Malawi | 2022 |

It’s hot and dusty at the Songwe River, the divide between Tanzania and Malawi, two nations hardly different in this remote region. By contrast, the border bubble extending from the one run down immigration building to the other, is a well defined country with a distinct territory, lingo, currency and modus operandi. It’s where the begging lives, the smell of alcohol, the unkempt appearances, the stench of pee near confiscated vehicles, the slurry pidgin pronunciation, the “I’m a tour guide, I don’t charge” talk. It’s ruled by the universal law of frontier dynamics that dictates anyone confined there is stuck for worse. And must pay to get away, in one way or another. The SIM card vendors, money changers and traffic cops never seem honest, even if they were just that, in a different reality. The same applies to border officials and, I wonder, to myself.

It’s a big theatre, and everyone is hauled up on stage to perform. I wonder what my role entails, as I make my way past broken glass and used condoms, balancing my travel -bag on my head for solar protection the African way. 

It doesn’t take long to find out about the script. My Malawian e-visa is not accepted, nor is my Tanzanian Covid test result. A tall middle-aged official claims that regulations demand printed receipts for both. “No. Digital credit card receipts won’t do”, he insists.

What a terrible actor he is, glancing sideways, evading my eyes. “I need to see proof, proper proof, on paper.”    

A big man, with a thin voice, now staring at the floor. He is uncomfortable in his role and watching him makes me uncomfortable, too. I want to relieve him of his suffering. I wish to help him, but I won’t make it easy. Nor is he. 

“If you don’t have the paperwork I must send you back to Tukuyu for the test. It’ll take you at least three days, because tomorrow is a public holiday. It gives you time to sort out the receipt for the e-visa, too, but that might not be enough.”

He is good in mathematics, but how persistent is he going to be, and how sleazy? I already want to see him bite the bullet and hand it to him on a silver platter.

“How can I speed up the process”, I begin.

He looks surprised. Was I too direct? He scans his immediate vicinity for witnesses, I could’ve told him that there is nobody else.

“Come to the back,” he orders me, but with too quiet a voice. For a moment I think he trembles. Is he nervous?

It’s dark. A ventilator breathes air into a stack of paper on the desk, rustling. I look at him. I make him wait. Then he says:

“It’s a very serious offence with a lot of consequence. It takes official documentation to really legalise test and visa. 200$.”

I can’t help it but say: “Really?” He doesn’t get the pun. 

He played his game, now it’s my turn.

I carry an expression of shock and speak far too loud for his liking: “Impossible. I rather call your superior in Lilongwe and find out if there is no other way. And a friend at the Malawian embassy in Pretoria,” I lie. “Her name is Sharon Maseko,” I lie again. “Do you know her? I’m sure she can help me. Can I make a call to her?”, I point at his phone. But then throw him a lifeline: 

“200$ is completely out of the question. I don’t have that kind of money.”

When he frowns, I make him laugh.

“Look at me, this is my bag, these are my shoes, this is what I wear.”

All dusty and cheap.

Before he frowns again:

He gets it. 100.

10.

He tries again. 100.

20, – That’s all there is, I add.

70.

Stalemate.

Eventually I give him 30. He gives me nothing in return. Just waves me through.

So that’s it: the border corruption everyone has been warning me about. The one thing everyone hates. I have never really experienced corruption in Africa, at least not in such a direct way, yet was never so ready for it, I should add.

At first I’m not pleased with the outcome. I find 30 dollars a bit much for a theatre play this amateurish. I had wished for a bigger challenge.

But then another emotion pops up. An exhilarating one. I’ve paid a bribe! I’ve finally done it!

Turns out, the deal comes with an unexpected advantage. The official wants me out of his sight, pronto, and does everything to speed up my departure. When no overland bus materialises, he organises a ride with a driver of a private car, a friend of his. No extra fee charged. I’ve paid my dues. I now got a friend in the border world.

I sit in front, while the backseat fills up quickly with local travellers. 

