Into the “Heart” of Africa….

Amidst a cacophony of yelling in different languages; moving luggage; people pushing one another; an on-board invasion of street vendors; and the smell of hot, black people—I began my journey by bus north from South Africa to Kenya.

            My loosely planned, “overland” travel began with a bus ride from Johannesburg, South Africa to Blantyre, Malawi.  On the coach bus, every seat was filled. There was so much excessive baggage; a luggage trailer was hitched to the bus.  Street vendors ambushed the crowded bus sitting idle in the station.  Selling everything from sunglasses to fake gold chains, the vendors made it almost impossible for passengers to settle in their worn, uncomfortable seats. 

For almost an hour, I listened to people arguing at the top of their lungs about luggage fees and tickets.  The police even came aboard to forcibly remove a male passenger. With so much chaos, the bus ended up departing 3 hours after the scheduled time. 

To make matters worse, at the first stop, more passengers were added to the already full bus.  Turning around and looking down the center aisle, I saw a row of black faces squatting in a single file line.  The new passengers and their luggage now filled the narrow center aisle.  The bus attendant had to climb over passengers and walk atop the seats to move through the bus. I knew that I’d be stepping into a different Africa, with less infrastructure and first world comforts than South Africa.  However, I didn’t expect to travel “refugee” style. 

The faster the overcrowded bus and trailer moved through the wet, narrow, winding mountain roads, the more nervous I became.  Afraid that I’d end up a casualty in Zimbabwe, I decided to release my fear and preoccupation with safety belts, overcrowding, transportation safety, and accept what my colleague calls T.I.A., “This is Africa, so get over it.”  

            Seated next to my white American colleague, the only white person on the bus, and a nice, Malawian brother with hazel-colored eyes, I noticed the other passengers looked different from black South Africans.  Almost everyone was the same shade of dark brown, very similar to my own skin color.  The faces of the passengers looked more oblong, without the pronounced cheekbones characteristic of black South Africans.  In fact, on the bus, I saw at least 5 people who looked like African Americans I know.

            By dusk, the bus sped through the rain and South Africa’s lush green mountains.  Heading to the Zimbabwe border, I watched grey clouds part as the sun set.  Although the temperature on the bus cooled, the infrequent stops and missing on-board bathroom was infuriating.  After riding for five hours without stopping, the passengers began to complain of thirst, hunger and ailments.  And, when the rest stop finally came, everyone rushed off of bus, running to the toilet or the shop to stock up on food and beverages. 

            We arrived at the Zimbabwe border at night, and walked through the rain across the border to the Zimbabwe customs office.  Pictures of President Colonel Mugabe filled the border patrol area.  I’d heard horrible things about Mugabe’s dictatorship, and the jailing and torture of American journalists, so as an American, I expected the worst.  Fortunately, the only negative thing that I saw in Zimbabwe was a poor elderly woman, who snuck on the bus to beg for change.

            The next morning we passed through Harare, Zimbabwe’s modern capital city.  Outside the city, the landscape flattened and seemed drier.  Shorter, black mountains stood in the distance.  Huge boulders that seemed from another age piled up in the middle of empty grasslands.  Groups of round, brick, “huts”, with grass-roofs, emerged.  Passing through small villages, lines of one-story brick shops with painted signs stood alongside the road.  These commercial areas reminded me of towns portrayed in scenes from old Western movies.

            It was amazing to see so much open, undisturbed land. In rural Zimbabwe, villages were far apart; and surrounded by ample, farmland.  During morning, I saw men, women, and children tilling the field with hand-held tools.  I also watched men plowing fields with oxen.  On the side of the road, women balanced large-pans of water, and other objects on their head, while uniformed, barefoot school children headed down the road.

            By afternoon, we reached the stunning Zimbabwe/Mozambique border.  As soon as the rain stopped, the sun shined bright and the clear blue skies returned.  In northern Mozambique, I saw clusters of huts made of wood sticks with grass roofs built on red-orange colored soil.  The landscape became more lush and green, and the temperature increased. Exotic trees with pink flowers emerged, occassionally interrupting the green landscape. Villagers watched the passing bus from under massive trees that seemed thousands of years old.

Crossing the wide Zambezi River by bridge, I watched children play in the water, and women wash clothing in the river.  Stopping at a busy village, boys were allowed to come onto the bus to sell “cool drinks” to the passengers.  They rode with us for miles, waiting to collect the soda glass bottles.

            After 34 hours, the bus arrived in Blantyre, Malawi.  We were greeted by scavengers waiting to swarm the bus for spoils left behind by passengers. I was happy that me and my luggage were in tact after the long bus ride.  Relieved, I looked up at the dark blue and grey sky.  As I watched noisy bats fly across the sky before landing in the many trees that surround Blantyre, I thought to myself, “Welcome to the