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July 1, 1999, CE
     As I mentioned in my previous letter, we woke up very early to leave Cuamba. The road we would be taking, by bus, took Mark 18 hours and four vehicles last year, so we really didn't know how long this stage of our journey would be. We got front seats in the bus (which stayed uncrowded by African standards for the whole trip). Then we discovered why front seats were not desirable -- there was no windshield on the bus! (This also explained the safety goggles the driver was wearing...) Clever mazungus that we are, we pulled out Mark's sleeping bag, and stayed perfectly warm for the 8 hour bus ride. (By the way, I would just like to say for the record that Africa can be quite chilly! That was one cold bus ride, without the sleeping bag. Also, I've been cold all day today. Mozambique and Malawi, at least, can get pretty darn cold!) The bus only stopped every ten feet (better than most) for the first part of the trip. Then we got into no-man's-land. We passed through parts of Mozambique where there was nobody! And that was along a major route of transportation! Northern Mozambique is actually one of the most sparsely populated parts of arable Africa (Which is funny because Malawi, which it directly abuts, is teeming with people). Again, whenever the bus stopped or someone caught sight of us, Mark and I made quite a sensation. The bus ride was fine, almost pleasant, which means that there's not much exciting for me to write about. The most exciting this that happened was we saw a group of monkeys in the wild. I have a picture of where they were seconds before I took the picture.
      We got off the bus, finally, at Mandimba. (If you can't keep these names straight in your head, I don't blame you. I have a tough time, and I was there!) Seeing as Mandimba was a stop on our "programme" (That's what they call a schedule in Portuguese/Canadian) I assumed I would be doing my usual photographer's business there. When Mark and I stepped off the bus we were completely mobbed by 1) people waving wads of money 2) people with bicycles. I was confused by both. The answer to both was that we were very close to the Malawian border. "What" you ask, "Do bicycles have to do with the border?" Excellent question. Well, as I mentioned, I was expecting to visit a project in Mandimba, so I was standing around waiting for the pastor and entourage to arrive. Thus I was caught completely by surprise when Mark gestured to one of the bikes and said, "Hop on!" Here is the scene, in a pressing mob of people, with my purse clutched close, my backpack with all my belongings on my back, and my sleeping bag dangling painfully off one arm I am asked to get onto the padded back of a one-speed bicycle driven by what looks like a 12 year old. Nothing to hold on to, no helmet. I take a deep breath, murmur, "This IS Africa after all" and climb on. (Mom, I should warn you that in this particular day of travel I broke almost all the carefully instilled rules.) We stopped briefly at the border to get our passports stamped (I'm gonna come out of this with one cool passport!) Then we climbed back on our bicycles built for two. The boys driving the bikes went fast! (Not that I was terrified that they'd hit something and I would go catapulting off the back or anything...) It was exhilarating! It was scary! It was strange... the reason for our bike trip is that Mozambique has a rather large no-man's-land on it's borders -- all of them. This one was 7 kilometres long, which is an awful long way to walk. And there were no motor vehicles, mostly because Mandimba is left of the middle of nowhere and it would not be worth the petrol to run a minibus or something. So Mark and I, sitting behind these poor, overworked boys (who really got a workout that day) whizzed through the Mozambican countryside. It was really something -- truly a memorable experience. One of the stops along the way where we were the center of attention

Me, on the back of the bicycle, at Mandimba

The view from my perch on the bicycle

Mark and his driver. What you can't tell is that we're all moving pretty fast when I took this picture!

