Malawi & Tanzania - Jan 2008

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Entering Malawi, I passed through immigration with such ease it was almost disorientating. Expecting the usual African customs ordeal, it was like being let off school detention.

A few revolutions of the pedals down the road towards Lilongwe, I came to yet another Police Road block. You tend to find these every couple of hundred kilometres on the main roads of Africa. Usually I’m left alone to cycle straight past, but this time they stopped me and decided they wanted to take my bike apart. I'm not sure what they were expecting to find. To be honest I think they were just trying to waste my time until I became so impatient I offered them a bribe to be allowed to move on. When they then decided they wanted to inspect my inner tubes, I just said, "Look, I'm not going to pay you anything, so we can either waste everyone's time or just let it go." They let it go. I mantled my bike (opposite of dismantled?) and I was back on my way. I have been told of many stories where people have had to pay bribes in Africa though. One guy was on a bike (the motorised type) without a helmet. He was forced to pay a small personal contribution and was then given a receipt that in effect made him immune to other bribes for 7 days. I like this idea of pre-paying for a bribe waiver certificate before entering Africa. It would make overland travel so much easier.

Malawi is tagged as the “warm heart of Africa”. A fairly small, landlocked country, Lake Malawi covers a fifth of the total land area. Besides the lake, the land often rises steeply up to the highlands and beyond to the grasslands and plateaus. David Livingstone arrived in 1859, where upon he reached the lake. He named this Lake Nyassa, trying to prove his understanding of the local Chichewa language. Only problem that it translates into Lake Lake. It's a bit like calling the mountain in Japan Mount Fujiyama, which means Mount Mount Fuji. The country itself later became known as Nyassaland, before taking the name Malawi upon independence in 1964.
Lake Malawi is the third largest of Africa's inland lakes, stretching 300 km northwards through the Rift Valley, separating Mozambique from Malawi up to Tanzania. Due to it's sheer size, the lake is tidal and the waters quite rough. But it is perfectly safe to swim in, so long as you are prepared to contract Bilharzia - minute worms that penetrate the skin and attack the liver. There’ll be more on tropical diseases to come next time. If you can wait that long.

I headed from Lilongwe to the shores of the lake and scooted along the lakeside from Senga Bay up to Nkhata Bay, stopping off for the odd refreshing dip in the warm-infused, worm-infested waters.

The lake dominates Malawian life. I would sit and watch early morning fishermen return with buckets of tiny silver fish and I’d regularly see fish-eagles swooping down to pinch larger prey from the surface.

As I passed through village after village literally 200 or so kids would run out and line the streets to greet me. Instead of giving the occasional high-5 I was needing to slap out a quickfire high-1000. Then they would all chase me down the streets like rats running after the Pied Piper. As with every other local in East Africa, they'd all be shouting, "Hello Mzungu" - Mzungu being an affectionate non-offensive Swahili term for a white person. I've been thinking hard about it and we don't really have an equivalent in England for a black person. Plus if a black person was cycling through the English countryside and an entire village ran out pointing and shouting "Hey black guy", then our PC obsessed society would chose to deem that racist. But there are times I find the attention unwanted. I don't always wish to be the stand-out whitie in town, and will often snap back in British PC-ness, "Yes, what is it you want person of non-specific African origin". I’m actually offended they still recognise me as a whitie anyway. After a year on the road I thought I might have a decent enough tan to blend in with the local Africans. Not so. But in general I’ve felt like a celebrity travelling throughout the African continent. Along with the constant attention, there are also several examples of generosity beyond their means, extra favours for having a white face, such as rose-petal covered bed linen or the best seats in restaurants (I’m such a diva), and on a number of occasions people have known my name in advance of me arriving in a destination. It’s like the whole of Africa has gone out of its way to help me out. Now I’m not saying Nelson Mandela has definitely pulled some strings, but I’m almost positive Didier Drogba has been following my progress. I’m not sure how I’ll adapt when I return to England, just being another unmemorable face in the crowd. I’ll have to go cycling through Brixton waving at school kids. Until I get either stabbed or arrested.

Towards the north of Malawi I climbed up to Livingstonia, a colonial town that’s changed very little since being established by British missionaries in the 19th century, and then hiked around the Nyika Plateau before descending all the way down to the Tanzania border.

Crossing the border between Malawi and Tanzania, the differences stood out immediately. Malawi rightly has a reputation as one of Africa's most laid back and easy going countries, whereas the Tanzanians couldn't be more in your face if they were your nose. I'd still get greeted with the customary "Hey, Mzungu...." but it would usually preceed, "...gimme money". It's a pushy, hassly, bartery culture, which I guess is due to its history as a trading hub, especially on the Indian Ocean coast.

From the Malawi border I headed to Mbeya, then zig-zagged through Tanzania. I zigged across to Dar Es Salaam and Zanzibar on the Indian Ocean before zagging over to Kilimanjaro and ultimately into Rwanda. My original route would have taken me into Kenya, but what with the small matter of mass-murders and tribal tension I thought better of it. So I skirted around the southern side of Lake Victoria instead.

