THE  ENCHANTING LIKOMA ISLAND

 

We journey across half the coastline of Likoma Island before arriving at the anchor point (again without a dock) at Mbanba Bay.  This village used to be called Chipyela after a local practice of burning witches at the stake, until the arrival of Missionaries who forced a change in approach to less-than-mainstream personal activities.  The entire shore is notable for its tumble of huge granite blocks; some like delicate flowers, others boxcar like, others pointed or curving into fluted lips.  Many are coated with multi-colored lichen.  White bird guano drapes many of the rocks closest to the water, so that they appear as if shipwrecks battling the waves.

A taxi arrives at the boat landing.  In reality, it is a small open bed pickup, asking if a group of us standing around are the ones they are supposed to transport to Mango Drift – my intended destination, but not yet confirmed with a reservation.  It is 4 kilometers over a rutted 4WD track to the lodge.  I take my turn at poaching and say: “Of course.”  A group of four of us share the ride, along with several burlaps sacks of vegetables and two large cases of beer.

I know I have found a true rest spot immediately upon sighting Mango Drift.  It is comprised of a central thatched roof cabana built over the remains of a baobob tree (which anchors the bar), six stone and thatch unlockable cabins (whose latches consist of a wooden peg loosely inserted between two holes in the otherwise flimsy woven thatch door), a kitchen building, a thatched gazebo covering a pool table, a dive equipment building, and a backpacker type dorm.   All could be straight out of “South Pacific.”

The beachfront itself has light brown medium grained sand arranged into an immaculately groomed arc.  The Caribbean type 85 degree Fahrenheit water has excellent visibility, and over 600 species of fish – one of the highest concentrations of unique species to be found anywhere in the world.  The snorkeling is therefore excellent.  Both the beach and buildings are the cleanest and safest in all of Africa.  There are no door locks at Mango Drift and wallets left out in the open will remain in place undisturbed for the length of your stay.  I know immediately I will be staying multiple days here.  Even before I have a confirmed room.  I would have slept on the bar if necessary.

The bar-cabana serves as a sort of Grand Central Station.  Four padded conversation pits offer views of the azure blue water (about fifty feet away) and a straight-across view of Chizimulu Island.  It is here that newcomers are greeted, welcoming drinks are offered, new friendships are struck, naps are snuck in, and travel stories are exchanged throughout the afternoon and evening.  It is definitely a kick-back paradise.

Ben, the 23 year-old manager, is a scuba divemaster from South Africa.  He has the over-the-top personality of a pirate.  Being immediately simpatico, we do not delay in making fun of each other.  He quickly makes me a deal for a room despite my lack of a reservation.  And then I quickly fall into conversations in the cabana’s shaded sandpit with Adele from France (a engaging young man on a one-year around the world journey even more ambitious than mine), and Cille and Bent – a Norwegian couple crafting a long-distance relationship between her duties with an NGO in Malawi, and his job in Norway managing special needs adults with various handicaps.

Also present are Luca (from Italy) and his lover Viktorija (from Solvenia), Essie and Nadine from Germany, and Jakke (pronounced “Yockey”), a South African pilot who offers up his cell phone as a hot spot on an otherwise internet starved locale so that I can make long-overdue posts to my blog.  Completing our temporary group are three British doctors in training and a lawyer: English women Nikki and Camilla and Victoria, and their Scottish compatriot Rosanna.  There are no odd-men-out (or women).  All are friendly, forthcoming, and compatible.  A most rare combination.

Our dinner is served at 7 pm with group seating.  The various individual tables dotting the sandpit underneath our cabana are arranged into one communal Long Table.  Only the individual drink servings vary.  We dine on beef, vegetables, and rice.  The cooking does not astound.  But the company adds succor to our meal.  We trade greetings, jokes, travel tales, national toasts, and mock insults from one end of the table to the other.  Our stories must be brief due to the constant interruptions and catcalls that result.  Various forms of cards fill the rest of the evening.  The British ladies are fast learners and soon become quite predatory.

The following morning a hike back into town is in order.  The Market and The Anglican Cathedral (built over a ten year period by missionaries around 1910) are the major draws.  At first the road is easy to follow.  It is the only one.  But once in town, numerous roads branch off – without marking.  There are no street signs.  I ask for “The church.”  And also the seafood market.  Ben has asked me to help scout out the availability of fish for dinner.

I receive primarily sign language suggestions in return.  Not the offensive variety one becomes accustomed to when playing for virtually any sports team.  But attempts at guiding me with talking hands and some very limited English.  The Malawi English is different than what I am accustomed to.  It is difficult to understand each other, even though we are theoretically speaking the same language.

The Malawi people are quite polite – even timid at times – and do not wish to offend.  They show happiness most of the time, as if this is what is expected of them.  They really do not know how to respond to a serious query beyond that for food or drink or the bathroom, or somebody who politely disagrees with them.  As a consequence, when asked anything outside their range of  expected questions, they are likely to merely answer: “Yes.”  Leading to all manner of either mischief or misunderstanding on both sides.

Of course, the “Irish Mile” rule prevails.  If they say 1 kilometer and point straight ahead, that just means to the turning point.  There will be at least two other turns and really three kilometers total.  You must ask anew at each fork in the road.