We head south, a direction that soon challenges the driver with potholes of various sizes and proportions. It’s like a video game and he doesn’t score particularly well. Bumping along the shores of Lake Malawi, the sky darkens and soon the car’s headlights illuminate swarms of flying ants, as well as colourfully dressed people walking on the sides of the tar road. I see kids in the fields. Lots of kids. It must be wonderful to be a kid here and always find someone to play games with. People sit around bonfires, near their houses. There is a sense of celebration in the air. With the last luminous reflections of the year withdrawing from the Rift Valley mountains on both sides of the lake, I become aware of the particular location I’m in: Kalonga.

It was here that the first proof of the existence of Homo was discovered, a jawbone fragment 2.5 million years of age.

Compared to that, all else was a lot less revolutionary, yet not without drama. The first Bantu migration annihilated tribes of hunters and gatherers, followed by ruthless Portuguese and Swahilis mastering the gruesome slave trade. When another Bantu expansion arrived, this time from the south, heavily armed, ransacking, torturing and mutilating at will, Malawi descended further into terror. 

I wonder how many generations it takes for collective and individual trauma to disappear, for people to find peace again? What does it take to become “Malawi — the warm heart of Africa.” Or for Malawians to be called “the friendliest people on earth”? 

Three hours later we reach the end of a small dirt road. There is a lodge here somewhere. All is dark. I get out and open a wooden door. As I make myself heard, someone answers by flashing a set of shiny teeth. Yes. We have availability, the guard says.

In comes Ed, a bulky Dutchman with strikingly blond thick hair, surely a

descendant of Norsemen, and switches on the lights. We have a beer. Or rather: I have one, he doesn’t. “Trying to save money”, he mumbles. And adds, “With all that covid nonsense I had to fire all my people.”

I feel for him. It must be hard.

“If nothing picks up we are finished in a year from now.”

There won’t be any party tonight. Also, there is no other traveller in this lodge to carry Ed’s burden. I’m stuck with him.

He soon does all the talking. 

Nonsense. Covid. Europe.

I so wish it would be the last time this year, the last time ever, that I have to have this proclamation of evil come my way. An impossible wish, of course.

A dog takes the seat next to me. „He usually doesn’t do that”, Ed explains. Seems like my aura is still O.K..

While Ed goes on I remember advice from a teacher: “if you are annoyed by someone preaching or simply wasting your time, but you don’t want to hurt his feelings, imagine you two stand in front of each other. The other is inside a garage, while you are on the outside. Now slowly pull the garage door down. Don’t take your eyes off the other, but keep pulling until the door touches the ground. 

You will see that suddenly the other person will stop talking. She might look at her watch and realise how late it is. She will excuse herself and free you up.”

I try it out.

When the garage door hits the ground, Ed yawns, and says. “Sorry, It’s late”.

“That was easy”, I think for a moment, before Ed fatefully adds, “we can continue our conversation in the morning.”

I head for the beach. Ed had assured me that crocodiles only assemble in the lake when the floods push them down the mountain but waves the idea off. “It’s too early for that, the rainy season hasn’t begun yet.”

I lie in the sand.

Before I fall asleep in my bed in the guesthouse, a little frog pokes its head out of my toilet. Big eyes, sweet thing.

I flush it away.

Speed thrills but kills (A frequent road sign of Malawi Transport)

I was never a big fan of wild NYE parties that end in unknown territory. The quiet sober morning-after suits me. Standing at the shore of the lake, I see locals wash themselves, naked. I do the same, then jump into the lake and drift in its warm waters, before walking to the M1, carrying my bag on top of my head. For this to work I need strong focus and calm breath. It’s a good mental exercise to kickoff the year.

At an intersection Fisher, a young man of impeccable style, approaches me and asks with a distinct British accent, “Would you like to hike up to Livingstonia or perhaps consider using a motorbike-taxi?” He explains “Livingstonia is a mountain resort and very worthwhile visiting”.

