On Being White in Africa

or "Don't call me mzungu, bwana" (with apologies to Mbongeni Ngema)

During my trip i was almost always seen as a white, foreigner, on a bike (in that order). This was expected. But that didn’t make it any less irritating. In the same way that i would object if a black person travelling in a predominantly white country was addressed with ‘Hey black’, ‘blackie’, ‘Mr. Black’ or anything similar, so too did i resent being characterised primarily by race.

Now of course, that kind of comparison is simplistic. It fails to take into account the role and actions of white men (and i use that gender-biased word intentionally) in these countries in the not-so-distant past. The fact is, no matter what your family did or didn’t do in the past, white people have a lot to answer for in this particular part of that world. If you want to travel it, or indeed live in it, that is a small burden you really should be prepared to bear. That said, it never fails to amaze me how little resentment there is. Given what I know about colonial history I sometimes think that if i weren’t white i would be a racist: making statements along the lines of “Look, some of my best friends are white, but…”. And that’s the thing. If I really believed that this kind of attitude was a derivative of post-colonial resentment, then I could live with that – not happily, but if that’s the price to pay for wanting to live in Africa as a white person then so be it.

But actually, I don’t think history has much to do with it all. It is largely, in my view, a kind of lazy xenophobia – a sloppy generalisation of people in small communities that mocks and tries to undermine ‘the other’, the outsider. It applies not only to whites, but (often, sadly, even more so) to Indians, Arabs, ‘mulattos’ and black Africans from other countries. And it angers me. Personally this goes back to nursery school in Mozambique, where I apparently came home on at least one occasion and said to my mother “Why are they calling me ‘mzungu’ at school. I’m not mzungu, I’m Sean”. And I couldn’t say it any better now; I’m an individual in my own right, as a people who were oppressed for the mere colour of their skin you should know better than to generalise in this way. (In fact it’s dissapointing how often that happens: witness what Israel has been doing to the Palestinians for the last half-century or so).

This applies to both positive and negative generalisations. In Malawi I found it harder to deal with the often-obsequious friendliness of some Malawians to whites, than the initially somewhat guarded reactions I got in Kenya and Tanzania. Interestingly, whilst I never – not once – felt actual hatred in the latter two countries, I did in Malawi on more than one occasion…

Ultimately, one shouldn’t need other people’s acceptance to feel that you’re at least as African as anyone else on this continent, but I do get angry if people explicitly or implicitly refute that claim. The need for this kind of acceptance is not common to all white people in Africa however. Whilst travelling i realised that there are broadly four kinds of white people in this continent: The passer-through; the expatriate; the white settler and the white African.

In ‘passer-through’ I include everyone from drop-in travellers, to overlanders, all the way through to volunteers who might stay for up to two years. These people are as diverse in their views and attitudes as any group of white people, but ultimately what they share in common is that their presence on the continent is transitory. Most importantly, they know this and that affects their attitudes. They do not call the continent their home, and therefore have no reason to resent being seen as outsiders – they see themselves as such. Of course there are exceptions, like the writer Paul Theroux who I’ll get to in a moment.

The ‘expatriate’ is similar in some ways to the passer-through in the sense that ultimately their ‘allegiances’ are to a country outside of the continent. They are often private sector or aid-agency employees. They may express, and feel, love for the continent and its people but it is often of a more-or-less subtly patronising kind. These people – by definition – often, at greater cost, recreate the life to which they are accustomed back ‘home’ in a kind of enclave. Again, they might object to being characterised by race but not to being considered non-Africans.

The ‘white settler’ is arguably the most interesting of the four groups. These individuals certainly consider themselves ‘Africans’, and will react angrily to any suggestion to the contrary, but they won’t necessarily take offense at being characterised by their race. This is because whilst they wish to be seen as people of the continent, with no lesser emotional ties than their fellow black citizens, they have little inclination to mingle with other racial (or, indeed, cultural) groups. ‘Separate but equal’, as someone once said. There are a lot of these in South Africa.

Then you get the ‘white African’, which for lack of a better definition is someone who fits into none of the groups above and is a citizen and/or resident of an African country with a strong affinity to the continent. Contrary to what the deputy of the Pan-Africanist Congress here in SA implied in a recent article, they don’t need to dance like Johnny Clegg or Brenda Fassie, eat pap and mopani worms and drink ‘umqombothi’ – that’s like saying that to be British you have to drink Earl Grey tea, like yorkshire pudding and talk like the Queen.

