Flies, Fishermen and Flights of Fancy

The days flew by, as dust wafted behind the land cruiser on our way South. A smile curved my lips when we reached the brilliant coast of Lake Malawi again. Oh, how I loved its azure shores. One day Eddie pointed out a dark cloud across the lake. It looked like smoke, but Eddie shook his head no. The hazy cloud that drifted on the horizon was in fact lake flies. Catherine and John had never seen them before, but Eddie remarked that they were edible and considered a delicacy by the locals when they swarmed across the lake. They caught them by the handfuls and squished them into balls, then fried them up into "delicious" fly cakes. As we were not there at the right time of year, we would not get the pleasure of trying them. Eddie assured us that we were not missing anything. He had tried them before and wasn’t impressed. As I had tried the other Malawian treat of grasshoppers and hadn’t been a fan, I didn’t rue our timing all that much. I guess protein is protein though, when it is scarce to come by. I just preferred the view.

The lapping waves were a welcome companion, as I curled up on the beach at night as well. With the flies located across the lake and no mosquitoes to bug me, I could look up at the pristine, star-lit sky in awe. It was also a treat to watch fishermen stringing their nets out in the moon’s glow in hopes of catching a meal for the next day. The long row of lights that represented each fisherman along the net, painted a line of humanity in my mind’s dark eye. I was mesmerized and fell in love with Malawi all over again.

Before I knew it though, the lake was behind us and I was let out at Annie’s Guest House, in Lilongwe, for the night. I was amongst backpackers again and enjoyed the camaraderie, for an evening at least. Stories were swapped and chocolate was shared. Our laughter was only good until noon though and then I met back up with Eddie to head off for the next leg of our journey.

After jumping into the land cruiser again, we journeyed on across the continent. We stopped in Chipata, then made our way across Zambia to Lusaka. Conversation lulled and was wan, at best. In bursts of discordant chatter, I spoke of my plans for the rest of my travels. Eddie nodded politely, while he drove across the dry terrain dotted with rondavels. When I said that I was thinking of heading back towards Harare, then south again to Cape Town, he suggested an alternate route.

“Why not cut across at Kasane and travel south down Namibia for somewhere you haven’t been before?” he said.

Why not indeed. And with that, plans changed again. I silently wished goodbye to my erstwhile friends in Harare and opened the door to adventure in new lands, as yet unexplored. I still had a ways to go before I could be introduced to this new country for me, but a twinge of excitement filled me again. I fell silent thinking about all the places I had been and people that I had met, but was still present enough to wave at the villagers that we passed who eagerly lifted their hands in greeting. Their enthusiasm still brought a smile to my lips, even after nine months on the road. While Lusaka neared on the road we travelled, my own trail grew as my mind drifted along on a new flight of fancy.  

The View Out the Window

I watched the world fly by through the window of Eddie’s land cruiser now. I was headed south, re-tracing my steps back to South Africa, and eventually home. Today’s stop was in Karonga, Malawi where we picked up supplies. Eddie and John went shopping, while the other John and Catherine got out to stretch their legs and browse around Karonga. I stayed back in the land cruiser to scribble a few words in my journal and process where I was at. As there was no money in my wallet to spend anyway, it made more sense to stay put and hence keep out of trouble.

Gladly, trouble seemed to be skirting my world for the moment. Neale was long gone and Nimesh was a friend that I could hold in my heart, if not close enough to offer a personal hug in my arms. I reflected on the other friends that I had met on my journey. Dear Brett had been an excellent travelling companion, bar none. Miki had been the surprise ghost from my past, that had set me off on a path of adventure that I surely would not have stumbled upon on my own. The family that I was lucky to have been rekindled with had filled me full of a heart-song that I had never known and would cherish the rest of my days. There were many others too, like Ian, my erstwhile man in Harare, Stuart and Rob, my house mates in Lamu, Oliver and Taro, other faces that graced us with their presence in our van Arnie. The list went on and on. As I sat alone in the land cruiser though, I felt slightly hollow realizing that it was all coming to a close. While I might yet get a chance to see Max, Keith and Ndaba in Victoria Falls when I arrived, I just as easily might not.  At this rate, who was to know?

