Fabpants in Africa: The Last Six Days

The past is here, so read it first:
Fabpants in Africa: The First Three Days
Fabpants in Africa: Days Four to Seven
Fabpants in Africa: Days Eight to Twelve
Fabpants in Africa: Days Thirteen to Twenty One

Well, this blog is being written in England! I’ve been in England since 6th March, and I’ve been very slow to update the world about my last few days in East Africa. I’ve been busy. I turned 36 years old the day after my return. I’m now officially closer to 40 than 30, and I’m still absolutely in love with life. To celebrate my love of life, I’ve been partying. Perhaps, I’ll tell you all about that later. That’s if I’m not high on crack and dancing on the rooftops.

Most people in Africa guessed me as a twenty something. One day my face will catch up with my years. One day, I’ll dream of being the person that I am today. For now, let me take you back to Saturday 1st March, when I still looked young, and lightly sun soaked. It’s time to turn my scrappy notes into typed words. Now where was I? Oh, that’s right. I was in Lusaka, where the green tomato chutney is simply a delight.

I was about to head out of Lusaka. To avoid the touts and a long wait at the bus station, tickets for an early bus had been bought in advance. Early buses leave on time and I had a long way to go. It was a great plan. It was a great plan until I walked out of the dorm and marvelled at how light it was. Fuck, it wasn’t supposed to be light. I hear that African’s don’t oversleep. Well, very tired English people do. What I was thinking? Four hours of sleep in a noisy room is the perfect set up for sleeping through an early morning alarm. What was that? No, of course I wasn’t wearing earplugs when I needed to hear the beeping of my restless clock. Me, never!

Okay, so I’m mentally retarded. But, I’d like to see you trying to sleep through the sound of drunken travellers, as they wail along to the worst possible kind of 80s rock, without wearing some sort of ear protection over (or in) your delicate auditory pits. I’d like to see you get up at 4.30am after three weeks of country hopping and shut eye deprivation. I’d like to see your miserable morning face.

To top it all off, a taxi drove me into Lusaka bus terminal as ’my’ bus drove out. The eager taxi driver kindly tried to stop the bus, but the touts had seen white skin and circled the car like vultures. It only took four hours to fill the next bus. Four hours, and a sermon later, and I was on the move. To be honest, I didn’t really care. I didn’t really care about the wait or my screw up. I felt very relaxed and at ease. I’d only overslept and I had a feeling that it would all work out. The tickets were still valid.

I was about to travel on the worst road in East Africa and a little optimism was needed. Paradoxically, the worst road in East Africa is called The ‘Great’ East Road. There’s pride in them there potholes. As for the toilets, they’re a delight too. At Luangwa Bridge, we stopped to use some toilets of the fee paying variety. Most girls just nipped around the back of the building and pissed in the open air. I braved the real toilet, but despite the porcelain unit, it was nasty. I had to hover pee with the door open, and in full public view, as I tried not to touch any part of the room. Back here in England, I feel bad for slipping past the payment desk (a dirty wooden table) on my way out, but at the time evading the small fee felt like a small victory. I now know that nice girls pee in the open air when the alternative is a small building soaked in poo.

Luangwa Bridge is a small settlement that’s grown up around the trucks and buses that pass through, and the envitable need to pee. The streets are lined with stalls selling freshly cooked fish, baskets and straw hats. As I stretched my legs and took some air, two small boys walked towards me. Behind them two toy lorries, attached to long strips of perfectly white string, glided along the ground. The lorries were beautifully crafted from milk cartons and cardboard boxes. They were the best toy lorries that I’ve ever seen. Full stop. There was no doubt that the boys knew what treasure they had. They held their heads high as they proudly trundled their homemade vehicles along the edge of the hard and dusty road.

Needless to say, the views of the Luangwa River from the bridge itself were spectacular on a far grander scale. Okay, I was more touched by the roadworthy wagons fashioned from cardboard and plastic, but that’s just me. The Luangwa was certainly a feast for tired eyes and there’s no denying that. Following recent rains, the river was wide and vast, filling a large trough of the low valley; a valley that it’s carved just for itself over a fuck of a fancy of eons. We crossed via a three hundred metre long cable bridge that stands in stark contrast to the raggedy roads that meet it on either side. Whether the tarmac path from Lusaka and Chipata will reach the bridge, without getting washed away, is a daily mystery; the bridge is more of a certainty.

