Better Late Than Never: The Bus Ride from Hell

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.

28 Hours in a Bus Terminal: A Photo Essay

Ever wondered what 28 hours in an outdoor bus terminal in the middle of Malawi looks like? Here's a peek.(Spoiler Alert: It's even less fun than it looks.)


Hour 4, Mzuzu: Jeffie B., Dar, Rachel and Ash


Hour 9, Mzuzu: Ash Catching Some Zs while a New Friend Reads Her Book


Hour 12, Mzuzu: The Group Gets Some Shut Eye


Hour 19, Mzuzu: Ashley, Me and Rachel Trying to Get Some Sleep


Hour 22, Mzuzu: Jeffie B Sleeping Like a Baby

Better Late Than Never: Christmas in Nkata Bay

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.

Just a Toothbrush: The Waiting Game

Today was supposed to be our first major dental outreach. The dentist, her assistant and I spent most of yesterday counting tubes of toothpaste for some 300 learners and dividing them into bags for separate classrooms. We made fruits, vegetables, candy and other foods from construction paper, cut dozens of sheets of stickers for rewards, and went over our strategy for tackling seven grades in a single day.

The plan was to drive two hours outside of Khorixas, down a long dirt road and into one of the farm settlements. We’d use hospital transport (which we applied for weeks in advance) and spend six hours going over the oral care basics I’d outlined in previous workshops, class by class. Lorain (the dental assistant, who is fluent in Damara) would take the lower primary grades, while Isabel (the dentist from Zambia) and I would divide upper primary. Afterwards, Isabel would offer checkups for learners who had never been to the dentist.

It was a perfect plan.

So we rose at 5 a.m. I drank a few cups of coffee to get me going, and piled the boxes of supplies near my door.

And then, I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

By 7:30 it seemed like something was wrong. Transport is always complicated--and it's usually running late, but we'd planned to be on the road by 6:30, because we needed to be at school sometime close to 9. I sent Isabel a message. She was waiting at the hospital, but said there was no car in sight.

So I left the supplies and I left my bag and I set out towards the hospital. By the time I arrived it was clear we had a major problem. The transport officer was off for the day and the driver we’d been assigned was only certified to drive around town.

While there was a vehicle somewhere, there was a driver nowhere.

So Isabel, Lorain and I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Luckily, the former transport officer was on duty. Although it was almost 9, she said one of the social workers could take us out to the farm school. The school we were going to was about two hours away, and we needed at the very least two hours to conduct our workshops—one hour-long session for upper primary and one hour-long session for lower primary. School was only scheduled until 1 p.m.—with no afternoon study—so we had to leave immediately if we wanted to make it in time to do anything at all.

But still we waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Our driver came. But only to collect someone for a trip to the Location. He returned. But only to leave and collect a fridge from the government building. It was after 11 by the time we were really ready to go. And by that time, it was too late.

So we'll have to reschedule.

We’ll have to re-plan.

And we’ll have to reapply for transport.

The whole situation was beyond frustrating—the waiting and the not knowing, the last-minute cancellation and the work gone to waste. But there was a silver lining.

Sort of.

I was mad, but I could see that Lorain and Isabel were angry, too. That means that despite the headaches and the hassles, they were just as excited to get to the farm schools as I was. They were eager to conduct workshops, start our new, extended outreach, and see their hard work come to fruition. And that's really what this is all about.

It was hard to see them disappointed. But it was also strangely reassuring. It made me realize that while I’d done these workshops alone in the past, I finally had company—colleagues that were trained and prepared. And perhaps most importantly—colleagues that genuinely wanted to participate.

We may not have made it today, but I have no doubt we’ll make it there soon. In fact, we’ve already re-scheduled for two weeks from now. When hopefully we’ll rise at 5 a.m., drink a few cups of coffee to get started, pile boxes of supplies in the back of our bakki and be leading oral care workshops for some 300 learners before 9 a.m.

Transport willing, that is...

Malawi: Senga Bay and Monitor Island

We spent our last night in Zambia at a Peace Corps transit house near the Malawi border. After 14 hours riding a bus, seven hours waiting in a station and one night in a rain-soaked tent in Lusaka, we were ready for a break. The Zam PCVs welcomed us, and we stayed up late swapping service stories and contrasting our Peace Corps experiences. The tin roof, real beds, running water and hot showers felt like luxury after a week’s worth of wet tents, damp clothes and constant downpour.

