Neville & Saskia
August 09, 2005
Farewell
Later in the day, sufficiently rested, I made my way down to Open Arms to spend some last hours with the kids and ‘mothers’. It was great to see Rosemarie back at the heart of things and you could see how pleased Neville, the kids and the staff of the home were to have her back and looking so strong and well. There were three new additions on the volunteer front: Lesley, an FE teacher from Leeds and two stunning young ladies, the Farrington sisters, from Wetherby. Neville seemed to be in his element, surrounded on all sides by women and so much more relaxed now that Rosemarie was back.
I had some special moments with the kids who, gratifyingly, seemed to remember me and also had time to talk to some of the mothers who’d taken a bit of a shine to me. I couldn’t walk two feet without having another baby thrust into my arms for feeding and, what can I say, I loved it. It’s sad but true that these kids will have very few male influences in their early years and I guess any opportunity will be exploited by the mothers whenever possible.
Unable to tear myself away, I eventually had to run back to Kabula in order to get showered and changed for one final farewell meal. Neville took us all to the ‘other’ Indian restaurant in town where I spent a very pleasant evening with Neville, Rosemarie, Lesley, the Farrington sisters and, last but not least, my old Kabula Lodge housemate, Saskia. I tumbled into bed well before midnight - far too exhausted to contemplate packing – and fell into an exhausted stupor.
For once, I woke up on departure day without a hangover and made short work of packing my, by now, half-full bag. Of course, it was only half-full until I’d taken a trip into town and raided the wood and art markets for one final round of souvenirs and presents. When I eventually turned up to say my goodbyes at Open Arms, I was toting somewhere in the region of 80kgs of luggage!
Both the children of Harrogate House and the mothers of the main home sang me touching farewell songs that left a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes. With promises to write and, someday, to return, I was rushed out of the door as Neville tried to get me to the airport on time. We made it with a few minutes to spare and as he roared off back to the daily business of running the home, I turned my back on Africa and the rest of the world and set my sights on going home. Unbelievably, my luggage was all checked in without the batting of an eyelid and I was able to settle into travel mode with my cd player and one last book.
I won’t bore you with the details of the journey…suffice to say, I and my luggage made it home intact, if a little knackered, at 7am on August 11th 2005.
I had some special moments with the kids who, gratifyingly, seemed to remember me and also had time to talk to some of the mothers who’d taken a bit of a shine to me. I couldn’t walk two feet without having another baby thrust into my arms for feeding and, what can I say, I loved it. It’s sad but true that these kids will have very few male influences in their early years and I guess any opportunity will be exploited by the mothers whenever possible.
Unable to tear myself away, I eventually had to run back to Kabula in order to get showered and changed for one final farewell meal. Neville took us all to the ‘other’ Indian restaurant in town where I spent a very pleasant evening with Neville, Rosemarie, Lesley, the Farrington sisters and, last but not least, my old Kabula Lodge housemate, Saskia. I tumbled into bed well before midnight - far too exhausted to contemplate packing – and fell into an exhausted stupor.
For once, I woke up on departure day without a hangover and made short work of packing my, by now, half-full bag. Of course, it was only half-full until I’d taken a trip into town and raided the wood and art markets for one final round of souvenirs and presents. When I eventually turned up to say my goodbyes at Open Arms, I was toting somewhere in the region of 80kgs of luggage!
Both the children of Harrogate House and the mothers of the main home sang me touching farewell songs that left a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes. With promises to write and, someday, to return, I was rushed out of the door as Neville tried to get me to the airport on time. We made it with a few minutes to spare and as he roared off back to the daily business of running the home, I turned my back on Africa and the rest of the world and set my sights on going home. Unbelievably, my luggage was all checked in without the batting of an eyelid and I was able to settle into travel mode with my cd player and one last book.
I won’t bore you with the details of the journey…suffice to say, I and my luggage made it home intact, if a little knackered, at 7am on August 11th 2005.
