West of the border

From Nampula it was all travel, straight to Malawi. The next morning we headed to the train station at 4am, an hour before departure, thinking we were early and could get good seats. Not so, all the first and second classes were sold out, and when we boarded third, it appeared everyone else had spent the night reserving their benches. We stood up until after midday, battling with the constant movement up and down the isles of hawkers and trading their goods, squeezing past us politely every minute of the morning.

It was on this train from Nampula to Cuamba that i finally put together the reasons for the 50kgs of rice that i had seen piled on to the buses, and the touts at the station who sell soap and toothbrushes and babies shoes and everything else i had never imagined i would need on a long bus or train journey. It infuriated me to see the rice take up so much room when you could always buy it at the journey's end. It saddened me that touts tried to make money on things that i thought a traveler would never need - do some market research!

Eventually everything clicked. In every town in Africa, even the smallest couple of houses on a highway, there is a little stall or two to sell soap and rice and biscuits, a little supermarket in a town to small to have one. The Banana cream biscuit company does not swing past once a week to restock any supplies. African logistics is the network of friends and cousins, coming and going between towns and cities, dropping of a few supplies each time as they can. On the journey home, if a guy can palm off a few bars of soap he simply intends to sell anyway, its just a bonus really. Big Mumma's sit back and fill there baskets with cut price soap and baby shoes galore!

Cuamba proved to be our worst hotel yet. Jon moved the bed and a flurry of cockroaches spread across the wall. It was the only hotel in town. It was a $1.50 Aussie. We put the bed back and decided to head out for dinner. By the time we got back, the 13 hour train journey had taken its toll and we didn't have to try hard not to think about the bugs for long before we were asleep.
Another early start saw us at the bus station before the sun rose. We were a few hours from the border post listed in the guidebook, but the chappas were heading to a post further north. We went with them.

As we got closer to Malawi things had already begun to change. The border town had muffins, which we delighted in scoffing down after weeks of no variety, eating only the same soft white bread loaves baked in every town in Mozambique.

The border was still 10kms away and the only mode of transport for the journey was ones own legs or arranging a lift with a local on a bicycle. About 20 bicycles gather around with offers and we selected our drivers carefully. Jon liked the hat worn by one guy, i went with the guy who opened the coke bottle i was struggling with. It was a hot day, the guys panted and puffed as we sat on the back of the bikes up the hill. I felt fat and heavy, but it was so much fun!

From the other side of the border, some differences were immediately apparent. In Mozambique, women wear colour wraps of material, only a few kilometres away everyone wore tailored clothing. Malawi had road signs. It was freezing. None of these changes however reminded me that people here could speak English. I nearly died when on the bus i yelled out "Hey Jon, check out the look on the face of the kid next to me!", and everyone else checked it out too...

Across the border in Malawi's commercial capital of Blantye we were overcome with available menu selections. Weeks of bread and bananas were washed away, and Jon and i spent the next few days feeding on any vegetables we could find, fantastic Indiana food, and relishing in the availability of milk and beef. I'd seen the cows grazing as we crossed the border, they stood shaking in the wake of our hunger eyes...

It was Blantye were Jon and i would part. He headed back to South Africa on what i told him was a 20 hour bus trip, but later heard from others was more like 40. Blantye was cold and wet, in contrast to everything we'd traveled in Mozambique and as i walked an unknown distance down the highway to the bus stop i tried not to panic at the though of taking on African travel for the first time alone.

Surprisingly it was easier than it ever had been. The crew of the bus that eventually picked me up, fussed over a woman traveling by herself. My and my luggage got the fount seat. They drove around and found the bus i needed to be on, carrying my bag over, and showing me to my seat. As they left they all shoke my hand and wished me the safest journey.

I was headed to Cape McClear, on the shores of Lake Malawi, where Malawi's cold weather was rumored to mysteriously improve in the shore areas. In years gone by, Cape McClear was a prime hang out spot for the weary traveler, the Goa of Africa. In the last few years the travelers had moved further north, and i was warned before i left about the persistent beach boys who were desperate to sell there handmade necklaces to the last few tourists in the area.

