Day's Diary

May 1, 2007 ~ Over the Mountain

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Zomba Mountain looms about the town of Zomba and each morning, as I come out of my house, the mountain greets me. I delight to see it, sometimes draped in clouds, and sometime bathed in sunlight, but seldom, until this weekend, did I stop to think about what lie on the other side of the mountain. Now I know because I went over the mountain and beyond on Sunday.

I had been cautioned by Partnership leadership that I couldn’t go to Linthipi congregation until the rains stopped and roads were repaired. I agreed, since I don’t know the area. I was so glad I had taken their counsel as we headed off on Sunday, four students, a partnership member (Winston Fatsani), and me in the Isuzu. One of the students was from the Chingale area, where Linthipi is located, agreed to be our guide. When he directed me up the same road I had gone a few weeks before to see Stephen’s village and had to turn around because of muddy roads, I had an idea of what we were in for, but only a vague idea. Idea quickly became reality. We drove past the point were I had stopped to walk to Stephen’s village just two weeks ago. We were now in new territory. The dirt road had rocks and ruts as we slowly climbed and worked our way to the back side of the mountain. We came to a section of road that switched back and forth that was wide enough for only one vehicle. At a bend, we encountered a large truck and we stopped to give way, pulling as close to the edge of the road as I dared. There was no alternative. He inched by us. A few more switch backs, around another bend and the Chingale valley lay in front of us. It was breath-taking, and then I realized that we had to wind our way down into that valley. It had taken us half an hour to get to this point and it took another half an hour of switch backs and hair pin turns to reach the valley, but the roughest driving was ahead of us. The road was no more than a path at places, only one lane wide and in some places only two tracks through the maize fields. Then we would come to spots where the road had been washed out and we maneuvered through water and ruts, never certain of what was under the water, but trusting that was “good” mud. The fellows in the truck with me found it most amusing when I would hold my breath as I drove through the water, but none of them were drivers. Each turn we made, produced a narrower road, until at one point we were clearing a path, because the “road” was used mostly by bicycles and the grass had overgrown all but a single bike tire track. At no point, since turning on the mountain road, had we gone faster than 30 kilometers an hour and much of the time we had to creep in second gear.  Duncan Kananji, our guide, kept assuring me that we were on a real road and it was the right one. But to reassure me (and I think himself), we stopped every once in awhile to ask a person working in a field or walking on the path if the Linthipi church were near and each time we were assured that we were on the right road. When we finally asked someone who led us to the church, I breathed a great sigh of relief. We had been winding through the valley for well over an hour.

The time with the church was wonderful (April 30th entry), but it was a long time. We didn’t finish lunch until 3:30 p.m. and I knew that we had a two hour drive ahead of us to get back up the mountain. I wanted to make it up before darkas these roads are treacherous enough in daylight. In the dark, they are unimaginable, from my perspective. There are no street lights (or lights of any sort) and no guide rails. Anderson Juma, the graduate student with us who has traveled with me before, knew my thinking because he kept pushing the agenda along. He and the pastor are longtime friends and they had a side conversation at lunch. It was announced that we would take a “shortcut” back to Zomba. Duncan, our guide to this point, the one who had grown up in Chingale, was hesitant but agreed. That should have been an indication to me, but I am too trusting when I don’t know where I am. The decision was that instead of going over the mountain, we would go around it and come out well north of Zomba, but head back to town on a tarmac road, not a dirt road.

So after packing the gifts of ground nuts and eggs that the church had presented to me, getting our Bibles and other katundu (stuff) and saying farewells, we headed off on the “shortcut.” The one thing I will say for it is that it was flatter than the mountain road. It was much more of the same type of road (path) we had followed through the valley to get to Linthipi, except that there were more bridges over streams in this section of the valley. Now a bridge here is not like a bridge in the States. There are a few concrete and steel constructions, but for the most part, and especially in this region, they are wooded structures erected by the local folks. At one point there were logs several inches apart that spanned the stream and my task was to position the tires of the truck on the logs, not between them, or we would be stuck. Praise God for the right choice and the right angle. We made it.

