Shenanigans on a bike - By Leana Niemand
BETWEEN DUST AND WATER
MALAWI
Km
650 – 55 Days
10
May – 4 July 2022
CYCLE TOURING MALAWI
Chapter 1: Into Malawi
Border crossings
The border lay scarcely twenty kilometres from Chipata, yet it felt like
a passage into another world. A slip of paper, twenty dollars, and a
perfunctory nod were all it took to cross. No queues, no PCR tests, no fuss.
Africa has its own way of smoothing the edges of bureaucracy, and I found
myself pedalling into Malawi with a stamped passport and a sense of curiosity.
Malawi is a sliver of land, narrow and elongated, hemmed in by
neighbours and dominated by its great lake. I had imagined it would take little
time to traverse, but the country immediately proved otherwise. Borders are not
just lines on maps; they are thresholds of culture. Within minutes, the scenery
shifted. Sugarcane appeared in abundance, stalks clutched in every hand, chewed
with a rhythm that seemed to pulse through the villages. The potholes deepened,
bicycles multiplied, and the cadence of life slowed into something distinctly
Malawian.
At roadside stands, meat sizzled over open flames, chips fried in
battered pans. The smell of sizzling oil drifted across the dusty roadside, and
as I handed over a few kwacha, the crowd pressed closer, curious to see how the
foreigner would eat their everyday food. It felt like the entire neighbourhood
gathered as though a circus had arrived. Children shrieked in delight, their
voices rising in a chorus of “Azungu, azungu!” — wanderer, foreigner, spirit.
The word carried echoes of history, once used to describe restless spirits, now
applied to anyone with pale skin. Their laughter was infectious, though tinged
with awe, as if my presence cracked open a window to another world.
After 90 kilometres, midway to Lilongwe, I surrendered to the lure of a
rest house. The walls were unpainted, the bedding tattered, the bathroom a hole
in the ground at the far end of the yard. Yet the rate was four dollars, and
the door closed firmly. In Africa, my comfort is often measured not in thread
count but in the simple luxury of privacy. I told myself I would shower in
Lilongwe.
Chapter 2: Smoke and Birdsong
Barefoot Lodge and Kindness
Dawn arrived with the crowing of cocks and the squeak of doors as guests
shuffled to the latrine. Smoke hung low over the village, fires stoked for
breakfast, children walking to school, women tending chip stands. The smell of
smouldering wood was unmistakably African — earthy, sweet, and alive. I brewed
coffee on my stove, watched by curious eyes, and set off once more.
The road narrowed, winding through villages where every purchase became
a spectacle. Nearing Lilongwe, a sign pointed to Barefoot Lodge, a place
another traveller had recommended. I veered off the main road and found a
haven: cottages, a campsite, dorms shaded by trees. Rudolph, the owner,
welcomed me with a smile and offered cyclists a free night if they paid for
one. I pitched my tent, grateful for kindness, and spent the next day in
idleness, though I should have done laundry.
A hop and a skip to Lilongwe
Birdsong woke me the next morning, a gentle chorus that felt like a
blessing. I loaded my bike slowly, for the day’s ride was short — only fifteen
kilometres into the capital. I chose a rural path, weaving through traditional
villages where life unfolded in rhythms far removed from the city. Children
followed, wide-eyed, their laughter trailing behind me. In Lilongwe, I found
Mabuya Camp, a backpackers’ lodge shaded by trees, but empty of travellers. The
absence was palpable; international tourism had not yet returned to its former
pulse.
I walked to the city mall, withdrew kwacha — one US dollar equalling a
thousand — and bought supplies for the journey south. The streets were alive
with informal trade. At traffic lights, vendors sold jeans, brooms, fruit,
vegetables. Commerce spilt into every corner, vibrant and unrestrained. I loved
the ease with which people moved, the improvisation of daily life. Back at
Mabuya Camp, I repacked my panniers, preparing for the road to Blantyre, where
Caron would join me for three weeks of shared adventure.