After Fisher reveals that the hike might take most of the day, I choose option 2, but insist on “someone who wasn’t partying heavily the previous night”. I don’t want to take any chances. “Watson is the man for the job”, Fisher knows. Small, compact and monosyllabic, Watson wears a turquoise-coloured T-Shirt with the inscription: “Fka ouc ttg fhbadtg. A sethn eis”. Watson shrugs. “No idea the mean. It’s what I buy”.

I’m not going to argue with him, realizing that ultimately it is this very cloth that will keep me from falling off the bike. I hold onto it as tight as I can, while we accelerate towards the escarpement.

Watson has a superb eye and is a master of body balance as he double backs and rattle dances those 21 hairpin bends, scaling 700 metres, covered mostly by loose rock. Clinging on to him tightly, I feel how his body and mind work in synchronicity. A total stranger only minutes ago, I now trust Watson with my life. 

On top there is a sweeping view across the lake, some historic buildings, a trickle of a waterfall and a museum that features plate, fork and knife used on a state visit by Kenneth Kaunda, former president of Zambia.

I’m not doubting the educational value of these attractions but my mind is already glued on the unavoidable and indeed, the way down the mountain is even more challenging than the way up. Watson cuts off the engine most of the way, using only brakes. One wrong move and everything could be over. It takes forever to get back onto flat, even ground.

When we finally reach the intersection I can’t wait to get to Msuzu. There is Fisher again, I hardly recognise him. He has changed into a new combination of clothes. He asks “do you want to use the bus or would you consider taking a private car?” Fisher certainly has a way with language. 

First up is a passenger car. Two hours into the trip we almost flatten a chameleon that crosses the street in its peculiarly measured fashion of setting a foot in front of the body carefully, before withdrawing it, then bobbing on. What might work on a branch of a tree to hide from predatory bird attacks is not the best strategy of survival on a busy road. I miss the chance to change the course of history by asking the driver to stop and rescue it, and feel pretty bad about it later.

Msuzu is a bustling town not devoid of border post slant There is a Shoprite supermarket, an ATM, wide streets, misery, hustlers, fences, and a hotel room next to the bus terminal that is on the verge of collapsing into itself like a house of cards. It’s perfect only in the way everything depends on something else to avoid the law of gravity. The few remaining tiles in the bathroom are so scarred from attempts to fill the gaps with grout that they give the impression they were useless in the first place. The light bulbs have all but given up, causing me to bang my head in darkness while conducting a first inspection, and the mosquito net is of such heavy thread that one could use it to catch large fish. Water is off, the toilet seat missing, and of course there is a mosquito. There always is. I’m never alone.

Not sure, what’s alive inside the mattress either. It feels a bit itchy here and there. The only other two places I ever got bed bugs, were a hostel in London and a three-star hotel in Porto. Msuzu has potential to make that list.

The noise from the bars outside is deafening. It only stops close to morning, when the rain sets in, drumming softly on the corrugated iron roofs like a marimba. The meditative aura is not for long, as the first call to prayer blasts through town, soon followed by fervent church belling, apparently the sign for market vendors to come alive again, shouting.

Someone out there turns on the music, and then I overhear the news. Something about violence flaring up in the Netherlands over coronavirus restrictions. There is simply no way to get away from it.

Early in the morning I hop into transport and swirl down the escarpment to Nkatha Bay on good tar roads. An hour later I reach the market, only to be caught up in a throng of humans living parallel lives in two different time zones. One group, still captured in slow motion, drowsy red-eyed and grouchy, clumsily manoeuvres public space after a night of heavy partying, while the other is of agile fishermen and vocal vendors fast-tracking their lives. 

To my surprise, the official ticket seller for the Ilala ferry is of the latter condition. A chubby, amicable older man in shorts without shirt and protruding belly, he ploughs through a pile of stuff on his desk, including a pair of unnecessary pants, a couple of torn romantic novels and creased notes of currency, before he locates a pen that works and paper empty enough to scribble my ticket down. “Which class?” he asks gently, exhausted. I don’t hesitate after last night’s experience in Msuzu and declare confidently, and without asking for detail: “The First, please.”

