Common Ground

by Amy Neale (Australia)

I didn't expect to find Tanzania

Heavy grey skies greeted me as I opened the grubby cabin window, the dark clouds veiling the top of the mountain range. The air was damp, but the cosy fleece blankets, vaguely reminiscent of home, provided a much-needed buffer against the morning chill. The flat expanses and acacia covered plains from the previous day were replaced by rolling green and brown hills, lush vegetation and mud-brick homes perched on steep embankments. My chariot was the Mukuba Express. The first thing you need to know about the Mukuba Express is that the name is a lie. There is nothing express about it. Except maybe my Express Desire for it to hurry up and start moving again after a four hour stop on a remote stretch of track at 2am that morning. The second? Its reputation. Two days prior, I had waited with trepidation at the Dar es Salaam train station. The tall windows of the waiting area were opened wide, allowing the sights, smells and sounds to assault me all at once, doing nothing for my nerves on this unplanned and completely open-ended journey. I had no accommodation booked, no idea of how I would be getting into Malawi, and no idea if this train was going to arrive or not. I had read the reports about the train service; they weren’t great. It was, in a word, unpredictable. That all seemed irrelevant as she slowly chugged her way through the Tanzanian Southern Highlands and my destination edged ever closer. I say through, because back in the early 1970s the TAZARA Railway engineers had bored massive train sized holes through the mountain range and built stomach twisting bridges across great gaping chasms. Most bridges were quite sturdy and comprised of copious amounts of concrete and heavy steel, but there was one that looked like a cacophony of chopsticks had been thrown haphazardly into a deep valley, with a lazy river snaking its way along the base. I’ve always wanted to fly, but preferably not while seated in a 1970s train as it plunges off a bridge. Happily, the bridge crossings were interspersed by tunnels which were equally taxing on my nerves. Some passes only lasted a minute or so, but there were some which I thought would never end. Sounds became muted, the air grew thicker and harder to breathe and the smell of the damp and dank earth became overwhelming. Just as I thought my head and lungs would explode in panic, a shimmer of light would appear; the air would gradually start to clear and a few minutes later, the train would emerge. Thrusting my head out the window I would inhale deeply, the sweet clean air filling my lungs. Other passengers were doing the same; we exchanged looks that said “thank Christ that’s over” and smiled broadly at one another, until the next tunnel. A brief nod was given as we slid back into our cabins to restart our meditative breathing. Language is no barrier when fear or happiness are involved. My open cabin door was an invitation to all who passed by on their way down the train carriage; couples, families and solo travellers stopped into chat, before carrying on to the next open door. It was like a little bouncy confined housing community. Most would ask if I had been to their country before? Did I like it? Where was I going next? Where was I de-boarding? Has everyone been kind to me? The answers were: Yes, Yes, Malawi, Mbeya, Yes. As the clacking train lulled me into a calm trance, I was reminded of why I put myself in these situations. The terrifying bridge crossings, the stifling tunnels, the panic of not knowing how the journey will end, all became insignificant. I felt a warmth in that tiny train cabin that I hadn’t felt in years. A warmth that cut through the chilly mountain air, the language barriers and the cultural differences. We were all just people on a train, waiting to reach our destination. I smiled sadly wondering why we couldn’t be this accepting of one another on the outside. I guess we all just need to catch the train more often.