Malawi Milestone - 7 June 2002
Swapping avoided
Hippy goes into deep thought
Out of Dar
More Flintstones
And so to Malawi
Livingstonia, I presume
Mzungus in Mzuzu
Microsoft in Nkhata
Leaving Mark behind, we set off to Mikadi beach to catch up with the Hot Rockers on their return to the mainland. This was something of a more chilled camp. Management and staff seemed to get on well without the madness that we had got used to.
We met quite a gregarious couple at the bar, Don and Paula. As their story unravelled, it became clear that they were not run of the mill at all. Don was born and raised in Kenya but spent most of his adult life in the British forces. After Markís bizarre claims of espionage, it was something of a relief that Don had been involved only in overt operations. Heíd bailed out after the Gulf war. Sensible chap. Paula is Donís stepsister and now wife. Also Kenyan, but sounding Canadian and claiming to be British, this is clearly a relationship born of the White Mischief culture of Kenya.
Don now manages a security business in Dar es Salam having had a succession of well paid jobs around Kenya and Tanzania since stepping down from Her Majesties forces. After a bit of a jolly up, they were insistent that we come and stay with them and that they would line up a series of convenient stopovers with their friends on the way south. We worried a little that they seemed a little over friendly and had visions of some strange swapping goings on, but decided that weíd take up their offer on the basis that it could be a bit of an interesting experience and fun to write about.
Next day we did all our menial little jobs including the awaited visit to the Standard Chartered Bank to claim our money back. Without too much grief, we managed to get to speak to someone who seemed to understand our problem (that the cash till had re-swallowed our cash, remember), but he still insisted that we needed to chase our own bank to get the money credited back to our account. He, at least, gave us a copy of the print out from the ATM showing the swallowing of our money. It remains to be seen how efficient the Black Horse Bank will be at getting our money back from a Tanzanian branch of Standard CharteredÖ
Fi, Johnny and the rest of the Hot Rockers seemed to be on good form and only had one motorcycle casualty from their trip to Zanzibar - a twisted knee picked up in a contretemps with an exposed drainage pipe in the road. They set off towards Malawi leaving details of their itinerary so that we can catch up when we need sugar/washing liquid/salt/pepper/cooking oil. It seems daft, but as we canít carry much with us, we canít buy small enough quantities of things to fill our meagre containers without chucking more than half of it away. We tend to do deals with all the overland trucks - buying too much salt and trading the surplus for our other needs.
We told Fi about potato shooting with which attendees at our leaving do will be familiar. She seemed quite keen on the idea, being something of a pyromaniac. We discussed the potential of using the huge intake stack on her truck to launch watermelons to huge heights. I guess it was one of those nights.
Another day of mucking about including lining the panniers with sticky back plastic in an attempt to ward off the annoying tendency for the aluminium turning to dust when rubbed by the contents on bumpy roads and coating the contents with finger print powder. We were then ready to take on the strangeness of an evening with Don and Paula.
We headed into town and phoned them up at 5 oí clock as agreed only to get the depressing news that Donís bosses were flying in for an unexpected meeting and they did not know whether they were hosting them or going out with them or what. The upshot was that we were now decamped and had nowhere to stay. Fortunately, the Dar es Salam YMCA is a very obliging place that welcomes couples. Can I hear big Al muttering ìTsch, wouldnít happen in my dayî? Bedecked in Village People biker man gear, we checked in to this straightforward gaff that sells the cheapest beer in Dar. - Another point which must surely rankle with the old fella.
We have been travelling now for over 8 months and things are reaching a point of reassessment. If you can believe it, we are beginning to get urges to work for a while. When you realise that you have just sat discussing the relative merits of physics as opposed to biology, you know that youíre probably lacking a bit of intellectual challenge in your life. We are now checking the TES on a semi-regular basis to see if there is a job available in any of the countries we have taken a fancy to on the way. So far the only suitable jobs are in Maputo, and we are getting very mixed messages about Mozambique: ace music and nightlife but the country is littered with landmines - oh and we know next to sod all Portuguese. I guess itís a matter of keep on looking.
