People who prefer to live life with a sense of order and continuity will likely find this blog post--and the next--maddening. They're about the final leg of our Christmas holiday, which according to my calendar (and I’m assuming, also yours) should have been posted about three months ago. But the way I see it, better late than never, right?
So here goes.
If you remember, I headed out on a month-long holiday adventure with a handful of other PCVs. We visited Victoria Falls, where I saw my too short life flash before my eyes while rafting the Zambezi, we celebrated my 28th birthday, and visited Lake Malawi and Monitor Island, too. We’d had nothing but smooth(ish) sailing—at least in terms of travel. Our buses left mostly on time, we were seated in relatively comfortable positions (all things considered) and even the roads were decent.
But all that ended when we left Senga Bay. That’s when the headaches and the hassles of traveling in a developing country (more specifically, a developing country you don't live in) started to become abundantly clear.
We missed the last day bus out of Senga Bay, and rather than wait 13 hours in a dark bus rink in a strange town, we hopped aboard a minibus driven by a man named Cabbage and spent the night here. In the morning, we pulled on our packs and headed out to the road. We planned to walk the 4K to where buses waited in the main part of town, but on our way, a combi with a sign reading “Nkata Bay” pulled up and offered to take us to our Christmas destination.
For twice the going rate.
That should have been the first sign: This wasn’t the ride for us.
But instead, we negotiated a better price (i.e. a fair price), unloaded our bags and got into the car.
We collected other passengers (since combis never leave before they’re full) and were on our way within the hour. It all seemed promising. That is, until our driver pulled over about a third of the way, and cut the engine. All of the other passengers got out.
“We’re having problems with the breaks. You’ll have to wait here while we service it. We’ll come back and collect you,” he said.
We exchanged looks with one another.
Now I’m no mechanic, but I was fairly certain that, had there really been problems with the breaks, I would have noticed sometime in the last 200K. I tapped Dar on the shoulder, and she said as much to the guy who’d been sitting next to her.
“Nkata Bay?!” he asked—obviously surprised. “This guy can’t drive there. He’s only licensed to travel up to here.”
It seems our driver had gotten word of the foreigners staying in town the night before, and learning our destination, decided to see just how much cash he could get out of us. He never intended to take us to Nkata Bay, and as we suspected, he had no designs on picking us up once the car was “serviced” either.
So we sat there. The five of us. And we didn’t move. Dar pulled out a map and began to explain where we were versus where we’d paid to go, then did some quick math to determine just how much cash we needed back. The driver wasn’t having it, and kept pleading with us to be “fair and reasonable.” (Two words I’m not convinced he knew the meaning of.) He tried to convince us that he should keep the money, and that one of the other combi drivers would happily take us for free. But when we challenged him to arrange it, he looked at us like we’d gone mad. Things got heated, mainly because as budget travelers, we weren’t willing to walk away paying three times the cost of a trip that took us merely a third of the way. While we continued to voice our grievances, a crowd of drivers gathered around and tried to negotiate rates for the rest of our journey.
Dar mentioned something about the Christmas spirit, the season of Jesus, how God was watching, and ended with something about the Ten Commandments. Then, with a look of regret (not for his actions, but for being caught), the driver handed over our money. And we found ourselves, once again, on the side of the road.
Frustrated, we hauled our packs to the shaded stoop of a shop and waited. For what, we weren’t exactly sure. A local radio DJ who was walking the streets heard our argument with the combi driver and came over to make sure we were okay. He pointed to the row of minibuses on the other side of the road (minibuses that had all now conveniently switched their signs to read “Nkata Bay”) and warned us against taking them for the duration of our trip. It seemed they had a reputation for claiming to go one place, then dropping foreigns somewhere else entirely.
We didn’t need any further convincing.
He waited with us for a while. He took Dar to buy sunglasses, showed us the best spot for cooldrinks and told us about a real bus coming through later that day. It was our best bet for arriving in Nkata Bay safely.
So, three hours later, we said goodbye and boarded a bus packed with passengers. There was no place to sit, but we were happy to finally be on our way. This time, in a relatively reliable mode of transportation. We bought roasted ears of corn and bags of water through bus windows. And after two day’s journey, we arrived at our Christmas destination. I’d never been so happy—or so relieved.
Nkata Bay was beautiful. Our campsite had views of Lake Malawi and it was just a minute’s walk to the beach. Yet despite the breathtaking sites and the sparkling, clear water, spending Christmas away from family was, as always, a bit hard. Last year, I had my Namibian family to celebrate with. And this year, I had my Peace Corps friends. While it was mostly fun, sitting by the beach, listening to Christmas carols and drinking Mosi—I’d be lying if I said it was even close to the same. There was no snow. No midnight Mass. No roaring fire. No Christmas tree to decorate.
But there was, of course, food!
And lots of it.
There weren’t any of our traditional American dishes—I never expected that anyway—but there were tables filled with vegetables and fruits, a spit with a roasting pig, homemade breads and rolls, dishes of sides and plates of dessert. There was more than enough to eat (and more variety than we’d seen in over a year). It was a true holiday feast.
It was all delicious, but my favorite part was that it was a meal in keeping with the spirit of the season. Once guests had lined up and their plates were filled, street kids who’d been playing in the yards all day also got to line up to have their share. Because unlike in America, where health codes and ridiculous regulations mean perfectly good food goes to waste—even at the holidays—in Malawi, Christmas time means everyone gets to eat.
And eat well.
Posts
