Roughly ten years ago to the day, I rumbled into the Malawian village of Migowi and received the grand tour. Keen to freshen up, I was presented with a bucket of cold water and a single stick candle, “your en-suite, Mr Howarde” said my host in all sincerity, as he struck a match. The flame danced across the tiles, revealing a rather loose interpretation of the modern en-suite, considering there was no running water and the long-drop toilet was a good fifteen yards outside the house. These dark and lonely moments, as I scrubbed off the dust and splashed out the candlelight, sparked my true love for Africa.
Join me for retrospective look at Malawi from a decade ago, rediscovering the pleasures and perils of African travel.
I had grown up poring over the journeys of travelling greats: Michael Palin, who stumbled through cultures and continents with a charming openness in Pole to Pole and Sahara; or the gravelly, two-wheeled epic of Ewan McGregor and Charley Boorman’s Long Way Down, motorcycling from John O’Groats to Cape Town. I must also reference my dog-eared 1992 copy of Anne Mustoe’s A Bike Ride – a self-deprecating title for an extraordinary 12,000 mile solo-circumnavigation of the planet. Inspired by such trials and treats that lay beyond the horizon, I set off for the slender lakeside nation of Malawi at the foot of Africa’s Great Rift Valley, weighed down by my overpacked rucksack and last-minute doubts.
Penned in by the glass screens of Addis Ababa's transit area, I sat, alone and weary; wafts of Ethiopian coffee and the hubbub of the cigarette shops transcended the sparse waiting area. I remember looking out over the tarmac at a sprawling jumble of unorganised luggage, impressed that anything found its way. Needless to say, as passengers disgorged from the plane into Lilongwe’s African heat, our luggage did not, and my rucksack took a three day detour to destination unknown, leaving me with a 100ml tube of toothpaste and my uncharged iPod.
Utterly off course and having adopted a daily pilgrimage to the Lilongwe airport baggage carousel, I kicked the can around a desolate motel compound in some nearby village, one eccentric, whiskey swirling European for company. Now, I always keep a change of clothes in my hand luggage.
Migowi and the Phalombe Plains
Like many romantic travellers, I am my happiest staring out of a juddering bus window, and any wobbling doubts subsided as I bounced along rural roads away from the capital three days later, gaining wholesome countryside views and some perspective; hot air and dust streaming in through the open windows, rusted chassis and ceiling dents.
I was heading south to Migowi on the Phalombe Plains, from which Mount Mulanje “Island in the Sky” breaks free from an otherwise flat and rather desolate landscape. Any lushness afforded by the November to April rains had long since parched – a trickling washerwoman’s stream offered a singular ribbon of greenery to cut through the surrounding browns and greys. The hamlet I would call home blended in, white painted buildings dulled by dusty hues. Arriving half a week late seemed to go unnoticed by my welcoming committee, who, in hindsight were probably two days late themselves – Malawians took the concept of Africa Time as a matter of national importance. Smiles and warm cups of sweet-sweet tea were a welcome, easing introduction to a laid back, isolated, mentally powerful month ahead.
Village life was beautifully simplistic, perhaps less bucolic if you lived there. Women huddled around a central well; dogs roamed; children rolled tyres along baked earth tracks. An occasional emaciated cow ambled by. I was fortunate to be housed in the stateliest abode, its size belying its minimal furnishing and sprightly cockroaches, scuttling amid the candlelight. Electricity was sporadic at best, but pitch black nights unlocked mesmerising starscapes, unrivalled in the Northern Hemisphere. Night-time gazing was accompanied by barking dogs and the pounding African beats from distant roadside shacks, a staple soundtrack across the continent.
Africa rises early, profiting from the pre-dawn coolness. A thermos of hot tea was always awaiting me, for when I emerged from my mosquito net, stuffed with socks to plug some of the larger, bird sized holes. The dreaded morning constitutional swiftly followed. The long walk to the long drop, raised by three steps and consisting of an unnecessarily small hole for which to aim. Even in the morning chill, smells, flavours and pongs wafted up from the depths of hell; mosquito’s frenzied around ones modesties with vim and vigour.
