Stinky Fish Bus and Adopted Travel Mama

In Lilongwe, Malawi, I hopped up into the bus and was surprised to find that church was in session.  A preacher roamed the aisle yelling about the devil and hell while a video of African dancers sang about praying for a neighbor instead of coveting their wife.  Everyone aboard closed their eyes and bowed their heads as the preacher waxed on revival style about keeping the devil away from our bus.  Personally, I was kind of hoping he would mention something about the bald tires or lost lug-nuts, or maybe a little something about a sober driver or timely arrival, but he wrapped it up with an alter call.

After the sermon, we parted with our familiar comforts of Lilongwe, namely, the Pakistani restaurant with its butter garlic naan and chicken tandoori, Chili Peppers with its Tex Mex and mochas, and the Chinese food restaurant that served beef in a ½ hallowed-out pineapple- oh, and Nando’s wifi internet, and Shoprite’s Cadbury bars.  I packed a stash of Cadbury bars, just in case it took me awhile to find my next fix.  The pleasant thing was, we were also parting with the annoying parts of Lilongwe like high crime, frequent power outages, and unwelcoming locals.  The “warm heart of Africa” seemed less warm after my failed negotiation for a t-shirt at the flea market.   Here’s how it went down:  The salesman agreed on a swap.  We shook hands, and I left wearing the used shirt.  Five minutes later, the salesman and his brother stopped me at the other side of the market to say they changed their mind, and in addition to the shirt I gave them, they now wanted 10x the price the locals were paying.  I tried to reason with them.  I left wearing my old shirt, and they kept theirs.  I wanted to cuss them out, but I kept it to myself.

It was a lovely change of pace to end up in Nkhata Bay, a small town with pleasant views and kind people.  We dined at H&M Restaurant where we caught up on the news happening in Egypt.  We bought a hand-carved teak wood globe from Mercy, an empowered female vender, and we stayed at Big Blue Star Backpackers for $5 a night, our cheapest room yet.  We even snorkeled with the tropical blue cichlid fish in Lake Malawi.  

Having accomplished our goals, we made plans to head north toward Mbeya, Tanzania.  As we made our way to town, we felt lucky because there was a partially-filled mini-bus heading our way (partially-filled moving vehicles are extremely rare in Africa).  We negotiated a price, but when the driver opened up the rear hatch to load our bags, I was wide-eyed and slowly turned to Mark with a look like “Oh, hell, no.”  The mini-bus was loaded with trays of fish.  It was bad enough to be boarding a mini-bus next to body odor funks and coughing; fish was extreme, and I really didn’t want the fish smell oiled into my bags for the duration of our travels.  Mark shrugged it off, “Breathe through your mouth.”  I may have moaned as I contorted my body into the mini-bus.  There were sardines drying on the dash, but surprisingly, it didn’t stink too much.  Mark says I looked like I was in a state of shock, but I will call it my “mini-bus meditative trance.”  I slumped over the backpack on my lap and observed the on-going tetris puzzle in play- “How can I fit 3 more people in this mini-bus?”  It was amazing to watch.  Kids spilled out, big mamas crammed in with oversized bags, everyone squished around to fit, kids climbed onto laps, men crouched in their Sunday suits, and finally, the assistant pressed in and slowly slid the door shut across his rear, which firmly locked everyone in place.

At the bus depot in Mzuzu, we were approached about boarding a bigger bus to Songwe, the border town to Tanzania.  The man claimed that the bus was leaving quickly.  I asserted that nothing in Africa leaves quickly, but he proved me wrong.  We were off without a proper breakfast or opportunity to use the toilet.  

The scenery heading north was breath-taking, like a smoky canopy over deep blue mountains and lime green hillsides.  We wound around giant baobab trees, rivers, villages, and at times continued along the calm waters of Lake Malawi.  For a time, the bus was entertained by a drunk man who wandered the aisle making loud conversation with himself.  I felt bad for Mark because he was in the aisle seat and got brushed by the man’s peed-in corduroy pants.  We bought road-side bananas and messy mangos, goat meat (with occasional hairs) and fried potatoes.  I noticed a few of the babies on board were sucking on lollipops and drinking sugary sodas.

At one stop, I couldn’t find a restroom, so I just went back to my seat.  An older woman, who appeared to be over 70 years old, in a fragile yet assertive grandmotherly tone asked me if I was looking for something, and when I mentioned the bathroom, she pointed me around a corner where there were 30 cent pay toilets.  After I left, she told Mark she was concerned about me, so she would follow me to the restroom.  And that’s how we met Margaret, our adopted travel-madre.  Being a frequent traveler of this route, she was a wealth of information about locations, distances, and prices.  As a few men attempted to exchange money with us at the border, she told us not to exchange it, and motioned for us to follow her, so we joked with the money-changers that “When mama speaks, we gotta listen.”  Somehow, we were separated from Margaret during the visa process, so it didn’t immediately make sense when the money-changers told us our mother was in a certain shop.  We eventually realized they were talking about our brown travel mama, Margaret.  We smiled, thanked them, and were reunited with our travel mama who advised us that it was getting dark and it wasn’t safe to go all the way to Mbeya in the dark.  She invited us to come with her to her home-town of Kyela where she was getting a hotel for the night.  It sounded perfect, so we split a cab and sped off toward the lovely beach town of Kyela.  

