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.
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| Chickens |
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| 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.
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| Freightliner, A Sweet Ride When You Can Get It |
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| 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.
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| Bicycling In Town |
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| Northern Mozi Village |
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| 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.
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