Chapter 3: The Road to Blantyre
The Road to Salima
The road from Lilongwe to Salima was a narrow 110-kilometre ride, hemmed
in by hills that demanded patience and strength. Each incline slowed my pace;
children ran alongside, their voices rising in a chorus of “Muzungu, muzungu,
give me money!” At first their demands grated, but I discovered that a simple
greeting — a smile, a question about their well-being — dissolved the tension.
Connection, even fleeting, was stronger than coins.
The final descent carried me toward Lake Malawi, the country’s beating
heart. The air shifted, cooler and damp, as the horizon opened into blue.
Villages along the way revealed rectangular huts, a legacy of colonial
encouragement to build “proper” European-style homes. Yet, I thought of the
circular huts I had seen elsewhere in Africa, their geometry echoing communal
life: circles around fires, circles of elders, circles where no one is hidden.
Round walls resist the wind; they resist exclusion too.
Salima offered a courtyard guesthouse, inexpensive and unpretentious. My
laptop gave up the ghost that evening, a cruel twist for a writer on the road.
I hoped Blantyre’s repair shops might breathe life back into it. For now, I
surrendered to the rhythm of the land.
Ceremonies in Dust
A 80 km bike ride to Kolomoti carried me past baobabs, their trunks
swollen like ancient guardians, and women balancing baskets of pumpkins on
their heads with effortless grace. Men herded cattle along dusty tracks, and
roadside markets spilt colour into the landscape.
Then came the ceremony. Drums thundered, dust rose, and dancers stamped
in unison, their bodies adorned with masks and tribal cloth. The air vibrated
with energy, a spectacle both mesmerizing and intimidating. I longed to capture
it with my camera, but the crowd pressed close, demanding money for each click.
The atmosphere shifted from celebration to claustrophobia, and I slipped away,
carrying the rhythm in memory rather than pixels.
That night was spent in a modest lodge down a dirt road. I paid 7000
kwacha for a room. The scrutiny of villagers was intense, but the door closed
firmly, and I was content. Privacy is a currency of its own.
Headwinds and Silence
Breakfast was a feast: chips, eggs, salad, porridge, coffee. I needed
every calorie, even though the road to Balaka was short only 85 km it was punishing.
A headwind pressed against me, relentless, and each kilometre felt doubled.
Villagers reacted to my presence with fear — a woman dropped her bundle of wood
and fled into the bushes, children carrying water buckets scattered at the
sight of my camera. One slipped down an embankment in panic, a moment that left
me stunned. I tucked the camera away.
Yet amid the unease, there was peace. The countryside carried a rhythm
of its own, unhurried and self-contained. Life here was not harder, I thought,
merely different. The concrete jungle has its own burdens; the rural path its
own serenity.
Toward Blantyre
From Balaka to Zalewa, the road climbed steadily. I bought mandasies —
fried dough balls — for fifty kwacha each, and the purchase drew a crowd of
curious eyes. Every transaction was theatre. Later, the asphalt ended abruptly,
replaced by uneven gravel. Vendors sold grilled mice on sticks, bamboo cages
with bright birds, curiosities of survival and trade.
The wind rose again, and fatigue pressed hard. I surrendered to the lure
of an upmarket guesthouse, pricey but promising a warm shower. Blantyre lay
only sixty kilometres ahead, and Caron would not arrive for several days. I had
time to pause.
In Blantyre, I waited for Caron, and after her arrival, we ambled into
town for a SIM Card and a few needed items.
Chapter 4:
Mulanje — The Mountain of Spirits
Across the tea plantations
We pedalled out of Blantyre well-fed and rested, panniers bulging with
supplies for the days ahead. The road toward Mulanje carried us past tea
plantations, their luminous green stretching endlessly, workers bent low as
they plucked leaves with rhythmic precision. The chaos of market towns gave way
to quiet paths, and by evening we reached Likhubula, where guides and porters
waited beneath the shadow of the massif.
