VIV Moments

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VIV Moment

In the spring of 1987, I was with my then-boyfriend, John. We were young, in love and hitchhiking with backpacks through central and southern Africa. We had little money but we didn’t care. We thought we were invincible.

In actuality, we had many close calls that taught me things I still think about today. When I get into a difficult situation, I often remember one experience. We were in the remote hills of Zaire (now the Democratic Republic of Congo), staying in a little cabin and visiting the Mountain Gorillas (the animals).

We had befriended some of the local villagers who lived in nothing more than mud shacks, yet were some of the most wonderful and happy people I have ever met. We mentioned to them we were interested in going to Uganda, which was still in a civil war, and the one place our parents had specifically told us to avoid. Believing that the war was further north (we were near the south), we decided to take the chance. The villagers offered to take us to the closest boarder crossing. We spent the day walking through backcountry on little more than dirt paths and passing through tiny villages.

At one point we had at least 100 children following us, yelling, “Muzungu” (white man). They followed at a safe distance, and when the brave ones got close, we’d turn around and say, “Boo.” With fits of giggles they’d scatter and then quickly return to the game. It lulled us into a false sense of security.

Upon reaching a small shack on the side of a dirt trail, a clearly underused crossing, we faced a Zaire border official. After signing a book and stamping our passports, he allowed us to officially leave the country and we headed into the jungle, through this no-man’s land towards Uganda. Eventually we came to a large clearing with three half-blown up buildings and figured this must be Uganda — even though it appeared to be deserted.

We carefully walked to the seemingly empty buildings and when we came around the corner of one of them, we discovered three soldiers sitting on the old colonial-style front porch. A huge man with a machine gun, a tall skinny man (also holding a machine gun) and a kid who looked about 12 years old and bearing a large rifle all stared at us.

We approached, asking, “Customs? Immigration?” The big guy slowly stood up, shook his head, and said, “No immigration.” We asked again, “Customs? Immigration?” Again the big guy said, “No immigration.” John looked at me and said, “Let’s start walking.” We turned our backs to the soldiers and started walking into the country down the single lane dirt road surrounded by jungle.

Suddenly the soldiers cocked their guns and yelled something we couldn’t understand. I froze with my back to them looking at the jungle thinking, “Oh no, I’m going to be raped and murdered in Uganda and thrown in that bush over there and no one has a clue where we are.” We had already signed out of Zaire. In those days, backpacks had a metal plate in them, and I wondered if the metal would absorb the bullets. Unlikely.

John slowly turned around and asked, “What?” (I had learned as a woman here not to speak in these situations unless absolutely necessary.) The big guy put on a huge smile and said, “Customs.” Great. Now the shake down, I thought. The first thing they did was separate us. The big guy took John inside the building. I wondered if I could take on the tall skinny guy as well as the kid. Physically, I didn’t have a chance — but I went into complete survival mode and every possibility zoomed through my head.

They spoke broken English and French. Since I speak a little French we were able to communicate. They pointed to my backpack and told me to open it. They went through everything and discovered my small ball of safety pins, useful items when backpacking for a year. They picked it up and said that I was a spy, that this was a dismantled bomb, and that I was going into the country to blow it up.

I tried to explain what the pins were, but they didn’t understand. Carefully, I took one of the pins and slowly moved to one of the millions of holes in their tattered uniforms. I opened the pin and gently pinned together one of the holes in the kid’s shirt. Suddenly, they started to laugh. They thought this was the greatest thing. I still don’t know if these guys were laughing because they had never seen a safety pin or because they thought a ball of safety pins was a bomb. I didn’t really care. All I could think was that laughing is good. As I periodically glanced over to the front door, praying that John was okay and would soon return, I pinned their shirt holes shut.

After about 20 minutes, John and the big guy finally came outside. The big guy was ogling me and I could tell he was saying very derogatory things as he nudged John with his elbow. John appropriately laughed at the distasteful humor and walked over to me. He quietly whispered, “Just start walking.”

We slowly waved goodbye and once again headed down the dirt road. It took only a few minutes before we rounded a corner but it was the longest few minutes I had ever felt. As soon as we were out of sight we collapsed with relief; however, we were now illegally in a country at war. We were NOT going back the way we came, so we spent the next four days hitchhiking through war-torn Uganda to Kampala, the capital city. There, we caught a train to Kenya.

We saw some frightening things. Fortunately, we were ignored at all the checkpoints as, sadly, the locals fought each other.

Now I work in the movie business and over the years have been presented with many challenges. When I find myself face-to-face with a belligerent or angry actor, studio executive or crew member, I calmly think to myself, “I survived being held at gunpoint in Uganda. I can survive this.” (Of course, I do not recommend this as a way to develop strength for business but as we all know, any type of travel can be an educating experience!) I am grateful for my travels and being able to use the things I have learned along the way.

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