Road trips were an occurring theme during my childhood. Despite the trials and tribulations that came with living in hardship countries, my parents always managed to fit in one or two memorable ones. This particular road trip was when we were living in Lusaka, Zambia. Dad had decided to drive the 5 hours to Victoria Falls rather than take the plane.
“It’ll be fun,” I remember him saying. “We can smell the African outback, maybe see some game along the way.” Dad always loved a road trip.

After all the usual preparations, we were on our way.  

Despite the squeeze in the car, I had managed to shut my eyes for a little while. The lull of the car had done its usual trick. As a baby, on the island of St. Kitts & Nevis, where I was born, Dad made a makeshift hammock in the back of their Renault 4. On nights when I couldn’t sleep, he put me in the car and drove around until I fell asleep. It wouldn’t take long. Being the only parents at the time in their friend group, on many a weekend spent at the beach, they had my sleeping routine down to a tee; they would drive me around until I fell into a peaceful slumber and park the car within eyesight and earshot. Since then, I have always found it challenging to stay awake in any vehicle. 

I woke up after a while. The usual cold air inside the car was now as hot as an oven. The air-conditioner must have packed in I remember thinking. With four of us squeezed in the backseat, me up against the car door, Leila and Charlie, friends from boarding school spending their summer holidays with us, in the middle, and Simon, my younger brother, against the door on the other side, our legs stuck together with sweat. I looked over at him and recognized the familiar green color his face became when we traveled. Judging from the stale smell in the car, and notwithstanding the hot breeze blowing through the open windows, he had been wretching whatever little remained of his stomach in the sick bucket that stayed by his side. Leila and Charlie had managed to fall asleep, despite the heat and general discomfort. I reached out to touch Simon’s arm. I always felt bad for him during these long trips. It didn’t seem fair that most people could sail through journeys without a problem and Simon had to feel so wretched. He just shrugged and continued to look listlessly out the car window. 

Dad was in his usual good mood behind the wheel. Maybe the airflow was better at the front of the car. His left hand resting on the steering wheel and his right elbow perched on the top of the open window. The road had no bends as far as the eye could see. There was a shimmer on the horizon, creating a mirage of the mix of asphalt and dust melting in the heat. He had a look of serenity, which immediately made me feel safe. Mum was reading a book. I was content with everyone’s whereabouts and closed my eyes again, allowing the movement of the car to create a sense of calm. 

“Shit!” Dad shouted, simultaneously slamming on his brakes. The four of us catapulted headfirst into the front seats of the car. He didn’t typically use expletives. He reversed at full speed, straining his neck looking out of the back window. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. Mum rifled through the glove-box in a similar panic. “Where are the documents for the car, Andrew?” I looked out the rear windscreen and saw four armed policemen standing in the middle of the road, agitatedly waving their machine guns around.  With horror, I realized that we had managed to skip a police roadblock. 

Before the heart-stopping sound of screeching brakes, Dad had overtaken a double-carriage truck which was dangerously swerving down the middle of the quiet outback road, throwing up dust and stones. Dad had decided to give the truck a wide berth to be safe, and in doing so must have missed the roadblock when overtaking the truck. Roadblocks on these roads were often tucked away and not so obvious.

I knew that this could mean real trouble if Dad didn’t play his cards right with the police.

After reversing a good two hundred meters, he screeched the car to a halt directly in front of the checkpoint. The policemen encircled us immediately. Missing these roadblocks was considered a severe offense. Stories among the expat community were rife of these simple mishaps going horrifically wrong. Leila and Charlie had no clue but had the sense to stay quiet. 

One of the policemen, dressed in army fatigues, banged the butt of his Kalishnikov on the bonnet of the car. We all jumped with fright. The man’s bloodshot eyes were wide with anger. His face contorted with aggression and disbelief.

“Get out of the car now, sah. Immediately!” Dad slowly got out of the car, careful not to make any quick movements. “Sah! Why did you run a roadblock? Where are you going in such a hurry? It is a crime to run a roadblock, sah.” The policeman continued. We all sat silently in the car. The heat in the car went up a few notches. Simon’s green tinge had changed to bright red. We knew not to move or say a word to provoke the policeman any more than he was already.

He was a nervous type, eyes still bulging wide, almost popping out of his sockets. His rifle was cocked and pointed at Dad. He yelled at one of the other policemen to come and check on Dad’s papers. Mum had managed to find them in the glove box and handed them to him as he got out of the car. The excitable one gave the papers to one of his fellow officers, and they looked over the documents together. The time seemed interminable. They began to shout at each other and wave their guns around again. The policeman turned back towards Dad and began to talk about an expired license. Dad was a meticulous man and had an attention to detail that would challenge an accountant on steroids. Dad knew that the permit wasn’t expired and the policemen were finding a way to get some bribe money.

“I believe this is what you are looking for Officer?” Dad risked pulling out of his pocket a wad of 100 Zambian Kwacha bills. He held the money out towards the officers. He suddenly had both of their attention. This bribe dance was standard practice at most roadblocks in Zambia, and Dad was used to it. Except for the blowing through the roadblock part, that is.

Once the money was in the policeman’s palms, he gestured for Dad to get back into the car, handed the documents back and waved us on. 

It took all of Dad’s will power not to rush things. It was imperative that he be calm, smile, say any platitudes necessary to keep the four men from pulling their guns out again. Dad slipped into the car, wishing them a beautiful day, “Merci bien, Monsieur gendarme, bonne journée a vous.”

Within seconds we were back on the road. Dad’s hands shook a little as he moved to change gears. “Everyone ok?” he asked, reaching out to Mum, putting his arm around her shoulders. “Oh my god, Dad that was so scary,” I said. He looked back at us through the rear-view mirror and said: “That was a close call.”