Much of the journey was interspersed with small thatched huts squatting low amongst the tall rainy season grass. One small community of huts was dominated by a mobile phone antenna mast. Others hosted wooden football posts and sweet fields of maize. The road was strewn with potholes, and the bus hurtled along at great speeds. At one point the bus leaned deeply and I contemplated the laws of physics and my chances of surviving unscathed in a toppling bus. I was blasé by the time I realised that we were driving through the rain with no windscreen wipers. You just have to trust that it will all be okay or your head might explode.

It was dark when I hit Chipata, the border town. It was dark when I crossed the border. It was dark and misty as the Malawian countryside rushed by. A Zambian girl travelled with us in a private cab. Her Mum is living in Salima, Malawi and it was visiting time. The girl was shy and surprised by the hospitality of tourists. She was attentive to the behaviour and words of those visiting her part of the world. I knew I was being studied but it felt good. Our new friend was getting a free ride. The next day she would excitedly show us her mother’s lodge; a lodge for local travellers, but remarkably similar to the backpacker establishments. I met her aged grandmother, and aged grandmothers are rare in Zambia and Malawi.

In the Lilongwe night, a wildcat ran across the road; apparently that’s a rare sight too. It was a big lean cat with muscles to envy; a loner caught in the headlights. Arrangements were made to hire a car from a man that lives in a house not dissimilar to those in the village where I was raised. It felt odd to see such a house so far from home. I imagined old Mrs Durrant living there and growing sweet cherry tomatoes for visiting children, like me. That was my childhood and not theirs.

I was back in Malawi’s capital, and back at Mabuya Camp. I was where I had been so very briefly during my first day on hot soil. I had travelled more miles than I’d been counting and although I’d only spent fifteen hours in Lilongwe, I felt as though I’d come back to a place that I knew well. The atmosphere was warm, friendly and welcoming. People engaged in real conversations and no one played, let alone sang along to, ‘Sweet Child of Mine’. Mabuya entertained none of that.

I met several people from Norfolk and had more reminders of home. Us folk from Norfolk like to get about. Mother’s Day was a few sleep-filled breaths away. Someone in Norfolk would never get my Happy Mother’s Day text.

I was not integrating. Although I felt at ease at Mabuya Camp, the small world of backpacker lodges frightens me. The sweet Zambian girl, on her way to Salima, had come to stay for the night too. Overwhelmed by the white enclave, she slipped away to her room. In the morning, she admitted her surprise at how white travellers live. The ground around the small thatched buildings was wet and muddy. Dogs ran around with excitement.

Mothers Day, Maize Day, Martyrs Day; this was bank holiday Malawi. This was ‘reclaim the streets’, ‘critical mass’ and party time. This was a weekend of local celebration. It’s normally busy in Salima. It’s a flat town and bicycle taxis are rife. The bicycle taxi is a normal bicycle with a seat on the pannier rack. Most bicycle taxis are functional, with minimal padding, but a few look temptingly luxurious. Bicycle taxis carried women in fine dresses, adults clutching children and sometimes two heavy men at once. When we passed through Salima, the roads didn’t clear. People on bikes and people on foot were everywhere. For 400km or more there would be people. You know humans with a heart, a mind and a road to travel. In the towns, it was like driving through a thick drunken crowd at Glastonbury Festival. People don’t get days off work at Bank Holiday time but they still celebrate with vigour.

March 3rd, 1959, is a day that resonates through the warm heart of Malawi. What happened? Well, we did. Our nation’s ancestors were complete and utter bastards, or so it seems, and particularly so on the 3rd March. Before dawn hit the new day, British soldiers set out in the middle of the night and arrested Nyasaland African Congress members, local chiefs and those leading the ‘fight’ for independence. They arrested everyone in the heart of darkness, like the underhand swines they were, and then, when daylight came and word got out, they proceeded to gun down any protesters. Twenty six Africans, who had come to seek the freedom of the prisoners and the freedom of their country, died. For many years later the 3rd March was not celebrated, instead it was commemorated in a sombre manner. People stayed indoors and radios were turned off. Independence came some five years later, and one of those arrested, Dr Hastings Kamuzu Banda, became the first president of Malawi.

