Fabpants in Africa: The First Three Days

A mythical flight brought me to Africa. Air Malawi is really Air Zimbabwe, but it's still like catching a train to Hogwarts, on a railway line that's run by four year olds. Compare and contrast their websites and you might just begin to understand what I mean. My flight didn’t appear on the display boards, but I successfully found the secret way in, and my magical powers should not be dismissed. A white board, a flight number and a gate; no photographs allowed. It’s not a matter of security; it’s just too embarrassing for the professionally trained Gatwick staff to share.

I made it, and, miraculously, I was not the only one. The flight was cluttered by Zimbabweans flying on to Harare. And joy of joys, one of them was an overgrown chav with a full blown personality disorder. Hooray! I say this, because he sat in front of me for a full hour and I’ve met the wonderful world of the personality disorder before. He was a thirty something dressed by Sports World at their finest. I get cheap gym clothes from the aforementioned ‘fashion’ house and nearly got eaten by one of their escalators once, but that’s another story for another day. I look great in chav gear. I am also the terrible person that rejoiced when my comrade in naff clothing, and his behaviour without borders, uprooted himself and lost his seat. Yes, Zimbabweans don’t do allocated seats. It’s not just the disordered personalities that are disorderly.

The flight was delayed by one hour as a result of unmusical chairs, that and a detour to avoid the airspace of a “political situation”. Okay, it was the people moving around like they were at speed dating party, and the challenge of counting their ever moving bottoms, that primarily caused the hold-up, but bad stuff is going on in international airspace. Believe me. After the airline staff had tried to count the passengers ten times or more, and a queue of international flights had built up behind us, an exasperated Gatwick staff member boarded our flight. “Will everybody just sit down”, she shouted, and once again for the King Chav, who at this very moment decided to get out of his seat in front of me, “WILL YOU PLEASE SIT DOWN!” He didn’t take too kindly to that. No one had been lost between the airport lounge and the plane and we were off. It took a firm English hand to sort that one out. I was saying goodbye to that hand for three and a half weeks. What was I doing?!

All in all the flight was great. It was half full, roomy and for the most part comfortable. For a flight that doesn’t exist, it did an exceedingly good job. Only when we were flying over Malawi, did I realise that the seatbelt wasn't working properly and I tied a knot in it. Come on, you can’t expect everything?

Green lush land - brought to life by recent rains - lay below me, as we descended. Little thatched huts and mud lanes were sparsely distributed across the land. That was Lilongwe. I am currently in Mbeya, Tanzania and not Malawi at all. Mbeya, a small city in Tanzania, is more urban than the capital of Malawi.

The small airport of Lilongwe marks the start of my time in Africa, and only nine of us left the flight. I was greeted by a man behind a small wooden desk. He moved from the residents’ desk to the visitors’ desk just for me; they were both made of wood. He needed a destination address to let me in and I was ignorant. Without any fuss, the immigrations officer took my passport to the room next door and asked the person collecting me for an address. It was friendly, easy and very accommodating. I later realised you just make addresses up. They just need one; and they don’t care what it is.

In Lilongwe, I was introduced to men shearing grass on the roadside or a dollar a day and roads that are better built than those in Hove. Heavily laden bikes made a mockery of my weekly shop. The two wheeled transportation wonder has served me well over the years, but I may have to test it some more. Perhaps, when I return, I should carry several crates of beer, a few live chickens and a coffin or too. I seem to be missing out on something. Oh yeah, I should also carry more on my head; I am definitely not utilising my head enough. I did once try carrying a barbecue on my head on the way home from Argos. No one can say I don’t try things out.

A large section of Lilongwe is highly westernized, not looking unlike some Spanish towns. Supermarkets and fast food joints, such as Nandos and Steers sell everything that you can buy in the shops at home. Every other shop sells mobile phone simcards, Celtel being the most popular, and mobile phone paraphernalia is everywhere; in both shops and the market place. This seems to be common for Africa. I visited a very clean, modern dental surgery. A security guard protected it along with all the other high class services in the building. Most cars were relatively new and many high end 4x4 vehicles sat at the side of the streets. I wondered if I was really in Africa. The market place looked more like Vietnam.

