Malawi Pictures Here:
Week 14 update:
Day 92:
It was hard waking up after a noisy night of little sleep. Still, the sun was shining and the wind had subsided and we were on the lake shore with a beach within spitting distance. We had just about no distance to travel for the day and very little to do, so the slow start set the pace for the rest of the morning. I was wildly impressed that the water was still piping hot from the relatively small fire that was made in the boiler the night before. It seemed like these pottery guys built an effective pottery oven to keep the water hot for longer. It obviously worked. The bathrooms were tiled out in projects uncompleted, or practice round of potters of the past which gave it an authentic and interesting flair. The water was plenty and the temperature good enough to rate them 5 star and I found myself stuck under a hot shower for the fourth day in a row. Still, we had decided to use the facilities to their full potential when we found them, so no shame in that stickiness at all.
Catt baked some of her (by then) famous bread rolls for lunch and for a packed lunch for the next day while we were trying our hardest to empty the contents of the fridge and freezer into our mouths. We managed to dry the towels and hammocks out completely after the previous day’s rain and took on the mammoth task of trying to pack two full sets of SCUBA gear, some camera equipment and enough clothes for three days on an island into two rucksacks. With Catt’s talent at Tetarus and my talent at packing parachutes into small containers, we managed to get everything we thought we would need into the two backpacks, one camera bag and one small rucksack. At least we could carry everything between us. Pete and Annie managed just fine with one duffle bag and one camera bag.
With packing, lunch, baking and souvenir shopping completed it was time to leave the Pottery Lodge. We headed back to Nkhotakota and pulled into the fuel station before 15:00. This was the fuel station that was dry the previous day and told us that they would get a delivery “tomorrow” This was tomorrow, but they were still dry. When I asked the attendant when they were expecting a delivery, the answer came quick and rehearsed: “Tomorrow”. This was followed by someone offering me black market Diesel. When I reminded the attendant that he said “Tomorrow” the previous day, he gave a massively wide smile, bearing yellow stained teeth and said: “Eish… It is only an estimate” Followed shortly by another person offering me black market Diesel. I had enough Diesel to get us to the next town at the speeds we were driving. Pete however did not have enough Petrol to do the same, and there was no black market Petrol available. We decided to leave and try again on our return a few days later.
Despite zero information from all our guide books, maps and T4A, we managed to find the Sitima Lodge right by the bay where the Ilala docks. Sig, the very Afrikaans owner and Blue Bull Rugby Team supporter welcomed us and explained our options. He had three levels of accommodation: Double bed en suite, two single beds en suite or two single beds with shared bathroom. Catt and I opted for the singles with shared facilities while Pete and Annie took the singles with en suite at double the price. To be fair, the price for us was only around $15 per person which was less than our most expensive camping to date with no facilities. The Sitima also boasted a bar and restaurant and Sig offered us freezer and fridge space as well as looking after our vehicles while we were away. It seemed rude not to drink his booze and eat his food after that.
The building itself was split exactly in half and was a mirror image of itself. Sig had explained to us that it was built by a local politician who used prisoners to manufacture the bricks, do the labour and used anything and everything they could find to complete it without any cost to anyone. This was strangely evident by the fact that some parts of the walls contained engines and others had car doors, complete with windows built in. The pillars on either side of the entrance hall were car axles with rims on either side for support and the place where you would expect the welcome sign to the bar was occupied by a grille from a 1950’s Chevy. It was brilliantly done and we were all impressed. We had some beer while watching Holland beat Brazil in the Football World Cup Quarter Finals before deciding on what to have for dinner.
The menu was surprisingly extensive with the most expensive meal costing about $10. I did not expect much from the quality and order something simple. Everyone else followed suit and within half an hour and one beer later the food started arriving. My jaw dropped! I could not believe the size of the portions not the quality of the presentation or flavour. It was absolutely stunning and I immediately vowed to spread the good word! We watched the Ghana vs. Uruguay quarter final after an episode of Top Gear and Allo Allo on BBC entertainment before hitting the pillows around 10:30, confided that the night watchman would wake us up when the ferry arrived around 02:00. I did not see the conclusion of the football match, but judging from the cheers and noises around the lodge I gathered that Ghana had at least score some. We were all very happy in the decision to get rooms rather than try and stay awake until that time.
Day 93:
I had not worn a watch on my wrist since primary school, but on this day I had my dive computer on which doubles as a watch. I heard what sounded like a fog horn in the small hours and opening my eyes I almost thought it was past dawn. The corridor light was on which shone a yellow light onto a wall in our room which confused me a little. I lifted my heavy arm, realizing that I felt like I had a full night’s sleep and saw 04:38 staring back at me from my wrist. So the 00:00 arrival of the ferry was only some 4 and a half hour late, but that did allow us over 6 hours sleep, I thought.
The trusty night watchman knocked on the door about 15 minutes later and informed us that the ferry had indeed arrived and that we should make our way over to the beach. We got up, got dressed, and simulated pack mules while walking the 200m to the crowd line. The watchmen helped us to the very front of the cue, pointed at some boats and said: There you go. The ferry was about half a kilometre off shore at this time. We had been warned that some wading was likely, so this wasn’t a total surprise. Some young men offered us a lift in their boat, giving us obvious and expressionistic preference over the locals. The charge was MK2 000 for the 4 of us, which we agreed on and climbed aboard without getting our feet wet. Just about 15 seconds later we were side by side with a life raft from the Ilala and ushered onto that which was the free service of getting onto the ferry in the first place. I could only smile at the entrepreneurial skill of these young Africans at 4:50am and as we did not get wet at all, we didn’t even really feel ripped off.
I counted to 49 people before loosing interest on our boat. The sign on the side clearly warned that it was a 22 person vessel, but I assumed that they did not mean 22 Africans. Perhaps they meant 22 Musungus and as many Africans as the space would allow. The ride to the ferry was dealt with in under 10 minutes and after cuing for another 10, our boat docked along side and the people started filing off it and spilling onto the middle deck of the mighty Ilala. I was stunned by the number of people leaving our boat before we could manage until I saw another two informal vessels docked on our outside and those passengers simply trampling across all the boats to get to the ladder. We eventually pushed in and got to a ladder pointing to the first class deck upstairs. This all happened under the watchful eye of another Musungu in many warm clothes and a woolly hat. We had discussed getting a cabin as we would spend the night onboard, but as this was half an hour before sunset, we decided to check out the top deck fist.