All I knew for certain, was that I was very lucky to have picked up the ride with Eddie at the helm of his “Tusker” fleet. He came to me at a point when I needed a sign. His offer was surely the most glaring sign I could have asked for. When I was not sure which way to go, he gently led me to the path home. And at that moment, when I looked up and saw him ambling towards the land cruiser, I knew that it was meant to be. In a week’s time, 1500 kilometers would pass under the vehicle's wheels. That was a lot of time to think about the days past and the days to come, but for now I scrambled to offer whatever help I could before we hit the road again. Repacking done, I wedged my growing backside back into the seat and picked up my view out the window again. Livingstone, ho!

Working for a Living

Life on the truck was still an uncertainty. I had been shown some paperwork, but wasn’t exactly feeling the love from Kylie and Angus. We were in Dar es Salaam and I had the dubious pleasure of sanding and painting equipment for the truck. All of our passengers had trundled off to Zanzibar. I would have loved to go, but was reminded that this was a working trip. There would be time in the future for fun again, but for right now, I was earning my keep.

Yes, I had the fun pleasure of varnishing a table in Chitemba, while the passengers went to climb Livingstonia. I scraped sand mats with a wire brush in Karonga, and painted truck pieces and stools. While it felt good to actually physically work, it also added to a feeling of loneliness that I couldn’t shake. No matter how much black and white paint I slopped around, I could not forget my former travelling companion Brett’s smiling face. Despite singing a little fast on my beleaguered walkman, Bob Marley’s crooning voice in my ear didn’t help either. My labours  left me  with too much time to reflect.

Before we arrived in Dar es Salaam, we got to see the beauty of the Tanzanian countryside though. As soon as we left the Malawian border behind, the scenery changed. We went from the lush beaches of Lake Malawi, to tea plantations that stretched to mountainous backgrounds. They were generously interspersed with stately banana palms. It made for gorgeous green valleys  that filled my vision as far as I could see.  

Shortly after entering Tanzania, we made our first bush camp of the five-week tour. It was mild enough to sleep outside and I woke to the stars. While it was wondrous to look up at them and watch the sky lighten, I could not stop the tear that slid off my cheek. Brett had been the one to appreciate sunrises. Without him by my side I felt adrift and oh so lonesome. My dream of living and working on the African continent seemed hollow without a friend in the world to share it with. My birthday steadily approached and a tiny flame of hope burned that perhaps I would bump into Brett again. The reality of the path I had taken made it unlikely though.

Our second day on the road in Tanzania, the landscape changed from vibrant green to dry yellow. Mealie patches and dry grasses dominated the landscape now and despite our proximity to the equator, you could tell that it was winter. The changing leaves were nothing in comparison to the brilliance of Canada’s Autumn displays, but we did not have the mud huts that leant the reminder that I was far from home. I was definitely in Africa.

The excitement of reaching Dar es Salaam, while great for the group, was less so for me. Once the gang was gone, we gathered supplies for the truck and ourselves, then set out for a camp outside of town called Silver Sands. Melancholy followed me, as a sad song by UB40 and the loss of a lover of a character in my book, left me in tears. I allowed the tears to come, as I missed friends and family, and even finally allowed some tears for my long-lost relationship from the beginning of my trip. There was no one to talk to about my loneliness though, so I shook it off and returned to the present. The present held more truck maintenance that saw me scraping paint off of cupboards till break time. I was then left to catch up in my journal and read.

The hours became painful though, and intermixed with a desire to explore the city of Dar es Salaam, I wished to see the only friendly faces I knew, that of our passengers. They would return in a few days. Our reunion would be short-lived though, as we would only explore the city for a day, before it would be time to head off to Arusha. From there, they would go to the Serengeti. I would be headed for Nairobi though and the end of my training trip.  The word was that I had a trip lined up for another 5-week Overland from Nairobi to Harare. I still had to get my evaluation though. That would happen in Nairobi. 

A Ghost on Board

Bodies littered the filthy, open deck. Colourful sarongs tucked in close beside stunned chickens, and giant bags of God knows what.  It still amazed me that live chickens could be found everywhere. You saw them scratching in the dirt around rondavels, at market waiting to be plucked and fried, or sold to another for the same treatment. They were a common traveller on buses, and here too on the ferry sailing South to Monkey Bay.

The large checkered polyethylene bags, that were always stuffed to bursting, were an anomaly as well.  They could hold a traveller’s entire worldly possessions, or more likely, their wares to hawk at the market. Always dirty white with a blue or red  pattern, they adorned women’s arms and heads. It struck me that the men usually travelled much lighter, leaving the heavy work to the women.

