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.
August 06, 2005
To Lilongwe…and a reunion
It was a long old day making the trip down to Lilongwe. Inspiration caused me to send a text message to Akpongo and I was rewarded by the news that we were heading to the same place! While I hadn’t actually booked a hotel in Lilongwe (trusting to luck or word of mouth, as usual), Akpongo had a room booked at Kiboko Camp safari lodge on the outskirts of the city so, not only did we get chance for a final catch-up and natter but we were also able to split the cost of the accommodation…not a bad thing in the city, where our small room for two was twice the price of a whole chalet at Mayoka. It seemed Kiboko was a popular stop-off point for the Mayoka crowd as I saw several familiar faces milling about and even spent dinner with Katherine’s parents, brother and sister-in-law. Katherine’s parents had moved out to live in Malawi some years previously but I was reminded yet again of how small the world is when I learnt that Jim and his wife lived just outside Exeter, where I’d studied for 5 years. They were heading back to Devon the following day, flying from Lilongwe and I was slightly envious of the fact that they had no more roads to negotiate other than to get to the airport. I still needed to get to the southern lakeshore…and from there to Blantyre. The final leg of the journey was going to be a white-knuckle ride in the overnight bus and I knew I was going to be sick of Malawian minibuses by the time it was over.
Akpongo and I were both too knackered to stay up late yakking and we both had early starts in the morning anyway. She was heading to South Luangwa National Park, just over the border in Zambia for a 4-day safari and I was going on a gift-hunting mission.
Akpongo and I were both too knackered to stay up late yakking and we both had early starts in the morning anyway. She was heading to South Luangwa National Park, just over the border in Zambia for a 4-day safari and I was going on a gift-hunting mission.
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’.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)