From the back of the boat over to Mvuu Camp
June 18, 2005
Roadtrip
When the pick-up vehicle arrived at Open Arms the following morning, fate had decreed that I would not be going in it with Patty and the girls. As most Malawian businesses shut early on Friday afternoons, Neville and I had been unable to phone the travel agents to okay my joining the party. The car was a normal, 4-door saloon and there was barely enough room for the girls and their luggage, let alone me and my bulging backpack…the minute I saw it swing through the gates, I knew I’d be taking the bus. We waved the girls off – I with promises to see them that evening – and then the advantages of my situation began to make themselves apparent. Neville invited me to join him for breakfast (delicious bacon and eggs) and then we settled down to watch the British Lions dispose of Otago in their final big game before the first test against the All Blacks. Looking shaky in the first half, some strong substitutions ensured that the Lions were comfortable victors by the full-time whistle. It wasn’t the best performance so near to the big game…but I really think wily old Clive Woodward’s still got some big surprises up his sleeves.
Neville dropped me off in Limbe (the other ‘half’ of Blantyre) where I found a minibus to take me on the first leg of my awesome roadtrip. Public transport in Asia had largely been a no-no for me, on account of the diminutive nature of the locals. Here, size was less of a problem and I actually positively enjoyed being crammed shoulder to shoulder with my fellow-travellers – all smiling and listening happily to the cheerful tribal music, blaring out of the speakers. I really enjoyed seeing local life in close-up – the hawkers crowding round windows at every stop, selling cold drinks, snacks and fish; mothers with babies wrapped in shawls, clambering over seats to squeeze themselves in; and the singsong, happy-sounding jabber of the locals shouting conversations above the noise of the music. The landscape went from town, to village, to open bush and thick forest, with mountains rising in the background and the occasional river winding lazily across the plains. One gentleman, Frederick, made a special effort to chat to me about my plans in Malawi and my thoughts on the country – as well as refreshing my somewhat rusty Chichewa (meaning ‘language of the Chewa’, the dominant indigenous people of Malawi). By the time I arrived in Ulongwe, some 140km later, I had once again fallen head over heels with this beautiful country and her amazing people.
Ulongwe is 12km west of the northern entrance to Liwonde National Park. The only available form of transport (to those arriving on the bus) for this bumpy, dusty trail are the deluxe boneshaker bicycles run by the local ‘taxi’ mafia. As I climbed off the bus, a crowd of clamouring young men immediately surrounded me and began to petition for my custom. As my bag was hauled off by two strong men, this crowd dwindled to a persistent few as I tried to explain that perhaps I’d need two bikes (one for me, one for my bag). One chap – named Iore – took charge of me and shooed the others away and, despite my suggestions, insisted that he would be able to take both of us on his own…eventually, I acceded. Five minutes of friendly bartering achieved a reasonable price for both of us and, somewhat precariously, we got on our way. To start with, we made way with the bag strapped to my back – not only was this uncomfortable for me but Iore was having serious difficulty keeping the front wheel on the ground. We moved the bag onto the handlbars which made some things easier but which also meant that he was now peddling like Charlie Chaplin and my legs were out at right-angles to give his room to work the pedals. It was far from luxurious comfort but the passing landscapes and the scenes of African village life along the way were more than sufficient to keep a big grin on my face. Every house we went by brought shouts of ‘Wa-wa, wa-wa’ (Chichewa for hello) and ‘How are you?’. Groups of small children would stand and stare or shout ‘Nzungu!’ (white man) and the braver, older kids would run along beside the bike for short distances, some asking for sweets or Kwacha (the local currency). Unfortunately, after 8 of the 12km had been completed successfully – if a little slowly – the back wheel began to emit a strange whistling sound and we began to wobble across the road. We pulled up and, after a brief inspection, Iore sorrowfully proclaimed that the spokes had started to break off. There was nothing for it but to put the bag on the bike and for both of us to walk alongside. After a little while we were lucky to come across another bike taxi heading the other way without a passenger. Iore strapped my bag to the back of his bike, I climbed up behind the new guy and we made our way, finally, to the park entrance. I said goodbye to the two guys and went inside to pay my entrance fees, before being escorted on foot over the last kilometre to the boat station, by an armed guide…just in case we should come across any grumpy elephants. Nothing exciting happened and the guide left me, waiting at the Mvuu Camp boat station in the gathering dusk for the water-taxi to come across. The sky turned pink and was filled with the chatter of roosting cormorants, returning to their homes atop the stands of riverside palms. Looking across the flat calm of the water, I could see nothing but wilderness and I began to feel the serene, watchful, emptiness of the African bush reaching out for me.
