After a nice ride, I rode into Monkey Bay in the dark, literally as there was no power. I rode through the town trying to see all the black people walking the streets in the dark, animals and signs for places to stay. I ended up stopping at the gas station which had a generator running when a young guy on a bicycle started soliciting me right away. ‘Give me a minute to talk to this man first, and then I will talk to you’, I said firmly. When I was finished with the fuel, I pushed my bike off to the side and lit a smoke. ‘Yes, and what were you saying?’. But before he could answer, this white guy walked up and started to tell me that he rode his 125cc bike from London to here. I had heard about this guy from the guy back in Tete, the camper that said I could stay at his backpackers. He told me he had a guest who arrived six months ago and had not yet left. Anyway, this biker was suggesting I come to the place he was staying, and the young bicycle guy was telling me I should go to his backpackers. All I wanted was a room, food and wine, but the white guy said they had nothing but a room without power, and the bicycle said he had all of the above including power from a generator. Then the white guy said I should be careful as for about 500 meters of the road it was deep sand. The bicycle guy said the sand was not that deep. In the end I asked them both for a different place as I didn’t want to ride the sand in the dark, after eating only four oranges all day. The bicycle guy led me to a cheap religious hostal that had no power also, but they had a room and the promise of food and a couple of beers. I tipped the bicycle guy, before unpacking and having a beer. Finally the power came back on just in time for a couple of the workers and I to watch the Germany/Australia football match, with fried eggs and chips.
The next morning I was planning to stay at the original backpackers, as I was hoping to see Mics and Ilsa again, but as soon as I opened the door, the bicycle guy was there waiting for me to try and sell some of his artwork and to introduce me to his friend. As it is, I can’t stand talking much in the morning, but this was too much. I firmly told the guy that I had just woken up and didn’t feel like talking, and I especially didn’t want to look at his stuff because I would be wasting his time for I didn’t have any room even if he gave it to me for free. ‘But I have small pieces like bracelets and ….’ ‘Enough, please, not now’. After he left, I decided I wanted to leave Monkey Bay, so I did. I needed to get to a city where I could find more anonymity so I headed for Lilongwe. 
These children came running up to me after I stopped for a picture. They were cautious and shy, but the eldest answered to me in very good English, that she spoke English and told me her name. The younger ones just watched me and looked at the bike. When I was getting ready to leave they watched my every move. A teenager boy was behind me in the other direction, holding his machete and watching me without moving, even after I gave him a nod and small wave. I don’t think many people stop around there and it’s just a weird moment in their lives, as is mine I suppose.
Once in Lilongwe I was riding around trying to figure out the lay of the city and to find the ‘Old Town’ as suggested in my Lonely Planet book. I rode for a couple of hours trying to find a specific hotel, and in the end realized I was right next to it all along. I was planning to visit a friend of my father’s here in Lilongwe, but because I hadn’t any internet for the past 5 days, I didn’t want to just call him when I arrived so I took a room, watched the tame Italy/Uruguay match and fell asleep.
I woke up this morning tired and lazy, and have decided not to do anything at all but nap, walk around and watch some football. Oh and one last note, it’s been one year today that I left on this trip, June 15th, 2009. I’m so lucky is all I can say, to have this opportunity to explore a part of the world I never imagined I would discover.
The next day I packed up and left for Peter and Lauren’s home in Lilongwe …. Peter’s directions were perfect, and sure enough the only graffiti door in Lilongwe; the difference here is they paid for some local artists to do the work. And again like Pierre and Antoinette’s, I found peace and rest here for three days, only expecting to stay for one. The first night we had a nice meal and talked about all the gang in Edmonton; my father Tony, Uncle Clark, Riddell, Slippe, Arvi, Campbell, Nick, Crighton and many more ….. it was comforting to be talking about all these people from a chair in Malawi, and also to learn how Peter and Lauren were associated together with our mutual families.
I woke up early, fresh and well rested, and after breakfast it was agreed I would stay another day, so I got busy with the bike maintenance, applying country stickers and coins, reapplied the wooden dagger from Ecuador to the front fender, and now peanut butter and toast for lunch I got to make myself!
