Lake Malawi

Nkhata Bay

Lake Malawi is lovely. It’s the most biologically diverse lake in the world, with hundreds of species of fish in crystal water, surrounded by villages of wonderful people. In Nkhata Bay we pitched our tent at a hostel called Mayoka and hardly left the premises for a week. We hung our hammock by the water, enjoyed meals on their deck, shared drinks with other travelers and the friendly staff at their bar. They offered free use of kayaks and snorkel gear. How could we leave? They even let us move from our tent to a private room for no extra cost, just because we were “nice guests”.

An American, a Canadian, an Australian, and a Japanese guy jumping into an African lake.

Mayoka took a bunch of us on a free boat trip to jump off cliffs, snorkel, see fish eagles, and play football with some locals.

Kande Beach

We eventually felt the need to move on with our trip, and pried ourselves away from Mayoka. We went south to Kande Beach, where the waves and white sand looked just like the ocean.

These two kids approached me on Kande Beach, asking something so quietly I couldn’t hear at first. I thought for sure they wanted money but they were just asking if I could take their picture, so they could see it on the camera screen.

On the southern tip of Lake Malawi we stayed at Cape Maclear. Cape Maclear is less popular than other spots; you might say not as nice, but we enjoyed being somewhere where locals outnumbered tourists.

Cape Maclear

The lake gets used for washing everything – clothes, dishes, hair, babies.

One of the perks of travelling in low season: getting this whole dorm room to ourselves for a week. Not bad for $4 a night.

A couple of fishermen took us out to a nearby island to fish and snorkel.

They showed us how to catch a fish with bare hands.

We were less successful.

Blunders in Northern Malawi

Malawi lived up to everything I heard about it: the people were friendly, the lake was beautiful, and most things were relatively cheap. When I say friendly, I mean almost everyone greeted us with a huge smile and seemed giddy to talk with us. In contrast to Tanzania, where it felt like every conversation was sparked with the purpose of squeezing money out of us, here people just wanted to chat and often refused money for things we really felt obliged to pay for.

At least on the first logging truck it was just us in the cab

Don't Mess With Texas <3

Our first destination was Nyika National Park. In the future we won’t hitch to a park that is inaccessible by public transport. The only way to get to Nyika is bumping along a rocky dirt road for 7 hours. We weren’t about to fork over $200 for a hired car, and we were told it’s easy to catch a ride with the logging trucks that go back and forth from the park every day. (Never mind how disconcerting it is that multiple truckloads of timber come out of the National Park every single day.) We spent the night in a small town called Rhumpi to catch the morning truck, supposedly leaving at 6 am. 

With half a day to kill in Rhumpi, we were at a loss for things to do. Eating, drinking, and playing cards can only occupy so many hours, so we searched for an internet connection, even though it was a Sunday afternoon in a tiny poor African town. We asked a bike taxi guy if he knew a place and he eagerly walked us to three internet spots that were all closed. He spoke only a few words of English but smiled incessantly and urged us to follow him. We told him no, it’s really ok, we’ll just use the internet tomorrow, but he was set on helping us. He eventually brought us to a friend’s tiny tin-roofed shack crammed with one desk and an ancient computer. His friend closed the computer game he was playing, scrambled to buy airtime for his cell phone, and dongled his phone to the computer so we could get online with that. A small crowd gazed at us while we waited five minutes for gmail to load. They seemed so darn happy and giggly that I started to wonder if everyone in Malawi is just stoned all the time. Whatever it is, they were cheerful, and although the internet was too slow to do anything productive, we appreciated their efforts.

Nyika National Park

The next morning we were on the road at 6 am, as advised, but the truck didn’t leave until noon, putting us into the park at dusk. The beautiful three day hike we planned on taking to a town called Livingstonia was more expensive than we expected and there was no ATM within 100 kilometers. So we were screwed. The last thing we wanted to do was repeat the uncomfortable ride on the logging truck, but there was no other way out. All we could afford with the cash we had was a bike ride, two meals, and two nights at the youth hostel. 

You can't see them at all, but those are zebras behind TK

Waiting, waiting...

