Dec 27 - Fois Gras & the Great Divide

December 27-31

Thick seafood bisque, authentic foie gras, fillets of fresh fish in a rich cream sauce, rare sliced fillet steak with rosemary potatoes and garlic dusted beans, chocolate mousse and a selection of imported French cheese… six courses all washed down with a nice glass of South African shiraz of course. Leaving the luxury of Cape Mac Lodge - a bit of a splurge for New Years Eve - we then sit listening to international DJs string a line of house music tunes together, cooling down after our countdown dancing as we gaze out across the becalmed surface of Lake Malawi, a black mirror to the starry night sky with a profusion of small scale fireworks and flares punctuating the darkness from the various beachside parties and luxury boats that cater for the wealthy azungu, or white people.

A mere two metres from our party a small group of local villagers collect, their wide eyes agog at the ridiculous wealth and relative extravagance that is occurring no more than a stones throw from their houses, held at arms length by the single rope drawing a line in the sand between ‘them’ and ‘us,’ literally. Two party organizers bring a single crate of soft drinks down to the horde of locals fixated on our revellings, and a crazed rush for this small offering has the locals almost tearing the bottles from each others grasp. They guzzle them with maniacal intent, then the bouncers round up the bottles and offer them a polite but firm reminder that they will be staying behind the line… tonight, and probably forever.

I once read that Malawi takes the dubious honour of having the second greatest wealth disparity in the world. The great divide that exists between the disastrously poor and the comparatively wealthy here is something which needs to be experienced to be understood, and sitting there watching the desperation that the single crate of soft drinks created amongst those locals as we partied the night away was a rather sobering reminder of the country we now live in. Despite decades of firm, but essentially peacefully rule whilst others around it languished in the blood of civil war, coups, ruthless dictators and the liberation from western rule, Malawi remains one of the poorest countries in the world.

Cape Maclear, the biggest backpacker strip along the southern shores of Lake Malawi, is a stunning stretch of unbroken white sand backed by lush green hills. The many resorts, or ‘lodges,’ are walled compounds complete with bars, restaurants, different accommodation options and the like, that cater to varying levels of tourist wealth. These lodges sit side by side with the local thatched-roofed village huts, with locals and tourists alike using the beach and water for their activities together. Yet there couldn’t be a more dramatic contrast in standards of living. The locals, barely being able to afford more than their plate of nsima for the day, wash clothes by day and fish by night, eking out a living from the resources around them. The tourists on the other hand throw gin and tonics on their tab as they laze in the sun, using the water to swim, dive or waterski. Sure there are exceptions, but on the whole this is the black and white of Cape Mac.

While walking through the village one morning – something we had until now neglected to do in several visits here – Heth made a very interesting observation. The vast majority of locals here, and indeed throughout most of this country (and those surrounding it), are not doing anything to involve themselves in the wealth of tourist dollars that bathe this part of Malawi every day. It is the expats and white or Indian Malawians who own all the businesses and who reap all the rewards of the tourist dollar. In comparison, if you walk down the street in any tourist geared village or town in Asia, the locals are bending over backwards to make a rupee or baht or two from you in any which way they can… local eateries, small souvenir shops, tours, transport, laundry, bottled water. You name an idea or money making scheme, and the locals there have already thought of it several times over. So what is it that stops all but a few from developing a way of earning a living from the tourism that surrounds them in ever increasing numbers? A lack of decent education? Absolute poverty? Becoming over-accustomed to and reliant on a system of aid and hand outs? Cultural beliefs or taboos? Perhaps, and I say this with extreme caution, they simply do not have the inherent initiative to get out there and do something creative or plan effectively enough into the future? Which ever it is – and I dare say it is a murky amalgamation of all of the above – the great divide is rarely more evident than in this backpacker haven of Cape Maclear.

Dec 14 - Musical Malawi

December 14

One of the beautiful aspects of Africa, in keeping with its image throughout the world, is its musicality. Song seems to be a significant part of life for many here – not all that surprising given the lack of television, cinema and even electricity for so many. Today that was shown to us in two different forms, both equally as moving.

In the paediatric department, each time an international doctor or nurse who has been here for any significant length of time is departing, a makeshift farewell ceremony is put together on the Friday. Today was Sarah and Marie’s turn, two nurses who have been here for the last six months as part of a Birmingham nursing exchange with Malawi. The head sister of special care as Master of Ceremonies took us through the hour or so as per usual, much to the bemusement of all. Now it would be a little out of keeping in the western world for this sort of thing to happen, but here the proceedings begin with every single nurse on for that day joining in an unaccompanied song for the departing visitors… something they throw themselves into with no consideration of embarrassment. This is then followed by the head sister doing her usual hilarious and out of key solo number, then the addition this time of Christina – one of our Moyo nurses who is a very good singer, complete with her own CD recordings – coming up for a second solo. Some in Chichewa and some in English, all the songs are a typically rhythmic, soulful and religion-slanted affair. The ceremony of sorts is then topped off with more group song and present giving before coffee and cake… the latter which the nurses throw themselves into with just as much gusto (the concept of providing free food at any party, teaching or even meeting within a government or company setting is a given, and is taken up rather ravenously by most).

Heth on the other hand was required to be the speaking guest of honour out at Ndirande (a township in the north of Blantyre) for the Christmas meeting of all the palliative care home visiting volunteers, a rather large gathering made up entirely of Africans. Here, with her words being translated into Chichewa as she spoke, she was greeted with chorus-like responses from the masses with quintessential Chichewan ‘oohs’, ‘aahs’ and ‘eeees’ at every pause, applause after every second line and an extremely welcoming audience. The crowd also greeted her with a welcoming song before she began her speech, a harmonious African tune from the entire crowd that had Heth in a ‘this is why I came to Africa’ moment. As I say time and time again in my travel dairies throughout the world, you can’t buy that sort of experience.

Nov 23 - The Mangoes are in

November 23

As the delicious redness of the cooler climate Zomba plateau strawberries meet their demise for yet another season, wilting under the growing humidity and daily afternoon tropical downpours and thunderstorms, there is one thing that is indisputable… the mangoes are in. Only a few days ago we stopped at a roadside stall on our way to a relaxing getaway at a lakeside retreat for the night – our little slice of ‘us time’ after a week of frenetic tourism with Heth’s Mum. No less than sixty or seventy perfect juicy yellow mangoes for 50 kwacha, or a little under forty Australian cents. We mix fresh banana, pineapple and mango every day for your average breakfast smoothie. We sit outside until midnight at a dinner party regardless of the day because its always warm. We wear flip-flops out to a bar or restaurant and that’s considered ‘dressing up.’ Welcome to life in the tropics.

Life here, despite the innumerable and often insurmountable daily frustrations, is good. Sitting under the shade of decades-old frangipani trees and sipping a ubiquitous Green in front of the crystalline waters of Lake Malawi, taking a break from the laborious task of drenching ourselves in unending sun as we watch fisherman paddle their dugout canoes into the sun splashed palette of colour that is the distant haze of a Mozambican mountain backdrop. A world away from the fetid stench of human bodies crammed into a swathe of HIV, tuberculosis, diarrhoea and malnutrition that is our other life at Queen Elizabeth Central Hospital; a place that on first visit one could never imagine accustoming themselves to, yet after all too short a time it becomes as normal as any other medical institution the world over. To say that we are living a life of contrast would be more than an understatement… although probably better than calling it ‘black’ and ‘white.’

Our week of leave just gone? Walking the shores of the stunning Lake Malawi taking our slowly improving Chichewa for a spin with the over excited kids from the local fishing villages. Spotting somewhere in the vicinity of forty-five elephants on a single two hour game drive in Malawi’s premier game park, and that’s ignoring the hyenas, impala, kudu, waterbuck, reedbuck, nyala, hippos, buffalo, warthogs, baboons, vervet monkeys, sable antelope and countless number of birds. Hiking to the incomparable vistas off the precipitous peaks of the Zomba plateau and Mulanje massif, then relaxing with a well deserved beer. Hunting for the myriad tropical fruits that adorn every market snapshot, roadside stall and even our very own fruit and vegetable-laden garden, then feasting in the tranquility of bird calls and abundant flowers on our back verandah. Life is definitely manageable.