Anyone who knows me will know how bad my memory is concerning names. I can meet someone at 14:00 and forget their name by 14:01, get reminded of it 20 times in the next half hour and still have no inkling to what it might be at 14:32. I’m sure the Musungu on the deck told us her name, but I can only remember her as Florida Cuckoo. She was obviously from Florida and she was definitely a little insane. She told us about her life in China, her travels in Mozambique, the coldness of the night she had just had, how she took her 14 year old son SCUBA diving and how the Ilala differed from the ferries between Seattle and Alaska before either one of us managed to say: Morning. She also explained the way the Ilala worked and where we could get food, have a seat, buy some beer and chill out before any of us had a chance to say: What is your name?
So here was the score:
The top deck was pretty much where the Musungus hung out. A cabin would cost us $56 per person and the deck would cost us $25 per person. We were offered breakfast, accepted and was called to the first class dining room when it was ready. We even managed to score some boiling water to make our own coffee. It was 8:42 when we set sail, only 6 hours and 42 minutes behind schedule. Pretty good for Africa I thought, we left on the right day. Breakfast was $4 each for the various things we had, we hired mattresses for $1 each and after the sun came up we found a comfortable place, out of the wind and went back to sleep. We heard the constant drone of the big diesel engines barely audible under the constant talking of the Florida Cuckoo.
A few hours later the sun was hot and I was baking! I shed some clothing and worked on my suntan until I was uncomfortably hot and decided to go meet the other members of the “Top Deck Family” as described by F.C. We had the Beach Boys: They were two young bearded fellows of probably mid twenties, having a ball of a time and cracking open their first beers at 10:30. They had very cleverly pitched their tents on deck and slept in their comfortable cocoons until an hour or so after sunrise. I wished I had though of that! Then there was Dutch Chick. I almost remembered her name, but alas… She was two months into a round the world back packing trip and obviously enjoyed the sun of Africa a lot. Lastly I met California man and his girlfriend. He was building low cost housing for medical professionals in Malawi while she was on a short holiday before returning to DC and starting Law School. She had been teaching in Malawi for a while. I liked them and stuck around. We even discussed going for a swim at the next pace the ferry stopped.
The one stop in-between us embarking and disbarring was on the Mozambique side of the lake. This came at the perfect time of mid day and lunch time. We had packed some bread and tinned meat, but the ride on the open water was so rough that eating would have been difficult. Not that the lake was rough. There was a bit of wind around, but this tub was obviously over loaded to the max and not equipped with stabilizers. I also did not think it was fast enough to break the surf without violently swaying form side to side. Anyway… The sun was hiding behind some cloud and the temperature had dropped significantly by the time we made port, so swimming for me was out of the question. California man made good on his promise and to the entertainment of the rest of the clan him and one of the beach boys leapt into the water from the top deck. The drop must have been about 10 meters, and you can imagine the surprise of the second class passengers as the two Musungus flew past their balconies and into the clear blue down below. They did get into a bit of trouble for jumping into Mozambique waters without clearing customs, but were back on board in no time. We were joined by yet another Musungu addition to our top deck family. A Dutch doctor who had been doing his theses on Tuberculosis in some little village in Mozambique. He was immediately attached by the verbal diarrhoea of Florida Cuckoo and immediately adopted the name of “Fresh Bait”
1 Hour 45 min later we set sail again. A rare fifteen minutes shorter in port than planned, and I assumed a standard 6 hours 27 minutes later than it should have been. I was very happy that we did not leave in the cold of night! Our next stop was Likoma Island, our planned abode for the next three nights. I hoped we would still make it on the same day. At 17:00 we were approached by the chef for dinner orders and on explaining that we were leaving the vessel at Likoma, he agreed to have our supper ready half an hour earlier. Said supper was of phenomenal quality and ridiculously cheap prices which meant that we were four happy travellers with full bellies lying out on the upper deck watching the stars by 19:00, waiting for the fog horn to signal our arrival at the island.
The fog horn came at 20:20, a mere 6 hours later than the time table’s arrival time. It was clear that disembarking was going to be as interesting as getting onto the boat. That true African experience seemed to be a lifetime’s history behind us even though it was only about 15 hours and three meals earlier. We managed to squeeze our way passed some hordes and onto the lifeboat with me having to stand as the seats were all taken. I did not bother counting the people on the 22 person certified craft as I knew I would shudder at the total anyway. We made it to shore within 20 minutes of hearing the horn and was met by masses of eager faces as the waiting crowd anticipated the end of their long wait, desperate to make their way aboard. Our boat stopped some 5 meters off shore and passengers with rolled up trouser legs started climbing off. They were met by eager helpers, carrying sacks of maize and bags of vegetables, some card board boxes and all sorts of unexplainable shapes and objects. We patiently wanted to wait our turn, but soon realized that the boat was filling up again from the land. The new patrons of the Ilala would not give us a second to get off before clambering into the limited spaces so I simply rolled off the side and landed feet first in waist deep water with my camera bag on my head. I grabbed two more bags from our group, joined by Fresh Bait and made my way to dry land and in search of the Mango Drift vehicle we had booked to transport us to the lodge. My idea was to leave my bags with them, fight my way back through the rowdy crowd and help the family to get to shore with the minimum of moisture on their luggage and persons. Failing to find the booked vehicle, I had top return. This time I saw Catt standing in the water trying to help the parents down. I got her to dry land and asked her to guard our belongings while I went back. By this Pete had managed to get off the boat, but the crowds had blocked all viable exits for Annie. There was only one thing for it… I got her to sling an arm around my shoulders, slide sideways off the boat and I carried her like a knight in shining armour, to the great delight and applause of the watching fan club until we reached our bags and, re-uniting the group of five with the same destination. Our true African experience, as advertised, was almost complete. There was still no sign of our booked transport and as it was dark, we had no idea where to go.