We were only a few kilometers into Tanzania, and already I was in love with the place.  It felt safe, upbeat, friendly, and tranquil all at the same time.  Unlike Malawi where people run home before dark, Tanzanians were socializing, riding bikes, singing, strolling, and hanging out after dark.  Margaret picked our hotel which had a fan, television, double bed, clean personal shower and toilet- for only 15,000 shillings a night ($10 total).  Heaven!  When we ordered our supper of banana beef and rice veggie, the food arrived immediately and for only $3 total.  People were friendly, the prices were low, and we were happy as could be.  We barely noticed when the power went out because our hotel was one of the few places in town that had a generator to run on.  We felt exceedingly fortunate to have met Margaret.

Mercy the Globe Maker

Margaret arranged for a bus to pick us up at 4:45 in the morning and wrote the particulars down on a slip of paper that began, “Dears,”.  She included some of the local phrases that would be helpful along our journey.  We set our alarm for 3:45am, so we were shocked when we heard a knock on our door at 3:30am.  “Bus!”  We were confused, but quickly realized we had inadvertently missed a time change.  We scrambled to get our things together and said our goodbyes to Margaret, our adopted travel madre.  

The large bus was comfortable, and even in the dark, I could see the tropical green trees lining the roadway.  At sunrise, I was awestruck by the beauty of the sun rolling out over the lush green hillsides.  The villages were constructed in light-colored sturdy bricks, and the contrast of the villages and the hillsides was stunning.  In some ways, it reminded me of rural England and pictures of Ireland.  I couldn’t get over how tranquil it felt.  People were happy; children in school uniforms merrily made their way to school.  I could tell that people were proud of their communities because there was minimal litter and the homes and shops were well-maintained.  We were making our way to the train station, but I tapped Mark on the shoulder.  “I can’t get on the train.  It’s so pretty here; we have to stay awhile.”  And that’s how we ended up in the lovely town of Mbeya, Tanzania.

Nkhata Bay, Malawi (Lake Malawi, aka Calendar Lake)

Today, we woke up at Big Blue Star Backpacker in Nkhata Bay, Malawi.  The accommodations are akin to camping, but for $5.00 each/ night, we can hardly complain- besides, we have mosquito nets, deet, and a discarded plastic water bottle (which I have used to kill large buzzing insects in the night). 

Mark and I started the day with some Mzuzu coffee and a hearty breakfast of museli/yougart/banana with eggs and toast.  We dropped off our laundry, and mozied down to the lake for some free snorkeling.  Previously, we had debated about whether or not we would swim in Lake Malawi.  It seems there's no end to the variety of maladies in the tropical "fresh water."  You may have seen Dateline's Medical Mysteries segment on the guy who had a brain-eating parasite?  The parasite came from Lake Malawi.  Ever heard of a parasite that lives in your ear?  A gal's writing her PhD on how they're in Lake Malawi.  There's a cousin to HIV that lives in Lake Malawi.  The list goes on and on.  The maladies freaked us out, but we knew ourselves well enough to know that if we drove by or stayed overnight near the lake, we'd be swimming in it, so it was either fly past or swim.  In the end, we decided to pick up an advance prescription (without a doctor's visit or note) and just plain chance it.  I mean, how could we come to Malawi without actually swimming in Lake Malawi?  It's the third largest lake in Africa.

You may have seen Lake Malawi on the Discovery Channel; they have the shiny blue and pretty striped cichlid fish.  We swam with the fish and flutter-kicked about, enjoying ourselves immensely.  At one point, Mark went back to the room to get our underwater camera, and as I waited on a rock for him to return, an 18 year old paddled up in a dugout canoe (literally a tree that's been dug out in the center).  The young man plopped down on the rock next to me and proposed.  I tried to explain that I was already taken.  He hung around until Mark came back, then excused himself and paddled away.

After snorkeling Calendar Lake (so knick-named because it is 365 miles long and 52 miles wide), we sauntered into town to take pictures and mingle with the locals.  The community of Nkhata Bay was very friendly.  We enjoyed shopping at the People's Store for a few groceries, and buying a pineapple from a guy on the side of the road (he sliced it up fresh straight-away).  Coke has the market share here, so we enjoyed 50 qwacha cokes in the glass bottle (50K is 30cents US- bargain!  cheapest yet!).  As we walked through town, Mark took pictures of women carrying food and children, men working to build coffins, children playing in canoes, and people walking the main-street.  We were invited to place an early supper order at H&M Restaurant, and John was such a good salesman, we placed an 5pm pre-order for fish and peppered beef.  We spent the afternoon reading and relaxing.  A saleswoman found us sleeping in the lofted bar overlooking the Bay.  She, Mercy, explained that she was a wood-working student who owned a giftshop nearby.  She was competing against all men in the trade and was hoping for our support, "female power."  We checked out her shop after supper and bought a lathed and hand-carved teak globe (it's round with a storage space when opened at the equator)- it's beautiful.

