hello again!

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Moni!!! Muli bwanji?? (that’ll be ‘Hello! How are you’? in chechewa... )

Greetings from Monkey bay, Malawi!

Hope you guys are all well, apologies to James for the length of the last blog, I’ll try to keep this one down to a lunch hour, snack size!


So! It’s been a while again! I left you guys with the cliff-hanger of Zimbabwe... Fortunately, I lived to tell the tale, I’ll begin....

Saying goodbye to George and Naomi was a bit of a killer. I’d lived with them for pretty much every waking hour of that month. I felt a little empty waving them off, finding myself stood staring at the back of the gate they’d departed through. That, along with the ten tonne hangover sat on my face was a pretty miserable start to any day. There was a quote from Ernest Hemmingway painted on the wall above me as I ate breakfast; “There was never a day in Africa when I woke and was not happy” (or something along those lines.) It took that sentiment (and half a gallon of water) to shake my sunrise blues and send me searching for my passport.

US$55 for a visa. Further proof Mugabe is a bit of a dick.

The ink on my passport stamp barely had time to dry before I was pounced upon by Zimbabweans offering their services, curios, jewellery and anything else worth the few US$ Mugabe had left me with. Poverty was no excuse to deter them, if I couldn’t offer money they’d have taken my shirt and shoes. I was accompanied all the way to the Victoria Falls park.
They say the falls are more spectacular from the Zim side. Whoever ‘they’ are, they are not wrong. I was stunned speechless all over again. Words failed me as I stood soaking up the mist, wide eyes smiling and mouth open waiting for anything more appropriate than the few four letter profanities I could whisper to myself. There’s at least a kilometre of gorge edge to navigate from that side of the falls, climaxing at ‘danger point,’ from where any mistake across the soaking and unfenced rocky outcrop would be your last. It really was incredible. And wet. If anything, more wet than incredible.

After the falls I wandered into the first town across the border, aptly named Victoria Falls Town. It was deserted. No tourists, no locals, no markets, no real signs of life. I wandered deeper and deeper, past out of order ATMs not worth repairing and shops with 3 walls of empty shelves. Mugabe’s Operation Murambatsvina (literally, ‘drive out the trash’) has removed not only the life, but the soul from the town. At the few craft markets I did visit, the men were as defeated as they were desperate. It really was quite sad. From what I’ve heard, the rest of Zimbabwe is, for the most part, worse. The town clings onto the stability of Zambia as if the dirt track that connects the two is its final thread of hope, bringing just a few US$ of tourists money a day.
At a little deserted cafe I met Elvis, a local white water rafting instructor who was temporarily out of work due to the high waters. He became my guide for the rest of the day and took me around the town and along the Zambezi to a huge baobab tree. He was in love with a Norwegian girl with whom he was expecting his first child in August. He was a cool guy and I was glad of his company, though he couldn’t help but cement my feelings of despair for the fate Zimbabweans and their beautiful country.
I spent the rest of the evening and the whole of the next day writing that last blog. It was like work!
Back in Zambia (to avoid another US$50 visa charge) I hopped on the bus to Lusaka the next day. For an extra 10,000 Zambian kwatcha (£1.70ish) I travelled business class. One bus a day was entirely business class, complete with wide, reclining seats and mid-drive refreshments. Rather unsurprisingly, I’ve never seen it since but I loved that little bit of luxury!
Gavin, who I’d met at the backpackers in Livingstone was the only other white guy on the bus and we shared a cab to another backpackers where we met Duc, a Chinese man who had left Livingstone the day before us. Duc had spent his whole life travelling, since his hippy heydays in the 60’s. He’s been everywhere I could think of asking about and had some amazing stories. The Next morning he’d pull out a newspaper article about a man who’d taken his son out of school and educated him over the next seven years whilst visiting every corner of the earth. The man was Duc, his son is now the international ambassador of something important, though Duc still affectionately calls him a slacker.
I was sharing a dorm with a couple of English guys. Rosie, who studied in leeds and lived just around the corner from me a couple of years back was en route to Uganda to write a paper on ARV distributed through non-governmental organisations. Ben was in his final year of being a medical student and had just finished a placement at a rural hospital in the Copperbelt province. When he asked me if I liked football I replied I could just about carry a conversation about Spurs circa 1997. So we walked to a bar to watch Manchester United beat Wigan and laughed about Spurs circa ’97 all the way. We must have been offered ten taxi’s in the five minute walk to the bar. When we arrived I was turned away for being in shorts. It seemed a little bizarre given that we were in Africa, but even a bribe wouldn’t change his mind and that was even more bizarre. I left Ben to get the drinks in and set off back to get changed. The problem was I had never intended to walk back alone so hadn’t paid any attention to the way and all of a sudden there were no taxi’s to be found anywhere. When a complete stranger pulled up next to me and pretended to be a taxi, I figured I was as safe getting into a car with a stranger as I was wandering around the streets of Lusaka in the dark. Fortunately, it worked out ok. A quick change later and I was back at the bar pretending to like football.

