KARONGA, Malawi – When the fuel smugglers crammed full jerry cans of their black market goods under our collapsing seat, I should have called it a ride, got out, and hitched from wherever the hell we were. Instead I gritted my teeth and did the same thing I always do – hoped for the best, promised myself I’ll never do anything like this again and then promptly broke the promise.
Connie and I were in the most wrecked mini-bus we had seen, which is akin to saying, “I just ate at the worst Arby’s I’ve ever seen” – a high bar indeed. What used to be a Toyota van looked as if a small nuclear explosion had gutted it, leaving only bits of seat foam attached to twisted metal. There were 25 people inside a creaking disaster made for 12.
Malawi is a stunning, mountainous country rotten with destroyed roads that cut through dizzying terrain with suicide corners that drop off into scenic jungle far below. “Perhaps a tree will catch us before we fall too far,” I thought as our insane driver squealed around corners on what must have been bald tires. He had been stuck behind a sluggish truck for a few minutes and seemed to be trying to make up time.
My neighbor, a Malawian, turned to me with grim resignation. “He seems to be going faster now.”
I envisioned the crash, the explosion, and the few survivors scrambling to exit what was left of the burning van. I thought of the great deal the ride was – a six hour hop for about $4 – and what a cheap moron I was.
Our driver pressed the pedal ever lower, nearly hopping the silver coffin over steep rises, careening down steep grades, and passing as if to dare other potential drivers coming the opposite direction to take the same blind curve. A boulder-strewn river raged far below.
I looked over at Connie. She gripped the seat in front of her tightly. Her face was etched with fear, but she remained much calmer than could be reasonably expected from any sane human being with a survival instinct. Perhaps it was the wrong time for a joke.
“Well, I think we’re either going to die or get their early,” I said.
I was wrong on both counts. Late by a half-hour (but what’s late really, when you’re taking go-when-we-fill-up mini-buses?), we pulled in very much alive, exhaled, and got onto the next mini-bus.
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