No Man's Land - part two

       The sun was just coming up as I cautiously peeked my head out of the door. I was still shaken from the events of the night before and hadn’t slept at all, but things weren’t quite so scary in the light of dawn. The security guard asked if I needed a taxi, and when I said yes please, he took off running down the long road.  I smiled, that’s the Africa I know.  I walked towards the gate and on the left was a church, a Moravian church.  A reminder, I thought, God was with me the entire time.  I wished I could have stayed for a service, and met some fellow Moravians, but my Tanzanian visa ran out that day.

       I climbed into the taxi and my anxiety ramped back up at the thought of going back to the bus station. My driver, a legitimate one this time, said he could drive me all the way to the border.  It would be considerably more than the bus, but at that point I felt like it was worth the peace of mind. We negotiated the price, and I had him write it down.  We stopped for petrol, and he said,

       “You give me money to pay.” 

       “Yes, but I take it out of this,” pointing to the figure written on the paper.  He was disappointed that I knew the scam of making mzungu pay petrol on top of cab fare, but he agreed. I was glad I had studied my Lonely Planet guidebook. An hour and a half, and four security check-points later; we pulled up at the border.

       We had beaten all the buses there, and so entered an empty parking lot. Seven men surrounded our car, tried to open the doors, and banged on the windows.  They were shouting and asking if I needed to change money, or a taxi to the next town over the border.  I looked at my driver and said,

        “If you get me to customs, I won’t take out the cost of petrol.” 

        He smiled and said, “Ok, are you ready?” 

        We got out of the car and the men were hovering around me like seagulls on the back of a ferry, shouting, trying to get my bag, and creating as much confusion as possible.  My driver was doing his best to keep them at bay, as I kept answering, hapana asante. No thank you. We neared customs and they disappeared into thin air.  Inside, I received my exit stamp and I was suddenly overcome with sadness at leaving Tanzania.  I didn't renew my visa as I had earlier decided that I should travel to see other parts of Africa while I was on the continent. Perhaps I would find a place to settle down along the way.

       Back outside I started the long walk to the bridge. The men appeared out of nowhere and surrounded me again. This must be what it is like to be hounded by paparazzi. 

      “You must change your money on this side.”

       “No thank you.”

       “You will lose your money. Change your shillings.”

        "No thank you." They were all shouting at once.

       “You can’t change money over there, step over to my office, we will negotiate.”

       “No thank you.” One tried to take my bag.

       “I am trying to help you.”

       “NO thank you.”

       Another said, “You need a taxi to Karonga.  You pay me, I take you all the way.”

       “No thank you.” They kept talking and playing off of one another.

       “You don’t trust us?  We are trying to help you.” It went on and on.

        The last 24 hours finally boiled over inside me and I shouted, “Hapana acha!”  It was the rude way to say, no stop! They fell silent.

       “I know there is a bank just on the other side, so don’t tell me about your black market money, and you, “ I pointed to another man, “can’t take me all the way to Koronga because you can’t even cross the border, so I’m not giving you one single shilling. You’re all a bunch of … bullies!  Go look that word up in English, and back away from me, NOW.”

       “How did you know these things?”

       “Because she is an American woman.” Said one of the others before I had time to answer.  I was slightly flattered, though I’m sure he didn’t mean it that way. I turned and made my way to the bridge, unaccompanied.

       I said to myself, 'Whoa, where did she come from? – I don’t know – bunch of bullies? That’s such an old phrase – Yea, but I kinda hope she sticks around.'

       I looked up and saw before me the 300-meter walk to Malawi. I was the only white person I had seen in days, and there I was walking myself across the empty bridge.  My emotions were in tatters. I had all my possessions for the year, a pack and a roller bag, which was heavy and bulging.  The scene was such a contrast that I must have looked like Elle Woods, in Legally Blond, when she showed up at Harvard.  I was packing more belongings than most of these people even owned, not to mention they'd never seen a roller bag.  I felt a little ridiculous. Half way across though, I remembered that I was an American woman, and I held my head high.  

       I got my Malawi stamp, changed my Tanzanian Shillings to Kwacha, and bargained a deal on a taxi to Koronga. Several checkpoints down the road, two Malawian Policemen got into the back seat of the car. I looked at my driver and whispered, 

       "Quanini?" Why?  

       He looked at me. His hand was on the seat and he motioned it as though to say, 'don't say anything.' The hair stood up on the back of my neck. I sat in silence staring straight ahead, trying to be invisible. My mind went to all sorts of horrible places. Twenty miles later at the next village, they spoke. The driver pulled over and they got out.  I was so relieved until it occurred to me, 

       "They just got a free ride on my money, didn't they?"

        He had been holding his breath as well, and let it out as he laughed and nodded, "I think so."

       At the bus station, when the taxi dropped me, I encountered the same type of hysteria as every one before, but it was a small station.  I found a bus that would take me four hours to Mzuzu, the next town with transport. I met several wonderful Malawians on that ride, such sweet people. At the bus station in Mzuzu, I was accosted again.  I told them I needed a bus to Nkhata Bay.  This time their story was that there were no buses because it was Saturday and I should take a taxi.  

       I was laughing at this point, "Yes there are buses, they run every day." 

       "But you should have my friend take you because he can take you all the way to your hostel, and you don't want to get in after dark."

       Ugh, after dark, he'd hit me right where it hurt. I bargained a price.

       I looked at the driver and asked, "You know Mayoka, and you're going to take me all the way right?"

       "Yes."

       We drove through Mzuzu, and an hour through the lush, green Malawian countryside. We dipped down into Nkhata Bay, which is a small village on the edge of Lake Malawi, and headed up to Mayoka Village, my hostel. The road was dirt and fairly rough. After ten minutes, the driver stopped the taxi by a roadside market and got out.  He went to the back and pulled my bag out of the trunk. I got out.

       "What?..."

       "My car no go, need four wheel drive, you hike up that path, this man carry your bag."

       "What! Do I have to pay him?"

       "Yes, he help you."

       "No, I have already paid you to take me all the way.  You pay him."

       He reluctantly went into his pocket and paid the young man a pittance. My new friend hoisted the heavy bag onto his head, I grabbed my other pack, and we headed straight up the hill for a twenty-minute hike. I felt so badly for him, that I paid him again, once I finally reached my long awaited, hard fought destination.

        I arrived just in time for dinner.  I was famished, as I hadn't eaten in two days. I sat, staring out at the gorgeous lake, thinking.  Why do I make these plans?  I always dread them and half the time I'm scared out of my mind. Why can't I go home, get a job, and be a normal person? 

       I have to make these plans though, precisely because I am afraid. I must get beyond being terrified and stand on my own two feet before I can move forward into my new life, before I can leave the No Man's Land I'm living in.

Malawi

Nkhata Bay

Mayoka Village

Lake Malwai