The names of all the key figures in this journal have been changed. There is no particular reason for this except that I'm no longer in touch with any of them and couldn't seek their permission to make them famous on the Internet. If you recognise yourself, or anyone else, in the narrative and disagree with anything I've said then I apologise, not for anything I've written which is all true but for upsetting you. It wasn't my intention.
Very Much Delicious: Travels In Malawi And Zambia (c) Robert Hale 1997
Chapter 1: The Golden Cockroach
After the dusty downbeat shabbiness of our stopover at Addis Ababa, Lilongwe airport was a haven of calm and tranquillity. It was cool spacious and pleasant. It hardly felt like an airport at all. Our tour leader was waiting for us. Dressed in a jungle green short sleeved shirt and shorts he looked every inch the great white hunter. When he spoke to introduce himself his English had the distinctive sound of a South African.
"Hi, I'm Don. I'm going to be your guide, driver and expert on everything for your whole trip. If anyon'es thirsty I've got cold beers in the back of the Land Rover."
It was the kind of introduction that makes you take to a man.
Outside the airport the day was bright and hot, the air sticky and humid. The airport looked as good from here as from inside. It stood on a broad tree lined avenue rather than the usual acres of car filled concrete. We milled around drinking cold beer and inexpertly helping to load our luggage onto the roof of the vehicle. There were only six of us. Everyone but me was surprised at that. I had known for weeks of course having acted as courier for the documents being taken out to Don. John was a tall thin man with greying hair. Faith was his wife. I wasn't sure about their ages they could have been in their forties or fifties but it was hard to tell. Barry, who I correctly surmised was to be my room mate was shorter, solidly built and beginning to lose his hair. He was probably in his mid forties. Of the two single women one, Meg was older - perhaps about sixty - and the other Susan was younger - probably late thirties.
After a short drive we arrived at lodging for the night, The Golden Peacock Resthouse. Given that we had been assured us that it had been newly decorated and improved shortly before our arrival, it must have been an interesting place before we came. The beds were hard and not very clean. The toilet and shower could best be described as 'basic with an overpowering smell of urine'. The corridors were filled with broken and discarded furniture and piles of damp matresses.
We asked the overwight and sweating man at reception if they had any mosquito nets.
"No mosquito nets, no mosquitoes." he replied, swatting away the mosquito feeding on his cheek. Back in the room I dug out my own net and set it up. I tried to talk to my room mate. He was a seasoned hand at Africa having visited most of it in the last twenty years or so. He seemed basically decent but a little pompous - a 'been there, done that, bought the new wing of the orphanage' sort of a guy. Ten minutes in his company and you felt guilty for not selling all of your possessions and donating the proceeds to Somalian refugees. I gave up trying to hold a conversation and went to take a shower.
A little later, showered and changed and feeling refreshed I went for a walk around the immediate environs. It was the sounds that struck me first. They were different to anything I was used to. My stroll led me down a dusty road, past a school and into what seemed to be a half built shopping area. All the way I was accompanied by the noise of insects and frogs in a perpetually shifting rhythm, magnified by the stillness of the air and sometimes accompanied by the distant wail of an Islamic call to prayer.
A grinning child sitting in a pile of truck tyres waved at me and I waved back. A man was crouched by the side of the road repairing a bicycle even though it was already becoming dark. He greeted me with a babble of friendly but incomprehensible words. I nodded a hello and continued on. A notice proclaimed that the Lilongwe Sewage Recycling Project was co-funded by Japan. It was the first indication of a theme that I noticed time and again in the country. Everywhere were signs of Japanese investment from the many co-funded projects to the enormous number of Toyota Land Cruisers. Soon it became too dark to sensibly continue and I returned to the hotel to prepare for my dinner at the local golf club.
It was a fine and tasty meal of some kind of spicy chicken dish. The golf club restaurant was run by an ex-patriot Englishman who was a fussy host and energetic man in a maroon shirt. He clearly already knew Don and he soon joined our conversation, holding forth at some length on the subject of African economics and how the hurdles put in the way of starting businesses made small investment difficult. All the same, he pointed out, there was building and development going on everywhere and that was a sure sign of a healthy economy. He was an amiable host, continuing the discussion as we ate, sitting at the end of the table. Don's wife Catherine had joined us for dinner. She would later be joining us for Christmas and the New Year as we travelled around the country, bringing their two year old son out on our Safari. Barry, in his didactic fashion had already informed me that 'Safari' was simply and African word for 'Journey' - a fact which I had known already.
After dinner we stayed for a few drinks but we were all quite tired and an early night back at what had already been dubbed 'The Golden Cockroach' seemed in order.
I woke early and took my camera for another walk around the area. It proved to be distinctly unphotogenic and after a couple of 'atmospheric' shots I gave up and returned to the hotel. The hotel grounds contained a separate establishment, a restaurant called the Korean Garden. It was here that we assembled for breakfast, sitting at a table outside eating a plate of bananas, mangoes and fried eggs - a combination a good deal more appetising than it sounds. Barry had a Field Guide to the Birds of Southern Africa and at the sight of something colourful in one of the trees quickly consulted it to pronounce 'Redbilled Woodhoopoe' and again a minute later to identify a 'Cutthroat Finch'. I of course had noticed neither but everyone else seemed very excite and it occurred to me that I was on a trip with a whole group of twitchers. As long as we managed to get to see something a little larger than a finch - say a hippo or an elephant I would be happy.
