Under arrest (again)
Tanzania, June 1984
I went back to the Tourism Office to pay my outstanding park fees and hostel bill, cursing that the money would have been more use for a trip to Kigoma. I returned to the hostel for a final night before an early start hitchhiking the next day, but the people who had the key were away. I climbed over the gate and slept in my tent in the courtyard.
The full moon was shining through the trees, lighting up every pebble on the ground and giving me a hard time getting to sleep. I was up at the crack of dawn. The village was still sleeping. Two tired guards crouched at their posts by the village square and the coffeehouse was still closed. I sneaked up to the tourism office, wrote a note and fumbled for the 50 sh fee. I could only find 48 sh change. That was all the shillings I had in my pocket, so I wrapped the money up in the paper, tossed it through the broken window and considered the matter settled.
I walked to the lodge to find out about a promised lift back to Arusha. There wasn’t much happening yet so I lit a pipe in the nearly deserted restaurant, trying not to think about fried eggs, bacon, toast and coffee. Suddenly, one of the waiters appeared with a silver pot of coffee. Another placed milk and sugar on the table in front of me. I looked up.
“Are you leaving today?” the first waiter asked.
“Yes, I hope so.”
“It is bad to travel on an empty stomach!” exclaimed the second and brought me a plate with four golden slices of hot toast, dripping with butter: “So eat. There is no charge.”
Just as I had finished my excellent breakfast, the manager appeared and sat down at a neighboring table for a talk with the supervising staff. I waited patiently until I could ask for news of the impending lift but as soon as the meeting had finished, he jumped up and quickly walked out of the restaurant. Just as he reached the stairs, he remembered, turned around and tapped his watch, signalling me to wait.
I went over to the bar and noticed with some surprise a tourism official I had dealt with before. A portly guy with no love for backpackers, he had clearly been waiting for me. Had I paid my outstanding fees? Yes, I had “posted” the money through the window of his office I said, smugly that my act of honesty had paid off and was sure to earn me some brownie points. He said he wanted to check this in person.
“I cannot come with you now!” I wailed: “I am waiting for a lift.”
He relented but instead wanted to inspect my luggage. I don’t know what had made him so cross on this particular morning. As a backpacker and staying in the youth-hostel as the only guest, I had been a constant thorn in his side for the past two weeks so he should be grateful to see the last of me. What exactly did he hope to find in my backpack anyway?
I told him that he wasn’t a policeman and if he thought he was entitled to rummage through my stuff he would have to show me the papers saying so (I was 19. I didn’t know much about diplomacy then).
He disappeared and I thought that was the end of the matter.
At around ten, I walked to reception to ask for news about the landrover destined for Arusha when I saw the TO walking back up the path, this time accompanied by a policeman. The two invited me to join them for a lift back to the office. I tried frantically to work out whether I was under arrest and would go to jail. With a start I remembered the two missing shillings in my little parcel — did that amount to theft? I also remembered the half dozen occassions the TO had already threatened me with arrest if I continued to flout the regulations for foreigners not to walk in the park (what did he want me to do instead? Fly?).
We reached the office all too soon. The Warden of Tourism, who introduced himself as Peter, awaited us. I thought ‘what is so bad about a few days jail? A lift to Arusha, a few days of free food and lodging…’.
Peter, who at first appeared friendlier, confirmed that he had found the envelope. He asked me to pay the two outstanding shillings and extended my permit to stay at the hostel for the past night. Then he asked me to get my luggage.
The policeman, a thin guy with amber eyes who had been squirming since my ‘arrest’ said he did not think there was any need for that.
“You will find that everything is in order,” I sneered presenting my torn and filthy backpack: “Help yourself!”
The warden touched the bag with trepidation, as if it would sting or burn him. Eventually he asked me to open one of the bulging pockets and I showed him my million mile shoes inside. Then he pointed at my shoulder bag. I placed it on the table and he quickly grabbed it then hesitated and fixed me with a stern look. “If you have got any money in there,” he said: “better show it to me now!”
I laughed in his face: “Before I give you my hard-earned money I prefer to go to jail!”
I really didn’t think I had anything to hide — not in my bags at least — but I paled as I saw the policeman leafing through my passport and coming across the blank money declaration form. Luckily, it was folded up and the cop was on my side. He did not look at it but placed it back in the passport, and handed it to me. Now that the police had checked my papers the TOs could hardly ask for them. I turned to the warden nonchalantly to find him eagerly looking at my notes which were written in a tiny German scrawl. He frowned with concentration as if trying to acquire the necessary language skills by pure willpower but of course the notes made no sense to him. He picked out some words and names and even asked me to translate some passages.
If he had been anybody else I might have swallowed the argument that it was his duty to check what was written about the park. At the time, Tanzania was spending something like eight times the amount that the US spent on conservation per capita, and tourism was necessary to safeguard its natural heritage. I knew that from the books I had read since childhood. But from this bloke, such talk was idle chatter. He confiscated a few chicken feathers which I had picked up on the village square and put on the holster of my knife as a decoration.
“It is illegal to remove anything from the park, even a trap set up by poachers!” he growled at my speechless face. Then he dismissed me.
The friendly cop drove me back to the lodge and apologised on behalf of the TOs. At least I was at liberty to leave.
Denni