The Ilala - Matt

After the seven days of journey through six countries, five borders and a new year, Sam and I found ourselves longing for a little R&R and the three day ferry ride from Monkey Bay, the southern port on lake Malawi, up to Chilumba on the north eastern shore sounded like a just the respite we were looking for. We envisioned three days of Mai Thais on the deck under the sun and two nights of early to bed late to rise. But first we had to get up to Monkey Bay and we had just a day to do it before the ferry left without us, not to return for another week. To make this the 240km trip from Blantyre, Sam and I decided to take the bus, sitting next to the good people of Malawi.

Let me now indulge you on the intricacies of central African public transportation. Mind you, this all comes from an outsider's western point of view and I have no doubt that this system of transit is perfectly comprehensible to those that use it daily. First, you grab your luggage and walk to where all the buses are. Mini-buses, regular school-bus-sized buses, smaller pickup trucks, cars with taxi signs on them, cars without taxi signs on them, colorful motorcycles, tuk tuks (sigh), and rickety old bicycles soon all have their various representatives charging at you in a fevered attempt to determine where you're going before anyone else can steal you away. It is not unlike how I imagine being the only girl at a Marine ball would feel. Everyone wants your attention and their kinda aggressive about letting you know.

But, no matter where you're going or who you tell it to they always seem to know which vehicle is going where and shepherd you towards it like the lost and helpless child you always knew you were. Once you reach the vehicle in question you inquire about the price to get to X. The doorman (There is a doorman and a pilot on each of the buses. I'll come to their rolls in just a minute.) tells you a price depending on the style of vehicle, everything except taxis being exceptionally cheap by western standards. Once the price is agreed upon and paid you become objectified. What I mean to say is, you become a commodity that is to be traded. Bought and sold on the African roads by anyone heading somewhat in the direction you were going. Because, contrary to what you were told, your vehicle is not going to the destination you requested but it is going that direction.

Along the route the doorman will be hanging out the window of the bus yelling or whistling at anyone who looks like they might be interested in a ride. That's the door man's job. He's crowd control. Inquires to passing pedestrians if they would like to ride with a yell or whistle (whistling seems to be a prerequisite for the position), convinces them to ride, takes their money and packs the bus with both people and commodities (since they are one and the same). The pilot, well the pilot just drives. Like a dancer on the road dodging pot holes, pedestrians, bicyclists, and looking for any opening to get around slower traffic. Together these two are picking up and dropping off people at arbitrary, though presumably designated, points all along the route. At one point you might be sitting next to a woman with a child on her lap and a chicken on the child's lap. The bus will stop, she'll get out and you'll think 'yes, finally some space to move about', but it is only 50 feet down the road that the doorman has spied another passenger. This one's legs are covered in mud and he has three 50 kilo sacks of maize that gotta fit somewhere.

At one of these arbitrary stops you are shuffled out of the bus. 'Is this our stop? Have we arrived at X?' You might ask. Everyone seems to think no, but the doorman has run off into the crowd that is milling about. In a moment he will return and with him another person. 'He will take you to X' he'll say. Some money changes hands between the two men and then you are shuffled off to another vehicle. I'm sure the sacks of maize you were just sitting next to have similar stories in their lives.

It is using this method that Sam and I finally arrive triumphant to Monkey Bay, covering the 240km distance for only 9000 Kwacha (about 12 dollars) for both of us. Ready for a cabin on a boat, Mai Thai in hand we discover that cabins are about a hundred bucks. Well second class, which means sleeping on the deck, will be fine. We purchased our tickets and climb on board The Ilala.

When preparing for a three day boat journey there are some simple things that need to be taken into account. Chiefly of which is how will you get food. Since there is a restaurant on the boat Sam and I figured we'd be able to buy food, we also bought some chips and biscuits before we got on for snacks. The restaurant on the boat operates on this curious little thing called money. Sam and I had brought about maybe 11,000 Kwacha, which is equivalent to 12 US dollars on board with us. This was enough for one meal on the first day before we realized how financially ill prepared we were since each meal cost approximately four dollars for the both of us. After that we saved our money to buy drinks, since we had neglected to bring any water.

