Month: May 2024 (page 1 of 1)

September 13, 2023

The lodge was made of cedar, with a shake roof, and encircled by the tall trees. I heard wind rattling on the roof. When I awoke to the barking dogs, I felt oddly at peace. I opened the door that led onto the sprawling front porch overlooking the little camp site. A slight chill air was fresh, and the bamboo rustling in the breeze. That had brought me a sense of calm and well-being. Not that I have a heart to feel—it is like being warped in the time being—but today I could experience such a sensation, nevertheless. 

I took a turn in the camp site. Somewhere far away a dog barked, the weeds whispering my steps so clear the two dogs noticed me. From between the bamboo, birds was warbling in beautiful voices. There was no one there, just the two dogs silently playing together. 

Thanks to Azu, whom I met at Iringa, Tanzania, I enjoyed Mzoozoozoo Lodge for the three days. As I was getting ready to check out I left the door open. A brown dog peered uneasily at me a little distance away, wagging his tail and whining. I did not know why he looked so sad because I do not like street dogs. Barking. Biting. Then I will be covered with blood. So much so that I got the rabies vaccine before this long journey.

I had read a closely written note about Malawi that Azu gave me. The note said Soul Rebel Lodge in Nkhata Bay just opened half a year ago. “I love hidden lodge.” To which she had said: “I highly recommend. You will surely like it.” I was aware that the brown dog walked away whining.

I went over to the iron wall of the Lodge. The guard opened the door, which squeaked on its hinges, simultaneously, three dogs ran out. “Oh no,” I said, a little confused. “It’s okay, see you again, sir,” he walked off. The three dog—black, white and brown—came trotting up the road, mouthes open, tongues lolling. Their tails curled, and they wagged pleasantly in the air. I started to walk : the three followed behind me. Every now and then the dogs ran a little ahead, lured by something. The black dog went off the road, sniffing, and moved around the dilapidated area : a row of humble huts stood on each side of the street.

When I stopped, each stopped too, waiting for me to start a walk. On the red earth people sat selling the vegetables and garments. I could see people look at us—one Chinaman with three dogs which caused the people round about to laugh. I trudged along toward the bus station, the sky in a frump of gray clouds. One guy came closed to me and led me to the taxi for Nkhata Bay. And, consequently, this guy seemed to get a kickback.

Two dogs wandered about litter on the red dust. I had left the passenger door open under which the brown dog lay. Occasionally he came mounting and sniffing me. “Your dogs?” two young women broke into a smile in the back seat. “No,” I grinned. “Yesterday I went to the restaurant, walked three miles with them. Once I stepped into its garden, this brown dog led me into the restaurant. Though I ate fancy pasta, he waited quietly beside me. He is wise. After that, we went back to my hostel together.” “They like you!” “Ah, I think so,”I smirked.

The taxi driver started the car and pulled into the road. I looked through the window at the brown galloping full speed, and he soon overtook us. It was a little hard to see owing to the deep cracked windshields, however, my eyes followed the brown. He made his zigzag way through the vehicles far ahead. And then he stopped in the middle of the intersection. He was careful with restless eyes staring at cars, motorbikes and bicycles. As we approached him, the driver beside me blew his horn ; he was disoriented, dodging helplessly and run off to the left.

As we moved on in the mountain, I recalled my dog Andy—I had quite forgotten about his existence since I started living alone. I had once gone back to my parents’ house on my DragStar during a winter holiday. From then on, I had heard say that every time Andy saw motorcycles, he barked excitedly at them, despite the long years of my absence. He was dead ten years or so ago… The car rolled down the mountain into the town and Lake Malawi came into view.

In Nkhata Bay, the stalls sold many fish, and at that time of the morning, when the market place filled with tomatoes and casually strolling people. On the sidewalk, the traditional women marched in single file, with their great load on their heads. It was on a little hill that I came across a restaurant with Rastafarian color sign—ONE LOVE CAFE. It has an art gallery: carvings and handcrafts. Once inside I could overlook the lake on the porch. The owner welcomed me and served coffee—the fishing boats were coming into the harbor—I ate Nshima, fish and tomatoes on a plate.

Soul Rebel Lodge had the superb terrace with view across to the lake, great for chilling and reading in the gentle wind. There were two houses against which the long sea beat, as if to float in the sea, and I had never seen such a clean and spacious dorm, with two shower stalls. I turned the water on a little and held my finders in the stream. Hot water right in the pipes. At night, the sea coming closer, I drank a beer on the sofa, the music drifting through the air and soft light seeping out of the town.

The light of the dawn slanted through the windows when I awakened. Birds sang gently. I got up and put on my black down jacket. I saw an elderly couple fidgeting beneath blankets on an upper bunk. A woman spoke under her breath, the two of them giggling, half childlike. They had gray hairs. I eased to the open door and overlooked the lake. Water lapped the coast—it made a rhythm. Last night it was so loud, that I was not sleeping nice. That was what Azu’s husband had said: “Every thing was okay…but…”

I was going down several stone steps. The air was cool here, and a white man stood alone on the rocks watching the sea. I stepped onto the small cove at low tide. The sea and birds sang. From far off, I could see a black figure paddling a canoe on the lake, and into the sun. No other ones were in sight. There was a manly beauty in nature. It was the very virtue that had built such an unique over the years.

After a while, as I edged to the wooden table where westerners prefer to chill, I saw the sun, still on its morning ascent, growing softly between the trees. I stood at the table. There had a clear view across the lake all the way to the horizon. I stared at an intense orange, the effect was of a single, but with a variety of outlines. The gap of sky was a pale and a blue now. Wishing my father could be here, I observed how sky on the water has such a coloration. He is a true man in the art. An epic no one reachs at he writes.