A book has just been published here in SA dealing with precisely this issue (and titled ‘White Africans’) but from one extract it seems the author doesn’t ‘get it’. He thinks the white settler is a thing of the past.

This post was in fact delayed because I wanted to finish reading Franz Fanon’s ‘Black Skin, White Masks’; a book that anyone who wants to understand racism – black or white - and its effects really should read. Amongst many things, he addresses the experience of being told “You’re not really (one of that race), you’re one of us”. In such a situation, it is tempting to take this as a compliment – especially as a white person who is told “You’re not really white” by black compatriots. But this attitude just enforces, albeit subtly, the idea that people, in all their complexity, are defined by the colour of their skin. In the same vein, it is folly to suggest that ‘black people have rhythm’ or ‘white people are more rational’.

Racism is deeply ingrained in so many aspects of society that it is a continuous struggle to remain uncontaminated. But being aware of that is, is suppose, at least as important as succeeding in it.

To emphasise this point, let me end with the last line of ‘Dark Star Safari’ a highly-acclaimed book written by the travel writer Paul Theroux (who lived in East Africa for at least two years in his youth, and the title of which he seems to have ‘borrowed’ without acknowledgement from the much better Polish writer Kapuscinksi): “The best Africans are still bare-assed”. You don’t need to bother reading the rest of the book to find out how he reaches this conclusion. It is a return to the ‘noble savage’ view of the colonial era which finds no justification in his actual experiences, from a man who cannot say he doesn’t know better.

I won’t wish you a white Christmas…but happy holidays.

The End at the Beginning

As the small, sleek SAA JetStream aircraft began its descent through the dark grey storm clouds to Johannesburg International Airport I wondered to myself – in between continuously, if largely unsuccessfully, trying to shift weight off my left buttock – what failure really is. I suppose it could be failing to reach one's objective. But that assumes of course you have a discrete objective. This trip – in spirit and in mode of transport – was always one 'about the journey' and not the destination. Cycling to Johannesburg would have meant a lot, it would have been an achievement, and it would have been interesting to experience the massive contrast between South Africa and the other countries I've travelled through from the vantage point of a saddle rather than an aeroplane seat. But that transition would also have been only ten days.

 

As it is, ending the trip in Beira I cycled 5,188 kilometres over 4 months, through 4 countries. From the tiny island of Lamu in north-eastern Kenya; through the dusty plains populated only by the Masaai; to Arusha and past Mount Kilimanjaro; on incredibly rough, steep roads through the Pare and Usambara Mountains in north-eastern Tanzania; all the way down the coast - palm-lined beaches, the rich Swahili culture, Dar es Salaam, the fantastic ruins at Kilwa and roads of bike-swallowing sand; then inland through the 'wild' and undeveloped south-eastern Tanzania, camping in the bush and carrying upwards of 15litres of water; Lake Malawi and the ferry across it before cycling most of the way down its beautiful western shore – with a few rough, tough diversions up steep hills and on dirt roads to Vwaza Marsh and the Livingstonia mission; and finally down through Blantyre into the Shire Valley across the longest railway bridge in Africa, on rough but beautiful road to Dondo and then Beira. (And all that without a single puncture – just goes to show the value of quality tyres).

 

I've been mistaken for an American, an Englishman, an Israeli, a (US) marine, an Italian and a citizen of Portugal, but only very rarely recognised as a South African. A teller at a forex bureau in Blantyre perhaps summed it up when she saw my passport and said, "But you don't look like a South African", and then proceeded to describe what seems to be considered a typical (white) South African in many of these countries: a large, rude, Afrikaans, khaki-clad male.

 

I've been called 'mzungu', 'mazungu', 'gringo', 'branco', 'Mr.White' and just 'you!'. Because of my somewhat unkempt appearance and non-cycling khaki clothes I've also been called 'Jesus', 'Osama' and 'Taliban' (there's an irony for you). I've drunk at least twelve different kinds of locally manufactured beer - one of the few things that actually is manufactured locally – and eaten more than 6 brands of peanut butter. The bike's been taken on trains (Nairobi to Mombasa and back), a bus (to get to Lamu), a plane (Lamu back to Malindi, to avoid the bus again!), a dhow (getting to Lamu) and a ferry (on Lake Malawi).

