Another Day of Life by Ryszard Kapuściński Read Free Book Online

fortune has smiled on us this time. We have announced ourselves with
camarada
in a voice strangled and hoarsened by fear. The word has been enunciated in such a way that some sort of sound will reach the people at the checkpoint, but not an overly distinct, overly literal, and irrevocable sound: Our mumbling, into which we have cautiously smuggled the fragile syllables of the word
camarada,
will thus leave us with a loophole, a chance of reversing, of retreating into the word
irmão,
so that the unhappy confusion of words can be blamed on the hellish heat that dulls and addles the mind, on the exhaustion of travel, and the nervousness understandable in anyone who finds himself at the front. This is a delicate game; it demands skill, tact, and a good ear. Any taking the easy way out, any heavy-handedness, shows immediately. We can’t, for instance, shout
“Camarada! Irmão!”
all at once, unless we want to be regarded—and rightly so—as the kind of opportunists who are scorned in front-line situations all over the world. We will arouse their suspicion and be held for interrogation.
    So we have said
“Camarada!”
and the faces of the people from the checkpoint brighten. They answer
“Camarada!”
Everybody begins repeating
“Camarada! Camarada!”
sportively and loudly an unending number of times as the word circulates between us and the sentries like a flock of doves.
    The euphoria that sweeps over us at the thought that we will live does not last long, however. We will live, but whether we will continue our journey is still an open question. So we proceed to the first, explanatory part of the meeting. We tell who we are, where we are headed, and where we are coming from. At exactly this moment we present our pass. Troubles arise if the sentry can’t read—an epidemic problem in the case of peasant and nomad sentries. The better-organized checkpoints employ children to this end. Children know how to read more often than adults, because schools have begun to develop only in the last few years. The contents of a general staff pass are usually warm and friendly. They state that
Camarada
Ricardo Kapuchinsky is our friend, a man of good will, reliable, and all
camaradas
at the front and in the rear are therefore asked to show him hospitality and assist him.
    Despite such a positive recommendation, the people from the checkpoint begin as a rule by saying that they don’t want us to go on and order us to turn back. This is understandable. True, the authority of Luanda is great—but then, doesn’t the checkpoint also constitute authority? And the essence of authority is that it must manifest its power.
    But let’s not give up hope or become dispirited! Let’s reach into the arsenal of persuasion. A thousand arguments speak in our favor. We have our documents in order: There is the text, the stamp, and the signature. We know President Agostinho Neto personally. We know the front commander. We are writing dispatches, we are making Angola and its champions of right famous around the world. The bad Europeans have decamped and whoever stayed must be on their side or he wouldn’t have stuck it out. Finally: Search us—we have no weapons, we can’t harm anybody.
    Slowly, stubbornly, the sentries yield. They talk it over, they confer off to one side, and sometimes a quarrel breaks out among them. They can send a message to their commander, who has driven to the city or set out for a village. Then we have to wait. Wait and wait, which we spend our whole life here doing. But this has its good side, since shared waiting leads to mutual familiarity and closeness. We have already become a particle of the checkpoint society. If there is time and interest, we can tell them something about Poland. We have a sea and mountains of our own. We have forests, but the trees are different: There isn’t a single baobab in Poland. Coffee doesn’t grow there, either. It is a smaller country than Angola, yet we have more people. We speak