Mulanje is no ordinary mountain. Its granite shoulders rise abruptly
from the plains, cloaked in cedar forests and mist. Legends speak of spirits
dwelling in its ravines, and as we arranged our hike, I felt both anticipation
and reverence. Vincent, our guide, greeted us with calm authority, and a porter
shouldered our bulging pack. We were ready.
Day One: Into the Clouds
Fog lay low as we set off, walking sticks freshly carved and engraved.
The trail wound upward through dense woodland, damp earth releasing its scent
beneath our boots. Soon we emerged at a waterfall, its spray cool against our
faces, before climbing higher still.
By midday, the mist parted, unveiling peaks that pierced the sky. Chambe
Hut awaited us, a simple refuge with a caretaker who brewed tea and heated
water for washing. Caron took the shower gratefully; I chose to remain
unwashed, content to sit by the fire with a Carlsberg beer, watching the sun
sink behind the ridges. The mountain had welcomed us gently.
Day Two: Fragrance and Fellowship
The morning dawned bright, and we set off at a leisurely pace. Shrubs
brushed against our legs, releasing herbal fragrances, while cedar trees
perfumed the air. Birds sang unseen, their melodies weaving into the silence.
At midday we paused at a hut, sharing lunch with two hikers from New
Zealand. Later, at Tuchila Hut, we met a Belgian traveller who had brought not
only a guide and porter but a cook. Her meal included dessert, while ours was
instant noodles. We laughed at the contrast, envy softened by camaraderie.
Travel humbles and delights in equal measure.
Day Three: The Break
The morning was glorious, sunlight spilling across granite outcrops. We
descended into fern-filled ravines, the air cool and damp. Then came the slip.
My foot lost grip, and I fell hard. Pain shot through me, and when I looked, my
wrist bent at an unnatural angle.
It is a terrible thing to see your own body betray you. I wanted to cry,
to rage, but neither would help. Caron’s holiday shattered in that instant, yet
she remained calm, steady. Vincent tried to push the bone back into place —
agony beyond words — before fashioning a splint from tape and wood. We cooked
pasta that night, speaking little. I felt the weight of guilt, of
inconvenience, of fragility. The mountain had turned from companion to
adversary.
Day Four: Descent
The final walk was slow, each downhill step a trial. My shoes lacked
tread, my wrist throbbed, but the scenery remained magnificent. Tea plantations
stretched luminous and endless, a reminder that beauty persists even in pain.
At the trail’s end, Vincent arranged a ride back to Likhubula. The hike
was over, not as planned, but complete, nonetheless. Mulanje had given us
vistas, fragrances, fellowship — and a broken wrist. It was a lesson in
humility, in the unpredictability of journeys. We stowed our bikes and began to
plan the next stage, knowing that resilience would carry us forward.
Chapter 5: Casts and Kindness
Zomba
We left Mulanje with my wrist bound in a makeshift splint, Caron steady
at my side. Pain pulsed with each movement, but there was nothing to do except
soldier on. A small car carried us and our bicycles to Zomba, its backseat
crammed with panniers and frames. The driver laughed at the improbable load,
yet somehow it fit.
Pakachere Backpackers welcomed us with dorms and camping, and I slowly
pitched the tent, each task a reminder of my injury. Caron, ever resourceful,
arranged a day trip to the plateau while I sought medical help.
The hospital was a labyrinth of ramshackle buildings, patients bleeding
and limping through corridors. Equipment squeaked, offices resembled
storerooms, and yet care was given freely. X-rays revealed the fracture, and a
half-cast was applied. “Return in three days,” they said, “once the swelling
subsides.” The bones did not align, but concern seemed minimal.
Zomba itself was cool at 1000 metres, the air crisp. We borrowed
blankets, wandered dusty markets, searched for food and a backpack for my bus
journeys ahead. On the plateau, Emperor’s View opened wide, named for Haile
Selassie’s visit in 1965. Rastafarians still climb to honour the place, pipes
in hand, smoke curling into the sky.