In the morning, we're heading north to Tanzania.  If you've been following the protests in Egypt, as we did at supper tonight, please don't worry about us as we don't fly out of Cairo until May 4-5.  If you're the praying type, please keep Egypt in your prayers.  We've heard reports that a museum is burning, and it's sad to think about a place losing its historical records.  Pray that the government transition takes place smoothly, peacefully, with no more deaths (I think there are 38 dead at last count).  Love to all from Malawi, Annie

Pictures of Lilongwe, Malawi

Chickens for Sale

70 lbs of gear

Bags of water for sale

Minibus driver (speaks in English, advertises in Chinese, background Islamic butchery)

Chicken for sale

Nothing better than a cold coke in a glass bottle 3x daily

Well-dressed young man at the market

The discovery of $2 Cadbury bars at Shoprite makes me a happy shopper (in my newly used nike shirt that got drenched in the way to the market)

Bundles of donated clothes for sale at the flea market

Sunglasses, watches, and belts for sale at the market

Pants and skirts for sale from individual standing venders

Islamic center

Lotto tickets for sale on every corner and at two tables in between- they're everywhere!

Mabuya Camp- our temporary abode

Food venders at the market husking corn for the grill

Bumper of my favorite local bus

Developing navigation skills in Lilongwe, Malawi

No matter how many traveling badges a person acquires, there’s always another on the horizon.  Mark and I have already sewn on haggling badges, communication badges, luggage toting badges, and preparation badges, but this trip has earned us a few more.  The one I’m most proud of is our thrift badge.  This one has been earned by washing our own laundry, hitch-hiking from one location to the next, walking rather than taking chapas, sleeping in the dorms rather than private rooms, and eating only five times a day (don’t laugh, this is really an improvement).

Since our arrival in Lilongwe, we’ve been walking up a storm… and even into storms, which is why it was unfortunate that I chose today as the first day in 6 full weeks to actually do my hair.  I washed it, dried it, boosted the roots with hairspray, and curled the ends with a curling iron.  Yeah, it was hot stuff… for about three hours.  We were walking to Old Town, about 2km away when the skies parted and floods from heaven drenched us in a cooling rain.  My wet hair went right back into a standard low pony tail.  Our cameras were saved by my waterproof pack cover (thanks to the prepared badge).  We waited out the storm by hopping into a bus with some locals, then got a ride from a English mom in a Land Rover.  Wet, but undeterred, I skyped my folks from Nando’s, a nice restaurant with wifi.  Meanwhile, Mark stopped next door at Constantini, a John Deere tractor shop, to pick up his backpack which had been under construction for the past 24 hours.  Basically, one of the wheel bearings locked up and the pin melted the plastic which rendered the wheel worthless- this was a problem because he was dragging around 70 pounds of gear.  When I think of his wheel, I think of our thrift badge because we spent a majority of yesterday chasing around town for a replacement ball bearing.  The directions we received were misleading (and by this I mean inaccurate), so the route was quite long, maybe 5 miles in total, but we did eventually find those darn ball bearings, and a coke, and a chocolate doughnut (you see how quickly those 5 meals add up?).

Anyway, it got me thinking about bits of wisdom I would give to someone visiting Lilongwe.  So, here it is, a list of unsolicited advice based on my experience over the past few days:

1.        Don’t trust directions from anyone (when all the information is conflicting, just pick a direction and expect to walk a very long time- the town is laid out on a cross, and eventually you’ll find what you’re looking for).

2.        Look down back alleyways.  Legitimate businesses with and without signage exist in the shadows.

3.       If you buy one thing, be prepared to be swarmed by “additional purchase opportunities.”

4.       If you think something is free, think again.

5.       Expect to pay muzungu prices (as well as bribes).

6.       Lilongwe, like the rest of the world, has what you need: Coke Light in the glass bottle, Cadbury chocolate bars, wifi internet service, English, showers, toilets, etc.  Finding them in working order at the exact moment you discover you need them can be a challenge, so to the best of your ability, use your plan ahead badge.

7.       When asking how long it may take for something to be done, you might hear the clever response, “how long is a piece of string.”

Thief! NGO’s and TIA

So, we’re sitting at the local chicken joint, Galito's, across from Shop Rite in Old Town (an area that’s widely known for its frequent robberies and muggings) when we hear a commotion outside.  There’s shouting outside while the store clerks inside begin pointing wildly; there’s excitement in the air, and we suddenly realize the whole community is chasing down a thief.   A few minutes later, the thief is apprehended and dragged back to be handed over to the police who are sauntering in the general direction of the event.  I was captivated by the immediate justice that was being doled out by the community.  No bystander effect here, not when there’s an opportunity to become a local vigilante hero.  I have read about people being beaten to death for snatching.  Part of me believes it’s good to make examples to prevent theft, but the other part of me believes that the punishment should fit the crime, and certainly beating the hell out of someone tips the scales in the opposite direction, leaving a debt on the violent beater rather than the thief. 

As an American, we’re somewhat insulated from these problems.  When something happens, we call 911 and expect someone else to handle the situation.  Kelly, a American Peace Corp volunteer I met in South Africa (and recently reconnected with in Malawi), told us how her cell phone got snatched two years ago.  She was walking home, carrying groceries and texting when a guy grabbed her phone and started running.  The community chased him down and gave him a severe beating.  Horrified, she begged them to stop.  They told her they had to teach him a lesson.  I had to wonder why someone would bother stealing when they knew the consequences could be so severe.

