Craig and Ludo in the delightfully decorated curry house
July 23, 2005
Egg-dealing…and Mayoka Village
I might have missed one final sunrise from the escarpment but, fortunately, the vista from the lake shore was every bit as eye-pleasing and I was happy enough waiting for a minibus for 40 minutes, as the local village awoke around me and began to set about its daily business. A steady stream of young girls and women congregated at one of the communal boreholes to complete the daily task of fetching the household’s water and I was greeted by men on their way to work and wide-eyed children going to school. Eventually a not-quite-full minibus pulled up and we somehow managed to cram my bags and me into the remaining space before heading up the tortuous mountain roads towards Mzuzu.
This journey was probably my most hair-raising minibus experience yet as I was actually forced to confront the reality of Malawian motor maintenance for the first time. Somewhere near the top of the mountain road (just before the long, winding, hair-pinned descent to Mzuzu) our driver pulled over and ordered us all off as he proceeded to jack up the front near-side and replace a completely worn wheel-bearing. The various parts of the steering, brake and drive assemblies were put back together rather too hurriedly for my liking and I was very close to hauling my stuff off and waiting on the road for another minibus. However, in the end, I reasoned it made as much sense to stick with my original bus. The next not-full bus might have taken over an hour to come past and was probably just as likely to be in a poor state of repair. In any respect, I’m something of a fatalist and believe that when bad things are meant to happen, they’ll just happen regardless of how hard you try to avoid them. We made it to Mzuzu in one piece and in good time and I decided to find the internet café before heading down to Nkhata Bay as I’d been incommunicado for over a week by this stage.
Suddenly I was back in central Vietnam as I discovered an internet connection priced (relatively) at speed-of-light levels…and delivering around the continental drift mark. Frustrating as it was, I had no choice but to rack up a 4-figure bill just in the interests of reading the mail I’d been sent…let alone sending any replies. However, Fate obviously had her reasons for delaying me and, as I was coming to the close of a marathon 2-hour session, a familiar Yorkshire accent shouted my name across the room. Craig and Ludo (from the Ilala) were stood there grinning at me and I realised that there was going to trouble ahead.
The boys had been in Nkhata Bay for almost a week, living it up at a fun-sounding place called Mayoka Village. They’d come to Mzuzu for a brief change of scenery and to make contact with the outside world before heading back down there that evening. Pleased to have found such staunch companions again – apparently by chance – I readily agreed to accompany them for a curry and then follow them back to the promised delights of Mayoka.
The curry house was decorated with some truly inspirational contemporary art and the laminated menu gave it an authentic British feel. Craig and I, from the heart of curry country, wasted no time in ordering korais and masalas but Ludo decided that his delicate French taste buds might be better suited to that well known Indian speciality, the omelette. Fair play to him, it was a masala omelette but Craig and I couldn’t help ribbing him a little. I think we were all surprised though, when the waiter returned with the bad news that they were out of eggs. In a country where I hadn’t gone more than an hour without being offered eggs, it was a little hard to believe that a restaurant with omelette on the menu should have none. Ludo’s face dropped and I could see impending panic at the thought of having to brave some unknown potential eye-waterer…so Superfin came splendidly to the rescue. It just so happened that I had 4 eggs in my bag (left over from camping, of course) and I was able to sell them to the restaurant at a handsome profit of 5 kwacha per egg. I was left counting the wads of money from my foray into egg-dealing and Ludo’s stomach was left in peace. Actually, the money never really saw the light of day as it was merely subtracted from my bill, to which I added the kind of generous tip you’d expect from an international egg magnate. Still, we got a good laugh out of it.
The minibus journey to Nkhata Bay was a relatively quick downhill trundle and we arrived well before sunset. For some reason, Craig was determined to walk to Mayoka Village and, given that he said it was around 10 minutes, I readily agreed. It was fun to walk the lively streets of Nkhata Bay and we took our time passing the wildly roaring football crowd, while Ludo took some shots with his camera. However, 20 sweaty minutes later, I was more than happy to be depositing my bags on the floor of Craig and Ludo’s chalet. Chalet number 8 had a spacious balcony and stunning views out across the water to the other side of the bay. It was also perfectly positioned halfway up the steep steps between the two shower and toilet blocks – with perfect views of both so that one knew when to miss the queues for the facilities. As the dorms had been full on their arrival, the lads had managed to blag this little slice of luxury at dorm rates as long as they shared with others. They were more than happy to have me in with them as there was less chance of them being moved out if some better-heeled punters came along. Of course, they hadn’t heard me snoring at this stage…;-)
Tired after a long day travelling, I showered and dressed before heading to the bar to quench a mighty thirst. The other English guys from the Ilala were also staying there and we had a mini-reunion as we all predictably gravitated towards the pool table. Saturday night at Mayoka Village is ‘Giant Burger’ night and the place was heaving with hungry carnivores as Craig, Ludo and I got stuck into a seriously destructive game of one-handed, left-handed ‘Killer’ pool. I can just about hold my own on a pool table with both hands and a bit of luck…putting the cue in my unsteady wrong hand and decreeing that a double vodka be consumed every time I foul is a sure way to ruin me.