I shared the house with three, then two, then one hen(s), which lived free range in the kitchen, whilst Mama cooked in the shed over open flame. She made delicious, deep fried mandazi doughnuts, a sugary treat to jazz up the staple balls of bland nsima, dipped in fishy-fish or boiled cabbage. Children caught grasshoppers, which when fried provided a surprisingly delicious crunch. I also kept a private stash of Cherry Plumb Sobo and packets of imported biscuits, replenished from a nearby stall, which offered an unparalleled evening delight from within the solitude of my mosquito net.
I was officially here to teach English. These days, I am uneasy with my teenage-self traversing 8000 kilometres on a fairly self-indulgent quest to educate Malawian orphans. Yet, with most Malawian teachers on an indefinite strike, I was, at worst, available; and what I largely failed to offer in academic progress was offset by the wide smiles, enthusiasm and engagement from the children, in their otherwise unstimulating rural scenario. I cautiously conclude that my involvement fell on the right side of the ethical divide, having integrated into village life for an extended period and championed the orphans in a community where they were somewhat ostracised. Nowadays, with an increased global consciousness and critique of the white saviour, give careful consideration if embarking upon a similar path.
Malawi is one of Africa’s quieter nations, which I’d consider to be a resounding positive for a continent marred in negativity. A bitesize nation, it offers a taste of Africa on an accessible and appealing scale. Coined the ‘Warm Heart of Africa’, it remains one of the continent’s safest countries, and with English as its official language it was my ideal gateway to Sub-Saharan Africa.
Lake Malawi, Cape Maclear, Nkhata Bay
Lake Malawi is an obvious draw, glistening along the country’s eastern flank with crystal clear waters and secluded sandy bays. The southernmost contribution to the African Great Lakes, the lakeshore frames a perfect backdrop for many a Malawian itinerary. Cape Maclear is a popular beach town in the south, back then reached by a bone-crunching pickup from the wonderfully named, yet unremarkable Monkey Bay. Beachside bars and accommodations to suit all budgets line Cape Maclear’s rippling coastline, and snorkelling off the nearby Domwe and Thumbi islands is a must.
MV Ilala
Monkey Bay is also the southerly port from which to catch the MV Ilala, which plies Lake Malawi’s 580km length with guaranteed irregularity. Human cargo sits upon cargo-cargo, upon possibly more human cargo, in an unorganised and frankly dangerous melee of unseaworthiness. I smuggled myself aboard for a beer, limbo’ing under sacks of grain, bananas and bleating livestock of the claustrophobic lower decks, before vaulting back to the safety of shore at anchors aweigh. Helen in Wonderlust writes a wonderfully tactile piece should you wish to live the full 3 day experience. God willing, the MV Illala will putter into another lakeside hotspot, Nkhata Bay, a few days later, dropping you 50 yards or so off the coast these days – the ferry smashed into the town’s jetty and sank it in 2015.
Nkhata Bay is another laid back backpacker town, inviting you to laze in hammocks and swill the Malawian beery favourites of Castle, Kuche Kuche, and a plethora of locally brewed Carlsberg variations. Chibuku Shake Shake is another local beer contender, despite being served in a carton and portraying the consistency of milk, blended with straw.
The Mushroom Farm
To experience the beauty of the Great Rift Valley, the backbone of East Africa, a higher vantage is well worth seeking, and I thoroughly recommend The Mushroom Farm. At the time, it was a gruelling 3 hour vertical hike from the nearest navigable road, however I’m informed it’s now possible to flag down a pickup or motorbike. The views from The Mushroom Farm are amazing, and I perched my tent on the cliff edge, profiting from round-the-clock vistas of the glistening lake, stars, and twinkling fireside villages below. Having relived the trauma of the Migowi long-drop, The Mushroom Farm’s splendid throne ranks number one in my list of all time toilets – what it lacked in privacy was more than made up for with stunning panoramic views and hillside breeze.
