We had all been excited to see Lake Malawi. Other volunteers said it was absolutely amazing. And they were, without a doubt, absolutely right. And while Christmas in Nkata Bay had been fun, we were certain the highlight of our trip was still to come.
A week in Tanzania. More specifically, Zanzibar.
We’d had a couple of transport hang-ups en route to Nkata Bay, but it was nothing compared to those we found once we voyaged out. We learned our lesson about minibuses on the previous leg of our journey, so determined not to make the same mistake twice, we heeded the advice of our DJ friend, and unloaded our packs onto one of the major buses bound for Mzuzu. From there, we’d catch another bus over the border and make our way to Dar es Salaam, where we would pick up Rachel’s friend in three day’s time.
Or so we thought.
We arrived at Mzuzu just after lunch, and while a couple of us stayed to watch our bags, Jeffie B and Dar headed off on bike taxis to collect cash from ATMs and buy our bus tickets to Tanzania. We waited patiently for the 11:30 pm departure time, at which point, we’d board a bus—where we’d spend the next 36 hours in transit.
Or so we thought.
We read books while we waited. We talked to curious people who wondered what we were doing. We walked to the shops and bought cooldrinks and fat cakes. And we watched as local travelers left the station and drunkards came in.
“We should probably go that side, where there’s light,” said our friend Paul. He was only 17, and had been sent to collect his uncle from the station. We’d begun talking a few hours earlier, and he was clearly concerned for our safety. “I know the place. If you’re stuck, you can come to sleep at my house. I’ll walk you back in the morning.”
It was a sincere (and appreciated) offer. And perhaps one we should have taken him up on. But even at 1 am, with the station mostly empty (save a handful of loud and inebriated men who played pool at a nearby shabeen and a family also waiting for the same bus to the border) we were convinced our ride was still on its way.
The family of five—a teacher, his wife and three small children, curled up on some chairs in front of an empty shop and slept. We sat on our packs, and calculated how many visits to the pay toilet we could buy with our remaining kwacha. We kept watch on the entry, and believed our bus might arrive at any moment.
But when the sun began to creep over the tin roof of the terminal shelter, and the closed shop once again opened, we considered that perhaps our 11:30 departure time had been am instead of pm. So again, we waited. We waited until the ticket booth opened. We waited over cups of steaming hot tea, while the director made some calls, only to inform us that the bus was coming. That it was even on its way now.
We waited for three more hours, until we were called over to the ticket booth, where we were told that in fact, the bus was not coming. That it had never even left the capital. The bus company, we learned, had only one bus--our bus--and it was stuck in the Lilongwe with a broken headlight.
There was an alternative. We could wait, in hopes that the bus was fixed in time to make its next 11:30 pm departure. Or, we could take a combi—one the bus company promised to pay for—and meet another bus at the Tanzania border.
We were somehow reluctant to travel with with only promises as currency. (By this point we’d spent what remained of our kwacha on the pay toilet and refused to take out more. It would be useless in Tanzania. And our Peace Corps budget didn't allow a for a lot of extra spending.) But after 28 hours in the bus terminal, we were even more reluctant to stick around. The family we’d been waiting with seemed okay with the new option, so we followed their lead and piled into a combi—relieved to see an employee from the company would also be coming with us.
Our ride started with a flat tire. We waited patiently while it was patched and fixed, and breathed a sigh of relief when we were once again on the road. The views of the lake were incredible, but with such a spastic driver—one who weaved in and out of lanes and passed on blind curves—it was hard to know whether to watch the scenery or keep our eyes on the road. We picked up some passengers along the way and dropped off others. We seemed to be making decent time—until we learned the border crossing closed at 5 and it was already 4:15. We had only about 30K to go, and after 10K had passed, the combi took a quick turn and we found ourselves, once again, in the midst of what was becoming an all too familiar sight: another bus terminal.
“You cannot be serious,” I said.
The car sat idol for a moment before the engine cut. Some words were exchanged in Chichewa and we saw the face of our companion—the man from the bus terminal—drop.
“What are they saying?” I asked the teacher with his family. He and Jeffie B had become friendly along the way, and he seemed just as anxious to cross the border as we were.
“They want K1,000 more to go the rest of the way,” he said.
“Total?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “Each.”