My memories of the evening are very vivid but just a little sparse in quantity for 8 hours. I clearly remember my huge disappointment at the realisation that all the ‘Giant Burgers’ were gone – and my feelings of gratitude and affection towards Mayoka’s co-owner Katherine for rustling up a Giant Steak Sandwich instead…only for me to get too drunk to finish it. I also clearly remember talking to a lovely pair of Dutch student nurses, Anniek and Linda, with whom I discovered a shared love of trance music. Kennon, the bartender, overheard our excited chatter and persuaded me to run back to my room and fetch my cd-case – a trip that brought me a nice graze on the arm after falling off the footpath on the steep hillside. Once the trance began blasting out of the sound system, there was plenty of dancing going on around the pool table as my playing form continued to deteriorate. In my slightly(!) inebriated state, it didn’t really bother me that I seemed to be taking a shot almost every 30 seconds – despite the fact that there were 5 or 6 of us playing. I particularly remember managing not to foul and placing the next person in the most impossible snooker, from which I was sure there was no escape. When my next shot came around (quite quickly, actually) I was staggered and amazed to learn that not only had the other person not fouled (everyone had been watching him while I was at the bar – just to make sure he didn’t cheat!) but I had been left in exactly the same snooker myself. Unbelievable! Yes, unbelievable that I could have been that sloshed not to notice the scam going on under my nose. I found out the next day that, while I was at the bar ordering and drinking my penalties like the honourable fellow I am, my companions were stitching me up by simply passing the cue around the table for a few seconds before telling me it was my turn again. It was certainly an entertaining first night in Mayoka and I guess I made a few friends out of it, even if my head was a bit sore in the morning. Now I’m not entirely sure if that was just the vodka or the result of my final act of the evening. Craig and Ludo had been watching jealously as I had the two Dutch lasses in stitches (little did the lads know that the girls were laughing ‘at’ me and not ‘with’ me…and that I wasn’t actually trying to chat them up in the first place) and were therefore well placed to see my elegant coup-de-grace to the conversation: mid-drunken gibber, I apparently suddenly stopped talking and let my forehead drop to the bar with a resounding thud as my brain suddenly worked out that I required no further vodka. My last memory of the night is waking up, stiff-backed and still on the bar stool with my face firmly stuck on the bar. I somehow found the energy and co-ordination to lurch back to the chalet and crawl under my mosquito net before falling dead asleep.
This journey was probably my most hair-raising minibus experience yet as I was actually forced to confront the reality of Malawian motor maintenance for the first time. Somewhere near the top of the mountain road (just before the long, winding, hair-pinned descent to Mzuzu) our driver pulled over and ordered us all off as he proceeded to jack up the front near-side and replace a completely worn wheel-bearing. The various parts of the steering, brake and drive assemblies were put back together rather too hurriedly for my liking and I was very close to hauling my stuff off and waiting on the road for another minibus. However, in the end, I reasoned it made as much sense to stick with my original bus. The next not-full bus might have taken over an hour to come past and was probably just as likely to be in a poor state of repair. In any respect, I’m something of a fatalist and believe that when bad things are meant to happen, they’ll just happen regardless of how hard you try to avoid them. We made it to Mzuzu in one piece and in good time and I decided to find the internet café before heading down to Nkhata Bay as I’d been incommunicado for over a week by this stage.
Suddenly I was back in central Vietnam as I discovered an internet connection priced (relatively) at speed-of-light levels…and delivering around the continental drift mark. Frustrating as it was, I had no choice but to rack up a 4-figure bill just in the interests of reading the mail I’d been sent…let alone sending any replies. However, Fate obviously had her reasons for delaying me and, as I was coming to the close of a marathon 2-hour session, a familiar Yorkshire accent shouted my name across the room. Craig and Ludo (from the Ilala) were stood there grinning at me and I realised that there was going to trouble ahead.
The boys had been in Nkhata Bay for almost a week, living it up at a fun-sounding place called Mayoka Village. They’d come to Mzuzu for a brief change of scenery and to make contact with the outside world before heading back down there that evening. Pleased to have found such staunch companions again – apparently by chance – I readily agreed to accompany them for a curry and then follow them back to the promised delights of Mayoka.
The curry house was decorated with some truly inspirational contemporary art and the laminated menu gave it an authentic British feel. Craig and I, from the heart of curry country, wasted no time in ordering korais and masalas but Ludo decided that his delicate French taste buds might be better suited to that well known Indian speciality, the omelette. Fair play to him, it was a masala omelette but Craig and I couldn’t help ribbing him a little. I think we were all surprised though, when the waiter returned with the bad news that they were out of eggs. In a country where I hadn’t gone more than an hour without being offered eggs, it was a little hard to believe that a restaurant with omelette on the menu should have none. Ludo’s face dropped and I could see impending panic at the thought of having to brave some unknown potential eye-waterer…so Superfin came splendidly to the rescue. It just so happened that I had 4 eggs in my bag (left over from camping, of course) and I was able to sell them to the restaurant at a handsome profit of 5 kwacha per egg. I was left counting the wads of money from my foray into egg-dealing and Ludo’s stomach was left in peace. Actually, the money never really saw the light of day as it was merely subtracted from my bill, to which I added the kind of generous tip you’d expect from an international egg magnate. Still, we got a good laugh out of it.