August 07, 2005
Back in Monkey Bay
By the time I finally arrived in Monkey Bay, I was thanking my lucky stars that I’d left at such an early hour. I’d planned to head straight on to Cape McClear as soon as I arrived but instead was just glad to arrive before nightfall. My downfall had been an insistence on going via the Mua Mission to visit the carving school there. While the streets of Blantyre and Lilongwe are loused out with all manner of carved wooden things, the quality is somewhat questionable. Everything I’d read had said that Mua was the place to go for quality so that’s where I went. It really is in the middle of nowhere, at least a two mile walk from the side of a minor road and I was relieved to be able to leave my bag with a ‘shop’ (shack) owner at the junction before undertaking the task on a hot, sunny day. Of course, when one reads about a carving ‘school’ one expects to find a sizeable establishment, perhaps with a few artisans practising their craft in a showroom, surrounded by their wares. To find a small room stacked (admittedly, to the ceiling) with a smallish selection of statues, bas-reliefs and other artefacts; to find not a single carver in residence; and after the journey I’d made…well, let’s just say it took me a little while to overcome my disappointment. Once I’d stopped sweating and cursing, I did actually find several beautiful pieces at extremely reasonable prices and eventually left with a smile on my face.
While the journey to Mua had been arduous enough, it compared as nought to the hassle of getting down to Monkey Bay. After 90 minutes waiting by a dusty roadside in one village, I eventually ended up in the most clapped-out pick-up of my entire trip. The petrol tank consisted of a plastic oil bottle held between the driver’s knees, the starter motor consisted of several locals pushing the heavily laden rust-heap along until 2nd gear could drop in…and the windows had one setting – fully open. Our driver seemed to be the most lackadaisical, unperturbed, unhurried man in the world. We stopped at the slightest hint of habitation and waited interminably for eons on the off-chance that a passenger might show up…and when we finally did find some customers, they’d been selling fish at the market all day and their empty baskets managed to leak foul-smelling gak onto my dust-orange rucksack.
I arrived in Monkey Bay in a pretty foul mood but it soon dissipated once I’d walked through the gates of Njobvu Lodge and found a bed, a cold beer and Birgit’s home-cooking. My plans to go to Cape McClear soon became unnecessary when I learnt that Sarah and the other Scottish girls weren’t at home but would be passing through Birgit’s on their way back from Blantyre the next day. Safe in the knowledge that I could leave banoffee pie with Birgit, I determined to just hang around Monkey Bay the following day before taking the nightbus back to reality.
I went to bed early, knowing I’d be woken up by the mad honking and shouting of the nightbus mafia at 2am…it’d had been a draining day and there was haute cuisine to be prepared the next day.
In the middle of a bustling town now rather than a relaxed resort, I was up reasonably early and decided to take a stroll over the hills around Monkey Bay’s northern promontory. I was rewarded by several hours of solitude on a deserted beach, where I was able to snorkel and sunbathe in peace. As I walked back in the afternoon to start cooking, I was treated to magnificent views of the bay and the deep, blue waters of the lake. I tried to savour these images as much as possible, realising that they would be my final memory of my ten month odyssey.
Back at the lodge, I put together the banoffee pie with the practised ease of a professional and was later rewarded with the rolled eyes and approving moans of intense satisfaction as Birgit and the girls tucked in with obvious gusto. After dinner we drove out to a local bar (Birgit’s friend, Kathleen, was away so we had to find a different hang-out) to shoot some pool. After 2 weeks solid practise at Mayoka, I quickly blew the local opposition off the table and Birgit and I and the girls spent the rest of the night playing doubles.
Back at Njobvu, I said my farewells before heading off to bed for a couple of hours kip. This couple of hours became less than 1 when the minibus mafia turned up very early in order to use me as part of their marketing campaign. By sticking me in the front seat as they roared up and down Monkey Bay’s main drag, they were effectively saying ‘C’mon, get in with us! We’ll be leaving soon because we’ve got the mzungu with us!’ It really didn’t seem to be a particularly advantageous strategy as we zoomed up and down, horn permanently (literally!!) blaring at maximum volume for well over an hour-and-a-half. By the time they’d managed to cram maximum passengers in the back (thank god for the front seat!), my eardrums were perforated and my nerves shredded. Any hopes I’d had of stumbling into an exhausted stupor were quickly dashed when the horn duties were taken over by a crackly stereo. I only had to take one look at my fellow passengers, shoe-horned into the rear, to realise that even Malawians don’t enjoy everything. Trust me, of all the journeys in all the world, Malawian night minibuses must rank up there with the worst…particularly if you’re sat next to 20-Ton Tess on one side, Fisherman Fred on the other and with maize sacks and live chickens taking up the space where your feet should be. The stoical young fellow I saw enduring this for the 4 hour journey from hell was not smiling at the time…but, amazingly, jumped off the bus with a smile and a spring in his step when we arrived in Blantyre…truly amazing people, Malawians!
