As people come and go, I am able to shift so that I am no longer so dangerously close to the edge. I sit, first on a bag of grain, then on a bag of green mangoes, and banter with a soccer team from Chikengawa. They have just lost a game in Karonga, but that is only because the other team had the home field advantage, of course. A gap-toothed white-haired man frowns and mutters as person after person sits on his package of fish, wrapped in brown paper. He glares at a boy and snatches the package out from beneath him, holding it protectively on his lap for a moment before laying it down again, right at my feet. The acrid smell of sweat and fish mingle, stinging my eyes and nostrils.

We stop frequently and wait, wait, wait, until people begin to complain, sometimes in English for the benefit of the mzungu: "Why do we delay?!?" Then, with a sputter of the engine, the truck lurches forward and we are off again. Every time we stop, the truck is surrounded by people selling mangoes, fish, casava, bananas. Money and food exchange hands, and then fruit is passed around the truck. Babies are also passed from person to person, and first Anne and then I cradle baby David in our arms, and he looks around with big black eyes.

People climb on and off the truck, dragging themselves into the cab, hanging off the side, hopping off onto the dirt road. Anne exchanges riddles with two men and a woman, who discuss each one in Chichewa. Scratchy Malawian music blares from a radio balanced on an old woman's knees.

"Tell us a story, one from Malawi," Anne asks a young man sitting beside her. During our trip, we have become collectors of stories, legends and half-truths. A new story is a treasure to be recorded, tucked away, enjoyed and shared. In a soft lilting voice, the young man tells a Tambuku parable:

A goat, a dog and a cow always take public transportation. One day, the goat gets on the bus, and asks how much the fare is. "50 Kwacha". But the goat only has 30 Kwacha, and as soon as the bus stops, he jumps off and bolts. When it is time for the dog to descend, he only has a 100 Kwacha note. The man has no change, and there is no time to argue, so the dog leaves without his change. When the cow leaves the bus, he has the right change. He hands it to the man, and steps off to stand by the road. The dog now realizes that the man has change for him, but the bus has already left, and the dog chases it in vain.

Many years later, the goat, the dog and the cow no longer take the bus. But still, whenever a bus passes, the goat runs away, the dog chases after it, and the cow stands confidently by the side of the road.

The bus is your life. What will you do? Will you run from responsibility, will you chase after what could have been, or will you stand confidently and know that you have met life's challenges well and fairly?

I sit and smile, and make a silent pact with myself to always be a cow.

I watch the sunset from the truck, and first one, then a thousand glittering stars appear in the sky. Finally we arrive in Mzuzu, and three men hop off the truck to help us with our bags. As they argue amongst themselves and with the driver about the best place for us to stay and the best way to get there, everyone in the truck reaches out to shake our hands and to wish us a safe journey. A night watchman who works at the gas station where we are stopped insists on escorting us to a guesthouse. (You are strangers. It is dark. Come, I will escort you). Exhausted and aching, we gratefully accept and follow him to warm, soft beds. The night is good.

About the Author
The travel bug bit Stephanie Lemieux at the tender age of two, during one of many family road trips. Since then, she's studied in Brazil, fallen in love with Scotland, backpacked through Eastern Africa and worked for a non-profit organization in South Africa. She's also travelled extensively in the US and in Canada, where there is - as her sister so eloquently put it - "a whole lot of damn trees".

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