The camp itself was top notch – a real 5-star affair for those willing to part with their dollars. The Mvuu Lodge (separate from the main camp) has a reputation for being a palace in the bush and even the restaurant/bar area of the main camp had an air of grandeur. I got my tent pitched under a shady thorn, just 40 yards from the swimming pool and then took a hot shower to remove the grime of the road, before sitting down to enjoy a well-earned bottle of cold beer and wait for the girls to show up. With admirable timing, they turned up just as the food was being brought out and carried down to the riverside lawn and I spent a very pleasant evening in their charming, friendly company. I got to bed well before 10 and I found myself drifting off easily to a backdrop of chirping crickets and laughing hippos.
Neville dropped me off in Limbe (the other ‘half’ of Blantyre) where I found a minibus to take me on the first leg of my awesome roadtrip. Public transport in Asia had largely been a no-no for me, on account of the diminutive nature of the locals. Here, size was less of a problem and I actually positively enjoyed being crammed shoulder to shoulder with my fellow-travellers – all smiling and listening happily to the cheerful tribal music, blaring out of the speakers. I really enjoyed seeing local life in close-up – the hawkers crowding round windows at every stop, selling cold drinks, snacks and fish; mothers with babies wrapped in shawls, clambering over seats to squeeze themselves in; and the singsong, happy-sounding jabber of the locals shouting conversations above the noise of the music. The landscape went from town, to village, to open bush and thick forest, with mountains rising in the background and the occasional river winding lazily across the plains. One gentleman, Frederick, made a special effort to chat to me about my plans in Malawi and my thoughts on the country – as well as refreshing my somewhat rusty Chichewa (meaning ‘language of the Chewa’, the dominant indigenous people of Malawi). By the time I arrived in Ulongwe, some 140km later, I had once again fallen head over heels with this beautiful country and her amazing people.
Ulongwe is 12km west of the northern entrance to Liwonde National Park. The only available form of transport (to those arriving on the bus) for this bumpy, dusty trail are the deluxe boneshaker bicycles run by the local ‘taxi’ mafia. As I climbed off the bus, a crowd of clamouring young men immediately surrounded me and began to petition for my custom. As my bag was hauled off by two strong men, this crowd dwindled to a persistent few as I tried to explain that perhaps I’d need two bikes (one for me, one for my bag). One chap – named Iore – took charge of me and shooed the others away and, despite my suggestions, insisted that he would be able to take both of us on his own…eventually, I acceded. Five minutes of friendly bartering achieved a reasonable price for both of us and, somewhat precariously, we got on our way. To start with, we made way with the bag strapped to my back – not only was this uncomfortable for me but Iore was having serious difficulty keeping the front wheel on the ground. We moved the bag onto the handlbars which made some things easier but which also meant that he was now peddling like Charlie Chaplin and my legs were out at right-angles to give his room to work the pedals. It was far from luxurious comfort but the passing landscapes and the scenes of African village life along the way were more than sufficient to keep a big grin on my face. Every house we went by brought shouts of ‘Wa-wa, wa-wa’ (Chichewa for hello) and ‘How are you?’. Groups of small children would stand and stare or shout ‘Nzungu!’ (white man) and the braver, older kids would run along beside the bike for short distances, some asking for sweets or Kwacha (the local currency). Unfortunately, after 8 of the 12km had been completed successfully – if a little slowly – the back wheel began to emit a strange whistling sound and we began to wobble across the road. We pulled up and, after a brief inspection, Iore sorrowfully proclaimed that the spokes had started to break off. There was nothing for it but to put the bag on the bike and for both of us to walk alongside. After a little while we were lucky to come across another bike taxi heading the other way without a passenger. Iore strapped my bag to the back of his bike, I climbed up behind the new guy and we made our way, finally, to the park entrance. I said goodbye to the two guys and went inside to pay my entrance fees, before being escorted on foot over the last kilometre to the boat station, by an armed guide…just in case we should come across any grumpy elephants. Nothing exciting happened and the guide left me, waiting at the Mvuu Camp boat station in the gathering dusk for the water-taxi to come across. The sky turned pink and was filled with the chatter of roosting cormorants, returning to their homes atop the stands of riverside palms. Looking across the flat calm of the water, I could see nothing but wilderness and I began to feel the serene, watchful, emptiness of the African bush reaching out for me.