While we were eating the Land Rover arrived with Don and Peter, our cook and helper. Peter was a cheerful smiling fellow with skin the colour and texture of ebony. He clambered on top of the Land Rover and within minutes had all our waiting baggage stowed away under a plastic sheet which was firmly roped down to the roof. Soon we were underway, driving out through the flame trees and coral trees of suburban Lilongwe on our way to Kasito Lodge, our overnight stop for Wednesday.
The Malawi Forestry Department has around the country various lodges for guests. The ones in the Viphya Forest Reserve are called Kasito Lodges One and Two. As you climb towards the Viphya plateau from Mzimba the variegated colours of the brachystegia woodland are replaced by the darker greens of imported Mexican Pine with only smaller patches of indigenous trees remaining. Turning off the main road we approached Kasito Lodge Number One along a succession of sandy tracks. When I had read that we were to be in 'lodge accommodation' I had been a little apprehensive. After all that bland phrase could have meant almost anything. Kasito Lodge exceeded my wildest expectations. It is a sprawling former colonial residence which has magnificent views across the valley. It has half a dozen large bedrooms, a dining room, a large lounge with a wide and welcoming fireplace, extensive kitchens and two bathrooms and a shower. All of it is well maintained and comfortable and we had it all to ourselves.
The grey morning had given way to a glorious afternoon and most of us decided to go for a walk around the hills. Only Barry, who wanted to go walking alone, decided against the idea. Don, wisely not trusting our sense of direction, suggested that one of the lodge employees should come with us to make sure that we did not get lost. Verten, a thin Malawian in dark blue overalls, led us up the hill through the trees. He was aged 30 and had 3 children but his English was not as good as Peter's and that was all I managed to find out about him before we cleared the trees and arrived at a large open space where a number of charcoal kilns could be found. They occupied a flat area at the top of the hill a little way short of the road. They were also conspicuously not working. While the five of us looked around Verten disappeared, re-appearing a few minutes later with Dervan , a former worker at the site whose English was considerably better. The charcoal kilns had, he explained been closed two years ago by the government but he would happily give us a tour anyway if we wanted one. We all agreed that we did.
There were two types of kiln there, hemispherical one ton kilns and cylindrical three ton kilns. They were all ingeniously constructed using a hinged template with two sliding pieces of wood and a hinged peg. This allowed them to create the circular shapes easily and accurately. The rows of the smaller version were built of diminishing sizes of brick to more easily obtain the correct shape. Once built, complete with a number of air vents and a door for loading they were packed tightly with pine logs and then the door was sealed up. The wood was then ignited via channels in the base and allowed to burn for three hours. The vents were then also sealed to starve the fire of oxygen and the outside of the kiln covered in mud to facilitate cooling. The larger kilns also had run off channels so that the creosote that is released when pine burns could be collected and sold.
He had mixed feelings about the closure. On the one hand he was unhappy to be out of a job when he had a wife and family to support, on the other hand it was an unpleasant and difficult job which he had never liked anyway. We took pictures which we promised to send and paid him a few Kwacha for his time and continued down the hill with Verten.
The path led in a rough circle away from the lodge. Verten was guiding us and occasionally Susan would ask him the name of one of the flowers but as he only ever knew the name in his own language, Tambuka, and invariably picked the flower to give to her she soon stopped bothering. The path continued to bend so that eventually it must lead roughly back towards our Lodge. At one point the ground was covered in hundreds of jet black millipedes emerging from tiny holes in the dirt. At our footfalls some retreated into the holes, others ignored us completely and others curled up into tight spirals, as hard as sea shells. Eventually we dipped down a slight slope and crossed a narrow stream. On the other side we climbed briefly and found ourselves approaching our point of departure.
As we approached another lodge employee came bustling out with a large pot of tea and a plate of biscuits and we sat at a wooden table on the lawn eating and drinking. It was a perfect setting that made me file quite colonial, taking afternoon tea in the hot African sunshine with birds wheeling overhead and the faint hum of insects. A tiny bright greenfrog, no more than a centimetre long and with bright red feet hopped around in the grass and then up onto the table to pose for photographs before leaping away and leaving us.
Dinner, the first of many to be cooked for us by Peter was a thick and tasty vegetable soup followed by a gigantic helping of shepherds' pie. It was excellent and afterwards we sat with our drinks in front of a blazing log fire and introduced ourselves 'officially.'
Don, the Safari leader, was a former South African architect who had decided that the city life was not for him and that this would suit him better. He and his wife had decided to settle on the shore of Lake Malawi and were now busy conducting tours of the area throughout the season. By our standards he could seem a little patronising towards black Africans but nevertheless he had a genuine rapport and mutual respect with them. He told me that he had spent a long time living with the Tambuka people and enjoyed their company more than he had ever enjoyed living in the city.
