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.