We left Kasungu early the next morning. Perhaps with Jesus as a new passenger in our car. We were headed to Chitimba - a small town on Lake Malawi sitting just below the mountainous town of Livingstonia. (It’s amazing how many places throughout Zambia and Malawi are named after David Livingstone. Blantyre, for instance, is the second largest city in Malawi - it’s also the Scottish town where Livingstone was born. Livingstonia speaks for itself.) The drive was easy - tarred roads for the majority of the trip and only about an hour on a mountain ridge. The dirt in Malawi was a deep brick color red and it felt like a quintessential “African landscape” whatever that means. Officers asked us for small bribes each time we were stopped, but the corruption was filled with playful banter and we left each checkpoint with a depleted stash of water and snacks, but with smiles on our faces.
We arrived at a campsite called Hakuna Matata around 1:00pm, pleased to have finished driving for the day and a step closer to Tanzania. To be honest, we were still basking in the glory of Lion Camp and hadn't been excited for this portion of our trip. In fact, at one point I had even suggested we run through Malawi as fast as possible and get straight to the Tanzanian coast - the next destination in our trip that we were excited for. In general, Malawi just felt like a stopover. How wrong were we.
The owner of Hakuna Matata, Willie, was taking his midday nap when we arrived. It was too hot for an old man to do anything else. A man named Ricus and his wife Pietro greeted us and showed us around. The campsite was perfect - it was simple, but perched right on the beach and we were surrounded by trees filled with small fruits that looked like kumquats. There were monkeys running around on top of the cars, on top of the tents, on top of everything.
We arrived at a campsite called Hakuna Matata around 1:00pm, pleased to have finished driving for the day and a step closer to Tanzania. To be honest, we were still basking in the glory of Lion Camp and hadn't been excited for this portion of our trip. In fact, at one point I had even suggested we run through Malawi as fast as possible and get straight to the Tanzanian coast - the next destination in our trip that we were excited for. In general, Malawi just felt like a stopover. How wrong were we.
The owner of Hakuna Matata, Willie, was taking his midday nap when we arrived. It was too hot for an old man to do anything else. A man named Ricus and his wife Pietro greeted us and showed us around. The campsite was perfect - it was simple, but perched right on the beach and we were surrounded by trees filled with small fruits that looked like kumquats. There were monkeys running around on top of the cars, on top of the tents, on top of everything.
We walked into town and bought some tomatoes, green peppers and onions. We began talking to two rasta wood carvers named “Vin Diesel” and “Mr. Bob”. Mr Bob’s face and breath reeked of alcohol. On our way back from town, there was a crowd gathered for a local championship soccer game. Someone told us tickets were 20 kwacha and the second half was about to begin. We jumped in line for tickets, but somehow when we reached the front the price had jumped to 100 kwacha. I was about to say something when Tom anticipated my response, elbowed me, and reminded me that it was 0.13 cents. Tom was right so I accepted our tourist tax and we went into the makeshift stadium.
The caliber of soccer was abysmal, but the teams were of roughly equal skill so we could still enjoy the competition. About half way through the second half the red team scored to tie the game. Within seconds there was music blasting as the field was filled by fans dancing and cheering. After the celebration, the crowd continued to slowly push further and further inward, narrowing the edges of the field. An old man with a stick kept circling around, whacking people in their shins until they moved backwards so the teams could continue playing, an aggressive form of crowd control. The sun began to set and the game came to an end. The teams tied and everyone had reason to celebrate.
The caliber of soccer was abysmal, but the teams were of roughly equal skill so we could still enjoy the competition. About half way through the second half the red team scored to tie the game. Within seconds there was music blasting as the field was filled by fans dancing and cheering. After the celebration, the crowd continued to slowly push further and further inward, narrowing the edges of the field. An old man with a stick kept circling around, whacking people in their shins until they moved backwards so the teams could continue playing, an aggressive form of crowd control. The sun began to set and the game came to an end. The teams tied and everyone had reason to celebrate.