The minibus journey to Nkhata Bay was a relatively quick downhill trundle and we arrived well before sunset. For some reason, Craig was determined to walk to Mayoka Village and, given that he said it was around 10 minutes, I readily agreed. It was fun to walk the lively streets of Nkhata Bay and we took our time passing the wildly roaring football crowd, while Ludo took some shots with his camera. However, 20 sweaty minutes later, I was more than happy to be depositing my bags on the floor of Craig and Ludo’s chalet. Chalet number 8 had a spacious balcony and stunning views out across the water to the other side of the bay. It was also perfectly positioned halfway up the steep steps between the two shower and toilet blocks – with perfect views of both so that one knew when to miss the queues for the facilities. As the dorms had been full on their arrival, the lads had managed to blag this little slice of luxury at dorm rates as long as they shared with others. They were more than happy to have me in with them as there was less chance of them being moved out if some better-heeled punters came along. Of course, they hadn’t heard me snoring at this stage…;-)
Tired after a long day travelling, I showered and dressed before heading to the bar to quench a mighty thirst. The other English guys from the Ilala were also staying there and we had a mini-reunion as we all predictably gravitated towards the pool table. Saturday night at Mayoka Village is ‘Giant Burger’ night and the place was heaving with hungry carnivores as Craig, Ludo and I got stuck into a seriously destructive game of one-handed, left-handed ‘Killer’ pool. I can just about hold my own on a pool table with both hands and a bit of luck…putting the cue in my unsteady wrong hand and decreeing that a double vodka be consumed every time I foul is a sure way to ruin me.
My memories of the evening are very vivid but just a little sparse in quantity for 8 hours. I clearly remember my huge disappointment at the realisation that all the ‘Giant Burgers’ were gone – and my feelings of gratitude and affection towards Mayoka’s co-owner Katherine for rustling up a Giant Steak Sandwich instead…only for me to get too drunk to finish it. I also clearly remember talking to a lovely pair of Dutch student nurses, Anniek and Linda, with whom I discovered a shared love of trance music. Kennon, the bartender, overheard our excited chatter and persuaded me to run back to my room and fetch my cd-case – a trip that brought me a nice graze on the arm after falling off the footpath on the steep hillside. Once the trance began blasting out of the sound system, there was plenty of dancing going on around the pool table as my playing form continued to deteriorate. In my slightly(!) inebriated state, it didn’t really bother me that I seemed to be taking a shot almost every 30 seconds – despite the fact that there were 5 or 6 of us playing. I particularly remember managing not to foul and placing the next person in the most impossible snooker, from which I was sure there was no escape. When my next shot came around (quite quickly, actually) I was staggered and amazed to learn that not only had the other person not fouled (everyone had been watching him while I was at the bar – just to make sure he didn’t cheat!) but I had been left in exactly the same snooker myself. Unbelievable! Yes, unbelievable that I could have been that sloshed not to notice the scam going on under my nose. I found out the next day that, while I was at the bar ordering and drinking my penalties like the honourable fellow I am, my companions were stitching me up by simply passing the cue around the table for a few seconds before telling me it was my turn again. It was certainly an entertaining first night in Mayoka and I guess I made a few friends out of it, even if my head was a bit sore in the morning. Now I’m not entirely sure if that was just the vodka or the result of my final act of the evening. Craig and Ludo had been watching jealously as I had the two Dutch lasses in stitches (little did the lads know that the girls were laughing ‘at’ me and not ‘with’ me…and that I wasn’t actually trying to chat them up in the first place) and were therefore well placed to see my elegant coup-de-grace to the conversation: mid-drunken gibber, I apparently suddenly stopped talking and let my forehead drop to the bar with a resounding thud as my brain suddenly worked out that I required no further vodka. My last memory of the night is waking up, stiff-backed and still on the bar stool with my face firmly stuck on the bar. I somehow found the energy and co-ordination to lurch back to the chalet and crawl under my mosquito net before falling dead asleep.
July 20, 2005
Manchewe Falls
I had another lazy morning, pottering around camp as I finished washing my clothes and cleaned up my cookware from the previous evening’s dinner. This apparent industry was heavily interspersed with prolonged bouts of strenuous reading and intent listening to music, in case any of you were worried that I might be over-exerting myself. To be honest, even chores like laundry and washing-up can be pleasurable experiences when conducted in such a relaxing and aesthetically pleasing environment and, before I knew it, it was 2pm and I was eating corn chowder and home-baked bread for lunch. Pleasing as it would have been to sit around and do nothing in camp for the rest of the day, I’d decided that I’d be moving on the following morning and wanted to get out to see the impressive Manchewe Falls whilst in the vicinity.
With a few bottles of beer, my camera and a book I took the short walk down the road to the falls, where I spent the afternoon basking on a sun-kissed rock, listening to the hypnotic rush of tumbling water and occasionally raising my head to take in the sight of it cascading down the jungle-strewn cliffs of the escarpment.
I’m unsure as to the origins of the bug – spray from the river, poorly sterilised drinking water (which would be my fault) or a momentary lapse in hygiene at the camp kitchen – and, practically, it’s unimportant as stomach bugs are a part and parcel of 3rd world travel. However, my so far thoroughly enjoyable journey through Malawi was suddenly brought to a juddering halt by a nasty attack of the runs, which began later that evening.
My plans to move on to Vwaza Marsh Game Reserve the following morning had to be postponed as I spent much of the night staggering woozily from tent to toilet, feeling increasingly weak and dizzy. I can think of far worse places to be ill but, in the end, trekking to and from shared toilet facilities up steep hillsides with zero energy loses its novelty value and, after 2 nights and days I could only feel relief when the Cipro (purchased when Edd had his nasty bout in Tibet) annihilated all living organisms in my gut.
