Library in a Malawi Hospital

Can you imagine going to the library in an orthopedic hospital and coming face to face with empty shelves? This scene is not unusual. It was shot in the offices of a major orthopedic hospital in Malawi.

This scene can be repeated over and over. Empty shelves. No books. How can one learn?

Overnight at Cool Runnings

A View of Life’s Struggle

Cool Runnings, Senga Bay, Malawi ... Arriving at Lake Malawi late in the afternoon, darkness reached us quickly, and we could see little of the lake from our vantage point at the Cool Runnings resort in Senga Bay. We could hear it though, and the sound of the waves lapping on the sandy shore gave us the feeling that all is well with life. We have experienced a grueling pace during the previous month, and the time has arrived for us to kick back and relax for the next few hours. The soft cool breeze coming in from the east, coupled with the rhythm of the waves marrying the shore, seems to immediately bring a wave of relaxation over us. The warm greeting from the staff, as well as from Samantha Ludick, the owner and on-site proprietor of the resort, sets an immediate tone that this is going to be a good stay, and a very relaxed time. There were a lot of other places along this side of the Lake (the Malawi side), and the prices were all across the board, but this has more of a home-like setting (you actually stay in one of the bedrooms of a modest house that fronts right on the beach), and the food is recognized as some of the best anywhere along this stretch of beach. Add to this the fact the Ludick mingles with the visitors, whether you are staying in the main house, in the dormitory just a few yards back off the beach, on the lawn in a tent, or just down the beach at another of her locations called Toms.

A View of Lake Malawi

One of the Guest Rooms

Morning on Lake Malawi

Dugouts Challenge the Surf

Lawnchairs watch the action

Breakfast is nearly ready

Fishing Village Nearby

Longboat Challenges Surf

African Decor Favors the House

After a dinner fit for a king, one which Ludick herself actually helps prepare, and after the conclusion of an interesting dialog with the lady herself, concerning Malawi, Africa, her pick of the greatest grand prix driver, and a number of other interesting stories that seem to encompass the world, we determine it is time to head into the house for the night. True to the African decor that favors the house, and village area in which we are now immersed, we note the three bedrooms are named after neighboring countries. Inside each room the decorations favor the country for which the room is named.

Inside our room we light the mosquito coil, and slide in under the protective mosquito nets. Can’t be too careful you know. Malaria is a real problem all over the sub-Sahara and no need to be careless. Malaria is little problem during the day, but at night it can be a serious threat to your health and well being. It seems like I have just closed my eyes when the sound of a mosquito is heard. I listen for a moment, unable to detect if it is on the outside of the large net, or on the inside with me. I slowly reach for the flashlight that I wisely have under the net with me. Flashing it to the on position in the direction from which the sound seems to have been coming, the sound seems to instantly stop. I can see nothing, and the sound is gone. There is some consolation as I cannot feel any bites, and on top of that I know the mosquitoes I need to be concerned with, the ones that can bite me and give me malaria, do not make a sound. So, to hear the sound of a mosquito is the sound you actually want to hear. That one is the safe one. I close my eyes, and listen to the sound of the waves just outside the house. The cool night breeze seems to gently press me down into the soft mattress, and in moments I am sound asleep again.

Morning Calls Me Outside

Morning comes early in African villages, and even before the sun comes over the horizon in the native fishing villages that surround us. The people are up, out and working by the time the sun announces its intention along the eastern horizon. The sounds of children laughing, and playing along the beach, women washing the family clothes and chatting without abbreviation with each other, and the clank of wooden oars against wooden boat planks are clearly evident as we crawl out of the warm bed. Some people like to sleep in when they come to the lake, but the excitement of seeing the fishing boats being launched into the heavy surf has a draw all of its own. I gather up the camera and head toward the door to see what I can see from beyond the low fence that leads to the beach. The staff has already opened the curtains and doors, and the beach chairs are spread across the lawn as though they are planning on spending the day visiting with each other, and looking off into the distance at the beauty of puffy white clouds sliding effortlessly across the sky above the blue, green surface of the lake. 