We came back and joined Ricus, Pietro and their friend Michael on the gazebo. They were the only people staying in the camp that night and I suppose didn’t really count as guests because they had been visiting this campsite for 8 years and owned an adjacent plot of land. We shared a bag of biltong, drank beers and chatted. The wind was blowing just the right amount.
Ricus was whip smart, had a keen knowledge of African history and cared deeply about African politics. He didn’t shy away from sharing complicated opinions and was willing to unpack issues usually too taboo to discuss with strangers. It was clear he loved the continent and its people. Ricus and his wife were the first liberal Afrikaners we’d met on our trip. Talking with them triggered a series of questions around what it means to be African, particularly a white African. Ricus said that whenever he’s traveling he is always called “mzungu” (“white”, “foreigner”). But Ricus is not mzungu at all, he is definitively African. The concept of being African is complicated, even among those carrying the title.
At some point in the evening we told them about our roughly formulated Tanzania itinerary and within 10 minutes they had rerouted our entire trip - sending us through coffee farms, baobab valleys, up the Swahili coast and through the Usambara mountains. We took diligent notes and immediately deleted our previous itinerary.
Northern Malawi is calm and tranquil - a quiet and easy village life. Ricus, Pietro and Michael were kayaking the next day and invited us to join them. We left at 8am and drove 40 minutes north to a small inlet where we began our kayaking journey. We kayaked with the wind at our back, passing beautiful white beaches. We were headed to a piece of land on the other side of a narrow peninsula with a small village on it, only accessible by boat. We passed a deep wooden canoe with five men rowing and a woman sitting in the middle. She was dressed in a white dress tinted yellow from years of use and she wore a head covering resembling a nun. She was old and her skin looked frail. She was noticeably blind. We asked the men what they were doing and they said they were carrying a patient to land.
We pulled our kayaks up onto the sand on the other side of the peninsula and children came running towards us. Ricus greeted everyone - he has an easy disposition and joked with all the kids even though he couldn’t speak their language. He told us that at some point a long time ago, there were two ruling brothers in Songea, Tanzania (directly across the lake). The brothers had a falling out and the younger brother fled across the water to begin a new village in Malawi - apparently the first time someone crossed the lake to Malawi. This is why the handful of people in this small village don’t speak Chichewa, the dominant language in northern Malawi. Their anscentry is actually closer to Tanzanian than their own neighbors. But slowly they are integrating into local Malawi culture. Today, most of the children only learn how to speak Chichewa and English. We lamented the fact that their language would soon be extinct (the fact that I can’t remember it’s name I guess isn’t helping its preservation).
Ricus was whip smart, had a keen knowledge of African history and cared deeply about African politics. He didn’t shy away from sharing complicated opinions and was willing to unpack issues usually too taboo to discuss with strangers. It was clear he loved the continent and its people. Ricus and his wife were the first liberal Afrikaners we’d met on our trip. Talking with them triggered a series of questions around what it means to be African, particularly a white African. Ricus said that whenever he’s traveling he is always called “mzungu” (“white”, “foreigner”). But Ricus is not mzungu at all, he is definitively African. The concept of being African is complicated, even among those carrying the title.
At some point in the evening we told them about our roughly formulated Tanzania itinerary and within 10 minutes they had rerouted our entire trip - sending us through coffee farms, baobab valleys, up the Swahili coast and through the Usambara mountains. We took diligent notes and immediately deleted our previous itinerary.
Northern Malawi is calm and tranquil - a quiet and easy village life. Ricus, Pietro and Michael were kayaking the next day and invited us to join them. We left at 8am and drove 40 minutes north to a small inlet where we began our kayaking journey. We kayaked with the wind at our back, passing beautiful white beaches. We were headed to a piece of land on the other side of a narrow peninsula with a small village on it, only accessible by boat. We passed a deep wooden canoe with five men rowing and a woman sitting in the middle. She was dressed in a white dress tinted yellow from years of use and she wore a head covering resembling a nun. She was old and her skin looked frail. She was noticeably blind. We asked the men what they were doing and they said they were carrying a patient to land.