Along the way, a typical conversation goes something like this.  You receive a very enthusiastic “Hi!” or “Hello!”  Then “How are you?”  Quickly followed by “What’s your name?”  Somewhere in there, there is an assumption that you too, have inquired about their well being.  So that the next thing you hear is: “Fine.”   There never really is a response to your answer as to your state of mind, or health.  Just: “Fine.”  So I amuse myself when asked “How are you?” with “I am in need of an amputation today”.  Then laugh inwardly when I immediately hear the omnipresent “Fine.”

Another typical conversation is played out over and over.  A group of ragtag kids, alight with huge smiles, come alongside and ask for your name and the usual “How are you?”  Without skipping a beat, they then demand: “Where is my money?”  Apparently they are quite used to getting small donations and sweets from visiting travelers.  They become quite confused when turned on, and queried in turn with: “Where is MY money?”  Or, alternately, “What makes it YOUR money?”  You then clap your hands together, spread them apart to show they are empty (you are all tapped out) and usually that is the end of it.

I find myself walking way beyond the “one kilometer at most” and ask directions to the church for the 42^nd time.  It is next door to the secondary school, I am told.  Less than a block away.  Upon arrival, a brief search for a viewing tower is made.  Apparently there is supposed to be quite a view out over Likoma Island, its islands, and Mozambique from the top.  But I learn this particular building is merely a church.  I am told what is really being sought is The Cathedral.  Ah, of course …

So back two and one-half kilometers and there it is.  The church pastor has given surprisingly good directions.  Once there, the Cathedral Pastor – dressed in jams, flip flops and riding a motorcycle – has time to give a brief tour and then  allow me up the steps to the top.  It is a strange journey.  The first 30 steps are like the reverse descent to a dungeon hell … dark, narrow, and twisting.  Then there is a small crawl hole and a wooden ladder.  Then yet another level, with an unstable metal ladder this time.

Next you climb over the church bells to attain the next floor landing.  The final floor before the tin sheet roof and viewing platform, involves ascending a rickety wooden ladder that is clearly cracked through on the middle spline at the left side.  Upon opening the roof vent rain cover, it deteriorates in my hands.  “Repeat after me,” I mumble to myself.  “This is Africa.” The view is incredible anyway.

Walking back to Mango Drift, a deviation is taken in a further attempt to find fish for dinner.  Along the way it begins to rain suddenly in a complete outburst of weather tantrum.  The rain comes down in sheets.  I walk down the middle of the dirt road, observed by hundreds of black villagers watching the only white man in this part of the island get completely soaked.  One can barely hazard a guess what they thought of me.

Along the way, I discover Kaya Mawa – the tony big brother resort to Mango Drift.  The two lodging places have the same ownership.  But the similarities stop there.  Kaya Mawa is much more upscale.  The rooms are $400 nightly.  The clientele fly in, at $250 per person, from Malawi and Mozambique and points even further afield.  They don’t even know what a ferry is.  Most of the residents are not available for mingling.

They prefer to remain in their rooms, and I am told (by one of the employees) their favorite sport is complaining about the lack of soap, the brand of soap, the freshness of the towels, the temperature of the water, and other bits of minutiae that are the telltale droppings of the rich and famous.  The site manager, Michele, and the bartender, Wilson, make sure however that the lowly visitor from the $30 nightly lodge a mile and one-half away is served two of the largest gin and tonics ever poured in history.  With ice.  Which is the only thing Mango Drift does not have.

I am not practiced at taking rest stops.  I am also not good at “chilling.”  But like Caye Caulker off the shore of Belize, Mango Drift is – once again --a world class chillin’ spot.  It is hard to imagine a better locale for safe water, groomed beaches, the wonder of a forest of baobob trees, cushioned conversation pits for lounging, a fun bar, and great company.  I am delighted to return here.  It feels like home.   For starters, I am greeted by the usual suspects milling about the bar, all hungry to compare the day’s discoveries and all secretly hoping their current misadventure trumps all the others.  We carry on in this way companionably until dinner, which is always served family style at 7 PM.

It should be mentioned that everything on Likoma Island is imported, save for corn, some limited vegetables, and fish when the weather cooperates.  Yet, the prices remain reasonable.  With beers at only $1.50 and drinks at $2, it did not take long for my bar bill to exceed my room bill.  Having clothes washed and dried was only $2.  Breakfast was $4 (pot of coffee $2), and dinner about $7.  The company and management were priceless. 

On our final night of dinner before my departure for Mozambique, I spend the afternoon composing a roast of sorts for my new found friends. I try to put into story form, some of their characteristics and foibles experienced over the last three days.  The writing and humor are easy.  The camaraderie reminds me of my soccer team at home, The Red Zingers, a team I have played for twenty years now primarily due to the agreeable personalities of those on the squad.  There has been no tension, no incidents, no disagreements.

Just appreciation for fellow travelers at their relaxed best.  It is dubious that we will see each other again.  My recent companions accept my tarnished observations with appreciation and lighthearted return humor.  They may follow my travel blog or read the latest volume of “True North” in the future.  We cap our moments in the sun with a candlelight dinner along the shore in the fading glow of what I have come to understand is a pretty standard Mango Drift perfect ending.   It can never be taken from us or forgotten.