I walked to a few parked vehicles and loudly announced the need of transport and asking for a willing supplier. This was greeted by a friendly local with a pick up who offered us transport to the lodge for half the price of what the lodge was charging. I saw this as a great success as the island only had 9 vehicles on it and we managed to get one organized in record time. We gladly accepted and hopped on with our entire luggage allowance in tow. Half way to lodge we came across the Mango vehicle on its way with a full payload of customers on their way to the port. Josh, the one managed explained that they had a hard time rounding their crowd up for the trip and hopped on with us to accompany us to the lodge.
It is always strange to arrive at a place in the dark. This was a specifically dark night with no moon and the only light came from the bar with the bright flickering TV set announcing the latest football score. Paraguay and Spain were head to head until Spain scored some points. This came after each team had missed a penalty, but Spain never the less progressed to the semi finals. Not that I was watching… Josh explained the lay of the land and showed us to our respective basic but impressive stone cottages on the beach. We were all impressed! Returning to the bar we had a few “greens” (Nick name for Carlsberg Green Lager) a few Amarula’s for the girls and a final glass of red wine to wind down. We crawled into bed around half past ten and were lulibied into a deep sleep by the waves quietly lapping onto shore. It had been a very long, yet very interesting day.
Day 94:
We woke up to a pristinely calm, sunny and beautiful island day. The lake was flat as a bath tub with zero wind and pleasant temperatures. Still trashed from the previous day’s travelling, we only crawled out from under our mosquito nets after 8am. It was Sunday, and apparently the managers tried to take Sunday’s off, so they were no where to be seen. We ordered Coffee by the pot load and drank the strong aromic fluids from receptacles resembling flower pots. I was in my element.
By mid morning we had gathered just about enough energy to do something slightly active. The lodge offered free snorkelling gear, which came in handy for Pete and Annie while Catt and I unpacked our huge bags to get to our own gear. The lake was pleasantly warm and clear enough for some fun sight seeing beneath the surface and before long Catt and I had made our way to the edge of the rocks. We were both really impressed by both the abundance and the variety of the fish around. Cichlids are what they are called and apparently there are over 4000 different types of them. I could identify around a dozen different little critters from the surface. An hours swimming drained all our natural heat, so we dragged our shivering carcasses back o shore and into the hot showers. They were fantastic!
We had discussed going SCUBA diving with Josh the previous evening, but by lunch time they were still no where to be seen. Becci made a short appearance shortly after only to inform us that they did indeed try to take Sundays off, but that she would take us for a shore entry dive from another lodge if we really wanted to. I was a little confused about her not wanting to offer the serviced they advertise and not wanting to take our money. She made it seem like the wishes of her guests were just a little more hassle than what any island dweller should go through on any day, so we settled on a revised plan of diving the next day, “if Mondays were not another special off day” I wanted to ad.
As an alternative activity we decided to cross the Island by foot and visit the village at the port where we had arrived the previous evening. There was said to be a spectacular Cathedral (Although it was actually and Anglican Church) on the island and an interesting market which was our main destination. From Mango we hiked to the top of the “mountain” as described by Fresh Bait, although he was from Holland, so we guessed any old hill would be described as a mountain by him. When we reached the top we saw the mother of all thunderstorms over the Mozambique mainland and after watching it for a little while we realized that it was moving our way. There was no deliberation or debate needed to make the decision to head back down the hill and into the safety of the Mango Drift bar immediately.
Our feet had hardly touched the sandy bar floor by the time the heavens opened. It had been a good decision to turn around. The storm was however short lived and another pot or two of coffee flowed us into the late afternoon. The sunset was incredible! I had seen some amount of special sunrises and sunsets in my time and my favourite ones had always been after or just before rain. The low sun shone brightly on the stormy clouds to form an almost black sky background to the golden syrup like light illuminating the beach, the boats and the huts we were staying in. I could see how easy it would be to get stuck there and never leave. Then perhaps I too could take Sundays off. (Not that I had much issue with that concept)
Around sunset and after I ran around with a camera like an excited little kid in a candy store, I asked one of the local kids, Luka, to teach me an African board game called “Bawo”. This game is played all over the continent and had its ancient origin in the cradle of mankind in South Africa. We had even seen evidence of it being played at Mapungubwe’s ancient hill top settlement some months before. In its modern form, it is usually played on a wooded board with 32 dents in and has 64 playing pieces. It is not completely dissimilar to Chinese checkers and the concept is to tactically and cleverly take over the pieces of your opponent until they have no moves left. You can only move pieces when there are a minimum of two in a dent and from the outset I could see that a skill in Math would greatly increase your chances of victory. It was kind of difficult to learn from the enthusiastic youngster with his very limited English, but I felt I got a fair understanding of the concept after playing five or six games while being helped by one of Luka’s friends. I even beat him twice, or he allowed me to beat him twice. Although I suspect the latter, I guess that I will never know. It was great fun and a fast learning curve and the rest of the family soon joined in. Pete, being a great mathematician was definitely at an advantage, but Catt had much better tactical vision and she ended the night as the master of the Bawo.
The island’s electricity comes from three generators of which one had been waiting for some spare parts. The generators get turned off at 10PM which bathed the whole island into total darkness. We had some paraffin lamps providing ambiance for a last drink or two before heading to our respective stone and reed beach huts for a well deserved sleep after an active and successful day in yet another paradise.
Day 95:
We were told by Becci that we needed to leave the lodge to go diving by 8am as the wind could spoil our plans in the afternoon. We were showered, sufficiently coffee’d and dealt with breakfast by that time and started moving at 8:03. I was impressed that island life could be almost on time. We had carried all our diving gear onto the island and had packed it into one large backpack which weighed at least 40kg and was on my back at that time. Becci had told us that she would meet us at a school a few minutes away with a quad bike and take the bag to the dive shop which was situated at the very exclusive, illusive and expensive Kaya Mowa lodge. We were led to the school by Mike, Becci’s dad who had been visiting from the UK. The quad bike arrived with Becci and Josh on board and no space for the bag, but she had instructed one of her staff to carry it for us. I felt really guilty at this idea, but as she would not take “no” for an answer, I handed over the heavy pack to a scrawny looking local about half my size. The belly band was set to its minimum without having any positive effect on the situation so the poor man had to carry all that weight on his shoulders. Luckily it was only about a ten minute walk.
