Malawi has no diesel. There just aren’t any supplies in the country and Tim is phoning ahead to his contacts to try and get enough put aside for us to be able to make it into Zambia. You’d think that the lack of supplies would have something to do with a lack of funds to purchase diesel…but no…it’s because Malawi has sold its supply of diesel on to Zimbabwe in a misguided attempt to make money.
At least 147,000 people may need food aid this year say the paper’s headlines. What they don’t mention is that Malawi sold its surplus corn supplies to Zimbabwe and Zambia.
And where does the money made from these sales go: a new private jet purchased by the president ‘for the country’
(Source: Tim…so not necessarily 100% accurate and yet somehow 100% believable) T.I.A.
When you cross the border into Malawi everything changes: the countryside, the people, the language, the buildings and the level of poverty.
Malawi is one of the poorest countries in the world. If the rains fail, hundreds of thousands of people are plunged into the depths of starvation and the World Food Programme has to intervene with aid. Even today on the front page of the local newspaper it claimed that a 147,000 people were to receive food aid this year.
The country is poor because it doesn’t have anything that anyone wants. It is an apologetic sliver of a country entrapped by Lake Malawi on the east and Zambia on the west. Malawi is also a country devoid of any precious raw materials wanted by the West or China. Its cash crops too don’t bring in much money: the country turned to sugar when the whole world decided obesity wasn’t such a good thing; then attempted tobacco just as all the anti-smoking laws around the world were finally drafted.
Despite its poverty, Malawi is a country of smiles. As we drive through the rolling green hills, interspersed with trees blossoming with vibrant lilacs, purples, pinks and reds, everyone waves and smiles. The children jump around excitedly and more enthusiastically than those of Uganda, Kenya or Tanzania, and here even the adults join in. We pass very few villages, only small congregations of huts with maybe one shop or a small bar or a shack for a church. Many of the hamlets have shiny new-looking water pumps which are permanently in use – testament to some of the aid entering the country actually trickling down to the grass roots.
The countryside is truly dramatic. Hills dip steeply down to the water’s edge of Lake Malawi; protruding spectacularly from the horizon are sharp edged, flat top mountains tinged with blue.
Lake Malawi is huge and is the lifeblood of the country: without its water many of the people in Malawi just wouldn’t survive. Along the water’s edge small fishing canoes are dragged up on shore, women do their laundry and young children swim. At the side of the road on sprawled out straw mats, piles of tiny silver fish dry in the sun; elsewhere a small pile of tomatoes, onions or mangos – all produced courtesy of the lake and Malawi’s humid climate.
The roads in Malawi are in good condition but the road blocks are excessive. Every few miles the truck is stopped for inspection. On our first road block Tim was told there wasn’t enough reflective material on the truck (despite it having all the lights and reflectors where it should) and was fined on the spot by a young man with a florescent jacket. Basically, a bribe that ended up in the ‘traffic policeman’s’ pocket.
At one stop, an ‘officer’ asked to take a look in the passenger section. He climbed the ladder up into the back of the truck then proceeded to have a look around at us and, more importantly, our stuff. Ravi played the American role perfectly by using excessive flattery (‘we love your country’, ‘we’re having a wonderful time’, ‘the people here are lovely’ etc.) to sweeten up the officer. It worked a dream and the officer brimmed with pride. We were fortunate that the officer’s only attempt at bribery was to ask whether he could have books from our book collection at the back of the truck. We told him that our driver Tim owned them and that he would have to ask him. With that he smiled politely, said goodbye and left empty handed.
After a long drive, we finally arrived at Chitimba on the shores of Lake Malawi. This camp with its bar overlooking the beach was our home for two nights.
Our time in Tanzania was coming to an end. We had a two day drive ahead of us, leaving Dar es Salem and heading out of the sticky humid heat and into the cooler climate of the mountainous area of Iringa. For lunch we stopped by the side of the road and ate chippe omelet at the little stalls run by mamas. Here, voluptuous ladies deep fried chips in metal vats then mixed them with eggs to create a chip omelet – not the healthiest food in the world but enough to fill a hole!