Dar Es Salaam is the biggest city in Tanzania and the economic and trade capital - the actual capital being Dodoma, which is a nothing city in the middle of the country. Dar is also the biggest city I’d been to since Johannesburg, the dirtiest city I’d been to since Asia and the smoggiest city I’d been to since ever. From a tourist perspective it serves as the departure point for Zanzibar.

I was soon on the boat to the Zanzibar islands, a former Sultanate a couple of hours by ferry across the Indian Ocean. Known as the “Spice Islands”, they are peppered with beautiful beaches, seasoned with year-round summer sun, and coriandered with crystal clear waters. Influenced by eastern traders, the Spice Islands are reputed for eastern cuisine. I’d not had a decent curry in a year since leaving England and the promise of traditional curries was too tempting to refuse. But I was left disappointed by the Indian run Indian restaurants. The Indians just can’t do Indian cuisine as well as the Brits can. Just because they started the craze doesn’t mean they’re best at it. I mean, we invented football and cricket after all.

Zanzibar, with its long history of trade with Arab merchants is predominantly an Islamic archipelago. I was cycling across the main island with my top off when I was summoned over by a policeman. He advised that in their culture men should wear a top in public. He made a good point and I do think it’s important to respect other people’s cultures when in their domain. So I put my T-shirt back on. I then married my 14 year old neighbour, forcing her to cover her face, cook, clean, shop, farm the crops, bring up the kids, whilst I lazed around playing cards and whistling at white girls. I hate to generalise. OK, so I don’t.

This was my holiday within the travels. Once I reached the northern beaches of Zanzibar I just vegged out on the white-powder sands for 3 days. Even getting up from my hammock to cool off in the ocean was an effort. The midday sun was blazing hot - over 40 degrees Celsius - even the mad dogs were not mad enough to go out in it, leaving just the Englishmen. Me and Dave from Peckham were those Englishmen. As is sensible in such sunshine I applied suncream to my front, arms, legs and face. I asked Dave if he could be so kind to lube up my back. Being two very heterosexual English blokes we didn’t want to appear in any way gay, so he’d dab a drop of cream on the tips of his fingers, vaguely prod it towards my back with outstretched arms, being very careful not to actually stroke it in. Then a macho slap across my shoulder blades indicated he was done. Cheers Dave.

But my capacity for idling on the beach is approximately 20 minutes. Luckily there were regular beach volleyball games taking place, albeit only the locals were playing. I do consider myself a bit of a Maverick when it comes to beach volleyball. Or maybe Ice Man. It reminded me just how good a movie Top Gun is. As well as some classic lines, it ticks all the boxes. Fast planes and action scenes for your blokes; romantic subplots and a soppy soundtrack for the girls; and I bet the gays dig the white uniforms and oiled-up volleyball scenes. I was feeling quite trim from cycling and had at least a base tan, so felt well-justified in strutting my stuff on the beach volleyball court. You know, clicking fingers into a doubled gunned salute at passing women in a “How you doin’?” kinda way. Unfortunately, then the local black dudes came along to play and showed me up with their pumping pecks and toned six-packs. I put my T-shirt back on. We played for literally hours. I then undermined my self-confidence even further by sharing the showers with these guys afterwards. Let’s just say ladies, believe the rumours.

Back on the mainland, I carried on northwards. As I headed towards the small picturesque town of Moshi, the snow capped peak of Mount Kilimanjaro towered over the place like a towering mountain over a small picturesque town. Kilimanjaro is on the Tanzanian side of the Kenyan border, so remains accessible to the traveller despite the troubles on the other side of the mountain. But it only remains accessible if you have a spare $1500 to burn. Tanzania in general is much pricier than the other countries in South and East Africa. It is clearly tailored to your American/European short-term vacation market, which is unsurprisingly a more lucrative market than the drifting bum demographic that I drift in. Likewise, it costs a few hundred dollars to visit the Serengeti or Ngorongoro national parks, leaving these out of reach for me also - until my honeymoon at least.

In this area of east Africa, the Masai people are commonplace. I was sitting on the side of a road minding my own business (eating a banana or something) when a Masai warrior tapped me on the shoulder. He was tall and slender, dressed in traditional gowns, with tribal tattoos, bone jewelry and spear in hand. I was expecting him to address me with, “Me Tarzan, you Jerk” type conversation. But instead he spoke with the most eloquentest Oxford English, asking if I was lost, if I needed help and if he could assist in any way whatsoever. Barking an exhausted reply with a mouthful of fruit I was the one who sounded like I was raised by wolves. There also seems to be a disproportionately high number of albino Africans in Tanzania. Admittedly, albino Africans stand out more than albino whites, but even so.

From Kilimanjaro I headed west to Rwanda & Uganda for the final chapter of my adventure.

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