Zambia

Did that Australian guy from last night really yell at me for being a “loud obnoxious American?” I was pretty drunk and it’s all so hazy but I definitely remember someone yelling at me…and have a vague recollection that maybe I was being sort of—

“Miss Lady! Miss Lady! Excuse me! Two more beers here.” 

Shaken from my thoughts, I looked up to see the smaller of the two police officers impatiently waving his empty bottle of Mosi at me from across the room. Ugh. These fucking guys. I hauled my dehydrated and hungover ass out of the old leather arm chair I had been sinking into and trudged up to the bar. The bartender looked at me sympathetically and without a word handed me two fresh bottles of beer. We had been doing this song and dance for hours. The routine was locked. I nodded tiredly at him and grabbed both bottles with one hand and started to walk over to the two officers who were lounging happily around a coffee table covered in empty beer bottles and a rapidly dwindling carton of cigarettes.

“Hey… wait, one sec.”

I stopped and turned back to the bartender. He had placed two double shots of tequila on the bartop. I looked at the shots and back at him and he smiled and shrugged as he lifted up his in a gesture to cheers. The pity in his eyes had shifted to something else and despite the shitshow of my circumstance, I had this flash of attraction to him. He might just feel bad for me but the humanity in the moment felt like a welcome connection. I laughed dryly, gave his glass a cheers and downed the shot. It was past noon, fair game I guess.

Immediate burst of energy. Man, I needed that. With a newfound confidence I marched back to the Zambian police officers, their eyes glued to Olympic diving on the big, old TV mounted to the wall as they had been for the past several hours. I slammed the beers down on the coffee table.

Fuck this. 

“Guys, are you going to ask me anything? Shouldn’t you be taking notes about what happened so you can write up the report so I can go back to South Africa? What’s the plan here?”

Small Cop glanced at me and responded calmly, “Miss Lady, we will get to it. You will be able to go home. It’s no problem. After the diving.” The other one, who hadn’t said a single word to me all morning, took a long sip of the beer without looking away from the television.

These guys had been pulling this shit since the moment they arrived. I had gotten the bartender of the hostel to help me call the police around 8am. They arrived around 9am and before they even sat down demanded a carton of cigarettes and four beers, two apiece. At first I was confused but based on the bartender’s reaction, I quickly realized this was standard practice.

“They won’t talk to you unless you give them what they ask for. You’re just going to have to agree and hopefully they will write up a police report for you.” I was taken aback but also recognized that I was the foreigner here and that I had no choice but to play by the rules of where I was. I obliged and once they had their beers and cigarettes, they requested we put the Olympics on which was showing diving which Small Cop insisted was their favorite event.

4 hours and over 20 beers later they gestured for more beer and when I brought them the drinks this time, they said they were ready to talk. The formerly mute officer spoke up for the first time, clearly the assigned Interrogator, peppering me with questions about what happened. Small Cop pretended to take notes but both were obviously very intoxicated by this point and I felt this was likely to go nowhere but played along. What other choice did I have?

I told them about how I had been traveling around Botswana and Zambia, camping with a small group and that they had all left the day before yesterday. I had stayed on a couple days on my own to do some cliff jumping and join the booze cruise last night. 

I left out the part that I had blacked out on the boat and couldn’t recall almost anything from the previous evening… except for that flash of that Australian man giving me shit… I wish I could remember what he said… It wasn’t until sunrise this morning that memories started coming back and when I realized all my stuff, including my passport had been stolen from my tent while I was imbibing on the Zambezi River.

They interrogated me for 30 minutes and by the end we were all equally unimpressed with each other and just wanted to be done.

“After the cruise, we all just hung out at the campsite bar, we didn’t go back to our tents. Yeah, we were up late. Yeah, I didn’t realize until this morning my stuff was gone. No, I didn’t have my passport on me…. Because, I thought it would be safer locked in my bag in my tent. No, I didn’t lock my tent. I thought the campsite was safe. Yes, I know this is Africa. Right, I realize now I should have not left my passport in my bag. Yes, everything in my tent was gone. Yes, literally everything I have. All I have left is my debit card that was at the bar for an open tab, my lip gloss and the cash I had on the booze cruise. No, they did not take the sleeping bag. The tent was still in tact. Yes, okay so technically I guess you’re right, they didn’t take everything. That’s “nice”? Are you serious? I wouldn’t exactly call it that… Can we just get this wrapped up? What do I need from you so that the airport will let me board my flight to Johannesburg tomorrow? Just a police report? Are you sure?”

Small Cop piped in for first time since Interrogator had taken over:  “Yes Miss Lady, all you need is the police report we will write for you and you can board your flight to South Africa, no problem.” 