The plan the next day was to explore Lusaka, but it quickly became apparent that wasn’t an undertaking worthy of an entire day. The one thing I did want to find was a book Vikki had told me about, which I managed to find in a mall on the Eastern road out of town. The city had nothing exciting to offer. For the first time in a while nobody at all seemed interested in the white guy. I wasn’t hassled or offered anything. The city functioned irrespective of me, rushing through the crowds while I was happy to meander amongst them. I bought a bus ticket to Chipata for the next day and headed back to the backpackers in time to catch a film about the Darwin awards and share pizza with a couple of English guys that had caught me up from Livingstone.

After 8 hours on a bus the next day, I arrived in Chipata just as the pinks and reds drained from the horizon. I was planning to stay at a place listed in Lonely Planet, but half way into my taxi ride my driver informed me it didn’t exist. I’m a little disappointed to say there was a horribly cynical part of me that thought he was making it up so he could take me to some relatives B&B. He wasn’t, as it turned out, but he instead took me to a hotel called Travelodge. It quickly became apparent that it wasn’t a relative of the rather respectable Travelodge’s were familiar with. There was no power to cook and no water to bathe. I managed a cup-a-soup by candlelight and retired early.
Chipata is the last town on the Great East Road before you reach the Malawi border. I’d assumed this would bring a steady stream of tourists. It did, but only I had got off the bus. I’d alighted not for Chipata, but for South Lwanga National Park, a few hundred kilometres north.
The next day I asked for directions to the bus station; “left at shoprite.” I threw enough to last me a couple of days into a day bag and head out, turning left at shoprite. I walked. The pink and turquoise painted buildings of the town thinned before giving way completely to the wooden and tin shacks of the village. I walked. The tar road gave way red dust. I walked. The village gave way to an empty horizon. I walked. When the sun was peaking a passer by asked where I was headed;
“the bus station”
“where do you want a bus to?”
“Mzuzu, near South Luwanga”
“Mzuzu is the other way, you’re halfway to Malawi!”
“bollocks.”
So much for left at shoprite. I backtracked all the way past shoprite and found the bus station a few hundred meters to it’s right. There were no proper busses to Mzuzu so I had to wait for a Minibus taxi to fill up.
Minibus taxi’s are an incredible means of transport. A Toyota Hi-Ace van converted into a minibus with seats that fold out into the isle so that passengers can occupy every spare inch. Maintained exclusively by sledgehammer and driven exclusively by complete nutters, they are the most efficient and cost effective way to get anywhere, but by far the most uncomfortable. The most amazing thing is that they are never, ever, ever full. I’ve seen 30 people and their luggage share the 12 seats of a minibus taxi, Mothers and 4 children occupying a single seat, those nearest the sliding door holding it shut until a sledgehammer can be found to repair the catch. Its a terrifying experience the first time you use one. I’ve grown accustomed to it over the last few thousand sweaty cramped kilometres, and perhaps even a little fond of it.