But with mangoes come mozzies
Our toilet and shower both leak, water comes through the cupboards when the rain gets too hard, our electricity and water both cut out with monotonous regularity, the fridge door doesn’t shut half the time and our power line sends off showers of sparks every time the wind throws it into nearby foliage. People walk in front of moving traffic with a degree of unawareness that most two year olds can only aspire to, potholes grow increasingly cavernous with each downpour, customer and service are two mutually exclusive words, and the concept of a balanced meal is one that has something more than only carbohydrate.

Frustrations here are many, but one cannot possibly begin to think of these ‘inconveniences’ as a serious problem in the face of such massive disease burden. Without even beginning to tackle the issues of a single yearly crop harvest leading to chronic food shortages that cause annual plague proportions of malnutrition (and still the government persists with selling off the ‘excess’ supplies to neighbouring countries post-harvest each year), the ongoing sub-Saharan pandemic of HIV/AIDS that is literally crippling the exact people that comprise the workforce needed to prop up these ailing economies, or the resurgent vehemence of diseases such as tuberculosis and syphilis in the face of such staggering rates of immunosuppression, the rain brings the mozzies. And these mozzies bring malaria. An interesting disease in the adult world over here in that almost all sub-Saharan Africans are partially immune – in other words, these are the survivors of innumerable malarial infections throughout childhood. Their disease is, on the whole, very mild. Kids on the other hand are like pins at the end of a bowling alley for malaria, and I feel that we are just starting to see the tip of the iceberg… things really get going in a couple of months when the rains truly hit. Yet already we are becoming progressively more inundated with unconscious, fitting, anaemic children who have an alarmingly high rate of post disease disability, and that’s if they survive to begin with. Never before could I have imagined just how many of a hospital population could be nursed while comatose. Absurdly, it is now common place.

Nov 3 - Visitors arrive

November 3 - Kasha

When you live on the other side of the world from all your friends and family, a visitor is somewhat of a novelty. We had traipsed all over town preparing the spare bedroom, borrowing a friend’s ute (a.k.a. pickup) to transport a double bed and bedside drawers we had bought off another doctor who was leaving, and whizzing around to find bedding, pillows and pillowcases. So to see Kasha’s smiling face as she disembarked at Blantyre’s illustrious Chileka airport – little more than a shed with a viewing deck that updates its arrivals board once a week, if you’re lucky – was quite a treat given she was our first visitor.

Kasha arrived stressed, really stressed. She is currently involved in initiating a multinational drug trial into the use of a new agent in an abbreviated treatment regimen for tuberculosis, meaning seemingly endless meetings, presentations and conferences throughout Africa. A mere two hours into Malawian life and a wave of relaxation had washed its way calmly over her; such is the beauty of the pace of life here. Strangely, it almost feels like we’re cheating living here (many I presume would see things very differently given what we’re doing), being able to go away to such amazing places most weekends, having so many social events on during the week, and living in a country where everything runs a little like its in slow motion. Either way, it is hard not to be relaxed here.

The ‘shock’ of African life didn’t quite hit Kash the way it may some, given she had been travelling constantly around different African nations of late organising her trial. It did however mean we could relax straight into life rather than get her over any culture shock to begin with. Greens on the konde for sunset was the perfect start, then to Chris’ house for a surprise party for another friend’s going away before moving on to the African rhythms and decidedly local feel of the Blue Elephant bar – a good introduction to the social life of Blantyre.

The next morning, after reluctantly dragging ourselves out of bed, we made for Mulanje, with the Silver Stallion proving its worth as it managed to get us through enormous mud puddles, 4WD tracks and some altogether non-saloon car terrain. Although Kash had only a couple of days previously been sitting in the sea level comforts of her London apartment, she managed to haul herself onto Malawi’s most beautiful plateau for some incredible scenery, tough but enjoying hiking, then one hell of a lightning display that night from the warm sanctuary of Chinzama Hut.

Of course, to finish her whistle-stop visit of Blantyre and surrounds, a tour through our hospital's wards – something no visitor here leaves without being shown through.

November 14 - Jill

For Jill, Heth’s Mum, things were a little different. This was her first trip to this continent, indeed to any country of Malawi’s relative chaos and poverty. So, having been in the country a mere two hours, when we stopped for a cutlery-free local meal of nsima and chambo at a tiny local eatery as literally our first break outside the airport, she coped amazingly well. In fact, everything she came across, from the frenetic attention of the village kids along the lake to the rather lackadaisical approach to safety of the Liwonde canoe safari amongst rather threatening hippos, she dealt with surprisingly calmly. Not until Blantyre market, with the swarms of children begging, selling plastic bags and offering to mind your car along with vendors yelling incessantly at you for your custom, did she feel at all out of place in what has become so second nature to us. Granted, even for us with our twice weekly trips to the market, we still require somewhat of a deep breath before diving in to this intense squeeze of humanity.

As testimony to the all permeating relaxation of our country, within three hours here, Jill was sound asleep lying in the shade of frangipani trees on the grass by the lakeshore. An almost unfathomable world away from the miserable weather and hectic work-driven pace of life for her in northern Scotland. Welcome to Malawi.

And it’s not every day a returned traveller questions the very meaning of what they do on a day to day basis back at home after a brief one week glimpse into the lives of others. Clearly Africa made quite an impact on Jill.

December 14 - Mum, Dad, Anna & Cam

‘Baboon! Impala! Hippo!’ The game spotting had started quickly.
‘Elephants,’ added Mick, our guide, pointing out half a dozen several tonne beasts grazing only a few metres from the sealed road.
‘Giraffe!’ threw in Anna from the back seat, with us having driven less than fifty metres further down the road to see three of these awkwardly majestic creatures loping in front of us, ‘this is awesome!’
We hadn’t even entered the national park yet, and already we had seen a good number of South Luangwa’s wildlife; things were off to an amazing start. And to think just over twenty four hours earlier, my family hadn’t even set foot on African soil. With Lara well and truly pregnant and Amanda flying all over the States with her new consulting job, we were left with Mum, Dad, Anna & Cam to visit us.

Dad lost six kilos in eight days thanks to some torrential diarrhoea, couldn’t join us on most safari drives in Zambia due to a bad back, was forced to turn around half way up the slopes of Mulanje courtesy of heart palpitations, and couldn’t join our Christmas roast dinner given some severe abdominal pains. Cam managed to almost have himself imprisoned after photographing a police checkpoint just outside Lilongwe his first morning here then had two half our seizures while waiting for his flight home, Mum was covered head to toe with mud and was close to becoming an elephant’s punching bag during our safari and managed to sprain her ankle not once but twice up Mulanje, and Anna almost had her cervical spine snapped in two as our driver ‘missed’ the new speed bump on the way back from Zambia and was a inch from hypothermia after swimming to a rather distant island at the Lake. All in all, I think they loved Malawi.

Three days of spectacular game viewing in Zambia’s incomparable South Luangwa National Park, several nights soaking up the luxurious surrounds of Cape Mac Lodge on the lake, a beautiful hike up Mulanje and even some time appreciating our day to day life in Blantyre. The perfect introduction to Africa, and some very memorable ‘souvenirs’ to take home as well.


And there is something beautiful about the vicarious viewing of a foreign land through fresh eyes once again. The fact that almost everyone walks around in bare feet. The broad genuine smile that flashes white across a small black African face. The intensity of the market being met with a mix of wide eyed disbelief and enthusiasm for something so captivating. Hawkers touting their custom made key-rings not being an annoyance, or using your hands to eat a full meal being a completely novel experience. So many little peculiarities that we now simply take for granted or view through the somewhat tainted eyes of previous experience. All very refreshing to see the reactions of those who find these happenings completely foreign.

Oct 19 - The Malawian Rollercoaster

The Malawian Rollercoaster

October 19

Life here seems to fluctuate from despairing over the multitude of problems and frustrations, compounded by the inability to do anything about them, to feeling as though you need to be here and ‘save the world’ for the rest of your life.

The despair
Robert, a new Dutch paediatrician who started recently, was on a Moyo ward round with me learning the ropes. Wanting to help in some way that is currently not possible, he offered the idea of simple things such as an electrolytes machine for the children as part of the project that has brought him to Malawi. I thanked him for the enthusiasm and ideas but then informed him of the sheer number of kids that this would require blood tests for, the reagents that we would then not be able to afford, the absence of anyone available to service the equipment when problems arise, the number of nursing and patient attendant staff required to take these regular blood tests, and the lack of good therapeutic measures to act upon all but the most basic of problems from the changes we detect. Although a wonderful idea, the support that would be required for such a process is far beyond simply providing a machine that looks lovely and gives a few useful answers to begin with (in saying this, the use within a very limited number of patients with specific problems, or stylizing the tests in the setting of a study to correlate with future clinical practice would certainly be useful).