 

Along the way I have met people from all walks of life; from zany fellow travellers to local government officials, aid workers and volunteers to sapphire dealers. But more than anything else I have met and interacted with 'ordinary' local people. Fellow cyclists (often struggling with a much larger load on an inferior machine in order to make a living), subsistence farmers, informal traders and school children (when they weren't chasing me). People who were often eking out a living under difficult circumstances, but doing so generally with good humour and great generosity of spirit. A lot of them may be spending an inordinate, economic growth-destroying, proportion of their meagre incomes on cellphones, alcohol and second-hand clothes but that's something for a later email.   

 

All in all it's been one hell of a ride.

 

It therefore seems somewhat mundane to end it because of an infected saddle sore; a broken leg or bicycle frame perhaps, but a mere skin infection?! Well, I won't go into the gory details but suffice to say that having been to see my GP and got his opinion – immeasurably more valuable than that of the doctor in Blantyre because he's actually a cyclist himself - I suspect staying and trying to carry-on would have been unwise.

 

As I sat looking out of the aeroplane over Johannesburg, the signature grey skyline of Ponte and the Hillbrow Tower in the distance, the sole light in the cabin coming from the glow of the 'no smoking' and 'seatbelt on' signs and the final dying red rays of the setting sun bouncing off the habits of the two nuns in front of me, I couldn't help but laugh. Because despite everything I've seen and done it didn't actually feel at all incongruous to be in a jet plane over a fully-developed urban centre. More than anything else that just says a lot about growing-up in South Africa; one's mind becomes used to making the transition from wealth to poverty and back on a daily basis.

 

Needless to say, it still feels really good to be home. 

 

Not Quite the Last Post

 

This is, necessarily, the last post of a distinctly travel-related nature. However, I've accumulated quite a few reflective emails (of the "On…" variety) in my head that I was unable to send at the time, and I'll be sending out a few more of these before I bring this blog to a close.       

Blantyre to Beira: Through the furnace, over the bridge

So here i am in Beira, the town where i was born. In fact, i´ve been here for five days already but unable to write this update for reasons which will soon be made known.

Distance: 408miles Days: 12days in total

The route i´ve taken to cross from Malawi to Mozambique, as with some of the ones in Tanzania, is a little odd. It arose from a combination of wanting to get to Beira, and seeing ´Longest railway bridge in Africa´and ´Shire Valley´(sounded like where the hobbits stay in the Tolkien books) on my Michelin map. Suffice to say that other than the very beautiful Elephant Marsh - which i did manage to get onto early one morning after haggling the previous day with the boat owners in the shade of a broken-down little house next to where the fishermen go out from, and which itself had taken a good half-hour´s ride to reach on small paths through a sprawling village - the Shire Valley region is nothing like the Shire area in the Hobbit. As you descend into it from the relatively cool, lush tea and coffee estates that stretch south and east from Blantyre towards the Mulanje Massif, the heat hits you very much as if you had opened the door to a furnace.

The ride to Thyolo, where the road forks to either Mulanje (tar) or Bangula (dirt) was fantastic: rolling green hills and river courses, incredibly smooth tar road and cool, overcast conditions. Spot the mistake. This is supposed to be the beginning of the part of Malawi hardest hit by the food crisis. Even after Thyolo down to Bangula and finally Nsanje, the land was not noticeably very parched - to the untrained eye at least - but there was the incongruous sight of long queues for maize at the Admarc distribution centres whilst right next door women were selling plentiful quantities of mangoes, tomatoes and bananas. I was told however in Nsanje that the price of maize is currently three times the normal one for this time of year (you won´t have any trouble finding any at a market so presumably the problem is affordability), and that apparently 23people had died the previous week in the local hospital of problems related to lack of food. I did see a corpse being wheeled-up the hill in a cart, covered in a white sheet, in the midday heat from the hospital in the village of Muona towards Thekerani (half-way between Thyolo and Bangula) but whether that was unusual or not i can´t say. The long and the short of it is that this is not one of those Somalia-like famines where it's all there for the world to see on their TV screens, but one can only take the local medical workers (who unlike the NGOs don't really have vested interests) at their word.

