Our first week in Malawi

Crossing borders is fun. You get to stroll across the neutral space between two nations excited about what your next destination has to hold. You also have to go through immigration twice. Once as you exit one nation, the next as you go into the other. Claire and I were making our way from Tanzania into Malawi. On the Tanzanian side we wandered into the immigration office to fill in our exit forms. We then handed them in and the man took one look at Claire’s and frowned. I had used the black pen on the desk to fill mine in. Claire had opted to go for her red biro. “You have used red,” said the man behind the desk. “This is for the president only.” Claire apologised. Luckily the man was friendly and didn’t mind. We were on our way. We crossed the bridge between the two countries that was lined on either side with large stationary cargo lorries, just like the border from Uganda to Rwanda. Then, after a couple of minutes walking, we’d made it to the Malawian immigration office.

We stepped up to the counter and began to fill in the entry forms in order to get our visa. Then we handed them to the man behind the counter and sat down waiting for him to call us up to pay. A few minutes passed and the man from behind the counter walked over and looked at Claire. “You have used red pen,” she’d done it again. “This is not allowed.” Unlucky for us he wasn’t as friendly as the man on the other side and Claire had to fill in her form again. In black. It took a few goes but hopefully now Claire understands that she is not the president of an east or southern African country.

As we were waiting for our visas to go through a small child came up to us trying to sell us sim cards for our phones. We declined and he disappeared. He then came back a few minutes later with sodas. Again we declined and he went away. Minutes later he was back with batteries. Again, we said no. You had to admire his perseverance. Though we did wonder where he kept disappearing off to.

After paying for our visas and having our passports stamped, we were on our way. It’s a strange feeling just walking into a new country. You’re excited about what’s to come – especially with Malawi, a country we’ve heard so much about – but you are also sort of just walking, with all your things, hoping to bump into a bus or taxi. In the end a car came to a halt next to us. It was full, but the driver didn’t mind. They squeezed us in. We hadn’t been ten people to a car since Uganda a few months previous, but it was strangely a nice feeling. As soon as you realise that these cars are running and are willing to fit as many people in as possible, you know that getting around that country is going to be easy!

We jumped in and were on our way to the lake. The first stop was south of the town Karonga on the north east coast of Lake Malawi. We were to stay at Maji Zuwa. This lodge is built on the hillside overlooking the lake with fantastic views. It also had little cabins situated on the hill. We took a beachside cabin that cost a mere 3,500 Kwacha, which is around three pounds fifty. After checking in and spending a night there, Claire and I decided to go for a walk along the lake. We wanted to get a first taste of what Malawi had to offer. During our stroll we saw many locals bathing in the lake, and others preparing fishing nets. And, we were also greeted by lots of children who came running in our direction. During our trip kids have been keen to shout ‘muzungu’ and wave. In Malawi the kids are even more friendly. As we made our way along the lake kids ran over, hugged Claire’s legs and wanted to hold our hands. We’d walk, hand in hand with the kids for a few minutes before they’d let go and leg it back to where they were initially sat with their parents.

It’s funny how children around the world like to mimic their parents. When I was younger I’d always be trying to copy my dad. He’d be outside in the garden fixing something or building something with his tool box on the floor next to him. And most of the time a five-year-old me would be sat next to him copying him with my plastic tool kit, inevitably getting in his way and asking him an incessant stream of questions, most of which were merely ‘why?’. Here we came across a young girl who was mimicking her mother. Girls the world over play with baby dolls and this young girl had hers tied to her back in the same manner that most of the young women we’ve seen use to carry their children around. Speaking of this, it seems like a fantastic way to carry a baby. Most of the time. The child is placed in a piece of cloth and tied to the mother’s back. It is sort of carried like a back pack, with its legs splayed pointing in different directions which looks like it is pretty comfortable. However, one time in Rwanda that we saw a woman who was rather large and the baby was pretty much doing the splits on its fat mother’s back. At least it would grow up to be a flexible baby. Anyway, Claire stopped to take a picture of the girl and her doll, and the girl was only too pleased to be photographed.