In contrast to immediate justice for thieves, communities tend not to react in matters of domestic violence.  Kelly told us about her involvement in a dispute that involved two men beating a woman in a local village.  Her and another skirted volunteer physically got involved and made front page news for interrupting the dispute.  Ironically, they were seen as meddlers when the woman clearly deserved to be beaten.  It struck me as a dichotomous culture.

There are so many NGO’s (non-governmental organizations) here, that one semi driver joked “in one ear and out the other” when we told him we wanted a reduced price because of our volunteer status.  The NGO’s all have their long names condensed into acronyms to the point that Kelly jokes, “Acronyms will be the death of me.”  To me, Kelly typifies many of the volunteers I’ve met: recent college graduate, makes friends easily, thinks of herself in a global environment, lives off of a dwindling savings account.

When I told Kelly about my irritation over yesterday’s water and power outage and painfully slow internet, her reply was TIA (this is Africa), kind of like a “what did you expect?”  Minor travel discomforts like annoyance, irritation, physical pain, inconvenience, and loss of personal space are a normal way of life for many people, and for me, they are the only way to obtain spectacular views, local perspective, delicious cuisine, excitement, and entertainment in this environment.  Limited access to a hunk of chocolate and cold bottle of Diet Coke hardly seems worth complaining about, but from time to time displacement makes them seem so immediately relevant to a feeling of normalcy.  Regardless, we soldier on.

There are elements I am proud to have more rapidly adjusted to.  For example, my ears have started immediately recognize opportunities to swap, trade, buy and sell (particularly with currency).  In Tofo, I was able to replenish my American cash from a Dutch girl at the ATM, and today in Malawi I sold $50 worth of Zambian Kwatcha to an American traveler who was heading to Zambia.  Of course, he first looked at me with those nervous eyes of skepticism, but after he did the online research, he recognized what a good deal Mark and I were offering and he was happy to trade his Malawian Kwatcha.  Today’s assertiveness saved us 4 hours of driving to and from the Zambian border and a crappy exchange rate.  Constantly thinking in terms of “How can I help you help me” has become a real asset.

I realized I’ve been throwing around so many names of towns we’ve been through, but I haven’t posted a map for reference, so for anyone (or more likely everyone) who has been wondering, “where the heck is that?” here are some maps of where we’ve been:

Map of Africa
borrowed, with appreciation, from the internet


 

I couldn't get the other maps to load, so I'll try again later to show the routes.  Basically, we flew in to South Africa for the apartheid museum and paragliding, then flew north to Zambia to jump in Victoria Falls, then flew east to Mozambique for the beach scene, then hitch-hiked north to Malawi (which looks like a spleen, but is knicknamed "the warm heart of Africa").  We're still in the eastern region of Southern Africa, but soon we'll be heading north to Tanzania, then Rwanda and Uganda.  If all goes according to our loose plan, we'll fly from Kampala, Uganda to Instanbul, Turkey where we'll start working our way south through the Middle East toward Cairo, Egypt.

Lunch with a Drunk in Old Town (First Day in Lilongwe, Malawi)

I had one of the best showers of my life this morning.  After three days on the road, a hot shower and shaved legs felt glorious.  I put on make-up and even went so far as to look for an outlet to dry and curl my hair.  Turns out, the outdoor outlets don’t work.  Even so, it felt great to “put my face on” along with some clean clothes.  Mark and I pulled out our laptops and used the wifi internet code a Dutch girl had given us the night before.  The connection was slow, but connected none-the-less.  We caught up on emails until the connection ended.  One of my emails was regarding a response to my grad school application.  University of Hawaii, Shidler College of Business wanted to schedule a Skype interview.  I was excited and a little nervous.  I’ve been going through so many changes personally and professionally, I hoped I wouldn’t screw it up by saying that all I cared about right now was travel.  I do care about my future, but at the moment, my mind is on holiday.

Mark and I agreed to have a chill day of catching up on blogs and settling into Old Town.  We tore out some local map pages from the Lonely Planet Guide, grabbed our backpacks, and headed out by foot into Old Town.  Old Town is known for being a little seedy, particularly at night, so we stayed on the main roads and kept our packs locked.  As we rounded a non-signed corner, Mark asked a local if we were on Colby Street.  I could tell from his stance and eye contact, he was drunk and possibly high.  Crap.  I got a street confirmation from another guy on the street, and we tried to clip along, but the drunk had attached to us.  He bumbled along, following us, looking for money, but not outright asking for it yet. 

I was hungry, so when we approached the MacDouds near the Internet Café, I motioned for Mark to try to ditch the drunk by going inside.  No such luck, he followed us and plopped down at our table.  He ordered himself a water and meal off the menu while we attempted to explain to the waitress that our Cokes would be separate.  I was uncomfortable.  How were we going to shake this guy?   How was I going to get breakfast?  Was this going to escalate to violence?  We decided to pay for our Cokes and eat later.  The waitress was confused about why Mark was only paying for him and I because this other guy was sitting at our table and had said “Thank you very much.”  We stressed that he was not with us, had just followed us in.  We quickly left and were followed again, but it appeared that he had someone else with him now.  I was stressed.  Was this going to end badly?  Mark made his way toward some police men on the side of the road.  “Can you tell us where to find an ATM?”  “It’s right there, Love,” I pointed to the obvious bank directly in front of us.  Why on earth would he want cash while we’re being followed?  Sometimes I’m so literal.  He was buying time and bluffing the drunk.  Mark pointed to the drunk, “Is the ATM in THAT direction?”  “Which particular branch do you want?”  the cops inquired.  Seeing that we were talking to the cops (possibly about him), the drunk waved and passed.  We circled back to MacDouds for brunch.  The waitress laughed when we entered, and the owner told us that he had sent his manager to make sure the drunk didn’t disturb us any further, which explained the guy walking with the drunk.  I felt better knowing that the locals were looking out for us.  I could eat in peace now.  I ordered the chicken tiki masala which was absolutely delicious, enough savory chicken and rice and chips for two people to share.  I added a chocolate milkshake for dessert.

