On the „onion boat“ – A Journey Full of Obstacles

It’s Wednesday morning. I’ve been on the cargo ship for over 40 hours now. We should have been in the Comoros by now. Instead, we’re just about five kilometers from the port in Kilwa — the starting point of our journey. We spend the first night in the harbor at low tide. We didn’t finish loading the ship in time. We’re ahead of schedule for the second night. But then the captain runs the ship aground on a sandbank. That means one more night. We’ve just finished breakfast, which consisted of rice and fish. For me, it goes both ways—and ultimately ends up with the fish. We’ve only just reached the open sea, and I’m already seasick. I spend the next few hours on the upper deck. Out there, we’ve made ourselves comfortable on a mattress that’s actually part of the cargo — just like the couch next to it. Only the food, consisting mostly of rice and fish, breaks up our routine. Slowly, I’m getting used to the ship’s rocking and the rhythm of the waves.

the lost passport

“In court and on the high seas, you’re in God’s hands.” I have no idea yet that the high seas will be the smaller of my problems. During the night on the high seas, more bad news reaches me. Less than 24 hours separate us from the port of Moroni in the Comoros. There, the captain rouses me from my sleep: “Do you have your passport with you?” he asks me. Tired, I shake my head and turn back over. Little did I know what that question would set in motion. But let’s go back to Tanzania for a moment: Before we left, I had given my passport to the first mate. The shipping company’s agency was supposed to handle the departure formalities. It would be the last time I’d see my passport. As the Comoros archipelago comes into view, I’m sitting on the captain’s bridge. The captain and the first officer are sitting across from me. “We have a problem,” the captain, who is from the Comoros, tells me. He continues in French: “Your passport is missing.” I’m still hoping it’s a misunderstanding — or that I misunderstood. Maybe it was just misplaced. I take the situation in stride: “It’ll turn up eventually,” I tell myself. By tomorrow or the day after, we’ll have solved the problem. I couldn’t be more wrong. And so an absurd story begins to unfold.

At the police station

Shortly afterward, I’m sitting with the captain in the immigration office, while the rest of our fellow travelers receive their entry stamps after just a few minutes and are gone again soon after. We’ll remain there for more than two hours. Then we’re taken to the police station in the back of a pickup truck. By now, at the very latest, it’s clear to me that this is a serious matter. But—probably to my great fortune—I don’t yet know at this point that I won’t be leaving the police station for the next 14 days…