So it’s that time again. Another brand new, shiny, and fresh
blog post from me to you. At least, that’s the plan. I am more familiar with
used things from the market, so bear with me if this post has that “lived in
feel” of a garage sale or St. Vincent’s.
Seeing as how so much of my time and energy here is spent
figuring out, riding in, waiting for, and hoping for transport from A to B, I
thought I should give you a feel for what transport is like in Malawi.
Hopefully by the end you will understand why I will cry with tears of joy when
I think of the time it took me 5 hours to move 30 miles on I-5. Those were the
good ol’ days.
The main mode of transport in Malawi is by minibus. This may
sound exciting in some vague “I don’t really know what that is, but I want to
try it” way, and while that may be true at first, you quickly realize it is
exciting more in a vivid “I can’t move my limbs and I’m sandwiched between a
crying baby, a chicken, and a 50L bucket of usipa (similar to sardines) and a
total stranger is sitting on my lap” type of way. Minibuses are vans that are a
bit smaller than a 15 passenger van that we used to see in the States. Except
they can carry up to 26 adults, all their katundu (luggage), and the odd baby
or livestock.
Let me walk you through a day of transport. I wake up at
5:30am to the free alarm clock service provided by the plethora of roosters,
goats, and cattle in my village, and roll out from under my mosquito net. I
grab my 65L backpacking backpack and my bike, and I’m out the door. Tying my
gate behind me in an attempt to protect the remnants of my garden, I walk over
to Andrew’s to say goodbye. We have a brief exchange in Lambya when I tell him
where I’m going, when I’ll be back, and to greet his family for me. If his son
Justice is around, he can be found clinging to my leg or giving me repeated
high fives while Andrew and I talk. It’s then over to William’s house for more
goodbyes and exchanging of the daily greetings/pleasantries:
“Mwoghona William! Muli akiza? Imbombo? Mwoghona ku nyumba?
Nyia pa butali, pa training pa Lilongwe apo. Inti mbuke pachinayi pamo
pachisanyu. Usuala akiza nu mmulamuke ku nyumba.”
“Good morning
William! How are you? How’s work? How’s your house? I’m going far, to a
training there in Lilongwe. I should return Thursday or Friday. Stay well and
greet your house for me.”
Then it’s on to the 30 minute bike ride over bumpy dirt
roads, sand patches, bridges I wouldn’t trust a chicken to cross safely, and
the (hopefully) dried mini-lakes that form in the road after even a light rain.
Threading my way through the sand traps, broken branches, puddles, and women carrying
large bundles of firewood on their heads, I ride towards my trading center. The
ride takes me through a few patches of forest, past fields of maize, millet,
tobacco, and sunflowers, through wetlands and meadows full of chirping
crickets, croaking frogs, trilling birds, and herds of lowing cattle.
Arriving in my trading center around 6am I wind my way to
Mark’s house, past the line of women at to bore hole who laugh when I ride out
of the bush, huge bag strapped to my back, and greet them in Lambya, past the
children who either stare at me blankly, cry, or chase after me shouting
“Azungu! Azungu!” (White! White!). I announce my arrival at Mark’s house with a
few low calls of “Odie” (a sort of announcement of your presence, akin to
knocking on a door). There is another exchange of greetings with him and his
wife, and then I walk to the stage, just a pullout on the side of the tarmac.
Then the waiting game begins. And the game of luck. It is
still too early for the swearing game to begin (though this game is usually a
rarity. Luckily I’m a patient guy). If I’m lucky, a minibus roles by within 20
minutes of my arrival, and I somehow squeeze into it before we’re off on our
way to Karonga boma, the district capital just east of Chitipa. On a good day
there are 15-20 people on the minibus. On a bad day there are 25-26.
Potentially more. The conductors are not afraid to sit outside the minibus, with just their legs inside, the rest of them
sticking out the window. Nor are they afraid to remove the last bit of space
from a bus. If you can move a limb, there is certainly room for one more
person. You know those competitions they have where they pile as many people as
they can into a car and whoever stays in there the longest wins the car?
Imagine that, but you don’t win the car. You don’t win anything. In fact,
you’re paying for it.
But lucky for me the scenery is absolutely stunning and I
can easily spend the 2 hour drive lost in the wonder and beauty of the
countryside. Mountains surround us left and right, with only a ribbon of tarmac
winding through the green mists of Chitipa and Karonga. To the north I can see
the mountains of Tanzania and I get lost in thought of what lies there – the
Serengeti, Mt. Kilimanjaro, the remote, unpopulated plains and mountains that
lie just north of my home. To the south I can see the beginnings of the Nyika
Plateau, Malawi’s largest national park and home to rolling grasslands, large
tracts of forest, herds of zebra, impala, duikers, ibex, and waterbucks, the
lone panthers, packs of hyena, and troops of elephants. Bring on the cramped
quarters. With views like this, I can meditate my way to peace and comfort.
We reach Karonga boma, I pay the driver the fare (about
$2.50 US) and walk intently through the depot to Modest’s, a nice little
restaurant right at the depot’s entrance. It’s about half 8 or 9 in the morning
and I order chips mayai (a delicious, albeit oily, potato and egg dish from
Tanzania). Soon after I am back in the depot, waving off the minibus drivers
and conductors looking for an unwitting tourist to take slight advantage of.
“My friend! My friend! Where to?” “Hey man! Where to? The
border?” “Brother! Mzuzu? Mzuzu? Lilongwe? Where to?”
I just shake my head, and move my finger in circles (like
I’m stirring a drink with my index finger).
“Ahway. Tulipo. Nafika. Tulipo.
