Liz Schauer

I watched Dolly and Eunice enjoy the plate of fries I bought them in exchange for waiting with me at the bus station. My ticket said the bus would leave at 6pm; it was already 7:45. We sat and reminisced over the past two weeks. They teased me about my “Americanisms” and the funny way I said my vowels. My E’s sounded like A’s and my O’s sounded like naisely A’s. They accused me of not speaking proper English. Dolly and I still couldn’t agree over which kind of Matatu was best. She preferred the ones that had flat screen TVs in them and blared American rap music. I usually chose the beat-down looking ones that had as few people crammed in them as possible. We dreamt of our futures and where God would lead us, and if they would ever get a chance to come to America. As Eunice repeated the word “Imagine,” we heard the gunshots. They immediately looked up at me. I guess my facial expression revealed the fear that momentarily stopped my heart. After three more shots, silence filled the room. Eunice, the oldest out of the three of us, finally said something. “It’s just a riot, those were tear gas shots. It happens all the time. Don’t worry.” Within a few minutes, everyone in the restaurant began to rub their eyes and sneeze. It almost became comical as our sneezing synchronized. I got up and walked over to the window to see if the bus had arrived. Two hours late, an old coach bus had pulled up by the curb outside the station. Dolly cleaned up our plates and we all walked downstairs to the street. We experienced that awkward time-warp moment when you stand there not quite ready to say goodbye. People were loading the bus and Dolly’s half-hearted “well…” was enough to hint that it was time. I hugged them and thanked them for letting me stay with them. I told them that one day I would come back and need help finding the airport in Nairobi. I would call them.

I boarded the bus and found my seat. I opted for the cheaper bus, $17 to ride from Nairobi to Kampala, Uganda. Most of the Westerners took the more expensive bus, but it didn’t seem worth it to me. My seat was a window seat, third row from the front behind the driver. I wanted to be close enough to the front that I could get help if anything happened. Within minutes a beautiful young woman sat down next to me. She introduced herself and I couldn’t repeat her name even if it had been written down phonetically. She knew enough English to have a short conversation. I felt a sense of relief knowing that I was sitting next to another woman.

It was dark and late; I fell asleep quickly. That was the plan: travel through Kenya at night, wake up in Uganda. I had my traveler’s wallet hidden securely under my sweatshirt and I held it close as I slept. I also strapped my backpack around my feet, just in case. I woke up abruptly just after I fell asleep. I looked out the window and saw police with glowing flares waving the bus to the side of the road. After we pulled over, a man in uniform stepped on the bus and said we all needed to get off. I faced an internal dilemma when I had to decide whether or not to take my backpack. I didn’t want to come off as an over-cautious American. I tried to act confident. I left it and followed the line of Africans off the bus desperately hoping it would be there when I got back. I asked my new friend what was going on, but couldn’t understand her English well enough to know. The police went on the bus to look around. I felt like an illegal as I stood on the side of the road in the middle of a chilly night. Within five minutes, the officer walked off the bus and gave a slight nod to the driver. We all filed back on and continued on our journey.

The same pattern repeated throughout the rest of the night: doze off, wake up to a police check, and continue on. After three hours we stopped for a bathroom break. I was afraid to get off the bus during the night, but my friend told me to follow her. I took my backpack with me this time; it contained the precious toilet paper I had been rationing thus far. We wandered through the dark until we found the stalls. I breathed a deep sigh of thankfulness after I got a stall with a latch on the door. When I came out, my friend was gone. The $15 cell phone I bought two weeks prior had a flashlight on it. I pulled it out of my bag and used it to find my way down the street to a small snack shop. There were a few passengers getting something to eat. I joined the line and bought a bag of salt and vinegar chips for $0.50. They would have to tide me over until the morning. I followed the rest of the passengers back on the bus and showed the driver my ticket. It was protocol. He didn’t need to see my ticket to ensure that I was on the bus before the stop – I was the only white person. We got back on the road and I was hoping to sleep until we arrived.