We pulled our kayaks up onto the sand on the other side of the peninsula and children came running towards us. Ricus greeted everyone - he has an easy disposition and joked with all the kids even though he couldn’t speak their language. He told us that at some point a long time ago, there were two ruling brothers in Songea, Tanzania (directly across the lake). The brothers had a falling out and the younger brother fled across the water to begin a new village in Malawi - apparently the first time someone crossed the lake to Malawi. This is why the handful of people in this small village don’t speak Chichewa, the dominant language in northern Malawi. Their anscentry is actually closer to Tanzanian than their own neighbors. But slowly they are integrating into local Malawi culture. Today, most of the children only learn how to speak Chichewa and English. We lamented the fact that their language would soon be extinct (the fact that I can’t remember it’s name I guess isn’t helping its preservation).
We enjoyed the peninsula beach - we played with the children, jumped off rocks, and entertained the kids with our polaroid camera. We saw a swarm of millions of lake flies hovering on the horizon. The lake flies come out this time of year: they fly together in a pack and are so thick they look like storm clouds brewing in the distance. At one point, one flock (?) of flies funneled vertically and looked like a tornado headed towards us. But they were just flies. They did finally come to shore so we could see them more closely. It was a massive infiltration - the sky above changed to a putrid gray hue as the flies blocked our view of anything beyond them. Millions of flies. Apparently they lay eggs in the water, fly to shore, live for 24 hours and then die. Anyway, once we were tired of the flies, we went snorkeling and saw some really beautiful fish. Apparently something like 90% of fish in domestic fish tanks are indigenous species to Lake Malawi (I should remember to fact check this when I get home). I don’t know if that’s true or not, but the colors in the fish made me believe him. We saw neon blue and black striped fish, yellow fish and magenta fish with yellow bottoms. The fish were fairly small but very entertaining.
When we got back to camp we were exhausted. We lounged around for a few hours and then heard music blasting from the beach. Those two songs that keep playing: “I like my girls in particular” and the “take you home” song - I don't know the names of either song but they are the new Malawian anthems. It was mother’s day, a national holiday and there was a party. Tom and I walked to the beach and watched as the women congregate on one side, listening to music and dancing. The men gathered in a cluster nearby, wrestling and throwing each other into the lake. Tom brought out his drone and the kids went wild - everyone circled around and buried him in their quest to see what was happening on his cell phone. He launched the drone far into the sky and the kids laughed and screamed as they chased it. Tom teased them - lowering it until it was just out of reach while they all jumped up to grab it, then he would raise it right back into the air, seconds out of reach. The music, the laughter, the kids running around - everything just felt perfect.
I retired shortly after the drone entertainment. I’m sitting back at our camp now, drinking a beer and watching Tom play soccer with the kids. He’s towering over all of them - I can see the top half of his body running up and down the sandy field while I can only see the very top of the kids’ heads.
The people we’ve met in Malawi so far have been exceedingly kind. “The warm heart of Africa” feels like an earned nickname for this country. There was a nice balance in Chitimba, in particular, because while tourists were not a foreign concept here, there was very little tourist infrastructure setup so you could engage with people easily (and in English) but without feeling you were merely a walking, talking ATM. Even vendors trying to sell us fruits and wood carvings were just as happy talking with us as they were succeeding in selling us their goods. In fact, someone trying to sell Tom crafts ended up playing in the 45 minute soccer game, a clear detour from his initial goal of selling Tom a hand carved mandala game.
The people we’ve met in Malawi so far have been exceedingly kind. “The warm heart of Africa” feels like an earned nickname for this country. There was a nice balance in Chitimba, in particular, because while tourists were not a foreign concept here, there was very little tourist infrastructure setup so you could engage with people easily (and in English) but without feeling you were merely a walking, talking ATM. Even vendors trying to sell us fruits and wood carvings were just as happy talking with us as they were succeeding in selling us their goods. In fact, someone trying to sell Tom crafts ended up playing in the 45 minute soccer game, a clear detour from his initial goal of selling Tom a hand carved mandala game.
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