The taxi driver guessed I was headed for a lodge just the other side of town and offered to take me there for an extra 10,000 kwatcha. I offered 5,000 but he stuck to his price, which wasn’t unfair, and I paid him. Nearly 300km of horrendous roads later I was the last one in the taxi waiting to be dropped off at Flatdogs camp. I knew it was only a couple of K’s out of town but way too dangerous to walk. It was in the National Park which meant anything from Hippo’s to Leapards could well be waiting for me in the dark.
When the driver asked why I was waiting i showed him my ticket; CHIPATA TO FLATDOGS. K60,000. He looked at it shaking his head.
“I cannot do this”
“why?”
“Flatdogs is extra 20,000 Kwatcha”
I went nuts. It was once too often it’d been assumed that my white skin was an indication of a wealth I was obliged to share. Mzungu’s pay more every now and then and I’m fine with it, but I’d already paid more and had a ticket to prove it, it said clearly that my destination was Flatdogs. I shouted and cursed and told him to take me back to Chipata if he couldn’t do his job properly so I could take it up with his boss. I told him he was an arsehole. I told him to give me back the extra 10,000 I’d already paid and I’d make my own way. I swore and cursed and refused to pay a cent for ten whole minutes, knowing throughout I couldn’t win. He knew it too. I had no other means of getting to Flatdogs. I slammed the 10,000 into his hands as hard as I could and sat in silence the rest of the way.
The formalities of checking in at reception were just another irritation at that point, the speech about the dangers of wild animals equally so. Having to wait for a watchman to escort me to a campsite seemed a ruse fabricated entirely to prolong a day I couldn’t wait to end.
The watchman arrived and we set off to the campsite exchanging the usual small talk. He asked if I’d ever seen a hippo. I nearly started to reply when he swung his torch around to reveal a huge, huge hippo grazing the length of a cricket wicket away from us. I was going to say I had seen hippos before, having seen their ears and nostrils peeking above the murky waters of more than one pool. But never had I seen one out of the water. Never had I seen anything described as ‘grazing’ look quite so savage as I stared at the hippo ripping the grass from the earth with a vicious swipe of its humongous head baring its lethal front teeth.
I was as amazed as I had been at Victoria falls and as terrified as I have ever been. The two conflicting emotions had me both jumping with excitement and glued to the spot with fear at exactly the same time. In an instant, the days bad vibes were gone, it had all been worth it. Seeing that hippo remains one of the greatest moments of the trip.

Flatdogs was posh. Very posh. The restaurant in particular, could easily have been shipped here from Londons swankier regions, chefs, pretentiously worded menus and outrageous prices included. The food however, was incredible, despite its price. US$6 bought you 6 meatballs the size of marbles. I must have raised my eyebrows when the waiter placed it in front of me, but afterwards I’d have paid $10 for 10 more.
It was the guide from the overland tour, Athene, who had recommended Flatdogs to me. I’d assumed it was going to be your average backpackers, but it really was like a five star resort. Set by the Luwanga River, I could see hippos bathing as I walked along the banks the following morning.
I’d come to see a leopard, the missing member of my big five. South Luwanga is famed for its leopard population. I booked a game drive for the evening and spent the day basking in the sun and sounds of the lakeside.

There was only myself and a Dutch couple on the four hour sunset drive. We were joined by hippos, hyenas, giraffes, zebras, lions, elephants and heaps of birds and lizards, but no leopards. It was totally worth it though and I thoroughly enjoyed it. The Dutch couple joined me for dinner before I met my American neighbours in the lounge, where we spent the evening sharing stories, beers and jokes before I climbed into my tent, having woven wide arcs through the hippos grazing in the campsite. As I lay waiting for sleep to whisk me away I could hear the hippos ‘grazing.’ Through my thin canvas walls I could hear each blade of grass being torn from the earth and being chewed, it sounded like they were inches from my head.