      Finally our bike rides came to an end. I asked Mark when the boat ride would happen. Actually, according to him, that will be next week. I asked about the camels and horses and he told me to stop complaining. (Plus, there are no camels or horses here... who needs 'em?) We arrived at the Malawian side of the border. The Presbyterian Church has an excellent history and reputation all over this part of Africa, but especially in Malawi. You may have heard of the Presbyterian missionary David Livingstone, well, let's put it this way, Malawi has a town called "Livingstonia". Anyway, saying that you work for the Presbyterian church is usually a great way to cut through hassles in Malawi. So as we were filling out the typical border paperwork, Mark told me to put down as my occupation "Church worker". The red tape guy took our cards and our passports, and ignoring the line behind us, perused them at his leisure. "You work for the church?" he asked. "Yes, we do." "What is the most important job of a church worker?" WHAT???? Now, you know there is a right answer to this question, and you also know that there is no way you are going to come up with it. We finally discovered that the most important job of a church worker was to be a watchmen. And what is the most important job of a watchmen? We tried a few answers. None of them was the right one. He informed us that it was to warn the people, in this case, of the coming Kingdom of heaven. And when will the Kingdom of Heaven come? I thought I knew this one and replied "No man knows the day or the hour." Wrong again. It happens right after you die. He then proceeded to lecture us on how we should be warning the people against the coming kingdom, managed to work in AIDS, and told us to be watchful. It took us 15 minutes to get our passports back. I am still confused by that encounter.
      We left the border office, finally. Now, one thing I assumed when I started this journey is that Mark had things beautifully planned. To a great extent, he did. For example, he knew when the train would leave, and he knew there was a bus to Mandimba, etc. So I asked what our next form of transportation would be. As we stood in a town located left of the left of the middle of nowhere he said, "I don't know. Hopefully a truck." Heh... my favorite words. (I have discovered since that he was right. In many ways, transport across Africa is EASIER than trying to do the same thing at home!) Moments later a truck drove by. Mark waved it down, and said, for the second time that day, "Hop on." So, sorry Mom, in one fell swoop I hitch-hiked and rode in the back of a truck. (I thought you'd understand...) Actually, that was pretty fun at first, too. The weather was perfect, maybe 70 degrees. The scenery was entertaining, and at first we were the only ones on the truck. After discovering that my rear (still sore from the train ride) would not withstand sitting anywhere on the metal on a road that bad, I decided to stand and look over the cab of the truck. That's fun, as long as you don't get whapped by a branch. Before long, however, a few more people joined us in the back. An hour later, I had no sensation in my right leg (which I couldn't move) and was in danger of losing sensation in my left (which I couldn't move). I had a person's legs between mine (competing with the luggage) and a baby kept grabbing my rear end. The truck, we discovered, had no clutch. (This seems common...) I believe it also lacked a starter. The driver wouldn't pick up passengers on an uphill. He would wait for a downhill, then stop. It also had an exhaust problem. Oh, that was a long trip. It only took about 2 hours, but it was looong!
      Our journey in the Chapa (that's what they're called -- phonetically at least) ended in Mangoche, much to my relief. When we crawled onto the Chapa, Mark had pointed to a mountain range and said "Blantyre is over that range" leading me to assume that Blantyre was within a hundred miles. Hah! (I don't know if you can tell, but Mark is a combination of a buff-stud and an optimist, which requires me to call on all the machismo I carefully developed in Jr. High to keep up with him without complaining.) When we arrived in Mangoche, we found a bus leaving shortly to Blantyre. Unfortunately, a devaluation of the Malawian currency (the kwatcha) meant that Mark had misjudged how much money he would need for all our fares. He instructed me to pull out one of my American $20s (secreted in my money belt) and we went in search of someone to change it, and quickly! Finally an Arab trader (this sounds like a bad adventure novel, doesn't it?) agreed to change it for a good 5% less than the going bank exchange. It was enough to get us on the bus, so we didn't care.
      There were no seats together on the bus, but that was okay. I climbed in with two British 18 year old girls who had been teaching for a year in the boonies. (Now there is courage.) Between falling asleep, I attempted to make conversation with them. I do not think that I was very coherent. The bus was fairly new. It had contoured seats and two television sets. Unfortunately, not even my relatively slender rear end would fit into one of the seats, and the tvs had no sound, only white noise. The bus had two videos. The first was a biography of some obscure and pasty British soccer player who was big in the 1970s... at least that's what I could figure out without sound. The other was truly bizarre... apparently some of the most popular music in Africa right now is from the Congo/Zaire. This was an example of a music video, sans music, of course. The singer was dressed in overalls, with something stuffed in the paunch to make him look vaguely pregnant. He had painted his face white, and wore ridiculous sunglasses. He gyrated for at least one hour, maybe two. Ugh! Both of these videos were played multiple times on the trip. This was one of those buses that stopped every 5 feet. BRENDA'S COROLLARY OF AFRICAN TRAVEL: The bigger the vehicle, the more often it will stop. Now please recall that all the events in this letter happened in one day. At this point, in the bus, it occurred to Mark that we should probably eat something. To this point we had eaten half a croissant a piece. (We shared it.) Winning my gratitude, he bought some fried dough/meat thingies from the people who appear at forms of transport. I probably have gotten some horrible sort of ameba from it, but boy did I need that! The trip from Mangoche to Blantyre was spent by me in a state of semi-consciousness.
      When we arrived in Blantyre, we were very lucky. Often, buses that say they are going to Blantyre are really going to Limbe, the sister city, and don't go to Blantyre at all. We were going to Blantyre. Our bus actually did go to Blantyre, and dropped us off at about 6:00 (read: after dark) in the nearest bus station to where we were going. Being in an African city (or any city) after dark, without transport, and without a crystal clear idea of where you are going is not fun. Mark and I started walking very quickly. After this long day's travel, we did make it to our destination. We were welcomed in by the Inglis family -- a Presbyterian Church of Canada mission family. I think I stayed with, or near, them for almost a week. They had a very comfortable and welcoming place -- with plenty of space for guests. They just moved into a new house, and were finishing the long term guest house behind. It was very nice.
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