A few days later, when it is time for the MS Ilala to arrive, something that resembles a burning cigarette appears on the lake. At closer inspection it could be smoke arising from a boat the size of a dugout canoe. As time passes the object grows taler and wider, carrying a dark cloud of diesel fumes, an indication not so much of a ship’s true proportions but of my lack of reference. Anything that floats in the frameless vastness of this lake appears so much tinier than it is. When the MS Ilala eventually steams into the bay, she is still small, yet in surprisingly good shape. Built 1949 in Scotland, she is a proud grand dame rather than the battered hunchback I had feared.

Only later that I find out that my evaluation is premature. To judge a ship is not so much a question of its physical architecture, but of the people and animals who use it for shelter and service.

The moist bundle of indiscernible warm skin and flesh exposed to suffocating heat, the black oily diesel exhaust blowing like a hairdryer onto ears, nostrils, eyes and mouths, the old stale sweat of hundreds sitting or lying on food and live or dead animals in corridors meant for passage: this is Second Class. 

The First, I encounter only once I dig, retrace and float across heads, chests, groins and feet, up two flights of stairs.

As i gain my breath, I become aware of the amenities provided. First class has no recliners, let alone beds. Broken wobbly wooden beams serve as matrasses. Passengers sleep on a naked floor, wrapped up in their own blankets, or just like that. There is no roof, the night sky only filled with sheet lightning. “What happens if it rains,” I ask two young men, dressed in bizarrely coloured garment. “Then everyone heads down into second class,” one of them replies, without expression.

Godwins is dressed in a turquoise uniform with silver cufflings, leaving the impression that he could domesticate a pride of circus lions, if there was one. He explains that the uniform was presented to him in the Netherlands, after a three month invitation to sing in local choirs. „How did Europe treat you?“, I ask. „The strongest impression“, he replies, “was finding thatched roofs on houses near the North Sea. I never thought of thatch having any value. In my village we cut down the reeds, because that’s where the snakes are. After the return to my village I built a rondavel with a thatched roof“. Godwins opens his cellphone and shows me five rondavels, all thatched. “The people in my village are very happy about that. Thatched roofs cost nothing.”

The other man’s name is Steven. Steven wears purple glasses, a bright red coat with yellow gumboots and is a High School social history teacher. “The curriculum begins with family ties and genealogy in first grade,” he explains, “followed by social structures in rural communities, the difference in mentalities between East and West. After five years we start with proper history.”

“Whose history?”

“Colonial history and world history, but I also try to integrate the rock art paintings of the Pygmies and our early ancestors. Australopithecus, Homo erectus, all of those. People lived at this lake for more than 300 000 years before David Livingstone came along and claimed that he had discovered it. How crazy is that?” Steven sighs. “Livingstone is just like Covid.”

“What,” I say?

“Look, the whole world talks about the virus. Europe, Amerika, China, it’s all the same. The Northern Hemisphere again promotes its narrative of primal fear and salvation through modern science. Their panic grips the whole world. Meanwhile there would be so much more to talk about, so many more voices. That’s why I mention Livingstone and Covid in one breath”, Steven says. “They are proof that our story never matters.”

It’s getting tighter by the minute as more and more people flock onto the ship, and I need to do something about it. Maxwell, sole gatekeeper to the Ilala’s eight cabins, which are only reservable through a lengthy process, reaches a sober verdict. “No, all taken.” Two hours later however, he is delighted to have found a free one. 

Full of expectations I open a door. 3.6 square metres, a fan, running water, a shaky bed, a broken chair — not too shabby really. The air is a bit stale though. And what about that stench of urine?

