One more fantastic sunset...
July 30, 2005
One last blast...
It was an early start to ensure I got back to Mayoka…up with the sun and on the road with my thumb up before 7am. The main reason for my early departure was the expectation that I’d struggle to find transport during the early stages of my journey. Certainly, for an hour or more there was a dearth of vehicles on the road…and those that did pass by seemed to be full. Having started so early, I had the luxury of sitting around until something came along and, eventually, my luck came in with an ‘ambulance’ with some spare room in the back between the petrol jerry, spare wheel and oil can. It wasn’t the most comfortable of journeys but at least I was spared the pleasure of inhaling dust…the only downside came when one of my fellow passengers managed to spit on my trouser leg. All in all, though, a lift from the middle of nowhere to somewhere resembling civilisation came cheap at the price of 50p.
The rest of the journey back to Nkhata Bay was unremarkable – the usual mix of interminable waits and rickety minibus rides, which had a curious quality of pleasure about them. While I’d enjoyed the peace and solitude of Vwaza, I was more than ready to rejoin the fray at Mayoka…there were Kuches to be sunk, pool to be shot and friends to be acquainted and re-acquainted with!
I was forced to take slightly inferior waterside accommodation – it didn’t quite have the views or proximity to amenities I’d become accustomed to with number 8, but it was all mine for a paltry sum and, on the plus side, was a far shorter stagger from the bar.
This latter feature, not to mention the added bonus of there being no stairs to stumble up or down, was to prove extremely important over the coming days. Within minutes of dumping my bags, I hooked up with Mateo and the pool table was commandeered for the rest of the day. Needless to say, we quaffed a few ales as any thirsty sportsman might and, before we knew it, night had fallen and Giant Burger night was upon us once more. Not one to make the same mistake twice, I was sure to get my order in nice and early this time and it was every bit as good as I’d been led to believe.
Claire and Marie turned up at some point and, along with Jan, the five of us soon resembled something out of a slightly twisted version of an Enid Blyton story. Marie proved to be far too good at pool and, dare I say it, she and Claire may have even beaten Mat and I at some point…although without photographic evidence it would be very hard to prove…;-). With alcohol lubricating the wheels of conversation, I got to know the others pretty quickly. Mat struck me as a very down-to-earth and practical person. As someone who’d just completed a two year Peace Corps placement, I’d maybe expected a more hippy attitude (a perception encouraged by the long hair, perhaps) or somebody more idealistic. I was delighted to discover somebody with a sensitive bullshit detector and, delightfully, with a shared taste in trance and techno. He had known Claire for a while, bumping into her at travellers haunts in Zambia and Zimbabwe over the previous two years in her role as a co-ordinator for a junior doctors voluntary programme. They were both agreed that Malawi (in particular, Mayoka Village) was the place in this part of the world to relax and let your hair down. With such highly qualified endorsements, how could I do anything else?!! (er, no hair or lack-of jokes, thank you!)
Claire was, in some respects, the typical British medical student: very matter-of-fact and hard to move…yet, at times, endearingly sensitive and blessed with the ability to state her opinions, no matter how radical, without the slightest hint of ridicule. While Marie and Jan were both great to hang out with in there own ways, it was Claire and Mat whose company I enjoyed the most in these final days of freedom. Mat and I had our music and Claire and I that oft-cursed gift of an English middle-class upbringing in common and I knew that we would stay in touch long after our time at Mayoka had ended.