This I guess raises the problems with a lot of donated goods and monies. Much of the well intentioned pieces of equipment require reagents that we cannot afford or sometimes cannot even access, they often require support staff in the form of laboratory analysis, servicing and repair that we have no money or training for, and they may not even be compatible with other equipment to run it, meaning it lays idle as we await further parts. As a great example we currently have no less than fifteen oxygen concentrators (the portable machines which provide oxygen to unwell patients in hospitals where oxygen piped through a central means is not available) that sit dorment in our maintenance department with no one capable of fixing even the smallest problem. They are all invariably made by different manufacturers and often with different electrical inputs, meaning even if we did have a knowledgeable repairman, the parts would have to be sourced from multitudes of varied companies.

Then there is the donated money. This often comes with the caveat that it be spent in a certain fashion. This can either be with the requirement that the product or service it is intended for come from the donor country itself, giving no long term gains economic development, training or education to local providers, or that the money be spent in certain areas that have no relevance to the true shortages that currently exist in service provision given the lack of consultation with ground level service providers to ascertain their true needs.

Then there’s the immeasurable problem of donor funding in the form of NGOs, religious organizations and other such benevolent bodies who come to the country with their own agenda, not linking their ideas or implementation with existing or competing interests, either government or external. This means massive duplication of services, fractured training and knowledge, disproportionate aide to certain areas and none to others and, most discouragingly, lack of long term sustainability as one project finishes and another simply reinvents the wheel. I don’t disagree that the country needs external funding and skills at present, nor that these organizations are worthwhile and important – heaven knows, the place would simply collapse without them – but there’s surely a better way of going about it… and if you have the answer, please let us know!

Of course none of this is helped by the nepotistic, self-indulgent, corruption of the government (and Malawi is one of the less corrupt on the continent) that manages to continually channel money into the wrong hands, mismanage responsibilities external funders place on them and, unbelievably, withdraw service provision to areas that are being externally funded despite these initiatives often only being short term undertakings, thus leaving the system shot with holes afterwards. Then finally, there’s the attitude of a small number within the community who see this entire process as a good excuse to exploit the system and make money.

Saving the world
Yet not all is despair. Very commonly, admittedly not quite as often as the frustrations, we are encountering inspirational people who seem to make being here a pleasure, and even make you feel like what you are doing is never enough for the plight of the country. Two of those people are fellow paediatricians (amongst other roles they have), Liz Molyneux and Robin Broadhead. Enjoying dinner at Robin’s house recently we heard many an uplifting story that made us feel quite inadequate in what we were doing here.

Robin himself has been here for the last seventeen years, moving here from the U.K. with the establishment of the University of Malawi. Throughout this time he has been one of the instrumental figures in shaping what is now an internationally recognized teaching institution that is, albeit slowly, shaping the future of Malawian medical practice. He has been a university lecturer, the Head of the Paediatric Department, and is now the Principal of the College. He has lived through the dictatorial years of the Banda government, existed without any family or close friends from home and now sits through the daily frustrations of endless bureaucracy in various meetings, and is still able to look upon Malawi and all her foibles with the most positive spin.

Liz and her husband have lived here for interrupted time over the last 40 years. After initially coming here in a missionary capacity, Liz has taken over the Head of Department position and managed to almost single handedly thrust paediatrics at Queen Elizabeth Central Hospital into a position of international renown in international developing world circles, as well as dropping the admission mortality during the wet season alone from a staggering 18% to now regularly under 5%. This she has achieved with an enviable blend of inexhaustible diplomacy and a passionate devotion to the day to day clinical responsibilities of the department. Her husband, Malcolm, has also headed the majority of the malaria research in Blantyre for the same period of time, allowing Queen Elizabeth to be at the forefront of both research and clinical practice in terms of the malaria pandemic that still to this day claims so many millions of lives every year. And this he does with a wit sharper than many, and a clinical acumen that speaks volumes of his time in the realms of such unthinkable disease.
These are only a couple of examples of such inimitable devotion to what many would see as a sinking ship. Their ongoing commitment to the development of this country makes so many other contributions seem trifle in comparison, yet at the same time motivates you to see through the daily frustrations to the bigger picture, and the small but appreciable difference that you actually can make here.

Oct 13 - Buffalo maulings

Buffalo Maulings and Flaming Sambuca

October 13-14

Lengwe National Park was out getaway for the weekend, down in the south of the country in the lowlands of the Shire Valley (prounounced shee-reh now, although undoubtedly coined by the Brits several decades earlier). We had decided on a nice romantic night away from the fast-paced social scene of most weekends… therefore having our umpteenth flaming sambuca at the Illovo sugar plantation sports club at 2.30 in the morning wasn’t exactly what we had planned.

It all started innocently. A beautiful drive down the Thyolo escarpment drops towards Chikwawa, 40km south of Blantyre. This road is a stunning vista over the low lying Shire valley, stretching as far as the eye can see some 600-metres below, intersected by the snaking contours of the Shire River. Although shrouded somewhat in the mists and dusts that await the upcoming rains to wash them away, the views at every turn are nothing short of awe inspiring.

After driving through the non-descript little market town of Chikwawa, Lengwe National Park sits another 20km south, with the road taking you through the cane fields of the monstrous Illovo plantations to the park gates. The park itself is a comparatively small expanse of thicket and open grassland that abuts the Mozambican border in the tapering southern tip of Malawi. Little known and even less visited, this place is home to a varied animal and bird life which we were keen to have a relaxing look at. Only a few minutes drive along reasonable dirt tracks, Nyala lodge is a relaxed sprawl of rather upmarket air-conditioned rooms then a simple but quintessentially African eating and sitting area complete with bar and restaurant.

After pitching our tent in the secluded openness of the ‘campsite’ under the watchful eye of many a bold vervet monkey, we hit the lounge area for a mid afternoon Green. Now this is Africa: sitting back on sofa chairs as you sip your beer, positioned perfectly only a couple of hundred metres from a rather active hide, or watering hole, as you watch baboons, warthog and guinea fowl meander around the scarce drinking water.

We also got talking to Max, the Malawian-born Italian owner of Nyala, about the recent buffalo mauling we had only this morning heard about. Two days previously Phoenix school – a private primary school in Blantyre – had been on its annual educational safari park field trip. They were here for the night and at the time out on a walk to the main hide, opting not to take a scout given Nyala’s long history of not enforcing the park rules that all walks must be accompanied by an armed ranger. Unfortunately a surly old single male buffalo was also out for a walk to the main hide, and these two parties don’t blend very harmoniously. As the kids came around a bush, they were set upon by a somewhat surprised and therefore spooked animal – and an animal not exactly renowned for its friendliness. One of the teacher’s husbands reacted quickly, and rather heroically, by putting himself in the line of the charge between the buffalo and the children. As the kids scattered everywhere the guy realised that the buffalo was going to batter him and he promptly attempted to run… a little too late. He fell as he turned, probably saving his own life, and was gored on the ground as the charging beast passed him. Having enough time to stand as the buffalo wheeled around, he jumped behind a small tree for protection. With that the buffalo promptly charged again, this time completely uprooting the distracting tree and hurling the guy metres through the air in the process. The guy was then obviously trying to defend himself by kicking out at the animal as he lay on the ground, because the repeated goring of the buffalo’s horns tore shreds of skin and muscle from his inner thighs and lower legs. Having a moment of respite, the savaged guy then managed to clamber under a larger tree with good cover, blocking the line of sight, and with that the enraged beast, a herbivore at heart, lost interest in his little victim and sauntered off to do whatever buffalo do after goring something to within an inch of its life. Twenty minutes later, having been alerted by the returning kids, Max arrived to find the guy, blood everywhere, his belt as a tourniquet around his worse leg, stumbling toward the safety of the lodge. Several hours later he was being attended to at Mwaiwathu Hospital in Blantyre, southern Malawi’s only reasonable private hospital, having survived something that not too many live to tell the tale of, with not a single school kid injured.