He leaned over a piece of paper: a crumpled piece of loose leaf paper that looked as if it had been pulled from the trash. It looked unofficial and weak. How the hell would an airport official accept this? I was skeptical this would get me across the border without my passport. My skepticism must have been palpable.

Exasperation. “MISS LADY! This is fine. This is good for you to use. We need to go. You’re wasting our time. We have other things to do.” Small Cop nudged Interrogator and they shared an annoyed look as they stood up to leave. He handed me the ratty paper as they walked out of the bar, making sure to grab the carton of cigarettes I had bought them and their still half full beers before the left.

These fucking guys.

I collapsed back into the chair exhausted and frustrated but resigned to the reality of the situation. The bartender was by my side in an instant with another shot for himself and a shot for me. I looked at him with appreciation and took it. He was actually really cute. I think he was from Botswana…. Could be fun distraction to make out with him… No! Focus Emma. Breathe. Tonight, lay low. Eat. Sleep. Tomorrow we leave to go back home to South Africa and put this whole debacle behind us. 

My shot glass was filled before I set it back down on the table.

I guess a couple more shots won’t kill me…

~~~~

I hovered nervously around the check in desk. I had gotten to the dusty Livingston airport early this morning to ensure that if there were any complications I would have plenty of time to sort it out before the flight left.

I was wearing the same outfit I had been wearing since the night of the booze cruise: a teal mini dress and strappy sandals. I was still under slept and hungover from another night of drinking… I hadn’t showered, hadn’t changed. I looked exactly like the last two nights I had had. Under other circumstances I might have been worried I looked like a cracked out hooker, but right now I didn’t care. I just needed to get the fuck out of here. 

Finally, a round, pleasant faced woman came to the desk, looked me up and down with some skepticism and asked how she could help me. I knew I needed to maintain composure but as soon as I started talking, I unloaded and told her everything that happened. As I watched her face as she absorbed my breathless words, I knew this wasn’t going to go the way I had hoped.

“….and so here’s the police report they wrote up that they said that I could give you to board my flight back to South Africa, where I will be able to get a new passport from the consulate and then get to go back to the United States which is where I live.”

I pushed the paper towards her and tried to appear confident and cool, as if this were all standard procedure.

She glanced down at the paper without touching it, looked up at me and then back down at the paper and back up to me again. She spoke very slowly with ample pauses, “Miss… I don’t know what you want me to do with this… You cannot travel internationally without a passport… Even if I let you board… you would be arrested as soon as you landed in Johannesburg for being undocumented. Miss… I don’t think you want to go to prison in Johannesburg…” She trailed off and let her words sink in.

I felt the walls close in around me, a gut punch. I could not catch my breath. Those fucking bastards. Of course this was never going to work. I am such a fucking idiot. You need a passport to travel internationally. That’s just how it goes. They used me for beer and cigarettes and fucking DIVING. I fell for the plan because I was still kind of drunk and fully desperate.

I was so frustrated with myself and the predicament I had created for myself that that despite best efforts, I started to cry. She looked taken aback and then softened. “It’s okay, you can go to Lusaka, the capitol. There is a US Consulate there. They can help you get a temporary passport and then you can book a new flight back to South Africa and figure out a way to get home from there. It will be okay.”

Somehow her words calmed me immediately and I thanked her, sniffing pathetically, “Thank you. Would you mind telling me how to get to Lusaka? Can I take a taxi there from here?”

She looked at me first with a little surprise and then a lot of pity, “No… dear… you have to fly. Lusaka is at the top of the country.”

I nodded but felt my stomach drop. I had run out of money. My credit card was stolen and my debit card was tapped out from the additional night at the hostel. Even with Cute Bartender spotting me free drinks, I still had less than $20 left. I couldn’t afford another flight. If I wanted to book another flight I would need to do the one thing I was desperately trying to avoid doing: asking my parents for money. That would require me having to own up to being a total and complete fuck up.

No. I had put them through so much already. There had to be another way.

I thanked the airport lady and I found an empty seat in the waiting area and decided to just sit for a minute and think.

Maybe I could hitchhike to Lusaka. I had been camping the last two weeks, I could keep roughing it for a few more days… Or maybe I should just stay put… Work a little, do some odd jobs at the hostel and save up to get a flight to Lusaka. I could hang out with the cute bartender for a few weeks. Wouldn’t be that bad? Or maybe I just start a new life here and stay forever…

Somehow that all seemed more appealing than emailing my parents and admitting to yet another episode of Drunk Emma Fuckery.

“Excuse me? Miss?”