And back to minibuses

This time we asked several different people what time the logging truck leaves. Everyone said to be ready at the general store at 6 am, so we were, and we waited until 2 pm. I squeezed in the cab up front with seven locals, and TK sat in the back with a stack of freshly cut 2x4s. By the time we got to Rhumpi, at 9 pm, a thick layer of red dirt coated TK’s face, hair, clothes, and backpack. A free ride is a free ride, but days like these are getting old.

Kids

I usually refrain from photographing strangers, but sometimes I can't resist.

Kids here play on the beach differently than my brother and I played on the beach. I see no boogey boards, plastic pails, inflatable tubes, or goggles – the toys that were so integral to my daily life in Hawaii. The children on Lake Malawi mostly imitate their parents: they concoct soups of rocks and sand in old tin pots, they bathe the younger ones, scrubbing with plastic bags, and the boys throw out fish line with whatever bait they can procure, tugging for hours with no reward. I have yet to see a single sand castle or sibling buried to his neck in sand.

Babies taking care of babies

And then of course there are the scores of unsupervised children who are in fact taking care of other children, and not simply playing house. Maybe AIDS is to blame, maybe poor education, or lack of access to family planning... What is undeniable is that there are a whole lot of babies.

I’m just glad to see that where life is harsh, kids are still giggling in the waves.

And when the sky is blue,

big brother, it’s blue for you.

Kenya

Paloma's dad, Daniel. We're probably talking about walking at night.

We expected Nairobi to be just as scary as Dar es Salaam, but we were pleasantly surprised with it. The city is very modern; there’s a downtown full of well-dressed businessmen bustling between skyscrapers, lush suburbs with nice homes, manicured parks and stately universities. Also lots of malls just as nice as malls in the states. Then of course there’s Kibera, Africa’s largest slum, but we didn’t go there. We felt safe exploring during the day, but every single person we talked to warned us not to walk anywhere at night. It got to be almost comical how people would turn suddenly serious on the topic. “Oh yeah, great city, I’ve never had any trouble,” an expat would say. Then in a hushed tone, “You know not to walk at night though, right? We heeded the advice and never wandered at night to see whatever it is that stalks Nairobi’s streets when the sun goes down.

Njambi was shy at first but sure warmed up to TK

Anyway, the first thing we did in Nairobi was meet up with the lovely Paloma and her Pops. Paloma was my classmate at Hopkins and she has spent a lot of time working in aid/development in Kenya. The best part of seeing her in Nairobi was getting to meet the seven orphans she sponsors. Back in Baltimore, I had heard Paloma speaking Swahili on her phone, regularly checking up on the seven kids she loves like they’re her own. She first met them when she was studying abroad in college, when they were saved from the streets and put in a new boarding program that quickly deteriorated under irresponsible management. She couldn’t bear to see them return to the streets so she and her parents decided to personally send them to a good boarding school. They have thrived there and Paloma visits as often as she can. TK and I joined her and her Dad to visit on the first day of the new school year, and I could see why these kids strike a chord in Paloma’s heart. They were delightful – a few were charismatic and funny, others shy and sweet, and they all clearly loved Paloma. She acted so naturally in the role of their mother. She handed them new backpacks with school supplies and snacks. She encouraged them to be polite to us visitors and asked them to set goals for the school year. She frowned to see that some of their uniforms didn’t fit properly. When it was time to go, she hugged them all good-bye and lingered to leave, watching them return to their classrooms with tears in her eyes. It was touching to see and I’m so glad our travel schedules coincided so that we could meet her wonderful kids.

John, on the other hand, doesn't have a
shy bone in his body. He was hilarious.

When Paloma and her Dad flew back to the states, Anjali arrived from Boston. Anyone who knows me probably knows who Anjali is; she’s practically my sister. Her graduate thesis, focusing on war-time rape, brought her to Nairobi for research, and she came a week early to travel. 

Boat ride to the island

We experienced a different side of
Kenya, relaxing on the beach in Malindi with three of Anjali’s acquaintances. On one of our days there, some very gregarious hosts brought us all to an island off the coast. 

