DAY 184: Some people travel to escape their boring routine lives at home. Some people, particularly a fair amount of the backpacker set, travel great distances only to travel pub to pub, club to club, and have "generic" experiences they could probably have anywhere -- to each his/her own taste I guess. I, like some other backpackers, travel to leave my comfort zone and experience new cultures.

I'll admit that I was starting to get a little homesick since Namibia, but being in the American suburbian bubble of the ZEHRP house got me over it. I had "recharged" back in the "normal" life the way a person who works in an office "recharges" on vacation. After my "reverse vacation" I was ready to face the world again.

And so, on the 20th of April 2004, the six month anniversary since The Global Trip 2004 started, the seventh month began...

THE ALARM BEEPED AT 4 A.M. and I gathered all my belongings into my two bags, leaving nothing but a thank you gift on the desk for Shelle: a bottle of Amarula and a personalized spare copy of the Hyenas... book that I'm in. Shelle was way too out of it to see me off, so we just said our goodbyes in her room as she was half-asleep. George and the energetic puppy Lelo brought me to the bus terminal by 4:30.

"Thanks for everything," I said, shaking George's hand. He left and I was a lone traveler again.

I WAS BACK IN THE CONFUSION of public transportation; the bus the ticket window guy directed me to was the wrong one, but I managed to find the right one before they ran out of seats. The bus left promptly at 5 a.m. under the still dark sky and out of Lusaka. The ride eastbound was a long one. No video screenings playing bad Jean-Claude Van Damme or Steven Seagal movies like I had in Peru. No A/C. Just a lot of heat and even more B.O. I took a couple of naps, did some writing and read some more of Zadie Smith's White Teeth. There were no food stops on the way, but I got by on a bunch of bananas I bought from a street vendor during a quick pee stop and some boiled peanuts from the nice old African lady sitting next to me.

The "seven hour" bus ride was the usual bumpy ride on dirt roads and paved roads filled with potholes. People came on and off in the little villages (picture above) on the way. I put "seven hour" in quotes because it was more like eight and a half. By 1:30 we reached the Zambian border town of Chipata, 12 km. from the border with Malawi.

PHILLIP, THE SEASONED TRAVELER I HAD MET on the bus going from Windhoek to Zambia, told me a story of the time he was in a shared taxi in Togo. He was sitting in the back of the car, in the middle, sandwiched between local guys who, from what he gathered, were all conspiring to jump him and rob him with a knife at a secluded location the driver was secretly taking them to. Luckily for him, he managed to figure this all out before it was too late and fought back when they finally did attack, keeping his money belt -- and his life -- intact.

This story echoed through my mind as I was in the shared taxi going from the Chipata bus stop to the border post. I was in the back, in the middle, in a car with dark, tinted windows. For some reason, the driver liked to play his bass-boosted stereo really loud, drowning out any noise from in the inside.

When we had enough passengers the car took off, thankfully with all the windows open so that passers-by could look inside. But suddenly the two power windows on the left closed. The driver turned up the volume.

Fuck. Is this a trap? Where are we going?

Calm down, calm down. Maybe those guys by the window are just cold from the breeze. Maybe the driver just likes loud music. At least the window to the right is open. Yeah, that's it. Oh wait, it's closing! What?! Shit. Is that guy closing it because he's really making a cell phone call and can't hear with the wind in his ear? Or is this really a trap?

Oh good, a police checkpoint. Cool, cops are around. Oh wait, those guys can be corrupt too! Fuck.

Why is that guy in front giving me an evil eye? What did the guy with the cell phone just say to the driver in some African dialect? Why is the finger of the guy on my left on the power window button? Why must the driver turn up the volume even more? Sure he has a trusting baby face like Magic Johnson, but so what? Fuck, fuck, fuck!

