“I’m not sure that this is a good idea…,” he hissed through clenched teeth. It 4:15am in Dar es Salaam, and we were perched on a grey concrete ledge on the second floor of a hostel, staring into the pitch darkness, seconds away from actioning our hastily-chosen escape plan. It had taken us three sunny, sweaty days, weaving through the heaving city chaos, to figure out how to get from Dar to Malawi. Our raffle-tickets suggested we’d secured seats on a popular long-haul bus; this bus did not make the journey frequently, nor did it appear to follow any particular schedule. The name of the bus line evoked worrisome recollections of horror stories read online that featured a bus line with the same name… But, seeing as helpful locals had confirmed that this bus was the way to go, I assumed false memory. Last night, we’d discussed with the hostel staff our need to leave for the bus at 4am but, as occurred with endearing frequency in Africa, nobody had actually acted on the plan. And so it was that we found ourselves locked inside a wire security cage, planning on jumping two stories, and debating whether we would break our legs or simply sprain an ankle. Though Jim was probably living out his Call of Duty gaming dreams - sans night vision goggles - I sensed his reluctance, understandably, to make the jump. “I’ll go,” he whispered, “and see if there’s someone outside the cage who can let you out.” And, without further ado, he hoisted himself off the ledge. Silence, darkness, and unbearable tension. I strained my eyes. Held my breath. Those few seconds stretched for an eternity, but then a sharp snap, twang, and a heavy thump verified his landing. More silence. A gunshot. Then, there was only more silence and the blackness of the night. - Jim had limped onto the bus and, having crawled over the various tyres, grain sacks, and packages strewn waist-deep around the bus, slumped into his seat, clutching his crutch. “Are you okay, sir?” a genteel Tanzanian man enquired with genuine concern. “You have done yourself an injury?” he continued, introducing himself as Gerrard. He was softly spoken, and wore an immaculately kept old grey suit that matched his peppery grey hair. Jim had not, in fact, sustained a gunshot wound, but had instead caught (and snapped) a taught wire clothesline between his legs on his leap down from the second floor. The security guard stationed outside the cage had fired his rifle in alarm in response to the unexpected landing of this tall man in the dark. Jim had been very lucky it hadn’t gone horribly wrong. In any case, his injury opened the door to this new bus friendship. Jim and Gerrard chatted about Tanzanian life for many hours as we hurtled towards the Malawian border. Rap music blared from the speakers and, to my surprise, African soaps played on a large screen at the front of the bus. The bus pitched and tilted precariously as it careened around people, animals, and the ubiquitous potholes at breakneck speed until, at midnight, we stopped abruptly on a dirt road in a dark, dusty village. The engine cut out, lights turned off, and without a word, the busload of passengers filed out into the night and dispersed purposefully. We, however, remained in our seats, gaping at one another like stunned mullets. What was happening? We definitely had not crossed a border into Malawi, so where were we? Mosquitos started to swarm in through the broken windows. Hello, malaria. Gerrard returned to the bus, amused by our bewilderment. “We are at the border. The bus won’t move until tomorrow afternoon. You will stay at my friend’s house with me.” One decision leads to an action that leads to a consequence, which initiates further cascades of chains of events. Everyday travel tales reveal the interconnectedness of everything. Although not an advocate for blindly trusting strangers, riding on dangerous buses, or jumping off buildings, it can nonetheless be said that the most memorable, most human experiences arise when you leap - metaphorically, preferably - into the unknown.