We continued on foot to the ATM, then on to the I-café.  The first one didn’t have wifi, so we kept going through the markets until we found one that did.  We passed a watch repair-man, a shopping mall, and the Shop Rite (essentially Lilongwe’s Wal-Mart for the upper class).  We checked our bags at the door, tucked the claim ticket in our pocket, and meandered through the beautiful air conditioned market.  When it appeared that we may be loitering, we paid for my newly acquired chocolate stash and headed down the complex toward a sign that read wifi at Nando’s restaurant.  There was power and wifi available, so we plopped down and settled in for an afternoon of loitering.  We stayed from about 2:30-8pm resizing photos, writing blogs, and checking facebook.  I had a tasty cappuccino, and we ordered a small pita for supper before we left.  Outside, it was dark, so we took a cab back to Mabuya Camp.  The driver informed us that there were problems with armed robberies (knives and guns) in Old Town, so it was best to hire cabs after dark. Petrol was expensive, $12 a gallon (paid by the liter), so the fare was high, $3.33 to go just a kilometer or two.  But, when it comes to safety, I’m more than happy to pony up.

In addition to the crime and corruption factors, there were some other stats and fun facts about Malawi that I had recently discovered.  For example, it was a landlocked country, 85% rural, with 1/3 of its GDP coming from agriculture, and 90% of export revenues are from agriculture.  Malawi is among the world’s least developed and most densely populated countries which made it dependent on aid from World Bank and IMF.  It was filled with charities from around the world.  A large portion of Malawi is covered by Lake Malawi, also known as Calendar Lake because it is 365 miles long and 52 miles wide.  It was a country known for its friendly people.  I looked forward to experiencing it in person, to make the stats come to life.

Day Two and Three of Hitching Into Malawi

Our driver dropped us off in Inchope, the junction toward Tete.  Our first semi truck hitch-hiking experience was such a successful adventure; it left us with a desire for more.  Mark told Enway that if he could find us another semi, we’d buy him supper.  Enway walked from semi to semi inquiring about their destinations.  Eventually, another kid ran up to us and told us there was a semi down the road that was going to Tete.  “Perfect,” we thought.  From atop the truck bed, the driver and an assistant were stacking huge bags of wheat bran while four guys below lifted them up to the truck bed.  Tethered to a line attached to the truck’s step, two chickens clucked and pecked at the ground.  As the sun was setting, the driver told us we could tag along, so Mark offered to help lift the heavy bags of bran.  I surveyed the cab where two guys had left their bags inside and wandered back into town.  An hour later, when the driver was ready to go, he honked his horn, fidgeted, waited 10 minutes, and left town with the guy’s bags still inside the cab.  I felt bad for the guys, but I was also glad there would be room for Mark and I to sleep on the bunk through the night.  We weren’t sure why the truck was off to such a slow start, but about 30 minutes down the road, the driver stopped to change a flat tire.  It was the beginning of a long night.  I don’t know how many stops we had, but it took all night long to get to Tete.  There were stops for tollways (and constant solicitations to pay for said tollways), stops for tarps wrapped around the wheels, stops for grocery shopping; all night long we were stopping.  When we pulled into Tete at 6am, the cab was full of produce.  Pinneapples lined the top cabinet while the bottom smelled like potatos and bananas.  Two chickens were tethered to the shifting column.  It was a sight to behold.



Chickens




Bridge



We hoped out, shook hands with the driver, and waved goodbye to Enway.  The sun was rising, and the temperatures were pleasant, an unexpected surprise for a town with the reputation as the hottest town in Mozambique.  We pulled our bags to the main roadway and put our hands out to hitch.  After about 15 minutes, a female in a white pickup truck let us climb into the back and took us straight to the bridge which appeared to be out of order.  As we crossed on foot, we realized it was a one way bridge under construction.  On the other side of the bridge, a stranger was heading our same direction and offered to lead us to the chapa stand where we waited for a border-bound chapa with space for us and our bags (it’s so much more challenging than it sounds).  Eventually, we crammed into one with our backpacks on our laps, locking us into position.  Our large bags were strapped into the back of the van, pressed in by a hatch that couldn’t possibly latch shut.  We looked around and realized this chapa was setting new records, 6 to a row that might comfortably sit 2 (well, your knees would still hurt from being pressed into the coils of the seat in front of you, but hip to hip, you’d be quite comfortable).  After circling until the chapa became even more full, we sped off to the border, driving for about an hour (the time it takes to fully lose any pain sensation you were previously feeling in your knees and feet).  Along the way, we passed the site of a recent collision of two semi trucks.  One had overturned, spilling its black oil all over the street.  It looked like the driver hadn’t made it.  Further on, we observed window reach-ins, solicitations for sales of cooked corn, fruit, bread rolls, currency conversion, sodas and juice.



