Public Transport

This weekend saw me trekking once southwards towards the warm haven that be Blantyre, then back to Ntcheu for one night, then off north to Lilongwe this time on Sunday, in order to attend my central hospital orientation. Don’t question my reasoning behind this yoyo style of moving about. I just needed to touch base with the Orthopaedic team at CURE, Blantyre before my four week exile to the capital. It all proved quite fruitful in the end, with a lot of ideas now falling into place.
The journey started on Ntcheu’s makeshift bus stop, run on the day by a goateed yellow-eyed youth reeking of booze, whom I initially mistook for the driver of my intended mini-bus. I waited another 40 minutes as a result for a more ‘executive’ one to appear. The inside of the new vehicle felt every bit as crowded as its smaller and less popular relative. But I sat tight (I couldn’t complain as I got a seat), careful not to be impatient on my first interaction with long distance public transport here. In short, my drive was punctuated by an hour of loud Malawian rap, followed by Kenny G plays Celine Dion, the latter interrupted for another hour by a possessed man gesticulating and shouting behind me in the aisle. It took me about 30min to realise this was a preacher, when I overheard the words ‘when you are born again...’ and ‘amen’, to which the whole bus joined in chorus, before launching into another half hour of frantic chanting! The latter element was actually quite soothing after all that tympanic assailing.
30 min later than anticipated, courtesy of one of the numerous roadblocks along the way, where some uniformed chap gets everyone to disembark so he can walk around the bus with an air of self-importance, without actually doing anything, we arrived in Blantyre. And I was already late for the teaching session at CURE. This was not helped by the next bit of dwindling I fell victim to. I invested my trust in a minibus to get me to the hospital for 50Kwacha. What I hadn’t noticed was that I was one of only two passengers aboard. The minibus set off in the opposite direction from mine and dropped the other passenger off down the road. Then the driver turned round to me and said that he would take me to the hospital via the express way only if I paid him 500Kw. The conductor was nicely positioned by the door to block any attempt from me to get off. I decided to avoid the confrontation and asked to be dropped wherever I happened to be, paying them the 50Kw agreed at first, but essentially more than a mile farther from my original destination. I got to my teaching as it was finishing. On the upside, I managed to have a little tete-a-tete with the hospital director to pick his brains about loads of things I needed to find out about the Malawian orthopaedic world.
My other mission in Blantyre was to find a bike. Instead I got Indian spices after a quick scoot round the town the enxt morning! A few VSOs and a non-VSO couple I met on Friday advised me to go a certain shop for the bike. The non-VSO guys were in fact here to set up a project on social economics, selling bike trailers (at an affordable price) that could double as bicycle-ambulances. They’re called Care Car and I really commend them (www.sakaramenta.com). So upon this sound source of advice, I decided to look for the place the next day and as fate would have it, I needed a minibus. Would you believe it, I got taken for a ride again this time- in the opposite direction that is! Surprisingly, I got off without questions pretending that I needed to stop quickly at a shop. Later on I realised that the lack of fuss was probably explained by a police car being in the traffic behind us. So I said goodbye to my cursed bike plans for now, and went straight back to the bus station for my return leg to Ntcheu.
Three hours, three full-on preaching sessions and three unnecessary delays later, I was in Ntcheu. I never thought I’d be so happy to be back in a place I’ve only known for 1 week! That night I got to know it a bit better. I checked out its night life- a choice of three bars, a few restaurants selling local food and chicken&chips and Uncle B’s prostitute club! The bars had one attraction that made it all my worth going out that night- a pool table. I found myself reliving an epic episode while I was in Burnley, where Viv and I shot to prominence in my local pub through a combination of being the only drinking Asians around and being the ones to play down the reigning pool champ- by pure fluke! I didn’t win against the actual champion here but did well enough to be invited back. Maybe they just want my money, but that’s not how it felt!
And now to the last leg of my road-bound weekend: the trip to Lilongwe. In a semi-conscious daze of sleep depravation and hangover, I found myself boarding this minibus after seeing two large buses leaving in Lilongwe’s direction one after the other, seconds before I could get to the station. After a heated debate between the passengers and the conductor about not letting an extra passenger on (after me), which would quite reliably have replicated the atmosphere inside sardine tin for us in all truth, we set off without the extra man. Halfway to LL, we ground to a halt, not from the coppers at the road block, but from a flat tyre. I’m sure I checked them before getting on! That took another 45min to get fixed (I did worry we’d be stopping for the night) and off on our way we were again. I love this ride because the road veers off into Mozambique at one point and my mobile phone always sends me a text to welcome me to Mz! The scenery is also superb, replete with mountains (nice appetising rock faces on offer), birds and vast open fields. But 3.5 hours in a minibus can’t help being tedious. Arriving in Lilongwe at dusk felt like being airdropped in a rugby scrum. Everyone wanted to help me with my bags (and its contents for a month’s stay in LL) and take me to my destination independently. Rather than risk it with city minibuses this time, I opted for the safer bet, the taxi. And at long last, my lucky star shone and I managed to get a half price one, as I shared with a Jaica volunteer (the Japanese voluntary organisation; Peace Corps for the US).
Better late than never!!! Knowing what Malawian time means now, that is a saying I shall be reciting like a mantra for the two years ahead...