On Saddle Sores

In order to avoid this turning into one boring, long tale of agony, let me just note at this point that since just before Blantyre i had been having some more problems with these particular things than usual, to the extent that it was uncomfortable to sit down never mind ride a bike. So i went to see a doctor at Blantyre's finest private hospital who prescribed some mild anti-inflammatories and told me i could carry-on immediately. Showing uncharacteristic faith in the medical profession i did just that. Suffice to say he was more than a little wrong, and the problem worsened to the extent that i was forced to rest in Nsanje for 3days before i carried-on, due more to budget concerns than improved comfort, and despite having been resting for 5days now and on antibiotics for three it is still painful to sit and write this update. To have a fully accurate idea of what this last leg was like you may want to keep that in the back of your mind.

Into Mozambique

One advantage of taking such an obscure route is that there are no long queues at the border post, which in both cases was just a collection of small buildings and a couple of shops otherwise in the middle of nowhere in particular. After buying my last Sprite in Malawi, as much to get info from the shopkeeper on accomodation and money-changing on the other side of the border as to finish-off my small change, i crossed into Mozambique without any trouble. I was however immediately struck by two things: the fluttering flags at the border post (the national one and the blood-red Frelimo one) and the fact that all the buildings on the Mozambican side were pretty much just shells of buildings, some occupied and some not.

By early afternoon i reached Mutarara after having cycled largely on my own for most parts of the ride, ocassionally going through smallish villages which seemed more spread-out than the ones in Malawi. Needless to say it was boiling hot and a cold Coke (supplemented with salt) was always the first thing on my mind. From my guidebook i had expected that accomodation would be both unpleasant and expensive and was therefore surprised to get a room with fan and (basic) toilet for about $5 (100,000meticais) at a place overlooking the magnificent Dona Anna bridge straddling the River Zambeze. It seemed to be the only significant structure other than the school still standing, but on going-up to the bridge i discovered that the main part of the town was on the other side.

The tricky issue from Mutarara was whether to take the new tar road or the old dirt road to Beira, with my having heard that the latter might be very sandy (aargh!) but that the former is much longer. Fortunately i stayed at camp owned by a South African operating a forestry concession in the area and managed to get enough info to persuade me to take the dirt road. It was three days of beautiful, rough cycling through fairly intact woodland - which also meant a decent amount of shade. The birdwatching was great and it would have been an ideal stretch other than the serious lack of accomodation and now constant acute pain. The second night i stayed in the most basic resthouse so far; a 2x3.5m mud thatch cell with a corrugated iron roof with the washing facilities being two thatch conical structures without roofs where i could stand on some stones and pour water over myself in full view (well, the top third of me) of passers-by who very politely pretended not to see and managed to order a chicken and chips (often the only thing available here supper).
 

Black and white

 

As far as i`m concerned, Mozambique is a country that can only really be seen in black and white, and the innumerable gradations of grey in-between. Bombed-out, broken-down, abandoned houses and buildings; some reoccupied by people who daily live in the shadows of the past. Rusted, twisted railway tracks nd their many derailed engines, carriages and wagons, wheels in the air like dead steel insects. The people lean and proud, different shades, many shades, more often than not gleaming with sweat from the heat or exertion - often both.

 

Ocassionally one must add a splash of colour. A blood-red Frelimo flag fluttering in front of a house or dusty village; a little girl in a bright pink dress picking her way through some rubble with friends; the rich orange flesh of a mango as it`s sucked by eager lips; and in the cities of course, the somewhat incongruously gaudy advertising hoardings selling everything from airtime to soap.

 

But in all, i would disagree with the author of my guidebook who suggests that it`s almost impossibe to see the signs of the war. Coming down to Beira that was all i saw. Nevertheless, this does feel like a country òn the up` and that`s saying something.

 

Beira: life`s displacement zero

Getting to Beira was great, but the previous day when i eventually met the tar road just outside of Dondo, i had what i've come to call a 'Forest Gump moment'. It's in the movie when he's been running around the USA for a long time for no apparent reason (the suggestion is it may be to do with a broken heart but it's not clear), and he suddenly turns around and says to his 'running disciples', "I'm tired. I wanna go home". Well, i wasn`t only tired after a very long day`s ride on corrugated dirt road, but covered in tsetse fly bites (oh, did i forget to mention that there were thousands of these things in the woodland?), with something on my butt like a hot, painful half-ostrich egg, staying in dodgy over-priced accomodation.  

 

Since arriving here and doing an internet search on my condition (and seeing a doctor friend of a family friend who confirmed my self-diagnosis and treatment) i've been popping antibiotics like sweets for the last 4days and my condition has not improved markedly. 