Back in town, I returned reluctantly to the hospital. The swelling had
eased, and a full cast was applied. My arm was heavy, awkward, but secure. We
ended the day with beer and chips, small comforts against the weight of
circumstance.
Liwonde — Hippos and Elephants
Caron set off bravely on her first solo ride, pedalling toward Liwonde.
I followed in a minivan, my bicycle stored safely in Zomba. The road was rough,
potholes deep, but kindness smoothed the way. A helper carried my bag on her
head, laughing at my astonishment.
Bushman’s Baobab camp was closed, but fortune intervened. Across the
road, a half-built lodge offered us a vast room at the price of camping. We
settled in beside the Shire River, lulled by the grunts of hippos in the night.
At dawn, we set out by canoe. The riverbanks teemed with life: elephants
moving with gentle grace, hippos surfacing with snorts, their skin glistening
in the sun. They cannot sweat, I learned, but secrete a reddish oil that acts
as sunblock — the origin of the myth that hippos sweat blood. The air was alive
with birdsong, the water rippled with movement.
Here, amid wildlife, my broken wrist seemed insignificant. Nature
carried on, vast and indifferent, yet profoundly soothing. The elephants
reminded me of resilience, the hippos of adaptation. I watched them for hours,
forgetting pain, remembering wonder.
Monkey Bay — Edge of the Lake
From Mangochi, Caron pedalled onward while I wrestled with the
unpredictability of public transport. Minivans sputtered, broke down, and
transferred passengers mid-journey, each hiccup a reminder that riding a
bicycle could be simpler than relying on engines. By the time I reached Monkey
Bay, Caron was already there, smiling despite fatigue.
Mufasa Lodge sat at the water’s edge, a haven of simplicity. Our days
dissolved into idleness: chasing monkeys who tried to steal our food, watching
the lake shift from silver to blue, debating whether its waters were colder
than legend claimed. Lake Malawi, part of the Great Rift Valley, stretched vast
and ancient, home to more fish species than any other lake in the world. Its
immensity humbled me.
Cape Maclear — Nets and Sunsets
A short ride carried us to Cape Maclear, where Fat Monkeys Lodge offered
shelter. The village pulsed with activity: fishermen mending nets, children
splashing in the shallows, women washing clothes in the lake. The wind was
strong, boats stayed ashore, and we watched as the rhythm of life unfolded in
communal tasks.
We joined the crowd at sunset, beer in hand, as the sky blazed red. The
lake mirrored the fire above, and for a moment, everything stilled. Malawi’s
beauty was not in grand monuments but in these ordinary rituals, shared and
repeated across generations.
Chapter: Domwe Island — Silence and Solitude
Caron paddled across the bay in a kayak, her strokes steady, while I
followed by boat with our gear. Domwe Island lay only five kilometres offshore,
yet it felt worlds away. The camp was rustic, perched on wooden platforms
beneath thatch, and we were the only guests.
There was little to do but listen: to the wind rustling through trees,
to the lap of water against rocks, to silence itself. We tried swimming, but
the lake’s chill drove us back quickly. Instead, we lingered in hammocks,
grateful for solitude. Two days passed like a dream, unmarked by clocks or
obligations.
Chapter 6:
The Ilala Ferry across Lake Malawi
A Floating Theatre
Monkey Bay’s pier was alive before dawn, a hive of bodies and bundles.
Bags of tomatoes, potatoes, and maize flour balanced on heads, children
clutched chickens, traders shouted over the din. Caron and I joined the throng,
tickets in hand, and were swept aboard the MV Ilala.
The ferry was old, more than seventy years, and famous for delays. Its
cabins were crowded, its decks chaotic, but it offered a perspective no road
could. At each lakeside village, the Ilala’s arrival was spectacle. Only a few
harbours had piers; elsewhere, fishermen’s boats ferried passengers and cargo
through the waves. Goods were shoved, lifted, balanced, shouted over. Boarding
and disembarking became theatre, performed in the glow of lanterns or under the
stars.
