Evidence

Today I'm in Lilongwe, the capital of Malawi, after saying my goodbyes to Zambia. The border crossing was memorable mostly for the sheer number of times you have to change modes of transportation to travel less than 100 kilometers.

First there is the shared taxi from the Zambian border town. Apparently there used to be mini busses a year or two ago, but they were done away with since they weren't filling fast enough. Instead, little toyotas patrol back and forth from the border, leaving town when they fill up, shuttling people over, and then stuffing themselves full again before shuttling back. When I say little toyotas, I mean approximately 1998 camrys, not land rovers, and by full I mean at least 6 full grown adults -- not counting the driver. Four cram into the backseat, which isn't so bad, but then two more stuff themselves into the front passenger before the driver will even think of taking off. And in my ride, at least, I was not the biggest of these people. A feat I don't think I've seen attempted since college -- Picnic Day, usually -- and never without the influence, procurement, or escape from the consequences of, alcohol involved. (With adults in a sedan, at any rate, I can't even remember the record for the Chia car in high school, but I know it was a solid 2 digit number at the least).

Eventually we made it, though, and the driver kindly dropped me off exactly at the border post -- not before he and about 17 of his friends had even more kindly 'helped' me to exchange all my Zambian Kwacha for the Malawian brand. But the price was fair, and forex's are a pain, so even that wasn't so bad. I got myself stamped out of Zambia -- where the exit and security procedures include waving down the customs officer from his chat with the cold drink lady, having him stamp your passport without much inquisitiveness, and then being pointed in the direction of a large ledger book, where you are instructed to write down your name, country of origin, and mode of transport, for purposes that elude me, and probably the customs officer as well. What, if anything, is ever done with this book is a mystery to me, but I've learned its never a good idea to argue with the man holding the large rubber stamp, so I filled in the book and off I went. The same process essentially applies in Malawi, including the over-full toyota sedans and the men desperate to exchange cash. But finally I made it onto a bus heading to Lilongwe and into Malawi proper.

To be honest, I came prepared to love Malawi -- its talked up so much, "the lake of stars" "the warm heart of Africa"... -- so perhaps I was already a little biased, but certainly not dissapointed. I've been here two full days, and only to the capital, and so far I'm already in love. On the way in we passed three weddings (a pleasant departure from the funerals that always seem to line the sides of the road in South Africa), and two men walking down the road in traditional Chewa dress. I don't know why, but it still made me happy. The man next to me in the taxi took it upon himself to be my personal tour guide, pointing out "this one, it's Chewa culture! Of course!!" whenever we passed anything remotely Chewa-related, and punctuating everything with a huge laugh.

Today and yesterday I spent my time wandering old town Lilongwe, tomorrow I'll do the same, except with more purpose in mind. On friday I'm off to Likoma island, and will attempt to learn to Scuba dive, so money and sunblock will be the goals of the day.