I didn’t realize how much my mind needed a break from my Lilongwe and camp routine until I was on a mini bus headed to Lake Malawi. The green countryside sped by and just as quickly the emotional weight I was carrying slipped out the window with the breeze. As the sun was setting we boarded a ‘matola’ (a flatbed truck used by locals for cheap transport to and from villages) for the final leg of our adventure to the lake lodge. Although my bony butt grew painfully sore and is still bruised, the traveling was great fun. I would say that you haven’t truly lived in Malawi if you haven’t ridden on a matola pressed together with 15 other locals, five babies, two large woven baskets of tomatoes, three bags of charcoal, several pieces of lumber and a chicken cage or two.
After we arrived we spent the evening under the bright stars listening to the sound of the lake and enjoying each other’s company, which included two kittens having a marathon wrestling match in the sand. We laughed those much-needed laughs that start in your throat but creep down into your belly and wrench your stomach muscles until tears begin to roll down your cheeks. The two girls I was traveling with seem to like sarcasm and offensive, yet friendly, slights just as much as I do. Charming really.
Saturday started off properly with peanut butter (obviously), tea and eggs. We took off on an old wooden boat named Atyayi with a number 3 painted on the front in route to Lizard Island. I could tell right then and there it was going to be a great day. We arrived at the island in the middle of Senga Bay, jumped off the warm rocks and peered at colorful species of fresh water fish through old school ‘Body Glove’ snorkeling masks. The tropical fish make their home in the warm waters beneath massive rock monoliths that shoot out from the depths of the earth. The hike to the top of the island in flip flops and bikinis gave us a great view but it was the careful consideration of how exactly to scale the largest rock in the bay that made for the greatest accomplishment of the day.
There was a moment when all of us were in the water surrounding this rock trying to locate the best plan of attack. I looked over to see Jessi trying her luck with a narrow crack on one side of the beastly rock, while Alex was getting pummeled by waves created by the ebe and flow of the water, just as Will was swimming to another small island to get a better perspective to the top. I was treading water, plotting my ascent, laughing and trying not to take in mouthfuls of water with every giggle. I might not have captured the scene with a camera but it’s a special snapshot in my mind. Two of us succeeded in conquering the boulder and were pleasantly rewarded with a leap and free fall back into the deep blue water. As a bonus, I wasn't eaten by a crocodile or hippopotamus (Told you Mama).
By the time I had spent close to three hours in the water I was beginning to turn into a raisin. A yellow raisin at that because although I would say I am tan for me, I still don’t resemble a black raisin. I worked up quite an appetite with all the activities and the braii (BBQ) on the beach was the perfect solution to my hunger. The red-hot charcoal burned slowly and took the place of the hot setting sun. Freshly caught butter fish, rice, tomatoes, onions and pumpkin leaves hit the spot and the company of five locals helped to celebrate the end to a great day and the start to a great night. There is nothing better than sharing a meal, cold beers and stories about life while digging your feet into the sand and enjoying the light of a small fire over the water.
Tosh, the Rastafarian in the group always had a hilarious comment to make, Manson or ‘little boy’ was shy but was a good guesser when it came to sand Pictionary, Peter was the brunt of most jokes his friends told because he was so thin, Nelson smiled a lot and taught me how to play Bawo (similar to mancala) and as others joined, the atmosphere became more and more friendly. The natural momentum of the group carried us straight into the village bar. Beers and Chibuku or shake shake as the locals call were available. Shake shake, a thick corn fermented beer, is aptly nicknamed because it requires a hardy shake before drinking in order to mix together the settled corn goop. It is a meal and an alcoholic drink rolled into a malty, bittery, chewy barf-o-rama style beer. Apparently a little time in the sun will only increase the potency of this beer known as ‘The People’s Choice’. Do they have a choice?
Only men were in the bar as all women are at home taking care of their families and generally minding all of the household responsibilities. When three white girls walk in you can only imagine the scene. I’m not saying the music came to a screeching stop but I’m pretty sure every head in the place turned to check us out. Before long we were part of the crowd, dancing, drinking and being merry. The night came to a close drinking wine out of plastic water bottle “glasses” (sorry Dad) and sharing a heart to heart talk about the future on the stoop of our rooms. Slept like a baby and woke up with the sun. A morning swim listening and focusing only to the sound of my own breathing aligned my mind and organized all my thoughts. Afterward we wandered through the market to purchase lunch for 100 Kwacha (about 75 cents). Cast iron tables designed with large compressions in them to hold cooking oil line the markets of the village. Similar to woks, these tables are never washed but seem to retain more flavors after more and more uses. Some call it dirty, I call it yummy. The potatoes are boiled, then fried and thrown into a plastic bag with cabbage, sliced tomatoes, salt and peri peri sauce (liquid heat) then mixed around to spread all of the goodness around. Delightful.
Leaving was inevitable so I sucked it up, slung my trusty pack over my shoulders and got on the matola. This ride was like nothing else. My head was squished into a man’s chest/sweaty armpit, my arm was wrapped around my friend, my other hand rested on a child’s head, my feet were crushed under the weight of woman and her bag of lead, my butt was pressed up against another boy who kept me in place during the turbulent ride. Amongst the sweaty chaos women began to sing. I don’t know what they were saying but I know the message was upbeat and joyous despite a ride that many would consider outrageously aggravating. Miles down the road we pulled into a driveway that led to a group of about 75 women dancing to the beats being thrown out of two giant sub woofers. The women saw the truck carrying their other group members and began to sing and clap. A sporadic dance party began when the women surrounded the truck, threw up their arms, hollered out and began shaking their bodies. I am not one to turn down the opportunity to dance so away I went, which gave the locals a good laugh. Moving, smiling and sharing a lovely moment. I didn’t ever find out what that gathering was about but it made my day.
Dome’s Favorites: Just as tumble weeds roam the desert, fake weave hair rambles the streets of Lilongwe. “Oh look, there goes another hair bunny!”