Livingstonia
From The Mushroom Farm, it’s possible to hike to the town of Livingstonia, named in honour of Dr Livingstone, I presume. This Scottish mission was originally set along the lakeshore, however, with mosquitos picking off devout Scots at an unsustainable rate, it relocated atop the malaria-free plateau in 1894. The town itself is remarkably curious, with stone built cottages lining wide avenues, as if plucked from the very Highlands of its ancestors. Seemingly perched on top of the world, you may well feel closer to God, or at the very least, Tanzania, which can be seen clearly on the other side of the lake.
Liwonde National Park
For those drawn to the continent’s wildlife, Liwonde National Park is one of the best areas to aim for. Hippos and crocs wallow in the wetlands and marsh of the sluggish Shire River, whilst dense thicket and swaying grasslands paint a picture book Africa. Despite the idyllic setting, Liwonde was in crisis back in 2010. Tens of thousands of wire snares littered the park – more numerous than the large animals they sought to entrap. In the years since, Liwonde has undergone a remarkable turnaround, re-establishing cheetah, lion, and rhino populations to complement the existing elephant herds. Incomparable to the luxury lodges of Kruger, Okavango and Mara, Liwonde does however offer an accessible and affordable safari experience, perfect to combine with a few days by the lake.
As time drifted by, I became more attune to the pace and placidity of life in Migowi. The mainstay of my day was unremarkable, a true reflection of life where daily tasks were time consuming and arduous. And yet, there was an appeal in the simplicity and isolation of it all. I would go for ambling walks under the midday sun, or cycle a few dusty miles to the nearest town to email home my fortnightly dispatch. I learnt to embrace the unexpected, and enjoy the twists and turns of an unpredictable and resourceful land.
There were occasional flurries of activity to disrupt the peacefulness of it all. A village football match drew a partisan crowd of several thousand, cheering the high bounces, rash tackles and general chaotic tactics afforded by the uneven African turf. In any case, the match didn’t last long – the keeper was knocked unconscious in a goal mouth scramble, his prone body thrown unceremoniously onto the bed of my pickup, only to be clambered upon by the rest of his teammates who clung on in a human pyramid of soccer jerseys and sweat as we wound our way slowly to hospital. Sunday church was attended with equal numbers and gusto, with long rambling sermons interspersed with joyful bursts of song and swaying, throwing shame on the mumbling hymns of the British. They even sang on the buses, a beautiful symbol of community and togetherness.
This had been my first experience of acute poverty – families living hand to mouth, cramped in dark mud huts and tilling unproductive fields dawn ‘til dusk. Selfishly, poverty offered me a wealth of perspective and gratitude, which I try to keep at the forefront of my mind.
I left Migowi in a flood of tears. There was a finality in my departure, turning my back on a village where the harsh realities of life would trundle on. The orphans would be reaching their late teens now, as I was then, and I often wonder their fate and whether any opportunities came their way.
My personal and immediate fate lay in an unlit Blantyre guesthouse, which I all too slowly discovered doubled as the bus station brothel. Nevertheless, it was cheap and practical, and I boarded another coach northwards the following morn. Having broken down midway, we limped into the outskirts of Lilongwe at dusk and I tracked down the nondescript compound from whence I started. That same European chap was rattling around aimlessly, as if it was yesterday. I embraced the flowing shower and flushing toilet with newfound thankfulness.
I look back on this, and subsequent travels around Africa with huge fondness, and encourage you to take the plunge to a continent radiating warmth, adversity and adventure.
For detailed, readable and insightful guidance, I always rely on Bradt Guides, which cover a range of African nations and lesser visited regions of the world. Please support Stanfords, an independent bookshop specialising in travel guides, maps and atlases, when planning your next travels.