This is not to say there isn’t poverty; there is, and lots of it, but the Lilongwe poor were mild and friendly in their begging and hawking. After dark, I hear it is a different story and walking the streets late at night can lead to death. We met a man whose cousin had died, just last month, whilst walking from one bus stop to another at 9pm at night. That was in Blantyre. He didn’t even have any money. Poverty and wealth sit side by side in Africa. It has more capitalist roots and capitalist based wealth than Eastern Europe and it embodies capitalism at its most evil. People want everything for nothing. We, the developed nations, got everything for nothing robbing Africa. We developed on the back of African freebies; slaves, gold and coffee. That’s our colonial legacy; capitalist greed and the oh so high and mighty Christian guilt. Boy, did we live them that.

A group of rowdy males on a private bus asked me if I like black men and shouted complimentary remarks about my bottom. There is a rumour that they were the Malawian football team. I like the idea of a national football team approving of my juicy white behind, even if the team only has a reputation for drunken antics and their on-pitch finesse is far from renowned. I’ll take compliments from anyone, me; tramps, senile women and the whole Malawian football team. Come and have a shot at making my day.

From Lilongwe we caught a very full and luxurious bus to Karonga. It wasn’t the bus with the footballers onboard. The bus was due to pick us up at 11pm, but arrived at 12.30am; not bad for Africa. We waited at a bus station with two sweet security guards, who spent hours cleaning the buses and protected us from the outside night world. The bus was our home for the next 10 hours.

We past children having lessons under the shade of trees, small brick houses with thatched or corrugated iron roofs, and lush undulating countryside, some growing crops and some gently wild. A man leading oxen by a long stretch of rope, wearing one Wellington boot and one sandal, signed to me that he would cry when I was gone. He was smiling and we both waved with laughter as the bus pulled away. Sorry Malawi FC; I’m with the one wellied wonder now. He was toothlessly charming. He made me smile from the depth of my heart.

We stopped for an hour in Mzuzu, the largest town in Northern Malawi, home to a large market and bus station, and a fine line of truly plush banks. As we drove away, the bus driver changed the entertainment from Chris de Burgh’s Lady in Red and Lionel Richies ‘Hello’, to blasting out a semi-tuned radio station that played African music at full volume. I’m not sure which was worse. Even with my earplugs in, I was deafened. Some intervention later, the volume decreased and the tuning improved. Bloody white colonial bastards telling Africans to tune in their radios and turn it down. I tell ya. It was 6.30am. Mostly, the roads were great and the journey was easy. For a small section of the ride, we went very slowly and bounced around like jumping beans. It was night and dark, so I couldn’t see, but I think we were off road. It wasn’t for long and the driver was very careful. That was before Mzuzu.

At Karonga, a taxi took us to the border of Tanzania. With four of us in the back, it was squashed at first, but we lost people along the way and gained space. I successfully entered Tanzania, some fifty dollars and two forms later. This country hopping is easy with the right help. I won’t mention the thirty minutes of haggling for a good taxi price to travel the next seventy miles. It was midday and very hot. I’m not sure if it really happened. We became the border entertainment and crowds of ten or more gathered to watch, with people coming or going; as and when they felt bored. Boys who give people bicycle rides (or backies) for money, decided it was more fun to watch us than to hawk their pannier racks. Were we quibbling over pennies or pounds? I’m really not so sure. The boys laughed, watched inquisitively and sometimes joined in by advising the driver in their own Swahili tongue. Eventually, we were off with a driver that came over and stole us for a better price. Actually, his tout stole us. Nothing is as simple as it seems. After a promise that only one other would travel with us, we picked up and dropped off several more as the miles rolled by. Communal travel is in.

We travelled some 750km to Mbeya on my second day in Africa. I spent one night catching limited sleep on a plane, and then did the same on a bus when darkness struck again. The Tanzanian countryside, that we past, is much hillier than that in Malawi, with impressive mountains and valleys, and carefully portioned out agricultural fields; where the land is not too steep to farm. It is also more densely populated, with a grittier feel to the populated areas. While some of the houses may be more luxurious, they are dirtier and the corrugated iron is often rusty.