With this lovely news to digest, we set off on our own little safari – driving – in our low clearance two-wheel drive Marino, something the roads in this park allow. Now a game drive is good fun even at the worst of times, but there’s something unique about doing it yourself in your own vehicle, adding that extra element of excitement to it all. So for the next hour and a half we crept along spotting countless numbers of nyala, impala, kudu, duiker, warthog and buffalo, along with a fair few impressive birds – the latter we know next to nothing about. The animals, although quite wary of the rather unusual grey beast that we were travelling along in, were often found lingering on the road literally metres in front of us. All in all, a brilliant little outing… and no close encounters with buffalo which was an added bonus.

From here, things turned rather messy. Being the campers we are, not wanting to spend too much on a dinner at the lodge, we had brought our own pasta and red wine. With this in our stomachs we joined the others at the bar… Max and a nice couple we had met briefly at the Lake of Stars weekend. Catherine, a 26 year old American Peace Corps volunteer, is working on environmental sustainability programs in the park and living in the nearby village with no running water or electricity – surprisingly agreeable and not too over the top for your average Peace Corps worker – and Justin, a young South African archaeologist helping to set up an archaeology department in one of the colleges in Malawi. After a couple of drinks we set off in the back of Justin’s ute for the Ntchalo Sports Club, a focal point for many expats around here, located right in the middle of the Sucoma (Sugar Corporation of Malai) sugarcane plantations operated by Illovo.

On the way, with dust swirling around our heads in the open tray, we were treated to a little lesson on the sugar plantations by Max. The 6-carriage long trucks that run 24-7 carting the freshly cut cane to the processing plants weigh in at 14-tonne per carriage when fully loaded. The sugarcane, once it has had its sugar extracted, yields not only ethanol, methanol and glycerol sold for local production, but also molasses to regularly coat the roads and keep the dust down and finally a byproduct that can be burned down and used as fuel. This fuel is then channeled back in for power to run the plant as well as the nearby national park, something which is necessary given Escom’s inadequate power supply from the national grid. Sugar is not the only product of the plantation either, with a few fields being donated to the growing of maize which is used by the government in times of national food shortages (something which occurs all too often here). Although Illovo itself is one hundred percent foreign owned, each arm of the production other than the processing itself is subcontracted out to Malawian companies, meaning that everything from vehicle hire and maintenance through to cane field planting and upkeep is putting Malawians into employment. So all in all, this enormous creation seems to be doing quite a sustainable and commendable job… from what I can gather anyway.

Twenty minutes drive after entering the plantation gates – laying testament to the sheer size of this operation – we arrived at the sports club, a concession to everything foreign. The rest of the night was a series of drinks forced upon us by overly friendly and big drinking South African expats as we watched the English beat the French in the Rugby World Cup semi-final (that is, after we had all finished watching African Big Brother… with Malawi in the final five, who wouldn’t be watching!). By 3am we were once again travelling the molasses laden roads back to Lengwe, somewhat inebriated, having had anything but the romantic night for two we set out for.

Oct 4 - Lake of Stars

The Lake of Stars & Court Cases

October 4-8
Once a year the English-run – thus stratospherically high priced in terms of local affordability – Lake of Stars festival descends upon the Chinteche Inn. This lakeside lodge, set along the idyllic shores of the country’s most impressive natural feature, lies just south of Nkhata Bay in the north. A full three day program of music from Africa, Europe and the U.S. along with debaucherous dancing, drinking and lazing by the water's edge tests even the staunchest of party goers. We therefore thought we had better have a little look at this phenomenon, and with the Mother’s Day public holiday on the Monday tacked onto two days off the previous week we made a real trip of it – our first true holiday from work, albeit only five days. It was also the first chance for our little sports car, the Silver Stallion, to get a decent run on the open road.

Everything began disastrously. Sarah, a New Zealand friend of ours who we had planned to take up in our car, called us the morning we were meant to leave to tell us she had hit a pedestrian the previous night in her own car and would be going to court, thus not able to make it to the lake. We had also planned to stay at Sarah’s folks’ house in Lilongwe that night, so this really threw a spanner in the works.

As it turned out, the previous night Sarah had been driving down Glynn Jones Road, the main road through town, when a drunk local dressed entirely in black decided to suddenly run out into the middle of the road, straight in front of her car. The issue was he that he managed to run out on a pedestrian crossing, making Sarah legally liable regardless of the circumstances. What’s more, Malawian law apparently states that if you mow down a pedestrian on a designated crossing, you are jailed for reckless driving until your hearing can be arranged. Without knowing this, Sarah took the pissed local kid to hospital despite only having run over his foot (he actually jumped up straight away, then the locals with him had said he was fine and that she could just give them money and go – meanwhile some Indians nearby were yelling at Sarah simply to leave because all the Malawians are thieves… a lovely scenario as you can imagine). Using the weight of another friend’s boss, a renowned character in Blantyre circles, Sarah was able to avoid the jail time (the police chief himself was called to smooth things over), and the process of an out of court settlement then began. All a bit of a shakeup for Sarah, and although she wasn’t able to make it with us that day, everything seemed to have worked out alright. Interesting how even though this guy was completely hammered, it was the driver who would be paying the penalty.

Having decided against staying at Sarah’s place in Lilongwe we then lumped ourselves on another friend, Amy, who was also planning to come along to the lake after a night in the capital. Cue the next disaster. Half way to Lilongwe, all going smoothly along the M1, we came across a broken down car… Amy. Why is it that every single person’s car in this country seems to be a moving disaster zone – must be the age of most vehicles I presume. Anyway, she had overheated and was now stranded, and although we offered to help out, another friend was arriving soon to apparently to give her a hand. Although I’m not sure what she was thinking when she simply told Amy to leave her car on the roadside and jump in with her – I could see her car being stripped in seconds leaving out on the middle of the highway here. By the time we arrived in the capital, having stopped off for a few beers at a cute little bottle shop along the way to help us through the day, Amy was still stranded on the side of the road just north of Balaka, almost 200 kilometres away. She finally got a tow-truck to bring her back to Blantyre, picking her up at 6pm after having stood on the side of the road for the last 3 hours (not sure where the hell her other friend went?). So now she was on her way back to Blantyre and we were in Lilongwe without any accommodation, having travelled several hours out of our way to come here!

After swinging by Sarah’s house to grab a tent for her, we found Amy’s house (no thanks to her directions) and rolled up at her gate. Ten minutes later, without even being told we were coming, her guard had handed over the house keys to some complete strangers and we were safely inside, for all he knew trashing the place. When Peter and his car full turned up we made seven in total, a little surprise for Amy’s housemate when she turned up later that night! Either way, with a nice meal in an Italian restaurant and then a few beers listening to Asif practice his set for the following night (he was DJing at the Lake of Stars), all was forgotten. Certainly an interesting start to proceedings.

The following day was a little better, making good time up to Chinteche, with a quick stop in a beautiful little local restaurant in Nkotakota complete with personal curtained pagoda and delicious cheap food.

Then the fun began! Three days of solid partying with the stunning backdrop of the lake to complement the whole picture. There were two stages: a main one mostly for live bands and late night DJs, then Harry’s bar, a smaller venue with a non-stop string of more house-oriented tunes. We spent our nights flitting between the two, dancing the night away between long waits through insipid service at the single bar for our large mugs of beer. Daytime was mostly spent recovering while we lapped up the sun… and then convincing ourselves to do it all again the following evening. We slept gingerly under the shade of trees, lounged on the beach between dips in the beautiful fresh lake water and dined on very non-Malawian greasy burgers and pizzas (not much choice I’m afraid). A weekend of complete hedonism – great fun, but I think we’re both very happy that this thing only runs once a year.

Sept 15 - Elephants for breakfast

September 15

You know you live in Africa when you’ve only driven two hours from home and you’re sitting having a relaxed camping breakfast looking out over the dusty plains to a nearby river and a couple of elephants are lazily strolling by, munching leaves and branches as they saunter. A mere one hour later you’re floating down that river, centimeters off the water level in your dug out canoe, using nothing more than an ice-cream lid taped to a stick as a paddle, gazing at the most dangerous animals in the world, hippos (they kill more humans per year than any other animal), from no more than ten metres away. A surreal experience that certainly makes you feel like you’re alive… and yes, living in Africa.