“GOOOOD MORNIN’ PARTNER!! HOWDYA LIKE DEM HIPPOS LAAAAST NAAAGHT? I WUZ DAAM SURE DEY WUZ GUNNA EAT YA RIGHT UP!” was the first thing I heard when I stuck my head out of my tent the next morning. It turned out the hippos had been inches from my head, providing my American neighbours with a good ten minutes of laughing on their way to bed. There were elephants just as close too, leaning over my tent to pull the leaves from the tree under which I was camped. I was pretty glad I hadn’t needed to get up and pee during the night. I’d slept right through whist my visitors were no more than two steps from flattening me. I walked along the river, a safer distance from the hippos, now submerged to conceal their huge mass.

I spent the day lazing around the resort, I’d planned to leave but was seduced by everything about the place. My only hesitation, apart from the assault on my wallet, was that I hadn’t managed to fit a sleeping bag into my daypack so the nights were freezing cold. I’d been sleeping in everything I’d brought, including my shoes. Even the prospect of another uncomfortable night was not enough to dampen my fondness for the surroundings. That night was spent the same as the one before, chatting to the Americans before climbing into my tent and shivering myself to sleep.
After another amazing breakfast and lunch in the restaurant the next day I somewhat reluctantly packed up my few belongings and caught a ride in the back of a pickup to Mzuzu in search of a bus back to Chipata. I arrived in town just after midday. You could throw a stone from one end of the town to the other, so in two minutes it was pretty apparent there were no busses. I began to ask locals when the next bus was. Answers varied from “zero.one” “zero.three” and “zero.six” to “there is no bus.” It was a clearly going to be a long wait. I found a shady spot by the side of the main road where a few guys had a little business fixing punctures. The sun raced to the otherside of the world as the afternoon passed, I sat and fixed punctures with the guys, jumping up from the dust whenever a car passed to try and hitch a ride, but to no avail. No-one was headed anymore than a couple of clicks out of town. As the last of the light chased the sun behind the mountains I went in search of a place to stay in town. I found a guesthouse and managed to get some chicken and nsima, quite a departure from the steak dinner the night before. I only just managed to catch my words as I nearly asked for a knife and fork. A mzungu tucking into nsima is apparently quite an attraction, in fact I’d been quite an attraction all day. Most people who’d passed on the street had stopped to say hello. None of them knew how I was going to get to Chipata.
Late in the evening I wandered back out into the town. I figured I’d arrived from Chipata late at night, so I might just find a bus in the darkness. As luck would have it, I did. It was leaving at zero.three. 3am. I had no alarm clock and the hotel had no power to charge my cell so I had to stay awake in the dark, damp and dingy room which I shared with a whole variety of bugs and bats.
At 1am a knock on my door preceded voices outside shouting “Mzungu, Chipata!” I jumped into the minibus taxi and we set off. The bus wove its way through all the villages surrounding the town, blasting its horn to alert potential passengers. I got the bizarre feeling we’d turned back on ourselves after about an hour, I figured I was a little too tired to know where I was going in the dark. An hour later though, I found myself back outside the hotel I’d left from. We sat there for a half hour, hammering the horn in an attempt to cram a few more bodies into the already crowded bus. There were 19 of us sharing the 12 seats, along with 2 live chickens, a goat and a whole heap of very recently deceased fish, for 300km of road that beat us black and blue. We arrived at sunrise and I headed back to the Travelodge.
After a much needed kip, I headed out into the town in search of food. The 5 minute walk to the shop took 2 hours. Everybody I passed stopped me for a conversation, more often than not about my tattoo. In those 2 hours I fell for the town. The fresh fruit laid out in neat piles by the side of the road and the ladies laughing to each other behind them, The smells of the market, The sheer density of the people, The bicycles stacked higher than you can possibly imagine with goods delicately navigating the potholes, the red dust rising from the road to haze the horizon, The pink, turquoise and purple coulours of the cellular network Zain painted across every available wall, The people who were just pleased to meet you - and for the first time I can remember - not because they want something. I’d collected 14 phone numbers by the time I made it back to the Travelodge in time to dive finger first into a nsima dinner, again spreading a smile across the faces of the locals.
I’d hoped to leave the next day but there were no busses and I really couldn’t have cared less, it gave me the rest of the day to wander the roads of the town with no purpose. Just as the day before, everyone stopped to say hello, I had marriage proposals and was asked to tattoo guys one more than one occasion.
The staff at the Travelodge were just as friendly, if not more so. They treated me like a king, despite the less-than-fit-for-royalty infrastructure. When I asked about the chances of a shower they returned with a bucket of warm water. I have no idea where the water came from or how the hell they warmed it, but I was amazed. When I asked for a cup of tea I was presented with a full tray service.
When I did finally have to leave each member of staff came to wave me off and I told the owner to look after the best staff in Zambia.
I caught an overnight bus to Lilongwe (Malawi), passing through customs at about midnight and falling asleep pretty quickly afterwards. I woke up when I was poked in the leg. I opened my eyes to stare down the business end of an AK-47. “PASSPORT!” A little dazed, it slowly dawned on me we were at a police roadblock. I handed over my passport and was marched off the bus. The police went through every inch of the bus, our bags and pockets for over an hour. When they were done they turned to open the gate and left us to pick up our possessions from the road. It’s said Malawi is ‘the friendliest place on earth,’ ‘the heart of Africa.’ My first impression was a little different. There were two more roadblocks before we made it to Lilongwe, which stopped me catching up with any of the sleep I’d missed in the previous few days. Police roadblocks would be a constant inconvenience in Malawi, springing up either side of most towns.