My neighbour, eager to let me in on a secret, advises to avoid spending too much time in front of the cabin. “Men at the bar above try to piss into the lake but commonly misjudge physics”, he explains. “The wind pushes the liquid back. I suggest you keep your door closed.”

I thank him and lock it tight. 

Not much later I hear an energetic knock at the door. „Time to pay up“ someone shouts. „Now?“

It’s pitch dark, 5am at most. After paying the extra fee, the sky hints luminosity.

What should I do? Visit Likoma? The island in the middle of the lake apparently boasts a cathedral. How much time will I have? 

There is no answer to that. The Ilala doesn’t operate on a schedule but on a rule of three: once everyone who wants off is off and everyone who wants on is on, she leaves. It’s as simple as that. 

I decide to pay Likoma a visit.

As soon as I arrive on the lower decks, something pushes me through the tight corridors, past banana, sacks of maize. People with sour mouths and musky body odour, express themselves in a round, vocal language that is already resonating with sporadic laughter. Suddenly I find myself above an abyss. In front of me, way down, a small wooden boat laden with people, goats and sacks of merchandise sloshes the waves. Already hanging in the air, the people behind me push my back, as if I was a parachuter resisting the jump.

I’m hanging onto someone’s shoulders for dear life, then clutch a female’s bum and thighs before i step onto someone’s head further down the pile.

The guy screams. “Sorry, Sorry”, I reply.

How did I get myself into this? Eventually I sit. Trying to keep my head away from others who mountaineer down the way I did. Then I see garbage thrown overboard, bags, water bottles, empty canisters. I close my eyes, hoping that nothing happens. Like a child.

Soon the captain of the small boat runs his vessel aground on the shoreline, people jump off into the surf. I stroll past baobabs, flame trees and free range chicken towards St Peter‘s Cathedral. Apart from the corrugated iron roof and termite mounds, this is medieval Europe. A big 110 metre chunk of it, including a rectory and cloister. Landed on a rock in the midst of Lake Malawi. How much more extraterrestrial can life be?

I’m excited but don’t feel the inclination to go into architectonic detail, worrying that the Ilala might leave without me. The next transport would only arrive in a week. 

Back at the shoreline the Ilala innocently bops in the bay, boats still shuffling back and forth. It’s a serene peaceful aspect, especially with a cow in the foreground and the blue Mozambican mountains in the back. I pull out the cellphone to take a shot. Maybe a bit closer so the cow is bigger, I think. Some people shout something, they always shout about something, but it’s already too late. The cow has turned into a bull and charges at me, hits me head first, I’m thrown through the air, scramble somehow to my feet and run off. It all happened in the fraction of seconds.

It’s dead quiet. Nobody says a word, they all go on with what they were doing before. “Come on guys”, I hear myself. “Is it really the most normal thing in the world that a Muzungu is attacked by a bull?”

A moment later I feel the pain and see the blood. 

Next my mom appears out of the blue and says: “you need to get yourself to a pharmacy, or better even a doctor, immediately”, and is gone again.

I ask the oldest man for a pharmacy but he has a better idea and walks me to an ambulance car, conveniently parked near the beach, in proximity to the bull!

I take a seat in public transport # 22 and get driven to the hospital, past the cathedral, once more.

The driver puts on his mask. “Covid”, he explains, as if he needed to mention it. I ask him, why everyone is so worried about the dangers of Covid when there is a very real threat of Cow. He thinks that’s funny. 

Once we reach the hospital, he wakes a young assistant doctor. It’s 6.30am.

The doctor forages for sanitising pads and necessary utensils and puts what he found on the concrete floor, in lieu of a table. There is no light but I still have some battery power on my phone. In the beam of its integrated flashlight, the surgery begins. 

Meanwhile a man on the other side of the wall begins reciting Bible verses. He doesn’t stay calm for long, his voice performing a sudden crescendo topped by a claps nd another one. He screams, then sobs. Is the poor guy flagellating himself? 