I thought that was the greatest challenge, until we came to a point where the bridge was washed out. I stopped the truck and before I could say anything, all five fellows were out of the truck “inspecting” the situation. Now remember, I am the only one in the vehicle with a driver’s license. I say this because the road looks different when one is behind the wheel and responsible for the driving than it does if one has never had to drive it. They didn’t understand that. They began encouraging me that I could make the ravine with no problem. The makeshift “road” went down the embankment, through the stream and up the other side at more than a 45 degree angle. It was only about 15 yards down and 15 up, but it was steep and wet. I prayed, held my breath and headed down and up. Praise God the tires caught and I was out!  I stopped the truck after I was certain I as well away from the hill and the fellows jumped in. As we started down the road, I was too relieved to say anything out loud. I was silently praising God. The first one to speak was Austin Mbawa, a first year student who had been the silent one on this whole trip. In this weak voice, he said, “But what about the eggs?” We erupted in laughter. You see, I had said as we left the church, that the gifts given were for all of us and I would like the students to divide the eggs and groundnuts among themselves. Austin was concerned about “his eggs.” We teased him for miles and laughed about our priorities in the midst of difficulties.

We came to a market area and there was much discussion in the back seat, then I was told to go straight, not take the right turn that the pastor had suggested. Anderson Juma explained the road we were taking was a “bit further” around, but was in better condition. I didn’t question, I just drove. But I was beginning to get concerned. It was after 5 p.m. by this point and the sun was setting. It would be getting dark soon and we weren’t to the tarmac yet. Anderson assured me we were close. In a short distance, the dark became the least of my concerns. As I approached a bridge, I could see a road of sorts coming up from the right and a bicyclist coming up that way. I stopped. You couldn’t see it until you were right on top of it, but there was no bridge. We had stopped just short of the drop off. I backed up to the makeshift road and again the fellows in the back seat jumped out. Anderson stayed in the front with me. We started down the side road and then I stopped again. This ravine was steeper than the previous one. There was a sharp drop off to the right of the road on the downhill side and when coming out of the stream the “road” had two twists around large rocks to make it to the top. The mud tracks indicated that some who had gone before us had had difficulty making the turn as they came out of the ravine. This was not a 15 yard drop but more like 25 yards, and at more than a 45 degree angle. I was worried, but I had no choice. If I turned around to go back to the “difficult” road, it would be dark before we even got to the turnoff. I told Anderson to pray, I held my breath and off we went, to the cheers and encouragement of the fellows outside the truck. Down and over and up, praise God! When we got to the top, there were two men standing with their bikes, watching this whole escapade unfold and they applauded. The fellows jumped into the truck, but no one said a word. I waited. Then came the chorus from all of them: “But what about the eggs?” That broke the tension and we laughed harder than the first time.

Now, I have had some wild rides with Silas Ncozana. He has led me through some difficult spots, but I think this one beats them all. I asked Anderson to be the one to tell Silas about this, so that I had a witness to verify my story. He laughingly agreed. But the ride was not over yet. It was getting dark and there was no sign of the tarmac. Anderson assured me it was near. We had a healthy discussion about the difference between a Malawian “near” and an American “near.” I turned on the headlights and darkness set in. Within about 10 minutes, we approached another market area and everyone cheered. The tarmac was just beyond the market area. Anderson said, “See, we were near.”

Once on the tarmac, we could travel at a reasonable speed and I could get out of second gear. It was about half an hour of “open” road to Zomba. That meant just watching for bicyclists and pedestrians walking the dark road, but after what we had come through, this was easy. Our “shortcut” had only taken us an hour longer than the mountain road, but we were safely on our way home.

Once back in Zomba, the first thing unloaded from the back of the truck were the eggs. Everyone looked in delight. Not one of them was broken. The ladies at Linthipi had carefully packed them in among the groundnuts and not even the ravines had moved them. They had come safely around the mountain with us. Austin was thrilled. He had breakfast for the next few mornings!