Motorcycle Diaries Day 4 & 5:

That night a serious wind and rainstorm blew through Matema.  Rain pelted the windows like an army of suitors throwing rocks in an attempt to catch the attention of their sleeping interest.  It rained and blew so hard that the next morning I found my bike lying on its side in the dirt, the ground having become so soft that the kickstand had sunk in to the point of toppling over. Despite the violence of the storm I fell asleep rather easily, probably having something to do with being exhausted, and slept peacefully until it was time to leave.  If I thought 7:00 am had arrived ahead of schedule the morning before it was nothing compared to hearing my alarm chime at 5:00.  It is hard to describe the mixture of confusion, sorrow and loathing that can be felt when you are awoken, not fully rested and unable to correct the situation.  I groaned and flailed about under my mosquito net trying to silence the offending alarm.  I eventually managed to connect my hands with my phone and shut it off, sitting up in the bed and glaring into the darkness, eyes gummy and blurred with sleep.  Light was coming from under the door, a sign that Lisa was already up.  I crawled out from under my net and crossed the small room to the light-switch.  Closing my eyes in anticipation I flicked it on.  Suddenly bright light burned its way through my lids, turning my world from beautiful black to an ugly red.  I blinked my eyes a few times, and squinted at my room.  I had packed what I would need for Malawi the night before, and all that was left to do was brush my teeth, get dressed and head out.  I opened the door and walked down the short hall to the living room to find Lisa there with tea and Mandazi, Tanzania’s version of a donut.  I sat wearily for a while drinking scalding hot tea and picking at my mandazi, and not talking as I am wont to do in the morning.

I have never really been much of a morning person.  I never have too much trouble being functional, even highly functional in the morning if I need to be, mostly a product of stubbornness, but it is definitely not my best time of day.  Some people I know and have lived with always seem to greet the morning with enthusiasm and for some reason expect everyone else to share that with them.  There is no easing into the day; they simply hit the ground running.  I certainly don’t begrudge them this; I am perhaps a little envious, but what I cannot forgive is the talking.  I used to work at a kids summer camp on a small island in British Columbia’s Sunshine Coast.  For a number of summers I made my home in a small 8’ x 12’ hut on the edge of a small bluff overlooking the ocean.  It was an idyllic setting in the morning, the sun streaming in through the windows, which dominated the front wall, and the gentle sounds of the ocean against the rocks.  I lived there with one of my good friends Mark, and our morning rituals were highly complimentary.  A typical morning saw us up at around 7:30 as the small room began to become uncomfortably warm and bright.  We would usually stand on the porch for a while in silence until one of us would pull our shorts from the rail and head back inside to change.  From there we would make our way the few steps down the bluff to a small outcropping of rock at the waters edge.  Here we would stand for anywhere from 2 to 15 minutes, depending on how hot the morning was or if there was some pressing appointment; at some point, however, one of us, often Mark, would dive into the water, encouraging, or perhaps shaming the other into joining.  A brief swim followed by a showing under a hose to wash away the salt and we would dress for the day and head up the trail that led to breakfast.  Writing this, years later, this still sounds like a fantastic way to start any morning.  The thing that made it work so well was that through that entire morning ritual Mark and I would maybe speak a total of 10 words to each other, maybe.  There was nothing that needed saying, we just went about our business, appreciated each others company and had the luxury of easing into the day.  Years later Mark was replaced by Theo.  Theo is a passionate and boisterous character, Canadian by birth, Swedish by descent, and 100% big.  Big in personality, big in his actions, big in his words, and not exactly small in stature either.  The morning ritual didn’t really change much with Theo, although there was usually a little less standing around on the porch and the rocks; Theo was just more gung-ho to get going in the morning.  But the real difference was that Theo did not share Mark’s stoicism and reticence to speak in the morning.  If Theo’s eyes are open then his mouth probably is too.  Sometimes it is like a stream of verbal consciousness.  But Theo is also not content just to talk.  Being the friendly and gregarious person that he is he makes every attempt to draw you into conversation.  I would usually answer monosyllabically when necessary and opt for head shakes, nods and shrugs wherever possible.   I think Theo could never really understand why I wouldn’t talk to him in the morning, in the same way that I couldn’t understand how he had so much to say that early, and why he just couldn’t shut up…

So I sat there drinking my tea and not talking, and fortunately Lisa didn’t seem to have anything to say to interrupt my silence.  Pretty soon, however, I had to abandon my tea and finish getting ready to leave.  My bike needed to be picked up off the ground and re-settled, last minute additions to my bag, and then we were out the door and walking through the predawn dark to the bus.  As things are wont to work in Tanzania, because we were on time the Dala was late in leaving.  We sat for about 45 minutes, 45 minutes I could have been sleeping, waiting for the Dala to begin its trek.  I imagine I didn’t look all that awesome, still caught somewhere between sleep and consciousness.  I sat there with something of a blank look on my face, staring away into nothing, mind hardly active.  A couple of times Lisa asked if I was ok, suggesting I looked as haggard as I felt.  There was, however, no reason or need to make the effort to function at a higher level, and so I let myself wallow in my exhaustion.  