Chickens and plastic totes were not the only thing that the women travelled with. Everywhere you looked,  babies clung quietly to women’s backs or chests. You never heard them crying or making a fuss, but perhaps that was due to their close proximity to the most important person in their lives; Mother. These mothers seemingly did not even notice the addition to their load. Babies were a constant and just a part of who these women were. It was only age that released them from that burden.

The men on the other hand, had it comparatively easy. No babies or children clung to them, and luggage was left to the women. They could be seen engrossed in a  game of bao just about anywhere. Even here, I could see a few games set up in various corners of the ferry, before we even left shore. Their factions were boisterous and held the air of a party. I wouldn’t doubt that a carton of Chibuku or two were being imbibed. They loved their shake shake, but despite giving it a try, I was not a convert to the millet beer. The taste of the sludge was not worth the possible effects that could be gleaned from drinking it.

I was not offered any now though. At present, I was curled onto a little bench that I clung to. We had left Nkhata Bay at 3PM. There was to be a stop at Senga Bay and a few other little ports, before we reached Monkey Bay  at 6 or 7AM two days hence. It was a very long ferry ride and my white legs were the only ones that walked this boat. I was a ghost amongst a sea of black travellers. Curious eyes followed any movements I made, but the shy women made no attempt to speak to me. I pondered that it was not their place to speak, and certainly not to a foreigner. My inner voice gave thanks that I had not been born to their reality.

Without Brett by my side now, I silently watched the world go by. I prayed that my pack would not disappear overnight, as I shivered through the misty darkness on deck. I was glad to have it too, for the cool night air found me digging for extra clothes to put on, so I would survive my ordeal. The warm bodies of sleepy chickens looked inviting now, as I mentally willed warmth into my chilled limbs. And while I could have looked into an inner cabin for the voyage, my pockets were thin in change. So many others were willing to ride on deck, hence I deemed that I wasn’t above it myself. I looked around at the others that huddled about  and couldn’t help but contrast our stations though. Comparatively, I could have afforded better accommodations. Elusive sleep screamed my folly.

It would be a long unpleasant ride, ever vigilant of the filth and thieves that potentially lurked everywhere, but as long as this ferry did not sink, as the other had done a mere month before that, I would survive.

Spare Me a Towel

The sun rose warm on another beautiful day in Malawi. I pushed the mosquito net aside from my sleepy cocoon and wandered out to join Brett for coffee on the verandah. Joey heard our muted conversation and hurried over to serve us our breakfast. I felt like royalty as I sipped on my freshly squeezed orange juice served by our attentive minion.  Nothing in life was as sweet as this day and I savoured every moment of it.

My day continued in a tranquil vein, as I headed out to the beach to catch up in my journal. I laid my towel in the shade, aware that the day would get hot soon enough. The hope was for a lazy day of swimming, writing and nothing more strenuous than that. My time in Mwaya Beach was coming to a close and I wanted to soak in every nuance of it.

I laid my handful of possessions down and strode into the gentle waters that lapped at my skin.  I dove into the warm lake and popped up for air, only to strikeout for the distant shore.

Aw, who was I kidding though? After several strong strokes, I paused to tread water and look around. A wisp of wind touched stately palms on shore and I caught sight of the housekeeper wandering over to clean our hut. I rolled onto my back and lazily kicked my feet, as I traced cloud shapes in the Malawian sky. A bird flew overhead gliding towards shore.  Life was perfect in this moment and I wanted it to last forever. My sun-warmed  smile filled the universe and I was at peace.

Eventually my fingers began to pickle though and I made my way back to shore. I laid down on my towel and picked up my pen to capture life around me. I became engrossed in recounting my experiences at school the day before and only looked up when I noticed a man walking by me on the beach. I looked up with a smile in greeting.

“Jambo”, he said.  “Hello”

“Hello,” I replied. “Beautiful day today.”

I noticed the net thrown over his shoulder and asked him if he was going fishing. He looked confused, so I pointed to the stringy bundle on his back.

“No,” he said. “I work at the Matete post office. This is my towel.”

His towel was nothing more than a few threads loosely strung together. He then proceeded to ask me for my towel. While my heart lurched, I had to say no. It was my only towel and a possession that I would continue to have need of for the foreseeable future. While I could afford to go and purchase a new one, I was still on a tight budget.  Comparatively, I was rich in their eyes. Just by my presence there alone. Handing them anything and everything would do little good in the greater scheme of things though. In Mozambique, the widespread aid organizations that handed out alms only helped to create a beggar society. I loathed the thought of the friendly people of Malawi following in those same footsteps.