Mbeya, my current temporary home, is a city of a million small shops. At first glance, it seemed like every building was a shop. I have eaten well twice and been to a wonderful non-smoking bar; where fancy polythene covered sofas entertain the wealthier bottoms of town, and a sweet waiter pops in for a quick pint after work. I watched a man stealing cigarette butts, only to be chased off and lightly smacked by the proprietor of our iniquitous drinking den. Two tour guides made conversation and then lightly sold me their excursions. The weather was temperate and the hills were filled with clouds instead of promise. Like Lilongwe, many of the shops advertise their wares with paintings of their products on the shop front. Often logos for well known brands, such as Dell or Intel, are painted on too, and artists must be in great demand. There are many phone shops, some in purpose built buildings. They stand in stark contrast to the other shops. They have large foyers and are far superior to those at homes. Mobile phones are big in Africa.

In the Scotland of Africa, or Mbeya to those who prefer, market stalls sit next to the bus station on hard mud, and no doubt dust when the rains have past. People fry chips in woks on the ground in-front of you and then mix them with eggs, to make chip omelettes or chips 'my eye' (Chips Mayai). The way the Swahili sounds made me think of egg yolks peering out of a sea of egg white and chips, but a very greasy broken egg omelette it is. A deep fried battered Mars Bar with Chips Mayai would guarantee a true Scotland of Africa heart attack; so open up a store now. People grill bananas, sell fruit from large wooden plates on their head, and a man walks around town selling music cassettes from a cart. The cart sings the music he aims to sell; and hiding behind a curtain is his battery powered old school ghetto blaster.

I have used two ‘hover’ loos, and one of them had a flush. The water is brown in our hotel room. I realised this after my second shower and having brushed my teeth four times with it. The sink is dirty and I didn’t notice the colour of the water. It was when I wondered why the toilet water never cleared that the truth slipped under my rose tinted specs. We have a proper toilet with dirty coloured water.

We saw a man pulling a cart with two people on board today, only he wasn’t pulling it, it was pushing him. It hurtled past us down a hill at high speed, and the raggedy tyres looked ready to fly off and cause injury.

I didn’t travel by cart, but I did go on a public minibus today (and by coincidence, the same one twice). This is one of the minibuses that are common in Africa, and often overfilled. The Foreign Office says for Malawi: “Travel between towns by public minibus or pick-up truck is not recommended; vehicles are often in poor condition and overloaded. Fatal accidents are frequent and emergency services are basic.“ I travelled within town and in Tanzania, not Malawi. That’s my excuse, but I’m sure the same advice applies. I'm a bad person, but most travellers will do the same. It’s the real Africa and travelling in a tourist bubble is wrong too. Only four people were standing, and for the most part of both journeys I got to sit. In the city the vehicles move slowly and the bus felt safe. Okay, the sliding door nearly fell off when we stopped, but the low speeds and warm soft bodies provided for a general feeling of communal comfort. I want eternal youth and to live forever, but a communal death, in the warmth of everyday people, appeals to me far more than dying a high speed death alone. And, of course, nobody died today. I hope they won’t tomorrow either.

That is when I head to Dar es Salaam on the Tazara train. All going well, I will leave at 2.30pm in a first class carriage, in a compartment that I will share with my travelling companion alone. The journey will take some twenty hours and will pass through a national park where giraffes and lions run amok. At the station, where the Tazara tickets fell into my hands, people watched a small television from pews and lined up their bags in neat lines to reserve their place in third class. We had to buy four seats, and our own private compartment; we are not the same sex and the carriages are single sex only. We are not travelling economy. Apparently, it is unsafe and uncomfortable. We are rich bastards. We are Westerners.

It is my third day in Africa and I am online. Internet cafes are easy to find in the cities. Perhaps they are all over. I am here because someone else wanted to be here. I would ignore you if I could.

The future is here, so read it next:
Fabpants in Africa: Days Four to Seven
Fabpants in Africa: Days Eight to Twelve
Fabpants in Africa: Days Thirteen to Twenty One
Fabpants in Africa: The Last Six Days