Camera in hand I move quietly out through the sitting area, and around the vine covered walkway, and then down through the yard and over to the gate. Off to my left I can easily see a number of fishing boats, with men straining and struggling against a 6 to 8 foot surf in an effort to get the boats beyond the surf and off to the distant fishing fields. For a few minutes I watch them with such fascination that I almost forget my camera. There are the larger boats with gas engines and 4 or 5 men trying to push through the surf with a great deal of labor. Mingled among them are the dugouts that seem to hit the giant waves at just the wrong time and are quickly flooded. Whether large or small the push of nature is too much for many of the boats. The men, some of them only 12 or 13 years of age drag at swamped boats in an effort to get them back to the shore so they can bail out the water and try again. Men wading in the chest high surf struggle to right them, and get both kinds of boats beyond the surf that seems bent on gluing them to the shore permanently and without mercy.

Capturing the Struggle

Finally I realize the scene before me is a classic, and I raise my camera to capture their struggle against the elements. As I snap away I realize the sun is coming over the far distant water horizon, and its rays are beginning to dance across the scene in front of me, as though laughing at the human struggle that is taking place. From time to time one of the boats breaks loose and makes it beyond the surf. As I watch, after long desperate struggles, the dug out logs get past the surf as well. My camera clicks and clicks as I try to catch the majestic scene in front of me, but I am fully aware there is little that can catch the beauty of what I am experiencing. Too, the camera is certainly not capable of imaging the full experience of the men who are trying to “go out to sea in these tiny hand made ships.”  Persistence pays … in time, and eventually most of the boats and boatmen have made it outside breaking surf and are disappearing far out in the lake. The danger will last the entire day. Fishermen die on this lake, every year, but they must fish to survive. The surf cannot win.

Before I realize it time has slipped away and it is time for breakfast. Another excellent meal and I head back to the room to pack up and head back toward Lilongwe. As I check out I make a mental note. This was just too short a time for such a great place. I have to do it again, and real soon. There are just too many pleasures here.

From the Capital to the Lake

Lilongwe To Senga Bay

It is nearly three in the afternoon as I reach the north edge of Lilongwe on M-1. I want to reach Senga Bay before nightfall, and the blazing African sun is already casting long shadows off to the east. For the first few kilometers I enjoy the broadest portion of tarmac I will encounter during the entire 110 kilometer trip east to the lake. Two lanes include white lines along both sides of the beam-less road, and a white dotted line denoting the center lane, projects itself all the way to the next curve and beyond. M-1 is the best, as well as the most traveled road in the country. I must pick up a package at the airport so I continue on to the airport turn off. A stop for the police checkpoint, and I am quickly waved through. I turn left and continue to the next checkpoint, this one just outside the perimeter of the airport. A quick check and I am on my way. It only takes a minute. and the package is safely in the back of the vehicle. I head back to the M-1 turn off.

Goodbye to the Good Road

Where the airport turn off meets M-1 I steer the Isuzu across the highway and wave goodbye to the ribbon of black tarmac heading south toward the capital. For the next seven kilometers I bounce along a bush road that is only a little wider than a dirt path - a road that will be nearly impassable when the rainy season sweeps in from the east in a few weeks. But for now there is not a rain cloud in site and the road is clear all the way.

Dust Finds Every Crack

Though I slow to 40 kilometers, and close the windows, I still find myself tasting the red, gritty, dust of the sub-Sahara that is spurting into the car through every conceivable crack, and casting a red, dusty glaze over everything in sight. The bone jarring potholes that seem large enough to swallow an ox-cart compounds the discomfort. I maneuver unsuccessfully to both sides of the road in an attempt to avoid the vast expanse of holes that threatens to engulf the road.

From an altitude of 4,100 feet near the airport I will descend some 800 feet to the valley floor, then climb again to cross over the picturesque Dowa Mountains with their panoramic view of the horizon, and the quaint clusters of tiny villages scattered carelessly around the landscape. I will then slowly wind my way down to around 900 feet as I near the lakeshore, east of the dingy, crossroads trading community of Salima. With this change of altitude will come a change of temperature as the fireball hovering above me gains a greater intensity of influence on the heavier air near the lake. Even with the late afternoon sun behind me I find myself shedding the brown jacket that, just a little while earlier at the compound, felt so comfortable.

Magnificent Mountain Range

Off to the left across the valley I can see unhindered for at least 25 kilometers. Almost everything in sight carries various hues of brown. No crops are growing, with their bright green hues of prosperous growth, and the effects of three months without a drop of rain spreads like a brown, suffocating canopy over the entire landscape. A man on a bicycle in a brown suit and white shirt peddles past heading toward the setting sun. As I glance in the rear mirror he disappears in a cloud of red dust that is chasing me along the road. Three small girls in tattered, dingy dresses stand beside the road and wave as I pass. Obviously they have come out from one of the three or four thatched huts nearby. They too disappear behind me in the same cloud that enveloped the man in the brown suit.