Yewo.” “No. I’m just around. I’ve arrived. I’m just around. Thanks.”
All the while I’m walking through the depot, slyly eyeing
the minibuses to see where they are going (they have painted signs inside on
the dash) and how full they are. Showing
too much interest only results in drawing more unwanted attention from other
drivers. If there is one with about 15 people in it headed to Mzuzu, I hop in.
Usually to the sighs of the other drivers and conductors who have been courting
my business.
“Pepani. Ichi abuka now now.” “Sorry. This one is leaving
now now.”
“Now now” means it is leaving within 10 minutes, as compared
to simply “now”, which could be anywhere between 10 to 90 minutes.
Hopping in a full minibus, I cross my fingers in hopes that
we hit the road soon. Karonga is blisteringly hot, even in cold season, and
sweat is running down my back after just 10 minutes in the depot. And it’s only
worse in a van with 15 other people and not even a hint of a breeze. Soon sweat
will literally drip down behind my knees and off my nose. This place is the
definition of HOT.
By 10 o’clock I’m on the road, heading south to Mzuzu, the
regional capital with all the associated perks – showers (hopefully hot,
usually not), all sorts of good food (Indian, Korean, Italian, bread, cheese,
peppers, carrots, delicious fruit), and somewhat reliable internet. Not a day
goes by that I’m not thankful I live in the northern region, but seldom am I as
glad as on transport days. Malawi is roughly the size Indiana (if you exclude
Lake Malawi) and has a population of about 16 million. The northern region, 1/3
of the country, only has 11% of the population. Which means that not only do I
get to gaze on large stretches of forest (something you cannot see in the south
due to deforestation) and I can get lost in the beauty of the land in order to
keep my mind off the conditions in the minibus (crying babies, huge buckets of
dried fish and their predictable smell, sacks of maize, and people who haven’t
showered in quite some time), but the minibus will regularly travel for 30
minutes to an hour without stopping to let someone on or off. In the south, you
are lucky if you make it 15 minutes.
If I have done a good job of choosing a minibus, I’ll arrive
in Mzuzu by about 2pm or so, smelly, covered in dirt and sweat, and possibly
with some spots of baby spit/throw up, some random person’s sweat, and more
than likely some fishy smelling water. In short, I arrive ready for a shower. I
pay the driver about $6 USD and begin the delicate dance with the depot
workers, racing to grab my bag and carry it to a taxi, with the taxi drivers
and bike taxis looking to take me to my destination, or other minibuses looking
to take me to Nkhata Bay, Tanzania, Lilongwe, or any other place a tourist can
commonly be found.
“Nafika. Yewo. Nafika. Nafika. Tulipo.” “I’ve arrived.
Thanks. I’ve arrived. I’ve arrived. I’m just around.”
I walk to Joy’s Place, a lovely little hostel that I
consider my home away from home away from home. On the off chance you’re ever
in Malawi, I strongly recommend it. It feels like a hostel that belongs in
Europe. Which you can imagine, after a few weeks in the village, feels like
paradise. Electricity, amazing Korean food, toilets, running water, and
wonderful, eclectic company.
The next morning, fresh from a cold shower (I now prefer
cold water to hot), I make my way to the highway, drop my bag, and stand on the
side of the road waving my hand (like I’m patting a dog) in an effort to get a
hitch to Lilongwe. On a good day I’ll get one within 30 minutes, and by noon
I’ll be in Lilongwe. Ideally it’s a free ride, but I usually end up paying about
$6 USD. Never am I more conscious of my whiteness then when I am hitching. It
is so much easier for me to get a hitch then for Malawians or for our African
American volunteers. If I’m trying to hitch from a roadblock, I just chat with
the police and they will find a ride for me. Again, this is much easier for me
as a white man, as many drivers are much more likely to pick me up than a
Malawian. And the police are more likely to help me find a ride, especially
when they learn that I’ve been in Malawi over a year, speak Chilambya (“Ah. But
that is a hard language. To my side I don’t know it. But I do know 4 other
languages.”), and am an American. If there was any doubt in my mind of the
privileges I have simply because I am a white, American male, they are clearly
removed during days of transport.
Keep in mind that the above is a portrait of a WONDERFUL two
days of travel where everything seems to fall into place. We speak of transport
not in terms of distance, but in terms of time. On a good day, it takes me 8
hours to travel about 500km. On a bad day, it can take 12 hours. On a good day,
I get off a minibus with all my limbs awake and not too sore. On a bad day I
have multiple bruises, aches for a few days, and at least one leg is dead
asleep for a good 15 minutes after I get off. On a good day, I get a hitch
inside a car or in the back of a fairly empty truck. On a bad day I get a hitch
in the back of a half-bed pickup with 6 other volunteers, 6 backpacking
backpacks, a wheelbarrow, a few crates of sodas/beer, and a few 75L sacks of
maize. On a really bad day I am in
the back of a truck when it starts to downpour and I am literally soaked to the
bone in a matter of minutes, rain dripping off my hair, onto my legs, and then
into a puddle under my bottom/bag. I can feel the truck hydroplaning over
puddles that are at least 6 inches deep, the truck shakes with each
thunderclap, and we are still going 100km/hr (about 62 mph). I’m worried with
how nonchalant I am with transport now. I usually just shrug my shoulders and
hop on a ride that I would not touch with a 10 foot pole in the States. Nor do
I flinch when the driver decides to pass a semi on a blind corner. All in a day’s
work.
Until next time, usyala akiza! (Stay well!)
Best,
Dylan
PS – be sure to drink a good cup of coffee, tea, hot
chocolate, and/or a decent beer for me. I miss all of those like you wouldn't
imagine.