My visitor took his leave with a smile. He wandered off to enjoy a bath in the lake and I was left to contemplate the economics of wealth in a continent largely unfamiliar with it. Back home, I had clothes and towels aplenty. More than enough to spare and share. I knew that hand-outs took their toll in pride though. I offered my good-will and that was enough for the day. I prayed that the warm heart of Africa could keep its special nature, and perhaps one day be able to proudly have more wealth to share with its people. Today though, it shared what it was able and I was grateful for all that Malawi was.

No Chamba, No Marriage, Just School

Now though, I sat in front of hundreds of nervous pupils as they received their marks. I was at the end of a line of  the school’s twelve teachers, and tried to follow the proceedings as best I could. I was able to get the gist of the fact that they were reading out all the students marks from recent testing, and the results were not good. New testing formats had been implemented and it would seem that the majority of the students had failed. I silently wondered at the practice of reading grades aloud, so that everyone could hear how well or poorly one did, but then remembered their lack of supplies. They could not spare the paper to write down individual student's marks.

Once the dismal results had been read, speeches began.  I was lucky to get a quiet English synopsis of the speeches that the teachers addressed to the students. There was an announcement that a new junior primary school was to be opened the next term. It would only be for Standards one through three, but it would help to reduce the walk that some of the children had to make, and the hope was that the school could be expanded later. I was shocked to learn that some of the students had to walk upwards of four-and-a-half kilometers to school every day. The reality of that would be that many of those children would just not bother to make it all the way to school on many a day.

The Head Master continued and spoke of the ills of “chamba” or marijuana. I looked out at the children in front of me and was saddened that this was a reality that needed to be spoken, but glad to hear that the issue was being addressed. Another teacher spoke against the practice of early marriages. It would seem that many families married off their children young, so that there were fewer mouths to feed. The problem with that though, was that it only served to create new young mouths to feed.  When children begin having children at age 14 or 15, there was time enough to have quite a few babies.

I processed the experience the best I could through my translator, trying not to disrupt the proceedings. My head swam with the details and my heart ached at this very real picture of life in Malawi. All of these smiling faces in front of me held such beautiful promise, but their odds of success in the school system and later in life were bleak. Some of these children would continue on to high school. Even less would be able to attend university. As the ramifications threatened to overwhelm me, a young girl crept over and tugged at my skirt, reaching for my hand to touch. With a smile I returned to the present, and promised myself that I would not forget this day or the lessons that these genuine people offered me. The warm heart of Africa had stolen mine. 

A Drop in the Bucket

Somehow I ended up sitting at the head table with all of the teachers, and Head Master. A sea of little black faces looked towards me, listening intently to the speeches being poured forth by teachers, Head Master and Deputy Head-Master. The only white face out there was Brett, almost invisible though he was, swamped by the hordes of little boys that fawned over him with his magical camera slung around his neck once again.

As we walked to school that morning, our entourage of children had grown from one or two, to a large contingency by the time we reached the Mwaya Beach Public School. Children danced and skipped, hooted and hollered, as we walked along. When we neared the building, our group merged with the other students that milled about, and Brett and I found ourselves under the wing of an adult now. The Deputy Head Master at that!

I felt like an honoured guest, as we were treated to a tour of a class room and the main office. The Deputy Head Master had a running commentary of life for the students in his community, as he showed us the sparsely decorated class room. There was a chalk board in the simple rectangular room, but not a chair or desk to be seen. In fact, most of the lessons were done outside in the open air, as it made little difference if they were inside or out, except for on rainy days. Supplies were almost non-existent and the chalkboards could not even sport chalk to illustrate points on a good day. The beleaguered teachers had classes that numbered in the hundreds. How could one person teach effectively to a class of over 300 pupils? And why would they want to, when their pay was poor and usually late?

This was a far cry from the schooling that I had gone through back in Canada. I could not help but think that the teachers there had nothing to complain about in comparison.

A tour of the cramped office was a little better, but still dismal in its breadth. Stacks of books sat on the floor and on shelves, but when compared to the numbers of pupils, it was a far cry from the necessary needs. There were 1096 registered students at Mwaya Beach, and the stacks of books I saw numbered at most close to a hundred; probably less. When the Deputy Head Master learned I was from Canada, he picked up a book and handed it to me with the cover open. My national pride fluttered, as I read that it had been donated by the Canadian government. It would seem that they had sent several text and workbooks. It helped, but looking out at the sea of students, I knew it was just a drop in the bucket. 