Liwonde National Park is reputedly Malawi’s finest, and the Chinguni Hills lodge and campsite is nestled in a superb area of animal-rich parkland a few minutes inside the park gates, making a trip here for a single night from Blantyre an extremely easy undertaking – even if you do have a breakdown half way that means you’re delayed a few hours drinking one or two complimentary beers at an overly hospitable Indian’s swanky hotel awaiting a mechanic. To float down the Shire River in a canoe, hippos with their Jabba-the-Hut-calls all around you and birdlife circling gracefully overhead is an outing that you simply have to experience to appreciate. From the punting through swampy marshland out into the river proper, to the nerve-racking moments of navigating through the territorial stares of the beasts of the river and the stillness and beauty of the surrounds, this place is truly wonderful.

We made the trip with many others – as seems to be the trend going away for the weekend from Blantyre – and arrived late on the Saturday afternoon (several of the others had done the Cure fun run that morning, with Heth finishing a very respectable third in the women’s 10km, hence the late start), just in time to sit with a Green and watch the colours of an already hidden sun spill across the valley in front of us. Not a bad start to the night away. Then it was a braai (the South African term for barbeque) to cook up our meat-dominated dinner over the sizzling coals as we listened to music and chatted away the evening, the beers and red wine flowing rather too easily. Heth and I managed to slink off to bed at a semi-respectable time that had us rising the next morning with a little less of a headache than some.

Breakfast was enjoyed with a beautiful view out over the Shire Valley with elephants wandering by and antelope in the distance, not to mention the baboons that we needed to continually chase away from the leftovers of the previous night (stealing plates and all!) – although nothing a few well aimed rocks couldn’t fix. Then it was off on a canoe safari on the Shire River itself. We drove there through the national park passing herds of elephant, several bushbuck, impala and waterbuck, warthog and some guinea fowl just to name a few – very nice to see a few animals again after so many years since our last visit to Africa. The canoes were two or three per vessel, with a local guy paddling the whole way, so our job was to sit back, relax and spot various birds and animals with our provided binoculars. A truly relaxing experience that is very different to anything we’ve done yet, which made it all the more enjoyable. We saw countless hippos and heard many more, getting rather close (and a little too close for Heth’s liking) to these menacing creatures as we paddled through the waterways they patrolled. At one point we even stopped at the marshy bank to watch two beasts grazing, almost completely out of the water, white birds perched innocently on their hides, as they ploughed noisily through the shrub they were devouring. Other than this it was mostly birdlife, a few distant antelope and one rather impressive crocodile which came slinking by in the water right near the end of our rather luxurious and sun drenched two and a half hours on the water.

So a perfect night away that was in every way a truly African experience… and the best part of it all is that this is right on our back doorstep!

Sept 4 - That's witchcraft!

Mysterious Malawi

September 4

Dining at Anna & Cecilia’s house last night we learnt of the witchcraft laws in Malawi. And I should pretext this by saying that traditional beliefs, including the practice of witchcraft, pervade every single aspect of village life in Malawi, with an unshakable belief that cannot be fully understood by most azungu. This is to the point where the overwhelming majority of the patients we see in the paediatrics department at the hospital have already been to a witch doctor first. In saying this, not only is witchcraft in this country quite a recognized and publicly outlawed practice, but the government has actually got a formal written Witchcraft Act – admittedly penned in 1911, but they still use it!

Laws of Malawi
Witchcraft
Chapter 7:02

An Act to deal with Trial by Ordeal,
Witchcraft & the use of Charms

Should you be found in question over acts of witchcraft you will be summonsed by the magistrate to attend a formal hearing. Here, all the completely circumstantial evidence of nothing more than hearsay will be heard by the magistrate himself, being judge, jury and executioner all in one (saves on employing too many staff I presume). And what would be the punishment for such ludicrous crimes with no factual basis whatsoever, heard by a single, not very impartial, person? How about ten years in prison. Yes, you get ten years of imprisonment if one person feels that you are indeed a witch! You can look on the bright side I guess… they used to burn you at the stake in medieval times… thankfully we’ve all moved on from that absurdity, hey!

“6. Any person who by his statements or actions represents himself to be a wizard of witch or as having or exercising the power of witchcraft shall be liable to a fine of £50 and to imprisonment for ten years.”

You would also be interested to know that witches in Malawi fly around in baskets, not the conventional broomsticks that are the more internationally recognized form of aerial transport. I guess you can get hold of a decent basket for 50 kwacha, whereas most brooms start at a hefty 150 kwacha. They do however obviously adopt the standard practice of boiling various things in their cauldrons, thus there is a rule within the Witchcraft Act that prohibits, and I kid you not, death by boiling.

“2. Trial by the ordeal of mwabvi or other poison, fire, boiling water, or by any ordeal which is likely directly or indirectly to result in death of or bodily injury to any person shall be and is hereby prohibited.”
“3. Any person who directs or controls or presides at any trial or ordeal which is prohibited by this Act shall be liable to imprisonment for 7 years.”

And the longer you stay in this loveable, but unfathomably bizarre country, the more you delve into the esoteric. Where else in the world would you find public safety posters pleading ‘do not jump onto moving vehicles,’ complete with cartoon picture of an unsuccessful attempt. Perhaps a place that doesn’t let learner drivers use their indicators because ‘that would confuse them.’ Or maybe one that turns its traffic lights off after dark… and even when they’re on they're merely suggestion anyway. So it wouldn’t surprise you that the same place has its own nationally aired soap opera that is filmed entirely on a home video camera, or that a hospital's answer to a major rat infestation was to pay the families 5 kwacha for every dead rat they could bring in, or as still to this day a minted coin worth all of AUD$0.00008. And the fun continues:


Or there’s the fabulous story of one of our good friends, Yaseen, who sacked one of his employees for stealing some nails from his factory. The employee turned up in front of his supervisor at work the following day with a forged note from Yaseen stating that he had been falsely retrenched, and that he could continue to work. Being more than a little suspicious, the supervisor sent the employee to Yaseen to verify the note. Not only did the guy have the audacity (or sheer lack of brains) to actually bring the note to Yaseen, but just as he was about to hand it over a spark must have gone off in his head as he realised his foolhardiness, so he promptly ate the note, right in front of Yaseen. Yes, he ate it.

Unfortunately not all of the quirks are that amusing. How about a government that reduces the number of nurses employed under them when an independent donor decides they will fund more nurses – the donor sees that the country doesn’t have anywhere near enough nursing staff (and rightly so), then the government decides that they can spend money elsewhere by saving on nursing because a donor is paying! Queens Hospital has just procured enough funding to build a new kangaroo care facility for newborn babies and their mothers to improve parenting skills, yet even before the ward has opened (i.e. the public don’t even have access here yet) no fewer than sixteen taps have been stolen from the place… because you can get a couple of hundred kwacha palming these off at the market! Laboratories crossing out blood test results in official reports after they have been released and not telling anyone they were in fact wrong. What about newspapers that publish articles about how doctors need to be held responsible for deaths from rabies when the government refuses to pay for or distribute the life saving vaccine given its high cost. Unfortunately the very hospital we work in provides us with an unending flow of frustrations.

Then there's the downright depressing. A six-year-old girl was admitted to our hospital with a diagnosis of pneumonia, one of the many she had suffered of late, presumably due to HIV infection. Her own mother managed to coerce her into admitting she was indeed a witch one night in hospital. The mother therefore absconded with the child the next morning to return to their village, so that the 'witch' could be given the punishment she deserves by the village chief. This sort of 'mob justice' is usually completely ill-informed, all to often violent and sometimes even results in death.

Aug 30 - Electricity & Staff

The Good, the Bad & the Ugly

August 30

Some aspects of life everybody has to deal with in Blantyre – or at least everyone with money, which I guess is not that many – are staff & electricity.

The good.
Evans, or as he spells it, Evance. We were quickly introduced to the rather foreign concept of house staff through all the other stories from expats in town, and everyone seemed to have a tale of woe regarding theft, inefficiency, demands for loans, etc., etc. Interestingly, the concept of paying someone to spend their day potentially rifling through your personal life was not something we were particularly looking forward to, and before coming here weren’t particularly keen on involving ourselves in. This, we quickly realised, was not a particularly viable perspective with so many people in such desperate need for work – not to mention the time it would drain from our lives maintaining such a beautiful, but extensive garden. While sitting on Tom’s konde watching the sunset and sipping a Green one afternoon, not long into our time here, we had our staff issues sorted out then and there.