Kaya Mowa was an incredible sight. I had been there seven years earlier on a photographic assignment and was blown away then. By this time it had changed owners once and had seen a major refurbishment. They oozed style, class and money and I was surprised that they would allow us mere mortals access to their seemingly private beach. This was however where the dive operation was run from at the time, so we had little other options. After dealing with the usual indemnity and briefing we set off on a wooden boat with a 15HP outboard engine on. Our destination was a tiny island about a kilometre away where we would swim around it at various deaths. Bernard, our skipper was lounging in his steering position, pointing the nose of the simple craft perfectly straight at the small rocky outcrop. There was hardy a ripple on the water, so it wasn’t exactly difficult to navigate.
The four of us, Catt, myself, Becci and Mike kitted up in our own leisurely time and when we were ready we slid over the side and into the welcoming water below. Although I was slightly disappointed in the lack of visibility, the aquatic life was unbelievable! I counted at least 30 different kinds of bright little fish and even tried to photograph a few of them. This was easier said than done as you had to get the lens within half a foot of them to be able to have any significant portion of the frame filled by the subject. We saw the mother of all Catfish and the most bizarre rock formations you can imagine. The dive took us to a maximum depth of around 27 meters and even at that extreme the water temperature was almost 26 deg C. We spent an hour underwater circumnavigating the rocky outcrop before surfacing to a bright sunshine day and Bernard on the simple wooden boat. We helped each other aboard and discussed our next dive plan before hoisting the anchor…
Or I should say: Trying to hoist the anchor. It was stuck! It was so stuck that Becci had to jump back in, put her gear back on and dive down to try and free it. It was so stuck that after ten minutes and much effort she had to give up, cut the rope with her knife and accept defeat. It was so stuck that I had a feeling it would stay in the same place for a very, very long time. On the way back to t Kaya Mowa we picked up some engine trouble. The 15HP engine seemed to have lost more than half its ponies and as we did not have an anchor any longer, we had to change boats. Kaya Mowa seemed to have a choice of a few. Mango Drifts own boat was pointed out to us as well. That had been smashed to pieces a month or two before in a massive storm and was rotting away in the shade of a mango tree on the beach. I was almost amused at the irony. To as a little insult to injury, as we approached the beach to be dropped off, 7 of the remaining ponies responsible for turning the propeller of our vessel hit the broken, but hiding mooring of the Mango Drift boat and almost took the motor off the back. It was not a good advertising day for the efficiency of the dive school.
We got dropped off on the beach and walked back to the dive shop while Bernard and Becci moved the gear onto a different boat for our second dive. A few minutes later Shark, the new boat, with a 250HP motor roared around the island and picked us up. We headed in the opposite direction at a slightly faster face than the fist transporter and arrived at our second dive site within minutes of setting off. The second dive was even more incredible than the first. The geology reminded of mountains. The sensation was like flying through high peaks in the mountains and the millions of little fishes were swarming around every corner. I had taken to see how close \I could get to them and by hiding behind boulders and stalking them I managed to almost touch a few with my nose. I had great fun and I could tell that Catt was having a good time by the fact that she was singing… Yip, she was singing under water. Sometimes she speaks “Whaleish”, sometimes she recites poetry, and sometimes she just sings. I was pretty sure that I was recognising some famous Disney tunes. An hour later we were ready to surface again and got picked up by Bernard in the mighty Shark. I could see Mango Drift from where we were so asked if we could be dropped off there, which was agreed to. To the great delight of the local kids we came ashore like super heroes with our diving gear slung over one shoulder.
The best thing about fresh water diving is that you do not need to wash the salt water off your gear when you are done. We simply hung it up in the bar, had some lunch and asked for more pots of coffee. It was however past 14:00 and apparently the electricity was also off between 14:00 and 17:00, so coffee was not possible. I was a little confused as to why they could not use the fire they had going for lunch to boil some water, but didn’t argue.
Pete and Annie had gone to the village while we were blowing bubbles under water, so we decided to try and meet up with them there. I had to borrow some shoes, as mine was still at Kaya Mowa, and as we ascended the “mountain” we saw the parental unit coming towards us. They had done their village experience and had visited the “Cathedral” and had a great ambition for lying in hammocks, drinking coffee and reading books for the rest of the afternoon. This seemed a sensible idea. We however were lacking in experience and were determined to explore further. We made the walk in about 30 minutes, accompanied by small children who wanted to hold our hands and chat along the way.
We found the church despite taking a wrong turn or two, turned the door knob, found it open and walked inside. While I was getting my camera ready we were discussing the impressiveness of this out of place building which looked like it could house the congregation of Canterbury but before I could take my first photograph we were joined by a well dressed young man who informed us that the church was closed. I was struck with theological confusion for the second time on our trip. For the second time I could not understand how the house of God could be closed to the public. While trying to debate this point with the young man, I lifter the camera and took a single shot. I could see the veins in his neck enlarge as he said: “We have restrictions. You are not allowed to take photographs and the church is closed now, you have to leave.” So we walked outside, still confused. To make a point I hung around the outside and waited for good light before taking some more photographs, but as he simply looked at us without any attempt at conversation of confrontation, I surmised that the restrictions he spoke of were only valid for the interior.
