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Crossing The Red Line

FROM
Break Out: Finding Freedom
When You Don't Quite Fit The Mold
James R. Hasse

"And indeed there will be time to wonder,
'Do I dare?' and, 'Do I dare?'"

T.S. Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

It was a narrow, wooden bridge, just broad enough for one vehicle to cross the Zambezi River between Zambia and Rhodesia. I gingerly placed each foot and each crutch on one plank at a time, trying to avoid the one-inch gaps between them. In the hot, oppressive humidity of the rain forest, the rubber handle grips on my crutches became greasy under my wet palms.

I stopped to catch my breath in the thick air and look over the bridge's railing. About 30 feet below, the water churned as it hit the first rocks which lead to Victoria Falls on my right. But, to my disappointment, I couldn't see the falls. All I could see – and feel – was a heavy mist that blocked out the western horizon and the hot afternoon sun.

I continued to inch toward the center of the bridge with the other members of our People-to-People delegation, and then I saw it – just as, Lila, our guide had described it to us earlier that day. A red stripe, two planks wide, ran across the full width of the bridge.

"This is where we have to stop," Lila, in a tan cotton dress, reminded us in her British accent. "Zambia and Rhodesia are officially at war with each other, and we can't take any chances. For the last six months, we periodically have had raids back and forth across the border."

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