Mission to Malawi

After several days of procrastination involving some great parties and even greater hangovers, I finally packed up my bags, said adieu to Tofo and began my 37 hour mission to Malawi. Four minibuses, two pick up trucks, one car, two lorries, one break-down and one boat later, I staggered tired, hungry and rather bemused at 9.30pm (I set off at 4.30am) into Doogles in Blantyre, the second largest city in Malawi. Tired obviously, hungry as a lack of small change meant my only sustenance for the day was a bag of cashew nuts and bemused because I’d just encountered my first fight in Africa.

Night travel is never ideal, but sometimes it’s the only way. Crossing the border as the sunset, I had little option but to grab the first transport available, especially as local transport usually stops at nightfall. In this case a minibus being driven by a friendly man who gave me the front seat and welcomed me to Malawi. English being prevalent here is such a bonus. A well-dressed man took the seat next to me and about 50 people crammed their bodies into the back. 20 minutes later, a drunk man started causing trouble. The minibus pulled over into a crowd of people who immediately started trying to push their way in before just as suddenly turning around and jumping out. In seconds, the driver and the agitator were surrounded by a ring of cheering people and I had visions of Hotel Rawanda crossing my mind. My nerves were not aided by the person next to me periodically winding the window up and down. Clearly he too thought that with this many heated and possibly drunk people, a riot could be started.

Apparently the agitator had lost his phone and was blaming it on the driver. Now the conductor (people squeezer oner and money collector) had given me a phone to look after. Funny how out of all the people around he felt that the only white person was the best one to trust. I’ll never know exactly whose phone that was but I just stayed out of it. Half an hour later and thankfully machete free, the driver finally got back in the minibus only to find the battery was flat and we couldn’t leave. By now my nerves are quite frazzled, everyone told me Malwai was such a friendly place. Some of the gathering had already noticed the white girl in the van, but the fight proved more entertaining so after a couple of comments they left me to it.

Africa is a country of strange quirks. The same people who were baying for blood moments before, were the ones who now gave us a push start and we drove to the next police stop (they have road blocks all over the place) where the situation was resolved if not to the satisfaction of the drunk or the driver (he may have had to pay to replace the phone – ironic as it was lost in the fight that the drunk started), at least to the passengers who could now finally go home. As if to make up for this introduction to Malawi, the driver took me all the way to the hostel door.

The next day I explored Blantyre which didn’t take long and wasn’t very interesting as Sunday shopping hasn’t really caught on yet and relaxed by the pool. The only discoveries of note were that if you buy something in the street, you should pay exactly half whatever the initial price is (makes life easy) and Malawi has excellent strawberries.

Recovered from my mission to Malawi, I headed off to Zomba Plateau to hike and kick back in the Trout Farm. The walks on the plateau were disappointing. There were some stunning places by streams and waterfalls but views were spoilt by widespread logging and smog from the heat and bush fires. There were many small paths which were a blessing and a curse because you were never quite sure which one to take but at the same time you could never really get lost either. Having hiked to the highest point, my main path disappeared half way back down and I had to trailblaze through a dense forest on the steep slopes, praying that I wouldn’t come across a large rocky and unexpected gorge. Thankfully I managed to find a sort of a path which led me back to the main road.

The Trout Farm itself was an oasis of calm and tranquility set in a private valley covered in native trees and flowers. I had a small cabin to myself (I was the only guest) where I prepared my dinner by candlelight, cooked on an ancient wood fire stove and listened to the frogs croaking from the ponds. I also had a fire in the main room to light and attend to and it was these simple duties that led to such a feeling of utter contentment. Outside the stars shown brightly overhead, whilst the fire flickered welcomingly on the walls. With my tin pots, outside tap and washroom, I felt like a pioneer in the wild, wild west. It was perfect. The only slight incongruence being the turquoise curtains printed with an interchanging pattern of bright red fish and yellow images of Saturn.

I stayed for two days before being determined to hike back down the mountain. After two hours of hiking including a pleasant breakfast stop by a dam where I feasted on freshly picked berries and crossaints from Zomba towns’ bakery, I gratefully took an offered lift from two local white Africans. I’m sure I could have made it if I really wanted too!

Next stop was Monkey Bay. Sadly monkeyless for me, I met a fascinating man from Chile had non-stop travel tales from the 30 or so years he’s been doing it. The hostel was set on a beach amidst a fishing village which was a great opportunity to watch local life and to try the local fish. Unfortunately on my way to Monkey Bay I encountered my second fight on a bus. This time the conductor took him on whilst the bus was still moving. This was a big bus. I had an excellent view of the whole fight as I was lucky enough to have the seat at the front of the bus.

Thank goodness for the Malawian next to me who worked in the Navy and had been to Sandhurst (yeah right!). When some of the women started running off the bus, he jumped up onto his seat and cowered behind me! Baggage was flying everywhere whilst parts of the battered bus clattered to the floor. I could do nothing but try and make myself small so if the guy landed on me I wouldn’t break anything. Actually he ended up at my feet. I was so fed up by this time, I was temped to step in and say something but prudence reigned and I restrained myself.

The conductor threw this guy off the bus and his bag after him. He promptly picked up a rock and threatened to thow it. Strangely the bus driver showed no inclination to move away. The rock is thrown smashing into the front side window but not shattering the glass. In England, you have to change windows for the tiniest crack. Here you have lines from one side of the windscreen to the other, traveling over the worst potholes but it still doesn’t break. I think Europe might have got overly paranoid about some things. Anyway, the guy picks up another rock by which time me and half the bus are shouting “drive drive” as the bus driver is just sitting there! Finally he cranks up the engine and ambles away…... Africa!

I came to Monkey Bay to take the Ilala ferry to the islands of Likoma and Chizamulu. This ferry has become something of an institution as it has been transporting supplies and people up and down the lake for approx. 50 years, taking roughly three days to go in each direction but this story will have to wait until the next email.