Tom & Janette had one of their staff currently working part time as a guard and gardener. Given he has a wife and seven children to support - the norm in this part fo the world - he was naturally quite keen on some extra work. This fit in perfectly with out plans, allowing him three extra days per week at our house playing ‘jack of all trades.’ Admittedly, when he asked us how to use the ‘floor machine’ on his first day as he pointed to the vacuum cleaner (carpet not being a big feature of many houses here), or when we saw his rather questionable attempts at ironing (you’re meant to iron the creases out of the clothes, right?), we had our doubts. Yet before long we realised we had stumbled upon a rather dedicated ‘house boy.’ Evance arrives at least half an hour early each day to give the Silver Stallion his morning bathing – cleaning cars is another national obsession here (and water, unlike in good old Oz, is something which falls in ready supply). He does our dishes, hand washes our clothes, polishes the floors, cleans the bathroom, sort of irons the clothes (unless I manage to hide them from him first), maintains the garden, tends the vegetable patch and takes care of any other odd jobs that we need doing that particular day. Despite our initial trepidation, this is definitely something we are becoming far too used to very quickly!

The bad.
Electricity & water, or lack thereof. Generally, when you flick the light switch at home you expect electricity. Most of the time, with a few turns of the tap in the bathroom or kitchen, running water is the presumed result. Think again. Blantyre, in all it’s claims as a ‘city’ still has a good number of problems – much like Evance and our clothes, there’s more than a couple of creases left to iron out. The number of blackouts, or 'power shedding' as it is dubbed here, are disturbingly common. Given the electricity company cannot supply enough power to the Blantyre city grid, they simply shut down selected areas for a few hours at a time. In fact, some areas lose power so regularly that they publish the times in the national newspapers… novel, hey. Fortunately our suburb of Namiwawa isn’t as affected as some (for example, the College of Medicine guest house where we first lived when arriving), and we often go weeks on end without any problems, only to be hit by a spate of power cuts over several days – I guess that’s one the perks of being in an area that many government and business personnel live. The real problem hits when the hospital has no power. We don't have a generator, other than for the four intensive care beds usually reserved for adults, meaning that all oxygen concentrators (we don't have piped oxygen from the wall) cease to function, syringe pumps are useless after the batteries run out, you examine children by torchlight and theatres simply make do. Not something you want to experience as a patient.

Water is the other rather haphazard commodity. Although we had a wonderful supply when we first moved in (to the point where we were questioning what everyone else was whining about… and not just the Brits), we would later discover that mornings without any water at all are not altogether uncommon. The only saving grace is that most houses run hot water via a geyser, meaning that this holds a certain amount of ‘backup’ water, so you can usually squeeze out enough for a quick shower. In saying that, one particular weekend a few months in we were to experience the entire city being without water for 48 hours thanks to a blown transformer at the water board. People were wandering the streets with buckets searching out village bore holes, buying up bottled water from the stores for drinking, bathing in public swimming pools, you name it. And their solution to the water crisis? Sack the Water Board CEO, of course.

The ugly.
Clement. Okay, so we have had a bit of a win with our first staff member, Evance. Not so our second. We live in a compound with five houses in one fenced area. Mike, one of our several expat neighbours, has his company sort out our night guard (a necessity for most houses here unfortunately). This works well in that we don’t have to worry about organising his employment or references or payments, but means that if things go wrong it is difficult to do anything about them.

Perhaps the warning bells should have sounded when Clement, our rather eccentric guard, was on while we had a dinner party one night. Jackie, one of our guests, arrived with a bottle of wine. After being asked to move her car by Clement when she first parked as she was blocking someone’s access, she handed him the wine for a moment and promptly obliged. Upon returning for her wine Clement looked at her.
‘Ma’am, I think I’ll need a glass,’ he said rather seriously, holding up the bottle.
Although we laughed this incident off, putting it down to what we naively presumed was his bizarre personality, things rapidly escalated from there. All too commonly he would be found fast asleep in his little booth despite your car sitting at the gate honking repetitively, he often staggered to the gate when awake, and one night even refused to let one of the tenants out of the compound. He asked for advances on his pay, stating that he hadn’t been paid and was starving, then was unable to be woken for the rest of the night as he sleep on the ground, obviously smashed. When we told Mike, who had been holidaying at the time, he issued him with a written warning rather than firing him (something you apparently must do first here, or risk being taken to court by your employee, regardless of what they have done), but it wasn’t long before he began drinking again. The straw that broke the camels back was to be when Mike himself returned home one night to find Clement unconscious in the middle of our carpark. After he eventually woke, in complete confusion with his boss standing in front of him, he proceeded to strip naked. A rather sad story, but not a person we could sustain as an employee. Wallace, our new guard, is delightful.

Aug 23 - What's the point

August 23

It is extremely hard getting through a day of work at QE without a feeling of helplessness or hopelessness washing over you at least once or twice. The disastrous resource limitations, the overburdened medical system, the unfortunate lack of a good work ethic of many here, and the horrendous array of devastating illnesses that this country deals with on an alarmingly regular basis – they all contrive to give some reasonably trying situations. The cultural differences (and not just language) that make communication so difficult, to the sheer impossibility of getting anything done within the hospital, from a simple medication order to a ‘standard’ blood test – we cannot prescribe three times a day dosing for medications for many children because the nurses simply don’t have the time. But it’s far worse than this. The government cannot supply even the most basic medications to those who desperately need them. Every time a donor supplies more money for extra staffing in critically understaffed areas, the government reduces their own funding because they feel that they are now giving too much to an area that is already receiving funding from elsewhere. Sustainability is a completely foreign word to many here; productivity or advancement unthinkable. But can you blame them? The cost of maintaining the roads annually would be the entire country’s GDP. Malawi is one of the worst countries in the world to live in according to the World Health Organisation, where everything and anything that is accomplished seems to take ten times as long as it should, then promptly falls apart anyway. One can’t help thinking that if foreign aide and international personnel suddenly pulled out of this place it would collapse… bloody quickly. Yet this very foreign investment that is theoretically training the country to look after itself, is often doing just as much harm as good. A daunting and some would say fruitless task of development given the presence of foreign aide engendering a ‘they will just do it for us’ attitude in the first place. Catch 22, right? Then there’s the misappropriation of foreign monies by various bodies, poor communication and subsequent duplication of many non-government organisation services, inappropriate restrictions or conditions from misinformed yet often well intentioned donors, and the list goes on. So what’s the point? Not for the first time, after a particularly long and trying day it is difficult to not come back to these thoughts and wonder what difference we are actually making being here. And you wonder why a Green tastes so good at the end of the day!

But then you can look at it from another perspective. Do we actually make a great difference on a day to day basis in Australia, a country with such lofty standards of living and advanced health care standards (for the most part), indulging people in the illusion of medical illness with expert committee-derived social diseases that some would argue are a result of our own society and its expectations anyway. If we leave here another equally qualified and committed person is ready and willing to take our place. Yet by simply being here in Malawi maybe we are contributing something more realistic in our own little way, yet not being able to see it on a day to day level through the constant barrage of negative experiences on the medical front. We are helping to educate a new and previously untapped breed of Malawian medical students, instilling a modicum of dedicated work ethic simply by leading by example, bringing our high quality specialist education and possible funding sources to a resource poor setting that desperately needs them, and spending our own money in the country we are working in, helping the economy of the place by small amounts here and there (except at Shoprite and Game, that’s money straight into the pockets of South Africans). A difficult and unanswerable series of thoughts and questions, and ones that are quite refreshing, yet frustrating, to have to deal with on a regular basis.

Aug 11 - Mulanje Massif

August 11-12

The other extreme of the hedonism and pure relaxation of Lake Malawi is the second jewel in Malawi’s crown, the Mulanje Massif. It’s a strikingly high plateau that rises dramatically out of the flat escarpment only eighty kilometers southeast of Blantyre… another perfect weekend getaway for us. And having a 3000-metre high trekking paradise in your backyard certainly isn’t something the average Australian is accustomed to, so we were keen to capitalise on this.