I had never traveled internationally on the ground, only by airplane. It never occurred to me that we would have to stop at the border. I woke up to my friend tapping me on the shoulder. “Customs” she said. I followed her off the bus and joined the masses in haphazard lines. I was overcome with confusion while everyone around me seemed to know what to do. I kept looking around trying catch on. I picked up a blue form, just like everyone else had. When I was reaching in my backpack to grab a pen, a man snatched the form from my hand. He waved for me to follow him over to a ledge where we could write. He asked for my passport and I was hesitant to give it to him. He gave me a friendly, assuring smile, and began to fill out my form. His writing was hardly legible, but I was more than willing to accept the help.  He completed the form, handed it back to me and held out his hands. “Fifty shillings.” I told him that I didn’t understand. He said I had to pay him for completing my form, everyone did. I glanced around and saw people frantically writing, but no money to be found. I shook my head and sternly said, “No,” and walked into the building to get my passport stamped. I told the guard at the door what happened. He chuckled just enough for me to notice and told me I didn’t have to pay the man.

One by one the people in line in front of me handed their blue forms to the workers behind the counter and were directed to another line. I was next and I tried to stand tall; hiding the feelings of confusion and fear that were tormenting my mind. I wanted to at least seem like I knew what I was doing. I nodded to the woman behind the counter and handed my form and passport. There was a camera behind the counter and I could see the screen as it took a picture of my face. The picture was matched to my passport; I passed that test. I then watched the woman look over my form hoping she wouldn’t question me about it. She stared for quite some time and then stamped it. She smiled at me and pointed in the direction I had watched all the others walk.

I filed into another line where they were stamping passports for exiting the country. As I stood in line I looked down at the visitor’s visa that was stuck in my passport. It expired May 24^th.  I had arrived in Kenya on May 10^th. Now it was June 3^rd. I didn’t plan on staying more than a week, but my plans had changed. I met Dolly and Eunice and they offered a place for me to live while I taught English and coached soccer in the slums. I didn’t have a set agenda so I stayed. I remember a fleeting thought on May 24^th that I should renew my visa, but the embassy was far and a hassle to get to. My visa wasn’t that far expired. It should be fine. As the line in front of me got shorter and shorter, I realized I had to decide how I would act: confident, or oblivious.

I walked up to the counter hesitantly. I smiled as I handed the man my passport. He flipped to the page with the Kenyan visa and had his stamp ready. He slowly put the stamp down, looked up at me, and shook his head. He motioned for me to come into the back room. “Back there?” I asked. “Yes, here,” he replied. As I walked to the side of the building I felt as if vomit was erupting from my stomach up to my mouth. I told myself to keep it together and reached for the doorknob. The man opened the door before I could and led me to a back office. A very well built Kenyan man in a border control uniform stood at least 6 feet 3 inches tall behind a somewhat messy desk. Behind him was a slightly smaller man holding an AK-47, watching my every move.

I took a deep breath and decided that playing dumb would be the better option. I would be confidently dumb. The man examined my passport for a long minute, looked up at me and asked, “What are you doing in my country?” “I’m on holiday,” I replied. I knew that Kenya was not a closed country, people go on missions trips there all the time, but acting like I was spending my summer vacation visiting seemed like the better answer. I explained to him how I was a college student and my soccer coach was from Kenya. I came to visit some friends and explore the beautiful country. Satisfied with my answer his eyes returned to the expiration date on my visa. “Why are you staying longer than you planned?” I looked down and took a minute and a few long breaths before I responded. I wanted to have a coherent answer. I told him that I planned on going to Uganda, which was true. I said that it took longer than I thought to get a cell phone and to get myself situated in Africa – blatant lie. I got my cell phone the first week I was there. The man didn’t seem to buy it. My eyes glanced at the guard behind him; his were still locked on me. I quickly looked back down at my hands. I was holding my traveler’s wallet. I kept fidgeting with the string as I tried to conjure up a better story. The man was growing visibly frustrated, pounded his hand on the desk and said, “You have not paid to be in our country!” Startled, I looked up at him and offered up all I could think of: an apology. He would not accept it. He looked at the guard behind him and asked, “What do we do with her?” As I stood there, I imagined all the things that could happen if they wouldn’t let me across the border. It was 3am, I couldn’t call anyone. I would hide in a bush until morning. Maybe they would let me sleep in the building. There was a man outside who was extremely angry with me for not paying him to fill out my form. What if I was kidnapped? Raped? Sold? I would have no way of telling my parents what happened, no way of telling them that I loved them. At least they had my ID. But it was Africa, things are different. They would kick me out just on the Kenyan side of the fence and let me fend for myself. I did have a knife. And I had money. Money! I reached into my wallet and pulled out a hundred dollar bill. “I will pay,” I told the man. That is what he wanted after all. “I don’t want your money now,” he said. “No,” I insisted, waving the bill in the air, “I will give this to you.” I thought my desperate bribe would work. It always works that way in the movies about Africa. The system is corrupt and you can fight your way through it with money. Unfortunately this man would have nothing of it.