I gasped. Here we were, more than 30 hours after we’d started out for Tanzania, a mere 15K from the border, and these guys who’d taken us so much of the way were refusing to budge unless we paid more than twice the sum we’d already agreed upon.
All this time I’d been worried the bus would not be waiting across the border. But now I doubted if we’d ever make it there in the first place. With just 30 minutes to spare before the crossing closed, it was feeling near impossible.
Our friend from the bus company said something and the car started to move. I assumed the situation had been sorted out and we were once again on our way. But no sooner had we pulled out of the terminal, we were stopping somewhere else.
A petrol station.
Backed into a corner.
“Open your door,” I said to Dar. We were lucky enough to be in a two-door combi (kind of like a double-door minivan) so I didn’t feel so trapped. Which was a good thing, since moments later we were surrounded by taxis and a man from outside was walking away with one of the family’s babies.
“We’re not going anywhere,” I said.
“We negotiated with these guys already,” said Jeffie B, after a taxi driver claimed he’d give him a good deal.
“We have NO MONEY,” said Ashley.
And she was right. We had not a cent to our names, save the American money for our Tanzanian visas. And for that, we basically had exact change. We were completely dependent on our companion from the bus company. A man who was currently pacing the parking lot and looking more than a little worried.
“Just get in,” said the driver. “We’ll take you.”
We wanted to go. The crossing would close if we didn’t hurry. But we weren’t prepared to leave without our guy. After all, he had to pay. And we were worried the bus on the other side wouldn’t be waiting or worse—that it didn’t exist at all. We’d need his help on the other side if that were the case.
The man from the bus company got off the phone and walked back over to the combi. He got in, said something, and in a few moments we were off.
“He’s paying,” the teacher said.
But from the look on our companion's face, I had a feeling the extra kwacha was coming out of his pocket and not that of the company.
We hauled to the border crossing and made it, literally, as the lights turned out. We payed our fees and followed the man to the other bus. We’d asked several times along the way whether he was sure it would still be waiting. Despite our panic and apprehension, he never seem concerned. And when we arrived in Tanzania, moments after a power outage struck the entire country, blanketing it in black, we saw why.
The bus was there, but there was no one on it.
All this time we’d expected to have a vehicle filled with impatient passengers, eager to leave upon our arrival. The guy from the station hadn’t been worried about it departing without us, because this bus was going nowhere.
“Here it is,” he said.
“When does it leave?” we asked. After all, we were supposed to meet a friend at 10 pm the next day. We never expected that three days might not be enough time to get to our destination.
“Tomorrow maybe. Sometime,” he said. "Can't drive at night."
We looked at each other. He could not be serious.
But he was.
“You sleep here,” he said, pointing to the bus seats. “It’s no problem.”
But we could see a big problem. Already men from the crossing were coming up to the bus windows professing their love. “I’ve always wanted a white woman,” they said. “I am in love with you.” It was too hot to sleep with the windows closed and obviously too dangerous to sleep with them open. But the guy from the station, aware of our concern, pointed to a man sitting next to a single burning candle—a man who could not have been less than 85 years old—and said, “Don’t worry, there’s security.”
We had a couple of bucks left over from our visas, so I went with the guy from the bus station to try and find accommodations. My friends were okay with a night in the bus, but I had a feeling we shouldn't press our luck. There was a place just next to the bus that was bare at best, but spotless and clean and just what we needed. And only $2 per person. After a night in a bus terminal, so many hours on the road, and the uncertainties of travel the following morning, we were more than ready for beds and definitely in need of a shower. The fact that there was no electricity and we were out of water mattered little. We were just happy to be indoors.
The next morning, showered and well-rested, we walked to the bus in hopes of an early departure. We were still 15 hours away from Dar es Salaam and had to be at the airport by 10 pm. We had no way to get in touch with Rachel’s friend if we were late, and having never been to Africa, we knew she’d be less than thrilled showing up to an empty airport.
But the hours ticked past and by 10 am, we realized there was no way we were going to make it. Had transport been seamless (which it so rarely is, and in this case, wasn't) we still would have arrived well after she did.
But there was nothing we could do, so we sat back, relaxed and waited. And eventually we made it to Dar es Salaam.
Luckily, the plane was delayed.
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