In need of a bed and lively good company (not to mention a chef to help regain some lost weight!) I decided to head for Nkhata Bay on Saturday instead of Vwaza – reasoning that I could always make the trip there when I was feeling stronger and more adventurous. I managed a good meal on the Friday evening and was sufficiently rested to agree to grab a lift from the owner, Bruce, down the hill to Chitimba at 5am. The prospect of packing up my tent at 4.30 am seemed too much and I gladly agreed to Bruce’s suggestion of sleeping in one of the cliff-edge cabins for my final night. My only regret was that the early start would mean missing the sunrise from my balcony…
With a few bottles of beer, my camera and a book I took the short walk down the road to the falls, where I spent the afternoon basking on a sun-kissed rock, listening to the hypnotic rush of tumbling water and occasionally raising my head to take in the sight of it cascading down the jungle-strewn cliffs of the escarpment.
I’m unsure as to the origins of the bug – spray from the river, poorly sterilised drinking water (which would be my fault) or a momentary lapse in hygiene at the camp kitchen – and, practically, it’s unimportant as stomach bugs are a part and parcel of 3rd world travel. However, my so far thoroughly enjoyable journey through Malawi was suddenly brought to a juddering halt by a nasty attack of the runs, which began later that evening.
My plans to move on to Vwaza Marsh Game Reserve the following morning had to be postponed as I spent much of the night staggering woozily from tent to toilet, feeling increasingly weak and dizzy. I can think of far worse places to be ill but, in the end, trekking to and from shared toilet facilities up steep hillsides with zero energy loses its novelty value and, after 2 nights and days I could only feel relief when the Cipro (purchased when Edd had his nasty bout in Tibet) annihilated all living organisms in my gut.
In need of a bed and lively good company (not to mention a chef to help regain some lost weight!) I decided to head for Nkhata Bay on Saturday instead of Vwaza – reasoning that I could always make the trip there when I was feeling stronger and more adventurous. I managed a good meal on the Friday evening and was sufficiently rested to agree to grab a lift from the owner, Bruce, down the hill to Chitimba at 5am. The prospect of packing up my tent at 4.30 am seemed too much and I gladly agreed to Bruce’s suggestion of sleeping in one of the cliff-edge cabins for my final night. My only regret was that the early start would mean missing the sunrise from my balcony…
July 19, 2005
Livingstonia
I was up early and rewarded for my run to the northern headland by magnificent views of the sun rising over a shimmering Lake Malawi. While the heavy haze undoubtedly enhanced the colours of this magical scene, I was unable to see the far-off mountains of Tanzania in the background. This sight being rivalled only by Zomba for ‘the best views in the Empire’.
I had an outstanding breakfast of vegetable omelette (with more tasty homemade bread) and a fruit salad, washed down with Mzuzu coffee. After breakfast I busied myself with camp-life – for the first time since my abortive attempts in the Philippines, I hand-washed my clothes. This time I wisely used the local laundry soap instead of the crappy travel wash I’d used previously. With the results neatly pegged out to dry in the sun, I packed my bag, zipped up the tent and set off to explore Livingstonia.
It wasn’t long before I resembled the Pied Piper as a ragtag straggle of kids attached itself to me and began to follow me down the road. At first they genuinely seemed to want to practise their English and there were one or two bright sparks who really surprised me with their excellent grasp. We discovered a large yellow and black caterpillar slowly traversing the road and when we stopped to inspect it I learnt that these kids spoke Tumbuka as opposed to Chichewa – Tumbuka being the predominant language in the northern part of the country. I am pleased to say that my first word in Tumbuka was ‘bongolo’ was taught to me there and then by my new friends. I can’t imagine I’d ever have much use for it (particularly in restaurants) but ‘caterpillar’ was my first exchange with the locals…and I had a sudden urge to sit down and have a Tumbuka/English lesson. However, Livingstonia beckoned and as I walked down road, the ulterior motives of my new friends soon became apparent: ‘Give me sweet’, ‘Give me kwacha’, ‘Give me pen’ were all fired at me in quick succession and after several peremptory ‘No’s the little ragamuffins eventually scarpered to seek alternative entertainment elsewhere.
In the growing heat the walk seemed interminable and my only clue that I was getting closer was the steady steepening of the road as I climbed the Livingstonia escarpment. Eventually I arrived at a long, low, red-brick building with a balustraded veranda running the length of its front. The place seemed unused and deserted and there were the remains of porcelain toilets and other plumbing fixtures stacked untidily beneath the veranda. I couldn’t for the life of me understand why the place was uninhabited for the views North and East over the escarpment towards the lake were absolutely breathtaking. I was pestered by more local children for a while but eventually my stony silence and unreaction to more requests for money or sweets forced them to admit defeat and leave me in peace. I spent a few minutes drinking in the view and found it easy to understand why Dr. Laws had come upon this place and immediately decided upon it as the third (and final) site for the Livingstonia mission.
I meandered slowly eastward along the escarpment’s edge, noting several big stone houses and numerous cottages – all having a distinctively Scottish appearance – and eventually found myself at the rather grand and impressive David George Memorial Hospital. At one time the hospital had been the biggest in Central Africa and, even today, would put many a British District General to shame…at least for size and bed numbers, if not equipment and facilities. The Livingstonia Mission in the early 20th Century had been a focal point for medicine and education as well as Christian missionary work and the town is still the home of a technical college and the University of Livingstonia. It is one place where perhaps colonial influence has had a mainly positive impact on the local populace.