To survive Sam and I broke out the stove and cooked what was left of our rice and our dehydrated split pea soup and refried beans that I'd been packing around with me since I stole them from my work last summer. At this point, we were both quite thankful that I'd lugged them half way around the world. This food totalled to one meal a day and a bag of chips or a packet of biscuits for a snack but given the heat and lack of physical exercise our appetites were pretty low anyway so we didn't mind all that much. We read mostly, and soaked up the rays.

There were several stops along the three day journey, perhaps 12 or 13 in all. At only three of these stops did The Ilala actually dock; Monkey Bay, where we got on; Chilumba, where we'd get off; and Nkhata Bay. At each of the other stops passengers embark and disembark through the use of two dingys attached to the side of the Ilala. These ships were painted off white and had the words ILALA 22 PERSONS painted on the side. While these two are taking the various passengers, sacks of maize and livestock ashore the Ilala is swarmed by numerous of small craft. Most of these are are fishermen in dugout canoes trying to sell fish to passengers on the boat, there are also some of small dingys dropping people off and picking up goods. I once saw a boat about twice the size of a pool table loaded with an actual pool table, stacked sideways on the boat so that it's legs dragged in the water, and about 8 other men to unload it on shore.

I went ashore at one of the more major looking settlements trying to find an ATM where I could procure some money so Sam and I can eat more than a meal a day. After fighting through the crowds below deck to board the small craft I looked up at towards the top of the ship and saw Sam. He yelled down with a smile 'I count 32. Good luck.' I don't think he counted the few chickens with their feet tied who'd been thrown rudely into the bottom of the boat. As soon as the boat hit the beach I jumped out and waded through knee deep surf ashore. Maneuvered my way through, what I assume, is half the entire population of the town gathered on the beach. After only ten minutes on land I had been laughed at by some locals, apparently entertained at the novelty of having an ATM in such an inaccessible location, and I gave up the search for a cash machine. These shoreline and island settlements that we stop at couldn't have had more than a couple hundred people in each and it made me wonder what their economy was based on. With no regular access to banks, did they use money that could only brought in from the outside or was there some other entirely different means of exchange of goods and services that circumvented the traditional monetary system? I imagine it must be somewhere in the middle but a comprehensive answer continues to elude me. It also seemed that the Ilala was the most exciting thing that happened each week in these small remote little villages.

Our first night was complemented with a spectacular electrical storm (these seem to be the norm in Malawi from around 5pm to 9 or 10pm) that entertained us all the was up until it forced the five or six deck passengers under the small shelter of the covered bar with torrential rains around one in the morning. This afforded me the once in a life time opportunity to sleep behind a bar, which gave me the best protection from the wind and the rain. A great night in all. The next night it didn't rain water on us, but Sam and I choose our sleeping location poorly and woke up covered in soot from The Ilala's smoke stack.

We arrived late, like 10pm as opposed to the advertised 3pm, into Chilumba, found a local guest house for the night and planned our entry into Tanzania. Here's a quick little anecdote about passports and visas. Each country we've been to so far has required a visa for our entry. A visa comes in the form of a sticker with a bunch of information on it about the size of a page in your passport and that's where it goes. In northern Malawi, I was out of blank pages and still had a lot of visas to get. But lucky for me these stickers are so robust that they are really hard to tear, but their sticky side is kinda of weak. So I have started carefully tearing visas out of my passport to make room for the new ones. It's a neat trick but try and keep it on the hush hush for me.

In all Malawi is a great country. The people here seem much more optimistic and jovial than was our experience in Zimbabwe. The land is far more green and lush than we have seen since southern most Africa and the goats and cows on the side of the road look much healthier. Lake Malawi is a perfect deep blue and the cleanest water I've seen since being in Africa. It's shores are lined with small villages accessed only by boat and looked at only with wonder. Even up to two miles off shore the lake is peppered with short dugout canoes manned by fishermen who cast their lines all day to bring in the ten or twenty fish that is their family's subsistence. The air is thick, as though it could be cut with a knife, and leaves you quite in the mood for a day full of swimming and relaxing. I am constantly sticky from sweat and my shirt, within minutes of putting on a fresh one is not soaked but has that warm, heavy, not-quite-dry feel, as though taken out of a dryer too soon. As was with Lesotho Malawi seems unaffected by the goings on outside its border, and as with Lesotho, I regret having to leave this place but Cairo calls. Next stop on the road Tanzania (pronounced tanzAnia, like we say Tasmania).