A series of well maintained huts up on the plateau itself (equipped with sleeping mats, blankets, cooking equipment, crockery and cutlery… as long as you're a member of the Mountain Club) and seemingly endless different treks up there make this destination enjoyable and completely different every time you venture up, and that’s without even taking into account the vegetation and weather changes as the year moves through its seasons.

Our first trip up, heading towards the peak of Sapitwa, which at 3001-metres above sea level is the highest of the 59 recognised peaks, was with a huge group of twenty expats from Blantyre… not your every day trekking group. Despite this the speeds of different walkers soon had us into smaller more manageable groups, allowing us to relax and enjoy the endless views as we climbed the rather steep ascent to the plateau – an unavoidable initial slog regardless of which path you choose. With the 1000-metre high escarpment stretching into the distance in every direction around the massif, every walk here affords incomparable vistas with each new turn – the current one being no exception. Small villages appear more and more like ant colonies the further you climb, smaller mountains waver in the mirage of distant perspective and dry season dusts, and small fires, both legal and illegal, dot the mountainside and surrounding land begging for the drenching of the wet season which hits in November and transforms the country.

The huts on the plateau, Chisepo being the one we were heading towards, are well built wooden constructions with communal sleeping space for a varying number of people – although with more you can always sleep out on the verandah during these drier months. A local hut attendant takes care of the place on a daily basis, keeping the fires going, fetching water if required and cleaning the pots and dishes after each meal, with the general principle of leaving a small tip for each night you stay to supplement his forestry wages. We also generally take porters and guides up the mountain. Not because we cart extraordinary amounts up or wound have excessive difficulty finding the paths, but mainly because it is their only form of employment, and the set rates are very reasonable, providing a good source of income for otherwise struggling families. Many of them are also nice young guys who are good at what they do.

Sapitwa itself is a remarkable peak, with a nice scramble over large rock formations to reach it. The views from the top, to which only a handful of us decided to trek the following morning, are quite incredible, with one entire side of this expansive massif looking out towards the north of Mozambique and on to the Indian Ocean. Despite the knee shattering 6 hour 2000-metre descent, and the fact that the other trekkers had mistakenly taken our lunch from the hut we returned to leaving us with nothing, we were completely intoxicated with Mulanje. Peter’s goal is to climb to the plateau once for every month he is here – we’ve decided we like the sound of that. And the best bit about it all? The pizzeria with authentic pizzas and bloody cold beer back in Mulanje town… a just reward for a weekend of activity.

Aug 3 - Lake Malawi

Skewered Mice & The Malawian Highway

August 3-5
Sitting at a beachside bar, music wafting over you, looking out at the last remnants of light slowly melting into the crystalline waters of the lake as you order another Green. It’s not exactly Africa as the locals know it, but it’s hard to beat. The still waters of the lake dance reflections of the soft distant string of lights that line the horizon. This is not the opposite shore, but the multitude of fishing boats that trudge out for their working day, clocking on every sundown and fishing religiously through the darkened hours to earn a living. Peak hour here is a few extra ripples in the glassy surface as the vessels move out to their hunting ground. Then, with their day well under way and most others sleeping in their mud brick or thatched straw housing, you can see it. From the banks of the lake, where the tourist lodges ply their trade to the comparative wealth, you can gaze out at what is colloquially known as the ‘Malawian Highway.’ And I must say, it’s the best damn highway view going around.

Lake Malawi is the third biggest on the continent. Its shores form a spine for tourism down the country, both figuratively and literally. Lodges catering to backpackers, package tourists and expatriates alike serve pizza and omelettes, throw on dance music at the drop of a hat, and are more than ready with a cold beer or a glass of Malawian Gin. Cape Maclear, rivaling Nkata Bay in the north for the crown of biggest tourist trap in the country, is a stunning promontory of white sand beach that pits the true disparities of wealth in this country side by side. The local village is a characterful ramshackle affair that is hardly glanced at by the tourists who head straight for the walled enclosures of the lodges. It is an absurd dichotomy, considering the debaucherous wealth within the walls and the flagrance with which it is dispensed here, but that is unfortunately the reality of this country. The ‘haves’ and the ‘have nots’, side by side, like it or leave it.

Despite these negatives, Cape Maclear is gorgeous, and is it little wonder that it has developed into the place that it has. For us it is the perfect setting for a weekend away from the working world of Blantyre. Small private huts that front directly onto the fine sand, a lodge that is secluded up in the northern corner of the cape, and perfect clear weather ideal for lounging on the beach or in the water… schistomsomes and all. It seemed that every man and his dog from Blantyre had descended upon Chembe Lodge this particular weekend, meaning that the place was crammed with expats there for one thing only… to party. This meant that our weekend was dominated by the generosity and hospitality of others, and by a supply of every drink you could imagine.

Chembe is owned by Aubrey, a loud, heavy drinking South African who was here for the weekend from Blantyre with a group of friends. He has built his own house next to the bungalows and decked it out with the purpose of entertaining. A pool table, dart board, huge bar and big speakers all get a thorough workout by everyone he can find to invite back to his place, meaning that every night there is simply one enormous party. Not exactly how you would choose to live every day of your life, nor what I would want to do every time I came to the lake, but great to get to know a few people and get away from Blantyre for the weekend.

The trip to the lake is not without highlight either – even dismissing the crater that Katharine, our friend who drove us there, managed to career straight into. Small villages dot the roadside, people congregating beside this vein of activity, with market produce being vended to every passerby who slows. Tomatoes, green vegetables, onions, shoes, bicycles, chitenjes (the material that the females use for sarong-style skirts, baby carrying and anything else), pottery and even mice. Yes, mice. Boys dangle these appetizing little babies out in front of you five or so to a skewer, having been barbecued whole and ready to sell. They catch them using small fires to attract the rodents, then cook them up to earn a few extra kwacha. So if you’re hungry on the way to your relaxing weekend getaway and you’ve forgotten to throw an apple or a bag of chips in the car, fear not, you can simply grab a half dozen mice to much on. Mmm, mmm.

July 30 - Blantyre by night

July 30

You don’t walk around Blantyre after dark. Malawi may be one of the safer and friendlier places on the continent – not especially difficult when you’re dealing with countries the likes of Somalia & Sierra Leone or cities such as Johannesburg & Nairobi – but it’s still not a place to be taken too lightly come nightfall. By 6pm everyone is scurrying along the roads, making driving even more challenging with all the pedestrians by twilight, trying to get home before a curtain of dark envelops the town. Very few streetlights, minimal traffic, poor signposting and a distinct lack of businesses open late means the evening becomes a somewhat lonely affair on the streets. You certainly wouldn’t want to be out alone as a mzungu (‘white person’ in Chichewa, the local language) walking in the dark, that would be asking for trouble.

Yet if you scratch the surface, Blantyre is very much active come night, you simply need to know where to look. Heaving bars hide surreptitiously behind large guarded gates, reasonable and varied restaurants lurk secretively down dark alleyways and there’s always someone having drinks or dinner or something of the like in a private home somewhere. You could fill your social calendar twice over ever night of the week if you accepted every invitation that is thrown your way here. I think we have more on in Blantyre throughout each week than we ever had in Melbourne.

One of the goals for us in our move to Blantyre was to get to know plenty of Africans and to maintain as much of a local influence to our lives as manageable. Something we presumed wouldn’t be too difficult given our single local salary and the vast predominance of black Africans living here. In fact, other than the second generation whites and the expatriate community in Blantyre, there are literally no white Malawians. The problem is that the expat community in this place is huge. Within only a couple of weeks of living here we have rapidly realised that there is something social on within the expat world every single night… and given how much more relaxing it is culturally to spend time with westerners, it becomes quite a trap very rapidly. Hash House Harriers running on a Monday night, volleyball Wednesdays, happy hour at one of the expat bars Tuesdays and Thursdays, live music at the Blue Elephant Bar on Wednesdays, more running on Thursdays, always a going away or housewarming or birthday party Fridays & Saturdays. Add to that some Chichewa lessons, on call for work, multiple trips away from Blantyre on weekends and being invited to dinner by a constant stream of friends given you’re the new kid on the block to begin with, and you have barely got time to scratch yourself.

