The Road to Zomba

Three times a week I take my life in my hands--I drive the road to Zomba. The M3 is a harrowing and nerve-wracking, two-lane, poorly paved excuse for a major road. Road crews continually patch massive potholes-often patching places that have already been patched before. Vehicles break down regularly and since there is no shoulder you never know when you will have to stop and take a deep breath to go around an abandoned truck parked along a blind curve.

Danger lurks around every curve and death crouches behind each blind hill. Huge trucks, belching exhaust, prowl slowly along the pot hole pocked tarmac, daring me to pass. They are just waiting for me to pull up alongside so they can slowly squeeze me off into the bush. I’ve had my side view mirror taken off by one of these monsters loaded to the hilt with timber. The butt end of one of the poorly stacked trees sticking off the back smashed the mirror as I came up to pass-it was a miracle the tree didn’t come right through my windshield. It was either lose the mirror or go flying off the road as there is no shoulder-just a two foot drop-off where the dirt had washed away.

If truck passing wasn’t danger enough, I am constantly threatened by one of the infamous minibuses. These 15 passenger Toyota vans are the public transportation of Malawi. The drivers are paid a ridiculously low wage, so they supplement their income by picking up more passengers than expected. The way to accomplish this is by driving like bats out of hell. These maniacs come barreling along at dangerously high speeds with horns blaring and suddenly stop for either a pickup or drop off. They dart out into traffic with no hesitation or warning. If you beep in indignation they just glare at you and pull away.

While dodging trucks and minibuses is bad enough, the biggest hazards are often the bike riders. Very few Malawians can afford cars, so they have learned to carry a stunning array of objects on bikes: huge bags of charcoal, building materials, live chickens, and parcels of tobacco just to name a few. With these ungainly loads, they weave along the road like a drunk, waiting until the last possible second to get out of the way as my horn blares warning them that I have nowhere to go as a minibus is barreling down on me from the other direction.

Of course there are the hundreds of pedestrians who generally stay out of the way, but you have to be careful especially when passing through the villages that are built right along the road. The people are often mixed in with various less predictable animals-goats, cows, chickens and the like. Throw in the occasional monsoon-like downpour, blinding sun, or dense fog bank, and you have the recipe for disaster. Every year there are hundreds of accidents and dozens of deaths on the Zomba road. It is like a crazy video game as I weave and dart in and out of traffic, potholes and pedestrians. The only difference is if I make a mistake there is no reset button.

This road has become for me the metaphor for life in Malawi. Each person in this poverty ridden country lives a life that is tenuous and fraught with danger. Death lurks around each corner as disease and illness ravage children and adults. There are hundreds of potholes and problems waiting to sideline the people here. Poor schools, lack of jobs, no money, and dangerous neighborhoods are just a few of the potential accidents waiting to claim victims. It is amazing that anyone arrives at a destination other than the many coffin shops that line the M3. People are blindsided everyday by malaria, HIV/AIDS and countless other problems. Corruption and stupidity by officials, leaders and pastors just add to the problems headed their way.

In a few months I get to go home and drive safely down the well paved, tree-lined road of my neighborhood. For the people here, there is no other route and no reset button.