Tunduma

We reached Tunduma, a town on the Zambian border. Yet another scene of chaos but on a larger scale than I had seen previously. We parked at the police station and crossed the street to the stall containing the businesswoman’s wares. She sold higher end clothing, much of which was Italian. God knew where she purchased these things.

We walked up and down the main road, the sides of which were choked with pedestrians. Through the crowds, cars and trucks were trying to pass. Each side of the road contained a long line of attached storefronts selling just about anything African. We then stepped into an alleyway where a maze of stalls contained clothes. In some stalls, people were sifting through piles of used clothes, presumably to resell. Shoppers, hustlers, and messengers were walking or pushing their bicycles through the maze. There was, however, a noticeable dearth of visitors, like tourists. The buyers were mostly Zambians, who come to make purchases that are unavailable across the border, which I saw was mainly houses and dirt.

After walking through the stalls covered with blue tarp, we headed toward the border. We passed into the free zone—that nether region where border crossers can safely walk without having to pass through immigration. The area was surrounded by high fencing. The only offices found there were immigration and customs and a gas station, as well as rows of cars sitting with dust piled upon them, waiting for their duties to be paid.

We stepped inside the Tanzanian customs office where I was given a stamped pass. Next, we went to the immigration office for Zambia and since we promised not to venture too far into the country, my pass was again stamped with an approval. On the Zambian side, a very long line of tractor trailers were waiting with their engines off. It seems that these trucks were waiting for entry by the Zambian authorities to go into Tanzania, although it is equally possible that the Tanzanian authorities were waiting to receive their bribes for a pass through. I also noticed that dry earth permeated everything. When I reached the hotel that night, I felt like I was still in a cloud of dust.

Upon returning to Tanzania, I noticed young men holding wads of Tanzanian currency. I learned that these men exchange the currency with the Zambians who bring their own currency into the country. Somehow, the exchange rate is determined: maybe by a comparison with the banks’ rates. But these men were actively seeking out customers and were trading quite openly. I learned that the Tanzanian government tolerates this activity because it provides employment to men who would otherwise be unemployed. And the exchange is very quick, whereas an exchange in the banks alone would be painfully slow with excessively long lines. So perhaps the government sees these men as facilitators to a quick-moving economy whereby the faster the money gets exchanged, the faster it will be spent in Tunduma.