Meanwhile on my side of the wall the procedure is coming to and end. Some more iodine, from a flask the size of a ketchup bottle. I feel nausea. At last a tetanus injection. “The wound must stay naked. Now it’s your job to keep insects away from it”, the doctor lectures me.

How suddenly that happened!

Other than the expedition with Watson up to Livingstonia, the possibility of accident with a cow in Likoma didn’t occur to me. I didn’t really think of animals as a major threat to my wellbeing. Not, that I had not encountered them: a snake swam straight to me in Chitima, before i dived off. In Nkatha Bay I almost stepped on a two metre long viper. There were scorpions as well, but I never thought of a wild bull as a threat to my life. For a moment, I sense the lust to purchase the animal, cut it into pieces and eat all of it. As a 90% Vegetarian that’s quite a shift of perception. 

On my way back to the Ilala, the captain of the Schaluppe tells me that the aggressive creature takes on people all the time. Once a week, more or less, he calculates. “Every time the Ilala pays a visit to Likoma”?, it dawns on me.

The Itala stomps undaunted through the lake. Often, the edges of the shore are barely visible. In the evening, I order fish in the restaurant, go to bed early, but wake up again that night around one. I had intended to read the autobiography of an Aborigine who had lived to be almost a hundred years old. A man with overview, humanity and humor. Soon into the book, it seems as if I knew him personally. 

I flick on the light, but I shouldn’t have, because that’s how I see a fat rat jump from the ceiling onto the broken washstand and plop from there to the floor. Shit. What’s it doing here? I can think of a whole panopticon of diseases transmitted by rats. Haven’t rats already nibbled people alive? Or were those just lepers?

I pull the blanket tightly around my wounded foot. What if the rat tampered with it? And why is the rat in this cabin in the first place? I get up again and lock away everything edible. Then it occurs to me: «what did actually happen to the hashish cookie that the Rasta in Nkatha Bay offered me?» «Super strong» he had advertised his baking art. I rummage for the cookie bag and find it empty. Obviously, the rat had already made prey. I wonder how a rat reacts to this substance? I realise that I am squatting in the same cage with a hallucinating rat. Since I have no idea how to get rid of it, I decide to just keep sleeping by the light of the ceiling light bulb. Somehow I succeed. In the morning I don’t see the rat anymore. Every now and then, however, it rustles under my bunk.

There are only a few hours left until the Ilala will reach its destination Monkey Bay. At the late breakfast I share the table with Nandota. She tells me that she is committed to her name. It means something like «bless with water.»  She repeatedly bathed all her children and grandchildren in warm water to which she added healing leaves. «I did that to give them a strong immune system». 

«Does your name have a deeper meaning, too?» she asks me. I recall that Bernhard goes back to someone who was as «strong as a bear» and that the Bierbaum family name has something to do with a large pear tree that grew on my ancestors› farm many, many years ago. I tell her about a custom that was common in northern Germany until about 200 years ago. At that time, when a son was born, one planted an apple tree on the buried umbilical cord. For girls, it was to be a pear tree. In the course of life, this tree was not allowed to be cut down, because that would have had dire consequences for the person’s health. At the earliest after death, the tree could be cut down. However, if this person had acquired special abilities during his lifetime that could continue to be of use for the community, then the tree was to remain standing. 

Nandota likes history. Genealogy has been one of her hobbies since she stopped working at the hospital. «I’m retired and I just take care of my family».

We order hot water from the waiter.

«I am from Likoma. I was a nurse all my life, in different clinics, here in the country but also in the city, in the central hospital in Blantyre. My father was a doctor. He was a Christian man, very devout. He believed in the effectiveness of his remedies and healed many people. Unfortunately, he died much too early in a car accident. 

In Likoma there was a very famous healer until recently. He was very old and very powerful. People came from as far as Tanzania and Zimbabwe to see him. Our father always forbade us to go to him.

Only after my father died did I dare to go see this man. I wanted to know more about my African roots. It is possible to believe in both Christianity and Christianity at the same time.

