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Malawi The tribal and/or language groups that
straddle many of Africa’s European-made borders can often make
one side of no man’s land feel much the same as the other, but
when we crossed into Malawi we knew we were in another country. The
frenetic trading towns of Southern Tanzania gave way to subsistence
farming villages with no mains water or electricity. At the same time,
the lodges and campsites had the hot showers, flush toilets and cold
beer we had come to expect of southern Africa. We did our first freshwater diving at
the lake resort of Nkhata Bay, and there we also found the easy nature
and warm heart that Malawians often boast about. After the gold chains
and homegrown hip-hop of Tanzania, suddenly we were in the Caribbean:
beach reggae, Rasta hats and marijuana. Even the hawkers selling ethnic
knick-knackery do so with good humour and are so relaxed that just chatting
to the travellers seems enough reward (and effort) for the day. We have worked out that this change
in tone is in some way influenced by the Ethiopian church which had
such a great influence on Malawians, especially around independence
time. With a little historical licence, you can jump from Ethiopianism
to Marcus Garvey to Haile Selassie to Rastafarianism to Bob Marley.
And, unlike other beach resort countries in the world, these guys play
more reggae than Bob Marley’s greatest hits. Over the next two weeks we met a host
of ex-pats whom, unlike in some countries we have visited, were generous
and friendly and had more going for them than just being white. From
Mick, the affable Aussie rock-climber who runs the ‘Mushroom Farm’,
to Janey and Tom, the energetic English overlanders now running a camp
in Lilongwe, all had a great impression on us and all seemed to be investing
real time and effort into Malawi. Two weeks before the Lake of Stars festival
at Chintheche beach our friend, Pat Dacey, traveller and all round Idler,
came out to meet us for a brief stint in the drivers seat. And so commenced
a breakneck tour of Malawi (and a bit of Zambia). And…we drove
from Lilongwe to the Zambian border and up a dusty road to South Luangwa
National Park for G&Ts at Flatdogs campsite and giraffes and monkeys
and hippos and elephants between us and the tents and so we were late
for the Walking Safari and driving back through Malawi to distant Mount
Mulanje for hiking to mountain huts with porters and The Wheelhouse
in Senga Bay for snake charmers and Pat’s first view of Lake Malawi
and up to the Mushroom Farm for abseiling and climbing and Livingstonia
and Nyika Plateau for horse-riding and finding a phone signal and the
long drive down to the Chintheche Inn for the Lake of Stars Music Festival.
(See the Pat medley for photos!) The festival setting was beautiful –
white sand beaches, green lawns and aqua lake. How refreshing to be
at a festival with no fear of mud setting in! We set up camp and spent
our mornings dozing under the awning or body-surfing in the lake when
the waves were high – a better hangover cure than falafels at
Glastonbury. Entertainment-wise the festival was fairly low-key, lacking
the stalls or surreal ‘extras’ you get at festivals at home
and, for us, with an overly high DJ:live act ratio. Still, we managed
to dance until the early hours of every morning (aided by our box of
red wine) and thoroughly enjoyed Lucius Banda (the big Malawi act) and
his bootylicious dancers. After months on the road this was a great
blow-out for me and Jackie and we hope Pat had a suitably climactic
(!) end to his holiday. And all this dastardly fun is in part
down to Patrick himself. Not once did he complain that we were always
camping, or not drinking enough or eating only tomatoes and pasta. Top
work! Even the residents of Lilongwe wanted ‘Paddy’ as their
friend after watching the big fool, as he would have it: ‘exercising
his cartwheel demon’ in Harry’s beach bar at three o’clock
in the morning. And after all of this, we drove him back to the airport,
said our goodbyes and then sat in the car wondering what to do next.
Where shall we go now? Where are we? Why are we here? This feeling of emptiness grew stronger
and our usual bickering gave way to more comical slapping and shouting.
With this existential crisis in danger of enveloping us, we went back
into the bar at Mabuya camp to talk overlanding with Janey and Tom.
Within an hour there were photos and maps and suddenly we were awake
and into the future. There was talk of offering the local chiefs bags
of sugar and salt for an overnight stay in villages a hundred years
from modern Angola, old French ballrooms in tiny Gabon towns and endless
convents with endless nuns (a particular favourite). The next day we
were back in the car and off to Zambia. Photos |
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