update 26.
we love it, we hate it, it's africa
Cycling through Malawi
11 September 2008
Total kilometers cycled: 40,926 (25,578 miles)
Specific country info on routes & roads/food & accommodation/the locals available here.
19 Number of nights in the tent
1 Number of nights in a resthouse
0 Hours of peaceful sleep in the above mentioned resthouse
0 Number of Malawians who can accurately judge the distance to the next town
1 Number of Malawians who will admit to being clueless about distances
It's
not like we just rolled in on a brightly painted overland truck with 30
other safari-clad tourists to get a taste of Africa and wow our friends
with tales from the bush. After 17 months of toughing it out on
the continent, I suppose some smugness had weaseled its way in, and we'd
come to believe we were wise to the ways of Africa.
"All paved ,madame. No up and down. Flat. Completely flat. Best way for you."
The truck driver from Zimbabwe who had joined in on the conversation knew nothing of the road.
"Not allowed for lorries," explained our local expert. "Only local traffic, mini-buses, private vehicles."
Uh-huh. Sounds good. We paid for our plates of rice and beans and we were off.
No matter that once we found the turn-off to the shortcut, it became patently clear that the road wasn't paved. Still we continued--on a sandy track and through dry river beds where bridges had been washed away--thus proving that man is not a rational being. The traffic consisted of a small army of muscular men on rickety bicycles who were ferrying precarious loads of
We had an interesting spot to pitch our tent that night. On our return to Africa we'd vowed to give small town guesthouses--the kind that double as brothels and come with an all night disco attached-- a wide berth. With my father-in-law's last words to me before departure (Unless you want to wake up with your throat slit, don't camp in the wild) still resonating in the far reaches of my mind, pure bush camping was out of the question. That left village camping.
If you ask a Malawian how far it is to the next village or town
you're about as likely to get an accurate answer as when you ask a
Westerner how far it is to the moon. Conversations are inevitably frustrating, but often highly amusing.
Firstly, you must choose carefully your victim. Women, whose
movement is generally restricted to treks to the bush for fetching
firewood and daily trips to the bore hole to collect water, are of
limited interest. Those who greet you with the plural Wazungu,
although you are approaching alone, are under the effects of the
powerful local brew and seeing double. They too will be of little help.
In our experience, a shoeless man is likely to have had little
education and will be unable to grapple with any English beyond 'hello' and perhaps 'give money'.
These are standard phrases in Malawi that even toddlers have
mastered. A man with a watch is always a good bet. If he
has a notion of time, perhaps he also has an inkling of distance.
Still, accurate information is hard to come by and estimations
can vary widely.
How far to Bwengu?
Far,sir, it is very far.
Yes, Yes. But how many kilometers?
He hesitates, then turns to others in the group and a lengthy discussion in the local language ensues.
9 kilometers.
Now, that would be nice, because we're hungry and tired and would like to reach Bwengu very quickly, but nearly impossible judging from our map.
9 kilometers. Are you sure?
Yes, 9 kilometers, sir. You will reach before nightfall.
How far to Lilongwe?
It's a test. The capital is still several hundred kilometers away.
Laughter from the crowd. These foreigners sure are stupid. Nobody can ride a bicycle all the way to the capital.
Oh, very, very far. Maybe more than 20 kilometers.
The ugly tourist in us takes over and we can hardly hide our smirks.
Oh, you are right. Very far. Thank you for the information. Bye, Bye.
We had no qualms about ditching the "I'm experiencing a new culture" homily to laze around the sparkling lake for a few days like the rest of the tourists. Watched the sunrise, enjoyed a cup of morning coffee without the pressure to pack up and get moving before the heat, read books on the beach, gazed at the colorful fish, watched the sunset. A peaceful, easy life.
It
was the perfect way to re-energize in order to face the crowds of
curious and often
intruding kids, the succession of soulless towns that line the
highway--each one much the same as the last, lined with scruffy bars
that
blare out music to torture all that pass, dusty markets where goats are
slaughtered in the dirt next to the shack where you're trying to keep
the flies off your rice and beans, tiny shops all selling the same
assortment of cheap imported goods from China where the prices double
for those with light colored skin.
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