That’s what Archbishop Desmond Tutu meant when he kept talking about Ubuntu with you in South Africa.»

«Umuntu ngumuntu ngabantu – a person only becomes a person through other people,» I interject. It’s the only phrase in Zulu I know.

Nandota nods. «In Chichewa, our national language, Ubuntu is UMunthu. In our country, there are also many explanations. One of our archbishops says: kali kokha nkanyama, tili awiri ntiwanthu: when you are alone, you remain like an animal in the forest. It takes another person to become a person yourself.

In my family, I am the second oldest of nine children. Only my brother is older. He expressed this idea of ubuntu to the entire church congregation during a service a few years ago, saying that he owes everything to his siblings. «Only they made me an elder. Without them, I would be just one».

At that moment, the waiter drags the largest thermos I have ever seen to our table.

It is shaped like a gas cylinder, though its opening would be large enough to put a clenched fist inside. I pour some water from the monster into our cups and stir Nescafé powder.

As the coffee cools, Nandota talks about her job as a nurse.

«We mostly dealt with simple diseases in the small clinics in the countryside, accidents, malaria, parasites.»

«Malaria is simple?»

«Malaria is dangerous if you don’t protect yourself from it,» she explained, «or if there’s no medicine available. Unfortunately, that’s true for many children and for people who live too far from clinics. That’s why so many of them die. Otherwise, fever can be reduced quickly with a pill.›

«And what about serious diseases?»

«They take a long time to cure. There are more and more of them.»

«Why is that?»

«I believe that in the past, when modern medicine was not so advanced, few people lived to be very old. To live a long life, they had to stay healthy and be very lucky. These few old people were held in high esteem. The young listened to them and asked them to share their life experiences. Today, however, everything is different, don’t you think? Many people are very afraid of illness and death. Doctors try to delay death as long as possible. More and more people have to suffer and the younger people are overwhelmed by this. They try to remain forever young. Nobody dares to grow old anymore. Old age has lost its dignity.»

Nandota sips her coffee, and smirks, «I know what you’re thinking. Here sits an old woman who’s gotten way too old, yakking away!»

As she does so, she laughs loudly, revealing a long row of gleaming white teeth. 

«Each of us is a unique piece of evidence in the mosaic of life.»

Once the Ilala concludes her voyage, I temporarily cease to be a solitary traveler. Instead I become part of a family of six, with Jerome and Laura, and their son Marcel, (9), and twin girls Sol and Luna (6). 

Jerome and Laura had spent years in Malawi as an ichthyologist and a nurse respectively, before they moved to Cape Town. 15 years later they are back. 

Jerome now runs a business to build natural swimming-pools, applying the complex biology of freshwater lakes to suburban excavations. His most trusted builder is Macdonald, a very muscular Malawian from Monkey Bay. Apart from all the stuff needed for a four-country 8000 kilometer family camping roadtrip, Jerome and Laura brought the material to build a house for Macdonald to move into, once he retires.

First we spent three nights at Cape Maclear, the perfect getaway to explore the lake. Serene and seemingly timeless, this huge body of water can unexpectedly morph into a wild beast splashing huge waves against its shores. Or into a mirror reflecting low lying clouds that built up into towering mountains before they dissolve. Dancing skyscrapers of lake flies contribute to the scenery as they reach a thousand meters in height and width. Mysteriously, they waft across the horizon, supported by certain temperatures, thermodynamic effects and wind speeds. How did these insects acquire the knowledge, and where is it stored?

The locals call the flies Nkhungu. When the swarms reach the shore, they are caught in baskets thrown high into the air, before being processed into protein cakes.

Meanwhile a thousand species of mbuna, or cichlid live in Lake Malawi, each one of them at home in its very own biosphere bubble. Some feed off phytoplankton, while others prefer zooplankton, or biofilm on soft bottom deposits, larvae, drifting algae, algae on rocks, algae on plants, fish scales, fish fins, fish eggs, fish embryo, fish.