The Hot Rockers are also going through an unsettled patch between those who have been out since the trip started. The lack of any obvious structure in your life can, we know now, create almost as much tension eventually as too much. I could bore you with the relevant psychological theory but Iíll leave you to look it up yourself.
Difficulties also arise in trying to elect a place to live. Many places have a good people and/or climate, especially those at altitude, but ideally we want to settle somewhere where we can feel that we belong as an equal rather than seen as a tourist or ex-pat. We have come to understand all too clearly, how immigrants to the UK want to feel equal to natives of England but do not entirely want to be assimilated into the culture. Although, we want to be accepted wherever we chose to settle, there may be things that we find hard to absorb into our way of life, that clash with our own values, e.g. roles of women, corruption. Is it ever possible to live fully as an equal and maintain different values to others around you? I wonder... (Deep stuff, eh?)
Itís been quite a while since weíve had to head off early in the morning and not having to deal with the tent and sleeping gear first was a major bonus of staying in a room. We hooned along as best we could being passed only by complete nutters which means just about everyone else on the road.
It is possible to see most of the large game creatures of Africa without having to pay to go into the game parks on account of the fact that they actually live wild, here, not just where protected. Seems obvious doesnít it? We passed through the Mikumi national park, which is famous for and excess of speed bumps and of course wildlife. On our free game drive we saw:- giraffe, zebra, gazelle, buffalo, elephant. Not bad eh! Admittedly, these animals, unfortunately, were far too intelligent to be loitering close to road so no decent piccys. (Or roadkill)
To be fair, the road was generally good and we made excellent time. Worthy of note is Baobab Valley which is a valley full of baobab trees. This was one of the areas that Don and Paula were going to sort out a gaff for us but as that thing had fallen through; we admired the baobabs and moved on.
Leaving the valley, the hills start and the tarmac became hideously rutted from the heavy lorries grinding up the hills at 5kph. Ordinarily passing these behemoths would be a simple twist of the throttle, but the added complications of tight curves and having to roller coaster from lane to lane meant that poor Hippy had something of a white knuckler as I could not really give any warning of when I was going to twist and go.
Just before Iringe we saw signs to the Riverside Camp which had been recommended by Achim and Suzy via Ben and Louise. We hauled up to find ourselves sole occupants. We put up the tent and then noticed a huge fruit lying on the ground next to us. This huge sausage-like object weighed about 20 pounds and is the fruit of the Sausage Tree which loomed above us. On the advice of the camp guard we relocated as the thought of one of these tough objects which can weigh up to 20 kg landing on the tent in the night did not appeal! As dusk settled and the cool of the night came, the nice night guard brought us over a brazier full of glowing charcoal and an oil lamp - how nice is that?
One the way on to Mbeya there was obviously someone who had taken this program to heart, there was an increasing number of wooden home made scooters with wooden wheels and handles being used to ease the strain of carrying sacks of rice/pigs/beer etc.
One of the best things about the developing world is itís dedication to the reuse of what the richer countries would call waste. Small children making pull along trucks out of tin cans, plastic bottles with bottle lids for wheels. Some of these had clearly been made with care and patience and were the pride and joy of their creators. When it rained in Zanzibar I was particularly impressed by the ingenuity of one little boy who found that his truck and trailer was struggling to get through the mud, so he detached the trailer making a boat. Who needs expensive transformers, when you have a couple of plastic bottles!
At every campsite we have visited the locals working on the site have carefully rummaged through the ëwasteí that the careless travellers have thrown away, believing it to be useless. Normally, a wheelbarrow of this so-called rubbish will be whittled down to a handful of true waste. We now place any reusable items next to the bin, so that the poor fellas donít have the sordid task of scavenging in others rubbish. Maybe there is a lot the rich can learn.
