WorldTripping.net - Malawi travel writing and travel articles.

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"Glimpses" extracts from Leah's journal.

The Yellow Brick Road.

To reach Livingstonia, we would first have to climb the 800 metres of winding and treacherous track curling round the hills. Fifteen kilometres to the top. The sky threatened rain and mist hung heavy on the peaks. The soldiers at the bottom stared at us in disbelief as we whizzed past. Within minutes we were heaving our baggage laden cycles up over bumps, stopping and braking to prevent them skidding backwards. Struggling for a foothold, we reached the first bend. One of over twenty.

Instead of the promised downpour, the clouds cleared and the sun blazed. The path glittered and sparkled. Agate. Fools gold.

Suddenly, a group of chattering women appeared, heads topped with baskets, dresses peeled to the waist. They hollered their greetings as they slid down the shortcut between the bushes.

Tree shadow offered a moment's rest before we resumed our toil. On each bend, the hills loomed larger. My calves burned and a seering pain shot up my Achilles heal. Not a mortal wound but one which would make the rest of the journey skywards, a slow one.

The lake below could only be glimpsed occasionally through the green foliage skirting the slopes. The air was perfumed with the gentle scent of pine. For a hundred metres or so we were able to cycle and the breeze was cool as water on my burnt skin.

We reached a plateau and a strangely familiar form, curved from wood, greeted us. "Mushroom Farm campsite". Sounded promising.

Top of the World.

We reached the summit the following morning. Despite our height, the Nyika plateau towered a further few hundred metres higher. The Livingstonia mission offered fabulous views into the valleys below. Sweeping forest green cut with swathes of cultivated land set against the blue of the lake. The urge to off road had reaped rewards. It was a reminder of the early days on the Central Massif and we brightened at the prospect of a day's cycle to Rumphi, cocooned in the mountains.

Heat.

Ochre and azure hills occasionally dotted with shocking pink or lilac blooms heralded our approach to the Malawan border with Mozambique. Baobabs sprinkled the green. An angry heat blasted in waves across our burning limbs. Our faces were peeling in strips and once again we were plagued by punctured tyres. We slowed to a stop at the sight of a skinny grey chameleon crossing the hot tarmac, one leg tentatively reaching out at a time, retracting, then rocking forward at last to gain a further inch. Painful to watch. Listening to the approaching roar of trucks, I scooped it into my hands and hastened it on its journey. It cocked one eye to look at me and curled its tail before rocking its way toward the trees and safety.

Simon's Stuff.
Feeling Poorly.
I'd felt that something was amiss when I struggled up the first hill out of Salima. Two days previously we had pedalled over 100Km to get there, and now I was exhausted and sweating after half an hour on the road and halfway up an insignificant incline.
It wasn't the heat. It was nowhere near midday. Although hot, it was bearable and neither of us had irritable headaches. It wasn't the terrain. Although gently rising, the road was shallower than many we had cycled over. Something was wrong.
For two hours I struggled, walked, pushed, rested, sweated and swore. Then, a chance encounter, one of those random acts of kindness that come across you when you really need them. A couple of ex-pats having weekend weddinged at the lakeshore, passed and stopped, asking if we need a lift to the nearby capital. As I was in the far rear distance Leah said yes, and waited for me to catch up.
Truck drivers sell their fuel. They have enough diesel and money to get them from A to B. But they spend the cash, and sell the engine's life blood. You can buy fuel all over Africa. Men sit under a tree with a jerry can of liquid and a funnel. Boys wave a tube by the side of the road to attract customers. Everyone does it; everyone knows about it. But our driver was frustrated that yet again he had to drive to the village of nowhere, collect a kwacha-less driver, drive to a tree shaded jerry can holding man, and probably buy back his own red diesel.
After a final hill, the flat sprawl of Lilongwe. Our rescuers knew our destination and dropped us at the door. Having been out of the sun for a while, I felt marginally better and managed a few evening beers.
But sleep held a shivering core and a sweating brow. Under sheets, blankets and two Arctic condition sleeping bags, I sweated vivid dreams. While my teeth chattered, my mind worked imagination overtime. All I wanted to do was sleep.
As the sun rose my temperature dropped. Reluctant to admit what I knew, I refused medication, hoping that tonight would be different, but secretly knowing otherwise.
That night the same story, only worse. After a day of normality, an evening of conversation and beer, a night of horror arrived. Like the prior day, only longer, more vigorous and intense. I filled a sleeping bag with moisture, felt like I had chipped my teeth with clattering and my imagination made amplified conversations out of the slightest nightime noise.
It was time to go to the doctors.
The next day I couldn't walk in a straight line. I weaved towards the doorway. Stumbling and faltering I got onto the street, my eyes half closed by the pounding in my head. Naturally, I was irritable. I just wanted this blood borne menace to be gone.
I couldn't walk the two kilometres to town. I needed a cab, even this cab with its smashed windscreen, doors you needed a screwdriver to open and one window winder to share would do. I didn't even care that we had to stop half way to fill up, I was going to the doctors.
The blood test was negative due to the cyclical nature of the infestation. It happens sometimes. As I sat, shaking, sweating and shivering before the doctor, he knew exactly what was wrong, regardless of the results. He had seen it thousands of times before. Malaria. I left with a large bag of different coloured pills.
I don't really remember the next week. For two days I was virtually comatose. The chinese medicine followed the Fansidar, the Green Pills accompanied everything; Paractamol and Ibuprofen were added for good measure. I spent two days sweating in my sleep. When my eyes were open, I felt terrible, when they were closed, I felt dreadful. Every sound would be transformed. Rustling could become a note which would become a tune; or it could be the cadence of conversation, and words would form. My imagination was left to forment black thoughts not only about the outside of the room, but a variety of 'what if' scenarios.
On the third day, I managed to leave the room. The hallucinations had subsided. The shaking comparable to having a winter chill. I was still taking the Green Pills, and for three more days I had conversations with travellers that I cannot remember.
Ten days later, we tried to cycle out of town and I collapsed after a couple of kilometres. I was shattered and drained, unable to cope with any kind of exertion. It was a further fortnight of eating and sleeping before we could depart. A whole month of being trapped in flat, dusty, rubbish piled, one street wonder, big village Lilongwe, the capital that was just a grander version of every town in Malawi.

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Before here we were in Tanzania. After here we were in Mozambique.

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