Southern Africa: Malawi | Cape Maclear

Lake of Stars…

A sharp pain shoots up my spine when we hit a pothole in the road and I curse myself. What possibly possessed me to take a ride on the back of bicycle with a 30kg backpack? Insanity I presume. But then so are millions of Malawians and I drop the sissy act, steeling myself for the long bumpy ride to Cape Maclear.

This is predominantly the mode of transport in Malawi and actually one has to admire the drivers’ (riders’) skill with these bicycle taxis as they call them. The driver peddles slowly, not even aware of the load or the passenger (me) patiently sitting legs astride, clutching onto the seat, or the driver, or his shirt, or somewhere on the frame, trying to balance the weight on my back. How do the other passengers do it?

It’s not only their riding skill that impresses me but also the clever ways they load the bikes with charcoal bags, crates and crates of vegetables or beer. Or cooler boxes with fresh fish from the lake. In the period I’ve been here I saw many a time a whole family on one bicycle; the dad as driver, the mom, sitting sideways on the back with two kids on her lap, one chucked tightly between mom and dad’s bodies and the other clinging around mom’s neck with tears and mucus running down his face. And as if that is not enough a goat or chicken is hanging from the back, strung on a lace from the seat. And the driver balances the whole lot as if it’s nothing. But then again if you did this since you were eight years it must be like breathing.

Apparently in February 2006, the Malawian government announced plans to build a new road from Cape Maclear to Monkey Bay. But even now three years down the line the road is still a bumpy dirt track with no regular public transport from Monkey Bay to Cape Maclear about 20km apart. So what do you do? You hitch a ride on a bicycle taxi.

A motorcycle flies past us leaving a dust storm behind and with the blow, small grains settle inside my mouth and eyes. Damn, I should’ve had some sort of head protection and I try to clear my face with an already dust-dirty hand, almost losing my balance in the effort. But actually, except for the discomfort, it is a pleasant ride through the baobab and mango trees, greeting the barefoot woman who carries logs on her head with a baby on her back and the other hundred or so hawkers and walkers who can’t afford a bicycle. Oh and yes of course, if I squint my eyes for the bugs that smash into my forehead now and then, I’m sure I will get to the other side in one piece.

Cape Maclear (or Chembe) is a small fishing village town in the Mangochi district of Malawi’s southern region. The town, situated on the Nankumba peninsula, is on the southern shore of Lake Malawi and is the busiest resort on the lake. The Domwe and Thumbwe islands are visible from the shores here, which are all part of the Lake Malawi National Park. Although it is a fishing village some of the residents substituted fishing for hounding tourists.

Like right now when we enter the village. I couldn’t get off the bike soon enough and stumble into the dirt, off balance from the bumps-to-steady-earth motion, telling the taxi man I would rather walk from here. “That’s okay madam,” he says with a broad smile while I sit in the dust catching my breath. From out every corner in the village teenagers and kids flock on me like vultures with white smiles and shouts of, “hello, give me sweets, sweets”, “hello, give me money,” “hello, please buy this”, “hello you want a boat trip on the lake?” I stand up quickly, dusting off my jeans, then swing the backpack over my shoulders and screen through them with wary eyes.

“Hey cool it guys. I don’t want anything now, maybe tomorrow”. The bids keep on coming but the further I walk, it’s offered with less friendliness. They must be very desperate for money and they know by now the only way for me to get rid of them would be to buy something (if you are not strong enough to withstand the badgering) so they keep on trying, getting less friendly the more I protest.

Along the way I pass a few hostels, some dive shops, a couple of bars, longing to wet my dry throat, but the only thing I do try are the fried caterpillars on a stick. Yeah really. I also think it’s grows, but it’s surprisingly tasty, tingling my taste buds with a weird sensation. Hey when in Malawi…

Finally I reach the lodge at the end of the village in the northern area of the park, where John is waiting for me.

“So, how was your ride?” ask John with a twinkle in his eye, thinking me to be crazy to ride on a bicycle taxi just to find out how it must be like (with a load on your back like so many backpackers do when coming here), rather than riding with him in the air-conditioned hired car.