The Colour of Poverty

Brett and I lingered over our candle-lit dinner, and reflected on our day.  While I had taken the opportunity to lounge the day away, he had ventured out with his camera slung around his neck, intent on capturing the heart of Malawi via his lens. Children had swarmed around him, jumping, posing and begging to have their pictures taken. Laughter followed him around the beach and through the village, as he wandered. The sparkle in his eyes told me that he had enjoyed every minute of it.

I had seen that myself, when he ambled up the beach with his entourage of boys giggling and yelling. They had stopped at my towel where I was reading, and their antics were a sight to behold. Gregarious boys were laughing and running circles around us. Shy girls quietly clung to the outskirts of the circle, a part of the fray, but by their nature, removed. A few daring girls came over to feel my hair and skin, to see if it felt any different than their own black counter-parts. I encouraged their curiousity and admired their beauty as well. It was a delightful exchange and the mirth was infectious. By the time the group dispersed, I was smiling and laughing too. 

Over dinner our conversation was a little more serious though.  While the children had been happy and friendly,  their poverty was all too apparent. They were dressed in nothing more than rags. Excessive wear had robbed the clothes of any colour that they once may have sported. The contrast between their childish glee, was strangely muted by their drab monotonous colour palette. While it did not dampen their enthusiasm, it did diminish our joy.

One image remained in my mind of a little boy in the group that had been wearing a pair of trousers that were bereft of a crotch or bum. His little “chaps” spoke volumes of the standard of living that was so disparate from my own, so far away.  While Brett reminded me that he probably kept his better clothes for school, that could not shake the vision from my eyes. I would not have kept his clothes for rags back home, but here he was running around in public without adequate covering. I am not overly prudish, but his exposure hurt my heart and soul.

 As we watched the last light of the day disappear, we wondered what we would learn the following morning. It would prove to be interesting, as we would see exactly what some of these children did wear to school. It was the last day of the term for the students at Mwaya Beach Primary School. A couple of boys that Brett had met on the beach had invited us to tag along with them to hear test results and tour their classrooms.

I watched the full moon rise into the sky, before being driven under my mosquito net for the night to dream of my date at the chalkboard.

A Stolen Heart

“Sheets,” I exclaimed. “Look, there is actual sheets on the beds!”

“And mosquito nets too,” I added, fingering the delicate gauze material that hung from the roof of the thatch hut.

“Pretty sweet mate,” Brett nodded as he dropped his back pack onto the matching twin bed on his side of the hut.

A man materialized at the door with the lemonade we had requested.

“Thanks Joey,” I said as he placed the tray on the sturdy wooden table and set the two tall glasses down.

“Can I get you anything else?” he asked yet again. We had been here a handful of  minutes, yet Joey had already taken our dinner orders, retrieved pillows for our luxurious looking beds and shown us every courtesy he could. I could tell that our 50 kwacha a night was going to be the best money I had ever spent.  

After double checking that we had everything we needed yet again, Joey bowed, then quietly walked back in the direction of the kitchen. I caught sight of the swish of a colourful sarong disappearing around a corner, then turned back to our room.

“This is going to be awesome,” Brett declared as he bounced on the bed with a laugh. “What should we do first?”

“I need to jump in the lake,” I declared.

The sparkling lake beckoned just a stone’s throw from our hut. Brett stepped onto the porch to give me a minute to change, then we headed down to the beach. Dropping my towel, sunglasses, journal and pen, I ran to the lake’s edge and splashed in to my thighs, before diving head long into the warm waters of Lake Malawi.

I burst through the water’s surface and smiled my face up to the sun. In a pure moment of joy, I kicked out and drifted on my back gazing at the Malawian sky that surrounded me. The sandy beach lay behind me, with its cluster of neat little huts tucked amongst green palm trees. Looking further out into the lake, I saw men in mokoros fishing for the myriad of fish that called this place home. I idly drifted my legs back and forth to gently propel myself along and luxuriated in the moment.

There was no place I had to go. There was nothing pressing that I had to do. I did not even have to worry about what to scrounge up for dinner, as Joey was presenting us with seafood crepes that evening. Later, he would trek across the sandy expanse from the kitchen to our hut, with delightful home-made cuisine on a covered silver platter, but right now there was just me and a serenity that I cherished with all my heart. The warm heart of Africa had stolen mine.