The camp itself was top notch – a real 5-star affair for those willing to part with their dollars. The Mvuu Lodge (separate from the main camp) has a reputation for being a palace in the bush and even the restaurant/bar area of the main camp had an air of grandeur. I got my tent pitched under a shady thorn, just 40 yards from the swimming pool and then took a hot shower to remove the grime of the road, before sitting down to enjoy a well-earned bottle of cold beer and wait for the girls to show up. With admirable timing, they turned up just as the food was being brought out and carried down to the riverside lawn and I spent a very pleasant evening in their charming, friendly company. I got to bed well before 10 and I found myself drifting off easily to a backdrop of chirping crickets and laughing hippos.
June 17, 2005
Brushstrokes
I was up early for breakfast and walked down to the home with Caroline in time to start painting at 8 o’clock. My father would shudder at the thought of me painting window frames – my ‘steady’ hand is more akin to Drunken Master than Zen Master and there was no masking tape to compensate for the occasional (ha!) slip. Fortunately, function over form is the standard in Malawi and, having inspected Grey’s work (Grey is one of the team of grounds staff employed at the home. His English is excellent and he made pleasant company as we painted away.), I simply got on with the business of ‘slapping’ it on. Later, job done, I had the time to sit and play with the kids until Neville was free to discuss my travel plans. I wanted to visit Liwonde National Park, the Zomba Plateau and Mt. Mulanje over the next 10 days or so and, given that Patty and the girls were to be driven to Liwonde the following morning, I was considering trying to cadge a lift with them. Neville thought this would be a good plan and kindly offered to lend me a tent and his Trangea stove, as camping would be easy and considerably cheaper than the game park’s chalets. I spoke to Patty and she was amenable to my joining the party as long as there was room, so I hurried off in to town to buy some essentials for my camp kitchen and to get my bags packed before our evening at the Malia gig.
Malia is a French-based jazz/soul artiste who hails, originally, from Malawi (Malawian mother and English father). The gig in Blantyre was to be her first back in her home country and Neville, Caroline and the three Americans were all coming along for the fun. The music was not what I’d have put down as my first choice for entertainment (come on…it wasn’t trance!!) but Malia really did have a beautiful voice and I can honestly say that I thoroughly enjoyed myself. She was obviously a little nervous at how her home-crowd would react but by the third song she was getting into it along with everybody else in the room. Star attraction, though, was her excellent bass-player – a Cameroonian named Etienne, whose funky, slap-bass and amazing singing voice (when cajoled, bashfully, into performing a breathtaking solo) were of an entirely different class. Neville dropped Caroline and I back at Kebula by 9.30 and I went straight to bed with my big trip ahead of me the following morning.
Malia is a French-based jazz/soul artiste who hails, originally, from Malawi (Malawian mother and English father). The gig in Blantyre was to be her first back in her home country and Neville, Caroline and the three Americans were all coming along for the fun. The music was not what I’d have put down as my first choice for entertainment (come on…it wasn’t trance!!) but Malia really did have a beautiful voice and I can honestly say that I thoroughly enjoyed myself. She was obviously a little nervous at how her home-crowd would react but by the third song she was getting into it along with everybody else in the room. Star attraction, though, was her excellent bass-player – a Cameroonian named Etienne, whose funky, slap-bass and amazing singing voice (when cajoled, bashfully, into performing a breathtaking solo) were of an entirely different class. Neville dropped Caroline and I back at Kebula by 9.30 and I went straight to bed with my big trip ahead of me the following morning.
June 16, 2005
Jetlag!
Thursday was a bit of a washout in the end. I slept very late after the fatigue of my travels had finally caught up with me and then had an unexpected bout of the trots. I was perturbed by this as I hadn’t eaten anything remotely dodgy and decided in the end, due to a lack of other symptoms and no repeat episodes, that it was just my digestive system complaining at the lack of regularity in my eating habits as I’d crossed 6 time zones. I went into town to make a precautionary purchase at the pharmacy and also stopped in at the internet café and the supermarket to pick up some essentials for dinner (Kebula Lodge being a self-catering establishment). In the afternoon, I went into Open Arms and ended up helping to water the vegetables for an hour or so. Afterwards, I spent some time playing with the kids, who effortlessly melted my heart. Two in particular – Jacqueline with her affectionate nature and warm smile and Edina, suffering from cerebral palsy but smiling and gurgling away as she gripped my fingers and flexed her tiny arms – established themselves as firm favourites and I realised that I’d want to spend my spare time inside the home after I’d completed any tasks outside. All the kids delighted in being picked up and smothered in hugs and their big, round eyes would stare curiously, without fear, as I lumbered into view. For such a big group of under-fives, they were remarkably quiet and played happily with each other and the second-hand toys donated from the UK. There was one Fisher-Price activity centre that was an exact replica of one I’d had as a child and I was almost as fascinated by it as the kids.