We had also planned life in Africa to be somewhat of a break from alcohol. Think again. Greens, the local name for the ubiquitous Carlsberg beer (Blantyre being the only city on the continent with a Carlsberg brewery) due to the green label, seem to be a part of every activity here. Unfortunately, drink driving is also something that seems rather prevalent given the lack of safety on the streets at night and a complete lack of any formal taxi service. This isn’t helped by the police only owning a single breathalyzer for the whole city, and knocking off from work at midnight anyway. One of our friends, Henry, managed to get pulled over and tested by this one breathalyzer after a few too many Greens at the Blue Elephant one night.
‘Blow into the machine sir.’ Henry promptly did as he was told, although very softly.
‘No sir, like this,’ added the cop, demonstrating an adequate breath.
‘Oh,’ replied Henry, promptly sticking the tube up his nose and blowing as hard as he could. The policeman was apparently quite thrown by the yellow-green slime that now coated his brand new machine. Bewildered, he examined it for a moment.
‘You can go sir,’ came his less than confident response to this somewhat unconventional method. ‘What’s my reading?’ inquired Henry, now rather amused by the whole thing.
‘Um, I don’t know, but you can go.’

'To drink and not drive,' quotes Henry, 'now that would be dangerous.'

July 24 - Furniture time

July 24-August 2
You don’t just turn up to a megastore here and get all your furniture needs in one go, this is Africa. Like the taste of their local beer, furniture is something you acquire slowly (admittedly Chibuku is something we could never, no matter how long we stay here, get used to – something akin to drinking overdue milk with a generous lashing of sand stirred through).

How to buy a bed. Head down to the local eatery and befriend Kusum, the lovely Indian woman who owns the place. Temptations Coffee Shop, although sounding rather cosmopolitan in name, is actually little more than a few plastic chairs sprinkled haphazardly around some dilapidated linoleum covered tables, a solitary pie warmer atop the counter that barely keeps alive a few very dead looking samosas and a sausage roll or two, and a dusty little food preparation area where the ‘chefs’ churn out the daily special as written in marker pen on an old piece of paper, obviously not having differed for several months. ‘Chambo, nsima & vegetables, 250MK.’ As you eat, you listen to the choke of traffic from a busy intersection outside. Temptations, indeed. At least the food isn’t too greasy. Oil is somewhat of a national obsession here, and when you hear that the roadside chips are fried in oil stolen from electricity transformers, it doesn’t make it too hard to forego. Kusum’s sister, Vibha, was downsizing her current bed, so within a day of moving into our house we were the proud owners of a monstrous king size bed with oak bed head and bedside tables, complete with garishly pink doona cover that is simply too kitsch to do away with. Perfect.

Next, a lounge suite. Straight down to the curio market in the centre of town to meet Joseph, an entrepreneurial young local who makes cane furniture relatively cheaply. Two armchairs, a sofa couch, a coffee table and a large mirror, all hand delivered… and I mean that. They literally hoist the things onto their heads and walk from the centre of town to wherever you live. It’s actually not too uncommon to see locals walking the streets with beds, couches, chairs and other assorted pieces balanced precariously on their heads. Our cushions we then had made from offcuts at the local foam factory before the local material shop did a nice job of covering them, side piping and all.

A dining table? This time off to the main Blantyre market for some protracted bargaining. A few hours later we had a heavy rectangular wooden dining table and six wonderfully garish old English style dining chairs complete with lurid red patterned seats and backs perched in the back of a pickup with half a dozen local boys holding them in place on the way to our house. What more could you want in the middle of Africa?

Kitchenware? Expats mostly. Second hand markets, house sales, friends of friends, notice boards at supermarkets. A slow trickle of goodies are slowly finding their way to our kitchen, gradually allowing us to feel like we can begin to cook as we want to.

For some items we reluctantly hit the more conven- tional stores, not wanting to get stuck with a malfunc- tioning fridge or stove. Game, the new South African homewares superstore (Bunnings meets Harvey Norman… although I think that’s overplaying it a little), seems to be the cheapest and best for reliable goods – that is, once you’ve organised ludicrous amounts of cash to buy anything (you can only take out 20,000 kwacha per day from ATMs, all in the largest denomination of 500MK notes, which means several trips to the ATM for one fridge purchase), cut the wiring, stripped it back and changed the plugs of the South African appliances to the Malawian UK variety, and had the wrong fridge sent over and therefore sent back again. Even then, the door decides it wants to pop open relatively regularly meaning your food goes off just that little bit quicker. Looking on the bright side, I guess it saves on defrosting.

July 21 - Next comes a house

Houses and house ‘boys’

July 21
All the modern houses here seem to follow the same recipe. Monstrous high brick fence adorned with fashionable barbed or electric wiring, expansive luxuriant gardens that dwarf the still rather sizeable but more than a little rundown house. You have a guard – just honk at the gate and it shall open – who works by night, sleeping most of the time you’re not looking (but who can blame them). You also have a gardener, and of course, a ‘house boy’. The latter is a cook, cleaner and general jack of all trades, not, as the name may suggest, a young Thai fellow. These local employees, invariably desperate for the work they have, are paid a paltry salary in western terms and seem to work hours completely foreign to you and I. This understandably creates problems for many given the obvious disparity of wealth between employer and employee, with stories of theft, absconding, unpaid loans and other requests for money rife throughout the expat scene, and it didn’t take us long to be regaled with everyone’s opinions and experiences of staff they have had, currently have or had heard of.
‘How do we find staff?’ we had naively asked Tom, one of the other paediatricians, at dinner.
‘Oh don’t worry, they will find you.’

Advice from all and sundry regarding houses and house boys abounded in those first few weeks.
‘Make sure you get references from your staff.’
‘Pay them well and they won’t ask you for money.’
‘Loaning them money is a problem.’
‘Don’t overpay them.’
‘Have a written contract.’
‘Get a house with security doors.’
‘Make sure you don’t have vacant land beside your house.’
‘The College of Medicine will help you find a place.’
‘You’ll need to pay 3 months rent in advance.’
‘Electricity is a problem, as is water, so choose your location carefully.’
‘You could look on notice boards.’
‘Use an estate agent.’
‘Surely there’s an expat leaving, you can take their house.’
‘You don’t want to use a real estate agent.’
‘Check the roof.’
‘Check the security.’
‘Check the nearest Rapid Response location.’
‘Quiet streets are bad.’
‘Busy streets are bad.’
You name it, within the first couple of weeks of arriving in Blantyre and looking for a house, we had heard it all.

Heth did most of the house hunting, with my work taking up the majority of weekday working hours. She looked at six or seven places over the week, ranging from College of Medicine flea ridden dumps to grand four bedroom behemoths that were far too big to consider furnishing for only twelve months. After I looked at a couple of prospective choices it was abundantly clear that the one we ended up taking, a small two bedroom place in the suburb of Namiwawa only three minutes drive west of town, was the right choice. Our place is termed a town house, although it is simply a series of five similar almost free standing houses that share the same compound and gate, with the added bonus that you don’t have to organise hiring a guard (although that was to turn out to be somewhat of a saga in itself).

Our garden stretches back almost twenty five metres – a small one by Blantyre standards – and is adorned with a swathe of lovely papaya, avocado and mango trees, frangipani, bougainvillea and other tropical delights, as well as a ready-made vegetable garden. Our konde (the Afrikaans word for ‘balcony’, which everyone seems to use here) is a small elevated brick square construct draped in creeping vines and hanging potted plants. It looks out over Mount Muchiru, one of the three beautiful peaks which encircle suburban Blantyre, completing the perfect scene for a lazy late afternoon ‘Green’ with the sun blazing it’s reds and pinks through the dry season dusts… at least until the mosquitoes descend upon you in force each evening.

We have a small dining area with attached bar and an open walk through to the living area. There’s a small kitchen – most kitchens are small and closed off here given the majority of house owners employ a cook and don’t have any need to spend much time there – and two sizeable bedrooms with one small, slightly run down bathroom. Comparatively speaking, our house, although smaller than many around here, is relatively well maintained and quite new, something you particularly notice in the kitchen and bathroom in many places. Despite this, the one bullet that we weren’t able to dodge was the lack of anything in the house whatsoever. No stove; no curtains; no phone lines; no lamp shades; nothing. It seems standard here that when you rent a house you have to fit the entire place out. Not really what we were expecting only being here for a short time, but as they say: ‘When in Rome…’

Either way, we have been here only a week and a half and now have ourselves a comfy little home that we are gradually turning into something our own.