 

I really like Beira - the cafes, the street sellers, the open suburbs and breezy sea air - and it is great to have an opportunity to explore my 'home town'.  Furthermore, to be here is of course special too because it means that to this point, for all intents and purposes, my life`s displacement (as opposed to distance travelled) is effectively zero. However, there is only so much you can do if you can only sit down at the cost of great pain.

End of the Road?

So is this the end of the road? I think it may be.

Every hour i spend here eats away at my willpower to carry-on; the route via Beira and Maputo was only ever one of necessity rather than attraction; from what i've seen so far the tar road is pretty heartless; and from what i've heard there are apparently very few facilities of any sort between the tourist spots (which themselves are reputed to be very nice). I really wanted to live that dream of cycling up the hill to our family house in Joburg, but there is no point in being stupid about this and five weeks (minimum, excluding at least a week here to recover) of punishing myself is not what i need.

By my next update you'll know, one way or another.

Malawi: Mangoes, Missionaries and Magic

The full update, as promised, made possible by virtue of my currently staying with some very nice family friends in Blantyre whose PC I'm using to write this. [But beware, it is necessarily a little long]. I have to say that in this regard it's a great change to be staying in someone's home rather in the usual travellers' accomodation.

As I mentioned in the last post, everything went perfectly to plan with the ferry from Mbamba Bay, which I reached after two days of hilly but pleasant cycling from Songea via a nice, if unremarkable, place called Mbinga. Arriving at Mbamba was a notable event because it was my first opportunity to view the Lake from ground level. It was also during this 111mile stretch that I realised that I was beginning to make my way out of Tanzania; as the churches began to outnumber the mosques and – for the first time since I started my trip – I saw people keeping pigs in addition to the usual chickens, cows and goats. After a day and a half of mostly lounging around I boarded the ferry on a Saturday afternoon, and it left only half-an-hour late; largely because whilst much is imported to this little village its primary export seemed to be empty bottles, so there wasn't too much to load in the way of cargo though there were a fair number of passengers.

The trip was as beautiful as various other accounts have said, with the blue Lake stretching ocean-like into the distance in the west and layers of hills and mountains towering over the eastern shoreline which were lit-up at the end of the day by a blood-red sunset and a golden yellow full moon. At the beginning in fact it was all too ocean-like, and I had trouble keeping my plate of stew and rice first on the table, and then in my stomach, as the boat (the MV Songea, apparently the biggest on the Lake) lurched from side to side in a strong wind. My already tiny cabin became even more so when I was joined in it by a tall young German man who had been visiting friends doing volunteer work at a Mission hospital in an isolated village called Liuli on the shore. We arrived at Itungi 'port' (two basic wooden shelters on a small sandy beach) at 7:30am the next day and whilst the Germans climbed onto a minibus going North to the town of Mbeya, I first offloaded and then packed my bike and set-off (after asking directions) to Matema Beach in order to take a couple of days rest, despite the fact that this meant a rather rough ride going away from the Malawian border. There I stayed at the Lutheran Mission right on the beach, did my first snorkelling in the Lake – seeing numerous, fabulously-coloured little fish – and went on a canoe trip to a small village called Ikponde, renowned for the pottery it produces (though I had missed the pottery market which happens on Saturdays). I eventually dragged myself away from the great sunsets and swimming – helped by the fact that my visa was expiring in a few days – and set-off for the Malawian town of Karonga via the Kaporo borderpost.

It was on this day that I realised the strangeness, not to say absurdity, of borders. Having cycled for almost two months through Kenya and Tanzania (very similar countries culturally and linguistically), in the space of less than 5kilometres the dominant religion and language changed, as did people's attitudes. Whilst the Tanzanian side was a little stressful with loads of money-changers chasing me around, and not taking 'No!' (or 'Hapana!') for an answer, the Malawian side was positively laid-back by comparison. It was only the next morning that I discovered why, and that I had erred in not changing money at the border. With still a fair amount of Tanzanian shillings left I had assumed, incorrectly as it turned out, that since the Tanzanian banks changed Malawian kwacha that the Malawian banks would change shillings. I only discovered my mistake when I went to the bank in Karonga the next morning, though only after making something of a fool of myself by hammering on the glass of the local National Bank of Malawi branch, which seemed to be opening over an hour late, only to discover that I had crossed a timezone without realising it and that they were opening on time… (I did apologise to the bank manager after I discovered my mistake whilst sitting waiting for the traveller's cheque rates to come through). In the end I had to take a taxi back to the border post where I was able to change my shillings formally at a recently opened small forex kiosk on the Malawian side that I was told about at the bank.