Eventually the bus did begin to roll down the dirt track, back towards Kyela.  We had only gone about 500 meters however when we lurched to a stop, unable to go any farther.  A massive branch of one of the trees lining the road had succumbed to the wind of the previous night, splintering from the trunk and falling to lie across the road.  It took them maybe another 15 minutes to clear the road and get us on the way again.  By this time it was just about light outside and the day was beginning in earnest.  Slowly over the next two hours we bumped and rattled our way back along the road to Kyela, eventually ending at a bus station somewhere in the heart of town.

There is surprisingly little helpful information on the internet about getting from Tanzania to Malawi and neither Lisa nor I had made much of an effort to really research exactly where we were going or how to get there.  Between the two of us, however, we had a pretty solid rudimentary grasp of Kiswahili and figured we would muddle through somehow.  Getting off the bus we were immediately approached by several ‘helpful’ locals, all asking us where we were going, did we want a taxi, etc… We were soon directed to another bus, which was apparently headed near to the boarder and hopped on just before it left the station.  The timing seemed excellent, which should have been an indication that something was soon to go at least a little awry, which of course it did.  We pulled out of the bus station and drove back out to the main road and headed onwards.  We had gone maybe 5 km picking up people every few hundred meters, when, abruptly, the bus turned around and began heading back in the direction from which we had just come.  Lisa and I just looked at each other and kind of gave one of those shrugs that speak volumes.  Here in Tanzania you really just have to be prepared to roll with this kind of thing.  It can be frustrating at times, especially if you have no idea why something is happening, but things like this are really pretty commonplace.  The bus headed all the way back to the station, still picking up more passengers along the way.  At the station we took a few more people and then again began to retrace our steps.  We had not even made it as far as our original turn around point when, once again, the bus switched directions, heading nearly back to the station before once again heading in the opposite direction.  By this point Lisa and I were laughing aloud at the situation.  The first time we had passed one particular hotel, Lisa had told me a conversational story about staying there one night.  Each subsequent passing of the hotel heard a retelling of that same story; not something that is really all that funny, unless you are tired and living through such a ridiculous experience.  Finally, however, we did actually leave town and began to head for the border.   

Not too long later the bus rolled into yet another small bus station about 2km from the border.  As we got off a new type of street vendor, offering to exchange our Tanzanian Shillings for Malawi Kwacha, immediately accosted us.  Being the savvy traveler that I am I steadfastly disbelieved anything they told me, generally assuming that exactly the opposite was true.  

“I give you really good rate.” 

Translation: I will rip you off so bad that I will be laughing about it for days.

“There are no Currency Exchanges or ATMs at the border.”

Translation: I need to make this sale quickly before you get there and see all the Currency Exchanges and ATMs offering fair and reasonable rates.  

The one thing that was called into attention at that moment was just how little I knew about where we were going.  I had no idea prior to that moment that the currency was called Kwacha, and even less idea what a decent exchange between my Shillings and the Kwacha was.  In fact I had no idea where we were going in Malawi.  I didn’t know the name of the cities, if there was anywhere good to stay, what language was spoken in the country… I didn’t really know anything.  To some this might seem like a bit of a traveling nightmare, or at least a semi serious slip up.  I have, however, always been a bit of a fly by the seat of my pants kind of guy.  I have no issue with making plans, and sometimes can actually be rather exhaustive in detailing the steps to be taken for certain projects. I have also learned, however, that one must never get too attached to plans.  Dwight Eisenhower is quoted as saying “In preparing for battle, I have always found that plans are useless, but planning is indispensable."  I like to think that this is true for all aspects of life, not just ‘battle.’  It is impossible to plan for every eventuality and almost impossible to stick to your plan once made.  The real key to success is in being able to roll with the punches, make it up as you go and adapt to ever changing situations.  Having thought through eventualities and formulating desirous goals will help direct which way you roll, as well as the speed and confidence with which you react.  The more knowledge you have on any given situation and forethought that has gone in the more likely that your reactions will be intelligent and well directed.  In this instance, however, I realized that I had never traveled in quite such an uneducated and unprepared fashion.  Truthfully it was both a little exciting and a little frightening, but I figured I have come this far, no sense in stopping or being over worried now.  

We walked the 2km to the border and low and behold, as predicted there were Currency Exchanges offering nearly double the rate the guys on the street were giving and that was still giving them a decent profit.  As it turns out the official exchange rate, which I found out later, is approximately 1 Malawi Kwacha to 10 Tanzanian Shillings, making for the easiest mental conversion ever.  As I recall it I think the guys on the street were offering 1:5… you do the math.  

