I find myself at the bus stop, waiting for an ?Executive Coach? to go to Blantyre, Malawi?s second largest city. A small parking lot in front of a bunch of shophouses serves as the waiting/loading area. The dusty road sneezes red powder every time a vehicle zooms past. Next to the parking lot is a slightly larger building with the officious title ?Ministry of Education and Science?.
Everyone waits with a bored look on their face. The Executive Coach finally arrives. Its windows are open, which is surely not a good sign in the African heat. My host tells me that he managed to get the last two seats on the bus. I put my luggage in the hold and clamber aboard. The seats are the last two at the back of the bus. My host tells me that the trip will take approximately four or five hours in total. The humidity starts to get to me as my clothes start sticking uncomfortably. The legroom is sparse ? I can barely wiggle a toe, let alone stretch a leg. I hold my laptop case on my lap as I did not want to leave it in the hold.
My host neglects to inform me that there are no stops during the entire journey. I am a little annoyed that I did not have the chance to buy a bottle of water. With the heat sucking water out of my body through my sweat glands, I begin to feel dehydrated and bothered. The cramped quarters do not help.
Soon, the bus fills up. I am squashed between two rather large Malawians. Several variants of foul body odour attack my nose and sting my senses. The guy sitting to my left reeks of several unwashed days. The smell is enough to knock me out. I wish it does.
The hours tick along very slowly. I try to sleep. I am not very successful. There is piped music from the latest African American artists like Rihanna and Beyoncé. Two screens flop down from the ceiling (not unlike those you see on aeroplanes). We see various black films interspersed with music videos from local artistes. I do not normally find it interesting to watch films like “Big Momma’s House” and “Phat Girls” (about an obese black girl), but what with non-movement and insomnia, they provide a diversion. Around me, passengers who do not watch the entertainment are praying audibly, chanting Christian mantras like “Christ forgive me, Christ help me” on loop.
When at long last, the bus rolls into Blantyre, I wait for ages until all the passengers in front of me disembark, and then go to claim my luggage. I resist the urge to wipe the caked dust off my bags as we are now on the move. My host clamps his arm around the shoulder of a friendly chap and they start talking and laughing like old friends. It soon transpires that my host is trying to negotiate a cheap taxi ride for me to my hotel, and then for him to his house (which is some 30 minutes away). Price agreed, we bundle into the ?taxi? (a heaving, sputtering baby of a car) and speed off. The taxi driver’s wife (or girlfriend) sits in the front, and although my host tries to make pleasant conversation, she remains silent for most of the journey.
I stay at the Sun Resort Malawi, which is landscaped with gardens and chalet-type buildings. There is a Somerset Maugham feel about the place. I feel almost as if I need a pith helmet to make my experience complete. The amenities and facilities are not as nice as the hotel in Lilongwe, but each bed has its own mosquito net hanging above. There is a mosquito repellent coil next to the bed, complete with a box of matches to light it. Obviously, this would not pass health and safety rules in Europe, but hey, this is Malawi. Truth be told, I feel somewhat safer knowing that the risk of contracting malaria is diminished with these things in place.
On the TV, there are more reality shows – woeful in production values, and excruciating in terms of talent. I switch off and try to read a little. Morpheus strews sand in my eyes.
And so, with nothing but the distant violins of mosquito music, I lay my heavy head on the crusty pillow and endeavour to sleep.