It has taken me a little while to adapt to Malawi and its people since then – in particular the hordes of children screaming 'Mzuuuunguuuu, helllloooo! Give me money!'; much worse than anything I'd had previously. It's a generalisation of course, but I have found that whilst Malawians are more 'friendly', it seems to be a more obsequious kind of friendliness, and I find that hard to relate to. Perhaps it comes from living under a dictator for some time after breaking free of colonial rule, the influence of vast numbers of missionaries and the too-friendly relationship with South African apartheid governments in the past. Furthermore, I have lost the 'upper hand' of being able to surprise people with my knowledge of their language (Swahili) and instead now have to get used to being linguistically more 'accessible' to others via their (admittedly rather poor) knowledge of English.

That said however, I have found Malawi attractive enough that I have been dawdling rather too much at the various lakeside towns, national parks and other attractions. It would have been possible to cycle through in three, or perhaps even two, weeks but in all I anticipate passing through the border with Mozambique slightly more than a month after arriving here.

From Karonga I gradually made my way down to Mzuzu, the largest town in central Malawi, whilst trying to refrain from taking too many diversions. I did however visit the small mission town of Livingstonia perched scenically high in the hills (in an attempt to avoid the missionaries' scourge of malaria), and took some back roads to and from Vwaza Marsh Game Reserve where I camped and cooked amongst hippo tracks and elephant dung. I discovered from some other travellers near Livingstonia that a local cyclist had been killed at Vwaza by an elephant a few days before I arrived and a man was apparently killed by a hippo the day I was there, but fortunately I didn't bump into any of these large beasts during the night in the unenclosed campsite, despite many disconcerting grunts and rustles around my tent.

The main roads in Malawi are pretty good, but only if you stick to them, which I didn't do until after Mzuzu when I followed the thrillingly fast tar road through the hills to the justifiably popular lakeside town of Nkhata Bay and thereafter decided to stick to the Lake shore, and tar road, all the way to its southernmost tip.

In Livingstonia I stayed in the 'Stone House', a national monument with magnificent views over the mountains and Lake, but with the downside of unhelpful but ever-present staff and schoolchildren trooping through on school outings. It was a strange place, an anachronism really, with its monuments to European missionaries; eucalyptus, pine and jacaranda trees; tiny run-down 'groceries' (which sell biscuits, soap and the like but no fresh produce of any sort) and very small market (about 5 stalls selling the ubiquitous tomatoes, onions, beans, etc.). Here I met some Irish church people out for a few weeks on one of a number of visits to build various facilities for the local community. I was a little disconcerted walking with one woman when a young girl passed us and said 'Give me banana' (we had just bought some at the market) and she said 'You want a banana? Okay, here you go.' The girl gave a slightly smug smile to the other children around us who had not asked. I was unable to hide my shock and disapproval. Why? Because when you've been mobbed by kids day after day saying 'Give me money/sweets/food/…' you think to yourself, 'This is really weird, because surely this kind of thing doesn't work on anyone so why do people keep doing it?' Now I knew. Well-meaning do-gooders from Europe can make an entire generation into beggars.

And this is what I really want to write about. The travelling has actually been a lot of fun, with great scenery, good places to stay (that are very affordable if you have a tent) as I've resort-hopped down the Lake, and many interesting other travellers and good roads – only the hot weather has been a little trying. But I think too much for this kind of superficial pleasantry to entertain me for long. Malawi is one of the poorest countries in Africa, indeed the world, and if you are at all interested in development you have to look around and ask 'Why?' Until I travel through the last, southern, part of the country – the most densely populated and reportedly famine-hit – these comments will be preliminary but I think they are unlikely to be invalidated.

From soon after Karonga I noticed four interesting things: lots of mangoes; lots of churches and missionaries; many, individual, aid projects; and lots of dry land near to plentiful water. In Mzuzu I stayed at a CCAP (seemingly the largest Malawian church group) guesthouse. On the wall at the entrance were a number of rules of residence including number 7 along the lines of: 'No magic powers to be used on the premises'; a reminder of the still very 'primitive' beliefs that mingle here with the many variations of Christianity. I also witnessed the amusing sight of some American missionaries interacting with their Malawian counterparts and showing off their latest palmtop computer, on which you can do Google-type searches of phrases in the various books of the Bible; no doubt a critical tool for uplifting the impoverished masses. So that's the first thing; Christianity is everywhere here – every tiny community has a church of some sort.