It was a great week, spent in the company of great people. Another vital member of the group was ‘Crazy’ Jaco. This madcap South-African had every toy imaginable in his 4x4…from inflatable dinghies to outboard motors, biltong and macdadaemia nuts to paraffin lamps…surely the only way to travel in Africa. Not one to hoard his wealth, he was forever inviting us back to his or giving us (usually pant-fillingly scary!) rides in the rubber ducky as the winds brought uncharacteristically high waves to the lake. Probably one of the funniest (and scariest!) moments in the rubber ducky actually came when the outboard was not attached. The six of us had partied all the way through the night and then paddled out to the raft to watch the sun rising out of the lake. There was a stiff breeze and quite a strong current flowing out into the lake and, when the cold and impending hangovers dictated that it was time to return to dry land, we soon found out how pointless and dangerous an oar-less dinghy can be in such situations. With the canoe tied to the back of the dinghy, four of us decided to head for shore…only the wind and current had other ideas and we were soon left in no doubt that one oar wasn’t going to help. I realised that the more stream-lined canoe would be able to manage where the cumbersome dinghy wouldn’t and gallantly suggested that Jan take the girls to safety in this before we drifted any further. To their credit, there was no arsing about on their part as all three clambered into the canoe with almost indecent haste and crawled off towards the shore…leaving me to fight a losing battle against the current with nothing but a pair of scuba fins that were too small to fit on my feet! I can only imagine how comical I must have looked from the shore, flailing away as I drifted further and further away. Eventually, Jan, shattered from his first rescue mission with the girls, returned to save the day. We tied the dinghy to the back of the canoe, into which I promptly jumped and began to paddle like buggery. It seemed to take forever and a day to reach the safety of the shoreline…my muscles were screaming and my lungs burning with the effort…and then all any of us could do was laugh until we were blue in the face. Let this be a salutary tale to anyone who’s thinking of floating around on a lilo at the seaside…unless you’ve got a paddle with you, don’t do it!
The rest of the week seemed to be full of such fun and belly laughter and I could feel my desire to see any other parts of Malawi ebbing slowly away. Discovering that I could lie out on the raft and have food and beer paddled out to me in a dugout was the final nail in my productivity coffin and I gleefully gave up any thought of heading down to Cape McClear until the last possible minute.
Unfortunately though, like all good things, my little Utopia had to end and the party had to be broken up. With my flight home fast approaching and with plans in Blantyre and Monkey Bay, I set Saturday August 6th as my departure day from Mayoka…meaning that I would get to spend my first Friday night partying in Mayoka. Despite losing in the first round of the pool competition to a clearly-delighted James, I had a brilliant last night, which I didn’t want to end. With the trance pumping out of the sound system at 2am, I really had to drag myself away with the prospect of a 7am start. Mayoka had been the perfect place to round of ten of the most intense, fun-packed and enjoyable months of my life. I knew I wouldn’t be forgetting it in a hurry and it was one more name to add to the list of places to come back to…
The rest of the journey back to Nkhata Bay was unremarkable – the usual mix of interminable waits and rickety minibus rides, which had a curious quality of pleasure about them. While I’d enjoyed the peace and solitude of Vwaza, I was more than ready to rejoin the fray at Mayoka…there were Kuches to be sunk, pool to be shot and friends to be acquainted and re-acquainted with!
I was forced to take slightly inferior waterside accommodation – it didn’t quite have the views or proximity to amenities I’d become accustomed to with number 8, but it was all mine for a paltry sum and, on the plus side, was a far shorter stagger from the bar.
This latter feature, not to mention the added bonus of there being no stairs to stumble up or down, was to prove extremely important over the coming days. Within minutes of dumping my bags, I hooked up with Mateo and the pool table was commandeered for the rest of the day. Needless to say, we quaffed a few ales as any thirsty sportsman might and, before we knew it, night had fallen and Giant Burger night was upon us once more. Not one to make the same mistake twice, I was sure to get my order in nice and early this time and it was every bit as good as I’d been led to believe.
Claire and Marie turned up at some point and, along with Jan, the five of us soon resembled something out of a slightly twisted version of an Enid Blyton story. Marie proved to be far too good at pool and, dare I say it, she and Claire may have even beaten Mat and I at some point…although without photographic evidence it would be very hard to prove…;-). With alcohol lubricating the wheels of conversation, I got to know the others pretty quickly. Mat struck me as a very down-to-earth and practical person. As someone who’d just completed a two year Peace Corps placement, I’d maybe expected a more hippy attitude (a perception encouraged by the long hair, perhaps) or somebody more idealistic. I was delighted to discover somebody with a sensitive bullshit detector and, delightfully, with a shared taste in trance and techno. He had known Claire for a while, bumping into her at travellers haunts in Zambia and Zimbabwe over the previous two years in her role as a co-ordinator for a junior doctors voluntary programme. They were both agreed that Malawi (in particular, Mayoka Village) was the place in this part of the world to relax and let your hair down. With such highly qualified endorsements, how could I do anything else?!! (er, no hair or lack-of jokes, thank you!)