I went home at 5 and watched another glorious sunset before cooking my first meal in 8 months and meeting a group of final-year medical students from The Netherlands who were all doing stints at one of the local hospitals. I’d not realised how strong the links between the Dutch and Malawi were and, as I was to discover, there are now almost as many Cloggies as Brits in this former British Protectorate. It was pleasant talking to this affable bunch and I proudly declared my Dutch roots as well as telling them all about my Queen’s Day experiences in Kathmandu. As they were semi-permanent residents of the Lodge (along with Caroline), I could see myself happily enjoying staying there during my time in Blantyre.
My diarrhoea didn’t return and I had a more normal, restful night’s sleep in preparation for a day of painting the following day.
I went home at 5 and watched another glorious sunset before cooking my first meal in 8 months and meeting a group of final-year medical students from The Netherlands who were all doing stints at one of the local hospitals. I’d not realised how strong the links between the Dutch and Malawi were and, as I was to discover, there are now almost as many Cloggies as Brits in this former British Protectorate. It was pleasant talking to this affable bunch and I proudly declared my Dutch roots as well as telling them all about my Queen’s Day experiences in Kathmandu. As they were semi-permanent residents of the Lodge (along with Caroline), I could see myself happily enjoying staying there during my time in Blantyre.
My diarrhoea didn’t return and I had a more normal, restful night’s sleep in preparation for a day of painting the following day.
June 15, 2005
Back in Malawi
The flight from Jo’burg was totally rammed – there seemed to be a party of musicians from the US, who took up most of the seats – but the plane was new and had been designed with plenty of legroom. Arriving at Blantyre was amusing as the plane literally parked up outside the tiny terminal building…I don’t suppose anyone would call the place a major international hub. There was a big crowd of nurses and nuns waiting to greet the musicians and instantly I was reminded of why I fell in love with this country in the first place. Row upon row of dark, smiling faces, exuding an unmistakable air of welcome in this, the ‘Warm Heart of Africa’. Baggage handlers, immigration officers, customs officials – everybody I met – greeted me warmly and enquired of my well-being. It certainly didn’t feel like politeness – they looked me in the eye and smiled when I replied that I was well, thank you…Malawi doesn’t go through the motions – she genuinely seems to care.
The taxi ride to town was pricey but I wasn’t so bothered as I sat back and watched the villages rolling by. Some of my memories of Malawi seem accurate – the simple mud-brick huts with thatched roofs; small children leaning on great, long sugar-canes like portable sweet shops; the blue, blue sky and the inselbergs cropping up out of the plains. Other memories seem out of kilter: Was Malawi really this green? Was so much of the road really tarmac and in such good condition? Obviously some things will have changed in twelve years but I think it’s safe to assume that my abiding memories of dusty, orange plains and bumpy, unmettled roads probably stuck because of their contrast to Europe in a 16-year-old’s eyes – not necessarily because they were the norm in this country of varied landscapes and constantly changing sceneries.
I arrived at the Open Arms Infants Home and was surprised at the scale of the place. I knew that Neville and Rosemarie Bevis had been at the reins for over 5 years and that they’d become adept at gaining sponsors and enticing volunteers – but I was still surprised at the extent of the site and the number of buildings situated therein. Meeting Neville again for the first time in 12 years (for those who don’t know, Neville was a teacher at my former school and had been one of five staff that had escorted a party of 12 students on my first trip to Malawi in 1993) was very funny – particularly because I hadn’t e-mailed him for a month or so. I stood on the veranda as he peered up at me quizzically and in the end I had to prompt him with my name. The last time he’d seen me, I was at the end of a stubborn, non-growing stage of my teens (I actually grew 2-3 inches during those 3 weeks in Malawi – like some kind of weird human sunflower) and I’d yet to acquire the muscle-bulk of adulthood. From 5’8” and 12stone to 6’4” and 16stone is a big difference – not to mention the hair-loss, beard growth and much-mangled nose ;-). It turned out he’d just been at the airport, dropping some people off and we both kicked ourselves for not thinking to e-mail or call as my visit approached. For my part, I knew Neville was having something of an annus horribilis with both his youngest daughter (meningitis) and his wife (cancer) having been seriously ill. Rosemarie’s illness had sent her back to the UK and, consequently, Neville had been short-handed at Open Arms. I hadn’t wanted to make a nuisance of myself with Neville’s hands full and, for his part, the extra running around hadn’t really left him time for remembering exactly who was coming when.