But from this point my bus ride went downhill. I was squashed in the backseat next to a massive woman who dictated that my shoulders could fit neither in front nor behind her. The back door of the van was tied down with string leaving a large gap which quickly filled with exhaust fumes, suffocating me, plunging my head into a horrific well of pain.

A few hours later the bus emptied out at a junction and i was told i had to change buses. The driver lead me over, as i wobbled wearily from the fumes. " No, no, no" i protested as we walked towards the ute. I knew what was next, bumpy roads, standing up in the overcrowded tray and hanging on for dear life. I propped myself up against the cab with my head between my legs and refused to sit up despite the impressive number of passengers squeezed on the back.

Out in the fresh air i began to feel better. I slowly lifted my head. The man standing straddled across my curled up body didn't speak English, but could see i was not a happy camper. He waved his hands around and clapped like you'd do to an angry baby. I had to crack a smile, it only encouraged him.

I felt better and got up to see some of the scenery is missed with my head between my knees. Green plains, with a multitude of different trees, the flat topped greenery from lion king and the haunting old baobabs scattered like ghosts. The nearby mountains were speckled with gold from and purple highlights, the further afield ones were blue, until they blurred with the sky. At every town we stopped the children yelled "Mzungu, Mzungu!" sometimes in panic, sometimes teasing, but mostly to get me to wave.

When the truck stopped in Monkey bay, about 30kms from Cape McClear but id had enough for the day. Three guys walked me to the nearby hostel, across the old airfield, past the soccer field, ("Oh no" they consoled "We cried for your country last night, losing to Italy. Next time, Next time"), and through the local village.

Through the gates of the hostel i took my first spectacular view of Lake Mawali. The overcast clouds and windy day meant that the water had turned wild and sea like. The nearby mountains were visible, but across the large expanse of water you could only see the suggestions of the ranges that stretched along the edge. I love gloomy water, rough on a windy day, but i couldn't wait to see the lake under a perfect sunset, were she could show her true appeal.

The guys, Rolf, Issac and Leylo who had walked me to the hostel sat down to chat, which was nice as i was the only guest. "Ah Aussie eh?" said Leylo. "G'day mate, howz ya goin'" he said almost perfectly. They knew a lot about geography. Previously i was describing my home as the large island in the pacific, near, well nothing really. These guys knew it well, Sydney and Melbourne, even Tasmania.

Leylo taught me boaw, a Malawian wooden board game which i beat him at first go. They showed me there necklaces that they made. I bought a few knowing full well i would never get seeds past Australian customs.

Later on a family turned up at the hostel. Ceildhe (pronounced kay-lee), was my age, she was on holiday with her parents, but had been living in Bolivia for the past year, the country she had completed high school in, as her parents, Renee and Brad, worked there as teachers. These days, Renee and Brad, (both girls called them by their first names which i found disturbing modern) and her younger sister lived in Khartoum, in Sudan. They had been there for a year and it was fascinating to hear about both countries in contrast to their native Canada.

Later in the evening, Leylo and Peter took me to the village to show me how they brewed German Coffee, the local alcohol. I'd been warned, but couldn't resist giving it a try. This stuff has the fire of a thousand suns. It went down like a vodka shot, but what felt like 40 times harder, every time you closed your mouth, the taste hung around and you winced again. It washes down my throat like i imagined anthrax would. After one, i stuck to beer.

The guys tried out all there Aussie phrases on me. "What does 'hard yakka' mean?" they asked. They'd seen it on some shorts. I apologized on behalf of my country for whichever tourist was walking around Malawi in stubbies.

The next day i joined Renee, Brad and the girls for a walk up one of the nearby hills. We didn't have any idea if the track we were walking along was the right one, but as all of Malawi is beautiful it didn't seem to matter. Walking was great, from the top of the hill you could see Cape McClear. It had been really hard to do much in Africa, in the towns the locals taunt the crazy tourists who walk with no destination.
"Hey Mzungu!" They yell "Where are you going?"
"Nowhere, just walking" i smiled back.
"Of course" they say, "Just killing ants hey?"

After a delicious lunch in a local cafe we headed back to camp. The next day i bid farewell to my friends, they were heading up the lake by boat, i would head to Cape McClear, and hope to meet them again further north.