We had made good distance and bypassed Mbeya and went on a little further to Tukuyu in the mountains on the way to the border with Malawi. Reputedly this is a stunning area with good walking potential. From Mbeya the road twisted and turned rising steadily and the temperature cooling respectively. Tukuyu reminded me of Bartica, in Guyana, that a few of you would know. Built on a hillside the people were young, and there was the feeling of a frontier town, which I suppose it is being the largest village before Malawi. However that is where the similarity stops, there was hardly a party atmosphere. We tried to find somewhere to eat in the town at about 7pm only to find the town closed for business, so we trundled back with our tails between our legs to the ëhotelí (charging Ethiopian prices) hoping they had some sustenance. The menu was limited in a way that we had become accustomed in Africa to one dish, chicken and rice. We were pleasantly surprised to be offered the addition of soup. Now the soup was in fairness not as disgusting as Egyptian monastery soup, but it had a strange icky after-taste, for what was supposedly tomato.
That night it rained and the morning the clouds had descended on the mountain top, so our plans of energetic walking were rapidly revised, and we decided to head on to Malawai. This did pose a minor complication that we had planned to be in Tanz for longer so we had an excess of shillings. I generally dislike changing money with the hoards of hawkers at border posts, especially if it is a sizeable sum in African terms. So it seemed prudent to nip into the bank in town and do the necessary. I wondered in , went to the foreign exchange counter, rates for Malawain Kwacha were listed, so it all seemed to be working well.
I approached to chappie at the desk and said I wished to change shillings into kwacha.
ëOh noí was the reply.
ëBut you have a rate listed hereí
ëYesí
ëBut you canít give me kwachaí
ëNoí
Assuming this was something to do with it being a soft currency I went for a change of tack.
ëWell can I change it into US? You have a rate for that tooí
ëNoí
Feeling a little confused I asked for an explanation.
ëNo bank in Tukuyu gives out any foreign currencyí
ëSo how do I change these shillingsí
ëAt the borderí
ëBut thatís the black marketí
ëYesí
ëSo what you are saying is that this legal bank will not change my money so I am forced to break the lawí
ëYesí he said casually, seemingly surprised that I thought this inappropriate.
Only in Africa...
So I was left with no alternative but to brave the artful dodgers at the border. I tried!
Country number 18 by my reckoning and yet another simple border crossing. I really do not know where all this panic about crossing borders comes from. Another annoyance is the apparent need for a carnet de passage. We took out a 10-page carnet when we left Blighty on the basis that that was going to be the number of countries we would visit in the first year that needed carnets. Owing to a minor miscalculation, we find ourselves needing 6 pages with only five left. A bit of blagging needed, then, at one or more borders. I was asked by the very nice official at the Malawi side if I had a carnet so I said no. No problem, you need a temporary import, then. Total cost 75 pence. One form to fill in. Not difficult! We found out later that if you use a carnet, there is still a 75 pence charge - so whatís the point?
While Pat did the usual round of form filling, I took up my usual position watching over the bike. A lovely lady official was sat next to me, who wanted to know what Cystic Fibrosis was, seeing the stickers on the panniers. Picking my words carefully, to avoid losing someone in the complexities of the English language, I think I managed to explain. We chatted about all kinds, the fact that she missed her family in the South of Malawi, and that her mother was ill, her brother had died of AIDS and how did we keep in contact with people back home. Rarely, on our journey have I found a border official so open and friendly. Her feelings were expressed in a way that was quite matter of fact and I was relieved that there was no request for pity or sympathy. It was like talking to an old friend, something I have to confess I have been missing. Although I must admit it did seem a little strange that she chose a foreign traveller to confide in It takes all sorts, I suppose! I was almost disappointed that the paperwork was so straightforward and there was no excuse to chat for longer. A potential friend found and lost.
Having left behind a verdant and hugely productive area of Tanzania (cabbages and all sorts growing in abundance) our first opinions of Malawi were of bewilderment. Here, at least in the north, there is no sign of anything for sale at the side of the road with the exception of tomatoes. We continued with our open visor wave at all the locals policy and were pleased that we got a 99 percent welcoming response. This seems to bear out the reputation of Malawi as the friendliest country in Africa. I guess one percent of people are entitled to their off days.
