Africans?
arazat arazat arazat ...
the night would have found at the
station of New Kapiri Mposhi many
search-lights, powerful enough to drive
away shadows, and to assist men with
helmets who guard the treasure out of
Africas soil: heavy folded sheets
of copper, brought up from Zambias
mines and smelters, piled and guarded for
export from Dar-es-Salaam across the sea
to the Far East.
Thats why the Chinese had planned
and realized their first gigantic
development project in Africa, to move
annually two and a half millions of goods
in both directions...
Only that, quite soon after finalizing
the rail, the prize for copper hit the
bottom, worldwide, and the port of
Dar-es-Salaam was never expanded, more
than eight hundred and sixty five
thousand tons were never taken to the
rails, annually.
And what was taken to the rails, arriving
from Far East?
Hope for a new dawn in the East?
We left it behind us, we are rolling
towards West ...
tazara tazara tazara ...
already used to it! But those did
not notice at all, its all the same
to them, no matter whether its
rattling ob rumbling. All these millions
of Shillings did not last to weld the
whole thing.
No, not Tanzanian Shillings
Austrian Schillings!
Ten years after contract-signing
when other European partners had given up
already
there were no Austrian Schillings
anymore, but poor Euro only, just enough
to finish one third of the line
Does not interest anyone around here
including myself.
Just a quick nap, cant stand the
chilly air, later, when we are going to
climb up the range. Bad luck, to have a muzungu
with us fresh-air-fanatic! Pulls
up the window time and again until
tunnel-tube will spit burnt diesel-waft
into our faces.
Mangoes, holed up in a rough jute-bag!
Splitting lacquer from my fingernails!
And what will they offer at the
next station? Dried fish, I guess, from
the mountain-lake. It may stink once it
is getting warmer, when we climb down
again
perhaps; they allow me to
store it with the cargo?
Onions I have already, potatoes as well.
Tomatoes Ill still need
always a nice side-profit if I can
get rid of it, on the way, or at the end
of our journey!
... No signal in the cell phone! In
Mpika, it may work, it always worked
there. However, this will be the fourth
stop after border crossing. A couple of
thousand people of the Zambian
administration are busy there, operating
TAZARAs maintenance-centre. They
are always keen to get fresh vegetables
from Tanzania
But the car has to come,
otherwise, Ill get stuck with all
the goodies!
Am I still in need to do this?
A
retailers conviction!
Another five hours to the border-town of
Tunduma ...
... What was it, the ponytail wanted?
Exchanging money to pay for his
visa? Have to sit on my own dollars
here Tanzania Shilling, Kwacha
there, and later on? Plastic-bags with
Mickey-Mouse-money!
The American Dollar
has remained as the admission-ticket.
Tonight, visas will only bei given
against Greenbacks! No chances with this
Euro
And not at all with ponytail and
French
... Ah, non! Should not have
entered into relation with the whole
thing! But, this African there, in that
Portuguese Café in Harare, wanted it
that way ... Or whether I would be
prepared to challenge the Lord of
War, he asked, because he would pay
for his and my expenses.
Seigneur de Guerre,
I wanted to know and I was
thinking of the Hollywood-spinster as
played by Nicolas Cage in that movie,
some two years ago.
No, he said, challenging the real
Merchant of Death, and he had
ordered another two espressos.
He needs a man on the train, and a woman
as a messenger
and at the right
point in time, he wants to participate in
the game
playing what?
This ladys watch is fitting nicely
her wrist, n'est-ce pas? ...
However, here, we would have needed argent
cash! Dammit! Brings the watch but
no Dollars!
This one snubbed him, and I was not even
asked
Blasting white fellows, with or without
ponytail!
But, before he moved his hand from
the doors handle, Ive seen
it! This has been a LANGE &
SÖHNE DATOGRAPH, to be wound-up by
hand, platinum, with folding lock! No
doubt at all! Dark dial plate
black face as collectors
would call it, extra-large date-window
at least thirty thousand Dollars
worth, or more! Where did I see
such a beauty last time?
At the
racecourse, fixed on black
crocodile-leather, under a wide silky
sleeve! Someone who can afford thirty
thousand Dollars for a wristwatch
and a stable full of racing horses
someone like that is not in need of a
travelling tailor from Hong Kong!
No joy, only expenses! Okay, it was one
leg of my mission
Dubai
Ill have to explain this to Mr.
Moon.
However, this one, with ponytail and
battered jeans?
tazara tazara tazara ...
If you want to be faster than travelling
by train, you have to board a bus in
Dar-es-Salaam. TAZARAs rails are
crossing sometimes the TANZAM-Highway
tarred some two thousand
and four hundred kilometres long.
In Zambia, the strip is called the
Great North Road. I am aware
that it constitutes the artery of drug
smuggling between Eastern and Southern
Africa at the same time being the
avenue for street-walking butterflies.
Zambia does belong to those countries
with the highest HIV-infection-rate.
Hopefully, she will know as well
at the first stop, after the border, she
is supposed to change into a bus.
And I?
Shall observe whether a summit meeting
will take place on this train. In this
case, I am supposed to shout:
NO SPONSOR NO SUMMIT?
As a code for the Merchant of
Death?
Is this one Viktor? Or only one of his
handy men?
I should get more details
Mr. Moon
would appreciate it
Oh, no, we are not the only ones on board
who can tell stories
I, who knows what suit would match best a
wristwatch
I, the secret courier
I, who does know more about
railway-construction than anyone around
I, the permanent animation-man
I, who would not need anymore to split
lacquer from my fingernails
I, the sponsor of the whole enterprise
Oh, no, we are not the only ones on board
who can tell stories
Stories scurrying like nightly
shadows over silent huts, fingering like
rays of light across dark fields,
crawling up steep mountain-ranges,
tumbling along yawning ravines, passing
rusty wrecks of wagons left aside another
bend, meeting skulls of elephants as
witnesses of conflict with nature,
limping from one signal-mast to the next,
all made of cement, chaperoning the line
of steel from beginning to the end
none has collapsed in thirty years, but
the wires in-between are chopped
they may have helped to fill the bellies
of the thieves, but there is no carrier
left for communication-signals anymore!
Thoughts may travel freely
ghostly
hour
until further notice, we are
cut off from the Global Village!
Stories
rattling and swaying like
bridges
tazara tazara tazara ...
Stories
spitting and stinking like
tunnels
Click!
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