Mangoes, at this time anyway, are as plentiful. All the way along there have been mangoes everywhere for sale, lying on the road and hanging in the trees. In the northern and central parts they were not even allowed to ripen before being picked; this is in part a cultural thing (a lot of people prefer green mangoes) but seems to be also analogous to the development of Malawi's people - not given the opportunity to develop to their full potential by virtue of a lack of money and educational opportunities. Even further south, where ripe mangoes are available, there is no sign of any processed mango products: dried fruit or juice for instance. An expatriate running a backpackers/guesthouse in another popular place on the Lake called Senga Bay told me how she was planning on starting a mango-drying project, after piloting it with her staff last year resulted in enough preserved mango that they and their families had not finished it before the new season arrived. Despite the plentiful crop of mangoes, many areas are clearly suffering from a lack of water for the land and crops. The disconcerting thing about this is that many such areas are right near to the Lake or small rivers. And at various places all the way along the road are signs for different aid-funded projects by different donors; a laboratory here (even though the powerlines merely bypass the school), an irrigation scheme there, a road-upgrading initiative somewhere else.

No doubt your frame of mind will determine how you interpret these things, but to me the case is clear-cut. Almost all of the many volunteers – medical students, teachers, doctors – and aid workers I have met (especially the former) have expressed serious reservations as to the long-term benefit their presence is imparting to the country and its people. It is hard to disagree. Malawi is a beautiful country with good people that seems to suffer from having no seaport, very little in the way of value-adding industries and perhaps most importantly a, now ingrained, excessive reliance on outside assistance.

Enough said.

I should also mention that from Senga Bay to Zomba, the ex-administrative capital, I cycled with the Dutch couple I mentioned previously who are on holiday cycling around Malawi for a few weeks. It has been nice to have some company, and has made dealing with annoyances much easier. My Afrikaans has returned to a reasonably good level, and they are quite pleasant people. That said, they cycle a little too fast for my liking (only stopping for their Coca Cola fix) and start very early – good for the heat, but bad for me since I, packing-up on my own plus doing half-an-hour of stretching, take rather longer to get going in the morning. I may seem them again here in Blantyre but from here they are heading back up north to Lilongwe so we will not cycle together again.

In a couple of days – after sorting out a number of things here - I'm going to be heading south towards the least-used of the borderposts with Mozambique, primarily because I want to pass the Elephant Marsh (very good birdwatching apparently) on the Malawian side, and Vila de Sena (the longest railway bridge in Africa at 3.7km's long) on the Mozambican side. Likely difficulties are currency, which I'll probably have to change on the black market; temperatures, which apparently peak above 40C in some areas; and language, since most people in Mozambique speak only Portuguese or a local Bantu language. Given that southern Tanzania was quite taxing perhaps it's just as well I've taken it fairly easy over the last few weeks.

I hope the next update will be from 'the town where i was born' (that's also a line in the Beatles song 'Yellow Submarine'); Beira on the Mozambican coast.

 

Brief Missive from Malawi

By popular demand...

I have been told that some people are a little curious, not to say concerned, about my whereabouts. Although i've been keeping the family informed (largely so they don't send the army out looking for me, which would be embarassing) the main reason for my not posting an update is because internet is neither widely available here, nor particularly affordable.

At this very moment i am writing from Cape Maclear, at the very southern tip of Lake Malawi, having cycled all the way down from Matema in Tanzania on the very northern tip where i disembarked from the ferry which arrived 36hours after i did in Mbamba Bay (don't you love it when a plan works perfectly).

Malawi is very different from Kenya and Tanzania and i have yet to really make up my mind how i feel about the country. There are many beautiful, relaxing places - especially on the lakeshore - but other aspects are less attractive; in some ways it is a little too like South Africa for comfort. More interestingly, i have been travelling with two Dutch cyclists for the last 2days and will probably continue to ride together for at least a few days more. As my luck would have it, he is a firefighter who competes in the World Firefighters' Olympics and they both ride mountain bikes competitively, so i'm rather glad i've had two months of cycling already... Still, it's an interesting change from my usual solo exploits.

More from Blantyre in a week or so.