Claire was, in some respects, the typical British medical student: very matter-of-fact and hard to move…yet, at times, endearingly sensitive and blessed with the ability to state her opinions, no matter how radical, without the slightest hint of ridicule. While Marie and Jan were both great to hang out with in there own ways, it was Claire and Mat whose company I enjoyed the most in these final days of freedom. Mat and I had our music and Claire and I that oft-cursed gift of an English middle-class upbringing in common and I knew that we would stay in touch long after our time at Mayoka had ended.
It was a great week, spent in the company of great people. Another vital member of the group was ‘Crazy’ Jaco. This madcap South-African had every toy imaginable in his 4x4…from inflatable dinghies to outboard motors, biltong and macdadaemia nuts to paraffin lamps…surely the only way to travel in Africa. Not one to hoard his wealth, he was forever inviting us back to his or giving us (usually pant-fillingly scary!) rides in the rubber ducky as the winds brought uncharacteristically high waves to the lake. Probably one of the funniest (and scariest!) moments in the rubber ducky actually came when the outboard was not attached. The six of us had partied all the way through the night and then paddled out to the raft to watch the sun rising out of the lake. There was a stiff breeze and quite a strong current flowing out into the lake and, when the cold and impending hangovers dictated that it was time to return to dry land, we soon found out how pointless and dangerous an oar-less dinghy can be in such situations. With the canoe tied to the back of the dinghy, four of us decided to head for shore…only the wind and current had other ideas and we were soon left in no doubt that one oar wasn’t going to help. I realised that the more stream-lined canoe would be able to manage where the cumbersome dinghy wouldn’t and gallantly suggested that Jan take the girls to safety in this before we drifted any further. To their credit, there was no arsing about on their part as all three clambered into the canoe with almost indecent haste and crawled off towards the shore…leaving me to fight a losing battle against the current with nothing but a pair of scuba fins that were too small to fit on my feet! I can only imagine how comical I must have looked from the shore, flailing away as I drifted further and further away. Eventually, Jan, shattered from his first rescue mission with the girls, returned to save the day. We tied the dinghy to the back of the canoe, into which I promptly jumped and began to paddle like buggery. It seemed to take forever and a day to reach the safety of the shoreline…my muscles were screaming and my lungs burning with the effort…and then all any of us could do was laugh until we were blue in the face. Let this be a salutary tale to anyone who’s thinking of floating around on a lilo at the seaside…unless you’ve got a paddle with you, don’t do it!
The rest of the week seemed to be full of such fun and belly laughter and I could feel my desire to see any other parts of Malawi ebbing slowly away. Discovering that I could lie out on the raft and have food and beer paddled out to me in a dugout was the final nail in my productivity coffin and I gleefully gave up any thought of heading down to Cape McClear until the last possible minute.
Unfortunately though, like all good things, my little Utopia had to end and the party had to be broken up. With my flight home fast approaching and with plans in Blantyre and Monkey Bay, I set Saturday August 6th as my departure day from Mayoka…meaning that I would get to spend my first Friday night partying in Mayoka. Despite losing in the first round of the pool competition to a clearly-delighted James, I had a brilliant last night, which I didn’t want to end. With the trance pumping out of the sound system at 2am, I really had to drag myself away with the prospect of a 7am start. Mayoka had been the perfect place to round of ten of the most intense, fun-packed and enjoyable months of my life. I knew I wouldn’t be forgetting it in a hurry and it was one more name to add to the list of places to come back to…
July 28, 2005
Vwaza Marsh
Before I even got to Vwaza, I already knew that it was exactly what I was looking for – primarily, because it was such a massive pain in the arse to get to. From Mzuzu I’d caught a minibus and two pick-ups – all after endless waiting spells – and the final half-hour pick-up ride with an eighties midi-hifi on my lap and no room in the footwell, had me certain that Vwaza wasn’t the place to find hordes of tourists. Sure enough, at the entrance gate I was greeted warmly by a relaxed looking warden, who happily informed me that there was only one other tent on the camping ground, although the two chalets were full. Equipped as I was with camping and cook kit, this caused me no problems and I soon found a space as far from the other tent and as near to the wilderness of the reserve as possible. Vwaza Marsh surrounds the southern end of a large lake and the funnelling effect of the surrounding uplands causes a pretty stiff breeze to whip across the flats. With the dry season well and truly upon us, a fair amount of dust was caught up in this, making tent-pitching an interesting and occasionally painful exercise. As the sun dropped, so did the wind and I was left to appreciate the empty wilderness views in the twilight. The marsh was eerily quiet and the only appreciable sound was the whispering of the depleted wind through acres of tall, dry grass. I cooked a simple vegetarian meal (detox diet) and then wandered over to say hello to my fellow campers – a pair of Dutch cyclists, working their way through Southern Africa. It turned out that they knew some of my recent acquaintances (Carlijn and Teun) and we had a nice chat sitting in front of their fire before I sloped off early to bed.