The market in the village was a lively bustle of people and goods on offer. I was struck by the way we were allowed to blend in and how we were never harassed, touted or singled out. We stopped for a co9ld drink at one of the stalls, took some photos of a kitten sleeping in between a sack of maize and some scales and even had a chat to a friendly few at the harbour’s edge. It was refreshing to be around the local people and not feeling that everyone was out to get something from you. On the walk back to Mango Drift we were suddenly and unannounced joined by Alexander. Alexander the great as he introduced himself was a student at the island’s secondary school who loved geography. He could tell us every capitol city of every country on the planet as asked us about information about the countered we had lived in and had visited. He said that he wanted to go to Cape Town and then settle in the Middle East as he really liked the Islam faith, but added that he himself was not Islamic. He seemed to have a wealth of information on Israel, Jordan, Yemen and Syria of all places. I couldn’t quite figure out where he got it from and knew far too little to gauge the accuracy or validity of his knowledge. I was however pretty sure that he was a super intelligent kid who would get far in life regardless of his circumstance.
Back down the mountain and in the bar we found the rest of our little island family hard at work on doing nothing. The parents were there in respective hammocks working exceptionally hard while Mike and another woman who runs a textile shop on the island were in conversation at a table. Fresh Bait was lunging on a sofa, Bernie the barman was playing some music and a new comer from Nkhata Bay was around with some very bizarre looking instruments. I spent a while chatting to Mike who was a trained plumber and central heating expert from the UK. He offered me some fantastic advice on sustainable energy and echo building. I tried to absorb as much information as my saturated brain would allow and wrote down his email address for further advice and communication.
The newcomers name was Casper with a “G”, so Gasper. While I was wondering if the “G” actually stood for Ghost, and the Casper thing got lost in translation, Gasper was explaining that he was a musician who came to the island to entertain the guests at the lodges and sell some of his CD’s which he assured us were recorded in a proper recording studio. Gasper was also an expert Bawo player and he entertained us greatly by teaching Catt and Pete the finer tactics of the game. I soon noticed that he loved stacking the odds in one favour, only to shift the balance a few moments later to keep the game going for as long as possible. It was great to see the speed at which his mind recognized the apparent signature moves and dangerous combinations on the board.
Dinner was served at 19:00 as usual and after dinner Gasper started his show. His two instruments included a drum which he rhythmically banged on by using a home made foot pedal and something resembling a single string, four meter long guitar. Strumming the string, he used a beer bottle to manipulate the tension in it and produce different sounds. All this was done in perfect harmony while he was singing at full volume with the enthusiasm and pride of a first year choir boy. Although fairly typical African rhythms and sounds, he performed it extremely well, so we invested in a cd each at $10 a pop. After the concert he we had another chat and he offered to make us a travel Bawo board each. We explained that we were leaving the next day on the Ilala and that he would not have time, but he smiled and said… “Perhaps I’ll see you before you leave” He also said that the Ilala was not going to Nkhotakota as per the advertised schedule, but back to Nkhata Bay to pick up a group of dancers for Freedom Day celebrations. Even though we had already established that the advertised time table was theoretical, I could not really believe that they would simply change the stops and make the schedule run a day or two late on a whim. I walked over to the notice board which had the time table posted on it, smiled at the foot note which read: “Apparently” but could not find any indication that the plans had changed.
22:00 came, the electricity went and our heavy eyelids forced us to the last night of luxury in a stone and reed beach hut with a double bed and mosquito net on an island in Malawi. I was fairly confident that the night watchman was not going to wake us at 3AM to announce the on time arrival of the ferry.
Day 96:
I woke up to the sound of a barge offloading stones onto the beach. I had noticed that the people on the island seemed to work from 6am to 2pm and then take the rest of the day off. It was 6:30 when the barge arrived. The sun was out, the skies clear, the lake like a mirror and the Ilala was no where to be seen. By 7am we were warned that we had about 40 minutes to get ready and leave for the port. We had a shower and our last pot of fantastic coffee before struggling up the little hill to the school where we could be picked up in a vehicle and taken across the island. Becci had told us the day before that their vehicle had a broken leaf spring, so they were using the Kaya Mowa vehicle to transport their guests. Judging from the way she was driving across the island with the four of us and Fresh Bait hanging on for dear life, I suddenly understood how no suspension would ever last with her behind the wheel. By the time we made it to port the ferry was there and the madness of the loading and offloading had started. It was 8:30. We were told that the ferry was indeed going to Nkhata Bay instead of Nkhotakota where our vehicles were which sparked a quick discussion and debate between the four of us. Option one was to wait on the island another day and take the ferry the next day to Nkhotakota. Option two was to go to Nkhata and get a minibus south to the Sitima Lodge where we were supposed to sleep. If we could not reach that in one day, Nkhata had plenty of accommodation and we could make our way south the next day. We decided to go with option two as it was a much shorter journey.
Experienced Ilala patrons that we were, we spent at least an hour on dry land watching the comings and goings and waited until the lifeboats were running back fairly empty before making our way to the beach. There was no pushing or shoving and we calmly clambered onto our chosen tub. The wind had come up and the lake was fairly wavy, so the ride out to the ferry was not as smooth as we had hoped. Still, for the first time since our Ilala experience had started, we each had a seat and there were less than the certified 22 passengers on the craft. Getting onto the ferry was a different story altogether! There was simply no order to the disorganized chaos and no one ever thought of leaving a small path open for people coming aboard. It was a wrestling match to climb the ladder and the only way to make the stairs to the calmness of the top deck was to step on and over people, suitcases and bags of vegetables. The helpful owners of the softer vegetables would physically take hold of your feet and place them where it was safe to stand while you needed to use your own hands to swing your upper body from bulkhead to bulkhead to keep your balance. The headcount to five completed our onslaught to the deck at 10:45 and we were all confident that we would set sail before long as the lifeboats were running at less than half capacity at the time. We met up with California man who’s name I could remember (Tim) and his girlfriend, Beth. They had spent their entire holiday on another island nursing a fresh Malaria attack on Beth.
The water felt calm on the bigger vessel so we took advantage of the warmth and sunshine by working on our tans and discussing the hardship of travelling in Africa. Moses, the chef came around with the menu and we ordered lunch and rented some mattresses in a way only seasoned travellers would do. We watched in awe how the locals were loading and offloading the life boats and ferrying their goods between the island and the boat. The most bizarre thing was the way they offloaded the island’s diesel. The diesel in needed to run the 9 vehicles on the island as well as the generators. This fuel gets loaded onto the Ilala at Nkhata Bay in 45 gallon (200l) fuel drums. At Likoma it gets thrown overboard and left to make its own way to land. Once the drums reach the beach they are picked up by the local responsible people and distributed accordingly. The lodges apparently have a few issues with water contamination in their fuel. I wondered why… We were called to the dining room for lunch around 12:00. We were running six hours late.
