The way back

The weekend in Nkhata Bay could be summed up with a picture and a caption. The picture would be of a sparkling blue lake, and the caption: “Shut up and swim.”

By Sunday night at five, we were back on the road. Just the three of us—John-Paul, Duncan, and I—as the girls decided to skip work and stay an extra day.

Our food supplies were roadside scones, a bunch of bananas, and a jar of peanut butter. We hiked up the only road out of town to catch a transport to the nearby police check-stop. This is where busses traveling south from Mzuzu would stop, and where we would get on.

A man in a red pick-up cut us a deal for K600 to take us to the check-stop. It was a blatant rip-off, but it was getting late and he was the only driver in sight, so we acquiesced and hopped in the box. The truck only made it about half way to the check-stop before the engine died. Out of gas. Luckily the check-stop is at the top of a hill, so we rolled backwards about 100 meters, swung into a driveway, turned around, and rolled forwards the rest of the way back to town. At this point we should have jumped out and found a better ride, but instead we fronted him the K600 to pay for three liters of gas.

Ten minutes and a scary-fast drive later, he dropped us at the check-stop. We introduced ourselves to the guards in our best, most polite Chichewa, and were given a bench to sit on and wait for the next bus.

So there we were, three white dudes in backpacks eating peanut butter and banana sandwiches, telling tales, and shooting the night breeze. We felt—and said aloud—that we were intrepid travelers again, out of the office and back on the road. We told fish stories, and recounted past college exploits. How macho.

After 20 minutes we were out of food. By six o’clock I was berating Duncan for buying scones instead of a few loaves of bread, and sat there eating peanut butter out of the jar with my finger while John-Paul finished the rest of the bananas. The three of us sat there shivering in the evening breeze.

A bus pulled up, packed to the roof, 80 people seated, and three times that standing. The check-stop Coppers made everyone disembark so they could search the bus for illegal Tanzanian trinkets, and suitcases of fish carried by fishermen catching past their limit. We waited thinking that some of the people that got out would get busted for smuggling, leaving a few free seats. We were wrong, and the bus reloaded before roaring off without us.

We sat back down, told more stories, and another bus came. This one was more full than the first, but the Malawian Finest Check-stop ordered them to unload, so they could set to work looking for illicit Turkish delight and loose change in the seat cushions. They then sent them on their way without us, again. Damn.

A third bus pulled up about an hour later when us three macho men were now thoroughly chilled and calculating our dwindling options. This time we tried to bribe, swindle, and push our way on to the bus. No luck—too full. We then realized that if there were any more buses coming from Mzuzu (and there weren’t) they would also be full past capacity since no bus leaves until every conceivable nook and cranny is filled by a human appendage, and because there are no stops before this check-stop where people would conceivably disembark.

So we weren’t in the best of moods.

The check-stop police were about to change shift and offered us a ride back to Nkhata Bay. We hesitated, not wanting to admit defeat, and by the time we decided to accept their offer they had left without us.

Then, salvation. An 18-wheeler rolled to a stop in front of us, loaded with coal labeled for down south. We were desperate, had money, and wanted more than anything to forget we ever came to this cold, clammy check-stop. They said they were headed to Dwangwa—we didn’t have a clue where that was, but it was south, and that was all that mattered. We paid, climbed up into the cab, said our cursory Chichewa hellos, and curled up in various awkward positions to try to sleep.

We awoke in Dwangwa, with absolutely no idea of where Dwangwa was. The only thing that led me to believe we had traveled anywhere at all was that my watch said 1:00AM.

We paid, got our bags, and hopped out. Wandering up and down what was nothing more than a mile-long truck stop, we started looking for a place to take a whiz. During our midnight hunt for bladder relief, we found a coaster (a mythical creature of half bus, half van) with its lights still on. The driver was still in his seat and told us that for a mere K900 we could hop aboard and sleep until 2:00AM, when they would leave for Lilongwe. Perfect.

Halfway through this second nighttime nap, I was nudged awake. The bus was filling up and my idea of lying across two benches was no longer an option. Indeed, by 2:00AM the coaster was full. We slipped south out of Dwangwa, and I fell back asleep.

When I woke up (this time for good) I had my bench neighbour sleeping with his head on my shoulder. No big deal. I looked over to see Duncan and John-Paul still sleeping. I looked left out the window to watch the rolling hills past by. It was now morning; we had traveled all night.

From the packed buses that we had seen at the check-stop, the full coaster of which I was currently a passenger, and the trip north I had made Friday night, I realized just how many Malawians make this red-eye trek up and down the countryside. Whether the make the trip for family or for work, after a weekend of buses, coasters, mini-buses, a pick-up, and an 18-wheeler, I sure don’t envy them.