We arrived in Lilongwe about 3 and I curled up exhausted in the bus station. I didn’t have the energy to find a place to stay. I might have managed half an hours sleep before people started arriving to set up the markets and the and smell of fresh fish made the station uninhabitable. I caught a cab to Mbuya camp, the reception was shut so I couldn’t book in, I figured I’d set up my tent and sleep in it until someone arrived. As I put the tent together one of the poles snapped and I was forced to pack the whole thing away again with no means of repairing it. I could have wandered into a random dorm and found a bed but it did seem a little impolite, so I was resigned to sitting in reception and waiting for someone to find me a bed. Reception opened at 7. By 7.01 I was headed to bed. I walked into a dorm to find a guy and girl sat up in beds talking across the room.
Todd and Clair, Canadian and Australian respectively, had decided to catch the Ilala ferry across Lake Malawi to Nkhata bay. All I wanted in the whole world was to crawl into some fresh sheets and sleep the day away, but they invited me along. I believe that sometimes things work out in a way that presents an opportunity and when that happens, you really can’t turn the opportunity down. As I sat on the bed and tried to ingest these strangers and their idea of a ferry I couldn’t help but put together the coincidences that had brought me into that room at that moment. I had to go to wherever the hell it was they were going, but I really didn’t want to at that moment. Todd and Clair had kidnapped me and would hold me against my will (at least at first) on a ferry for the next three days.
For most of that day I didn’t really have much clue what was going on. The first call of order was to google the seven natural wonders of the world. Todd, being a Canadian believed Niagara Falls was one of them, Clair and I disagreed. The stakes were raised until Google settled the argument and Todd was left carrying everyones luggage.
I was torn from by bed before I’d even pulled back the sheets and bungled into a minibus taxi to Selima, then another to Chipoka. From the bus station at Chipoka 3 guys with bicycle taxis met us so we hopped on and were pedalled through the town to the port, which was a little bit fantastic. I’d been meaning to grab a bicycle taxi for a while and it was brilliant to be croggied through the town. When locals or taxi drivers asked me where I was going I replied I had no idea and I’d just been kidnapped and we all laughed at just how true that was.
Malawi’s Ilala ferry is a little bit legendary. Weaving its way from Monkey bay in the south, zigzagging across to Mozambique, Likoma and Chizimulu Islands, Nkhata Bay and on to south western Tanzania. When I’d been invited on a ferry to Nkhata bay for a couple of days I assumed the couple of days would be spent in Nkhata bay, rather than on the ferry itself. I was wrong.
Todd, Clair and I fell perfectly into a little social group. We somehow skipped the usual getting to know each other conversations, acquiring nuggets of each others stories as we spent the days laughing and fooling about on the ferry, discussing everything any of us could think of. There was never a dull moment as our personalities clicked intimately and effortlessly.
Clair, it would become apparent, was, in terms of the things she has done, the coolest person I’ve ever met. Having travelled around five continents for the last three and a half years, she felt she was about half way through her ‘trip.’ Me and Todd sat and listened to her stories from every corner of the world with open mouthed amazement, making mental notes in the hope we could one day have even a slice of the adventure she has had. She really has done everything, everywhere. Not only that, but she seemed to have an amazing ability to have done it better than everyone else. At the craziest party in the world, she partied with the two guys who invented google - and so on. Every story seemed to twist and turn as if it was fantastic fiction. Me and Todd were happy to admit we were a little jealous!
Todd and I got on well too, we shared the same childish sense of humour and love of Disney. After we sat and discussed Disney for a good couple for hours Clair was sure we’d make a great gay couple. Todd was less enthusiastic!
The Ilala has four classes. Economy, which meant sharing with more recently deceased fish than you can imagine. Litterally packed like sardines around the mechanics of the bottom deck. 2nd class afforded you the luxury of a seat, but little else. 1st class got you a spot on the deck of the ship and access to the bar and restaurant. Cabin class got you a cabin, but was outrageously expensive. We were 1st class, romanticised by the prospect of sleeping under the stars.
We sat and played drinking games the first night with a box of very, very cheap red wine. Todd didn’t do all that well and, despite insisting he knew his limits and wouldn’t be sick, proceeded to decorate the deck with 2nd hand shiraz. The three of us only had two sleeping bags between us and I wrapped mine around Todd while he passed out with his head hanging over the railings. In search of some much needed sleep I headed down to second class so at least I’d not be in the breeze whipping of the lake. After a pretty uncomfortable and unsuccessful nap on the cold, stone hard floor I headed back up to the luxury of a hired mattress on the 1st class deck. Clair and Todd were sleeping so I put on all the clothes I’d brought and curled up on the mattress. It was freezing. I started to shiver. By the time my shivering woke Clair, I was convulsing so violently that I couldn’t speak, let alone ask for help. She unzipped her sleeping bag so we could share it, wrapped her coat around me and pretty much slept on my legs (I was in shorts) in an effort to stop my hypothermia. It might be a little overdramatic to suggest she saved my life, but I’m pretty sure I’d have been so sick the next day if she hadn’t shared some warmth.