September 10, 2023

After getting the stamp, I stepped out of the building, into the sunshine. A few guys sat astride their bicycles in the distance. Thoughtfully I took the bottle from my backpack, unscrewed the cap and sipped the water. At Malawi side the ATM did not worked. As I strolled down the road, money changers had not emerged from the locals. A money exchange counter was shuttered, a notice pined. Someone spoke to me. “Today is not business hours.” I found I had quite forgotten today was Sunday, and this was a different country now. 

There were a few small shops—where the inhabitants near the border bought their grocery—nothing but snacks and drinks in no refrigerator. I plodded along, sweating now. Ahead of me, beside the road, the smell of smoke was in air. I watched it from a distance and then moved closer. In front of the dingy brick walls a low fire burned, and a woman sat on a plastic stool cooking grits. The smell of the fish was strong and fine.

The two guy stood beside her. And the woman loaded one plate with Nsima (Ugali), and with a big smoked fish. When she passed the steaming plate up to one guy, I stood stiffly and looked at a dish. Would it be good? I was being ignored completely. Then turning, I walked away. In the shade I took off my backpacks and leaned down. And I worked my whole body comfortably until I finished eating the remaining biscuits. After drinking water, at last I moved up the road, watching the low mountain range.

I could see the empty road ahead curving into the distance. One motorcycle slowed and pulled to a stop beside the road. A young guy turned. “You go to Karonga?” “Yes, how much?” “3000.” “1500 !” “No, it takes about 1 hour.” “1500.” “No, no,” he shook his head. “Well, know where money changers are?” I asked. “Near the border. Go back the way,” he pointed to the border, and then roared away.

I retraced my steps under the sun. On the road, a few guys and bicycles passed by. And from the border the trucks moved in and parked near the border. I stopped a middle-aged man and asked. “Do you know where I can exchange the money?” “You want to meet the men?” “Who is the men?” he pointed to the house on my left under which I could see some stone steps commencing an ascent. I hesitated for a moment. The man, however, had already been upon the steps. “Where are you going?”I asked. “No need to worry. Follow me,” he said. As I came up to him, I saw the three men beneath the eaves playing cards, noticing me. “Welcome. Join us! Join us!”one of them beckoned with his one hand. I stepped slowly backward. A flighty randy man rose to his feet and came close to me. He wore black pants and a yellow checkered shirt.

“Let’s play porker, my friend.” “Sorry, I just want kwacha, then I’m going to Karonga.” “Okay,” he took quickly a bundle of bills from his worn black leather bag, flipping them. “Play porker anyway.” “I don’t know the rule at all.” “I teach you. Relax and enjoy yourself for a little while.” “My English is poor, so I would bother you.” “Where are you from?” “China.” “Welcome, Malawi,” his face had little expression.

From my pocket I took 20,000 shillings for his eyes. “Sorry, small money though.” “Okay, okay,” the randy man used his calculator and showed me the figures. I was a little surprised to find that it was good rate. “Yes, okay, no problem.” At the moment, however, I was more cautious. “I wonder if you could let me see the bills?” “All right,” he said and handed them to me ; I did pinch my shillings between my fingers. Then I counted kwacha awkwardly, comparing the genuine bills on my phone. “You doubt me,” the randy man laughed. “Not fake. Look closely,” he pointed at the display on it. “Yes, yes,”I said embarrassedly.

The two men on the porch stopped playing cards, eating something : maybe curry with Nsima. I supposed at a distance. Apparently this house was restaurant. The randy man seemed to see me. “You want to something to eat?” Of course I had wanted to eat. More than that I never wanted to eat in such a black market. “Sorry, I’m not hungry. I have to go to Karonga. Please tell me. How can I get there?” “Taxi,” turning, he pointed down to parallel parked cars that were the ordinary vehicles : there were no sign of the taxies at all. “Thank you, I’ll go right there,” I said. “Well, brother. Good luck.”

I went down and crossed the road. “I’d like to go to Karonga,”I said to somebody. “Ride on.” A lean man in ragged black T-shirts gestured for me to get into the vehicle that was empty. The seat was hard as expected. I sat waiting for ten minutes or so, alone in the car.

I had never taken a shared taxi before, but in Tanzania, I had watched so many people get into minibuses, their postures and expressions, how they sat in no seat, that there was nothing that came as a surprise to me as the vehicle was crammed with people. When the lean man was behind the wheel, I handed him 5,000 kwacha out of the back seat.

It seemed to happen in Malawi as well as the other countries. The lean man moved casually around the car—I was squashed now, so I lost sight of him, but I created no delay. “Hey, please give me the change,” I said out of the windows, turning my head restlessly from side to side. It is so tiresome—tedious—to demand, that I really hate taxi driver. It also make me feel I was stingy…exposed.

The lean man had disappeared from my view—I suspected he was not a taxi driver. The locals, I could see, did not mind at all how many people were in the vehicle—children gazing at my face and a woman holding her baby, an elderly woman with a big bucket of vegetables and a young woman with a Chanel bag, and a ragged man in overalls. I was uneasy, looking away from the passengers. The lean man moseyed along, exchanging smirks with his fellows. When he came near the windshield, I saw him bring the bills. “Give me the change,”I said loudly, writhing in discomfort. The fellows outside mimicked my voice in a mock-hurt tone : “Give me the change.” The passenger laughed a little in harmony. Before long the lean man opened the door and sat on the driver’s seat. His face seemed steadily. He turned back holding out 2,000 kwacha. The engine started and the vehicle lumbered away.