No comparison

Travelling african style
Any pretension I may have held about being hardcore in my travelling, based on previous journeys, has been turned on its head after my latest flirtation with the African road. “African” I say without fear of over-generalising as the latest epic took 4 countries in its stride: Malawi, Mozambique, Zimbabwe and South Africa. 30 hours each way to use the typical term for distance measurement here, and that comprises a generous chunk for the sole purpose of negotiating border bureaucracies- or should I say idiosyncrasies! For those of you who still perceive distance in kilometres, then the grand figure of 1500 each way would be a rough ballpark figure!
Unwittingly, I started the journey with a self-inflicted hangover following England’s disappointing game with Algeria the night before. At 8.30am in Blantyre, a strange combination of moths (taking cover from the daylight), flies (trapped inside the bus and trying to escape), mosquitoes (from the nearby ditch) and butterflies (in my tummy, in apprehension of this unknown factor ahead) marked the start of this trip. An hour and a half later, after all procrastinations were done with, we were finally en route. I got a nice seat at the front and was pleased to have a friendly neighbour. Hardly 10minutes into the ride came my first and most dreaded challenge- the bus music/noise. Pure wailing Malawian gospel, absolutely identical, even the videos, which were being projected on a screen at the front. Unfortunately, changing seats so that I would be farther away from the epicentre of this cacophony was not an option, since each seat was specially endowed with its own speakers, with no individual volume or ‘off’ switch. Competitive inhibition was the only solution as of now, meaning that I would have to rely on my personal music to be blasted loud enough by my earphones to override the surrounding music. Every now and again, even through this, I could hear the bus noise and even worse, a certain high pitched beeping which could go on for an indeterminate length of time. At first I thought the sound system was defective, as is often the case in Malawi and that I would simply have to brace myself and suffer. But then I found out this was a speeding alarm, which indicated to the driver that he was going over 110 Kmph. Despite liking the idea in its concept, I was all too aware that, to the Malawian driver, such a deterrent would be as useful as Chambo steak to an edentulous! Noise encourages Malawians on the contrary! But prolonged exposure to an insult can ultimately condition one to it, and insofar as I can be conditioned to noise, I was. I sat at the back nonetheless on the way back, swapping toilet for beep, but still had a nice neighbour!

In Mozambique
Another unexpected inconvenience along the way turned out to be a mal-functioning AC or one cranked up sadistiscally by the driver, on pretence that it would keep him awake. I couldn’t argue with that one! This kept the entire bus shiveringly awake on the way down. On the way back though, probably from the aforementioned overuse, AC did not function at all and sweaty came to replace cold and dry. All the same, the latter was more comfortable as one can always open the air hatches.
Our first border crossing would be that between Malawi and Mozambique at the Mwanza/Tete immigration point. That was the scene for one great big- and expensive- surprise to me. My Mauritian passport would be categorically declined. Indeed I ought to consider myself lucky not to have ended up behind bars, as having two passports is considered illegal here. So I was forced to go on my British passport, which attracted the plump sum of ~$25 each way. Might not seem so much, but in the context of VSO wages, you will see that the cumulative effect of those payments (4 times in total only for transit visas) amounted to roughly what I had saved by opting for the road instead of simply flying down to South Africa. All this for that glamorous passport which I had to wait 12 years to get in England and which I’ve never had to use in Europe! To think that the Mauritian passport used to be my worst nightmare whenever it came to travelling in Europe, thanks to the ultimo of travel deterrents- Schengen Visa- , and now it’s that same passport I wish I had entered Malawi with! Too late. But I’ll be philosophical about it. I might have lost out in this situation (from oversight mostly) but in all fairness, I don’t think any European/Muzungu is in the right to moan about being imposed this charge. Not even at the slowness of processing the visa in actual fact. My bitter experience in Europe has had one single positive effect, which is to give me the opportunity to compare the way an African is treated by the usual European immigration system with the converse scenario. To get a Schengen visa in the past, I had normally to apply to the country’s embassy which I would be visiting first, at least a month in advance. This would have to be done over the phone at the premium rate of £1-£1.50 per minute, each call lasting around 2ominutes. During this call, it would be highly advisable for you to have your detailed agenda at the ready, where you have minimised any commitments for the ensuing month, as the time and date you are allocated are purely random. If you happen to be busy on the date given to you, then you have to keep the call ticking till a more acceptable one is offered you. Once you have the appointment, you have to also make the travel to the single place in England or Scotland (even though they can turn you down if you’re based in England, albeit next to the Scottish border) where they process these visas, early enough in the morning, so as not to miss your chance. There are usually loads of people there on the same desperate mission as you. I remember once queuing outside the French consulate in London from 5am, only to get to the counter at 10am. Once you’ve tackled this appointment hurdle, comes the more thorny issue- the right documents. Not only do you have to produce a return ticket (with no guarantee of even being allowed to travel) but you need a formal invitation letter from the town hall office of your host, or a hotel reservation. This invitation letter usually takes your host about a month to process, at least 2 trips to that office and 30Euro at least. Consider yourself lucky to have got those, you also need a travel insurance, a letter from your employer (job contracts don’t count) and proof of finances (bank statements don’t count). Financially, excluding your plane ticket, the whole process can set you back £150-£250. Damn that £1 Ryanair fare! Meanwhile, in Mozambique/Zimbabwe/Malawi, despite the greater threat historically posed by a European on these soils, it took us less than 1 hour to have the whole lot done and an upfront payment of $20- $30 (~£15- £20). On one occasion, it did take 2 hours but that’s because the English traveller ahead of me was visibly infuriated by the process and decided to get confrontational with the immigration officer. Consequently, everyone with a foreign passport was punished.