Shortly after midday I arrived at The Stone House. This was the residence built for Dr. and Mrs Laws to live in during their tenure at the Mission. Nowadays it is run as a resthouse with two small rooms at one end serving as a ramshackle and somewhat dilapidated museum. This being Malawi, the place was obviously closed for lunch so I sat on the steps eating a rudimentary packed lunch (er, bananas and custard creams anyone?), surrounded by the beautiful, brightly-coloured blossoms of the well-tended garden and admiring the views over the escarpment’s edge once more to the lake.
While I was waiting I was stumbled upon by a party of World Challenge volunteers from Monmouth school who had just completed the three day hike from the Nyika Plateau. They were an engaging and polite bunch of young lasses but I was still mortified to hear that they were going to be heading over to Lukwe once they’d explored Livingstonia. With the best will in the world, 16 18-year old British schoolgirls were not going to add to the peace and tranquillity of my forest hideaway and I decided that it would soon be time for me to move on again.
Eventually the caretaker came back to let me in to the museum and, although there were some interesting pieces and one could sense the great weight of history surrounding the site, the poor conditions in which the artefacts were stored and the haphazard nature of the layout meant that the museum was primarily interesting for its quaintness rather than the significance of its contents. After half an hour of poring through the more readable displays, I called it a day and went off to the Mission church to get a look at the renowned stained glass window.
At the church I was much more impressed (although I realise that attention to order and maintenance is hardly a priority in 3rd world nations) as the place gleamed with an almost spiritual cleanliness. The window showed the unmistakeable curve of the local lakeshore from the vantage of the escarpment and captured the enduring spirit of adventure and progress that Dr. Livingstone adopted during his great explorations of the ‘Dark Continent’. More so than in the musty, lifeless environment of the Stone House Museum, I felt the excitement and goodwill that imbued several generations of altruistic Scots with the desire to help their fellow man. The visitor’s book was particularly edifying as there were several warm, supportive messages from relatives of recent missionaries, who’d come to visit the place where their loved ones had spent (and often ended) their lives. As I walked back through the comparatively prosperous town and had a few pleasant conversations with friendly locals, my mind was once again filled with the pleasing notion that there is much good in the world…if you have the time to find it.
Back at Lukwe, I was pleased to discover from Robert that they weren’t expecting a large party of schoolgirls and that, in fact, they were most likely to be helping the owner of the neighbouring permaculture gardens in a new planting project. I breathed a sigh of relief and once again looked forward to enjoying the serenity of the whispering forest.
I didn’t have the entire camp to myself that night – new arrivals came in the way of Aaron and Kristen. Aaron, having just finished a two year Peace Corps placement in nearby Karonga, had recently been joined by an old schoolfriend from Indiana as he rounded of his epic adventure with a bout of travel and R&R around Malawi. I think I may have freaked Kristen out a little at first as I first ‘met’ her when she came into the neighbouring cubicle as I was enjoying a sunset shower. The walls and door are low enough to take in the view but not – I hasten to add! – low enough to see any more than the head of one’s neighbour. Politely oblivious to my presence, I imagine she’d been a little shocked when I piped up with ‘Nice view, eh?’ as she stood there (in all probability, naked) looking out to the plateau. Fortunately, she grasped my meaning and, although there wasn’t much more conversation over the partition wall, we had a relaxing and pleasant time around the campfire later that evening after I’d cooked myself a tasty veggie stew with mash.
I had an outstanding breakfast of vegetable omelette (with more tasty homemade bread) and a fruit salad, washed down with Mzuzu coffee. After breakfast I busied myself with camp-life – for the first time since my abortive attempts in the Philippines, I hand-washed my clothes. This time I wisely used the local laundry soap instead of the crappy travel wash I’d used previously. With the results neatly pegged out to dry in the sun, I packed my bag, zipped up the tent and set off to explore Livingstonia.
It wasn’t long before I resembled the Pied Piper as a ragtag straggle of kids attached itself to me and began to follow me down the road. At first they genuinely seemed to want to practise their English and there were one or two bright sparks who really surprised me with their excellent grasp. We discovered a large yellow and black caterpillar slowly traversing the road and when we stopped to inspect it I learnt that these kids spoke Tumbuka as opposed to Chichewa – Tumbuka being the predominant language in the northern part of the country. I am pleased to say that my first word in Tumbuka was ‘bongolo’ was taught to me there and then by my new friends. I can’t imagine I’d ever have much use for it (particularly in restaurants) but ‘caterpillar’ was my first exchange with the locals…and I had a sudden urge to sit down and have a Tumbuka/English lesson. However, Livingstonia beckoned and as I walked down road, the ulterior motives of my new friends soon became apparent: ‘Give me sweet’, ‘Give me kwacha’, ‘Give me pen’ were all fired at me in quick succession and after several peremptory ‘No’s the little ragamuffins eventually scarpered to seek alternative entertainment elsewhere.
In the growing heat the walk seemed interminable and my only clue that I was getting closer was the steady steepening of the road as I climbed the Livingstonia escarpment. Eventually I arrived at a long, low, red-brick building with a balustraded veranda running the length of its front. The place seemed unused and deserted and there were the remains of porcelain toilets and other plumbing fixtures stacked untidily beneath the veranda. I couldn’t for the life of me understand why the place was uninhabited for the views North and East over the escarpment towards the lake were absolutely breathtaking. I was pestered by more local children for a while but eventually my stony silence and unreaction to more requests for money or sweets forced them to admit defeat and leave me in peace. I spent a few minutes drinking in the view and found it easy to understand why Dr. Laws had come upon this place and immediately decided upon it as the third (and final) site for the Livingstonia mission.