I was up early the following morning for my walking safari and surprised to learn that the occupants of the chalets were a bunch of extremely athletic-looking types from the Basque country. The three female members of the party were all stunningly attractive but, at the same time, like their male companions they were ripped-up like gym-junkies. While their excuse of being on a 2000km cycling tour easily explained their ridiculous levels of fitness, I was intrigued to learn that none of them actually resided in the Basque country now, preferring to live around various other parts of Europe from Norway to Italy. My mind, ever eager to find conspiracy, jumped to the obvious conclusion that this was a splinter cell of ETA terrorists, brought together in the wilds of Africa for secret training. Fearing for my life, I kept up a steady stream of banter and, eventually, was able to congratulate myself on the use of charm to set the minds of these vicious killers at ease. I think I made a useful ally for myself in Maria and was sure that if the others made a motion to do away with me, that she would veto the idea to save me for her own amusement.
All this intrigue and excitement was conducted against a backdrop of pure, empty wilderness. Our guide was able to point out the many signs of animal habitation and he talked us through the vast variety of local flora and fauna as we walked. Eventually, we arrived at the lake shore and were treated to the rare spectacle of a family of hippos walking around out of the water – fortunately for us, they were separated from us by a narrow channel of water. If they hadn’t been, there’s every chance they’d have seen us as a threat and attempted to charge. Of course, I’d have liked to have seen them get anywhere near me with a squad of crack terrorists surrounding me…but I don’t suppose there’s much on ‘Hippo Avoidance’ in the ETA operatives handbook.
Eventually, we headed back to camp where I spent a peaceful and relaxing morning reading ‘Chariot of the Gods’ and ‘Morning of the Magicians’, two fascinating insights into the 1960’s mind as the technological age bore down on a war-weary mankind. Somehow, in the beautiful peace and quiet, I fell asleep and missed the departure of my Dutch companions and later on I walked to the nearest village (4 miles) to pick up some supplies for my evening meal. As I returned from the village with fruit and veg, I was disappointed to see that my terrorist friends had moved on – obviously spooked by my inquisitive nature and realising that there was no way that ten of them were any match for me and my beer gut. I was a little mournful at the prospect of being unable to further my dangerous liaison with Maria but also relieved that I would be able to enjoy my final evening alone in Vwaza’s tranquil environment.
Renewed and refreshed, I was looking forward to returning to the insanity of Mayoka and promise of one last week’s entertainment before heading home.
I was up early the following morning for my walking safari and surprised to learn that the occupants of the chalets were a bunch of extremely athletic-looking types from the Basque country. The three female members of the party were all stunningly attractive but, at the same time, like their male companions they were ripped-up like gym-junkies. While their excuse of being on a 2000km cycling tour easily explained their ridiculous levels of fitness, I was intrigued to learn that none of them actually resided in the Basque country now, preferring to live around various other parts of Europe from Norway to Italy. My mind, ever eager to find conspiracy, jumped to the obvious conclusion that this was a splinter cell of ETA terrorists, brought together in the wilds of Africa for secret training. Fearing for my life, I kept up a steady stream of banter and, eventually, was able to congratulate myself on the use of charm to set the minds of these vicious killers at ease. I think I made a useful ally for myself in Maria and was sure that if the others made a motion to do away with me, that she would veto the idea to save me for her own amusement.
