Nykata Bay

You can't feel any better when your backpack serves as a soft pillow behind your head, and your looking back at the densely forested mountains of Malawi, backdrop to the plateaus of banana trees, rivers and lakes, speeding past as you stretch out, in the back of an empty pickup truck.

After weeks of crowded matolas and chappas, their choking smoke filling my lungs till I felt ill, fresh air never tasted so sweet. To top it all off, I had my two best mates to keep me company. Admittedly i had only met them a few hours ago, but they were the only people i know for a few thousand kilometres so I figured they would do. And I’m all the better for it, cause Pat and Finn seemed like pretty nice guys.

The afternoon before I had stepped of one of the mention matolas in Senga bay, and headed to the only hostel in town. There was no room left in the dorm, but I begged, but the owner let me stay in the caravan she had stored out the back. The next morning id heard that Pat and Finn were heading the same way, so i introduced myself, and we found a lift on the main road just outside of town, late in the morning.

We spent the day sleeping and chatting in the back of the truck. With the sun beating down on the warm tray you couldn't help but fall away into a dozy coma.

Pat and Finn got off at the town before Nykata Bay, where I was headed, and my coma was disturbed by the small Irish man who replaced them, climbing in the tray. Colm loved the truck. He crawled on and relished in the space as we had done a few hours earlier. "Im never travelling in those minibuses again" he declared, and delighted in kicking back and lighting up a joint.
"Yeah, nice work if you can get it" I muttered, upset by the break in my daydreaming and still drunk on the sunshine.

My lack of commitment to the conversation didn't put Colm off and he talked incessantly, despite my varying levels of consciousness. But after an hour i had grown found of the guy, he seemed to have enough to say. This was Colm's second trip to Africa; during the last a few years ago, he had made a daring attempt to ride a pushbike from Jinja in Uganda to Cape Town. He made it to Tofo, in Southern Mozambique, before contracting a mega dose of malaria that resulted in kindly failure. It didn't out him off the place though, and this trip he was heading in the opposite direction, but taking the bus.

Nykata Bay had a ragging reputation as the place to be for backpackers in Malawi, and alongside Colm it was sure to draw its fair share of characters; none more notable that the owner of our hostel, Gary. As Colm and I sailed up in a boat to the jetty of Myoka village, the jovial Gary was waving his arms and yelling in his Cape Townian assent to us. “Welcome! Welcome!” he called from the large deck of the bar.

Gary’s reputation had preceded him and throughout Malawi I had heard the tales that lead to his notoriety. Backpackers loved him, fellow hostel owners saw him as an irresponsible drunk, but overall Gary was smiles and laughter and had a good time doing so. It was not uncommon to catch him dancing on the bar, wearing only boxers and dressing gowns, partying hard and fast before falling asleep on the couch, in the early hours of the morning, when the bar tender quietly covered him with a blanket.

My first night in the big dorm at the top of the hill I opted out of the nightly performance hoping to get some sleep. It was not to be. A few hours later Gary could be heard howling at the top of the steps. The view that much of the aid work performed in Malawi is necessary and counter productive is not uncommon among the expat community that resides in the country, but im sure the volunteer teacher I imagined cowering underneath the ferocious slander didn’t need it delivered in that manner. Neither did I at 3 am.

Nights of partying lead to days of lethargy, and Nykata Bay proved the perfect formula. Most of Myoka villages residents could be found spending their days lying around on the massive couches overlooking the majestic bay. I found that if I got up at a reasonable hour I could read a book a day. Ceildhe and her family, whom I had meet in Monkey bay, were about for a few days. Pat and Finn joined the fun a few days later. The village had markets full of fresh avocados, papaya, and bananas, as well as cheap local restaurants. Colm was always at the bar ready for a chat whenever anyone cared to join him.

Most afternoons, around 2pm, the girls would gather for a swim across the bay. It was about 500m to the diving school opposite were we stopped for coffee before swimming back. The swim itself was not a big one, but it took a bit of courage. The deepest point of Lake Malawi is 1000m. The centre of Nykata Bay it 80m deep. It was exactly half way across the Lake, where it was neither quicker to swim back or to continue on where the fear hit. Nobody talks about it in the water, but once safely on shore we can all relate. The question is: In a deep lake, in the middle of Africa, what the hell could be swimming underneath me??

One huge Saturday night saw the sun rising on Sunday morning as I was losing a stone skipping competition to the guys, who were trying to teach me with the threat of the loser being thrown in the lake.

We crawled back to the bar to get some breakfast merely an hour after leaving it, and tried to convince the bar staff who had started work since we had been gone that we were getting an early start on the glorious day, but something in our swagger and drunken mumbling told them otherwise.

We decided to take a swim out to the floating platform in the middle of the bay. Even early in the morning the lake water was warm, but the sun was warmer and i dried off and sat up on the raft. Finn ran around the edges of the platform, yelling a Pat trying to get him to swim back and get some snorkels, discussing how deep the water was and if we could swim to the bottom and retrieve a handful of sand. As Pat feel asleep, Finn had still found more energy, despite being up all night, and started work on trying to sink the platform or at the very least capsize it. I used the last of my energy explaining how it would be mean to put Pat in the water, so Finn kept himself entertained by pushing me in, letting me crawl mostly back on the platform and then pushing me back in. Finally he fell asleep to and i could go back to relaxing quietly in the sun.

When i awoke i felt horrible. I checked Pat's watch and it was midday. We'd had no water since yesterday night. The sun was fiery. I got in the water to swim back, but then thought about the guys. I was worried that having not slept all night they could easily spend the hottest part of the day unknowingly expiring as they slept.

"Pat......Fin" I whispered quietly. No reply. I tried again. Eventually i spoke louder, then yelled, and then took to shaking them violently. They woke slightly, but on the whole ignored me. It was cruel, but in the end i resorted to tipping cold lake water on them. Pat woke up and looked like he was going to cry, grizzled and rubbed his eyes. Finn was less passive, in fact he was furious. He swore, yelled and abused me. I quickly explained my motives, dived back in the water and swam back to shore. I joined the girls lying around on the deck and watched as Finn swam back and curled up under a tree and fell asleep, convinced he would never speak to me again.

That night as we sat silently, exhausted in an African "Pizza" restaurant (Please note: use of the word pizza was the restaurant owner’s idea, and it was certainly not influenced by the Italian version of the food. Think pancake covered with spinach.....). "Gee im so glad we didn't sleep all day on the platform hey?" said the guys. We were all glowing pink after only a few hours. I mentioned to Finn that he didn't say that when i woke him up. "Did you wake me?" he asked.

As my week at The Bay drew to a close one night assured itself a place in my memory as truly unforgettable. On the night of the world cup final we boarded a local fishing boat and floated across the lake to the village football field, where a large screen had been set up for the match. The whole village had turned up; kids, old men, the local teams and their girls, and we sat cross legged on the floor with big bottles of Malawian beer. For every goal the audience went wild, jumping into the air, running around tipping over anyone who hadn't followed, embracing stranger and crying in sheer delight. Collingwood fans have nothing on the ferocious football fever of this little African village!