Kilabuni Nights – Episode XIX: Stuck Between Stations (Part II)

When last we left THE TRAVELER he was en route to Tanzania’s northern regions, but social conventions and contagions had left him in something of a sticky situation.  Read on to find out how our hero navigated being a stranger ina  strange land at a strange hour using nothing more than his trusty writing pad . . . and a little help from above.  Presented by AZAM BAKERIES.™

1 Mar 2010     1730 local Moshii, TZ

It is the muffled time just before dawn.  The city of Moshii lies supine at the foothills of Kilimanjaro, the great mountain shrouded to invisibility by mist but unmistakably present, a divine guardian over the people below.  Moshii – the names means “smoke” – is a world apart from THE TRAVELER’s previous surroundings.  Corner stores (which are plentiful) sell (not peddle) frozen vegetables, instant coffee and box wine.    Exotic, yes (we are upon the equator, after all) but the first place in many moons with well-worn footpaths for the unadventurous tourist.  We are not concerned with them.

I arrived at the Moshii Bus Depot following a fragrant, memorable 16-hour bus ride; that is to say I arrived in the morning’s small hours, wearied and abandoned of my olfactory faculties.  The facility was all but deserted and (as I am finding uncharacteristic of this city) no one present spoke English.  I had arranged accommodations with the local Jesuit Volunteer House (an old friend is in residence there), but with no inkling of where it might be and limited practical verbiage at hand I decided to improvise.  Turning my trusty trip journal to a blank page, I drew a crucifix, wrote the words ‘Jesuit Volunteer Corps’ along with my contact’s name and walked the empty streets near the bus depot showing the page to strangers in hopes that a guiding spark might be lit.

It was a long while before goodly taxi driver took interest in my dilemma.  The driver, his name (or at least the word he said most) sounded like “Ingsho,” cast a wizened eye over my hieroglyph and drove for an indeterminate time through the darkened city streets.  We stopped outside a house with a small gate barring the driveway.  After the taxi’s headlights shone into the house a few minutes an old man emerged in a ragged t-shirt shirt and slacks.  The old man displayed no flicker of understanding at my diagram, nor in response to Ingsho’s terse and jabbered repetitions.  We pursued this fruitless dance for a few cycles of conversation until we were well-resigned to the age old diplomat’s curse: three men speaking (and writing (and drawing)) past each other.  The old man turned heel and sauntered back into the house waving his arms above his head.

Grimly, Ingsho and I returned to the cab.  Mutually, we entertained previously unconsidered thoughts of difficulty.  For all I knew, Ingsho was seeking to bring me to a criminal hideout, fell villains waiting to crush me with their fists and laugh at my bitter tears as they stole and broke my silly possessions.  For all Ingsho knew, I was in possession of dangerous and illicit narcotics and involving him in a high-stakes game of cat-and-mouse with the only ‘Alley-alley-oxen-free’ being sounded out of the barrel of a gun.    An uncomfortable silence settled over the cab as we drove off into the velour blackness of the Moshii night once more.

Roadmap to Salvation

 

After some time we came upon a walled, gated estate.  There was a guard at the entrance but, alas, he also spoke no English.  I wrote my contact’s name (‘TALIA COVELESKI’) and sketched a quick rendition.  Again, Ingsho and I found ourselves getting nowhere.  Then, in a starburst of inspiration, Ingsho climbed back into the driver’s station of the cab.  Firmly he pressed down on the horn, and then again, and again.  The guard leaned against the wall impassively as the cacophony stretched on.

Madly the tonal assault continued, the air bladder within the tiny automobile gasping like a man who has just run for his life.  HONK . . . HONK . HONK . . . HonkHONKHOnk!  It was several minutes before a ghostly figure approached the gate.  Ingsho edged the cab forward, bringing into illumination a wood-carved sign mounted on the compound wall:

JESUIT VOLUNTEER CORPS: MOSHII COMMUNITY

Talia had appeared.  The time had come to rest.

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