As I walk inside the border post in the late afternoon on Wednesday, the driver tells me he is going to Blantyre, Malawi’s biggest city, about 100 km east of the border. Fine by me, I say, I’ll come along. I quickly get my passport stamped -- I’m officially out of Mozambique -- and sit outside, waiting.
After 15 minutes, I figure I’ll walk to the Malawi entrance. Usually, the entrance to one country is a short walk from the exit post. I walk down a hill and up another, then stop to ask how much further. It is six kilometers to Malawi, I learn. I sit back down with eight or ten young men who ferry people between posts on bicycles and wait for the truck, wondering why six kilometers of land that is technically neither Mozambique nor Malawi.
The truck finally comes, and it is indeed six kilometers to the Malawi entrance. Again, I breeze through, get my passport stamped, and sit down to wait. I get up to change some money and come back. The pickup is still where the driver parked it. I visit an actual restroom (first one in a while) and return. Still nothing. I buy some meatballs from the border post cafeteria (cold, but not bad). Nada. I locate the driver, who tells me there are some problems with his papers and that I should look for another ride. I wish he had told me an hour ago. I begin searching for another ride, but nobody will take me. Two passenger buses are completely packed and can’t fit another person. (Here's the border as night falls.)
Suddenly, the pickup driver waves me over and says there’s a change of plans. The papers have been fixed (somehow) and he’s going all the way to Lilongwe, Malawi’s capital, tonight. Spectacular! That’s nearly 300 km further north from Blantyre, that much closer to my final destination. Count me in. I walk 100 meters past the border post to avoid the customs officials who hassle vehicles with extra passengers, and wait for my ride.
A half hour later, we are on the road. I’m in the back with several other young men. Three older men, including the driver, are in the cab. It’s pitch black, probably sometime after 7:00 p.m. The night sky is dazzling.
I have done this many times before, and I know the drill. Even when it seems warm in the back of a pickup, it will get cold as you drive along at night. Very cold. So I am prepared. I have unpacked my sleeping bag and donned two shirts and a jacket. I take off my shoes, lie in the bed of the truck against a couple of pillows the driver has left back here, pull the sleeping bag up to my eyes, and enjoy the night sky.
I am asleep within minutes. I awaken a few times for a glimpse of Blantyre and some roadside stops, but mostly, I sleep the sleep of the dead.
When I regain consciousness, I have one thought: It’s cold. Even in my sleeping bag with all the layers, I’m freezing. I’m alone in the truck bed, and only the driver remains in the cab. We stop at a police checkpoint and I bang on the cab, asking if I can move up front. We rearrange some luggage (I discover that my peanut butter was stolen while I slept!) and I get inside.
Something feels off in the cab. The driver, a chubby light-skinned black man in his 40s with a beard, seems out of sorts. He appeared competent and in control when I met him and when I spoke with him several times at the border. I ask him how he’s doing.
“I have been driving straight from Johannesburg. All night last night, and all day today.”
He hiccups.
“I have gone…” He squints at the odometer. “I can’t read that. Can you tell me what it says?”
We can’t figure how far he’s driven because he can’t remember what the odometer read when he started.
Hiccup.
“I drive with the windows open so I can stay awake. My wife is an MP -- you know, a member of Parliament? I bought this truck in South Africa so I can build a house with it. Do you want some yogurt?” He hands me some drinkable yogurt.
Hiccup.
I look at the clock. It’s 12:45 a.m. We left the border more than five hours ago.
To my great relief, we are already on the outskirts of Lilongwe. Within 15 minutes, we are in the city proper. I want to be dropped off at a taxi so I can find a cheap place to sleep, preferably in my tent. He demands that I go to a “guest house” -- basically a low budget hotel. He walks in ahead of me and comes out, announcing that the rooms are less than $5. Fantastic, I say. I pay him $15 for his troubles, shake his hand, and walk inside.
My driver must have misunderstood, or the hotel manager changed his story once I was alone without a ride. The price became $40 for the room I was shown. I storm out and the manager calls me back, saying he has a room for $10. I pay in Malawian kwacha, slip into my sleeping bag, lay down in a suspicious but good-enough bed, and fall back into a deep sleep.
Little did I know that I just completed the easy half of my journey.
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