In that time we had learnt some useless trivia about the Ilala. It used to be a steam ship. Locals called it the “Steamer” but pronounced which can only be phonetically spelled “Sitima” or “Steema” which is where the name of the lodge in Nkhotakota came from. She’s a 1972 model made in the UK, but the rear compass had a “made in Rotterdam” sign on it. By the social bar on the first class deck was a poster giving the vital statistics:
172’ long, 30’ wide, 620 tonne gross weight and a 182.4 tonne total payload. Judging by the way they loaded the 22 person lifeboats, I doubted that that last number would ever serve as a real limitation.
Lunch came and went and we were still in port. Mid afternoon came and went and we were still in port wondering about the wisdom of our decision not to stay another night. At 15:20 I was at the point of suggesting that we take the next boat to shore and try again the next day, but at the same time the captain announced that we should prepare for departure. We had been on the boat, in port for almost five hours! As the engines started I saw someone waving arms and shouting at us. A closer look revealed a broad smiling Gasper on a small row boat hurrying towards us with a freshly made travel Bawo board. It was roughly and badly carved without any sanding, oil or varnish. Although the concept was fairly impressive, I felt that the quality was not good enough for me to invest. I had to send a very disappointed Gasper back to shore and wave a friendly good bye as the big diesel engines kicked in and the captain started turning us towards our destination.
The remainder of the afternoon was spent in our usual way: Horizontal on mattresses on the top deck. The weather was fair and a peak at the boat’s GPS revealed that we were cruising at 8 knots. Not exactly the fastest service on the worlds waters then. Moses came around with his menu, but sadly by then I had memorized the menu so there were no surprises. I had also tried a new dish at every meal and as this was my fourth meal on board, excluding breakfast so I was almost running out of options. My choices were grilled Chambo (A fresh water fish) or grilled chicken. I went with the safe option, vowing to try the Chambo at the excellent Sitima restaurant.
We arrived at Nkhata Bay around 20:00. We had met a guy on the top deck who had to get to Blantyre urgently and he offered to help us find transport as we were heading in the same direction. Although Tim could speak the local language well enough to negotiate a price, we still would have had to pay “skin tax”. The guy who had to make Blantyre was a customs official with the right skin colour to negotiate a rate without tax.
At the docs we were entertained by Rodney, the leader of the local drunks who was trying to convince us that he had a comfortable vehicle to drive us to one of the many local backpackers in. We suspected that he was extremely stoned as well as falling over drunk, so we declined his kind offer. Tim and the customs official returned before long and by 21:00 we hit the 200km road towards Nkhotakota, breaking rule no 1 (Not driving in the dark in Africa) for the second time in our trip. The driver seemed alert and seemed to know the road extremely well and we were nowhere near any wildlife areas, so I was confident that it would be an easy, safe ride.
When we left the doc we totalled 13 people. There were 6 of us, one driver with friend and woman in the front, customs man and three local guys who just wanted a lift up the hill to their house. We dropped them off and stopped at the first fuel station for petrol. It was dry. I could not believe that Malawi had a fuel shortage as we had not heard a single thing about this, but it was becoming very clear that it was indeed hard to find fuel. After a 15 minute chat at the first road block we meandered through the night passing the rubber plantations we had seen a few days earlier and on towards the lake shore road. We stopped in the village of Chintheche and the driver managed to buy some fuel on the black market in 5 litre containers. His friend stocked up on more beer and he said something about needing more fuel than what we had.
At some point he wanted to stop and pick up some more passengers, but the customs guy obviously complained about this as we chartered the whole taxi and we were in a hurry. We stopped a few more times at random places by the road to get more fuel but also realizing that the friend, the woman and the driver needed to empty their bladders an incredible amount of time. Every time the vehicle got started we were listening to the Netherlands vs. Uruguay quarter final at an ear drum bursting volume. The driving became less and less reliable and the vehicle became more and more swervy. It became evident that the driver was partaking in the free flowing beer party in the front of the vehicle. I was NOT impressed! We came to another roadblock and I was convinced that we would not be allowed to continue as the sate of our driver was quite clear. To my astonishment, the friendly police officer had a five minute chat and waved us through. I though that perhaps the driver was actually sober.
We ran out of fuel two kilometres before the town of Dwanga. The driver, the friend and the woman jumped out to pee in various positions around the car. I saw the driver’s face and he looked quite drunk to me, but he did have another litre of fuel in a bottle and I knew that Dwanga had a fuel station with plenty of supply. We decided to chance it to town. I asked the customs guy to tell the driver that we would not stay in the vehicle if he carried on drinking. The other thing that became more and more clear was that the woman was not really a friend or girlfriend of either of the two in the front and that she was indeed a prostitute. When we set off again the driver took his eyes completely off the road and hugged his whore and very nearly ran us off the road. I screamed something at the top of voice, barely audible above the insane volume of Netherlands beating Uruguay, which I would not repeat here. Needless to say that it was fairly crass. I was getting very scared at that point and started praying that we would survive.
We arrived in Dwanga without any further stops, but to my complete amazement, the driver stopped next to a lively bar complete with a hole village full of drunks (Never mind the village drunk) and went inside with his friend and lady of the night. I reached the very end of my sense of humour and patience by then. I told the customs guy that we were getting out and taking our bags and NOT PAYING for the ride unless he could get the driver back within minutes and I was allowed to drive the rest of the way. I was not about to leave our lives in the drunken incapable hands of the idiot he had chosen to transport us. He must have comprehended the very serious anger in my voice as he walked off immediately and re appeared with the driver and his posse a minute or two later. I had already stolen the keys out of the ignition and had my argument well formulated. The drunken driver however did not protest at my idea at all, so we set off in search of fuel.
