SOUTHERN  MILAWI

From Zambia and the border at Chipata it is a two-hour journey to the Milawi capitol of Lilongwe.  A pleasant town, and surprisingly prosperous in its core area for one of Africa’s poorest nations.  But nothing beckons there except for the opportunity for rest, a shower, and an internet connection.  At dinner in my hostel dining room (where fish was ordered but fish head was served) I finally learn why food prep usually takes so long in African Mom ‘n Pop restaurants.  The meals are often prepared on charcoal grills or small electric single-burner plates.

I pursue lions again the next day, four hours south in the second largest city of Blantyre. My intention is to head to Majete National Park, where lions were reintroduced two years ago and lavish attention is paid to “easily seeing the Big Five.” My housing there at Doogle’s Hostel is arranged in advance at the one working internet within half a mile of my bus line with the help of Cinikiwe in Customer Relations at the Crossroads Hotel.  It ends up being a great value location, with bar, pool, separate dining area, a secure dorm and singles room area, and a reliable card purchase internet area.

But once again, reality intervenes.  I learn over drinks at the hostel pub from Ricardo Costa, a Portugese Operations Manager for a local transport equipment manufacturer, that Majete does not have many lions … yet.  They are radio tracked in the early years, and most stay far away from public roads.  The optimistic forecasts published in Lonely Planet and tourism brochures – even those away from the beaten path – paint a glowingly optimistic but misleading picture of abundant game.  I decide to save the extra mileage and once again the difficulty of renting a car and head northeast for Liwonde National Park.

The bus ride (officially a 15 passenger van) is supposed to take two hours.  Cost: about $5 each.  It is close to 100 miles away.  But the driver waits an extra hour for the van to completely fill (there are no scheduled times for mini-vans in Africa) and then stops frequently.  He has overloaded the van and will take on most any fare and for almost any length ride.  So when somebody in the back seat must depart, the entire van must empty, since there are aisle seats, also, that most be folded up for everybody behind them to vacate.

The Toyota min-van has no shock absorbers.  Each pothole and bump is magnified tenfold.  Police stops are frequent.  Initially we are waved to the side of the road about every two miles.  When they discover the van is overloaded (well beyond the 14 passengers and one driver officially allowed), a private discussion ensues between the officer and the driver.

In a fascinating glimpse into real life here, the driver then quietly pays a “private fine,” returns to the vehicle and scratches out the number on his capacity sticker, and pastes a new one in its place with a higher number authenticated by the officer.  The passengers laugh knowingly and the journey continues.  There is no concern shown whatsoever by police or driver for passenger safety or comfort.

At first, this routine is endlessly annoying.  Overloaded capacity.  Potholes.  The acrid odor of stale sweat wafting throughout the van.  Constant loading and unloading.  Others’ bags under your feet and on top of your legs.  But then … something mysterious occurs.  You learn to relax into it.  A little bit of Mexican “manana time” enters into the equation.  You decide the situation is not so pressing, and focus on the beauty of the landscape and the liveliness of the pageant taking place on all sides around you.  You arrive, when you arrive and the journey is a bonus.  That is all.  It is that simple.

Much beauty and much poverty is witnessed along the road from Blantyre to Liwonde.  The countryside is languorously green, decorated with a rich assortment of both mounded and pointed mountains, and populated with an often barefooted population of meanderers with no obvious industry or purpose in mind.  Many act as if they have never seen a white person before as we repeatedly pull off the road to pick up or drop off another passenger.  Many bicycles are seen on the roads, even among the better dressed elements of the population.

Most clothes seem to be ragged and cast-off USA donated items.  One lad who opens and closes the mini-van doors and makes change for fares has a sweatshirt on saying “Kayla’s Mom” on the back.  I recognize the school Kayla is from as Kentwood High School, about twenty miles from my Seattle Home.  The same crowds proliferate near the mini-van stops even as dusk draws near and finally turns to darkness.  Very few lights of any noticeable candle power are in evidence.

Along the way, in various places, the only industry I see is light manufacturing devoted to hand-made coffins, tables, beds, and a wide assortment of wrought iron security gates and window grilles.  Trash is piled everywhere along the road.  There are very few waste receptacles in Malawi (including indoors) though there are some waste services seen picking up refuse here and there along city streets. The crops that are visible do not seem to extend widely beyond the omnipresent corn, and sugar cane.

Over dinner I meet up with a young man named Francis Chikaipa, who is contracted with the United States Charity World Vision to go into local villages and essentially do a census and then add to this baseline information with the native’s height and weight, nutrition, health practices, the number of AIDS victims, hygiene instruction, and food preservation so that they might be famine proof no matter what the weather.  Then they repeat the process 6 to 12 months later to see what really works to improve the lives of the average citizen.