As for me, cocooned in the height of luxury on the front seat (with a head-rest, no less!), I was just pleased to see Mt. Michiru looming out of the dawn, signalling the end to a nightmare of keenly felt potholes, lost circulation and shattered nerves.
I walked to Kabula Lodge, mainly to ensure that my legs still worked but also to stretch the aches and pains out of me and collapsed gratefully into bed for some much-needed kip.
While the journey to Mua had been arduous enough, it compared as nought to the hassle of getting down to Monkey Bay. After 90 minutes waiting by a dusty roadside in one village, I eventually ended up in the most clapped-out pick-up of my entire trip. The petrol tank consisted of a plastic oil bottle held between the driver’s knees, the starter motor consisted of several locals pushing the heavily laden rust-heap along until 2nd gear could drop in…and the windows had one setting – fully open. Our driver seemed to be the most lackadaisical, unperturbed, unhurried man in the world. We stopped at the slightest hint of habitation and waited interminably for eons on the off-chance that a passenger might show up…and when we finally did find some customers, they’d been selling fish at the market all day and their empty baskets managed to leak foul-smelling gak onto my dust-orange rucksack.
I arrived in Monkey Bay in a pretty foul mood but it soon dissipated once I’d walked through the gates of Njobvu Lodge and found a bed, a cold beer and Birgit’s home-cooking. My plans to go to Cape McClear soon became unnecessary when I learnt that Sarah and the other Scottish girls weren’t at home but would be passing through Birgit’s on their way back from Blantyre the next day. Safe in the knowledge that I could leave banoffee pie with Birgit, I determined to just hang around Monkey Bay the following day before taking the nightbus back to reality.
I went to bed early, knowing I’d be woken up by the mad honking and shouting of the nightbus mafia at 2am…it’d had been a draining day and there was haute cuisine to be prepared the next day.
In the middle of a bustling town now rather than a relaxed resort, I was up reasonably early and decided to take a stroll over the hills around Monkey Bay’s northern promontory. I was rewarded by several hours of solitude on a deserted beach, where I was able to snorkel and sunbathe in peace. As I walked back in the afternoon to start cooking, I was treated to magnificent views of the bay and the deep, blue waters of the lake. I tried to savour these images as much as possible, realising that they would be my final memory of my ten month odyssey.
Back at the lodge, I put together the banoffee pie with the practised ease of a professional and was later rewarded with the rolled eyes and approving moans of intense satisfaction as Birgit and the girls tucked in with obvious gusto. After dinner we drove out to a local bar (Birgit’s friend, Kathleen, was away so we had to find a different hang-out) to shoot some pool. After 2 weeks solid practise at Mayoka, I quickly blew the local opposition off the table and Birgit and I and the girls spent the rest of the night playing doubles.
Back at Njobvu, I said my farewells before heading off to bed for a couple of hours kip. This couple of hours became less than 1 when the minibus mafia turned up very early in order to use me as part of their marketing campaign. By sticking me in the front seat as they roared up and down Monkey Bay’s main drag, they were effectively saying ‘C’mon, get in with us! We’ll be leaving soon because we’ve got the mzungu with us!’ It really didn’t seem to be a particularly advantageous strategy as we zoomed up and down, horn permanently (literally!!) blaring at maximum volume for well over an hour-and-a-half. By the time they’d managed to cram maximum passengers in the back (thank god for the front seat!), my eardrums were perforated and my nerves shredded. Any hopes I’d had of stumbling into an exhausted stupor were quickly dashed when the horn duties were taken over by a crackly stereo. I only had to take one look at my fellow passengers, shoe-horned into the rear, to realise that even Malawians don’t enjoy everything. Trust me, of all the journeys in all the world, Malawian night minibuses must rank up there with the worst…particularly if you’re sat next to 20-Ton Tess on one side, Fisherman Fred on the other and with maize sacks and live chickens taking up the space where your feet should be. The stoical young fellow I saw enduring this for the 4 hour journey from hell was not smiling at the time…but, amazingly, jumped off the bus with a smile and a spring in his step when we arrived in Blantyre…truly amazing people, Malawians!
As for me, cocooned in the height of luxury on the front seat (with a head-rest, no less!), I was just pleased to see Mt. Michiru looming out of the dawn, signalling the end to a nightmare of keenly felt potholes, lost circulation and shattered nerves.
I walked to Kabula Lodge, mainly to ensure that my legs still worked but also to stretch the aches and pains out of me and collapsed gratefully into bed for some much-needed kip.
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