CHOICE VETS
Bringing Tigger along on this trip was a last minute decision - we'd considered the possibility early in our planning and chosen to leave her in Seffrica because of the complexities involved - but one we haven't regretted for a minute.
There have been tense moments but these are far outweighed by the levity and pleasure she has added. Our first step, after buying a 20 kg bag of food for to larder, was to head for the State Vet in Cape Town to get the requisite paperwork enabling us to take her into Namibia. Her rabies innoculations were already up to date, with the most recent innoculations being less than a year old but older than four weeks - as required by virtually all the countries we'll be passing through.
We reached the Namibian border about an hour after dark (8 pm) and if we hadn't mentioned that we had a dog, they wouldn't have known. As it was, the veterinary officer checked the papers, stamped them and went home. That should have alerted us to the tone of most of the border controls.
When we reached Walvis Bay we visited the Namiban State Vet who was very helpful and obliging in issuing us another movement permit but couldn't help us regarding requirments for taking an animal into Zambia. Her colleague in Rundu, Alexander Toto, was even more helpful - berating us for being a day later than he had expected after being alerted to our coming by someone we had met in Outjo.
Dr Toto, after being told of our needs, called his counterparts in Lusaka, putting up with numerous delays and obfuscations, to find out that the movement permit which applies in most SADC countries is also accepted in Zambia - as long as the animal is in transit, rather than being imported - and simply needs endorsement by a vet in Zambia.
This endorsement we never quite got around to getting but nobody asked or checked when we left the country, so we didn't worry. Getting into Malawi was another matter, as I was still dumb enough to open my big mouth and tell the customs official about her. He was helpful but the veterinary officer obviously thought he would be able to make a quick buck and demanded a photostat of the movement permit we had received in Cape Town - even though it was out of date and not technically valid for Malawi! He insisted that the only way to get a photostat was to take him to the nearest twon, 2 km away, pay 2 000 Kwatcha (about R300) for a photostat and then give him a lift back to the border post.
After talking to chief customs official, who told us a photostat should only cost about 10 Kwatcha (2 Rand) and that if the veterinary officer wanted it, we should give him a lift to town and let him walk back once he had the photostat. When we put all this to the vet officer, he was so incensed with "customs officials telling him what to do" he settled for the Namibian copy of the movement permit and went off to fight with customs officer.
In Blantyre, we went to see the Government Vet in order to get paperwork to allow us in to Tanzania and were once again amazed by the helpfulness of vets. Dr Lorenz, a German, is working for the Malawian Goverment on contract - and furthering his research - and not only gave us the paperwork but decided that there was something wrong with Tigger - I'd thought it was only because of the rainy weather that she was sleeping so much.
After doing the test for tick bite fever and finding it negative, Dr Lorenz carried on looking until he found the parasite which causes sleeping sickness - it was very scarce in mutt's blood because the disease was in the very early phase.
I'm still peeved that Dr Lorenz was sharp enough to detect Tigger's illness before I was - he had never seen her before!
He also helped another couple who arrived at Doogle's while we were there and were taking a 9-week-old puppy back to SA by public transport. I hope they made it.
By the time we reached the Tanzanian border, it had finally sunk into my thick skull that the best policy is to keep quite about the dog and wait until they ask. All the paperwork was as in order as we could work out it needed to be but nodody checked the truck and mutt was hidden by the crates we'd carefully placed around her bed in the back of the truck.
No problem - we filled our forms, paid the extortionate road taxes and permit fees and headed north, with Tigger and the border officials unaware of each other's presence.
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HAPPY NEW YEAR
Senga Bay (again), 02 January 2001
What started out as a favour to a fellow traveller - albeit one who had got stuck in Blantyre for a couple of months - turned into an exercise in frustration when we spent two hours looking for a lodge that couldn't be bothered maintaining a sign at the turn-off from the main road.