After 15 hours driving we set up camp at a working farm. As we were late to arrive, the farm provided us with food so we didn’t have to cook. All the produce we ate was grown or reared on the farm. Somehow, having food cooked for you after a drive day made it taste that much better than usual. What’s more, they had wood burners to heat up water so we had access to the best hot showers so far on the trip – true luxury!
From Iringa we had another long drive, crossing the border into Malawi to a camp on the shores of Lake Malawi called Chitimba. Just before lunch and the border into Malawi we stopped off to pick up food from a few stalls at the side of the road. Having shopped mostly for food in Mzungo supermarkets for the rich, it was a breath of fresh air to be able to barter with people and buy locally grown fresh fruit and veg. Nat and Griff were in their element as they wheeled and dealed, getting the most veg they could for the money.
I too managed to get a few great deals on fruit and veg, bargaining the locals down from dreamt up mzungo prices to more realistic, almost local prices. At one point as I was about to get back on the truck with my arms overflowing with food (there weren’t many plastic bags to go round), I felt a tugging on my pocket. Looking down, I saw a hand trying in vain to unzip my pocket in which I had but a few shilling. This was my first pick pocketing experience ever. As is the best way to deal with such a situation, I created a scene in front of him and all the stall sellers, thumping the man on the shoulder and telling him to leave me and my pocket alone in rather graphic language. He got the hint…and with a sly grin, he shuffled off leaving my pocket intact.
It’s a shame that in an area where people were busy trying to make money by selling their hard earned wares, you have a minority only interested in cheating the system. Fortunately, five years in London makes you very skeptical of everyone so it didn’t really come as much of a shock that, as a ‘rich’ mzungo, I was targeted on this trip… which is the reason why I keep money on me in five different places at all times!
We were back at Macardi camp for two days when I got chatting to Andrew – a driver with one of the other overland companies. Andrew is from Zimbabwe. I asked what the situation was like in Zimbabwe and he started to tell me about Zimbabwean politics and what happened during the elections last year.
He explained that at election time, most of Mugabe’s supporters could be found in the countryside whilst supporters of the opposition were mostly urbanites. In order to try and rig the elections, Mugabe’s lot had some rather underhand tactics.
First, he plied those living in the countryside with food and supplies to ensure that they would vote for him. Those who were suspected of supporting the opposition were either deprived of food or worse, had their houses burnt to the ground (if they were lucky they weren’t inside at the time). Those living in the cities who supported their families in the countryside were banned from heading home. Instead, they would have to let a Mugabe officer know they wanted to see their family and the officer would arrange for the family to meet in a public space such as a supermarket car park where their entire conversation was monitored.
During the elections, people disappeared. A favourite trick was for someone to strike up conversation with you in a bar and casually bring the topic of discussion round to politics. If there was even a hint that you supported the opposition, the Mugabe spy posing as your friend would arrange drinks with you the following day whereby you would be picked up and taken away, never to be seen again.
Finally, Mugabe officers would also confiscate ID off those supporting the opposition to prevent them from voting at all.
After the elections, Mugabe’s officers and spies were disbanded as he was unable to pay them. Unfortunately, they weren’t welcome back to their local communities because people knew they’d worked for Mugabe and committed atrocities. When everything subsided, most of them fled the country in favour of South Africa leaving behind a legacy of people suffering various mental ailments after witnessing horrific scenes of violence towards family members and friends.
Andrew explained that since the election everything has settled down in Zimbabwe. He knows that the election was rigged and that Mugabe should not be in power after losing the election but seems resigned to the fact that it would be better for him to be in power than for the destabilization that occurred in the country last year.
Out in the countryside, the opposition members are now rebuilding those homes that were burnt down and are replacing traditional mud huts with palm leaf roofs with homes built out of asbestos sheeting that are less flammable. My question to Andrew was: ‘In the next election won’t this prove dangerous as the Mugabe lot will merely target those homes built by the opposition?’. Andrew looked solemn and didn’t answer.
White Sands is on Kendwa beach on the very north of the island. After our spice tour we headed up there and managed to find enough accommodation for us all. The resort was made up of cabins that led down to a stunning silky, white sand beach and turquoise sea. It was quite quiet as the full moon/Hallowe’en party on the beach had been and gone the previous weekend so we set about spending three days sunning ourselves, swimming in the sea and bartering with owners of the small art huts that lined the beach.
