Sweet Water, Seafood, Surf, Ssssssssssssssun!

Entry to Malawi is free. Any guide book will tell you. Our arrival time (18h00, ‘closing time’) at the Mwanza border was the perfect opportunity for the hyenas in the office to try and extract a few George Washingtons. “For staying open just for you, we need to see your appreciation on the table.” Dave whipped out his best we’re-really-sorry-to-encroach-on-your-personal-time-and-would-be-eternally-grateful-if-you-would-grant-us-access-into-your-lovely-country face, and next thing we knew we were haggling taxi fares with the owner of a car on the other side of the line, bribe-free. The kid’s got talent.

The view of Inkhata Bay from our dormitory window on Lake Malawi…

This place was, for me, a huge upward spike on the customer satisfaction graph. Roughly built, this lodge oozes positive vibes. Its construction, inspired by an ex-Capetonian, is the home (refuge?) and livelihood of a group of locals and the cuisine is very well executed. Butterfish rated highly; much higher than our collective IQ on buffet night. Being the hungry lads we were, we robotically splodged a generous serving of salad-type novelties from each of ten or so calabashes onto our plates (including peanut butter spinach; interesting, but the taste-bud jury was unanimous: For Single Experimentation Use Only), only to realise belatedly (and obviously) that the good stuff (meat, vleis, nyama) was in the last two receptacles. Our veggie mountains took some sweaty effort to whittle down to the foothills we left behind (especially the cassava root which, I have since learned, is of negligible nutritional value). Peanut butter and spinach!

Gripes aside, lazy days on the lake included mingling with lovely Dutch medical students (there is definitely a cosmic gravitational pull in Malawi for fine specimens of this variety), swimming out to the pontoon, and just chilling with whomever you stumbled upon at whatever point in sunny timelessness.

We met a plethora of characters. We had consecutive all-nighters and sunrises, with tough lessons learnt by those who wanted to join the big dogs but couldn't keep up. I present Exhibit A: Loudmouth American Anthony. His doom: Random shaved patches on head; complete left eyebrow removal.

His amusing attempt to get up, some time after his shave, was beatifully captured on video. Coming soon to youtube near you... (with sound)

Poor young chap. Another casualty from falling asleep at the watering hole.

Say, did you hear the one about the guy who thought he could canoe all the way down Lake Malawi? No names mentioned, but the pre-perspective idea was laid on the table, and to me it seemed like a most awesome thing to do. I mean, how awesome would having dugout canoe listed on your ‘How I Traveled Through Africa’ list be?

The thing is a behemoth spanning three-hundred kilometers, give or take. ‘Nuff said. But said dreamer didn’t lose heart! It was only when we tried the (impossible to master in one day) dugout canoes that the glimmer in our young hopeful’s eye started to surely fade. Tail between legs, defeat was succumbed to without a fuss.

Ferry ho! Down the lake we go! Top deck, the sweet taste of diesel soot, and ferry rats. A smooth two day ferry ride, bar the mighty wind storm which conjured up surfable swells and brought the child out of the adventure seekers, running around on top deck, arms stretched wide, stumbling around randomly at the wind’s mercy like drunk giraffes.

We clashed with the waiter, obviously our fault for expecting an infinitesimally minimal level of service. We speculated about the subsequent absence of rats and the meat portions of our very next meal. Tasted like chicken.





Back on land, for an economical lunch of bread and chips…




We rode in the back of a crowded bakkie (pick-up) part of the way to Blantyre…






After various drop-off and pick-ups, the sum total of human bodies in the bin alone tallied twenty-eight. We could have bumped this number up to thirty-three or so, according to the local men traveling with us, but because of the ladies this was not possible. Not out of courtesy to them in any way (courtesy is almost as outlandish a concept as maintenance in Africa), but because “…they just sit down like they are sitting down at their house. If we was all mens, we can squeeze for to fit more peoples.”