By the time we reached Nkhata Bay, it was two in the morning.
Disembarking was slow, bodies pressed together, bags tumbling. At last, we
stumbled into Mayoka Village, a cliffside lodge overlooking the lake. At four
a.m., exhausted, we collapsed into bed, lulled by the sound of waves against
rock.
Chapter 7: Cliffside Kindness
Nakata Bay
Back
on terra firma, I received the heart-wrenching news that my mother has passed
away, and it struck me profoundly how a mother embodies unconditional love.
Despite my tumultuous journey and frequent missteps, she remained my unwavering
anchor, always there, steadfast and solid as a rock, offering support and
warmth.
Mayoka
Village clung to the cliffs above the lake, its huts and terraces tumbling
toward the water. For three days, we lingered, doing little but watching the
rhythms of life unfold. Caron paddled kayaks across the bay, her strokes steady
and sure, while I sat with my cast, listening to the waves slap against the
shore, thinking of my mum. Always there, never demanding, never loud.
The
lodge itself was a marvel of ingenuity. Showers were heated by “donkeys” —
fires lit at sunset, keeping water hot until morning. Toilets were
eco-friendly, ash and sawdust replacing flushes. It was simple, sustainable,
and oddly luxurious.
Each
walk into the village brought encounters with curio sellers and Rasta men
offering “meditation cookies.” Tourism had not yet returned to normal, and
their optimism in the face of hardship was humbling. Seeing my arm in plaster,
they instinctively placed their hands on their hearts, saying softly, “I’m so
sorry.” Their compassion was immediate, uncalculated. Malawi’s kindness was
everywhere, woven into daily exchanges.
Chapter: Mzuzu — The End of the Ride
Caron’s
time in Malawi was running short. We loaded panniers once more, she on her
bicycle, me in a shared taxi. The road to Mzuzu wound through hills, fifty
kilometres of effort for her, a cramped ride for me.
Umunthu
Lodge welcomed us with comfort and good food, a fitting place to pause. For
Caron, Mzuzu marked the end of her cycle ride. Ahead lay buses, schedules, and
the return to Lilongwe. For me, it was another reminder of how journeys shift —
from wheels to feet, from freedom to farewell.
Just
when I believed life couldn't possibly take a darker turn, I received the
heartbreaking news that my dear friend Dawn's husband, Dan, had passed away.
During the long, isolating nights of the two-year COVID-19 pandemic, we spent
countless evenings together, laughter and stories shared over frosty beers.
They were more than just friends to me; they were true comrades, an inseparable
part of my chosen family. The loss hit me like a thunderclap, leaving me
utterly devastated and grappling with a profound sense of emptiness.
Caron
and I walked to the bus station together, the air thick with diesel fumes and
chatter. The ride south would carry us back toward the capital, but the
memories of Malawi — its lake, its mountains, its ceremonies, its kindness and
my losses — would remain etched deeper than any map.
Lessons from Malawi
Malawi
was never just a line on my route. It was a country of contrasts: potholes and
laughter, ceremonies and silence, hardship and losses, but also generosity. It
was the place where my wrist broke, where I lost my Mum, lost a trusted friend,
lost a member of our COVID tribe, where Caron’s resilience shone, where
strangers carried my bags on their heads and offered sympathy without
hesitation.
Travel
is not about perfection. It is about surrender — to breakdowns, to delays, to
kindness, to awe. Malawi taught me that fragility and resilience coexist, that
our time here is fleeting, that beauty persists even in pain, and that the
simplest gestures — a smile, a hand to the heart — can carry more weight than money.
As
we boarded the bus south, I knew the journey was far from over. I did not
conduct myself well. But Malawi had left its mark: a chapter of dust, sadness and
water, of laughter, regret, loss and struggle, of kindness that lingers long
after the road ends.