The main Dwanga fuel station had petrol, so we put some in the taxi and used the idiot’s container to get some fuel for the rental which was parked back at the Sitima lodge. We got enough to get us to the next town south where we knew fuel was plentiful. The night was dark and the potholes huge and even at 60km/h I found it very hard to miss them all. The taxi had almost no brakes, the play in the steering wheel meant that you needed to turn the wheel a quarter turn before it had any effect in the direction of travel and the gearbox was so incredibly warn out that luck was the only thing dictating the success of changing down into third or first. The situation was not helped by the fact that the party in the front continued next to me and I was even propositioned by the prostitute seconds before she passed out on the dashboard. I grew very quiet at that point and those who know me will contest that that is never a good thing. It took all of my driving skill to survive the journey.
We stopped at our last roadblock for the night just before Nkhotakota. I was behind the wheel of the vehicle I did not own, which I was pretty sure was not road worthy, with a bunch of paying passengers for which I probably needed a special permit for and I did not have my drivers licence with me. Beth’s ambition after law school was to be a human rights layer. She told us that afternoon that she accompanied a friend who did exactly that to the prison in Lilongwe a while before to see a client. She explained that the prisoners had no beds, no soap and some of then had been there for 14 years without trial. I could clearly see the dark, cold, filthy cement cells with graffiti all around and very scary massive prisoner gang leaders by the name of “Babba” in my immediate future. To say that I was nervous would be the understatement of the year.
The officer walked to my open window and started talking in the local language until he saw my lily white face. He was almost shocked by the sight of it and before he could say a word by verbal diarrhoea explained our mistaken travel from Likoma to Nkhata bay and how we had been travelling for 18 hours and we were all so very tired and we were only trying to make it to the Sitima where our vehicles were and we had a booking and we were so hungry and so tired and I was driving because my “brother” who was the owner of the taxi got sleepy so I was just trying to be safe and help. I ran out of breath at some point and while taking in more air, preparing for verbal onslaught number two, he smiled and said: Safe journey… The only word I could get out was “Zikomo” (Thank you) and after almost stalling the car I managed to drive through the boom gate.
At the cross road in town we dropped off the customs man and a few minutes later, after barely avoiding a dog that ran out in front of us, we arrived at the Sitima. It was 00:24 and 17 hours since our day’s journey had started. I was ready to collapse! Pete and I put the fuel into the hire car while Tim explained to the driver that we were paying a reduced rate for his shameful behaviour. In his drunken state he strongly disagreed with this theory at a similar volume to the radio in his taxi. We paid him MK12 000 of the agreed MK14 000, so only about $15 less than his asking price. Sig, the owner of the Sitima had appeared to hand us our room keys and helped the situation slightly by making one or two sensible suggestions to the guy. This was made easier by the two security guards who looked after the lodge at night and after paying him half of what we owed him, he was pretty much forced to leave. He did so while shouting and screaming abuse over his shoulder and eventually wheel spinning his taxi onto the tar road and disappeared with screeching tyres around the next corner. My huge sigh of relief was the last audible evidence of our ridiculous ordeal.
In Malawi, the greeting of choice seemed to be: “Safe Journeys” as supposed to “good bye” or “cheers” or “good luck” or anything like that. I always saw this as a quaint way of wishing someone well, but never really understood the significance or importance of those simple words until right then. Catt saw the utter tiredness on my face and gave me a huge hug before we slumped onto a single bed and I was asleep in seconds.
Day 97:
I briefly woke up just before seven, slowly took in my unfamiliar surroundings and fell asleep again after realizing that I did not have a nightmare. I woke again at 8am feeling refreshed. We had decided to stick around for breakfast before journeying on and after a nice shower joined Tim, Beth and the parental unit on the patio in front of the Sitima’s second storey bar. Patience was definitely required between ordering and receiving the food, but once it had arrived it was fantastic! I was impressed with the order of toast and tea for Tim and Beth. It seemed like a whole loaf of bread that was toasted for the two of them. Everything was taking longer than what I though it would and after paying the bill and packing the cars we eventually left after 11am. I did not mind so much.
The fuel station in town did indeed get their delivery the day that we left to Likoma, so the “Tomorrow” of the fuel attendant was accidently correct. They still had plenty of supply so we spent all the cash we had left on putting enough fuel in our tanks to make our destination for the day. The distances in Malawi are relatively small, but the time it takes to travel those distances meant that we had at least a five hour journey ahead of us. Pete and Annie gave Tim and Beth a lift to Salima, about a 100km south of where we were and that enabled them to get easy public transport to Lilongwe. We headed further south and gained altitude at a steady pace although I found the driving extremely draining. The road blocks required more patience and on various occasions we were asked to produce passports, driver’s licences, insurance papers and even our red triangles. At the last request I offered an axe to chop branches and put them in the road to warn other motorists about the obstacle as this was what all the locals and truck drivers seemed to do. The officer appreciated the joke, but still insisted on seeing the triangles. I pulled them from under Catt’s seat.
It seemed like you had to concentrate on at least three out of an infinite amount of combinations of things at any one time. The obstacles included, but was not by any means limited to: Chickens, Goats, Sheep, Dogs, small children, bicycles, pot holes, trucks, busses, pedestrians and the odd car every once in a while. At some point it felt like the total population of livestock in Malawi had decided to pick this day to run out in front of our vehicle. At one point it felt like I very nearly rolled the car by stupidly trying to avoid a puppy and at another stage a Sheep almost walked into the bull bar while I was almost standing still. I managed to pass a military truck at one stage only to jump on the brakes to avoid driving over a cyclist while my escape route was blocked by an oncoming bus taking up more than half the width of the road. I went through stages of wanting to cry to hysterical laughter. The cherry on the cake was that the bank network seemed to be down as despite numerous attempts at various towns and banks we could not get any money from any machine. Luckily we had enough fuel, but we were completely out of wine and after a day like that, I found that an unacceptable situation.
