MALAWI 2015
Malawi...
“SO HOW WAS MALAWI?” “Malawi surpassed all of my expectations. Go there!” Varying questions, the answer always the same. Before we had even landed the country managed to surprise me. Flying over its length, towards centrallyplaced Lilongwe, I had not envisioned the slither of land to be so mountainous. But of course, Malawi is part of the Great Rift Valley and the mountains and lake are a surface expression of the tearing and stretching of the land. We passed landscapes that mimicked Kenya’s section of the Rift Valley, reminding me of the greatness of tectonic activity - a rift stretching 9,600km from Israel to Mozambique. Malawi is famed for being the ‘warm heart of Africa’, and I can’t argue against that statement. At immigration the lady granting me access into her country decided to strike up a conversation about my boyfriend, whom I “should hold on to at any cost”. She displayed the informal and relaxed attitude of Malawians before I’d even left the airport. In Lilongwe, the country’s capital, that can be described as no more than a large village, we were invited to the house of my boyfriend’s Malawian family. He lived there as a young boy, from 3-6 years. Now, we were welcomed into their home to eat traditional Malawian fare with the couple and their seven children.
The gracious and humble attitude of the nation’s people was displayed again and again that night and the following morning at breakfast as we were welcomed into their home, fed generous and tasty portions and then apologied to. This apology seemed to be offered out of the horror of not being able to give us more. More of what, I’m not sure. The family’s warmth and generosity could hardly be surpassed. Our trip perfectly coincided with the end of the rains, covering the country in a thick blanket of green, save the lake that shimmered transparently, revealing countless multicoloured fish. But as we drove to Mua, we saw field upon field of failing, crispy and golden maize. Malawi had already suffered this year in the form of flooding and subsequent mass evictions from land. We were solemly warned that in 2016 the country would face a food crisis due to the failing of a single crop that fills the bellies of a whole nation. Despite the perils lying ahead, our trip was dominated by the smiles of each and every Malawian that we met. I think these people are holding on to a powerful secret - laughter breeds resilience. Laughter is the quickest way to get back up on your feet and get going again... and that is what they shall do.
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The Lake
THIS IS NOT JUST ANY LAKE; THIS IS A LAKE THAT DEFINES A NATION. Maybe it’s something to do with my affinity for water after living minutes away from the sea for 18 years of my life, but the lake kneaded away my aches, pains and worries almost upon arrival. The pace of life went from an Ethiopian sprint, to a Malawian walk, almost faltering at the lake completely into a lazy saunter. Everyone was on the same page. Even the merchants selling elegant wood carvings were almost too relaxed to bother the tourists perusing their wares. The size of the lake fools you into thinking you’re on the shore of a vast, calm sea. Handmade dugout canoes float past every now and again forever on a mission to catch the fish that complement the staple maize meal. Once ashore, the fish dries on racks and creates an almost unbearable pungent and salty smell. The fishermen are not alone. The lake also plays host to boats full of tourists who have been promised
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paradise in the form of one of the lake’s small rocky outcrops. Paradise it might just be if every touristwielding boat didn’t embark and spread out over the same stretch of the island. Thankfully we were amongst the first to arrive and the last to leave, affording us some peace amidst the techno-playing, rum-drinking South Africans and the sunburnt and excessively loud Americans. This spot deserved peace. It’s beauty was dimmed by the clamour of people. Without the distractions, we were more able to appreciate the plethora of fish, each one more vibrant and hypnotising than the last. We rotated between snorkelling, swimming and lazing contentedly on an inflatable ring, enjoying beautiful views both above and below the water. We didn’t need anything else, but then a refreshingly cold beer was placed in my hand and the smell of grilled fish and chicken found me on the breeze and I didn’t want the day to end. On the second day we did a whole lot of nothing, which was perfect. With a busy few days behind us,
darting here and there, and the threat of a hard three day mountain climb ahead of us, a book and a beachside hammock were the order of the day. Gazing out along the beach between chapters it was refreshing to see the locals go about business as usual amidst the tourists. Young boys with swollen bellies stood on the shore throwing out fishing lines. They were competing to see who could bring in the biggest catch whilst looking longingly at their peers in the distant water. Maybe they would own their own boat one day. Beside them, pretty, doe-eyed girls clung to their mothers’ legs as they washed pots and pans in the fresh water. Tourists were not sectioned off from their hosts. Just as the local people were not prohibited from using a beach which was rightly theirs. To me, this interaction was another reflection of Malawi’s ease.
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The Mountain
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AT THE FOOT OF THE MOUNTAIN, IN THE TOWN THAT LIES IN ITS SHADOW, LIKHUBULA, THE RISING mount of rock incited excitement rather than dread. After all, the 3000m Mount Mulanje is a little known dwarf when compared to the great and iconic mountains of Africa - Kilimanjaro and Mount Kenya. Yet the challenge surpassed our expectations and we left the mountain with a great deal more respect and even higher levels of accomplishment, especially after our guide, Wanderson, congratulated us, “if you climb the mountain you are strong”. The first day was a test of endurance in the form of a 1500m ascent. The relentless hike upwards was made much more tricky in the absence of a proper trail. Up, up and up again over mud, boulders and mossy rocks that threatened to break an ankle. After traversing open plains and moss-covered rocky outcrops, we suddenly became enveloped in a misty forest, enchanted by the rich smells of countless cedar trees and the calls of distant monkeys who seemed to be warning the forest’s inhabitants of our presence. After roaming almost barren lands, being followed only by a single and ominous crow, the forest seemed to be humming with life. From the hundreds of swarming ants that traversed our bodies to find a patch of skin to bite, to fat and writhing multicoloured caterpillars; the forest sang. The elusive and endangered leopard and serval cats evaded us, as did the mountain’s spirits that are said to reside in the small remaining patch of forest. At the end of the day’s hike, we arrived at the cabin feeling satisfied in the false knowledge that the first day was supposed to be the most arduous. This information had come from a passing couple who had failed to summit due to incliment weather. Had they reached the summit, the mountain would have revealed itself in less shining light, as we were to find out.
Despite the ungodly hour of 6:30am, we started the final ascent with bounds of optimism. We soon learnt that the three hours up and the consequent three hours down were to involve climbing up large boulders and scrambling over 45 degree, wet rock faces. Shoeless Wanderson and Harry, our porter, did this with such ease putting us to shame as we made countless clumsy mis-steps. Not far from the summit, one member of our group slipped, ribs crashing on to hard rock face, reminding us that one wrong step could lead to the mountain defeating us. To celebrate the climb we sipped gin and tonic from a plastic bottle and replenished with apples and energy bars. It was necessary; the way down proved to be much more trecherous, especially as my hiking boots started to slowly disintegrate. Held together with countless shoe laces, we continued the descent with the knowledge that after a brief lunch we had another four hour trek to the next cabin. Although this stretch was less technically challenging, exhaustion was starting to set in and our mistakes were quickly multiplying. On the third and final day we awoke to screaming legs, rebelling, the pain insisting that we rest. With every step of the three hour descent we winced whilst Wanderson and Harry carried on with ease, powered by maize meal. We refreshed our bodies, as well as our optimism, in the icy pool of one of Mulanje’s waterfalls before walking the final 45 minutes back to base, the car, much-welcomed showers and civilisation. We parted Wanderson and Harry with thanks and blatant relief that the monumental trek was over. Driving away, we glanced at the mountain behind us, paying our final respects.
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