All this intrigue and excitement was conducted against a backdrop of pure, empty wilderness. Our guide was able to point out the many signs of animal habitation and he talked us through the vast variety of local flora and fauna as we walked. Eventually, we arrived at the lake shore and were treated to the rare spectacle of a family of hippos walking around out of the water – fortunately for us, they were separated from us by a narrow channel of water. If they hadn’t been, there’s every chance they’d have seen us as a threat and attempted to charge. Of course, I’d have liked to have seen them get anywhere near me with a squad of crack terrorists surrounding me…but I don’t suppose there’s much on ‘Hippo Avoidance’ in the ETA operatives handbook.
Eventually, we headed back to camp where I spent a peaceful and relaxing morning reading ‘Chariot of the Gods’ and ‘Morning of the Magicians’, two fascinating insights into the 1960’s mind as the technological age bore down on a war-weary mankind. Somehow, in the beautiful peace and quiet, I fell asleep and missed the departure of my Dutch companions and later on I walked to the nearest village (4 miles) to pick up some supplies for my evening meal. As I returned from the village with fruit and veg, I was disappointed to see that my terrorist friends had moved on – obviously spooked by my inquisitive nature and realising that there was no way that ten of them were any match for me and my beer gut. I was a little mournful at the prospect of being unable to further my dangerous liaison with Maria but also relieved that I would be able to enjoy my final evening alone in Vwaza’s tranquil environment.
Renewed and refreshed, I was looking forward to returning to the insanity of Mayoka and promise of one last week’s entertainment before heading home.
July 25, 2005
Beach Life (again!)
With the end of my trip fast-approaching, I’d arrived in Nkhata Bay intent on enjoying my last vestiges of freedom before heading home. As far as I was concerned, this involved taking things as easily as possible, drinking copious quantities of Kuche in the evenings and lazing around in the sun all day. A slight variation in this very pleasing routine would involve ambling around the hillside to Big Blue, the neighbouring resort, to watch a DVD on Chris’s X-Box. During my short time at Mayoka, I’d become quite friendly with the chef, Jan and it was through him that I’d met Chris, the manager of Big Blue. Unfortunately, the downside of hanging out with the boys during the day (as opposed to the sensible girls) was that there was no watershed for the consumption of beer and it thus became an all-day activity to compete with sunbathing.
Monday and Tuesday disappeared without trace (much as many days had in previous stints on the beach) and if it weren’t for the impending task of creating banoffee pie (now for 30 people!!), I’m sure all of Wednesday would have followed suit. Before rousing myself to this great feat, I managed to do something constructive with the day, though: sunburn! With a shiny, glowing head and producing enough heat to use myself as a stove, I boldly ventured into the kitchen to investigate the facilities. These were, unsurprisingly, basic but banoffee pie is not the most difficult recipe in the world and I was soon beavering away at it with gusto.
Suffice to say, the pie went down well – with locals and tourists alike – and I firmly cemented my friendship with Anniek and Linda, who as Dutch girls (a notoriously sweet-toothed nation) had suffered for a lack of dessert in the restaurants of Mzuzu. As is often the case when travelling, we’d only known each other for a short time but developed an unusually strong bond. Although I’d met yet more sound people that evening (Mateo, Claire and Marie…more of whom later), I’d determined that I would take a break from Mayoka when they left so as to feel their absence a little less keenly. When they headed back to Mzuzu in the morning, I’d be joining them in order to get to Vwaza Marsh. Not only was this a place I’d been wanting to see but I was becoming aware of the need to take a break from the constant partying at Mayoka. Vwaza is billed as the most untouched and peaceful of Malawi’s game reserves and I could think of no better place to recharge my batteries before one final blast in ‘The Village’.
Monday and Tuesday disappeared without trace (much as many days had in previous stints on the beach) and if it weren’t for the impending task of creating banoffee pie (now for 30 people!!), I’m sure all of Wednesday would have followed suit. Before rousing myself to this great feat, I managed to do something constructive with the day, though: sunburn! With a shiny, glowing head and producing enough heat to use myself as a stove, I boldly ventured into the kitchen to investigate the facilities. These were, unsurprisingly, basic but banoffee pie is not the most difficult recipe in the world and I was soon beavering away at it with gusto.
