I have been shockingly lax recently when it comes to posting things here on the subject that the blog was, originally, ostensibly about : travel.
So I've decided that it's time to dust down another of my old travelogues and present it, in sections, for your entertainment. In this, and subsequent, entries, names have been changed but everything else is completely factual.
The meaning of the title for these entries will become clear later.
The meaning of the title for these entries will become clear later.
It's hard to believe that it's only fourteen years since I went on a package holiday in Malawi and Zambia. It feels like it was much longer than that. Still, that's what the dates on the diary say so I suppose it must be true. The first diary entry for the trip is dated 17th December 1996 and I had just arrived in Malawi.
*
After the dusty downbeat shabbiness of our stopover at Addis Ababa, Lilongwe airport was a haven of calm and tranquillity. It was cool spacious and pleasant. It hardly felt like an airport at all. Our tour leader, Geoff, was waiting for us. Dressed in a jungle green short sleeved shirt and shorts he looked every inch the great white hunter. When he spoke to introduce himself his English had the distinctive sound of a South African. He introduced himself and immediately gained our unending affection by handing out cold beers from back of the Land Rover.
Outside the airport the day was bright and hot, the air sticky and humid. The airport looked as good from there as from inside, occupying a broad tree lined avenue rather than the usual acres of car filled concrete. We stood around drinking the beer and helping load our luggage onto the roof of the vehicle. There were only six of us. David was a tall thin man with greying hair and a beard. He was there with Louise. Both of them were difficult to place in an age bracket but were probably in their fifties. Barry, who I correctly surmised was to be my room mate was shorter, solidly built and beginning to lose his hair. He was also about the same age. Of the two single women one, Sheila was older - perhaps about sixty - and the other Sarah was younger - probably late thirties.
After a short drive we arrived at lodging for the night, a relatively shabby resthouse. It had, we were assured, been newly decorated and improved shortly before our arrival. It must have been an interesting place before. The beds were hard and not especially clean. The toilet and shower could best be described as 'basic with an overpowering smell of urine'. The corridors were filled with broken and discarded furniture.
We asked at reception for mosquito nets.
"No mosquito nets, no mosquitoes." the owner said swatting away the mosquito feeding on his cheek. Back in the room I dug out my own net and set it up. I tried to talk to my room mate. He was a seasoned hand at Africa having visited most of it in the last twenty years or so. He seemed basically decent but a little pompous and self righteous - a 'been there, done that, sponsored the new wing of the orphanage' sort of a guy. Ten minutes in his company and you felt guilty for not selling all of your possessions and donating the proceeds to Somalian refugees. I gave up trying to hold a conversation and went to take a shower.
A little later, clean and changed and feeling refreshed I went for a walk around the immediate environs. The sounds were different to anywhere I had ever been. My stroll led me down a dusty road, past a school and into what seemed to be a half built shopping area. All the way I was accompanied by the noise of insects and frogs in a perpetually shifting rhythm, magnified by the stillness of the air and sometimes accompanied by the distant wail of an Islamic call to prayer.
Outside the airport the day was bright and hot, the air sticky and humid. The airport looked as good from there as from inside, occupying a broad tree lined avenue rather than the usual acres of car filled concrete. We stood around drinking the beer and helping load our luggage onto the roof of the vehicle. There were only six of us. David was a tall thin man with greying hair and a beard. He was there with Louise. Both of them were difficult to place in an age bracket but were probably in their fifties. Barry, who I correctly surmised was to be my room mate was shorter, solidly built and beginning to lose his hair. He was also about the same age. Of the two single women one, Sheila was older - perhaps about sixty - and the other Sarah was younger - probably late thirties.
After a short drive we arrived at lodging for the night, a relatively shabby resthouse. It had, we were assured, been newly decorated and improved shortly before our arrival. It must have been an interesting place before. The beds were hard and not especially clean. The toilet and shower could best be described as 'basic with an overpowering smell of urine'. The corridors were filled with broken and discarded furniture.
We asked at reception for mosquito nets.
"No mosquito nets, no mosquitoes." the owner said swatting away the mosquito feeding on his cheek. Back in the room I dug out my own net and set it up. I tried to talk to my room mate. He was a seasoned hand at Africa having visited most of it in the last twenty years or so. He seemed basically decent but a little pompous and self righteous - a 'been there, done that, sponsored the new wing of the orphanage' sort of a guy. Ten minutes in his company and you felt guilty for not selling all of your possessions and donating the proceeds to Somalian refugees. I gave up trying to hold a conversation and went to take a shower.
A little later, clean and changed and feeling refreshed I went for a walk around the immediate environs. The sounds were different to anywhere I had ever been. My stroll led me down a dusty road, past a school and into what seemed to be a half built shopping area. All the way I was accompanied by the noise of insects and frogs in a perpetually shifting rhythm, magnified by the stillness of the air and sometimes accompanied by the distant wail of an Islamic call to prayer.
A child sitting in a pile of truck tyres waved at me and I waved back. A man was crouched by the side of the road repairing a bicycle even though it was already becoming dark. A notice proclaimed that the Lilongwe Sewage Recycling Project was co-funded by Japan. This last was the first indication of a theme to be noticed time and again in the country. Everywhere were signs of Japanese investment from the many co-funded projects to the enormous number of Toyota Land Cruisers. Soon it became too dark to sensibly continue and I returned to the hotel ready for my evening meal. This was to be taken at the local golf club.
The golf club restaurant was run by an ex-patriot Englishman. He was a fussy host in a maroon shirt who had much to say on the subject of African economics and how the hurdles put in the way of starting businesses made small investment difficult. All the same, he pointed out, there was building and development going on everywhere and that was a sure sign of healthy economic growth. He talked while we ate, keeping up a constant stream of the type of conversation that is probably the staple of every golf club in the world. Outside the sights and sounds of the country might have seemed different but inside, if the conversation could be taken as a guide, we might as well have been in Surrey.
The golf club restaurant was run by an ex-patriot Englishman. He was a fussy host in a maroon shirt who had much to say on the subject of African economics and how the hurdles put in the way of starting businesses made small investment difficult. All the same, he pointed out, there was building and development going on everywhere and that was a sure sign of healthy economic growth. He talked while we ate, keeping up a constant stream of the type of conversation that is probably the staple of every golf club in the world. Outside the sights and sounds of the country might have seemed different but inside, if the conversation could be taken as a guide, we might as well have been in Surrey.
Of course, the combination of my lack of interest in Malawian business ordeals and my tiredness from the flight guaranteed that I would remember nothing of the meal tomorrow – not even what I had eaten – so his words were largely wasted. They simply made a droning backdrop to the evening as we all focussed on the idea that we could soon go to sleep and be ready for the first proper day of the trip.
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