Freightliner, A Sweet Ride When You Can Get It



Don't Believe Everything You Read- Signs Are Negotiable

We got dropped off in a village where we were stared at.  People hung around us waiting for us to buy cold drinks and fruit, but not saying anything; it was my first experience with such passive sales.  Mark asked a semi truck driver for a lift to Malawi, and although the driver didn’t speak much English, he motioned for us to go ahead and hop in.  We tossed our bags into the top bunk of the cab and took a perch on the lower bunk, standard protocol for new backpack hitch-hikers like ourselves.  I liked the view.  It was like having the benefit of a safari vehicle without the white person safari stigma.  We were meeting locals and seeing villages along the way.  The Northern Mozi huts appeared more long-lasting than we had seen in Southern Mozi, concrete block and mud rather than grass huts.  The roads were better paved, and the temperatures were cooler.  The mud huts with their thatched roofs were a natural, a gorgeous contrast to the multiple shades of green- tall lime grass, deep green trees scattered on the rolling hills- all in front of deep blue mountains in the distance.  The blue-grey clouds rolled through the sky above, dripping rain from time to time.  In my heart, I felt at home among the rolling corn fields.

We poked along at 22 miles per hour, yep, it was slow going on the hills, but we didn’t care.  It was day three of hitch-hiking to Malawi, and we were happy as could be.  Zaca, our driver, took us to the border town of Dedza where we got our visa stamped for exit, and our entrance stamped on the Malawi side.  Some kids tried to corner me with a stick for 50 met when I exited the public bathroom.  As an experienced traveler, I smiled and walked past, ignoring them.  Creative little brats.

Bicycling In Town



Northern Mozi Village



Mountains and Hillsides Northern Mozi into Malawi

In broken English, Zaca told Mark he had to do a few hours of mandatory boss-man paperwork, so we’d need to find an alternative ride to Lilongwe.  We paid Zaca 300 met, $10 USD.  Mark and I inquired on the Malawi side about rides to Lilongwe.  They were expensive, the least expensive being a hard-pressed negotiation that ended at $54.  Mark asked other semi drivers if they could take us.  “No passengers, they replied.  Mark ran into Zaca in no-man’s land (the space between two countries) and again asked if we could get a ride when he finished the paperwork.  Zaca relented; if we were willing to wait, we could get a lift for free.  We were thrilled with our luck.  What a great guy, Zaca.  While we waited for Zaca to finish the paperwork, we went to the border market and bought 50 cent cokes, goat meat and fresh fries off the oil-filled grill, and grilled corn for 20 cents- oily, salty goodness, complex carbs and protein, the closest thing we’d had to a real meal in a couple of days- not that I wasn’t grateful for the cheese and crackers and cashews we’d been munching on.  I thought about how shabby I must look after 3 days on the road.  My khaki pants were stained, my red shirt was covered in patches of dust, and my braids poked out from under my hat with the appearance of a child who slept in braids overnight.  In addition to the above, my face was stinging hot from the allergic reaction I had to the Ponds pad I had cleaned it with the night before.  To top it all off, my face was blotchy from not wearing any makeup.  Oh, well, we were in Malawi, “the warm heart of Africa.”

While we waited for Zaca, we interacted with the local kids playing near our cola crates dining table.  We inquired about the local lingo.  “Zicomo kwambini,” means thank you very much.  “Mos go banch,” means good morning.  “Mos suwera banch,” means good afternoon.  Cool.  How about the exchange rate?  151 to 1.  Where can I find the bathroom?  That’s almost always a process.  I wandered from the closed stalls at the passport building to a back alleyway where someone directed me to a back hut where I was re-directed to a brick building with a padlock on it.  I got the key for the squatty potty (two concrete blocks on the side of a 6x6” hole in the ground- bring your own toilet paper and hand sanitizer or you’ll probably shed tears).  As I entered, I saw Zaca’s semi truck fire up and lurch forward.  Dang it!  I hurried to use the restroom, return the key, and run back to catch up with the semi truck.  Mark had the bags loaded and Zaca was well into another pack of cigarettes.  We bounced forward with Mark in the assistant chair and me in the back.  The fuel gauge read empty, but it had read that since the beginning of our journey.  The truck had a sticker inside on the cabinet that read “Tennesee, USA something-or-other,” which made me believe it was reconditioned truck, shipped to Africa, which may explain its top speed of 25 mph.

We pulled into a border patrol and Zaca realized he had forgotten some paperwork.  He turned off the semi, left the keys in the ignition with Mark and I in the cab, then ran down the street.  Moments later, he returned on the back of a bicycle heading the opposite direction.  Mark snapped some photos while I ate a sucker and chewed my expensive piece of hard pink gum.  Zaca returned awhile later and we slowly pulled forward through a border patrol checkpoint with the proper paperwork.  He mumbled something about Malawi corruption and paperwork.  We creeped along at 20 mph, in no particular hurry; it was a perfect pace to enjoy the goats grazing, mating, and proclaiming their proud territory from atop the rocks.  Bikes pedaled by.  Families tended fields.  It was perfectly pleasant.