I looked up. Blue eyes, tan skin, blonde hair. It took me a second to process the face that was leaning over mine. It was a gorgeous face. I was taken so by surprise that I couldn’t immediately respond, just looked up at this angel peering down at me from on high.

“Ah… sorry to startle you. Uh… I just. Not to be creepy, but I was listening to your conversation before and think I could help you…”

I still couldn’t really process what was happening. But all of a sudden, the reality of my appearance came crashing down on me. An attractive man will do that to you. I was immediately very aware of my hair, my face, my clothes and how I must look to this beautiful human who had approached me.

“…uh. Oh! Okay… yeah. Sorry, I must look like a mess… It’s been… a day… or two. I don’t know. Sorry… What did you say your name was? What was it you were saying about helping… sorry, my name is Emma…Uh… yeah…” I trailed off as I realized I was rambling. I flushed, feeling bashful and off kilter.

He smiled good naturedly. And oh what a smile it was. I could tell he knew I found him attractive and was amused by my reaction. He sat down next to me and put his hand out. “I am Stefan. Nice to meet you Emma. Sounds like you have had a bit of a go of it here in Zambia.” He laughed warmly. I eased up immediately. “I am originally from Durban but have been working here in Zambia and Botswana doing flights in the Okavanga Delta. I have a plane outside. I can give you a ride up to Lusaka if you want before I head back to Kasane. No trouble at all.”

Whoa. Was this actually happening? Was this beautiful stranger offering me a flight on his plane? What the hell…. He really was an angel.

I almost accepted. I wanted to. He was so warm and gorgeous and in my fantastical mind I imagined this could be the start of a romance story for the ages… How exciting could this end up being? But even as I was contemplating this alarm bells starting sounding. The logical part of my brain began waving frantically for me to pay attention and quit the daydreaming. Assess the reality of the situation and what a decision like this could result in.

I was stranded and alone in Zambia with no passport or money. Getting on this man’s plane would put my fate fully in his hands. Despite my desperation, I knew that was a gamble I shouldn’t be willing to take. Despite the shittiness of my predicament, I was still in control of my own destiny. Saying yes to Stefan would immediately secede that control.

Maybe Stefan was truly just a nice guy who wanted to help a girl out. Accepting his offer would certainly make the next few days a bit smoother. But that is only one version of how it could go. The worse and worst case possibilities could be truly horrifying. What were his motivations for offering to help a strange, raggedy looking lost girl? I wasn’t willing to find out.

So despite my internal struggle, I thanked him for his kindness and politely declined. He seemed very surprised, shocked even. I must have looked more pathetic than I realized. He insisted again and then again. Something felt off. The more he insisted, the more I knew I was making the right choice. I reiterated my firm no and even lied, saying my family was aware of the situation and it was all handled. He seemed skeptical and annoyed, but he backed off and wished me luck.

I waited until he left the terminal to go to his little plane. I went to the window and watched him take off. Once his plane faded into the sky and I was sure he was gone, I went back up to the round faced little lady who had given me the bad news earlier.

“Excuse me Miss, can you tell me where the nearest internet cafe is? I need to email my parents…”

She nodded approvingly and gave me directions. There was one only a short taxi ride away. She would give me some Kwacha to get me there. I thanked her profusely and as I started to turn away and walk towards the exit, she grabbed my hand, looked me straight in the eyes and said, “You made the right choice not going with that man. I know you listened to your instincts in that moment. Keep trusting yourself and you will be okay. Good luck to you. I hope you make it home to your family soon.”

I didn’t want to let go of her hand. I felt I didn’t deserve these kind and affirming words at all in this moment but how desperately I needed to hear them. All the choices I had made up until that last one had been objectively idiotic and had gotten me into this situation in the first place. And the truth is, if I had been even slightly intoxicated when the hot pilot had offered me a ride, I would have most certainly said yes. An exciting adventure I would not have refused: consequences be damned.

But I knew she was right. Because the issue had never been that my instincts were off base… it was that I had been drowning them out with booze. It was a wonder I hadn’t gotten into this level of trouble or worse sooner. I had been playing with fire, letting myself lose control in unfamiliar places with people I barely knew. The gravity of my chronic recklessness seemed to hit me all at once as I held this sweet stranger’s hand in the Livingston Airport.

I needed to change. It wasn’t a choice anymore. It was a matter of survival. She said to listen to my gut and my gut was telling me that if I continued to drink like I was, something really bad was going to happen. It wasn’t an if, it was a when. So I made a promise to myself and to her and to any force in the universe that might have been listening: If I make it out of Zambia in one piece, I won’t ever drink again.

And with that promise in mind, I bid my airport angel farewell and marched back out into the hot African air to continue to try to untangle this mess of a web I had woven for myself.