I meandered slowly eastward along the escarpment’s edge, noting several big stone houses and numerous cottages – all having a distinctively Scottish appearance – and eventually found myself at the rather grand and impressive David George Memorial Hospital. At one time the hospital had been the biggest in Central Africa and, even today, would put many a British District General to shame…at least for size and bed numbers, if not equipment and facilities. The Livingstonia Mission in the early 20th Century had been a focal point for medicine and education as well as Christian missionary work and the town is still the home of a technical college and the University of Livingstonia. It is one place where perhaps colonial influence has had a mainly positive impact on the local populace.
Shortly after midday I arrived at The Stone House. This was the residence built for Dr. and Mrs Laws to live in during their tenure at the Mission. Nowadays it is run as a resthouse with two small rooms at one end serving as a ramshackle and somewhat dilapidated museum. This being Malawi, the place was obviously closed for lunch so I sat on the steps eating a rudimentary packed lunch (er, bananas and custard creams anyone?), surrounded by the beautiful, brightly-coloured blossoms of the well-tended garden and admiring the views over the escarpment’s edge once more to the lake.
While I was waiting I was stumbled upon by a party of World Challenge volunteers from Monmouth school who had just completed the three day hike from the Nyika Plateau. They were an engaging and polite bunch of young lasses but I was still mortified to hear that they were going to be heading over to Lukwe once they’d explored Livingstonia. With the best will in the world, 16 18-year old British schoolgirls were not going to add to the peace and tranquillity of my forest hideaway and I decided that it would soon be time for me to move on again.
Eventually the caretaker came back to let me in to the museum and, although there were some interesting pieces and one could sense the great weight of history surrounding the site, the poor conditions in which the artefacts were stored and the haphazard nature of the layout meant that the museum was primarily interesting for its quaintness rather than the significance of its contents. After half an hour of poring through the more readable displays, I called it a day and went off to the Mission church to get a look at the renowned stained glass window.
At the church I was much more impressed (although I realise that attention to order and maintenance is hardly a priority in 3rd world nations) as the place gleamed with an almost spiritual cleanliness. The window showed the unmistakeable curve of the local lakeshore from the vantage of the escarpment and captured the enduring spirit of adventure and progress that Dr. Livingstone adopted during his great explorations of the ‘Dark Continent’. More so than in the musty, lifeless environment of the Stone House Museum, I felt the excitement and goodwill that imbued several generations of altruistic Scots with the desire to help their fellow man. The visitor’s book was particularly edifying as there were several warm, supportive messages from relatives of recent missionaries, who’d come to visit the place where their loved ones had spent (and often ended) their lives. As I walked back through the comparatively prosperous town and had a few pleasant conversations with friendly locals, my mind was once again filled with the pleasing notion that there is much good in the world…if you have the time to find it.
Back at Lukwe, I was pleased to discover from Robert that they weren’t expecting a large party of schoolgirls and that, in fact, they were most likely to be helping the owner of the neighbouring permaculture gardens in a new planting project. I breathed a sigh of relief and once again looked forward to enjoying the serenity of the whispering forest.
I didn’t have the entire camp to myself that night – new arrivals came in the way of Aaron and Kristen. Aaron, having just finished a two year Peace Corps placement in nearby Karonga, had recently been joined by an old schoolfriend from Indiana as he rounded of his epic adventure with a bout of travel and R&R around Malawi. I think I may have freaked Kristen out a little at first as I first ‘met’ her when she came into the neighbouring cubicle as I was enjoying a sunset shower. The walls and door are low enough to take in the view but not – I hasten to add! – low enough to see any more than the head of one’s neighbour. Politely oblivious to my presence, I imagine she’d been a little shocked when I piped up with ‘Nice view, eh?’ as she stood there (in all probability, naked) looking out to the plateau. Fortunately, she grasped my meaning and, although there wasn’t much more conversation over the partition wall, we had a relaxing and pleasant time around the campfire later that evening after I’d cooked myself a tasty veggie stew with mash.
July 18, 2005
Lukwe
Susan, Jan and I all caught the same minibus in the morning to take us to the M1 (main north-south road). Here we parted ways – they to head north to the border and I south to Livingstonia. On my first trip to Malawi, we’d heard a lot about Livingstonia but, like the Ilala, there had not been time for us to investigate. It seemed fitting after my long-awaited cruise on the lake, that I should now also be visiting a place that played such an integral role in Malawi’s 20th century history.
I arrived at Chitimba just before 8am and wandered over to the turn-off for Livingstonia. Presently, I got chatting to a man who had been waiting there since 6am with no sign of a pick-up or bus heading up the steep escarpment road. I reasoned that it was probably a good thing that he’d been waiting 2 hours – surely it was all the more likely that somebody would turn up soon….right? Right?!! How wrong can a man be?
At 12.45, after nearly 5 hours of (surprisingly patient) waiting, I decided that if I wanted to make it up to Livingstonia that evening, I’d better start walking pretty sharpish. With my daypack full, I hadn’t really been expecting to hike but with no other obvious options presenting themselves, I shouldered my pack and slung the daypack across my chest, papoose-style.