As we pulled into a police checkpoint, Zaca said “Oh, big problem.”  The officer jumped into the cab and immediately demanded a bribe from Mark.  Zaca quickly tried to negotiate a lower price, but the officer hastily increased the price.  “400, 500, make it 1,000, hurry up, pay me now.”  Mark forked over the $6.66 USD and we were back on our way.  I was glad he had hid the expensive camera by his feet.  As we pulled away, Zaca conveyed that he was really sorry that we were treated this way.  As a proud Mozambican, he was offended by the Malawian corruption.  I was amazed at how quickly it had happened, how bold the officer was to demand payment for no reason.  Zaca said it was because they don’t know him as a driver and they saw a white stranger in the passenger seat.  On an otherwise free ride, we could hardly complain.  It was non-violent corruption, sucky, but in a fascinating way.  Our total transportation price (excluding meals and lodging) from Tofo, Mozambique to Lilongwe, Malawi: $42.15 USD each, quite a significant savings off the $200 each we would have otherwise paid without our newly acquired, thrift and hitch-hiking skills.

As we pulled into Lilongwe, I noted the number of charities, NGO’s, and aid agencies.  They were everywhere.  Zaca dropped us at the chapa station, where we negotiated a rate for a pick up truck to take us to Mabuya Camp, a cheap hostel located close to the golf course and Old Town.  On the way to the hostel, we passed red and yellow MacDouds, an eclectic Islamic Halaal restaurant that seriously resembled a McDonalds.  No doubt, I would be eating there at some point.  Our drivers used the PPS, people positioning system, to get from the general vicinity to the hostel’s street.  It looked something like this: pulled into the petrol station, the assistant hoped out to talk to another driver, other driver asked us where we wanted to go, we repeat “Mabuya Camp” with varied pronunciations, the second driver points in the general direction and makes left/ right motions while citing street names.  Works like a charm, and it’s free.  I love watching the PPS in action.  It destroys the myth that guys can’t just ask for directions.  We arrived at Mabuya camp, victorious.  We had successfully hitch-hiked from Tofo, Mozambique to Lilongwe, Malawi, a total of over 700 miles in 3 days, not bad, not bad.  I desperately needed a shower, but even more importantly, I needed to sleep.  I crawled into bed, dirty clothes and all, and fell fast asleep.

Generous Spirits

The bus dropped us off at the town center, downtown Vilankula.  I checked my compass and consulted the Lonely Planet Guide map.  Baobab Backpacker’s hostel, which was recommended by Hannah on the Cape Town Wine Tour, was 1km down the street.  Mark and I dragged our bags through the sand, sweating despite the mist, until we reached a small cabana with a 18 year old male seamstress tapping the foot pedal of his Singer-style sewing machine.  Mark was elated because he was looking for an opportunity to have zippers sewn into his shorts pockets.  Manito, “Little Brother,” as his family calls him, reminded me of a sweet young version of a smiling Chris Rock.  He took the shorts and said we could come back in an hour.

We continued down the back streets toward the hostel and another sign caught Mark’s eye, B&B.  It appeared to be getting renovations, but we inquired anyway.  Mohammed, the owner of Moohaas Complex (meaning they had a pool), explained that they were in fact getting renovations; he was adding air conditioning, but if we didn’t mind the construction, we were welcome to stay, and he would be happy to have a room cleaned and a mattress delivered upstairs.  He even invited us as his only guests to a private seafood supper, but said we were welcome to eat in town if we preferred.  I tell you, the hospitality here is really something.  We negotiated a great price for a room with a fan (400 met, $13 USD), locked up our bags in a back room, and meandered back into town.  The walk seemed so easy now that we weren’t dragging bags through the sand.  Mark looked for sunglasses while I marveled at the display of pineapples.  On the way back to the complex, we stopped to pick up Mark’s completed shorts.  As we chatted with Manito and his friend, Mark explained that he found sunglasses in town and had a scratched up pair that Manito could have if he wanted them.  “Really!?!” Manito was overjoyed.

Back at the complex, we read outside in lawn chairs until it got too dark, then Mohammed informed us that supper was ready.  No one makes supper like Mohammed.  There was full size crab for each of us, a heaping portion of matapa (a delicious local leaf curry, a bit like creamed spinach), calamari in spiced oils, rice, bread… oh man, we were dining, and for such a good price, 150 met (just $5 each).  As we filled our stomachs, Manito entered the open-air bar/restaurant.  “Hey, how’d you find us?”  “I asked around.”  In a tourist mecca, we were shocked he could find us.  In his hand, he had a black bag filled with a fruit nut from the tree I had inquired about earlier in the day.  “I have a surprise for you,” he said as he handed me the bag.  What a thoughtful guy.  We invited him to sit with us.  He ordered a Coke and we talked about his family, geography (we drew a map of the world and the locations where people speak Portugese like he did), and life in general (he was 21 and “needed out” of his parent’s home, and wanted a girlfriend but the girls in Vilankula like the money).

