HOME    text version of navigation bar

Crossing The Red Line continued

The thick jungle on the opposite side of the river was hazy, mysterious but peaceful. Below the bridge, a small excursion boat for tourists blew a warning whistle as it passed two men in a fishing boat.

"We'll next take a boat ride on the river," said Lila, a tall, thin woman who had crowned her head of long blonde hair with a blue cap, a masculine accessory which seemed odd for a woman to wear in 1973. "Then, we'll go down below the falls. You may be able to see some hippos in the water up here, but it's hard. Their backs look like smooth rocks in the water. They'll be much easier to see from the boat."

Numbed by the oppressive humidity, many of the 25 Wisconsinites in our group, dressed in sticky polyester casuals, hung to the railings and searched the waters anyway for a hippo.

I was more interested in the red line. I took a couple of steps back from the group and quietly placed the tip of my left crutch over the red line and then pulled it back. No gun fire. No screaming warriors hit the bridge from Zambia’s side. No military men showed up. But, Lila caught me out of the corner of her eye and smiled.

"It's time to go," she suggested to me, hinting I should get a head start on the others in our retreat from the bridge.

[Continued On Next Page: Click Here]

STORIES FROM OUR VISITORS

[ Break Out Home | Contents | Search | Post ]

text version of navigation bar

Send mail to jhasse@jvlnet.com with questions or comments about this web site.
Copyright © 1999-2004 Hasse Communication Counseling. All rights reserved.