Maji Zuwa was a nice place to stay and Claire and I spent three days doing little more than sitting looking at the lake, whilst reading and talking. The place was, however, rather quiet so we decided to move on. We were going to head up the mountain to the Mushroom Farm, a place near Livingstonia that lots of people had recommended to us. However, whilst we were sat having a beer on the last night at Maji we met a nice Dutch guy called David. He was staying twenty minutes down the coast at another lodge. Claire and I then accompanied him to this lodge for a few beers and some dinner.

David was a really interesting guy. He had passed his motorbike driving test, getting his licence, just two weeks before he came to Africa. He then bought a bike in South Africa and had ridden it over most of the southern half of the continent. David did, however, have to take three months off his trip and head home when he broke his leg in a bike accident. Though that didn’t deter him and he was now back in on his way.

Whilst at the lodge just down the lake from Maji Zuwa, Claire and I got chatting to the owner, a Geordie called Mark. We were talking about what we did and we mentioned that Claire builds websites. We then struck a deal. Claire would build Mark a site for his lodge, as his was around ten years old and looked rather dated, and he would give us some free accommodation. This place was most definitely a step up from Maji Zuwa. The food was incredible and the lodge had its own private sandy beach. I felt bad, however, as Claire spent three days trying to build a website on a very slow internet connection and I spent three days reading, sitting on the beach and chatting with Dutch David. We did, however, all spend the evenings together drinking beers and talking and we were most of the time joined by Mark the owner.

David and I playing bao

Mark is a burly northerner. Middle aged, and mad about motorbikes, he is what I am sure he himself would describe as a ‘man’s man’ – though I never heard him use those words. He was old school. When talking about the website Claire was building he would say that he wanted it to be nice looking before saying – to me and not Claire – “It’s like when you’re in a pub and you see a good looking woman. It makes you want to talk to them.” I nodded. When we complemented him on the food at his place and the way it was presented he said that he wanted it to look nice before saying – to me, completely ignoring Claire; “It’s like when you’re in a pub and you see a good looking woman. It makes you want to talk to them.” I nodded. It was good food.

Another time he told us; “the last people to come and try and help me were a pair of really camp fellers. They didn’t even try to hide it. They booked a double cabin and everything,” we both nodded and chuckled at this notion afterwards.

Mark was, it has to be said, an excited storyteller. He would often jump up from his seat to mime whatever was going on in his story. Whether it was the time he and his colleagues were throwing rocks at a black mamba, one of the most poisonous snakes in Africa, or the time his dogs ripped another dog in half. His stories were always pretty mad. He said that he sometimes takes his crossbow onto the beach and shoots it at trees to get the message to the locals that he is not to be messed with. I always find it interesting in this day and age when people own medieval weaponry. I imagine him topless and barrel chested, with war makeup on, firing his crossbow at trees fag in mouth.

He had used to drive big overland trucks across Africa taking groups of tourists through dangerous locations such as Zaire, the country now known as the Democratic Republic of Congo. He was even in Kigali, Rwanda’s capital, when the genocide kicked off. Mark was also big into his motorbikes. I’ll never forget him talking to David about bikes and him mentioning the brand Motoguzzi in his thick Geordie tones. I am sure that is not how the Italians had intended it to be pronounced. He was a jovial character though and despite having slightly colonial overtones – shouting at his staff in front of us and telling us that ‘you have to speak to them like that to get your message across’, his heart was in the right place. He did also have an amazing dog called Samson, who was humongous. A real gentle giant. Well, mostly gentle. Apart from the time he and his sister ripped another dog in half. But to us he was lovely.

But after three nights at Maji Zuwa, and three with Mark and David, it was time for us to continue on our way. We were finally heading to The Mushroom Farm, up in the mountains that overlooked the lake. And we couldn’t wait!