After dinner at the hotel restaurant the first night 4 people fell ill with diarrhea so the big nights out we’d planned bar crawling from one resort to the next never really materialized. Nevertheless, lying by the beach with nothing much to do other than sunbathe, read and swim made a welcome break from putting up and taking down our tents.
On the last day, we arranged for a dala dala to take us back to Stone Town. 14 of us were crammed into the back of a truck and jolted around at break neck speed towards Stone Town. That is, until we were stopped by the traffic police. One was dressed in typical white police garb whilst the other was dressed in army gear. One of them had a look in the truck and to his delight saw it packed with mzungos. As we were paying over the odds (£2 instead of £1 for the 97km trip) for our transport he knew there would be money to be had. An argument kicked off between the driver and the traffic police to the extent he got out of the truck and was yelling at them in their faces in very angry sounding Swahilli.
We asked one of the guys who was sat in the back with us what was going on and he explained that it was to do with bribes. Our driver was being bribed in order to have permission to drive down that specific road and was refusing to pay up. In the end our driver got back in, swung the truck round and took his anger out on the accelerator.
The previous break neck speed had increased to ‘certain death’ speed. It got so hair raising that I ended up hammering on the window that separated us from the driver and yelling ‘polle, polle’(slowly, slowly in Swahili) and we finally slowed down to a more reasonable and less suicidal pace!
Zanzibar is also known as the spice island and for very good reason: its main cash crop for export is cloves.
We were picked up early in the morning to have a tour of some of the spice farms on the island. It was an interesting tour where we got to try many of the fruits and spices we came across.
Did you know that:
- The jack fruit (a large, knobbly appendage of a fruit that hangs down from trees) is the largest fruit about? - Papaya (the fruit) can help to relieve constipation while the leaves on the papaya tree can help to block you up if you have diarrhoea? - If you grow lemongrass close to your house it makes a fantastic mosquito repellent? - Black pepper, white pepper and red pepper are just different stages of the seeds of the same plant and that the plant is actually a vine which is grown on acacia trees - A single pineapple plant will only grow one pineapple each year - Cardamom seeds taste foul if you chew them without realizing what they are - Cinnamon sticks are actually pieces of bark off a tree
The following morning, just after breakfast, we came face to face with slavery. Next to the hostel, the holding cells for the slaves that were brought to the slave market are still in existence. Walk down a few stairs and you can enter the two small, dank stone rooms that have a single slit of light for a window. Around the edge of the room is a ledge where up to 70 slaves shackled together would sit or lie. In the centre was a trench where they would urinate and defecate and hope that the tide would be high enough that day to wash it away (at the time of the slave trade the building we were in would have been close to the shore). It was hot and stale down there when we visited the holding cells with a guide; add to that the body heat of up to 70 slaves, (some undoubtedly suffering with fever) and the stench of shit and it doesn’t make for particularly pleasant atmosphere. Only one in five of the slaves housed in the holding cells where we stood survived; they were sold at a premium as they were deemed strong for having survived.
The slave trade in Zanzibar was run by Arabs and the Portuguese who’d ship slaves to the Middle East or India. They were clever in their dealings with slaves, understanding that by splitting slaves from their tribes and shackling members of different tribes together they would be less likely to be able to communicate with one another, reducing the chance of them being able to create an uprising against them. Slaves were dragged from their villages and made to walk ridiculous distances without food or water to the coast where they would be picked up by boat and brought to Zanzibar. Those that were weak were left to die (weak slaves wouldn’t make much money at the market anyway); those that tried to rebel were whipped and beaten. At the market, buyers would choose their slaves and they would again be shipped to the buyer’s homeland.
An English bishop came to Zanzibar at the time of the slave trade and would buy slaves with his own money to set them free. When the slave trade was abolished, he arranged for a cathedral to be built on the site of the slave market: an alter now stands where the whipping post for slaves once stood.
It was a short but moving tour around the old slave market. Our guide on a number of occasions said how glad he was not to have been born in the era of the slave trade. I found it deeply uncomfortable sitting there in my white skin in front of a black man as he discussed the terrible treatment of his ancestors at the hands of the whites and the Arabs. Slavery may have been abolished two hundred years ago but even so, when you come face to face with it, it’s very hard not to feel an underlying sense of guilt.
