A Farewell to Malawi: The Lake II

Another goodbye to the country as war stories, delirium and strange recognition round off my lacustrine odyssey on the Ilala – available in self-read audio format.

There is a story that often pops up by the lake, a tale that the first naval encounter of WWI happened just up the coast near Mbamba Bay on the Tanzanian side. A matter of days after war was declared by the British as Captain Edmund Rhoades sailed to the port of Sphinxhafen (now Liuli) in the SS Gwendolen and, by firing a single shot, took possession of the German vessel, Hermann von Wissmann, receiving repairs on the slipway, an unaware Captain Berndt at its helm. How true the myth is that the respective captains of both vessels were drinking companions adds to the quaintness of this symbolic act of belligerence.

Indeed, the rivalry between those two colonial powers, the British who governed the protectorate of Nyasaland and the Germans in charge of Tanganyika until 1918 when it was handed over to the former under League of Nations mandate, still plays out today in a border dispute between Malawi and Tanzania. Unlike the official border with Mozambique which runs through the middle of the lake, the Malawians believe the entirety of the waters in the northern half is theirs, a claim that weirdly goes back to the Heligoland-Zanzibar Treaty of 1890.

In that pact, bizarrely, the British allowed German access to a strategically important archipelago in the North Sea as well as access to the Zambezi for German South-West Africa, which can still be seen in the strange strip of land protruding in the northeastern corner of Namibia. This was reportedly in exchange for no interference to British concerns in Zanzibar and an almost footnote-like condition, that the Tanganyikan border was restricted to the east shore of Lake Nyasa, as the Tanzanians still call the lake. The question of whether a colonial-era treaty stands up has reared its head on occasion over the last 62 years of independence, not least when offshore oil licences were awarded by Malawi in 2012 and the publishing of a new Tanzanian school map displaying a border in the middle of the lake.

We are behind schedule by a fair few hours now as the cabin ceiling shimmers in the dawn light – the third day spent on board. Each stop-off seems to become more drawn out, the Malawian shore’s dearth of natural ports, an effect of the build-up of sand pushed by the prevailing south-easterly winds and currents, makes this process of loading and unloading that much more inefficient.

Anchored just off Salima’s Senga Bay, I can make out Cool Runnings, the treesy backpackers on the shore I stayed in a fortnight to the day ago, where the plan took shape to head north and touch the border before heading down again and on to Mozambique. Aside from its economic benefit, the Ilala route is giving me a literacy for the littoral, an intimacy with the places I have been, planting ideas for the places I might still go, a ‘greatest hits’ of Malawi as it steadily sets its course south.

The chokepoint of the lake is reached, just over 20 km in width, as the slopes of Cape Maclear stand tall to the south, demurely posing as an island and concealing its peninsular status. Makanjila, the strange sliver of Malawian territory hewn out of the Mozambican monolith on the lake’s eastern shore, appears as ramshackle as any village I have seen as the sun sets for the third night, the vessel its lifeline, the roads on ‘that side’ as poor and prone to flooding as any.

Dehydrated, unwashed and sleeping a lot, my phone bundle having given up the ghost, I am bordering on delirium. I can type away in spurts before the heat wraps me in torpor and strange slumber. The bar has run out of bottled water and I am trying not to risk the taps, as the ‘cottage’ songs rabbit on about the previously fettered people of Jah’s redemption, revival, triumphant key change after triumphant key change on the top deck. But I think I would do it again, the draw of being a ‘seafarer’ still strong.

The mind is up to all sorts of tricks and I suddenly think I recognise the latest couple of tourists who have boarded for the last stretch, like I’ve met them in a lodge or even in the UK. But I double-guess myself – nobody on the backpacker trail stays in Malawi that long… apart from me… Another look later and they bear no resemblance, their faces seemingly different from before.

The first part of my farewell to the Lake - please check this out:
A Farewell to Malawi: The Lake I

In this spate of confusion, I mishear a kind offer from Captain Harold, who asks if I would like a place to stay once we dock at Monkey Bay. I can barely hear him above the fan in my cabin and we continue small talk, before he reiterates the offer. It will be late, perhaps the early hours of the morning, and I have no way of contacting the lodge I’d planned to stay in. I agree once I grasp what he is saying. He has a priestly role on the upper decks, always around as a voice of calm, providing insight and showing concern for his flock of passengers.

The bar is out of everything now, the Carlsberg ‘Chill’ the last of thousands of bottles to go. I settle my bill – £30 for three meals a day is not bad. The boat is quiet as we embark on the last few hours. I’ve lost my bearings and the moon has disappeared. The rocking is still pleasant as I enjoy the cool on the deck. My cabin mate, Peter, apologises for the delay – we were meant to arrive in the afternoon – and we talk about Livingstone’s voyages from the Zambezi and up the Shire River which drains the lake near Mangochi and the drowned Bishop Chauncy Maples who succumbed to the waters near the treacherous rocks to our backs. So many stories exchanged over the course of three days, ones which few Malawians, let alone British tourists, might be aware of, leads of a sort to follow up on.

Our arrival, several hours later than planned, prompts a sense of relief in me, but, for the crew, it is just another evening, albeit one of the rare occasions that they can spend in their own beds. They will go again in less than 36 hours, back up to Chilumba, another 14 days to go in their four-week stint on duty. The marine police try to take my ticket as I wander unsteadily down the gangplank, realising it is the longest I have ever spent without setting foot on land. Instead I ask their permission to keep it, confusion on their faces – to them, it is a route from A to B, a necessary one for so many Malawians living on the shores; to me, it is an extraordinary three days, a timeless concoction of story and conversation, solitude and company, landmarks and boundless water.

Reflections on the day job - please check this out:
Letters from The Lake: Dead Languages

Hello all,
A huge thank-you to everybody who has been reading these updates and articles. Writing them has been the closest thing to therapy I have been able to come by over the last nine months. While day-to-day existence in Malawi can feel exhausting and chaotic in nature, the positive reception and kind words have definitely cushioned those bouts of culture shock.

Thanks for reading!

Zeb x

Another year, another stint abroad. The intention behind this Substack is to keep my eye in on the writing front and document what promises to be quite the tour of duty.
So do come along for the ride and please subscribe (or gift me a coffee!) as I document my travels.