John and Faith were a married couple, both vegetarians but without the holier-than-thou attitude that had occasionally marred trips in the past. Both of them were also commited at all things ecological. They were the kind of people that can say 'minimum impact tourism' and 'ecologically responsible resource management' with a straight face.
Barry, my room mate was, as I had already discovered, a lifelong fan of Africa and had travelled in almost every bit it. He was certainly knowledgeable but he had a self-aggrandising attitude that I did not take to. His heart was in the right place but he was rather too smug and pompous for him to be genuinely likeable.
Meg was a nurse, nearing retirement, who had when she had been teaching nursing had a number of African students who had gone on to return to their own countries to practise, including some back here to Malawi.
Susan, a solicitor, was thirty-something widow and Scottish and bright and friendly
I introduced myself to them and with the ice now broken we sat around the fire as the darkness outside turned into a thick black blanket of night, and drank endless glasses of whisky and beer until it was time to sleep.
A few hours later I sat in my track suit on the wooden table on the veranda, with my arms hugging my knees tightly to my chest , watching and listening to Africa waking up. Away on the distant slope across the valley a group of lights marked a town, probably Rumphi. As dawn lightened the sky they became less prominent, disappearing against the green backdrop of the trees. It was a little after four a.m., and I was grateful for the shelter as it was raining qhite heavily, the faint his of the water being added to the other morning noises. Dozens of bird calls, alien and unfamiliar, pierced the dawn. There was a deep caw-caw-cawwww from somewhere to my left. Another canary like cadence called out 'quick-they're-coming - quick-they're coming'. A group of birds did staccato machine gun impressions in a stand of brachystegia just down the hill.
A group of crickets, large enough to be individually visible even a hundred yards, took to the air in a flashing cloud of scarlet, their humming underpinning the sharper calls of the birds.
Of course I was out here this early for a reason. My room mate had proven to be another champion snorer and the echoes of his nasal gymnastics had prevented my sleeping for most of the night. Out here, amid all this noise it was far more relaxing and peaceful. When I found myself dozing I went back inside, stretched out on the sofa in front of the last embers of the fire and fell asleep again.
Next time I awoke breakfast was ready and a magnificent feast it was too, bacon, eggs, great fat home made sausages, thick sliced toast made from freshly baked bread, a sweet thick honey and gallons of delicious Malawi coffee. Afterwards, once we had showered and dressed, we piled back into the Land Rover and drove down to Mzuzu - the capitol of the Northern Province - where Peter went shopping and we looked around the town market. It was an interesting and busy scene, even this early in the day, filled with a noisy crowd of people all laughing and shouting as they saught out the best bargains. It took about an hour for Peter to be finished and then we drove on, heading for the Vwaza Marsh Game Reserve.
At the gate of Vwaza is a large sign that says
"REMEMBER ELEPHANTS HAVE RIGHT OF WAY !"
which may well be the most unnecessary road sign ever. Past the gate there is a thousand square kilometre reserve that runs along the northern section of the Zambian border. The accommodation there is in 'fixed' tents which have been pitched onto concrete bases with four wooden poles supporting thatched roofs above them. They are basically but adequately furnished with beds, chairs and a table. The Reserve itself is flat with predominantly brachystegia woodland and, as the name would suggest, substantial wetland habitat. From the tents we could look out across a perfect African vista towards the river, and best of all apart from a few staff we had the place completely to ourselves.
Immediately after lunch it was time for our first game drive. We piled mattresses onto the roof of the Land Rover and sat up there, legs dangling over the sides, while Don drove us along the dusty dirt roads. Everyone but me kept on spotting birds and calling out their names. I gamely tried to join in but found that inevitably by the time I had got my binoculars trained and focused they had already flown away.
In the distance Susan picked out about a dozen roan antelope. Don drove of the road and out through the bush to try to get a closer view, eventually halting on the plain near an enormous dead termite mound. These mounds are one of the startling features of the country's landscape. Some of them are yards high and thousands of years old. Many have trees growing from them, sometimes ancient and gnarled trees which nonetheless the mounds pre-date. We climbed down from the roof and started to follow the roan tracks which were clear and fresh in the soft ground. We found where they had been recently - their fresh droppings were already being parcelled up and rolled away by a horde of bright green dung beetles - but the roan themselves had gone. Reluctantly we went back to the vehicle.
By now sunset was approaching and we drove down towards the river. Across the mud flats there were several dozen hippo in the water. Their booming voices, sounding like someone laughing at the world's dirtiest joke, rang out across the valley. We approached them on foot and with great caution. It's a well known truth that hippopotamus are responsible for more deaths in Africa than either crocodile or lion. When we had got close enough to satisfy our urge for photographs we turned around and headed back to where we had parked. By the time we reached it the sun was half way down past the horizon and we sat around on the grass drinking bottles of beer and watching the almost archetypal African landscape. It was a wonderful moment.