We engage in a discussion about the current controversy regarding the best way to serve poverty in Africa: with the noblesse oblige approach characterized by a colossal white Toyota Land Cruiser filled with lily-white bureaucrats tossing sacks of beans and rice and cash at the proverbial problem of crop failures and institutionalized pillage from the top of the government down, or … send in Peace Corps type workers with real skills who can teach villagers how to farm, fish, build water and wind based generators to produce reliable electricity, provide clean water, some semblance of hygiene, and rotate crops.  So far the antiseptic approach of the White Executive Landcruiser crowd appears to be in the majority.

On his own, Francis also assists with AIDS orphans – a huge problem in Malawi, where nearly 25% of the population is afflicted with the deadly sexual disease.  At first, these children are handled by “Aunties” or “Grannies” – elderly women from villages who take care of the children’s housing and nutritional needs.  Until such time that is, that they become overwhelmed and their resources become exhausted.  Then the kids are kicked to the curb and take care of themselves on the streets.

You see these orphans everywhere, approaching taxis, cars, and buses and offering lollipops, chewing gum, chips (French fries), frozen water, peanuts, bracelets, necklaces, and whatever requires a minimal investment of cash or resources.  You wonder why something is not done about these unfortunates, or the unsustainable birth rate of approximately 3% that populates the rural poverty centers with tiny mothers who are still children themselves.  Then you realize that in an extreme poverty situation, there are few alternatives for entertainment other than sex as a diversion from the grinding day-to-day challenges of life.

Over drinks we entertain each other for the next couple hours.  I ingest local brews, and he due to his missionary work drinks Coca Cola.  I provide him with bug eyed inducing fascination that Barrack Obama, if stood next to a pile of wood chips, would come in second place in answering most any question without an advisor or teleprompter to whisper in his ear.  Apparently the Big O is absolute gospel around these parts.  He in turn, regales me with tales of village life and customs and tales of what people do for entertainment when they have absolutely no disposable income.  As usual when you meet a worthwhile character on the road, we agree to keep in contact.

The following day, my objective is Liwonde National Park.  Relatively small, but having a riverfront presence like Chobe NP in Botswana, with a full complement of big game.  Then the details fall into place.  There is only one lion in the entire park.  A five minute ride to the nearest safari lodge from my hotel takes an hour to arrange – just for the ride to the lodge itself.  They only take cash – no credit cards.  The cash machines dispense very little Malawi kwacha on a daily basis here.  They want $25 for a 2.5 hour ride, with most of the animals invisible due to the time of day.  No water or lunch is provided.  An additional charge of $10 is levied, just to get into the park.  In short, there is no “Value Added” to sweeten the pot and make this expedition worthwhile.

I decide to head south to Monkey Bay a day ahead of time.  This is the southern jumpoff point for the Ilala Ferry, which makes 12 stops on a north-south run twice a week and then returns the length of Lake Malawi to start all over again.  The countryside along the way is again green, lush and  beautiful.  My overcrowded as usual mini-bus glides on excellent roads past villages one would estimate to have looked the same 300 years ago.  Woven wooden sticks for hut siding, a thin layer of mud for wind protection, thatched roofs, firepits instead of light standards, donated ragged clothing prevails, and three pair of shoes at most are visible between the entire throng.

After four hours Monkey Bay arrives unexpectedly.  There is no evidence of a lake, until rounding the last corner.  Then the bad news.  The Ilala ferry stopped operating six months previously.  No wonder my e-mail and telephone call during the previous three days reached deaf ears.  Apparently it did not gain enough customers on the south end, burning 1700 liters of fuel to carry only six to eight passengers per run.  So the private operator (taking over from the Malawi national government, who was subsidizing the operation) ended the bottom seven ports of call, and now only operates in the north end of the lake.

I decide the town is worth exploring anyway to pass the evening, for its delicious mountain setting and laid back character.  As soon as I alight from the vehicle, the swarm sets in (as it always does when a white man not dressed like a backpacker exits the vehicle).  Advisors.  Handlers.  Bag grabbers.  Taxi opportunists.  Donation seekers. Child beggers.  And then begins the winnowing process.  Who speaks the best English?  Who knows the landscape locally the best?  Who has the best connections at hotels?  Most of all, who will listen the best?

My tendency in such situations is to get the providers to compete against each other.  This eliminates the carpetbaggers, the ones who think they will wheel you for some major chinch because you are white and obviously rich and probably stupid as to local pricing.  Then I evaluate their understanding of my needs.  You’ve heard it already – budget rate, hot water, place to sleep, internet connection, and some possibility of food eventually.  I bargain as hard as I can, pick my provider, and then usually come up in price on my own voluntarily in the form of a tip for services (usually taxi) efficiently rendered.

In this way, the locals become conversational with you, there comes an opportunity to learn about the locale and its occupants to a greater degree than normal (if you are willing to be patient), you take out the hard-core cash Nazis who simply see you as a means to an end, and you have a few beers with new friends.