Joey’s Seafood Crepes (for one)

·         2 small eggs

·         ¾  cup flour

·         Pinch of salt

·         ¾  cup  milk

·         1 tsp baking powder

·         1 Tbsp oil

*Beat the eggs until smooth, then add flour and salt stirring

*Add milk and oil until smooth

*cook crepes and set aside

Filling:

·         Cut-up pieces of kampango or chambo (fish)

·         1 clove of Garlic

·         1 cup of milk

·         1 Tbsp of cheese (white sauce)

·         1 ½ Tbsp butter

·         1 medium onion

*Fry fish and set aside(can substitute chicken or meat)

*Cook remaining ingredients, then add fish back in and simmer for 10-15 min

*pour filling onto crepe, wrap it up and serve

Delicious!

Carved Delights

A constant buzz filled my ears as I wound my way through the stalls. Chickens clucked in the dirt, waiting to be plucked and stuffed into giant woks and served with nsima (the local version of a corn porridge). I had eaten enough of it to find it palatable, only as long as it came with the ever-present tomato and onion sauce that was found everywhere in southern Africa.

 And thank God I liked tomatoes, as the small fruit were one of the few things that were prevalent. Onions and eggplants were also readily apparent in little triangular hills on top of rickety wooden stalls or worse, balanced precariously on a piece of plywood resting atop an over-turned bucket. Mixed with rice and the luxury of salt and pepper, a feast was to be had any night.

For protein, beef seemed always to be tough and pork non-existent, so beans and peanut butter filled the niche. A rare treat of fresh fish infused my vegetarian style diet, but I grew lumpy on the starchy staples that were my fare. Always a good reason to dive into Lake Malawi to swim off a meal or two.

While I did pick up our staple tomatoes to fill our backpacking larder, this shopping trip was centered on a more cultural note. Leaving the greasy stands and piles of glass coke bottles behind, I walked further into the market in search of wood carvings. I did not need the Bob Marley tapes, and while tempted by local tinny music blaring from ancient ghetto blasters, I walked on.

This is where I fell in love. Wooden carved bowls, figures of men, tables, and of course the famous chief’s chairs. They were exquisite and I wanted one of them all. The detailed facial features carved into the dark hardwood were incredible. Elephants, zebras and a wide variety of other animals carefully decorated the backs of chairs. I had no idea how I would be able to narrow down my search for the perfect table, but the first challenge was to not look interested.

A white face amongst a sea of black stands out pretty obviously though. “Sistah, sistah!” were the calls that followed me as I sauntered down the long line of wood carvers’ stalls. Their wares were lined up on the dirt, but their perfection was not marred. My eyes flicked from the intricately carved women balancing parcels on their heads, to ferocious lions snarling their threats. What to choose, I pondered?

Bartering was part of the business though and I stealed myself to try and drive a hard bargain. Who was I to kid anyone though. If you paused too long in front of a stall, a young man would jump up and put a giraffe in your hand and throw a price in your ear. A sparkle of an eye would have the salesman encouraging you to sit in the sturdy luxury of an enormous chief’s chair, no matter that it would have to be transported back home to Canada. My mission was one of the delicate tables that had caught my fancy though. Three long legs carved from a single piece of wood were entwined in the middle and served as a tripod for a flat, round top. I had to have one.

I walked up and down the stalls, lingering here, smiling at a seller’s antics there, but returned to a little stall with some beautiful tables that called to me. The smell of money was strong on me and I casually asked the price of a table with elephants circling the perimeter of its surface. Valiantly, I attempted to feign surprise and shock at the inflated prices, but secretly would have paid whatever number of kwacha was demanded for the artwork. Having shown interest though, now I was committed.

After a small amount of numbers were thrown back and forth, we finally came to an agreement. Done with haggling, I beamed at my new table and small chief’s chair that had been thrown into the deal. The chair would be a wonderful souvenir for my young cousin back home, but the table was all mine. I counted out 600 kwacha (the equivalent of about $60CAD at the time), while the seller gathered up cardboard to package my purchases in. With newspaper wrapped around it all, I headed to the post office, filled out umpteen forms and mailed my precious souvenirs home, hoping that I would find them in one piece when I eventually made it there myself. 