As Mark and I went upstairs to bed, Mohammed showed us how to lock the exterior door (because we were the only guests).  We had the entire upstairs to ourselves which I liked because I could shower and use the restroom with the door wide open.  The bed turned out to have little bugs all over it, probably from storing it downstairs.  Rather than risk getting bitten or becoming bedbug carriers, we rolled out our Prolite campmats and slept on the floor.  Mark was settled into his campsite on the floor, and I had just showered and was happily trying to find my pajamas when the thunderstorm caused the power to go out.  I couldn’t remember where I had put my torch (headlamp), so I just stood there, buck naked, wet hair, stunned by the darkness.  Mark later described my expression to be like a cat moaning with displeasure.  It was quite comical, like a cartoon character lamenting the darkness with a sing-song voice, “Ah, Dang.”  The power eventually restored in the night, three or four times.  I could tell because the ceiling fan would click on again and cool me down.  Our room’s light stayed off, but another one down the hall exploded.  Still, after staying in the dorm accommodations for the past couple of weeks, we were simply happy to have the place to ourselves.

At breakfast, we were again overjoyed at the food: papaya, mangos, guava juice, bread with jam and butter, eggs with a peach runny yoke, tea and coffee, all included with the price of the room.  Mohammed joined us at the table and we started talking economics.  He provided context for Mozambique and shared his story about selling Baobab beach and building his hostel, plowing each year’s profits into renovations.  He shared about his plans to develop affordable campsites on his plot in the nearby Archipelago where high end accommodations ($200/night) excluded backpackers.  He shared his vision of a future where the locals take ideas from South African and Western developers and develop a desire to build their own tourist destinations.  He had a knack for business and was proud of the 7-8% growth the area had been seeing each year.  I was impressed by his agenda to mix locals and travelers, to help people to see that people are just people.  After a couple of hours of conversation, we needed to get on the road.  We inquired about a taxi for our bags but Mohammed offered to have two men from his construction crew carry our bags into town.  He suggested we could tip them for cigarettes which we were more than happy to do.  Mark and I watched incredulously as the two men lifted the 70 lb bags up on their heads and clipped along at a brisk pace into town.  They took us directly to the main exit where we could hitch 20k to Pembara, the junction for the main vain north.

In the back of a pickup bound for Pembara, we met two brothers, 16 and 18.  Enway, the older brother, had been doing carpentry with his brother and father for the past month.  When we discovered that Enway was on his way home to Tete, we felt like synchronicity was happening because that’s exactly where we were heading.  We put out our sign for Chimoio (on the way to Tete), while Enway and his brother looked for a bus.  Kids circled, chapas stopped, and again, locals suggested we take the big bus.  After about an hour of waiting, Enway’s brother told us to come quickly, to hop into the approaching semi-truck.  There was a bit of confusion as the semi passed us then slowed again to a stop in the middle of the road.  The driver stepped out and we began negotiations as an assistant strapped our bags to the upper deck of the outside rear cab.  When we climbed into the cab, Enway was already inside.  We joined Enway on the tattered sleeper bunk, our feet stretched out in front of us to make room.  The truck roared forward, bumping up and down; we were elated to be hitching.  We had a bird’s eye view of the road, the villages, the landscape, and for ½ the price of the crowded chapa (we paid 500 met to get to Inchope, the junction change toward Tete).  Semi’s were the largest thing on the road, so it felt a lot safer, well, minus the driver’s constant texting.  Mark and I put the splitter on my ipod and cranked up the tunes.  We passed out snacks to the driver, assistant, and Enway.  The driver eventually cranked up his own radio with the sounds of JayZ.  The breeze rolled through the windows, and we were two delighted clams.

Throughout the ride, we rolled through villages where locals were selling baskets of pineapples, mangos, and cashew nuts.  Women walked with well-behaved, sometimes sleeping, bouncing babies tied onto their backs.  We saw women with bright red Rihanna-esque hair.  Along the roadside, children walked home from school in droves.  Other children were tending to oxen, herds of goats, carrying water, and carrying hoes.  I loved taking it all in from the semi cab.

The driver made a stop mid-day, and I had to use the restroom.  Mark stretched outside the cab while keeping an eye out for the bags.  I asked Enway where my best chance of finding quick access to a restroom would be.  “Here, sister,” he motioned toward a nearby restaurant.  When I exited the restroom, I found that he was waiting for me like a sweet, thoughtful brother.  He did this for me at every stop.  As an assistant with the occasional language barrier, an explainer of my 100 questions along the way (“What are those bags they’re selling?”  “Coal, for cooking.  50 met, lasts two weeks.”), and as protection for a single female traveler, he was a phenomenal asset on the journey.  He was the key we needed for breaking through the “No Passenger” barrier posted on semi trucks.  He showed Mark and I that the trick to hitching is to personally ask the semi driver where they are going and if they are willing to accept passengers. 

Manito, Mohammed, and Enway, were key elements of our journey.  These generous spirits taught us about the local economy and our impact on it as well as how to get by in a foreign environment.  Being in the Mesa State group had had its advantages like group discounts and convenience, but being on our own now, I was enjoying increased opportunities for interactions with local people.  I was gaining perspective, learning local economics, and watching culture unfold.  It’s a wonder to think about the value I receive when simply bringing a few tourist dollars to a local economy.

Our first semi truck hitching (Enway in the background)

Village Huts

Village in Northern Mozambique

View from the Semi Cab

Vilankula B&B (Under Renovations)

Mark, Sleeping on the Floor Because the Bed Had Bugs

Driving Through a Mozambican Village