Back to square one. If there had been a clock on the wall I’m sure it would have stopped. My thoughts were as out of sorts as my visa. I had tried everything I thought to: I played dumb, I lied, I bribed. Suddenly, I was overcome with the weight of guilt, heavier than I had ever felt before. I had lied about why I was there and now I stood before two men, one holding a gun. I went to Africa without a plan, that’s why I was in this mess in the first place. When I left America, I trusted that God would lead me where I needed to go. I must have forgotten that somewhere between Nairobi and Kampala. I realized there was one thing I had not done: pray. Silence had filled the room for some time and I closed my eyes, acknowledging my failure. God, if you get me out of this, I will tell everyone what you did. Please, I don’t know what else to do. I am so sorry. I looked up and caught the eyes of the man behind the desk. He was angry, fuming really. He looked back down at my visa. Back at me. Down to the visa. His eyes pierced me again, and I stared back with desperation. He looked back down, reached for a stamp and did the one thing I never thought would happen: he stamped my passport. He handed it back to me and said, “Next time, you pay.” “Thank you,” I replied as I nearly ran out of the room.

The bus had not left yet and I power-walked across the border to get to it. I was in Uganda. I was safe. I pulled out my bus ticket and got back on the bus. I sat down in my chair after I put my traveler’s wallet back under my sweatshirt. I hugged my backpack and closed my eyes. No part of me wanted to relive what had just happened. I wanted to sleep and disappear, hoping I would wake up to find this was all a dream. After a few deep breaths, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I looked to my left to find my friend sitting next to me again. “Yes?” I said. She only pointed outside the window. Four men were standing in a straight line outside the bus staring at me. The second one from the left was talking to the others and motioning to me. His face was the only one I recognized in the dim light. He was the man who filled out my form. The other men crossed their arms and penetrated my sense of security me with their eyes. I thought I was safe. I thought I was in the clear, on my way to some semblance of stability in Uganda. Now there were four men after me. I quickly looked away and stared at the bus driver. Just before I got up to tell him that I needed protection I remembered the ticket still in my hand.. They couldn’t get on the bus without one.

We pulled away only minutes later, but it couldn’t have come soon enough. The man knew my name from filling out my form, but that was it. He couldn’t find me now. He didn’t know where I was going. I was safe. I sat in my seat and stared out the window. All chances for sleep were lost. It was after 5 AM and the sun’s light was beginning to peak over the horizon. Uganda contains a whole lot of nothing; just empty space and beautiful topography. There are two major cities, and we were headed toward one of them. Until then, it was just rolling hills and the bush. I couldn’t help but feel unsettled as I watched the sun rise over the bush. A few years earlier I had heard of Joseph Kony and the children he kidnapped. He hid in the thick plants where he drugged the children and taught them to kill. A thick fog hung over the bush as we sped down the highway. It looked peaceful and calm but held a dark secret. It was impossible to tell just by looking what was under the canopy, but I had seen enough Invisible Children videos to know what happened in the bush. Once again I was faced with the task of keeping my vomit in. I gripped my backpack as hard as I could and closed my eyes for the rest of the journey.