“Great,” I say too quick and I can feel his laughter mocking my sore purple bruised behind and shift the conversation with, “Let’s have that cold beer you promised me.”

Still with a little tease John says, “There is a medical clinic here if you need painkillers.” and then swallow a smirk with beer.

I pull a face, “Yeah I believe it is the Billy Riordan Memorial Clinic, established in 2004, treating dysentery, bilharzia and malaria. So be careful for the mosquitoes here, they bite! Do you know why it was established?” John shakes his head.

“Mags Riordan founded the clinic after her son drowned in the lake. Shame, maybe she wants to stay here close to him rather than going back to her homeland.”

We sit in silence at the bar right on the lake beach for a while, looking at the sails and dugouts passing by. Then John mentions, “There is a multi-day yacht race every summer, starting here in Maclear and then heads north to Nkhata Bay. Who would have thought Malawi is so innovative.”

“Hmm interesting” and I down the beer, now ready to unpack and eat dinner.

I couldn’t get out of bed soon enough the next morning for the tour in Lake Malawi National Park. Our guide is Billy, a Rasta man with the usual wide white smile and weed smell on his clothes. But he is well-informed and we follow him up through the beautiful sunlit forest to Ottors point while he chats all the way.

“Cape Maclear was named by David and Charles Livingstone, who visited it in 1861 and named it after Sir Thomas Maclear, an Astronomer Royal at the Cape of Good Hope. A mission was established here in 1875, which flourished initially and drew migrants from all over, thanks to the education and medical services. But mosquitoes and tsetse flies infected the missionaries’ health. Although Cape Maclear had a good harbour, the poor soil and pests make them move the mission to Bandawe, near Chintheche in 1882, and then again to where it still is today in Livingstonia. The Cape Maclear settlement was abandoned in 1896. A hotel here was also no good: first it was a success then nobody came anymore and eventually it was demolished in 1951. In October 2001, the Malawian government invited investors to fund a $6 million construction of a new four-star hotel here, but so far, nothing happened; only the graves of the missionaries persist.”

I giggle from the hopeless way he said it and move along to the museum on the formation of Lake Malawi. The museum offers loads of pre-historic information especially on fish and turtles and John tip the curator handsomely after the tour. We climb the hill to see the lake from its most beautiful viewpoint as Billy put it, “and maybe we’ll see an otter slipping among the rocks.”

At the top while overlooking the indigo waters Billy continues, “Cape Maclear and its nine islands, forests and bay, were declared a national park in 1980, creating the first freshwater national park in the world. In 1984, the area became a UNESCO World Heritage site.”

Billy points into the distance a little more north from where we’re standing now, “Nankumba peninsula over there, are composed mostly of granite that solidified below the surface and became exposed over time. The granite outcrops form the hills and offshore islands are signatures of Lake Malawi National Park.

“There are several breeds of bird here; the fish eagle (Malawi’s national bird), many kingfishers, Dickinson’s kestrels, and freckled nightjars. If we’re quiet, we’ll see them just now.”

We see them all just as he has predicted and manage to photograph most of them. Satisfied with our work, we continue downhill for our boat trip organised by Billy.

Valeson, our skipper is waiting for us and we hop on board, waving at no one in particular on the shore while sailing towards Domwe island. The water sloshes against the boat and I wonder how it must have been decades ago when the lake was sailed by slave dhows, sinister and crude, ferrying slaves, iron and ivory across to the eastern shore, from where they started the long walk to Zanzibar. But now, only dugout canoes, smaller fishing trawlers and yachts sail past us and my melancholy mood lifts with the cry of the fish eagle, launching from the tree tops on the now close-by island.

“We will get to their feeding place now, I brought some fish bait, then you can take nice pictures,” smiles Valeson. “Fish prefer the shallower waters at the southern end of Lake Malawi, so that’s why there are so many village people at Cape Maclear — to fish. The brightly coloured cichlid, the mbuna, are very beautiful and you will see them clearly under the water when we get closer to the island. And here also are the chambo and numondo fish, which the lodge will probably have on your menu tonight.”