- nor, for that matter, to devise any programme of activities for me. Neville explained all this as he gave me a tour of the home. While he showed me around the main house with its dormitories, kitchen, office, play area and feeding rooms, he explained that we would probably have to hunt for things for me to do. We strolled down the gardens, past the chicken sheds (at full capacity, capable of paying for 6 of the salaries of the 45-strong staff at the home) and inspected the vegetable garden, where – as much as possible – they grow the food for the kitchen. Neville pointed out that there was always plenty to be done in the grounds and that some of the window frames were due for painting and I readily agreed to turn my hand to anything useful. We wandered back up the hill to Harrogate House (funded by donations by people from my home town) and here I met some of the older children, including Wilson who had been at Open Arms the longest out of any of the kids. Neville explained that they didn’t want these children to become institutionalised as it was never the intention for Open Arms to become an orphanage. They had purchased a house on the outskirts of the city to act as a foster home for children like Wilson who didn’t have a family to go back to. Most of the children at Open Arms (many orphaned by AIDS) are returned to their families once they are old enough and well enough not to require constant care and attention. Many of the children are HIV-positive and are on retro-viral medication. Others arrive at the home severely malnourished and it’s a full time job for Mrs. Phiri, the matron, and her team of carers to nurse them back to health. The many volunteers who come to Open Arms spend their days feeding and playing with the babies and it’s their invaluable help that means the children get the extra affection and attention that they miss from their families. Neville introduced me to the current batch of four volunteers: Patty and her daughter, Becca and her best friend, Adrienne were from Colorado, USA and Caroline was from The Netherlands. The three Americans were staying at the volunteers house, whose windows I’d just signed up to paint and Caroline was staying at the Kebula Lodge Guesthouse, where Neville was about to take me to find a room. Neville had invited me to join them all for dinner so I said my goodbyes and went about getting settled into my new abode at Kebula.
The view from the terrace across the valley to the local peak, Mt. Soche, was beautiful and unmistakably African and I sat there, blissfully watching the sun go down, pleased to be back in Malawi after all this time.
We ate at a café next to the home run my a Senegalese guy called Maky. The food was delicious and – even better – free, as Maky had invited us as a treat. I vowed to make use of his excellent establishment during my stay in Blantyre – if only for snacks and coffee and the occasional lunch because, unfortunately, Maky’s was normally only a daytime enterprise. I even found myself signing up for a jazz/soul gig at the French Cultural Centre on the Friday evening, which Maky was selling tickets to.
Back at Kebula, I had some time to think about my plans for Malawi. I didn’t want to be a spare wheel at the home and the one project that Neville had mentioned that sounded like I could get my teeth into, was still a couple of weeks off. It struck me that I could make a short tour of Malawi’s southern sights (Blantyre being in the south) and come back in time to help put in the foundations of a new feeding station in one of the outlying villages. The feeding station was also to be a primary school – with the idea that parents would be more likely to send their children to school if there was the chance of a free meal as well. My old school, Ashville College, was due to send out its 7th party of students and staff (mine and Neville’s being the 1st) with money for the feeding station. For the first few days of their trip they’d be helping with the building of the feeding station and it was in preparation for their visit that we’d be putting the foundations in. I was very tired after my trip from Singapore, via Jo’burg and fell asleep pretty soon after my head hit the pillow, dreaming about my plans for the final 2 months of my trip.
The taxi ride to town was pricey but I wasn’t so bothered as I sat back and watched the villages rolling by. Some of my memories of Malawi seem accurate – the simple mud-brick huts with thatched roofs; small children leaning on great, long sugar-canes like portable sweet shops; the blue, blue sky and the inselbergs cropping up out of the plains. Other memories seem out of kilter: Was Malawi really this green? Was so much of the road really tarmac and in such good condition? Obviously some things will have changed in twelve years but I think it’s safe to assume that my abiding memories of dusty, orange plains and bumpy, unmettled roads probably stuck because of their contrast to Europe in a 16-year-old’s eyes – not necessarily because they were the norm in this country of varied landscapes and constantly changing sceneries.