After a morning of laughing at Todd the next day, the ferry stopped at Likoma Island and we had the chance to explore for a couple of hours while rowing boats carried tonnes of cargo and passengers from the shore to ship and ship to shore.
The Island was beautiful, breathtakingly so. A little unspoiled tropical paradise, children sang in the dusty streets, there were no cars, no tar roads, everybody came to greet us and the children held our hands as we walked around the crystal clear waters where women washed clothes, fisherman tended their nets and families bathed. I noticed nobody wore shoes, I couldn’t even find the imprint of a shoe in the dirt, just barefoot imprints of all sizes. The island was alive with bright colours, from the fresh fruit and vegetables being sold at the side of the roads, through the clothes of the locals to the lush greens of the palms lining the streets, offering shade to the fishermen selling the days catch.
As we explored we came across a church. As we wandered through the grounds the priest came out and welcomed us inside for a tour. It was St. Peters Cathedral, the biggest Christian church in Africa (-this may or may not be true...) A stunning 100 year old church, as majestic as any I’ve ever seen. The fusion of English and African architecture fit into the aesthetic of the island perfectly. I couldn’t help but think there would be no better place on the entire earth to get married.
Faith in Africa is amazing. I’ve not been to mass in a long time, but I remember it as a sparse congregation muttering amens with their chins on their chests as if it was a chore. Here faith is celebrated. It inspires, gives energy and bonds masses. It’s incredible. I’m not about to be born again but seeing the vitality that faith in Africa infuses into people it’s a little sad to think it doesn’t do that for me. When a stranger grabs your hand here and says ‘God Bless,’ it’s as warm as a hug from an old friend.
Likoma was one of the highlights of the trip so far. I’ll always remember it as the Island where no one wore shoes and everyone smiled.
From Likoma the ferry chugged its way north west back to Malawian waters, towards Nkhata Bay. Todd and Clair had a pretty early night, but the boat had filled up with passengers from the island and I sat with them around the bar until late. When I did eventually turn in Todd had stolen my sleeping bag again. Again, I huddled my knees on the edge of the mattress until Clair came to the rescue and saved me from shivering to death. Todd was quite fond of Clair and a little upset he didn’t get to share a sleeping bag with her. Shouldn’t have stolen my bag then should he?! Ha!

