Malawi

By Zach.

The bus from Lusaka is rough. I won't go into detail but it was not a fun day. We get into Lilongwe about nine o'clock at night. It's dark on the way in so our first impression is limited. Rough roads, run down shops, police check-points, men huddled around small fires on the side of the road. Not somewhere we want to spend much time in the dark. We get off the bus and go with the first taxi driver in the line, not even bothering to bargain him down. The five minute drive to Mabuya Camp is more of the same and we're glad to get inside the gate. Mabuya is great. A bar full of friendly people, plenty of couches, a pool table, a hexagon of swinging seats hung off a pergola around a fire pit, A-frame huts and dorm buildings spread around the compound, and most importantly the biggest ridgeback you've ever seen, who followed me around for half an hour after I gave him a pizza crust.

Next morning I head into town for a few supplies (we're out of coffee) and everything is a bit less rough in the light. Lilongwe is run down and dirty but not quite as rough as it seemed last night (apparently the bus station is in a bad part of town). There are a row of guys with bikes rigged up with seat racks over the rear wheel waiting to taxi people around. A line of kombi taxi's and a crowd of people spread down the street. There is a little market set up in a car park and the stall holders are particularly insistent that I come and look at their products, probably because it's quiet. Whatever the reason it puts me off and I keep moving. Back at the hostel we have a drink and plan our next move, kombi to Senga Bay then catch the Ilala ferry to Monkey Bay.

Catching a kombi is always an adventure. This one had twenty people in it at one point, which I thought was impressive until the Toyota hatchback that took us the last ten kilometres from Salima to Senga Bay fit sixteen people. Four people in the front with the driver sitting on the lap of another man, as well as a baby and a tray of eggs (eggs got pride of place), six people in the middle row including us, and four people in the back.

Senga Bay is a little fishing village or three villages, really, running about six or seven kilometres down Lake Malawi. We had read it was more authentic than some of the touristy towns on the lake and it did not disappoint. Forty or fifty fishing boats lined the beach just up from our hostel, men sitting around mending nets or boats or just waiting for evening to head out on the lake for a night of fishing. Women washing clothes, dishes, and themselves, by hand in the lake. Behind the beach is a huge array of tables for sorting and drying the catch, small sardine like fish from the lake. Fire pits and racks for smoking fish in the middle of it all. This turns into houses, goats, chicken and children playing in the street. Elise sees one little boy (about three or four) catch sight of us from his house and yell, "Mzungu! Mzungu!" before sticking his head down and charging out to meet us, fists pumping as he runs. There are a lot of gum trees here. They are not uncommon in Africa but there is a large concentration of them throughout the village. We have acquired some guides along the way who show us some women brewing a local maize based beer, as well as distilling some sort of liquor that they also call beer. Very strong beer. We find a local bar with a screen for the football that looks like it could be fun to revisit.

We spend the next two days relaxing on the beach waiting for the ferry. Literally waiting for the ferry. It's ETA is listed as twelve noon Wednesday, ETD one thirty. One thirty comes and goes with no sign of it. I send a message to the hostel in Monkey Bay to see if it's ok to arrive late. We check back frequently, as do the hostel staff. The ferry only comes twice a week so it's a big deal in town. When it gets to three o'clock we start talking options. Is it still worth it? What time will it get into Monkey Bay? Alternative plans? At this point we calculate it won't arrive in Monkey Bay until after midnight at the earliest. We ask around to see if it's possible to stay on board until morning, so we're not getting off in a new town in the middle of the night. General consensus is yes, just talk to the captain and it should be fine. Around five I walk up the beach to see if anyone at the landing point has a better idea when this thing is arriving. Someone tells me it will be here in an hour with the sort of confidence I've learned not to trust in Africa but by the time I get back to the hostel the ferry has appeared on the horizon and we're headed back down the beach with our gear to meet it.

Senga Bay is a little fishing village or three villages, really, running about six or seven kilometres down Lake Malawi. We had read it was more authentic than some of the touristy towns on the lake and it did not disappoint. Forty or fifty fishing boats lined the beach just up from our hostel, men sitting around mending nets or boats or just waiting for evening to head out on the lake for a night of fishing. Women washing clothes, dishes, and themselves, by hand in the lake. Behind the beach is a huge array of tables for sorting and drying the catch, small sardine like fish from the lake. Fire pits and racks for smoking fish in the middle of it all. This turns into houses, goats, chicken and children playing in the street. Elise sees one little boy (about three or four) catch sight of us from his house and yell, "Mzungu! Mzungu!" before sticking his head down and charging out to meet us, fists pumping as he runs. There are a lot of gum trees here. They are not uncommon in Africa but there is a large concentration of them throughout the village. We have acquired some guides along the way who show us some women brewing a local maize based beer, as well as distilling some sort of liquor that they also call beer. Very strong beer. We find a local bar with a screen for the football that looks like it could be fun to revisit.

We spend the next two days relaxing on the beach waiting for the ferry. Literally waiting for the ferry. It's ETA is listed as twelve noon Wednesday, ETD one thirty. One thirty comes and goes with no sign of it. I send a message to the hostel in Monkey Bay to see if it's ok to arrive late. We check back frequently, as do the hostel staff. The ferry only comes twice a week so it's a big deal in town. When it gets to three o'clock we start talking options. Is it still worth it? What time will it get into Monkey Bay? Alternative plans? At this point we calculate it won't arrive in Monkey Bay until after midnight at the earliest. We ask around to see if it's possible to stay on board until morning, so we're not getting off in a new town in the middle of the night. General consensus is yes, just talk to the captain and it should be fine. Around five I walk up the beach to see if anyone at the landing point has a better idea when this thing is arriving. Someone tells me it will be here in an hour with the sort of confidence I've learned not to trust in Africa but by the time I get back to the hostel the ferry has appeared on the horizon and we're headed back down the beach with our gear to meet it.

When we disembark we are met by two men, both claiming to be there to collect us on behalf of the hostel. We had not heard back from the hostel before we left we were not expecting this and as we've had some trouble with people attaching themselves to us as 'guides' and then demanding tips. We tell them no thanks, we know where we're going. One of them says he is going that way anyway and walks with us, "no charge". Later we learn he is a local tour guide and that he tried to collect commission from the hostel for delivering us. It turns out the hostel had replied to my message after we left (and no longer had internet) and organised two of their staff to meet us at the ferry at two am. They even phone the boat to get our ETA and saved some dinner for us. When the boat arrived at the dock the captain told the men from the hostel that we were sleeping, so one of them came back in the morning (the other man at the dock, who actually respected our answer). Not knowing any of this at the time we felt quite bad when we found out. However, it is part of a line we are learning to walk with the local tour guides, half of whom seem to operate like some sort of mafioso.

Monkey Bay deserves it's own post so I won't say too much more here.