Accelerating Up a Ridge

After several more waving children, and a couple of dozen more brown huts, I accelerate up a ridge, and intersect suddenly with the main road to Salima. It is not as wide as M-1, but it does offer a reprieve from the dust cloud that has traveled the seven-kilometer road through the valley. I can now leave it happily behind me, and push on the window electrics and fresh cool air rushes in from the outside to create a second dust storm. This one comes from the glaze of dust that had settled over everything in the car. I lick my lips and wipe at my glasses in a vain attempt to rid myself of the valley.

Night is an Unknown Thing

The road from Lilongwe city to Salima is blacktop all the way, and relative few potholes, and I find I have just cut away nearly 20 kilometers from the trip with the 7 k cut across down the valley road. The traffic is a bit heavy for a late afternoon trip, as it seems the whole countryside is trying to get home before night settles in to take control of the villages. Night in the sub-Sahara is an unknown thing, and evil things happen in the darkness where only the distant, cold glare of the moon stands witness. I pass a few groups of school children lingering along the way home from the primary schools that dot the landscape of this impoverished country. Some are in blue and white uniforms, indicating their parochial affiliations, while others wear only the hand me down dresses, and stained jeans, that have been long forgotten by the children in the benevolent nations of the west. Along the way I witness the village children as well. They are in tattered clothes, and have no school fees. There are many of them, and they stand near the edge of their mud-hut villages and watch the other children pass near the tarmac on their way homes from the big brick buildings of learning. Each cluster of laughing, jumping children drop out of sight past the dusty windows only to be captured for another slit second in one or both of the rear mirrors. I can’t help but wonder what will become of them, those vagabonds from the village farms. With unemployment in the cities in excess of 50% what hope will their education give them? And what hope is there for those who are given no education. The future of the village seems bleak in its sameness. I sigh as I pass them.

Tree Branches in the Road

As I round a curve I slow at the telltale sign of freshly cut tree branches lying directly in my lane. Up ahead, unseen from this distance, but sure to appear is an object directly in the road. Lorry, or galamoto, or accident. I am unsure but I know it is there. I crest the hill with my foot precautious near the brake pedal. There I see the giant lorry, loading with tobacco bales, lying helplessly and lonely directly in my path. I carefully swing to the right into the oncoming lane, but just as I do I realize another dead truck is sitting just near in the oncoming lane. It too is helpless to move, the driver sitting near a tree eating his meal of nsima. I thank the tree branches for warning me, as I quickly maneuver between the giant lorries and back into the eastbound lane. I then accelerate to a safe speed that should insure my arrival before dark.

Babies on their Backs

Four women pas heading into the sun, each with a bucket on her head and two with babies fastened securely to their backs with brightly colored chitinjis. A girl in a red dress flashes a smile, and a partial wave before the Isuzu disappears around another curve. Although I am now climbing higher into the Dowa Mountains the parade of humanity continues to pass on both sides of the road. They are seemingly going in every direction. By all appearances I am far out in the country away from the cities, but in reality tiny villages and trading centers dot the brown, drab vegetation that disguises their presence with a sense of emptiness.

Bluffing the Goats

As I scan the vista around me I nearly fail to see the goats that have crested from the depression near the road, and now are claiming the right-of-way directly in my path. Only the incessant sound of the horn convinces the lead goat, an old grey with a long beard that denotes his dominance, to exit my path. My threat works, and the other three choose not to call my hand. The lead goat is reflected in the mirror looking my way as to say, “beat you didn’t I?” For a moment I consider honking a reply but I think better of it as I realize he probably does not understand Isuzu. Before I can consider the goats challenge to my manliness a rooster that has apparently watched the retreat of the goats half runs - half flies across both lanes in a successful show of his prowess for all of the goats to see. I slow to see who else is worthy to take up the challenge. None seem ready to come forward. My trek continues.