Border crossings constituted one dreary, heart-sinking moment of the bus journey. Each crossing required a visit to both countries’ immigration offices to have your passport stamped. Leaving was usually swifter than entering a country, naturally! Except, of course, if one of your fellow passengers decided to overstay his keep in the exiting country. Dealing with this situation is very crafty. Bribes are eminently du jour and they are not negotiated in any direct way at all. There’s no asking price here. The offender simply leaves a note in a page in his passport. The officer actively searches the passport for it, and if discontent with the amount presented, grumpily hands the passport back. A few minutes later, the offender, after having scrounged for some extra dosh, presents the cash in a similar way, and this strange bargain can go on a number of times until the passport is finally cleared or singularly dismissed. Somehow, in the latter case, the offending individual then simply vanishes into ether and the bus decides to leave him/her behind. Next thing you know, maybe 5Km or even 50Km into the next country, the person will reappear at some road junction and hop back on the bus. This s/he might not be allowed to do, in which case they will appear at the final station, again inexplicably, and collect their luggage there! The most remarkable example for me was a woman who sneaked past the Zimbabwe/South Africa border with her baby and was refused back on the bus, but somehow beat us to it at the terminus!
My experience of the borders was nowhere near as exciting but worth a mention. When leaving Malawi, one is allowed a maximum of Mk3000 and I had around 6000. So I had to spend the excess (in fact more like the whole lot) on wooden artefacts around there, only to find myself burdened with this extra weight, which I intended to leave with the Mauritian connection in South Africa.
One way bridge
Going through Mozambique, an additional delay declared itself, in the form of a single lane crossing across what is apparently the longest bridge in Africa- not the widest that’s sure! If you happen to be that first person to be held back after a batch has been let through, then I’m afraid you might as well take a little nap or get your Sudoku out. They rotate hourly here!
We're in Zim
In Zimbabwe, the immigration officers were exceptionally efficient and, on a personal basis, not adverse to foreigners at all. However, the intimidating presence of Robert Mugabe was distinctly manifest in the picture frame hanging behind them on the wall. That man decided that British travellers ought to pay the same numerical amount as others (Europeans/ Americans) except that the amount would be in pounds rather than dollars! Once again, I shot myself in the foot by using my British passport. There was also a strange incident of a stranded bag hanging on a tree outside the immigration office, that left all of us somewhat insecure. The bag -lady’s handbag- looked like it might have been left there deliberately, possibly to lure curious fingers hence, warranting an arrest, or, heaven forbid, waiting to tick down to a boom! At the South African border, my luggage got searched along with a number of other passengers’. Interestingly, I was made to go and register my wooden curios, while the guy next to me had all varieties of fish and vegetables stuffed neatly between his trousers and shirts and sailed through! The way back across the borders blended into a fuzzy dream for me, having exhausted myself to the limit in South Africa. All I remember was that the Mozambican immigration guy recognised me as the ‘Mauritius one’ and, on the other side, I (unethically!) used my status of (male) doctor needing to get back to work, to speed my baggage check through so I didn’t have to wait for all the luggage on the bus to be individually checked until we got to mine. This is what normally constitutes the longest delay in the whole return trip and I was in no mood for it. Malawians are renowned for their ability to shop till the last mm2, for absolute nothings most of the time, when travelling back (a bit like Mauritians used to do in the past/?still). I made a list of such improbable items crowding the interior of the bus and racks: large crisp packets, large pop bottles, oranges, bags, oil, biscuits etc.. I decided to alight here rather and make my own way back on Malawian public transport. This, I delayed till the next morning as a very important appointment was also waiting for me in Mwanza just as I cleared customs- the Germany v England game.
More on the South African world cup next....