We arrived at the historic capitol of Zomba just after 16:00. We managed to get some money at the second bank that we tried and some wine from the Metro in town. I also purchased two humongous pork chops and some cheese for our planned dinners for the next few days. I was cueing with some Americans who were clearly stocking up on enough crisps (Potato chips) to feed the nation, but as we had not really had any snacks in a few months, I succumbed to the glitter of the packed and added a big back of Lay’s Salt and Vinegar to my shopping basket. It was comfort food.
The accent up to the Zomba Plateau was a fantastic treat after the hard driving conditions of the day. The neat little narrow tar road winds up around hair pin bends and steep inclines for about 10 kilometres until it reaches the Ku Chawe Sunbird Lodge at the very top. As it was the most expensive of all the Sunbird Lodges in the country we decided not to stay there and rather inspect the facilities at the Ku Chawe Trout Farm a kilometre or two away. At the trout farm we were met by the manager who explained the lay of the land. We could camp in their camp site, but not get a vehicle in there at a rate of MK600 per person or we could rent a brick chalet with two bedrooms for MK1 000 per person. No guesses as to which one we chose…
The weather rock was obviously wet and cold to the touch once again as we were on a mountain, in a forestry area. The fireplace in the cottage was lit without any delay and food preparation was put on hold until we devoured the comfort food consisting of the crisps and a packet of Hobnobs (Chocolate digestive biscuits) accompanied by a huge mug of PG Tips. Dinner consisted of our famous Cobb made Pizza and after a slight over indulgence of the newly purchased vino I crashed into the comfortable pillow and was instantly asleep.
Day 98:
It was a misty and cloudy start to the day on the mountain and I still felt a little weary and very slow. This may have had something to do with my slight hang over from too much wine. I refused to get out from under the fluffy warm blankets supplied by the trout farm before the sun made a small appearance around 8:30. Coffee was made with lighting precision and our day started after the second round.
We had to re-pack the scuba gear to fit everything back into its place in the car, so that was mission no one. We also made a pile of stuff we wanted Pete and Annie to take back to the UK for us. This included a heap of Camera supports we had not used in a month or so and some of our guide books from countries we had visited already. It took little time to do which brought us to mission no two: Organizing the car a little better after everything that had simply been pushed into available spaces the previous week. By mid morning we were organized, packed and clean which brought us to mission no three for the day: Sourcing vegetables and checking out the curio stores by the upmarket Ku Chawe inn. We took the twenty minute walk through the indigenous forest commenting on how incredibly tranquil and beautiful our surroundings were. It was nice to stretch our legs for a change.
At the craft stalls we were slightly mobbed by the eager suppliers, but in the nicest possible way. We saw some incredible carvings and fairly unique things that sparked an interest and at the second last stall found the perfect Bawo board for our travels. It was 40cm long and hinged to close up like a briefcase and a starting price of MK4 500. Experienced shoppers that we were, we let them stew for a while as we went into the unbelievable grandeur of the hotel. The jaw dropping view from the bar windows had us all speechless for a while before managing to order some cappuccino. The gardens were lush and inviting and warranted a good while of walking around appreciating the pristiness of it all before returning to the stalls for some negotiation.
We really wanted the travel Bawo game. My negotiation in situations like that is very simple and I always explain it to the proprietor before commencing. I make an offer. If you accept my offer, I pay you, take the goods and leave happy. If you do not accept, I walk away without any further negotiation. I make sure they understand, and then make an offer. 99% of the time the seller does not believe me and then force me to walk away. 90% of those times they run after me, trying to negotiate until I eventually get what I want at the price I first offered. This guy was a lot smarter. He understood my method and accepted my offer of MK3000 for the game. I handed over the money and we parted happy. It was a good deal for all. Our further purchases included eggs, tomatoes, sweet potatoes and a loaf of bread as well as a bucket full of goose berries and raspberries.
We made it back to the comforts of our bring cottage seconds before the rain came. Our wheel barrow of fire wood was waiting on the door step and the thermos was full of hot water for another cup of Rosy. Lunch consisted of Bacon and Egg sandwiches which I could not remember the last time I had that. The rest of the afternoon was spent wisely… reading books, writing some and playing some games, including the first Bawo on our very own board! The persistent precipitation continued throughout the afternoon which made the temperature drop even more and forced us to light our fire before 17:00. We were however confident that our mountain of fire wood would last us longer that what we cared to stay awake for. Just before bedtime I heard myself say: “I’m happy we’re not camping in this rain storm…” I really was.
If I had to do it all over again:
I feel that we did well with the time that we had. If time was not a factor, and for future travellers I would recommend the following:
Likoma Island and Mango Drift is an absolute must, and so is the fascinating journey on the Ilala. If you took the Ilala from Nkhata Bay you would need to stay on the island for 7 nights, provided that the ferry kept to its time table (Apparently). At Nkhata Bay you walk onto the ferry via a jetty rather than taking an overloaded lifeboat after wading waist deep into the water. Also, the travel time from Nkhata bay to Likoma is about 5 hours which is about a comfortable time onboard. The other way to do it is to take the ferry for around 24 hours according to the apparent time table from Monkey Bay to Likoma and taking the return ferry three nights later… if it stuck to its schedule. Is that was your chosen way, then you seriously need to have a good tent and warm sleeping gear with you. I think if I had my choice, I would drive to Nkhata Bay and stay at one of many backpackers lodges there. It is easy to get a lift or a taxi to the port and leave your vehicle safe. I would not have any booking for seven days after by planned return so that if the Ilala changed schedule, unannounced, I would simply chill on the island until its return. At the insanely low prices of Mango Drift, you could stay a month without worrying about finances.
I’m pretty sure you are also wondering about my comments on the taxi ride from hell. Well, I was really glad to wake up where our vehicles were and I am not sure staying overnight in Nkhata and taking a bus the next day would have been the better way of doing it. In retrospect I think we all thought that staying another night on the island and ending in Nkhotakota a day later would have been a better way to do it. I truly hope that that would be the last time we broke rule no one.
The rest of the week was really nice and I felt that we made good decisions and had a fantastic time and above all travelled safely as per the wishes of all the wonderful people we met along the way.
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