The road, too, displayed the difference in the relative wealth of Tanzania and Malawi. It has to be said though that there is a major road building program under way. Chance of a job for a civil engineer, mister? In a typical bit of McAlpine road building, there was a fair amount of dirt about, but the temporary road running along side the new construction was at least well graded. Once back onto the black top for a short stretch I had to avoid a large log in the road. I was surprised as most bits of wood are quickly taken away to feed the fires of the locals. I was puzzled and turned back to discover the headless corpse of a 10-foot long python. I guess itís tricky to cross the road when youíre that long and only move at a medium wriggle.
We found the Rockers at Chitimba and our supply of sugar was secured in quick time. We looked into the prospects for walking, as we had been disappointed in Tukuyu. There were a group of student nurses staying at the camp; three Dutch and one Canadian, who were based in Mzuzu but up for the weekend to walk up to Livingstonia. While the sad, drooling young men of the Hot Rock crew looked on, Hippy and I quizzed them about this and that including the walking potential. They also knew of a few VSOs in Mzuzu and gave us tips on how to find them.
So, we set off up the hill on a promised 25-km walk up to the historic town. On the way are the Manchewe Falls - not the most significant in the world but pretty all the same. We struggled up the hair-pinned road for about 20 km and the steepness got to us. Fortunately, we had a plan B. Just short of the falls is the Permaculture Camp. Rather like the Funky Shamba on Zanzibar this is a place to chill - literally. Being quite high up (4000 feet) the night was rather refreshing. We were cheered by the food lovingly prepared for us by Auke, a young Belgian who had been brought up in DRC before things kicked off there. He had travelled from Belgium to South Africa by the West Africa route in a Renault 4. His trip took him 3 years, as he had to work on the way. He claims to have not paid for a single nights camping until he got to South Africa. Impressive, but hardly helping local businesses on the way.
Replete with the foods provided from their permaculture garden, we headed for the dizzy heights of Livingstonia. Named after the great man and home to what was once the largest hospital in South Africa, this is still a community based on medical and education provision. In fact there nowt else there. Still, we had a bracing walk between rain showers and got to see an old surveying instrument that Iíve always wanted to see (?) in the museum. For further information, contact Alan Watson who will fill you in on the four-screw dumpy level.
The way down proved to be something of a route march. Having been held up by the rain we had only 4 and a half-hours to get back down to Chitimba. In fact, we stormed on and made it in about 3. Not bad for Hippy and me over 25 km. OK so we found all the shortcuts through the hairpins on the way down. Iím not entirely sure, but I believe a young man said, ìCan I see your balls?î We walked on, puzzled.
In the way of all travelling accommodation invitations that come out of the blue, we bumped into a couple of South Africans, Mike and Patsy who are travelling in a little Toyota van gathering information for the latest edition of the Bradt guide to Malawi. After chewing the fat for about five minutes, they insisted that we come and stay when we get to Capetown. We have found pretty much all of the South Africans we have met to be the most charming and hospitable people. So much for Spitting Image.
Saving money, we ate at a local restaurant rather than the camp. The meal is forgettable, I hope. Time is a great healer.
In fairness it was clear from the lack of stores in the shops that supplies were limited. We learned that there is likely to be a food crisis in Malawi in a couple of months time, as the maize supplies are coming to an end in the South of the country. Looking at the greenery that surrounds us it is hard to believe, but we discovered that most of the crops are a legacy from the old colonial times and are mostly cash crops of tea and coffee. Leaving little room for growing food that will fill bellies. Into the bargain as seems usual for Africa the colonists were replaced by corruption and last yearís food reserves have been sold abroad by unnamed government members and the money appears to have disappeared into a couple of individuals pockets. It seems that the African people are destined to be either ripped off by foreigners or their own.