Suffice to say, the pie went down well – with locals and tourists alike – and I firmly cemented my friendship with Anniek and Linda, who as Dutch girls (a notoriously sweet-toothed nation) had suffered for a lack of dessert in the restaurants of Mzuzu. As is often the case when travelling, we’d only known each other for a short time but developed an unusually strong bond. Although I’d met yet more sound people that evening (Mateo, Claire and Marie…more of whom later), I’d determined that I would take a break from Mayoka when they left so as to feel their absence a little less keenly. When they headed back to Mzuzu in the morning, I’d be joining them in order to get to Vwaza Marsh. Not only was this a place I’d been wanting to see but I was becoming aware of the need to take a break from the constant partying at Mayoka. Vwaza is billed as the most untouched and peaceful of Malawi’s game reserves and I could think of no better place to recharge my batteries before one final blast in ‘The Village’.
July 24, 2005
Party time for the Village people
Of course, the following morning (okay, actually, it was the afternoon…) was pretty painful but with nothing planned and a readily available selection of comfort food, I settled down to nurse myself back to health with grub and sunshine. There is something easier to take about a hangover when you’re surrounded by relaxed, smiling faces and doing nothing more than watch the sunlight dappling the water. Craig and Ludo were ideal company and when we spotted Linda and Anniek heading out to sunbathe on the raft, we thought it would be only right and proper if we joined them.
Of course, the swim out to the raft came pretty close to killing me and I don’t believe I was impressing anybody by arriving and then proceeding to cling on to the side like a stricken whale until my equilibrium returned. Linda and Anniek soon had us all feeling chirpier, laughing at the state of us and reminding me of my rather peremptory exit from the conversation the previous night. For the rest of the day we just lazed around; laughing and joking and generally just getting to know each other. Unfortunately, I’d left it a little late in terms of repairing the remainder of my faded suntan from Malaysia. Before I’d even started to feel slightly toasted, the sun was sinking into the lake and I vowed to apply myself better to the task the following day.
Sun-worshipping aside, it seemed I’d turned up in Mayoka at just the right time for the mother of all parties. Gary and Katherine were celebrating the establishment’s 16th birthday and the locals who helped to build it had good cause to celebrate with them. As well as a place for two people to live the dream and escape from the rat-race, Mayoka was always meant to be a community project and hundreds of local people have since been able to improve their standard of living as a direct result of the economic impact of the business. Many of them sell crafts from a small hut near the bar as well as showing their skills to travellers; tour companies and boat taxis belonging to local people get preference when someone is looking to stretch their legs; and local children and charity groups often perform in the bar for a whip-round to help make ends meet. Needless to say, the Mayoka Village Birthday party was going to be a huge event and one not to be missed. There was to be a succession of live music acts in the bar, several dance acts and copious quantities of booze and food. With Jan, the Teutonic taste-meister, cooking up a storm in the kitchen, it was left to the locals to get on with the grisly task of slaughtering the goats and getting them spitted over the glowing coals.
Walking from the chalet to get to the party, the air was alive with the pumping sounds of tribal music and laughter, mixed with the enticing aroma of barbequed meat…it was certainly going to be an excellent night.
As well as the lads and the two Dutch girls, I found myself parked scant feet from the delicious-smelling goat barbie with three Scots lassies who had travelled up from Cape McClear especially for the party. By chance, I happened to mention to one of them, Sarah, that I’d made a banoffee pie in Blantyre and her eyes kind of glazed over and she seemed to freeze. The poor girl had just got over an horrendous attack of gastro and was feeling weak and in need of some TLC. Bannoffee Pie just happened to be her favourite pudding ever and she declared that she would happily die for a single slice of it! Being the chivalrous chap that I am, I offered to make her some if I could get hold of the ingredients…and before I knew it, everybody seemed to know that I was going to be making Banoffee Pie! It turned out that the three of them had to scoot off back to Cape McClear the following morning anyway…but this didn’t stop Anniek and Linda from forcing me to promise that I’d make it for them before they left on Thursday. In exchange for this promise, I did at least get them to agree to move into chalet no. 8 with me the next day (such a hardship for them with those views!) after Craig and Ludo had set off for Tanzania.