I arrived at the Open Arms Infants Home and was surprised at the scale of the place. I knew that Neville and Rosemarie Bevis had been at the reins for over 5 years and that they’d become adept at gaining sponsors and enticing volunteers – but I was still surprised at the extent of the site and the number of buildings situated therein. Meeting Neville again for the first time in 12 years (for those who don’t know, Neville was a teacher at my former school and had been one of five staff that had escorted a party of 12 students on my first trip to Malawi in 1993) was very funny – particularly because I hadn’t e-mailed him for a month or so. I stood on the veranda as he peered up at me quizzically and in the end I had to prompt him with my name. The last time he’d seen me, I was at the end of a stubborn, non-growing stage of my teens (I actually grew 2-3 inches during those 3 weeks in Malawi – like some kind of weird human sunflower) and I’d yet to acquire the muscle-bulk of adulthood. From 5’8” and 12stone to 6’4” and 16stone is a big difference – not to mention the hair-loss, beard growth and much-mangled nose ;-). It turned out he’d just been at the airport, dropping some people off and we both kicked ourselves for not thinking to e-mail or call as my visit approached. For my part, I knew Neville was having something of an annus horribilis with both his youngest daughter (meningitis) and his wife (cancer) having been seriously ill. Rosemarie’s illness had sent her back to the UK and, consequently, Neville had been short-handed at Open Arms. I hadn’t wanted to make a nuisance of myself with Neville’s hands full and, for his part, the extra running around hadn’t really left him time for remembering exactly who was coming when.- nor, for that matter, to devise any programme of activities for me. Neville explained all this as he gave me a tour of the home. While he showed me around the main house with its dormitories, kitchen, office, play area and feeding rooms, he explained that we would probably have to hunt for things for me to do. We strolled down the gardens, past the chicken sheds (at full capacity, capable of paying for 6 of the salaries of the 45-strong staff at the home) and inspected the vegetable garden, where – as much as possible – they grow the food for the kitchen. Neville pointed out that there was always plenty to be done in the grounds and that some of the window frames were due for painting and I readily agreed to turn my hand to anything useful. We wandered back up the hill to Harrogate House (funded by donations by people from my home town) and here I met some of the older children, including Wilson who had been at Open Arms the longest out of any of the kids. Neville explained that they didn’t want these children to become institutionalised as it was never the intention for Open Arms to become an orphanage. They had purchased a house on the outskirts of the city to act as a foster home for children like Wilson who didn’t have a family to go back to. Most of the children at Open Arms (many orphaned by AIDS) are returned to their families once they are old enough and well enough not to require constant care and attention. Many of the children are HIV-positive and are on retro-viral medication. Others arrive at the home severely malnourished and it’s a full time job for Mrs. Phiri, the matron, and her team of carers to nurse them back to health. The many volunteers who come to Open Arms spend their days feeding and playing with the babies and it’s their invaluable help that means the children get the extra affection and attention that they miss from their families. Neville introduced me to the current batch of four volunteers: Patty and her daughter, Becca and her best friend, Adrienne were from Colorado, USA and Caroline was from The Netherlands. The three Americans were staying at the volunteers house, whose windows I’d just signed up to paint and Caroline was staying at the Kebula Lodge Guesthouse, where Neville was about to take me to find a room. Neville had invited me to join them all for dinner so I said my goodbyes and went about getting settled into my new abode at Kebula.
The view from the terrace across the valley to the local peak, Mt. Soche, was beautiful and unmistakably African and I sat there, blissfully watching the sun go down, pleased to be back in Malawi after all this time.
We ate at a café next to the home run my a Senegalese guy called Maky. The food was delicious and – even better – free, as Maky had invited us as a treat. I vowed to make use of his excellent establishment during my stay in Blantyre – if only for snacks and coffee and the occasional lunch because, unfortunately, Maky’s was normally only a daytime enterprise. I even found myself signing up for a jazz/soul gig at the French Cultural Centre on the Friday evening, which Maky was selling tickets to.
Back at Kebula, I had some time to think about my plans for Malawi. I didn’t want to be a spare wheel at the home and the one project that Neville had mentioned that sounded like I could get my teeth into, was still a couple of weeks off. It struck me that I could make a short tour of Malawi’s southern sights (Blantyre being in the south) and come back in time to help put in the foundations of a new feeding station in one of the outlying villages. The feeding station was also to be a primary school – with the idea that parents would be more likely to send their children to school if there was the chance of a free meal as well. My old school, Ashville College, was due to send out its 7th party of students and staff (mine and Neville’s being the 1st) with money for the feeding station. For the first few days of their trip they’d be helping with the building of the feeding station and it was in preparation for their visit that we’d be putting the foundations in. I was very tired after my trip from Singapore, via Jo’burg and fell asleep pretty soon after my head hit the pillow, dreaming about my plans for the final 2 months of my trip.