Blantyre was a return to civilization. South African-owned restaurants, some decent roads, chain stores. We met up with a friend of Dave’s, and were soon discussing ‘the problem with Africa’ with Leon, South African, and regional manager of a major supermarket chain. His view was concise and drew no objection:
“Get rid of all the aid workers and foreign investment...put a big-ass barbed wire fence around the place and let Africa sort Africa out.” (Not direct quotation). I nearly jumped a light year off my barstool in agreement, but I’ll save those views and discussions for another possible blog (watch this space).



Lovers of animals small, skip past the next comment and picture. These delicacies are little birds caught using state-issued mosquito nets…now there’s government subsidy working for the people! If you look carefully, you can see the little drumsticks and wings, just like mini Farmer Brown’s chickens!

We paid our cover charge at the rather cold and unfriendly Mozambican immigration border office, hopped into a ‘coaster’ (thirty-two seater minibus), and made a beeline at breakneck speed toward the coast and promises of seafood, glorious seafood. Passing through Tete Province in the north-west, tree trunks on either side of the road bore markings in the form of large red painted crosses. Land mine territory.


Of all the countries we had visited thus far, the people of Mozambique were refreshingly well-mannered, and the cuisine smacked strongly of European influence.


River taxis took us east…




We aimed for Tofo, east coast, quite a way north of Maputo. Land of no complaints. Plenty of breathing space, great food (prawns featured highly), and some decent waves, much to Jon’s delight (he is high maintenance on a waveless beach).


Diving here in the Indian Ocean presented the novelty of much stronger currents and surges than in the Red Sea, and the most impressive beast we spotted was a large manta ray about two and a half metres wide, which floated directly over our heads. Our hopes of seeing predatory sharks were dashed.


More consecutive all-nighters, a few disco parties, and sunrises…





After about six days in Tofo we were Maputo bound. Another typical run-down African capital. The European-style cafés were a welcome difference, though. Superior coffee brought back memories of Ethiopian macchiatos. Such a simple yet fulfilling luxury.


Home was near, we could smell it. Cities had provided us with basic administrative facilities and transport hubs, but one feels the need to move on swiftly and shake off the caged feeling of the African economic system.


A coaster took us aboard and we traveled, in style (being, a seat for each of us) into Swaziland, through the South African border…

...and all the way to Durban.

Umgeni Road taxi rank, and our pre-programmed brains took charge. Phones, watches, ipods were instantly stashed into the crevices of our backpacks. A quick pit stop at the nearest KFC (what a craving satisfier that was) gave us the strength for our next endeavour. I mean, catching a private taxi home was just too easy. Up the hill with our backpacks we walked. In the sun we walked. After walking in a huge triangle, clocking up at least one and a half unnecessary kilometres, we were almost not welcomed into Essenwood Backpackers. “We don’t generally accept South Africans”, said the German girl behind the counter. She added weight to her statement by bitching about local dudes who would often phone asking if there were any hot foreign chicks there, obviously planning to cruise into the place with prospective prey a surety. We laughed, and marveled at the simplicity of this foresight. After telling her OUR story, we cracked the nod and found our beds.

THE (AS YET) UNFULFILLED DECLARATION

Our taches had become part of us. They were ambassadors of our will to be different, to dare. They pierced any room we moseyed into, drew attention, sparked discussions, and left wakes of impression to last many moons. The mohawk was undoubtedly the next obvious evolutionary step in this ‘Brotherhood of the Tache’. In Tofo Mozambique, we spoke the word.

We declared, on record:

I would have had a mohawk thinner than my tache, Jon a ginger tache and regular ‘hawk, and Dave’s cowboy tache and long hair was an explosion of infinite possibilities waiting to happen.
Alas, no follow through. No Cape Town. I’m still in Durban, Jon is back in Ireland, and Dave is heading to Singapore. Our taches gone - but a memory, immortalized in digital pictures.


A Maputo to Cape Town tache revival looms a few horizons away.


Viva la tache.