The gradient was steep but the footing was solid on the dry ground and I soon found a good rhythm as I began to grind the hill down. Along the way, I met several groups of labourers, engaged in rudimentary repairs to the rutted, rocky surface. It became evident that this was a scheduled repair job and that this was probably the explanation for the dearth of traffic. The only two vehicles we’d seen while I was still waiting at the bottom had been a pair of 4x4’s driven by two white couples (i.e. with 3 free seats in the back of each), who had driven imperiously past despite our attempts to flag them down. Now I don’t believe anybody should feel obliged to give lifts on any occasion. However, in rural areas like this, where traffic is scarce – and particularly given that Livingstonia is a popular destination on account of the David George Memorial Hospital – there almost a given understanding that those with space should offer lifts to those in need.
About one hour into my climb and probably about half way up the hill, the third vehicle of the day came roaring and bouncing up the track behind me. Obviously, by this time, I was ‘glowing’ with the effects of my efforts but the driver gladly allowed me to hop on the flat-bed at the back of his pick-up, where I discovered my conversation partner of earlier on, whose 8 hour wait had eventually been rewarded. I quickly learnt that a braced crouch is more comfortable than a wheel-arch seat – particularly when the road resembles an assault course for Challenger tanks. Our pilot was obviously a seasoned pro and didn’t have any qualms about getting airborne. He balked not the slightest at the most jarring of ridges, happily sending the contents of the flatbed a foot in the air, before neatly slotting back into place in time to catch our increasingly-bruised nether-parts.
I was grateful for the ride, which saved me another hour of heavy, uphill slog but was glad to jump off at the turn-off for Lukwe Eco Camp. I couldn’t remember whether it had been recommended by Carlijn or Neville but I was expecting great views and good food. I was not disappointed on either count and as I contemplatively sat on the smooth wooden throne of the composting toilet, I stared across the treetops to the rolling uplands of the Nyika plateau and knew I’d landed on my feet yet again. The same magnificent views could also be had from the steaming, hot shower and, after a fine lunch of thick corn chowder and delicious home-baked bread, I went happily to work on the task of pitching my tent for the first time in 9 months.
Later, as the sun set behind the plateau, I listened intently to the beautiful sound of silence. After a while, I became aware of the faint roar of Manchewe Falls (some 2km away!) and I knew I’d found the perfect spot. As night fell I was surrounded by a chorus of crickets and the faint whispering of a gentle zephyr through the trees. Robert (the excellent Camp Manager) woke me from a dreamy repose at 7pm to sit down to a vegetable hotpot on a veritable mountain of rice. After a cold Kuche Kuche around the glowing embers of the camp fire, I walked back through the moonlit glade to my tent and bedded down for a deep, restful sleep.
I arrived at Chitimba just before 8am and wandered over to the turn-off for Livingstonia. Presently, I got chatting to a man who had been waiting there since 6am with no sign of a pick-up or bus heading up the steep escarpment road. I reasoned that it was probably a good thing that he’d been waiting 2 hours – surely it was all the more likely that somebody would turn up soon….right? Right?!! How wrong can a man be?
At 12.45, after nearly 5 hours of (surprisingly patient) waiting, I decided that if I wanted to make it up to Livingstonia that evening, I’d better start walking pretty sharpish. With my daypack full, I hadn’t really been expecting to hike but with no other obvious options presenting themselves, I shouldered my pack and slung the daypack across my chest, papoose-style.
The gradient was steep but the footing was solid on the dry ground and I soon found a good rhythm as I began to grind the hill down. Along the way, I met several groups of labourers, engaged in rudimentary repairs to the rutted, rocky surface. It became evident that this was a scheduled repair job and that this was probably the explanation for the dearth of traffic. The only two vehicles we’d seen while I was still waiting at the bottom had been a pair of 4x4’s driven by two white couples (i.e. with 3 free seats in the back of each), who had driven imperiously past despite our attempts to flag them down. Now I don’t believe anybody should feel obliged to give lifts on any occasion. However, in rural areas like this, where traffic is scarce – and particularly given that Livingstonia is a popular destination on account of the David George Memorial Hospital – there almost a given understanding that those with space should offer lifts to those in need.
About one hour into my climb and probably about half way up the hill, the third vehicle of the day came roaring and bouncing up the track behind me. Obviously, by this time, I was ‘glowing’ with the effects of my efforts but the driver gladly allowed me to hop on the flat-bed at the back of his pick-up, where I discovered my conversation partner of earlier on, whose 8 hour wait had eventually been rewarded. I quickly learnt that a braced crouch is more comfortable than a wheel-arch seat – particularly when the road resembles an assault course for Challenger tanks. Our pilot was obviously a seasoned pro and didn’t have any qualms about getting airborne. He balked not the slightest at the most jarring of ridges, happily sending the contents of the flatbed a foot in the air, before neatly slotting back into place in time to catch our increasingly-bruised nether-parts.
I was grateful for the ride, which saved me another hour of heavy, uphill slog but was glad to jump off at the turn-off for Lukwe Eco Camp. I couldn’t remember whether it had been recommended by Carlijn or Neville but I was expecting great views and good food. I was not disappointed on either count and as I contemplatively sat on the smooth wooden throne of the composting toilet, I stared across the treetops to the rolling uplands of the Nyika plateau and knew I’d landed on my feet yet again. The same magnificent views could also be had from the steaming, hot shower and, after a fine lunch of thick corn chowder and delicious home-baked bread, I went happily to work on the task of pitching my tent for the first time in 9 months.
