MALAWI

The road to Malawi from Dar es Salaam is long – way too long. I’m starting to get tired. Fifteen hours on a one-lane highway, in which there is two-way traffic, through some of the most verdant, quiet, peaceful hills and valleys I’ve ever seen. But its hot – over 95 degrees. There’s no a/c in the truck and if the windows are open too wide the hot wind blows dry and sticky in our faces, and disrupts our scrabble game, played to kill the boredom. There are “H’s” and “I’s” all over the floor, pieces so small that our hands have trouble placing them on the board and once lost, are gone forever among the mud, sand, cracker crumbs and general travel detritus strewn across the truck’s black bottom.

We land in Iringa, in southwestern Tanzania after 8pm and make our way to the restaurant in absolute darkness, guided only by the stars and the dirt pathways, through the brush of this high plateau. The English owners have converted mud and dung hut ruins into an eco-friendly restaurant, with only candlelight to illuminate the tables and their beautiful African-motif tablecloths. The walls are a warm rust color, uneven in height and cracked. There is an enormous palapa-thatched cone roof that rises 30 feet or more in the air. The floor is dirt and the theme is definitely primitive-chic. Each room in the “house” contains tables – some rooms are big enough only for a table for two – our room holds all 20 of us at one long banquet table. There are only about 3 or 4 rooms in all.

We start with hot squash soup, thick and spicy. The main course is “ungali,” a local staple made of maize and tasting much like polenta. Anything can be added to give it taste: tonight we have spicy meatballs in a tomato-type sauce. The vegetarians get a baked mound of cheese in the same sauce – delicious. It tastes like cheese fondue without the croutons. We are also served our first good taste of bread since we’ve been in Africa. Real, hot, freshly-baked rolls – until now there’s only been sliced white bread, or in fancier places, white bread in the shape of a baquette or a roll.

Of course, no dessert – there never is.

Although we leave as we came – by the blackness of night, we are satiated and warm, ready for another day’s long drive.

At about 2pm today, we crossed the Tanzanian border and another time zone into Malawi.

I have been meaning for weeks now to write about the sights along the roads. But its good that I waited this long. Yesterday, because the road was slow and the traffic almost non-existent, we were able to sit for the first time on the specially-designed seats on the roof of the truck. And all that we have experienced until now was intensified by the unobstructed, open-air view.

Like candidates running for office, every village ran to greet us as we passed before them. Everyone waves, some with both hands, some with only one, as the other holds on to the package of charcoal or water bucket on the head. Scores of people walking in both directions on both sides of the road, coming and going about their daily lives, also stop to wave and say hello. The kids in particular, are the most enthusiastic. Sometimes shoeless, sometimes not, they run after us on their spindly legs waving and cheering and grinning so wide their white teeth are visible from our high perch. They call out to us, laughing and yelling and waving until we can no longer see or hear them when we look back.

A word about the African couture: its obvious that most of the clothing worn by the natives throughout Africa are donations made to local charities in the western world, mostly the US, sold to middlemen and then resold to local merchants and charities. T-shirts advertise all manner of corporations, organizations and products: “The University of Tennessee Athletic Dept.,” “AIG,” and “Resprol” (misspelled and therefore sent to the charity bin). Shoes rarely fit: Children seem to wear what often look like their parents’ shoes, and adults’ shoes seem to barely fit at all. Those with shoes (and most have shoes) seem to simply wear those shoes that were available, or that they most fancied when bought. Size and comfort are irrelevant.


Our destination today is Kande Beach (pronounced “Candy”) on the shores of Lake Malawi, a lake which covers 1/3 of the country, and whose opposite shore is too far to see, although we know that Mozambique is out there somewhere. Like the Great Lakes, Lake Malawi looks like the ocean from its sandy beach shore and its waves are gentle. The wind is blowing hard and there is thunder and lightening in the distance. It’s sweltering hot, but I’m afraid to go in the water. We heard that half the leg of a Dutchman had been eaten by a Lake Malawi crocodile not that long ago. Bilharzia is also a risk. Worms that live in stagnant water, they enter and exit the body through pores in the skin after they have eaten through various organs and even the brain. We’re thinking of kayaking to cool off.

Anticipation is mounting for tonight’s meal: a whole roasted suckling pig on the spit. The pig and the charcoal was purchased from a roadside stand. Both the (live) pig and its driver met us at our destination. Here, at about 7 am, it was killed among much fanfare and ceremony and has since been turning slowly on its stick since then, head and all.