While a seafood feast was prepared, we strolled to the water. This stroll took about 30 minutes longer than it would later in the day, because the tide is insanely wide on the Indian Ocean. It was the same in Zanzibar and back in Mozambique: the shoreline at noon lies a kilometer further out than the shoreline at 3pm. When we finally got there, the water was hot. We didn’t swim very long before heading back for our feast. 

The temporary shore

They served platters of curried shrimp, followed by fresh crabs, and finally fish. This was unfortunate for Anj, who made do with salad and rice, but it was delicious for the rest of us. And the icing on the cake: the two guides who brought us to this beach feast refused any payment, so the whole day was free.

Then Anjali went on a safari in Masai Mara, and TK and I took the train back to Nairobi. We thought this would be a nice alternative to the bus. We had taken the bus from Nairobi to the coast, and it had blasted loud crappy hip-hop throughout the entire ride, even though it was an overnight bus. Who can sleep while 50 Cent is shouting, “I'll take you to the candy shop...”? Buses are also notorious for driving dangerously fast on that stretch. Before we left, the conductor walked down the aisle to videotape every passenger’s face; we asked why, and he nonchalantly replied that it was to help identify bodies in case of an accident. Scary! So we opted for the train on the way back.

Mombasa train station, 1950. I mean 2013.

We waited several hours in a nearly deserted train station that looked like it hadn’t been used in fifty years. It felt a little eerie, but a thousand times better than any crowded bus station. The train itself had also passed its prime long ago; all fans were broken, paint faded, but otherwise in working order. They served dinner in a small dining car, and we had our own little compartment where we could watch a movie on the laptop, before drifting to sleep to the sound of cranking metal and screeching brakes.

Train beats bus any day.

Back in Nairobi we came down with something and laid around the hostel for a few days, leaving only to go to see movies in those modern malls. Sometimes all we want to do is pretend we’re back home, where we can eat comfort food and go to the movies and not worry about where to stay the night or when to catch the bus.

And how could I forget this – an elephant orphanage just outside of Nairobi, where baby elephants, orphaned usually by poaching, receive 24-hour care for several years before being introduced to the herds in Tsavo National Park. 

A six-month old. Can I please work here? I wish they had this in Oregon...

When they're a bit older - these guys are 3 years - they can hold their own bottles. How precious!

Road to Kenya

If there is one place in the world I have been that I wish to never return to, it is the Dar es Salaam bus station. The ferry from Zanzibar back to Dar got us in about 8 hours late, so we couldn’t buy our bus tickets in advance. We wanted to take an early bus to the Kenyan border, so we set our alarm for 5 am and hoped we could get a seat at the bus station. The traffic outside off the station, even at 5:30 in the morning, is a whirling dusty madhouse of honking drivers and shouting pedestrians, all shoving their way through a vast street with no clear lanes nor traffic signals. In the taxi I sweated profusely and cringed with stomach pains brought on by diarrhea.

Inside the station, the touts were on us the moment we stepped out of the cab. They grabbed at our backpacks – “Let me help you, my friend” – but we knew better. We politely refused any help, clutched our bags, and pushed forward to the dizzying assortment of buses. The station was basically a massive walled-in parking lot with hundreds of dusty buses and vans parked at every angle, with no clear organization. This was going to be a twelve-hour bus ride and we were ready to pay for the luxury bus, with AC and bathroom. The touts were relentless, several shouting at once, pulling us in different directions. One guy said “Here! The Dar Express, leaving now to Arusha.” Another shouted, “No, that bus goes to Moshi. Kilimanjaro Express goes straight to Arusha. Wait here, it will come in 10 minutes.” “No, that bus is full. I give you better price. Dar Express, nicest bus.”

At one point I lost sight of TK as I was mashed in the dense crowd. My backpack was stuck and I could feel that it wasn’t just smushed between people, but purposely held in place while something was pulled out of a side pocket. I was more concerned about losing TK, and my knees literally started shaking. I felt like a child lost in the supermarket, on the verge of tears. It didn’t help that everyone pressed against me seemed to be a foot taller than me. (East Africans are much taller than southern Africans.)