After exchanging around 100,000 TSH we headed into the immigration office to get our exit stamps, and then walked across the bridge to repeat the process on the Malawi side. Inside the office we were stopped by two women at a small desk who demanded our yellow fever immunization cards.  I stared at the women, eyes a little wide.  My yellow fever card, an expensive little piece of paper, sat securely in my bedroom in Moshi where I had foolishly left it.  I explained this to the women, offering them my best contrite face and pleading eyes, hoping that we might be able to find some arrangement to work around this problem.  Technically yellow fever has the potential to be a rather serious issue and the need to guard against outbreaks very real.  In this case, however, I was fortunate enough to be in Eastern Africa and there are few problems here that a little money can’t help you slide around or blast right through.  In this case one women’s face took on a slightly furtive cast and she said softly, pitching her voice so it would not carry far,

“Maybe you can buy me soda?”

“I think I can manage that I said,” A little tension leaving my body, “where can I get you a soda from?”

“No no,” She replied and made the universal sign for money.

“Ahhh ok.” I said understanding.  Soda was simply code for raw cash.

I pulled out my wallet and removed 60 Kwacha, surreptitiously passing it across the desk.  The women looked down at the money I had slipped her, smiled and shook her head, continuing to look at me expectantly.  I laughed lightly and dug into my wallet again.  The next smallest bill I had was a 500 (about the equivalent of 5,000 TSH or $3.50) and handed it across to her.  Apparently this was sufficient as she smiled and tucked the money away beneath the desk.  When I later learned the proper exchange rate, and the local price of sodas I found that I had essentially given her enough to purchase 11 sodas but all things considered I still feel it was a small price to pay to bribe my way into a country.  At the next desk the man checked our passports and received a nod from the women at the previous desk, indicating that we “had” our immunization cards and that was that, we were in.  

We caught a car into the next town, kind of a mix between taxi and bus service, with people getting in and out all along the way.  The northernmost city/town in Malawi is Karonga, basically famous for well… just about nothing.  To be fair they have a pretty cool museum full of fossils from the rift valley, which we visited the following day, but it is not exactly enough to make this place a destination.  There are basically no hotels and only a couple of local style rest houses.  Of course we didn’t really know any of this.  We were flying blind.  We got into central Karonga and began looking for an internet café which could help us determine our next move.  We eventually settled into a café and began to try and search for hotels, resorts, or the like in the area.  Unfortunately no matter what variations of keywords and websites I used the only likely thing that I could find was located about another hour away.  We tried calling but no one was answering either phone and we had no way of knowing if they had space for us.  Also it was pretty clear that there was nothing else in the area, making a trip down to check it out somewhat risky.  I had noticed a sign for a hotel about 10km before we came into town but couldn’t find any evidence of its existence online to suggest what kind of place it was.  Fortunately we were joined in the café by a couple of German women with whom Lisa struck up a conversation.  They were apparently driving all the way down to the southern tip of Africa from Germany, and had stayed at the exact place that I was thinking of.  They told us that it was a decent place to stay, and thus encouraged we decided to backtrack a little and stay there, at least for one night.  

We decided to walk back, giving us a chance to see a little more of the country, and after all it was not like we were in a rush to get anywhere or do anything.  The walk took us at least and hour and a half under a blazing hot sun and by the time we got in, carrying our bags, we were thoroughly hot and sweaty. 





The hotel was nice, though nothing special, with a small beach area onto the lake, a bar and a restaurant.  Unfortunately the beach, unlike Matema as not really conducive to swimming with its shallow water, muddy bottom and a number of snails suggesting the presence of Schistosomiasis.  

We stayed there two nights, spending much of the time just hanging out on the beach, being gawked at by small children who would gather on the other side of the fence.  The little cove that the beach was in seemed to be a popular place for washing clothes and bathing, and there was rarely no locals around.  At times we felt a little like animals in a zoo, on display as exotic creatures for the amusement of the locals.  When we would walk outside of the compound we were greeted with a mixture of excitement, astonishment and demand.  From over 100 meters away children would yell and wave as we passed, jumping up and down in excitement to witness the mystical Mzungu.  Children closer to us would invariably echo the phrase, “Mzungu, give me money.” Once again proving that they clearly have no concept of student loans and crippling student debt in the developing world.  After trying a few different responses to this demand I eventually settled on, “No you give me money.”  This usually resulted in a slightly confused look, as though they thought that I had not understood the initial demand, and so to be sure they would repeat, “Mzungu, give me money.”  I would respond in kind and we might go back and forth once or twice more before it really sunk in that they weren’t getting anything from me and they would head off to find some other amusement.  

All in all despite seeing very little of the country I had a very favourable impression of Malawi and its people.  The few interactions that we had were quite positive and it was a very relaxing break from my arduous travels to get there.  Soon, however, I would be heading back and little did I know at the time that the most trying adventures were yet to come.