These days, when Martyrs Day falls on a Monday, just after pay day, the country goes mental for the entire weekend. Gone is sobriety. Well, that was how it was while I was there. People didn’t hide indoors in silence; they went out, drank Kachasu, a local brew that’s ninety percent proof, and tried to get knocked down by a hire car. During the drive from Lilongwe to Nkharta Bay, we made two excursions from the drunken throng on tarmac. Take a break. Tiredness kills. Tell that to the staggering fools on foot.

I can thoroughly recommend both excursions. They were both other worldly and out of keeping with the wider East African world. The road-filled mass was instantly forgotten as I marvelled at the scenes about me.

The first was a visit to the Mua Mission (KuNgoni). It’s truly an oasis hidden away in the hills. It’s a missionary that’s developed as a centre for wood carvings and cultural programmes. It hosts fine buildings, landscaped gardens and beautiful spacious toilets. Adorably carved toilet roll holders dispense soft luxurious paper.

The second was Nkhotakota Lodge. Nkhotakota Lodge is on the edge of Lake Malawi, with green grass, a gourmet menu and toilets almost as inspiring as those at the mission. Nkhotakota Lodge also makes and sells fabulous pottery onsite. The crockery on sale takes the animals of Africa as inspiration, but in a truly charming way. Oh fuck, I’ve gone all upper middle class.

More importantly, Nkhotakota provided me with my first real taste of Lake Malawi. Soft sandy beaches sat at the edge of a beautiful fresh water ocean. I could see Mozambique. To be honest, while the pottery was a great distraction, the Lake was everything. The Lake is absolutely amazing.

At Nkharta Bay, where I stayed, I spent many hours of the morning transfixed by it. Here the Lake is greeted by rocky banks, instead of sand, and canoes take people from one side of the bay to the other. I watched a girl as she prepared to swim to work and then glided through the vast blue waters like a giant fish; ‘it’s quicker and easier than walking’, she said. At night, I watched lightening and fishermen with kerosene lamps out at sea.

An old man, a local, showed me photographs of his son, his brother and his father; his dead relatives caught on camera. He spends his evenings selling chocolate bars to tourists at the backpacker lodge and watching them with an anthropologist’s eye. He visits the western world every night and goes back to his African bed at night. His back was slightly bent and his walk was slow. His legs were stolen from man twenty years young. He is a town elder, respected and wise. The chocolate is his friendly ruse.

The long windy path to the lodge at Nkharta Bay had been washed away by the rains. It was fiercely bumpy and not made for the average car. Was that the route the old man walked? It was steep and uneven and an energetic climb for anyone. It was a steep climb up the steps to use the toilet and the wonderfully hot open air shower. It was a steep climb to bed.

Nearby, I visited the vibrant town of Mzuzu, its market place and Asian run shops. The Asian boys looked like wide boys and walked with a laddish gait. A young Asian man, with a slightly deformed face, walked arm in arm with a large black man. I’ve heard that Asian’s are unpopular in Africa, but all I saw was the friendship and love of two jovial friends.

Was it all a show? Was the Asian boy a simpleton; a mentally impaired fool that laughed while threats were being made on his life? The streets were busy with both Asians and Africans. Not one person batted an eyelid as the two men laughed and sauntered by. Can there be hate for a race but love for the people? I remember the racism of my childhood and the words of a girl at the school bus stop. ‘My dad says he’s not a racist but he’d never let me marry a nigger.’ It worked the other way too, ‘I don’t like niggers, but Joe’s okay. I know Joe and he’s more like us.’ That was in rural England in the 1970s. Was I told lies about African hatred for the Asians and their successful businesses? Generalisations always gloss over the detail. I wasn’t a racist in the 1970s.