We woke in Nkhata bay. Todds flight home was leaving the next day so he had to head back to Lilongwe. Clair was staying for a couple of days but in my sleepy state prior to my kidnapping I hadn’t really put much thought into packing a bag, an error which left me without a toothbrush for 2 days, so I headed back with Todd. We spent the rest of the day wandering around the craft markets before kicking back for the evening.

The next day, I felt like hell had relocated to my insides. Todd left for his flight and I couldn’t find the energy to sit up to see him off. My stomach was wrapping knots around itself and my intestines had given up and provided no resistance to anything heading south. Along with that I ached all over. My first instinct was that sickness and aches equals malaria, an inevitability I’ve come to accept as I seem to be the only white person in Africa not taking prophylaxis. (Cheers Dr. Farley!)
There was also the possibility of Bilharzia, a parasite that thrives in Lake Malawi, but which I knew nothing about.
I spent the day between my bed and the toilet, hoping it was food poisoning and that the aches were from sleeping on a wooden deck for two nights. I don’t carry any medication with me and I couldn’t have made it to the shop for any relief from the diarrhoea so I was stuck with waiting it out. The aches eased by the evening and I accepted food poisoning as my diagnosis and rode out the rest of the shitty day.

The next day, over the worst of it and completely hollowed out, I headed into town to pick up some medicine and met George. George was a local guy trying to sell me Malawian gold, a local delicacy of the herbal kind. He turned out to be a really cool guy and I spent the morning wandering around the markets with him and his brother Brian before they took me back to their village. They lived with the rest of their family in a small two roomed house that brought sharply back into focus just how poor the overwhelming majority of people here are. The women of the family sat outside waving palm leaves while the swollen bellied children sat in the dirt as goats and cows searched for any scrap of greenery in the dust before packs of dogs chased them away.
We sat and ate shima with fish and talked away the afternoon. Despite their poverty the guys insisted on giving me gifts of handmade bracelets and refused when I offered to pay, or even to buy them a Beer as a thank you.
At some point in the afternoon George mentioned he’d be able to put my hair in dreadlocks if I wanted. I was convinced it was too short, only a little, but definitely not quite long enough for dreads to hold. George felt the only way to prove he was right was to dread my hair, so he did, sat outside in the dirt while the children of the village ran around us laughing, mostly at me. To Georges credit, the dreads weren’t bad at all, a miracle considering they took a little over half an hour. Within a few days though, the shorter dreads began to fall to pieces and no amount of back combing was going to rescue them. I kept the dreads for a couple of weeks, but eventually hacked them out in the shower. For the short time I had them, everywhere I walked people shouted “Rasta!” and came over to say hello, invariably offered me a little Malawi Gold and struck up a conversation that usually began or ended on reggae music. More than a few times I ended up in cars listening to Bob Marley or the Black Missionaries blasted at ear melting volumes through tinny little speakers.
When I returned from the village a couple of people had moved into the dorm I’d had to myself since Todd left. Lillian, a Swiss girl who had worked her way down the route I was working my way up, and a Finnish guy whose name I was completely unable to commit to memory, even for the few seconds after he had just told me it. We spent the night hanging out together in the hostel. Lillian was really cool and because we’d each just done the route the other was just about to do we swapped stories and advised each other on some cool places to visit. She taught me to play bawo, a traditional Malawian game played with seeds or nuts and the three of us played for most of the night.

