The &%*#!@ Border Crossing

I can’t say that we are happy to leave Brig’s mother and our ever accommodating safari guide, but since technically they are leaving us, we don’t have much of a choice. We board a hot crowded bus, switch on the bladder control button, and head south through Tanzania. We share a couple of days in Dar Es Salaam with our president. Picture a city with four million people, and only the main roads are paved. We visit the U.S. embassy to add a few dozen more pages to our passports and then board a Chinese built train (a relic from the Communist era in Tanzania) bound for Mbeya. From Mbeya we plan to cross over into Malawi, one of the poorest countries in the world, but praised for their gorgeous and massive lake.
We wake up before dawn and board the only minibus headed for the border. After six hours and fifteen stops where the driver honks madly on his horn in attempt to refill the minibus, we complete the sixty (yes, sixty) mile journey to the border. Did the thought cross my mind that if I could only hijack that rusted bike from the kid carrying a stack of logs twice his size that we could be to the border in half the time? Or perhaps just pay off the driver not to stop anymore. Nope, this never crossed my mind. I love the journey, the experience of having my knees crammed against the seat in front of me, fighting for space with a giant barrel of rice, and the excitement of wagering how slowly something with a motor can get from point A to point B.

Upon finally arriving at the border, we take a deep breath, elbow our way off of the minibus, and prepare for what I like to refer to as “Border Madness” to begin. Brig and I are immediately surrounded by fifteen adolescent African locals, eager to scam our pants off. They are all bombarding us at once with offers to exchange our money, cycle us across the border, carry our backpacks, and on and on. It's just too much for me right now, I look at Brig and want to cry, scream, demand my personal space. But instead I just laugh. I know as well as they know that the only way to have any peace, is to select one of these guys to “help” us so that the rest will leave us alone. We select David, reluctantly hand him a few of our Tanzanian shillings and receive what are presumably counterfeit Malawian kwacha in return. Assuming that our money is now gone, the hawkers disperse, leaving us to cross without further harassment into Malawi.
One cab, two more buses and nine hours later, we arrive in the lakeside town of Nkata Bay. Our secluded lakefront cabana perched on the manicured hillside is in sharp contrast with the villagers thatched huts and polluted river. The local population is poor, and stricken by one of the largest percentages of HIV in all of Africa. The lake is beautiful and the snorkeling amazing, but this discrepancy of opportunity puts a damper on my enjoyment.

Another damper comes in the form of aching muscles, fever and a burning headache. Symptoms that would normally be the sign of an unfortunate flu in America, happen to be exactly the same as the first signs of malaria in Africa. On top of that, the malaria medicine that is supposed to prevent me from getting malaria is also giving me crazy nightmares. Usually some local thugs are trying to kill me, sometimes Brig saves me, sometimes he doesn’t. And occasionally, Brig is the one trying to kill me.

A trip to the local hospital in the back of a pick-up truck and I am pronounced clear of malaria. I switch malaria medicine, and things start looking up. We briefly consider heading to Cape Town, South Africa by bus, but the thought of any more tortuous bus rides overwhelms us with feelings of panic, abuse and cruelty. We splurge for a plane ticket and sigh with relief at the thought of staying put in one city for an entire month.