Lilongwe to Blantyre via Zomba
September 2002

The general opinion was that there wasn't an express bus to Zomba, so we were forced to take an ordinary bus. This turned out to be a gruelling seven and a half hour journey in oven-like conditions, roasting inside the battered tin can bus. Every Malawian we met insisted that the journey would only take four hours. Even a Malawian I sat next to, smiled at me and tapped on his watch, saying four hours when four and a half hours had already passed sitting on the bus.

The bus driver was kindness itself, reassuring us that our backpacks would be perfectly safe behind his seat and finding us the last two seats on the back row. Initially, we were paranoid as we could not view our bags. This fear proved to be unfounded.

Ordinary buses are not for the faint hearted. Apart from feeling as if I was being slowly char-broiled, standing in the aisle is allowed, so everyone is squashed against each other, forming a human sandwich.

Ordinary life is conducted through the bus windows at the countless stops - live chickens, fish, cabbages, onions, cakes and chips are haggled over. The etiquette for buying a live chicken is to stuff it into a plastic bag beneath your seat, therefore subduing it for the rest of the journey.

Even on express buses, there are no scheduled toilet stops - Malawians have bladders of steel, the only chance to spend a penny is if the bus stops at an actual bus station, a rare occurrence. The penalty for a toilet transgression is that you lose your seat.

One of the most amusing things about travelling in Malawi is the shop names - we passed 'No Profit In Jealousy Barber Shop', 'Slow But Sure Grocery Store' and Tom's favourite, 'K.K. Boys And Girls Spare Motor Parts'.

Eventually we rolled into Zomba, sweating like pigs - I swore that I had lost half a stone in fluids in the sauna-like conditions. We headed for the Ndindeya Motel, treating ourselves to a superior room for MK 960 including breakfast. After an uninspiring chicken curry lacking its core ingredients, i.e. chicken and any curry flavour, I reflected that even though we had stopped at small villages on the way, I had not witnessed the scenes of desolation and famine shown on the news bulletins back home. This was one of my major concerns about visiting Malawi. I have not seen food shortages - whenever the bus stopped in a village, there was a mad frenzy of trading all kinds of food stuffs between the locals. We often joined them by buying soft drinks, samosas and chips. I have always bought my fruit from street stalls and not supermarkets. I'm not saying that I wanted to be confronted by starving children or amputees, punished in a horrific way for stealing food, but I can only speculate that the famine is concentrated in places off the beaten track. I urge travellers to buy from the local markets to spread the wealth.

Zomba, formerly the capital of Malawi, is a sleepy backwater situated beneath the Zomba Plateau. Few white faces are seen here, except for an influx of UN personnel and aid workers, swanning around in swanky Toyota Landcruisers. The town is jam-packed with Government administration buildings and ministries. Considering that Zomba was devoid of tourists, it surprised me when the children greeted us with "Give me pen, give me 100 kwacha".

The mystery of the express bus service to Zomba was finally solved. There is indeed an express bus, but only from Monkey Bay. Luck was on our side when we arrived at Zomba bus station to find an express bus to Blantyre ready to depart.

Our kamakazi bus driver was on a mission to get to Blantyre as quickly as possible; we overtook other vehicles at breathtaking speed, clipping the edge of the tarmac road and nearly running over cyclists.

Blantyre is the 'commercial capital' of Malawi with little to recommend it to travellers. We could only get a dorm bed at Doogles Backpackers (MK 420), situated on the door step of the bus station.

Lunch in Blantyre was a tasty affair at 'Home Needs', a South Indian run outfit. Masala dosa (a savoury, spicy pancake) with cassova chips was delicious. We could overhear the conversation of the neighbouring table in the restaurant. Aid workers were chatting about the famine and their perception of it. They confirmed that the famine is extremely localised in villages we have never even heard of. This explains why we have seen no evidence of it.

Tom is disgusted that in this day and age, people starve to death, not having anything left to trade for food. There are so many on the border line, having the bare minimum to eat. Locals would gather pieces of wood to sell as firewood on the side of the road, other enterprising individuals would buy a bag of bread rolls from a bakery to sell for a meagre profit to passengers in passing buses. For locals to not even have this option of making a living was scandalous. As a traveller it means facing the daily dilemma of what to pay for local food and goods. On the one hand, you feel you should pay more because you have the financial resources, but on the other it starts a dependency; locals hike up the prices knowing they can sell to tourists, leaving the rest of the locals unable to afford the higher prices.

Our Mozambique transit visas have caused us endless grief due to the official in Lilongwe dating them for Sunday, when we wanted to travel on Saturday. The staff at Doogles kindly phoned the Mozambique High Commission to query the entry date to see if it could be changed. The answer was a resounding 'no' - if we attempted to travel on Saturday, we would be turned back at the Mozambique border, stranded in no man's land.

We met another British couple, leaving for Mozambique, who were quite scathing about overland trucks. Their opinion was that they should be banned from travelling round Africa. They had a stereotypical view of massive piss ups every night and school mistressy tour leaders - not that far from the truth then.

I have little affection for dorms, having no idea what dorm etiquette is, i.e. when is it acceptable to turn the lights off and go to sleep? This dilemma was solved by a spaced out South African who claimed a bunk bed, promptly rolling into it and turning the light off at 8:30pm.

We had a fitful night's sleep due to a number of factors. A German couple in the bunks opposite us were a nightmare; one snored like a warthog, the other visited the toilet twice using our bunk to balance on to reach the ground, regularly indulging in coughing and sneezing fits for good measure. Mozzies whined in my ear as the bunks had no mosquito nets and the South African got in on the act by emitting hateful gases at regular intervals. Dorms suck!

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