There didn’t seem to be a lot to do in Lilongwe, it’s not often I look to the Lonely Planet for advice, but I’d walked through a few of the cities separate ‘areas’ and not really come across anything more interesting than a traditional market and a craft market with the most annoyingly persistent sales people in the world! The Lonely planet really wasn’t much more helpful, but it did suggest a visit to the tobacco auction houses. I seem to think Ewan and Charlie popped in on ‘Long Way Down,’ so once again I followed in their footsteps and paid the auction houses a visit.
The first thing you notice is the smell. It hits you from a couple of clicks before you see the first of the huge wagons, pilled with tonne bags of fresh tobacco, lining both sides of the road for another two or three kilometres before you actually find the auction house buried in a maze of industrial estate.
The auction houses were hectic! Malawi’s biggest export had attracted thousands of people who all seemed to know exactly how to navigate the endless queues that snaked their way around the estate. I wasn’t one of them so I set off for a wander on my own. I’d seen most little areas when I found the main auction floors. Thousands of bags of tobacco sat lined up, sorted and graded, awaiting the thousands of buyers that were still queuing outside. I won’t upset any smokers out there with just how unbelievably cheap the tobacco is, I’ll just say you could get a lifetime supply for you and every other smoker you have ever met for about £10. Even after all the processing and packaging and mark-ups and tax, a pack of 20 cigarettes is yours for a little less than 30p.
Wandering around the auction houses, poking at the bags of tobacco as if I had a clue what distinguished one from another a security guard wandered over and took me by the hand and led me ‘behind the scenes’ into a very posh looking office. I was told to wait, a little afraid that I was about to be in trouble, though without a clue why.
Of course, this being Malawi, quite the opposite was true. The manager of the auction rooms had seen me wandering about and was afraid I wasn’t having enough fun. He wanted to give me the full VIP treatment. I tried to explain I was happy enough just walking myself around but he insisted, so we exchanged numbers and email addresses and agreed I’d be in touch to arrange the VIP tour.
Later that day, I’d be stood at reception when a familiar presence appeared beside me. Clair, the Australian, who’d kidnapped me had just returned from Nkhata Bay. She was looking for a ride to Hararre with a guy called Andrew, but he had really bad malaria and although we knew he was definatley at the hostel, we didn’t see him for a week.
It was the evening of the Champions League final. I’m not exactly a huge football fan, but it seems I am the only person in Malawi who isn’t and I found myself a little wrapped up on the atmosphere and looking forward to the match. Everyone from the hostel came to watch Barcelona thrash Man U and it was great fun.

The next week or so I spent hanging out with Clair, doing very little. Every day we would outline a plan or a list of objectives, only to achieve none of them. We went for a picnic, visited the most amazing pizzeria every day, ate a lot of ice cream, managed to visit a wildlife sanctuary and spent each night drinking cane spirit with coke - a cheap but horrific way to get drunk. The evenings were the most fun, we adopted the comers and goers that visted our dorm for a night or two and turned it into our own little party.
One night in particular, after a pretty indulgent session on the cane, Clair asked what the craziest thing I had ever done was. I ummed and erred knowing full well that I really had nothing that would compare to the stories she had told me. In an effort to make my life a little more exciting, she suggested we get married. We were both drunk enough to think it was a fantastic idea, not because we had any intention of spending our lives together, but because it would be a pretty funny story to tell. We sealed the deal by declaring ourselves man and wife and exchanging rings; a guitar slide and a hair clip. We kept the joke running for the rest of the week, just to amuse ourselves at the expense of the folks who checked into our dorm. It was awesome fun and we always found some way to entertain ourselves despite the fact there really wasn’t a much more than a functional city around us, usually with pizza and ice cream.


So, that takes you up to about a month ago, but I’m sure your lunch hour is running out Jim so I’ll leave it here for now and try to throw up part two in a week or so.

Hope you are all good, sorry for the lack of any pictures, I’m in a rush right now but I’ll try to get some up soon.

Peace and love!

xxx

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[Lizzie]

Miss you xx