June 14, 2005
Jo'burg
I would like to tell you more about Johannesburg but, thanks to my own forgetfulness, I forgot to contact Colette (my South African clubbing buddy from London) in time for her to arrange a tour guide to her home city. To be fair, I was pretty knackered after the exertions of Singapore and the long flight so I don't know if I'd have made much company anyway.
I had a lazy day to kill until my flight to Blantyre and I visited two shopping malls. At one I had a haircut...and at the other I watched 'Revenge of the Sith' - the final instalment of the Star Wars saga. The haircut was great - very quick (no jokes!!), cheap and done with a friendly smile. The film was pretty good - a lot better than the last two Star Wars offerings - and I felt like I'd made good use of the trappings of civilisation before travelling to Malawi.
Apologies to any Jo-burgers offended by my indifference to their city - I simply didn't have the time to take a proper look around...and you all know what I think of big cities anyway.
I had a lazy day to kill until my flight to Blantyre and I visited two shopping malls. At one I had a haircut...and at the other I watched 'Revenge of the Sith' - the final instalment of the Star Wars saga. The haircut was great - very quick (no jokes!!), cheap and done with a friendly smile. The film was pretty good - a lot better than the last two Star Wars offerings - and I felt like I'd made good use of the trappings of civilisation before travelling to Malawi.
Apologies to any Jo-burgers offended by my indifference to their city - I simply didn't have the time to take a proper look around...and you all know what I think of big cities anyway.
June 13, 2005
Off to Africa
Monday was the day when the excesses of the weekend finally caught up with me and I found myself grateful for all the hungover work I’d got through over the weekend as there was now very little left to do. Ryan was busy with work most of the day and I wasn’t in any state for anything strenuous or exciting. There was, however, one final pleasure to fulfil – meeting up with Jo and Tiff from my rafting trip the previous month.
In the evening, bags packed and loaded in the boot of the car, we drove out to the East coast, near the airport and met the girls for dinner at Jumbo’s seafood restaurant. The girls had been enticing me with thoughts of chilli crab ever since we’d exchanged e-mails after Nepal…and I was not disappointed. The food was utterly divine (if a little messy) and the five of us clobbered a huge amount of it, to the growing amazement of the staff. Even better, after our weekend of drunken delirium and mindless (although harmless) mayhem, it was a pleasure to have two such bright, intelligent companions and we made decent conversation for the first time since Friday afternoon.
Dinner was over far too quickly and I needed to get to the airport. We said our farewells to the girls and I promised to keep in touch as did the boys. It was good of them to come out on a ‘school night’ and I appreciated the effort thoroughly.
The lads got me to the airport with plenty of time to spare and took their leave of me. I’d really had a great weekend – just like old times – and it was great to see Ryan so obviously in his element. I hoped James would pass his financial exams so he too could stay and get a job. I was already looking forward to seeing them both on my next visit and I promised I’d be back soon.
I had plenty of time to kill at the airport and, this time, had no problems connecting to the wi-fi for a small fee. I got stuck into the huge backlog of e-mails that had accumulated since my time on Perhentian with Annie. The flight left at 2am and, once again, Singapore Airlines’ service was exemplary. I managed a good few hours and went to sleep, happy in the knowledge that, on waking, I’d be back in Africa for the first time in 3 years.
In the evening, bags packed and loaded in the boot of the car, we drove out to the East coast, near the airport and met the girls for dinner at Jumbo’s seafood restaurant. The girls had been enticing me with thoughts of chilli crab ever since we’d exchanged e-mails after Nepal…and I was not disappointed. The food was utterly divine (if a little messy) and the five of us clobbered a huge amount of it, to the growing amazement of the staff. Even better, after our weekend of drunken delirium and mindless (although harmless) mayhem, it was a pleasure to have two such bright, intelligent companions and we made decent conversation for the first time since Friday afternoon.
Dinner was over far too quickly and I needed to get to the airport. We said our farewells to the girls and I promised to keep in touch as did the boys. It was good of them to come out on a ‘school night’ and I appreciated the effort thoroughly.
The lads got me to the airport with plenty of time to spare and took their leave of me. I’d really had a great weekend – just like old times – and it was great to see Ryan so obviously in his element. I hoped James would pass his financial exams so he too could stay and get a job. I was already looking forward to seeing them both on my next visit and I promised I’d be back soon.
I had plenty of time to kill at the airport and, this time, had no problems connecting to the wi-fi for a small fee. I got stuck into the huge backlog of e-mails that had accumulated since my time on Perhentian with Annie. The flight left at 2am and, once again, Singapore Airlines’ service was exemplary. I managed a good few hours and went to sleep, happy in the knowledge that, on waking, I’d be back in Africa for the first time in 3 years.