Morne, the resident traveller, had been offered a job at one of the lodges near Monkey Bay, tending bar on New Year's eve and for a couple of weeks afterwards. We were going up that way any way, so he got a free ride. Everything went swimmingly, as they say in the classics and which wasn't far off considering the rains that part of Malawi had had over the preceding week, until we got to the area where the lodge was alleged to be.
After an hour of driving up and down the road in the dark while the rain did it's best to wash us away, looking for the damned resort, we gave up and parked in the only open space we could find off the road - the meeting place for a local village. I put up the tent, getting soaking wet even though I was wearing my fancy raincoat, and, after a brief but but discomfort-and-frustration fueled argument with Lisa, went straight to bed without any dinner.
Waking up the next morning, we found the rain has eased sufficiently that we could put the tent away with only minor sogginess. Morne, confined to the inside of the truck, had slept even less than we had and had been awake for an hour before we awoke at 5.30 am.
Fortunately, he had chatted to the villagers who had told him it was no problem that we had parked in the middle of their homes. It took another 90 minutes to find the lodge - people along the road pointing us backwards and forwards until we managed to narrow things down to a single turnoff - completely unmarked - down which the lodge was found, but only after a couple more wrong turnings through the nearby Mchenge village, from which the lodge takes its name.
By the time we arrived at the Mchenge Lodge, which doesn't even have a signboard at the gates, we were in less than good humour. Being told that the water supply wasn't working and there was a power failure didn't help, although the tea they served us on the beach did improve things. Our moods were such that we opted to give Monkey Bay and the nearby Cape Maclear a miss - even though they are "must sees" on most travellers tick list.
Water way
The fact that it was still raining didn't add any inducement to stay! On the drive back to down to the main road and up again to Salima and Senga Bay, with Lisa driving, we encountered some really heavy rain storms and the road was awash in several places. Lisa isn't the most eager of drivers and approached these 20 to 30 m long sections with some trepidation. Even though the water was only 5 cm deep, it was flowing quite strongly across the road and gave us pause to reconsider the Mchenge Lodge owner's comments that even CNN was warning about flooding and very heavy rain in Malawi.
One of the rivers that the road crossed via a low water bridge had carried so much sand down with the water that the riverbed was at the same level as the bridge on the upstream side while on the downstream side, the bridge was a meter above the riverbed. Or should I say stream because it was only 5 m wide and wasn't flowing - even in that weather - when we passed.
Bay worth watching
We stopped in the town at Senga Bay, considerin whether to stay at the cheaper but town-bound Hippo Hide Lodge or go down to the more expensive but better reviewed Steps camp site on the lake shore. The rush of hard-sell people who scurried to show us to Hippo Hide half convinced us, while the half-meter drop-off from the tarmac onto the side road completed job and we headed straight for Steps which fronts the lake in a "private" bay sans touts, beggars, "guides" or locals who, throughout our travels, have shown that they consider mzungus to be the African equivalent of mobile cash-dispensing machines.
While it isn't an admirable thing, Steps was an island of elitist isolation in the midst of so much urban poverty and offered us a breathing space in which to recuperate from the onslaught of demands for money, demands to purchase tourist goods, demands to employ people as guides, demands to hand over our cash for the most meagre piece of assistance and advice - solicited or not.
While I don't resent the people who offer all these services - unrelentingly - or make the demands, I've been finding it very hard to deflect the demanders without being rude or letting it affect my conscious. It is difficult to say no to people, explaining that if we handed something over to each person who asked we wouldn't be able to complete our trip, when we have so much compared to their absence of possessions.
Money can't buy everything
At the same time, the rural people here are only poor in money terms and when they compare their own lives to the mzungus'. We may have many possessions but we also have the extra stresses and crap that accompanies our "richness". As somebody along the way pointed out, it takes those of us who follow the Western lifestyle a lot longer to own our land and homes and we pay far more for the basic necessities.
None of this means a handful of manure in the face of heavy rains and the arrival of a truckful of mzungus - the local hustlers still flood to prise loose whatever they can. So, back to the haven of Steps after all the philosophising.