Unannounced Trading Center

A few kilometers east of the “goat crossing” I round another curve and sweep into a tiny trading center that has failed to announce its presence for the unexpected traveler who crests the hill. A bus sits partially across my lane, and street vendors, true to their name, encircle it with their commodities held high for all within to see, or for those wish to make a purchase to take home to the wife or children. Bananas, apples, live chickens, bread, biscuits, ground nuts, and hard boiled eggs with little packets of salts, as well as drinks appear to anyone on board with a few Kwacha they wish to submit. Baskets are also for sale to anyone with too big a load to take home. The Isuzu inches past them, and it seems that traffic is brushing dangerously close. This fact seems to have no influence on those who seem desperate to make a final sale before the setting of the sun drives them back to their villages to count the few Kwacha or Tambala they have been able to roust from the weary travelers.The car accelerates again as the open road appeals. Over the next hill and three gullies, each in their traditional, tribal dress, run along the highway in single file in near military procession. One would wonder if they are racing to some mysterious, sacred place of meeting. They eye the vehicle as I race by. I fail to look back. The Isuzu continues on course.

Termite Take Over

A tiny village comes into view, along with a broken church building, and a giant termite mound. It seems such a strange combination to punctuate the roadside scene. I cannot help buy wonder if the pastor next Sunday will speak of the rich who ride by in their red galamotos and look the other way as the poor suffer silently in the tiny villages lost in time. A herd of cattle break my concentration as a small boy loses control and allows the bull to move out and straddle the centerline, and look threateningly toward the oncoming, red intruder. I slow, and chose to pass on the berm of the road, as the giant animal closes the gap by crossing directly into my lane. Apparently he has not read the animal signs that indicate cars and trucks have the privilege of right-of-way. He stops suddenly and I sweep past, thankful it is not two hours later and pitch black as we reach this moment of near contact. A little farther along a giant impaca (cat) lies dead near a tree, apparently victim of some careless hit and run away driver.Ninety-eight kilometers in and I unexpectedly pass the sign that reads, “Salima City Limits”, although the roadside images remain the same for another three or four kilometers. Apparently some political entity has sought to increase the tax base for Salima by annexing an additional half dozen huts into the corporate empire.

Coffin Makers Signal AIDS

The road to Nkhotakota points its tarmac ribbon to the north as it signals my approach to the real outskirts of the trading center, and its sparkling new Total petrol station, and its smartly dressed attendants, reminds me that change is coming ever so slowly to this forgotten land. The intersection for the Balaka turn off holds its rest houses, and coffin makers. Strange bedfellows it would seem until I am reminded of the seriousness of the HIV/AIDS problem in this part of the world. What should be a center for commerce and trade is, in fact a magnet for the trade in alcohol, drugs, sex and death. This region is a virtual deathtrap for the loose morale, unsuspecting visitor to its charms.I cross near the main business district, a loud crowded mix of old world and new music, and cross over the set of rail lines that reminds one of an earlier day. Nearly sits the rail station and a group of abandoned rail cars. A tobacco lorry indicates some rail usage still exits, but there is little order evidence that an engine knows of this stretch of track. The road narrows as I curve more into a northerly direction and recognize that soon the road will abruptly end near the edge of the lake. Bamboo stands line the road on each side as carvers and basket makers wait for the next Azungu who seeks to part with more than his share of western currency. Another goat starts to challenge the right of the Isuzu, then at the last minute thinks better of his action. He makes a wise decision to live another day.

A Car Gives Way

A narrow bridge comes up suddenly, and an oncoming car chooses to cede the right-of-way to the much bigger cousin. I wave and smile, and from within the tiny car the black faces and white teeth behind the “Malawi” tinted windows flash back a warm greeting and we are past. A big yellow concrete pillar indicates just seven more kilometers, and success will be reached. Smoke rises from a distant field where an unknowing farmer is burning much of the future nutrients from the soil in an attempt to clear the stubble from last seasons harvest.

One more kilometer and I slow for a number of people walking in the road near the upcoming village. A man staggers along the road near the centerline. Where he awakens tomorrow morning, with a terrible headache, he will probably not remember the car that passed him with just inches to spare.

Cool Runnings By Dark 

A turn to the right, and a winding dirt road through another run-down village. A gate. A signal from the horn, and a smiling watchman rushes to open the lock and trip the latch. “Hello, abambo. It is good to see you again.” “It is good to see you as well Henry.” I pull into the car park between two trees, and let the diesel idle for a couple of minutes. It has been 107 kilometers of excitement, intrigue and suspense. A few seconds more and I cut the engine, and exit the vehicle from the right side. I can hear the waves crashing against the sand beach of Senga Bay, and I can already feel the coolness of the wind coming in off of the big lake. It will be cold tonight in the sub-Sahara, and the sun has no intention of remaining behind.