We pass a fish eagle pair (even if it’s not breeding time they sit together always in pairs, male and female) high in a tall tree from where they have a good view over the lake, hunting. They evenly share the kills made by either of them and build their nests from large piles of sticks, usually in the fork of a tree.

“The bigger one is the female,” says Valeson, “Its length varies from 63 to 75cm and weighs about 3 to 3.6kg and the male 2 to 2.5kg. Males usually have a wingspan of about 2m (6ft), and females 2.4m (8ft). The sound of the fish eagle has become synonymous with Africa with two distinct calls: in flight or perched, the sound is something like the American bald eagle. When near the nest, its call is more of a ‘quock’ sound — the female is a little shriller and less mellow than the male.”

The bigger eagle dives down, its claws touching the lake slightly but deep enough to catch a fish the size of a rat. “They are able to catch fish up to 1kg and in some exceptional circumstances up to 3kg. Big fish are not carried in flight, but planed along the water’s surface to the shore. When there is no fish it will feed off flamingos and other water birds. It is also known to eat carrion and in some rare circumstances will even catch dassies, monkeys, monitor lizards, frogs, terrapins and insects.”

Valeson throws ‘whitebait’ (sardine-like fish called usipa) into the air. The eagles watch… prey… feed and the shutters in our cameras click fast and accurate. We turn back towards the lakeshore, sad to leave the eagles but John and I promise each other to return to this very spot.

The sun is moving lower and with a clear view of what is going on in the village from the boat, we can feel the exciting early evening hum. The village is filled with fishermen that returned from a hot day of fishing and the next lot getting ready for the night shift. Rows and rows of drier racks are piled along the shores with the women and kids stacking it with fish to dry out in the sun or to be smoked and cured.

Drumbeats fill the air and Valeson points out a tree next to the shore. “That is the chief’s office.” I giggle and whish I had an office in a setting like this.

“We call it the ‘meeting tree’ where all the decisions are made and where all rules are governed. It is the chief’s birthday tomorrow so the people are getting ready for the party that will last all night and throughout the next two days while a fire will burn all this time on the beach at the tree. People will sing and dance with the youth performing tribal traditions in stage play.”

We sail further in silence watching the scurrying on the shore, nearing our lodge’s docking entrance then John says, “Africa is so informal on the surface, like now when the people look so happy, but yet I can feel an underlying presence of a dire sentence.” I nod with a frown, thinking about the silent threats lurking, like Aids, HIV and Malaria.

I sit next to John on the white beach, facing the lake with ice cold ‘green’ (Carlsberg beer), candles flickering all over in the palm garden. The crickets cricking a goodnight to the sun that sinks behind Malombe island, slowly disappearing with the last cry from the fish eagle. The turquoise water turns to black and the blue sky to hues of pink, orange, indigo and purple.

And we stay, sitting here after a chambo dinner, a bottle red between us pitched in the sand. The far off shouts of the chief’s party and the rhythm of the drums rise to a crescendo and then tone down to a one beat solo for a while. Then the beating swells again, eagerly conveying its message, following the pattern all night long.

We watch the night trawlers going out, rows of lanterns flickering on the dugouts and the millions and millions of stars shining from above. The sight transports me into a time on Lake Malawi, somewhere in its two million years of existence, where it has drawn away from the edge of the Rift valley leaving a wide level plain dotted with baobabs, palms and umbrella trees, opening a paradise here for us to explore.

And I say softly, “It was probably on such a night when David Livingstone first saw the lake, the milky-way reflecting on the black crystal waters, naming it ‘Lake of the Stars’ like the Mokololo peoples long before his arrival.”

“And,” says John “maybe it was also such a night when the Maravi peoples called it, ‘Rays of light’.”

We smile at and salute each other with red Merlot, then staring again into the darkness with the little lights flickering all over from above and on the water.