Day 22. Thu 31st August.
The
road to Chinteche
I could get up early and get on the road, but I decide to get my
money's worth and have breakfast at the Kiboko which isn't until 7
(it's not brilliant but it's certainly an improvement over the Aska).
Before that I pop down to the bus station, my last idea for getting a
ride all the way in one go, but they have never even heard of Lake Of
Stars, and certainly don't have a bus to Chinteche, so
after breakfast I set off to the market and the minibuses.
It's a good kilometre from the Kiboko round to the main minibus
station, and it is possible to get a minibus from Shoprite, but I can
never be bothered mucking about for such a short trip, so I set off to
walk, but before I even get half way I am hailed by a passing minibus
who takes me to the depot and tries to charges me MK100 for the
privilege - I give him MK50 which I think is what they charge for the
whole distance (it's crazy how you find yourself quibbling over 50
Kwacha! I mean it's 20p instead of 40p - what's the point?).
The trip starts badly and gets worse. The minibus to Salima is making a
very nasty noise, and has to stop soon after take-off to have the front
brake fixed. I am sat opposite a young mother with a baby who promptly
pees herself, although thankfully the mother seems to absorb the bulk.
Then the mother herself is sick into her shawl. All these body fluids
are not what you want in Africa!
Lilongwe to Salima is around 100Km and could be done in an hour in a
decent vehicle. However, clapped out minibuses, as with trucks
full of fish, take longer, and we finally reach Salima at 10:15.
I manage to get a matola heading for Nkhotakota fairly quickly -
things are looking up. The trick with matolas is to get near the front
(so you're not getting all the dust blown up), inside rather
than sitting perched on the edge (which is not only uncomfortable but
also extremely precarious) and preferably sat on someone else's luggage!
At least you are in the fresh air, and if it's not too full it is often
more comfortable than a matola.
My plan is to break my journey at the pottery just outside Nkhotakota,
but it is only 12:30 when we pass the pottery, so I decide to carry on
to Nkhotatkota on the basis that if I have trouble getting a ride from
Nkhotakota it'll be easy enough to get back to the pottery before dark.
In Nkhotakota I am immediately surrounded by a bunch of young traders
who want to talk to me under the trees. I don't fancy this idea at all,
and stay by the road. It's not long before a minibus arrives. There is
no destination in the window, so I ask the driver if he is going to
Chinteche, and he promptly digs out a piece of cardboard with Mzuzu
written on it and sticks it in the window. Mzuzu is beyond Chinteche so
I reckon I've got the right bus. Everyone seems to have got off and the
front seat is empty, so I hop on, and it is not long before he is full
again and off. At first I share the front seat with another guy, but
then he gets off and I have it to myself. Things seem to be going well
- how wrong can you be!
The driver is a surly character, and neither he nor the conductor speak
much English, so I doze off. When I wake up it is three o'clock and we
are just arriving in Dwangwa, which is about half way between
Nkhotakota and Chinteche. Either I have misjudged the distance or I've
got a very slow driver, and at this rate I am not going to get to
Chinteche before dark. I am just wondering whether to stop in Dwangwa
when the decision is made for me - the driver turns to me and says
"hey, big man, out!". It seems he is going no further. At first I think
he has deliberately misled me, but actually I think it may be simply
that both he and the Dwangwa filling station are out of petrol.
At this point I realise that when I lightened my load in Lilongwe I
foolishly left my guide book in store. Dwangwa does not look a very
inviting town and I suspect that accommodation may well be on a par
with the Aska, or worse. Then I remember a chat I had with Martin
the fish man back in Cape Maclear. I asked him if he could recommend
any places to stay on the way to Chinteche in case I need to stop for
the night. Luckily I have scribbled some notes in my diary, and,
yes, here it is, "Ngala Lodge, near Dwangwa".
Most of the other people on my minibus seem to be cramming themselves
into the back of a matola that has pulled up behind, and this time the
natives seem friendly. I ask if they know Ngala Lodge and they say yes
it is not far, so I pile in and spend an enjoyable half hour or so
while a woman with a huge grin and very few teeth, aided and abetted by
the other passengers, attempts to teach me the entire Chichewa language.
They drop me off at a big sign saying Ngala Lodge and assure me that it
is only half a kilometre off the road, which, remarkably, it is, and I
am given a warm welcome by Craig and Diana. The lodge is beautiful,
right on the edge of the lake, and the thought of a hot shower and a
good meal cheers me up no end.
As
it turns out, it is Craig and Diana's very last day running the lodge,
which is being taken over by Francois and his girlfriend Adele. As far
as I can work out, Francois actually owns the lodge, and is taking over
the running with Adele, who has just arrived in Malawi for the first
time from South Africa, while Craig and Diana are leaving to run Kaya Mawa
(literally "Maybe Tomorrow"), the luxury lodge on Likoma Island. Likoma
Island, and its little brother Chizumulu, are way out on the other side
of the lake, actually in Mozambican waters, but have retained their
Malawian nationality.
Also at the lodge are Tony and his son T.J., who run some sort of a
marketing company in Blantyre, and Will and his girlfriend Rhi, who I
have already met briefly at Cape Maclear, and who, it turns out, owns
Kaya Mawa (it all gets so incestuous!).
I get an excellent dinner (fillet steak), bed and breakfast for $45,
which is a lot better than a doss house in Dwangwa, and what's more,
Tony and T.J. are on their way to the festival and kindly offer me a
lift the rest of the way. Tony is an interesting guy and regales us
with stories, including how it rained at the festival last year, while
T.J. gets very drunk (it turn out this is pretty much his favourite
pastime). One by one everyone heads off to bed, until I am left
listening to T.J. telling me great length how his dad is really
his best friend, so I extricate myself as politely as possible and head
off to bed.