The next morning we piled into one tiny taxi with our big bags and headed towards Malawi. We met a man named Happy—a businessman from Zambia—who was also on his way to the capital city. He ushered us through customs and into a taxi, where he negotiated our fare to a nearby town. Then, upon arrival, Happy helped us find a combi on its way to Lilongwe. As we waited for the remaining seats to fill (combis never leave until they’ve reached—or more often exceeded—capacity), I noticed this sticker fixed to our windshield:



The way I saw it, we were two for two: Guided by a guy named Happy. Protected by the Big Man upstairs. Malawi, it seemed, was even better than we’d heard.

The inland country, which borders Zambia, Mozambique and Tanzania, is just a small sliver in Southern Africa. But its population is still about six times that of Namibia. This was evident almost immediately. The sides of streets were lined with people. Men rode bicycles piled high with maize meal, fish and produce, while women wrapped in brightly colored chitenges balanced baskets on their heads. Traditional houses with thatched roofs and dung walls were as plentiful as the palm trees. In Namibia, it’s possible to drive a hundred kilometers—even more—without seeing another living thing. In Malawi, there were people at every turn.

Our combi ride was scenic--cloudless skies above fields of rich, fertile soil--and Mozambique off in the distance. After a year in the desert, it was nice to be traveling amid green grasses and tall trees.

But all of that changed when we arrived in Lilongwe. Yes, I was used to the crowds of New York City. Elbowing turnstiles and tourists, particularly when I worked in Times Square, was a part of daily life. We’d already survived the insanity of the Lusaka bus station and the disorder of the Zambia border crossing. But Lilongwe—with its impassable streets, crowded corners and five o'clock gridlock at most every hour was simply overwhelming. The fresh, clean air was gone. Now, the scent of oily meats, body sweat and diesel fumes hung heavy around us.

There was no denying it. We were in Africa.

Happy must have known that we, his foreign friends, would be totally overwhelmed. (After all, Namibia is one of the least-densely populated countries in the world—and this was a seriously big city.) So he’d arranged for our combi assistant to deliver us from one ride to the next. He grabbed my bag before the car had come to a complete stop and yelled, “Follow me!” as he took off across a congested street. We followed, single file, as quickly as we could. He led us through a maze of alleyways and alongside endless rows of combis. Drivers grabbed our arms, pulled our bags and yelled their destinations as we soldiered by and pretended not to notice. And then finally we arrived: an almost-full combi bound for Senga Bay.

Stopping in Senga Bay was a last minute decision. It’s not one of Malawi’s most famous beaches, or even its most popular. And while beautiful, there are certainly others more breathtaking. But we were limited to the northern part of the country since we were making our way towards Tanzania. And after days packed like sardines, traveling along rock roads, we were ready to stretch out by the water. Senga Bay was less than two hours from Lilongwe.

Our combi dropped us by the side of the road, where five locals met us to find out where, exactly, we wanted to go. The answer? We had no idea. We’d flipped through guidebooks as we made our way towards the lake, but hadn’t settled on anything. Our new friends took note of our Nalgene bottles and immediately recognized us as Peace Corps volunteers. From that point on they suggested only the most inexpensive accommodations.

We decided on a tiny place owned by a friendly ex-pat, nestled between a local market, where we could purchase tomatoes, bananas and chips, and the shores of Lake Malawi. It rained every night, but unlike Zambia, the days were clear and sunny. The staff was amazing and kind and after just one day they knew our names (and our drinks).

Though Senga Bay lacked the adrenaline rush we’d found in Victoria Falls, it did offer plenty of time to relax, play Scrabble with a group of friendly South Africans and catch up on a little reading. (By trip’s end we’d all swapped books at least a couple of times.) It was nice to take it easy after so much time in transit.

We spied an island about three miles from the shore that looked like the perfect place to spend a sunny afternoon. So after three days of pure relaxation, we slipped into a traditional fishing boat with the friends we’d met the day we arrived, and paddled towards Monitor Island. The tiny island in the big lake is home to several rare lizard species, as well as trees, plants and birds unique to the country. Our friends guided us through rocky passes, to the edge of jagged cliffs and through wooded forests, while they pointed out other islands in the distance and talked about the culture of fishing in Malawi.

I loved it all, but realized after a few of hours of barefoot hiking, I still prefer concrete sidewalks to moss-covered paths.