Later, as the sun set behind the plateau, I listened intently to the beautiful sound of silence. After a while, I became aware of the faint roar of Manchewe Falls (some 2km away!) and I knew I’d found the perfect spot. As night fell I was surrounded by a chorus of crickets and the faint whispering of a gentle zephyr through the trees. Robert (the excellent Camp Manager) woke me from a dreamy repose at 7pm to sit down to a vegetable hotpot on a veritable mountain of rice. After a cold Kuche Kuche around the glowing embers of the camp fire, I walked back through the moonlit glade to my tent and bedded down for a deep, restful sleep.
July 17, 2005
End of the line
I was up early for another sunrise – only to be greeted by a blustery wind and leaden skies. The rest of the gang didn’t seem to have suffered too much and were soon packing up roll mats and sleeping bags in anticipation of Nkhata Bay. We berthed at the pier at 7am and after waving the others off, I returned to my snug cabin and caught a few more winks.
On waking, I nipped ashore briefly to get some supplies (custard creams and bananas) in anticipation of Chilumba being a one-horse town. Back at the dock before departure, I took a few shots of the boat from the pier and nearly stood on a 3ft monitor lizard, which quickly scuttled off somewhere quieter to bask. The strong winds had blown a thick bank of cloud far down the lake and the morning sun was now shining brightly in time for our departure. I hopped back on board as the Captain blew three long blasts at ear-shattering volume and realised that the previous night’s excesses had left me feeling more than a little delicate. I decided to retire to my cabin and finish my book and was therefore unaware that new shipmates had come aboard until I surfaced for lunch at 12.
When I finally went up on deck, I was surprised but pleased to discover Susan (one of my Dutch friends from Kabula Lodge) and her boyfriend Jan. They were taking the boat up to Chilumba, from whence they’d be making the trip to the Tanzanian border, en route to Dar-Es-Salaam. After lunch we spent the afternoon on deck watching the magnificent scenery unfold and catching up on each other’s movements since their departure from Blantyre 2 weeks previously. If I’d had any doubts as to Malawi’s ‘scottishness’ thus far, they soon evaporated. I felt like I might have been cruising along the shores of Lomond or Linnie in the Scottish Highlands as these bright, verdant hills descended gently and almost rolled into the clear waters. Of course the flora and fauna on these wooded slopes would not bear close scrutiny – but from my vantage on the deck of the Ilala, those hills looked as Scottish as I wanted them to.
Long after the sun had set, we pulled into Chilumba port, just 4 hours late after a journey of 2½ days. This place was not so pleasing on the eye (being, in effect, Malawi’s major port – and kitted out with a container crane and many lorries) and it was probably a blessing to be arriving after nightfall. The ever-useful Wells guided us along the unattractive main street (as dingy and devoid of good humour as any of the border towns I’ve seen) and deposited us at a lodge with basic, but adequate, rooms.
I’d had one final feed aboard the Ilala so was happy just to brush my teeth and bed down for the night, promising to be up early to catch Jan and Susan in the morning. I also knew that there was the distinct possibility of a very steep hill to climb and thought I’d be wise to get as much rest as possible while I could.
On waking, I nipped ashore briefly to get some supplies (custard creams and bananas) in anticipation of Chilumba being a one-horse town. Back at the dock before departure, I took a few shots of the boat from the pier and nearly stood on a 3ft monitor lizard, which quickly scuttled off somewhere quieter to bask. The strong winds had blown a thick bank of cloud far down the lake and the morning sun was now shining brightly in time for our departure. I hopped back on board as the Captain blew three long blasts at ear-shattering volume and realised that the previous night’s excesses had left me feeling more than a little delicate. I decided to retire to my cabin and finish my book and was therefore unaware that new shipmates had come aboard until I surfaced for lunch at 12.
When I finally went up on deck, I was surprised but pleased to discover Susan (one of my Dutch friends from Kabula Lodge) and her boyfriend Jan. They were taking the boat up to Chilumba, from whence they’d be making the trip to the Tanzanian border, en route to Dar-Es-Salaam. After lunch we spent the afternoon on deck watching the magnificent scenery unfold and catching up on each other’s movements since their departure from Blantyre 2 weeks previously. If I’d had any doubts as to Malawi’s ‘scottishness’ thus far, they soon evaporated. I felt like I might have been cruising along the shores of Lomond or Linnie in the Scottish Highlands as these bright, verdant hills descended gently and almost rolled into the clear waters. Of course the flora and fauna on these wooded slopes would not bear close scrutiny – but from my vantage on the deck of the Ilala, those hills looked as Scottish as I wanted them to.
Long after the sun had set, we pulled into Chilumba port, just 4 hours late after a journey of 2½ days. This place was not so pleasing on the eye (being, in effect, Malawi’s major port – and kitted out with a container crane and many lorries) and it was probably a blessing to be arriving after nightfall. The ever-useful Wells guided us along the unattractive main street (as dingy and devoid of good humour as any of the border towns I’ve seen) and deposited us at a lodge with basic, but adequate, rooms.
I’d had one final feed aboard the Ilala so was happy just to brush my teeth and bed down for the night, promising to be up early to catch Jan and Susan in the morning. I also knew that there was the distinct possibility of a very steep hill to climb and thought I’d be wise to get as much rest as possible while I could.
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