Don't Look

A Malawian bus journey that had me thinking I might just die, and a lady named Violet who helped me to keep it together.

“Don’t look” I said to my travel partner Dom “it’s better if you don’t look”.

I’ve said this exact sentence to Dom twice in my life. The first was as he lay on a hospital gurney in remote Northern Australia, blood squirting from his forearm with each beat of his heart.

The second time - this time, I feared may turn out a little worse.

Our nocturnal journey to Nkhata Bay had not been an intentional one; I had heard reports about travelling at night in Malawi. None of them were good.

“It’s too dangerous” said one British expat,

“You won’t survive the journey” said another with a laugh,

“You’ll probably die” said a third with a stoney faced seriousness.

The statistics weren’t stacked in my favour either; 4.29% of all deaths in Malawi occur on the roads, which is less than Malaria, still not great though. I’m not sure how many of these occurred at night, but based on our current situation; crammed in a mini-van, clutching a large earthen pot with three live chickens inside, while we careened wildly around bends at an alarming speed in the darkness, I’m guessing it was a lot.

Initially the journey was quite calm and the driver was in complete control – the stories I had heard were obviously exaggerated. It was then I saw the first cow; the van’s dim headlights barely picking up its outline until we were almost upon it. This was followed by a group of people walking down the middle of the road as though they were on a terrace in Europe; arms linked, chatting and laughing. We swerved to miss them and almost collided with an oncoming car. It no longer felt like the driver was in control.

Of course I had no idea the journey would end up like this; those kinds of things happen to other people, not to me.

Hours earlier in the calamitous Kasumulu ‘busport’ our chariot had been secured. The driver had a road-worthy vehicle and two passengers already waiting in his van - a sweet couple in their 70’s who were heading in our direction. He wore a dark brown suit and held a bible in his left hand. She wore a navy blue dress and had a soft smile which reminded me of my mother. Her name was Violet. I clung to her like a life raft.

“Do you know where the driver has gone?” I asked, wondering why we weren’t leaving.

“Oh, he has gone to find more people”

“More people for what?” I asked, puzzled.

“More people to fill the bus” replied Violet with a giggle, as though it was obvious “don’t worry, it will only be a few hours to Nkhata Bay”.

The hours ticked by as we waited for the driver to return and the sun lowered in the sky. We left the bus exchange in the fading light, my endless optimism and Violet’s declaration that it would only be a two hour journey keeping me going.

What ensued was a hair-raising encounter with a seemingly endless number of stops along the way. With each new passenger I looked to Violet for confirmation of their character; if she smiled, I felt safe. If Violet shook her head, I recoiled back into my seat until they departed. Violet became my reminder of home, my comforting blanket. As long as Violet was there, I was OK.

When Violet and her husband gathered their things and motioned for the driver to stop, I began to shift restlessly in my seat. She saw the panic in my eyes and gave me a firm smile, reminded me I would be OK, nodded her head and got off the van, not looking back.

I sat back in my seat and breathed in the strong scent of body odour mixed with diesel fumes, chicken feathers and my own smelly socks as the van lurched off again. The radio station was blasting an afro-reggae pop song and the colourful patterns seemed to jump of the clothes of the passenger in front of me.

Violet was right, I was going to be OK. Just as long as the driver didn’t hit that cow up ahead..