Luckily we found each other before I started sobbing, and we hastily boarded the Dar Express – we had read it was the nicest. But they lied about something crucial: there was no bathroom on this bus. I had diarrhea and I just committed to a twelve-hour bus ride with no bathroom. (They also lied about it being a direct bus and having AC.) While I suppressed a panic attack, TK ventured back outside, in search of a nicer bus. He found one but it was full. And so began the worst bus ride of my life.

I’ll spare you the details and just give the good news: all that was stolen from my backpack was a case containing two decks of playing cards.

After a night in Arusha, we took an eight-hour bus ride to Nairobi. It was a great relief to catch our bus on the road instead of a bus station. 

May I use this photo to brag about what amazingly good packers we are?
This is all we brought on our two month journey, and it includes our tent, sleeping bags, laptop, and camera.

Zanzibar

Zanzibar offered a welcome change of pace after Dar es Salaam.

In Stone Town we wandered among Arabs, Africans, and tourists through a maze of stone alleyways. The island is almost 100 percent Muslim and it seemed like every woman was tall, thin and beautiful, draped in colorful silk sarongs or burkas. Men were more casual, sometimes wearing a Muslim cap (what are they called?) with western clothes. Rooftop restaurants served curry dishes that paid tribute to Zanzibar’s distinction as one of the Spice Islands. The mournful call to player sounded five times a day, and we bumped into countless mosques. Western influence seems to have degraded the magical charm Zanzibar is known for, but it was still an amazing place. Unfortunately very expensive, though. We climbed six flights of winding stairs to our little room in the cheapest hostel available: 50 bucks for two twin beds, a tiny fan, and a cold shower down the hall, adorned with dead bugs.

Sultan's palace, turned museum

Every night crowds gathered in a crowded plaza on the waterfront for a pretty incredible market of street food. About a hundred tables showcased freshly made (and cheap!) snacks. Most popular were grilled skewers of meat, lobster, shrimp, chicken hearts, squid, and octopus. There was also shwarma and something called Zanzibar pizza, which involves meat, egg and mayonnaise and tastes surprisingly similar to a baja gordita from Taco Bell. TK had several of these, of course. Stalks of sugar cane were fed through a grinder to make a sweet drink. After one or two “nice” dinners (how could I pass up Ethiopian), we got real and went for the street food every night.

On New Year’s Eve we befriended two Americans on the roof of our hostel and found a bar/restaurant/hookah lounge that looked somewhat lively. Muslims aren’t exactly wild partiers. This beach-front bar was full of people at least, and bottles of overpriced champagne. The DJ wouldn’t interrupt the music (Tina Turner – “What’s love got to do with it”) for a midnight countdown, but we celebrated on our own. A little later a dance party materialized and it was just my kind of dance party: Bee Gees, Madonna, Michael Jackson, and a group of nerdy guys eager to dance badly with me. They were like Arabic Steve Urkels, with wide dorky smiles, pants belted above the navel, and flailing dance moves. And they were shorter than me. TK mostly lingered by the bar and laughed at me.

The next day we moved across the island to the eastern side, where you go to sit on the beach and do not much else.

Jack fruit tree at the spice plantation

On our last day we did what all tourists do in Zanzibar, and went on a spice tour. It was surprisingly cool. We visited a spice plantation, which was basically a food forest where every plant produced a spice or fruit. They were using all the permaculture techniques we’ve been involved in: diverse crops, companion planting, mulching, composting. Chickens roamed freely to control weeds. As we walked, the guides cut us a variety of samples: black, red, green, and white peppercorns, ginger, coffee, chocolate, jack fruit, lychee, cloves, cinnamon, cardamom, red and yellow curry, and turmeric.

At the end of the tour they took us to a cave where slaves were once hidden, and then to the nicest beach we’ve seen in Africa. Tropical beaches don’t jump to mind when I picture Muslim Africa, and it seemed discordant even to those living there. Some men wore their Muslim caps into the ocean, and a few burka-clad women sat on the sand.  The beach was pretty empty though, even though it was very close to Stone Town and a beautiful sunny day. I felt whorish again, in a bikini, but there was a whole group of us heathen tourists, so I used the other white girls as a shield from the leers of young men sitting in the shade, and slipped into the ocean.

Next stop: Kenya.