Peter and Lauren had inherited their staff when they moved into the house last year, much like most foreigners’, they take on a family or part of a family and pay them to live and work on their property. It’s much like an adoption, for they are not just employees, but a distant part of the family. It’s a delicate balance of friendships versus that mysterious monetary value we all hold dearly hold onto, for generally speaking the workers are always trying for a little bit more, however which way, especially since the balance in life is not the same, and not possible to equalize in a short time either, this gigantic bridge we see in the news every day. I’ve witnessed this all through my travels, and it’s sort of difficult to explain without writing an entire waste of time thesis about it, though one thing is for sure, there is nothing easy about it. One of the two sisters has HIV, and one of her young daughters too, assumedly through birth. The thing about Peter and Lauren is they are really pro-active, providing a tutor for Dorothy who runs the house to learn another trade, paying the night guards privately and not through a third party security company, and in many other ways too, just like all the other homeowners I have met on my travels before, just like your neighbour next door who makes more than you but still gives more hopefully … and that being said, whatever one can afford is good enough
In the evening Peter and Lauren took me out for dinner at a local restaurant, and later when we returned we watched the World Cup, before Peter and I rolled the pool table, then shot darts, before one last glass of wine before bed, just as I asked if I could stay for another day, to give Peter a chance to win a game or two (lol!). Actually during the course of my three days and nights at their home while Peter was working, Lauren and I had watched every football match there was to watch
The next day I hung around not doing much … except visiting with Lanark who is Dorothy’s sister’s child from Izzy, who was always hanging in the front he was, the day security guard as it were. Lanark would let me out when I would walk to the nearby shop, and he started saluting me when I would return before opening the gate. Anyway one time while having a smoke, I noticed he was happily playing with some bottle caps, water bottle caps and a can, all having some sort of other identity themselves of course. So I went and got the South African flag I was given and gave this to Lanark, and then later I made some paper air planes to throw. And actually at one point, just when Lanark was about to throw one of the planes into the air, a real plane flew above and he stopped and considered this for quite some time before he threw his own plane up and away. We didn’t speak much with language, he just beginning to learn English and I not knowing any Chichewa at all.
The next day I packed up and said, ‘The most difficult part about this trip is saying good-bye, then again you can’t say good-bye if you don’t say hello eh’.
My GPS was playing games with me again, before realizing I wasn’t heading in the most efficient direction, coming from the paper map it said. So I stopped to ask one of the many traffic police barriers, and she directed me down this dirt road after a couple of other guys said to go over there some where too. She saying it was good, you’re good to go …. One can always see the unarmed police presence, and feel the sounds of the military doing shooting practice from somewhere in the distance. And I have to say, I really like the local police almost everywhere I’ve been for they always conclude, ‘I wish you a good journey’, and so I went ….
After those thoughts, l arrived quite by accident at this Lake Malawi beach side hotel, after just riding around the back streets of Nkhotakota looking around to determine if I should move on or not.
These kids watched me pull the bike in, unpack and all, until I closed the door behind me before asking, ‘Which football match do I hear playing?’.
Everyone around got involved at push starting this truck, but to no avail. So they would open the hood, look inside without touching anything, and then try again, look under the hood again without touching anything and try again. This happened four times in the same order until the truck finally sputtered down the road, roars of laugher and yelling coming from the people behind.
In the evening I met four young British ladies, three doctors and one teacher, who I played cards with and weaved a couple of tales before they retired to wake up promptly for church the next morning, though stood up from the driver of the rental van they paid for without driver originally, for he came along for free (natural insurance I suppose but who can say).
Heading north the next day beside Lake Malawi ….
… at one point I noticed one of the guys mock shooting a log of wood at me like it was a machine gun or a torpedo launcher laughing humorously, so I feigned being hit with the bullets one at a time and in slow motion, much to their delight, falling back against my camping gear, one arm dangling from the side of the bike,while the other kept riding past them; waves back and forth.
This doesn’t need much explaining, in the end I went around the back of the jackknifed rig, after I watched a few cars and trucks attempting this first, each one having to be pushed by the hoards of people, or pulled out by rope.
Late in the day I started up this steep incline to head for Livingstonia, Malawi. After one kilometer I stopped to the side to let a car slowly descend. They stopped to say they had been up half way of the 15 kilometers and decided to turn back. After they left I had a smoke and thought to myself I have about thirty minutes of light left, and thought I’d be best to head back on the main road and get to the next town probably in the dark, which is closer to the border and fuel.
In the end I stayed in a shit place, had a moment with the night guard who didn’t want me to park my bike beside the room on a dead piece of grass and hard dirt. Then the power went out and when I went to the depressing outdoor bar for a beer I was hit on by I think a prostitute, before eating a crappy meal, I went to bed under the net after being attacked by mosquitoes, lying there sweaty with no hot water and no light. Sometimes it’s just like that and there’s nothing one can do about it, which reminds me often of what most people here must be thinking when they see me roar by on my motorcycle filled with expensive fuel, and a pocket full of money to blow on a shit room that is overpriced.
The border crossing from Malawi to Tanzania was a poker game as usual, but without all the frantic voices and crowding hoards. They were all pretty mellow, and in the end I got what I wanted and they got what they wanted; a little money from an exchange in currencies, even though they tried their best to make double what they had. But because I was prepared, I enjoyed the meeting we had in a small room regarding third party insurance and the exchanges of currencies, each time calling the bluff I would say after they said, ‘… but have you been to Tanzania before?’, ‘No, but have you been to Egypt where I know they will charge me again regardless of what you say right now’. It was all regarding the offer of a double the money package to insure my bike all the way up and through all the other countries (had this experience in Central America). ‘No I think I’d rather pay each country individually, at least this way I know I won’t have to pay twice’. I had read somewhere that you will pay no matter what papers you give them saying you’ve paid already before entering their country. Besides, I don’t think its good business to cross into another country’s border without paying the dealer for a nice hand anyway. And on another note, not once on this journey has anyone in any country asked to see my insurance, maybe thankfully because I wasn’t in an accident, or maybe because I was just lucky, touch wood, cause it makes you feel happy, and don’t forget to kiss the fire. The actual border people were very courteous and efficient I have to say.