The devil may be in the detail, but the truth is too. As for beauty, sometimes you find it by accident. The trip to Rumphi was an accident, an act of kindness, the transportation of a lone traveller with huge heavy bags. There was beauty in Rumphi. It’s one of those places that etches itself to the back of your retinas and retains a wonderfully haunting presence there for many years to come.

Rumphi is a small town that sits in the heart of a lush valley, kindly sheltered by tall, steep mountains. At its edge, a bubbling stony river runs directly from Wales, or so it seemed. Fields of tobacco and maize grew straight and proud, towering over the average human. Father Isaac runs a school in Rumphi and the school secretary lives in a small house in the middle of a maize field. The lone traveller, I feel affiliated to after just two days together, is volunteering at the school. She's living with the secretary as I type. I wonder if she’s read the town’s Wikipedia entry. She found the job during her travels, so her research may have been sparse. The wiki interweb entry only adds to my desire to remember Rumphi well. It says that “Rumphi is noted for the kindness of the people (it's even rude to pass by someone without greeting them).” Rumphi is a swell kind of place. I fell in love with Rumphi and wanted to stay in the little house in the maize field too.

My last two nights in Africa were not spent in Rumphi, but at Kande Beach (pronounced Candy Beach). I swam in the lake there. It’s like swimming in a fresh water sea. I’ve always wished that the real sea was like that. I wish that the sea near me was a magnificent lake filled with clear waters and happy shoals of brightly coloured fish. At night, a power outage in Kande showed Lake Malawi for what it is; The Lake of Stars. A million bright stars filled my eyes and took my breath away. I thought that the stars only shone with such clarity and so wonderfully brightly in Hollywood films. We dug a hole in the sand and filled it with charcoal bought from the roadside. Charcoal production is a primary cause of deforestation in Malawi and most charcoal sold is illegally produced. Almost every meal is cooked on charcoal. Our meal that night would be too. It probably was every night, but this time we bought the charcoal ourselves.

I met beach boys in Malawi who answered to the names of ‘Cheese on Toast’ and ‘Fish and Chips’; names that stupid tourists might remember. I thought about changing my name to Nsima or Mielie-Meal just for them. I managed to eat nsima for the first time during my last night in East Africa. Nsima or mielie-meal (mealie meal) is actually maize flour and water. It’s cooked very slowly until it becomes a pap or a very thick porridge. Nsima is eaten bare handed and looks like a very white dough. To experience the full Malawian culinary experience, I ate a roadside roasted sweetcorn cob on my very last day. Corn on the cob is an expensive treat in England and an essential staple in Africa. It’s a-maize-ing. Let me take a bow.

A seven hour journey along the coast road (the lake road) took me back to Lilongwe and to my flight. It really was my last day. On the way back, I sighed as the roadside vendors sold charcoal, wood, live chickens, fresh fish and stall upon stall of neatly stacked juicy ripe tomatoes. Chickens, goats and wild dogs crossed the road randomly. Beautiful countryside rolled by. Bye, bye Lake Malawi.

A last excursion in Lilongwe let me see Capital City; the newer part of the nation’s capital. Wide tree lined streets, embassies, commercial banks, and the Banda Memorial site, smelt like money. This is the part of town built for the wealthy African and the diplomat from overseas. It lacked any kind of vibrancy and life. At The Four Seasons Garden Centre on Presidential Way, I felt like I’d walked into a mini-slice of rich rural England. The nursery offered a wide range of potted plants and several small craft shops sold toys, tea towels and the crappy kind of gifts you’d find in any National Trust shop in Kent. Buchanan’s restaurant is based at The Four Seasons and sells expensive meaty meals. They have ‘classical and jazz brunches’.

My trip ended more aptly with a hairy ride to the airport. A car coming the other way decided to overtake in our drive space. I narrowly escaped a head-on collision as a flurry of evasive off-road action took us out of its stubborn path. The icing on the cake was the thick black exhaust fumes of a lame vehicle at our bow. The smog helped us to completely miss the turning; the main airport junction marked by a mass of massive billboards. We didn't see those billboards until we came back the other way. I made it though. I made it and the flight was just perfect. I watched sheet lightening fill the night sky as we took off and after a little snooze I found myself in Gatwick. I ate breakfast at Pizza Express at 7am. Hello England.