Dumbstruck in Malawi
By Nick Yell
Dumbstruck in Malawi
A number of years back I decided to unleash my newly-found yachting skills on the peace-loving people of Malawi. I figured that commanding a yacht on a lake, albeit rather a big one, would be safer than careering straight out to sea.
So I rounded up some victims (one girlfriend, one old school friend and his partner), located the only known working keelboat in the region, and headed north. My girlfriend and I decided to drive up to Harare, fly to Lilongwe and then meet our travelling partners on the boat off Salima. It was a holiday that I desperately needed. I’d broken-up with my fiancée three-months before, just recovered from a raging bout of hepatitis, and then been ‘retrenched’ from the ad agency I worked at — in fairness, my boss did offer me a job in the mailroom, I just couldn’t tolerate licking all those envelopes.
After fending off the ever-present Malawi-cob (very strong marijuana) touts, we stocked up on victuals in Lilongwe and made our way by taxi to Salima. I was just starting to unwind when I heard a high-pitched shriek from my girlfriend in front. A large bus was hurtling towards us at great speed and we were on a single-lane tarred road. I was about to slap our dreamy driver on the head when he deftly swerved onto the verge at the last minute. Apparently, this was quite normal and "perfectly safe" he said.
Even though I wasn’t allowed alcohol after the hepatitis, I sought refuge in a beer shandy at a bar perched on stilts in the lake. While we awaited the keys and instructions for the yacht, I made friends with the bar’s pet owl, Olly. He just seemed to understand me better than my girlfriend. Besides, she was just sitting in a corner shaking her head and repeating: "No really, we could’ve died, I’m telling you…" — to no-one in particular.
We located our yacht, a fully-equipped Sabre 27 later that evening. Rowing out to the boat through the steep waves, I realised why people referred to this lake as an inland sea. The pub owner had informed us that most of the crocodiles in the south had "been shot out", but to be wary of the hippos that were still prevalent. On hearing this, my girlfriend stopped saying anything, but continued to shake her head.
Our friends were transferred by boat from their hotel the next day and we set sail as soon as they had their gear stowed. Apart from my crew thinking me a little strict at times – I was a little bit grumpy on my alcohol-free diet — things went pretty well for us. We anchored off an idyllic little island called Boadzulu for a night, spent a few days snorkelling at Cape Maclear and ended up at Monkey Bay after a week of holiday bliss. After dragging our anchor one day, though, and nearly landing up on the beach, my friend and I always dived on the anchor to see whether it had set properly. And, although we kept a beady eye out, we saw no crocodiles, and very few hippo either.
Nearing the end of our holiday, we went for dinner at the up-market Nkopola Lodge.
After stuffing ourselves on good food and wine (I had shandies), we made our way to
the beach under a moonlit sky. And then all hell broke loose. The sights and sounds
of a Malawian Police contingent emptying their 303 rifles at something in the water,
was in such contrast to our mood that we were dumbstruck. But, as the smoke lifted,
we managed to ask what was going on.
"Oh, just a crocodile attacking that mooring buoy over there", said the sergeant.
"Did you get him," I asked a little nervously, realising that our yacht was tethered to the buoy they’d been shooting at.
"Not sure, but you can row to your boat, we will watch you."
Never before had our dingy seemed so small and ill-equipped for the passage required.
And, frankly, we weren’t sure if we should be more scared of the gung-ho policemen’s
firepower or the plank-splitting swish of the dragon’s tail.