The Magic of the Lake

Brett and I left Blantyre and headed to Cape Maclear. It had been described in glowing terms, and I hoped it would live up to the hype. It would be our first encounter with Lake Malawi. Being a land-locked country, Lake Malawi was an integral feature of this small sub-tropical nation. Also known as Lake Nyasa, the lake runs three quarters of the length of Malawi, at 587km (365 miles) long and 84km (52 miles) wide. And truly, it is beautiful to behold.

The magic of Malawi settled over me in gentle waves. The lure of Lake Malawi was palpable. Its soft waves were forever within hearing distance, if not in sight. The people were friendly with a simple air about them that lent them a most desirable quality. This was probably the poorest nation I had been to, perhaps barring parts of Mozambique, but the people were amongst the richest in attitude. Was it the sunshine? The proximity to soothing waters? Or was it the lack of Aid organizations that brought with them handouts, that in turn turned the people into beggars. Here people were happy with their lot in life and it showed in their eyes that sparkled despite lack of material wealth. Their peace was infectious.

Our first taste of the magic of the waters was from a seat in a mokoro (a hand-carved dug-out canoe of sorts). They were narrower than the mokoros that I had lazed in on the Okavengo Delta, but still a marvel. Brett and I got a couple of locals to row us out to Pemba Island, where we spent the day snorkeling in the blue waters. We spied a myriad of fish, as we slowly paddled about on our leisurely adventure. Lunch was a feast of rice, potatoes, tomatoes and fish that had been caught as Brett and I swam. Simple, but excellent. Dessert of a special banana cake sent us over the moon and topped off a perfect day to soak up the beauty of Malawi.

We spent three nights in Cape Maclear. On our last night, I accompanied a young man to Ba’blue, a small local bar. He introduced me to the game of Bao. It is a local mancala game where beans are moved around a board from a series of dugout holes. You play against an opponent, trying to steal their beans (or whatever the markers are) until you have all of them. Everywhere you looked, a game was being played. Always keen to learn a new game, I insisted on trying to pick up the rules. I loved it and before we left, I had my very own bao game stuffed into my backpack, as we headed off to Lilongwe, the capital of Malawi. 

Walk This Way

Brett was sitting at a table with a ridiculously huge grin on his face and a beer in front of him.

“Hey Mate!” he exclaimed, as he weaved his way to standing to give me a hug. “Good ta see ya! I’ve been to the Carlsberg Brewery.”

The crooked smile on his face gave proof that the tour had been a good one. I couldn’t help, but laugh. I ordered a beer and sank into the chair across from him to hear what he had been up to since I saw him last a few days ago. The 14-hour bus ride slowly slipped off my shoulders as I watch him giggle and titter. He was pretty soused and very willing to talk. Not sure if it was his silly grin or just being off the bus in general, but I was pretty happy to see him.

“…and then I jumped up on a chair and was just grabbing handfuls of them. The other bloke was waving a net around and catching mitt-fuls of ‘em! It was awesome!” he spluttered.

“Grasshoppers?” I queried. “Why? What were they going to do with them?”

“Why, eat ‘em of course!” Brett laughed.

My face contorted in a grimace and I could not be help but exclaim “ew”

He cackled and slapped his knee. He really was quite drunk and funny to watch.

Brett went on to explain. “They come across the lake this time of year and people go bananas! It is a feast for everyone. They scrape the little buggers off the walls, and floors, and wherever, then toss them into a little oil to fry‘em up.”

“Blah!” I exclaimed, as he shook with laughter again. “How many did you catch?”

“Hundreds of “em mate!” he said. “They were everywhere! It was excellent fun.”

I shook my head and smiled at his enthusiasm.

“Tomorrow, I will take you to the market so you can try some,” he said.

I wasn’t so sure I was interested in trying grasshoppers, but replied “we’ll see” to appease him. We sat in the bar until Brett’s stories became illegible and I had a pleasant glow on. He kept on rambling on about this and that until I had to pack him up and take him back to the hostel. I promised him that I would try grasshoppers when we went to the market the next day, still shaking my head at his animation. The way he talked, they were like manna from heaven, but I would find out for myself.

Oh, and really, they aren’t manna at all. While I did pull off their wings, I was not instructed to pull off their legs, so couldn’t get beyond them “walking” down my throat. Yeah, not my idea of a delicacy I’m afraid. You should try it if you get a chance though. They are a great source of protein! You might like it. 
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