June 12, 2005
KM 8
As you can see the weekend was beginning to develop a bit of a pattern. Ryan had tried to explain to me that Singapore was not a sightseeing destination but a lifestyle destination. Alone, I’d have probably tried to see things like Little India and catch up on some of the city’s fascinating colonial history. However, if Ryan hadn’t been living there I’d never have stayed any longer than to change planes and head off to Jo’burg…so I was quite happy to go with the flow as suggested by him. And Sunday was the day when this really paid off.
Once again, I used my hungover morning well and managed to update even more of the blog. At lunchtime we picked up one of the lads, Abdul, in town and headed out to a bar on the ocean called KM 8. I’d heard good things about the place from the boys and I wasn’t disappointed to find a little piece of Ibiza Town in Asia. It was like Ibiza with the sun and sand and a cool, chilled-out party vibe. However, there were no English yobs or litter and the air lacked that special ‘drains’ smell you so often find on the White Island. The booze was a lot less expensive and the quality of the eye-candy was absolutely incredible. We spent the afternoon, slowly drinking through our hangovers with the mandatory Corona and lime and admiring the excellent views from beach to sky and all the interesting little wiggling bits in between. As the evening progressed and the dj actually began to mix a little trance in with his house, we found our dancin feet and worked ourselves into a corner of the dancefloor where some of the other rugby lads had turned up.
Later still we were enjoying the pool, pulling handstands, dropping the ‘People’s Elbow’ and generally having a rip-roaring time. During one particularly unimpressive underwater handstand, I managed to topple over, ricking my back and scraping my forehead on the rough pool bottom at the same time. Slightly chastened and with a ridiculous graze on my head, I spent the rest of the evening chatting to locals and getting a handle on why they’d chosen the ex-pat lifestyle (not that I needed any more reason!) One guy, in particular, called Jeffree, runs a lifestyle magazine over there called Think! While I was at the loo, Ryan let slip that I was interested in travel-writing and, when I came back, I was surprised and very pleased to find Jeffree asking me to send him some stuff to look at. I’ve certainly enjoyed keeping this journal and, if it’s up to scratch, I’d love to get something published just for the hell of it. Watch this space…I’ll keep you informed.
Eventually, it was time to go – Ryan having work in the morning – and we headed back to The Anchorage, agreed that we’d all had an excellent weekend. I could certainly see myself going out there again…but perhaps my liver will need some time to recover before thinking about it. It certainly could be a fun place to live.
Once again, I used my hungover morning well and managed to update even more of the blog. At lunchtime we picked up one of the lads, Abdul, in town and headed out to a bar on the ocean called KM 8. I’d heard good things about the place from the boys and I wasn’t disappointed to find a little piece of Ibiza Town in Asia. It was like Ibiza with the sun and sand and a cool, chilled-out party vibe. However, there were no English yobs or litter and the air lacked that special ‘drains’ smell you so often find on the White Island. The booze was a lot less expensive and the quality of the eye-candy was absolutely incredible. We spent the afternoon, slowly drinking through our hangovers with the mandatory Corona and lime and admiring the excellent views from beach to sky and all the interesting little wiggling bits in between. As the evening progressed and the dj actually began to mix a little trance in with his house, we found our dancin feet and worked ourselves into a corner of the dancefloor where some of the other rugby lads had turned up.
Later still we were enjoying the pool, pulling handstands, dropping the ‘People’s Elbow’ and generally having a rip-roaring time. During one particularly unimpressive underwater handstand, I managed to topple over, ricking my back and scraping my forehead on the rough pool bottom at the same time. Slightly chastened and with a ridiculous graze on my head, I spent the rest of the evening chatting to locals and getting a handle on why they’d chosen the ex-pat lifestyle (not that I needed any more reason!) One guy, in particular, called Jeffree, runs a lifestyle magazine over there called Think! While I was at the loo, Ryan let slip that I was interested in travel-writing and, when I came back, I was surprised and very pleased to find Jeffree asking me to send him some stuff to look at. I’ve certainly enjoyed keeping this journal and, if it’s up to scratch, I’d love to get something published just for the hell of it. Watch this space…I’ll keep you informed.
Eventually, it was time to go – Ryan having work in the morning – and we headed back to The Anchorage, agreed that we’d all had an excellent weekend. I could certainly see myself going out there again…but perhaps my liver will need some time to recover before thinking about it. It certainly could be a fun place to live.
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