Sources
Introduction
Prologue
Chapter 01
Chapter 02
Chapter 03
Chapter 04
Chapter 05
Chapter 06
Chapter 07
Chapter 08
Chapter 09
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88

 
TAZARA ... a journey by rail through world-history © KJS / 2009
TAZARA-Express wikipedia
CHAPTER 2  



— 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 compartment‘s 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 don‘t 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 carriage‘s entrance. Didn‘t have to wait in the station‘s 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 can‘t finish it on his own as long as it is still cool … I do not drink beer, never! How should he know? He didn‘t 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 Africa‘s soil: heavy folded sheets of copper, brought up from Zambia‘s mines and smelters, piled and guarded for export from Dar-es-Salaam across the sea to the Far East.
That‘s 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, it‘s all the same to them, no matter whether it‘s 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, can‘t 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 I‘ll 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 TAZARA‘s maintenance-centre. They are always keen to get fresh vegetables from Tanzania …
… But the car has to come, otherwise, I‘ll get stuck with all the goodies!
Am I still in need to do this? … A retailer‘s 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 lady‘s 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 door‘s handle, I‘ve 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 … I‘ll 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. TAZARA‘s 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!


German version available on DVD!
Audio presentation by the pointsman, animation & video-clips!
Acces RBO's web-shop by clicking on the radio!
 
Continue TAZARA-Index
Correct the Pointsman

web page hit counter

web page hit counter