Shortly after arriving and setting up - putting up all the awnings this time, considering we were there for three days and the deluge was threatening - we got chatting to another Seffrican couple, Gary and Belinda. I will not deny that I drooled over their new Land Cruiser diesel pickup with steel canopy and no leaks!
They also offered to loan us their touring kayaks for a trip out to Lizard Island the following day but I was stuck under the truck, first servicing it and later trying to sort out the centre bearing on the propshaft as the rubber doughnut kept popping loose under strain.
They invited us for dinner, serving a veritable feast - roast lamb and potatoes with beetroot and other scrumptious goodies we'd almost forgotten existed. It was a really great treat and a splendid way to spend New Year's eve.
All of just managed to keep our eyes open to see the New Year in and Lisa and I even managed to waddle - considering the amount we'd eaten - down the beach to watch the residents of the hotel adjoining Steps, and owned by the same people, setting off fireworks. Then to bed.
Bad omen or sunny outlook
Spending New Year's day working on or under the truck, while Lisa did the washing, was not our preferred way to see in 2002 but the work needed done and we made up for it later. The beach wasn't really useable as hundreds of people from Lilongwe (about 100 km west of Senga Bay, descended on the resort to celebrate.
While Gary did report that he had to wash faeces off his kayak after a paddle near the beach, I was amazed at the way people behaved - this, naturally, in comparison to my experiences in Seffrica where drunkenness, unruly behaviour, littering, loud music and even violence are often the order of the day at public holiday gatherings.
A cacophony of different musical styles and rhythms, which blared forth as people arrived and set up for the day, were silenced as people turned off their car stereos when the steel band employed for the day started up. It was a better than expected accompaniment to the work at hand - I only regret not taking the time off to go and watch them because by the time the truck was fixed they had finished playing.
Dinner service
That evening, when Gary, Belinda, Lisa and I stopped at the bar to collect a drink en route to the beach (a whole 10 meters further on!) we met up with yet another Seffrican couple who had just arrived for a few days.
Kevin and Letitia joined us for drinks and after another glorious, lazy sunset, threw their supplies into the kitty and between the six of us we concocted another memorable meal, talking until late into the evening.
Row, row - oh, no
Having missed out on the canoeing experience, we determined, with Kevin and Letitia, to hire a couple of makoros and their boatmen the following day for the trip out to Lizard Island. The island only appeared to be about 800 m offshore so when we were offered the use of (another) Seffrican family's small inflatable boat, we jumped at the chance.
Bad move! It was too small for all of us, so Kevin swam most of the way out to the island and the rest of us alternately swam, paddled or pulled the dingy. The island, too, proved to be about twice what we had estimated.
Getting there wasn't too difficult but the knowledge that we had to swim back wasn't a pleasant burden. But it was worth it. We wandered around the island for an hour - hearing only one of the large leguaans (monitor lizards) which Kevin said had infested the island the previous time he had been there. It is a strange feeling being able to look down on birds, especially when there are dozens of them perched in the trees around the shore.
As we approached the island, we were treated to one of the resident Fish Eagles sweeping over us and then turning to make a strike on the lake surface about 50 m from where we were paddling our flabby derrieres off.
When we got back to the shore after our exploration of the island we donned the masks and snorkels Kevin and Letitia had brought along and goggled (excuse the pun!) at the ciclid fish below the surface - we knew there are 600-odd species but hadn't expected to see quite so many species with quite so many colours in so small an area.
Oar-fully tiring
I swam virtually all of the 1,6 km back to the mainland, only just managing to stand up and walk when I reached the beach, although the temptation to crawl back out and collapse on the beach was very strong. The only thing that stopped me was that I'd beaten the trio in the dingy (okay, so they did only have two wonky paddles after the main ones had both broken!) and my ego wasn't going to pass up the chance to play hero.
That night, following another joint effort dinner, Lisa and I slathered each other with aloe cream in a bid to stave off the eerie red glow which emanated from our backs, butts and thighs. Sunburn sucks!
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