Pleased not to be suffering from any kind of stomach complaint in the morning, we saddled up and moved on in the morning. Noticeably colder now - the gloves got their first outing since Egypt, we made our way into the highlands and Mzuzu. We kept a careful watch on the mileometer. We always do, as thereís not much else to do a lot of the time. With about 5km to go, we came to a big sign proudly proclaiming that we were entering the City of Mzuzu. Strange for town with a population about the same as, say, Horwich. Clearly a deal of expansion has been catered for as we came to the first signs of settlement 3-km further on.
There were banks, supermarkets and all sorts. An amazing shock. Iíd got to think that all of Malawi was going to be very sparse of service industry. After a quick check of emails for the princely rate of 12 pounds an hour we laughingly looked in the shop opposite which seemed to be a Dunlop dealer to see if we could get a replacement for the back tyre. Not a hope! They only had weeny tyres for the local 125 motorbikes. ìTry over at Sandfieldsî Well, it was worth a try.
Walking through the door at Sandfields, I spied their total stock of 3 tyres, two of which were for cars. The other looked like... it was... a Metzler 130/80 17 tyre. I was totally gobsmacked. The charming one-armed salesman described it as brand new second hand. Still, it was not splitting like mine and looked to have a few thousand miles left on it. The price? So far heís down to 15 quid but negotiations continue. These tyres are about 70 quid new in Britain so we canít really lose on the deal!
St Johnís Hospital was the next destination to search out Emma who is not actually a VSO but engaged to one. She was instantly charming and when we said weíd be back in Mzuzu at the weekend, she instantly offered us a bed. I complimented her on her generosity and pointed out that none of the other VSOs weíd met on the way down had offered. Then it dawned on me that she isnít a VSO! Oh, and it wasnít her house she was offering!
Nkhata Bay is on the west shore of Lake Malawi and is on the Malawi end of the ferry service to southern Tanzania. There is also a steamer that plies the Malawian towns that stops there. This obviously makes it a pretty up and coming place. There are hosts of backpacker type places to stay and so we ended up at a campsite where we paid just over a quid a day. Things hadnít been this cheap since Ethiopia. And a blessed relief that was as weíd seen from our emails that our dear home in Newbold Verdon is unrented at the mo. ANY TAKERS?
There is a VSO there, Helen, who is co-ordinating the activities of the local wildlife group which is not quite as Joy Adamson as it may sound. Confusingly her job is mostly to provide support to schools and other bodies with regard to environmental and sustainable land use. Sheís been through some pretty tough times. As well as the predictable hassles getting her project up and running, she had several months of unreliable electricity, a nasty bicycle accident and then to cap it all a break in at her house. When we met up with her she had had a strange day in court watching over the deliberations of the magistrates on the sentencing of the thief. In true VSO spirit, she soldiers on and sees all the positives in the community around her. In the luckiest break, so far, she has a computer that she leant to us to type up this last lot! All we have to do now is find someone who can email it to Webmaster Will at rock bottom rates.
She also explained that the forthcoming food crisis is more complex than we thought. The traditional staple food is ground maize, which the locals are so used to having as part of a meal that they find it hard to adapt their diet to products that they are not running out of, like cassava, sweet potato or potatoes. So they will insist on buying the last remaining ears of maize at ridiculous prices and running short of cash to buy diet supplements. Hence malnutrition ensues. Ironically there was a similar issue in Ethiopia but there the locals in the North refused to eat maize because they saw it as cattle feed and would only eat tiff to make injera. Something of a Mr. and Mrs. Sprat donít you think! Maybe there is a possible scheme here to for an exchange to re-educate both parties, and maybe save some lives. We tried to think of a product that the Brits would pay ludicrous prices for rather than do without. We decided that the following were contenders:- beer, potatoes for chips, roasters and crisps and bacon. Our votes are for beer, I can easily see debts rising and second mortgages being taken out if there was a beer shortage and the prices escalated.
Ireland accredited themselves well against the Germans and we await the England Argentina game with baited breath.