I was on guard. My eyes scanned the others to see if they were communicating with eye signals. Or were they going to jump me after a specific song played? Mugging alert went to orange. But then I thought to myself, what will being on guard do? I'm outnumbered four to one and who knows if there was a gun in the glove compartment? When the cell phone guy's conversation ended, I reached over and opened the window again and prayed for the best.

THUD, the truck slammed shut after I got my bag out when we arrived at the border post without a scratch.

"Have a safe journey," the driver wished me. Ha, you're telling me!

EXIT FORMALITIES FOR ZAMBIA WERE EASY, but it was another 12 km. to the Malawian entrance post, which meant it was time for another shared taxi. I wasn't as paranoid this time; the windows stuck open (no crank handles) and the radio was soft. The only hitch was when the border guard searched my bag, only to find no problems.

We continued to the Malawian border town Mchinji where the shared taxi dropped us off at a shared minivan that would take us the 120 km. to the capital city, Lilongwe. It was a cramped 80-minute ride, particularly because both my bags were inside with me and the fact that the conductor tried to squeeze in the same number of people inside as the number of bowls of Special K it takes to equal just one bowl of Total.

People came off and on at local villages and I kept on shifting the weight of my bag on my lap, wary of loose hands that might be reaching into my pockets. The crowd was well-behaved though and the only problem came from me -- when the federal police had to search my bag at a checkpoint.

"Are you a volunteer?" he asked me in his camouflage uniform, while everyone else was watching the mzungu holding them up from getting where they wanted to go.

"Yes," I answered assertively. "I did some volunteer work in Lusaka."

"Peace Corps?"

"Actually, it's called ZEHRP. They do HIV research with Emory College in the States."

"Do you have an identification card?"

"No, but I have a passport."

He found the Malawian entry stamp I received just an hour before and let me go. The others entered the mini-van again like clowns into a VW Beetle and soon we were off again.

IT WAS GETTING DARK FAST by the time we arrived in Lilongwe city limits. Despite Malawi's reputation of being "the friendliest country in Africa," my Lonely Planet book warned that this is not necessarily the case in the urban areas. They warned that a taxi driver might take me for a ride to a secluded area and rob me at gunpoint.

Of course I found myself alone in the mini-van with the driver and conductor in a somewhat shady looking area after everyone else had disembarked in an area without taxis. The driver offered to drive me to a taxi area and I supposed I had no choice. The conductor called to his friend who had a taxi -- I met him and he seemed okay -- and I had him drive his car to the dark lot we were parked in.

I struck a conversation with Orvitz the cabbie as he took me to Kiboko Camp, the backpackers I told him to bring me to on the outskirts of the Old Town. I tried to keep the conversation up to distract him from any shady plans he may or may not have had. Despite Lonely Planet's warning, he turned out to be a friendly guy after all.

It was really dark by the time we arrived at the camp entrance gate. A security guard wouldn't let him drive in, so Orvitz just dropped me off there. I paid him the 500 Malawi kwacha and sent him on his way. The guard who escorted me to reception implied that I got totally ripped off.

Oh well, if getting ripped off a couple of bucks was the worst thing to happen that day, so be it.

THERE WAS A BLACKOUT when I arrived at the reception house but Jennifer the Malawian girl at the desk checked me in anyway. After paying for my stay, I was back in the familiar scene of dorm beds, padlocks and walls covered in flyers trying to attract the tourist dollar. I met a Frenchman named Eric who was the only other guy in my dorm, in Lilongwe on business instead of holiday. He stayed at Kiboko Camp two days a week instead of the lonely bed his company provided for him at the office, so that he could have a little social interaction over the local beer, Kuche Kuche. I joined him in a couple of Kuche Kuches and some Cokes under candlelight until the power came back on.

I pretty much hadn't eaten anything substantial all day and so for dinner I was back to my familiar cans of tuna (this one in curry sauce) right out of the can. I didn't have any utensils, so I ate it with the back of my can opener in true budget style.

Yup, I was a backpacking traveler once again.

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