Zimbiki

Written: 2006   |   Setting: Zimbiki, remote African village   |   1,050 words   |   5 Minutes minute read

Day One

I took the advice of my co-worker and embarked on the vacation of my dreams. My doctor said my blood pressure was rapidly becoming a serious problem and I had to lower my stress level. What better way to end the stresses of work than with a vacation? I have always dreamed of an African safari, but not the typical journey. I wanted something off the beaten path. I can’t tell you how many American tourists I passed when I first came to the airport. They were loud and aggravating, eager to tell the world they were Americans. They pointed at residents in traditional clothing and guffawed at what was different.

I first read about Zimbiki online. It was not noted for tourism, but the people here are friendly. I am excited to see the wildlife. It’s much different than home.

I’ve already met two acquaintances staying here, Rah and Osia. They are traveling together. They are visitors from Egypt. It is a relief to know I’m not the only stranger. It is always intimidating to be in a place where no one knows you. They arrived yesterday evening.

This place has surprised me. I expected more of an arid landscape. We passed through a desert, but it evolved into a grassy plain. I admit I am still a few hundred miles from a telephone. I didn’t bring my laptop or my cell phone. It’s nothing but rustic living for my stress-free vacation.

Day Two

There seems to be a lot of chatter in the village today. At one of the farms outside of town, an entire herd of cattle was found dead this morning. They don’t know why. We received some strange looks when we were in town today, but I hope it meant nothing. I fear they blame us. Perhaps I should be moving on soon.

Rah and Osia don’t seem affected by the events. They don’t hold the locals in high regard. Rah thinks the villagers are nothing more than primitive barbarians. I’m not so calloused. People here are nothing like Americans. So many Americans seem to be far too proud of the assumptions about them. Those people at the airport are no exception.

Day Three

I am more troubled today. Before, I had dismissed any real threat. The American Embassy is two hundred miles away, barely a half-day’s trip via car. But I’ve just caught word that my car is unable to drive me.

My two friends have said they can get a vehicle and, if I wished, could have one here in a day at a reasonable price. I have consented. My stay in Zimbiki has been unsettling and I can’t wait to leave.

I tried to mail a letter today. The man who brings the postal correspondence for the villagers took my letter. I watched him after I’d walked off and around a building. When I peeked around the hut in town, he ripped it to shreds and made some strange gesture over the pieces on the ground. I need my family and friends more than ever in this hateful place and have no way of contacting them. Rah and Osia are the only English-speaking people, but they can’t read it at all. Perhaps the postmaster believed my letters and numbers were a curse? I don’t know.

I would run through the land to the Embassy, but I would never make it. I don’t know the land and the creatures here are far more dangerous than those in America. That doesn’t even take any snakes or other harmful pests into consideration.

I am marooned here until something develops. I will not leave my hut.

Day Four

It is getting worse. The people are talking about witchcraft and discussing the arrival of a witch hunter. I am terrified. From the glances I’ve gotten today, I am the one they suspect. Rah has told me repeatedly not to venture outside of the village. I can’t even go into the village without him or Osia by my side. I am to stay in my hut when alone and not speak to anyone.

They are having a car delivered to the village. It’s supposed to be here in the morning. I hope that nothing will happen. I thought this was going to be a stress-free vacation. I’m thinking perhaps I should just go home. I can vacation in America and never have this problem.

Three more herds have wound up dead. They say there are symbols drawn around the fields that they’re in. I am scared.

Day Five

No car arrived this morning. No word from any places outside the village. Apparently, other towns and communities outside Zimbiki believe the curse will spread to them. How can this be? How can these places still be so primitive? Curses are not logical. Can’t they watch my hut and ensure I do not leave it? How could I kill entire herds without leaving my hut?

I hate to even discuss it, but if they do kill me, at least I have this written record of what transpired and what happened. I have even considered using it as a form of power and threatening to kill further herds if someone doesn’t help. But that could so easily backfire. One wrong interpretation and who knows how quickly a spear would kill me?

Why did I have to come here? Why did I ever leave my home country?

Day Six

I’m writing this from the back of a truck. Last night, they began throwing burning torches into my hut. The entire village gathered around my quarters and those who weren’t throwing fire and rocks were shouting things in their language. I guess they were either obscenities or curses.

Osia was killed in the night. His head was thrown into my tent and that was what awoke me. Rah seems very upset, but isn’t talking. Perhaps he blames me now that we’re far from other people. Perhaps he means to do the same thing to me.

We left quickly. I hid beneath a tarp over the back of the jeep. He drove like a madman and barely escaped several rocks. The windshield is covered with webs of cracks. I can only hope he is honest and doesn’t harbor any resentment. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.

A few more hours and we’ll be back to some semblance of civilization. If only I can hold on that long without rousing Rah’s anger. Just a few hours and I can leave this God-forsaken place.

Why is Rah looking at me like that? Why does he suddenly seem so enraged? He’s just driving. He’s feeling for something in the front seat.

What is it?

Why . . .