Day Four The distant rumbles continued all night until finally, at about 7 this morning, the storms abandoned Mozambique, swung west across the lake and twisted and crashed into Njaya, scattering table cloths and pepper pots and flooding the restaurant floor. Given that the my path up the mountain is actually a stream bed and the lakeshore was already starting to turn brown as floodwater tumbled from the hills, I decided to postpone the hike up to the village. I have an image of Mr Banda, Gilbert's translation of my direct warning ringing in his ears, trudging through the storm with his trusty green-handled screwdriver while I am sat making notes in the house, serranaded by the soft rhythmic sound of water dripping into buckets, pans and vases as the roof of the house finally gives
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