disaster, zimbabwe
Travel Tales #9
Disaster, Zimbabwe
There were two buses to choose from, both equally clapped out and brimming with luggage and livestock. As we sat like sardines inside one of them, waiting for departure, we had a last minute attack of the grass is greeners, and decided to change.
We squeezed our way past flat-packed sweaty bodies and managed to wrangle a seat on the other bus.
After the requisite delay, we eventually left the dust and mango sellers of Malawi and commenced our long journey to Harare, Zimbabwe.
By this stage, many weeks into our African adventures we were well versed in the process of long bus journeys. We had books, snacks and cards at the ready.
The night before we'd repeated the daily task of boiling water for drinking, and had it with us. Not that we needed much for the trip. We'd learnt through the hell of full bladders and infrequent stops that semi-dehydration was the best way to handle long bus trips.
After many hours, darkness descending, finally we stopped; seemingly in the middle of nowhere. We’d clipped the top of Mozambique and were now apparently in the shoulder of Zimbabwe. In the fading light of dusk all we could be sure of was a crusty old service station and diner.
I can’t remember if we bought anything. Most likely some bananas (there were always bananas), and a bottle of coke each. I think we were both probably addicted by that stage. To the sugar and caffeine and also to the small indulgence amidst the austerity of shoestring travel.
Both buses had stopped and we'd all spilled out into the dark and the dirt. Bladders emptied, we got back on our bus and waited. There was some commotion between the drivers.
When we eventually started moving again it became clear - the headlights on our bus didn't work. We craned our heads into the aisle to watch incredulously as the bus moved forward into the dense blanket of African night, following the dim taillights of the other bus.
Fucking crazy right?
But things are done differently in Africa. Safety is not such a big deal. It's more about making do.
And we'd clearly been swept along with the way of things, because we didn't demand to be let off the bus, as we would have at home, we just went with it. Everyone did.
Sure we felt slightly uneasy, but that just seemed to be the norm with independent African travel, and part of the adventure.
A few kilometres down the road, with things seemingly okay, I shimmied myself down into my usual bus sleeping position. Low slouch, knees propped on the back of the seat in front, backpack as a pillow between my head and the window.
I'd barely closed my eyes when everyone on the bus started yelling.
The driver was looking down, wrestling with the gearstick. We had slowed down and the other bus had disappeared over a rise. Our eyes had adjusted to the dark and in the faint moonlight we could see the silvery outline of the road and that we were no longer travelling the same lines.
The yelling around us intensified. We joined the screaming, as if somehow we could avert the impending disaster if we could just make enough noise.
My conscious mind wasn't present for the next few moments. It was like being in between worlds, time slowed, thoughts slowed, emotions and body separated. Reflecting back it felt like being underwater, without gravity and distant sound coming from another time and place.
There must have been noise, a lot of noise, and movement, and limbs and bones hitting up against metal, home-cooked meals flying, chooks flapping, glass breaking, screaming… But I didn't hear it.
When my mind switched on again, I was upside-down, lying on the back of my neck with my legs flipped over my head. The whole bus was upside down.
The first thing I heard was Nath asking if I was okay.
My first thought was where are my shoes?
The cocoon of silence was invaded by the sound of a bus in panic. There were voices everywhere and movement all around us. People scrambling to get out amidst the dark and the broken glass.
“Let’s stay here and wait for the panic to die down,” said Nath, who unlike me in my semi-useless state of shock, was in super-efficient mode. Exactly the sort of person you’d want around in a crisis.
Our window was squashed beside us, but I could still see out a sliver and noticed liquid gushing out beside us. “Do you think that might be fuel?” I asked vaguely.
“Shit yeah we better get out.”
I was fixated on our possessions. I’m ashamed to admit that they seemed more important than our wellbeing during those moments, so whilst Nath grabbed my hand and pulled me out at a crawl, I was feeling around for our backpacks.
In the confusion people pushed past us and we were separated.
Nath says he got out of the bus and when he realised I wasn't behind him started shouting my name, watching as person after person crawled out, getting more and more worried… Then he saw our bags tossed out and then me.
After that, I stood on the bank in a state of shock. It wasn't a cold night but I was freezing and put my thermals on. Extreme experiences show you what you’re made of. Evidently I am made of lime jelly.
But I had found our backpacks, and inside we had torches, which Nath used to help others. After freeing a couple of trapped passengers he was called over to a stuck woman.
The way he tells it, he shone the torchlight over the length of her body to her head, except it wasn't there. It had been squashed between the seat and the roof and she was dead.
The other bus eventually circled back and all who were badly injured were instructed to get on that bus to be taken the rest of the journey to a hospital in Harare.
We were battered and bruised but effectively okay, so we stayed.
A semi-trailer pulled over to take in the spectacle. I vividly remember the words on the side of the rig: “What god do these people serve?” It seemed like a strange phrase to match a strange experience.
They offered us a ride back to Harare, along with two Kiwi guys who had also been on the bus. We were the only four westerners amongst two busloads of locals.
The four of us perched on the bed behind the seats, between the driver - a big, happy African guy called Sam and his small Rastafarian sidekick, Dreds.
From here the night just got weirder. Sam smelt of beer which made me wonder if we'd jumped out of the pot and into the fire. But he drove very slowly the whole way to Harare and proved to be a charming, warm and considerate person.
Part way through the journey he declared, "After an experience like that you need a beer." He pulled over and instructed Dreds to buy beer. Dreds, who was like an eager little terrier sprang out into the night (pouring with rain by this stage) only to return ten minutes later saturated and wondering what type of beer Sam wanted.
It was comic relief. It seemed ridiculous.
I felt the laughter bubble up inside me, a release of emotion from the tension and shellshocked of the crazy night.
When Dreds finally did make it back with the beers we were each given one and Sam said a prayer of thanks for our safety.
My stomach didn't want anything in it, but it was very kind of him.
For the rest of the trip Sam told us about his life, which contained many women and many children.
On the outskirts of Harare, with the sun beginning to rise, Sam pulled into the back streets and once again sent Dreds out on a mission; this time to buy marijuana, which he offered us mates rates on. We declined the kind offer.
Although Sam had insisted we all stay with him, we already had a place booked so he kindly went out of his way to drop us at the door.
We said goodbye to Sam and Dreds, who felt like old friends, checked-in, found our room, and slumped down on our beds. My back was killing me, but other than that the only injuries we'd sustained were a few scratches and bruises.
We'd been lucky, and lucky for the experience. I'd never consciously wish for something like that to happen, but I'm glad it did. There is something intriguing and strangely satisfying about living through a close brush with death.
And thanks to a new paranoia of buses, this lead to some great hitchhiking experiences to come.
Leonie x