The rest of the evening went swimmingly…Kuche flowed and Gary was doling out free shots (compulsory!) to anybody silly enough to step within his 10ft exclusion zone. I even had the temerity to muscle in on the mike during one of the music acts and (apparently!) did a credible job of sounding like part of the act. As time telescoped, the evening became a blur of smiling faces and festive cheer and later on, with the crowd finally beginning to thin out, there was even a bit of trance to round my evening off in style.
It had been nice to catch up with Ludo and Craig again and the pair of them had given me the best of introductions to the Mayoka party lifestyle. When they headed off the following morning, I’d have plenty of new friends to play with in their stead.
Of course, the swim out to the raft came pretty close to killing me and I don’t believe I was impressing anybody by arriving and then proceeding to cling on to the side like a stricken whale until my equilibrium returned. Linda and Anniek soon had us all feeling chirpier, laughing at the state of us and reminding me of my rather peremptory exit from the conversation the previous night. For the rest of the day we just lazed around; laughing and joking and generally just getting to know each other. Unfortunately, I’d left it a little late in terms of repairing the remainder of my faded suntan from Malaysia. Before I’d even started to feel slightly toasted, the sun was sinking into the lake and I vowed to apply myself better to the task the following day.
Sun-worshipping aside, it seemed I’d turned up in Mayoka at just the right time for the mother of all parties. Gary and Katherine were celebrating the establishment’s 16th birthday and the locals who helped to build it had good cause to celebrate with them. As well as a place for two people to live the dream and escape from the rat-race, Mayoka was always meant to be a community project and hundreds of local people have since been able to improve their standard of living as a direct result of the economic impact of the business. Many of them sell crafts from a small hut near the bar as well as showing their skills to travellers; tour companies and boat taxis belonging to local people get preference when someone is looking to stretch their legs; and local children and charity groups often perform in the bar for a whip-round to help make ends meet. Needless to say, the Mayoka Village Birthday party was going to be a huge event and one not to be missed. There was to be a succession of live music acts in the bar, several dance acts and copious quantities of booze and food. With Jan, the Teutonic taste-meister, cooking up a storm in the kitchen, it was left to the locals to get on with the grisly task of slaughtering the goats and getting them spitted over the glowing coals.
Walking from the chalet to get to the party, the air was alive with the pumping sounds of tribal music and laughter, mixed with the enticing aroma of barbequed meat…it was certainly going to be an excellent night.
As well as the lads and the two Dutch girls, I found myself parked scant feet from the delicious-smelling goat barbie with three Scots lassies who had travelled up from Cape McClear especially for the party. By chance, I happened to mention to one of them, Sarah, that I’d made a banoffee pie in Blantyre and her eyes kind of glazed over and she seemed to freeze. The poor girl had just got over an horrendous attack of gastro and was feeling weak and in need of some TLC. Bannoffee Pie just happened to be her favourite pudding ever and she declared that she would happily die for a single slice of it! Being the chivalrous chap that I am, I offered to make her some if I could get hold of the ingredients…and before I knew it, everybody seemed to know that I was going to be making Banoffee Pie! It turned out that the three of them had to scoot off back to Cape McClear the following morning anyway…but this didn’t stop Anniek and Linda from forcing me to promise that I’d make it for them before they left on Thursday. In exchange for this promise, I did at least get them to agree to move into chalet no. 8 with me the next day (such a hardship for them with those views!) after Craig and Ludo had set off for Tanzania.
The rest of the evening went swimmingly…Kuche flowed and Gary was doling out free shots (compulsory!) to anybody silly enough to step within his 10ft exclusion zone. I even had the temerity to muscle in on the mike during one of the music acts and (apparently!) did a credible job of sounding like part of the act. As time telescoped, the evening became a blur of smiling faces and festive cheer and later on, with the crowd finally beginning to thin out, there was even a bit of trance to round my evening off in style.
It had been nice to catch up with Ludo and Craig again and the pair of them had given me the best of introductions to the Mayoka party lifestyle. When they headed off the following morning, I’d have plenty of new friends to play with in their stead.
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.
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