Hitching

Hitching often has an epic component. But similar to many things, other hitch hiking adventures are more epic than others. This one began with a lot of waiting and frustration as USAID vehicles and UNDP SUV’s passed us by. One might think that a. vehicles funded and purchased by the United States government would consider at least stopping to see what two non-Malawian looking people were up to standing by the side of the road and might even make the assumption that they were in fact Peace Corps volunteers worth picking up, b. even if the vehicles were not funded by the U.S.A. they might again consider asking the young woman and man by the side of the road who they were and be spurred to pick them up as we are all supposedly working for the cause of development that is hindered in everyone’s case by the lack of competent transportation. Or not. After roughly a two-hour chunk a lorry stopped and though we knew the ride was going to be slow, he did happen to be going all the way to our destination. This lorry also happened to have an extra large bed part of the cab, so we settled there hoping he wouldn’t stop too much. The ride went slower than expected and was less free then expected but the rain prevented us from getting out and trying again. But then he made a stop. He pulled the truck into a trading center and asked us if it was all right if we took a break. We had only made it around an hour and half out of the capital, so we said no, grabbed our bags and gave him an amount of money that prompted him to label us as ‘very mean.’

We were however, at an area where we thought we could successfully hitch from. We had lunch and then rode bicycle taxis to the main road. In my mind bicycle taxis are a quaint and almost romantic form of transportation. In reality I hate bicycle taxis as they instill in me both a fear and hate for my life both at the same time. In college I went on a trip to India to study grassroots development and Gandhian philosophy. One morning, all participants of the trip rode in rickshaws as sort of a fun activity and to get a glimpse into the different modes of transportation of India. I now feel stupid thinking back on this activity as sort of ‘fun’ and ‘risky’ as firstly; rickshaws are not just a bicycle with a cushion on the back and small pedals for your feet, they actually have more to them, and hence are safer and more comfortable, secondly, I felt that kind of fear that propels a feeling of ‘dangerous fun,’ as opposed to the kind of fear, where you just feel more fear and maybe danger, but no fun. The bicycle taxi ride from the boma of Kasungu to the main road includes a rather steep hill. I had my messenger bag and my hiking bag on my back, so I already felt off balance. In fact I felt ready to fall off into a mass mess of motorcycles, bicycle spokes, and concrete that I would be hitting at a rapid pace anyway, but in fact would be hitting much harder as I zipped downhill on my favorite mode of transport. The drivers of these bicycles are sitting slightly above you, so as the passenger clinging onto the back, you can’t see the buses and motorcycles that are coming at you. In fact you only experience these vehicles when they zoom past you and are forced to inhale possible death as the bicycle wobbles and your eyes widen as you check out the area of ground you might soon be coming into contact with.

However, all bicycle taxi rides do end and this one didn’t end in any injury or death, a positive piece of news for my future. My friend and I dumped our bags on the side of the road ready to hail down our next ride. Another issue about hitching beside the direct uncertainty of if you will get a ride or how direct/safe/fast the ride will be is the uncertainty of the area one might find themselves in. We were in an ok area, the sky was overcast, it wasn’t raining, there weren’t a lot of kids harassing us, and everything would have been relatively ok, if there didn’t happen to be an absolutely insane woman cackling directly in front of us. And it didn’t end at the cackling. For awhile she would have the routine of scuttling to and fro across the road taking time to pull grass up and make rock piles. She then decided to settle and sit near us occasionally laughing at who knows what while my friend told me, he had had poor luck in this spot before with slightly psychotic women, one of which had emerged from a field of corn and begged him to come into the corn with her. Our rock pile creator did not beckon us into the corn, but did touch herself and proceed to put her hands to her face. At this point we were more then ready to leave and were done even making jokes about her scuttles and laughter and really wanted a ride. This elusive ride did not show up and time went by and the scuttler remained, scuttling until perhaps 45 minutes later where she stood directly across from us and lifted her skirt and flashed us for at least a full 30 seconds, maybe more, laughing all the while. If there was any tiny piece of us that did want to remain at this pleasant area of Malawian roadside, these pieces were immediately gone and erased. Finally, we gave up and flagged down a bus. In the morning, I got on a minibus then headed for a matola. Matola rides can be tricky as well, often offering up more brushes with death than I would prefer, but this one was comfortable enough with tons of bags of maize to sit on and an uncramped view of the mountains. I plugged in my ipod and finally felt relieved to be on the way home with a pleasant breeze and bounce, Sweet Nothin’ by the Velvet Underground playing. Of course, this relief was short lived when we made a nice long stop where the truck unloaded the maize aka ‘my comfy seat,’ and we started going so slowly that drunken cyclists were able to keep up. But I guess life would be boring if one always felt relieved and comforted. It could be worse, Lou Reed did go on singing and no one flashed me. I couldn’t hear anything that anyone said to me as I turned up the volume and no one seemed to mind as long as I smiled which I was able to do with my selective hearing of one voice who sang on regardless of the various bumps, tilts, bounces, and lurches of the white pick-up.