We snorkel off Thumbi Island and see mbuna in shades of blue, iridescent pink, sparkly turquoise, bizarre crimson, fluorescent white with mother of pearl eyes, flashing amber stripes or circles, blotches of purple and patterns of emerald green. Then there are tiny families coloured in sapphire, orange and lemon yellow. We submerge with them, practicing our freediving skills, in the richest freshwater aquarium on earth.

At the end of the day my perspective has changed. The flat expanse of grey horizon now conceals colourful life, irrespective of what occurs in the air above, the rain, the drought, the changes in humidity or temperature. These fish are there. Since time immemorial. Can I ever look at a lake again, without imagining the brightest and shiniest to exist beneath its surface?

With my friends come other interests. Soon I would spend hours on markets sampling food. Some we couldn’t identify by the description provided. To try them, we would need to turn our tummies into receptive organs and wait for the effects, — all of which turned out to be benign.

We would choose traditional textiles and have them tailored into shirts, pants and dresses by creative designers. Then wear them proudly. We would be invited by Malawians into their home to try the local fish delicacy chambo. We’d camp to be awoken by naughty yellow baboons. We’d collect flying ants and fry them for hors d’oeuvre. We witnessed a torrential downpour flooding badly designed roads, pushing away houses, destroying harvests, and end up in a deep muddy ditch ourselves.

Apart from the joy to spend time together we would experience wildlife.

As I write this I am on an observation deck in Liwonde National Park, an hour before sunrise. The day before, we went on a boat cruise, with herds of hippo galloping on land and in water, while crocodile snouts slithered silently out of view. Now, a flotilla of dark billed storks hovers my way. Four legged creatures appear out of nowhere to graze or prey measuredly in the bush. Similarly careful, a parade of Guinea fowl negotiates obstacles while feverishly scooping up insects at the same time. Next, a family of striped mongoose enters, jumping and zigzagging about, soon followed by waterbuck and impala. At last three male kudu antilopes arrive, leaping across fallen trees and large patches of water. The density and diversity of life resembles that of a merry zoo without fencing, and yet, moments later the place goes completely empty save for baobabs and termite mounts. Perhaps a large predator has arrived, and is now waiting in ambush, concealed by vegetation? Or maybe life has simply found a more exciting location to move to?

On closer inspection, the recent downpour effects seeds to germinate, millipedes to appear by the thousands and with them centipedes, locusts, frogs and bright pink velvet mites, scorpions and snakes and larger birds. There is an insatiable urge to make the most of every meal, and a rapid sequence of who eats what.

“It’s death that drives evolution”, Jerome points out, as we try to avoid being at the wrong end of the food chain, sharing a dormitory in a camp open to marauding hyenas and lions. During the day though all is relaxed in the human realm, safe for the heated emotions when playing a game of monopoly.

Zomba 

Pain is weakness leaving the body 

(Inscription on the T-Shirt of a lumberjack near Zomba).

I am alone, sitting on the lawn and watching a snail that slowly shimmies from stalk to stalk. Eventually it disappears into the thicket. Then it’s dark, I get up and walk into the night. The basic direction is right, but whether the path I take will lead to a destination, I don’t know. If not, it would be all the same to me.

The asphalt ends in a pothole. After that the ground consists of warm earth. I feel the sun stored in it, go on barefoot, without light. I hear the sound of a stream, feel a wooden bridge. Footsteps. Someone I don’t see says Good evening, and has already passed. Do I need to worry, am I safe here?

To the right a valley opens, some lights of the city twinkle below me like fallen stars, while above me the night sky glows. I walk on, it gets darker, and louder. Curtains of sounds, the courtship of cicadas, the song of birds, and again a person, Good Evening. She says it kindly, velvety, obliging, and has passed. I move on, and suddenly the curtain parts, it touches me, I am surrounded by it, from all sides, as if stars, lights of the city and sparkling fireflies danced around me to welcome me in their midst.