Day 3. Sat 12th August
Blantyre
I am at the
bus station at 7
prompt with my rucksack straining at the seams (I have been told that
there is a 25kg limit on the bus, but nobody weighs it). I am forced to
wear my boots again in order to get everything in. (The ghastly green
plastic sandals I bought as a stop-gap are definitely not wanted on
voyage, and I gave them to "Q" in Don Brioni's to give to a poor
shoeless African of his choice).
I don't have to wait long before a man arrives with a ticket
he doesn't need, so I buy it off him and I'm on.
The bus is definitely an improvement over the minibuses, with a real
guide with a microphone, toilet (which fortunately I don't ever need to
investigate), snacks and even a film. However, it is also a very old
bus (I believe they are exported from England when they are no longer
viable, and have probably been in service in Malawi for at least ten
years since), and we are not much more than an hour on the road before
it breaks down near Dedza, with brake failure.
Now, the Shire Coach Line runs two buses a day from Lilongwe to
Blantyre, one at 7am and one at 2pm. It is nine o'clock when we break
down, so the logical thing to do would seem to be to ring the bus
station and get them to send the other bus, which could take us on to
Blantyre. Then, with luck, they would probably be able to get this bus
repaired and back to Lilongwe in time for the 2 o'clock run. But no,
this is too logical. Instead, the driver rings the bus station and tells
them to send a mechanic.
I while away the time
chatting to the other passengers, including a
very nice family who live in Saudi but are back to visit. I remember
the bag of balloons that I carry in my rucksack for amusing children,
and dig them out and amuse the kids on the bus for a while.
After about 2 hours the mechanic arrives, removes the back wheel (which
is not a quick job on a coach), shakes his head, give a sharp intake of
breath and announces that he can't fix it.
So the driver gets on the phone to the bus station again and this time
tells them to send another bus (imagine what this was like before
mobile phone coverage, which wasn't that long ago). This finally
arrives at 2:15 - we have been stuck for five hours and, not yet inured
to the African sun, the backs of my legs are going very pink.
It is 6 o'clock and already dark by the time we reach the city (I shall
never get used to the way it goes dark every night at 6 in Africa,
whatever the time of year). Also, I had assumed that, like the
minibuses, the coach would stop at the depot outside Doogles, but it
doesn't, it stops at Ryles Hotel, which is not far away, but I
don't fancy walking it in the dark and with all my stuff, so I grab a
taxi.
Now, I have already emailed Doogles
backpackers' lodge
(probably the most
famous pub in Malawi, if not in Africa) from England to book a chalet
for tonight, but have been told that they have a convention of doctors
(at a backpackers' lodge???) in for the weekend and are completely
full, although dormitories and camping will be available. So, as well
as being tired and fed up after the journey from hell, I now have the
prospect of putting up my new tent in the dark, or sharing a dorm with
half a dozen snoring, farting backpackers. Oh joy!
However, my guardian angel must have only popped out for a quick fag,
because when I finally arrive at Doogles I discover that the doctors
have all gone, and there is a chalet available. And the showers are
hot! By 7:30 I'm cleaned and polished and enjoying a Carslberg Green
and a
Monster Steak Burger in the bar. As always it is easy to get into
conversation with people, and I end up chatting to a young guy called Alastair and a very nice
middle-aged lady from Edinburgh called Maureen who is teaching over
here. She apparently spends most of her evenings in Doogles as she is
staying at the Grace Bandawe Hostel, a Christian establishment just up the road which doesn't have a
bar. We chat for a while, and then she heads back to her hostel and I
head for bed.