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.
