Journals

Before leaving Blantyre, I began to notice a growing level of distress around my stomach.  A number of fellow travelers at the hostel got sick during my stay there, and after seeing a doctor, they came to the conclusion that food poisoning was to blame.  Nevertheless, I set off for Lake Malawi immediately once the bike was repaired after its run-in with the judge, because I didn't think my condition was anything to worry about.  Even with the constant uneasiness in my belly, I was still feeling vigorous and strong.  I also figured that regardless of what the cause of this distress turned out to be--flu, food poisoning or something else--any doctor I visited would probably just tell me to rest and drink plenty of fluids as it passed through my system.  The lake sounded like an ideal place to do exactly that, so I geared up to make the 200-plus kilometer trip the next day.   Leaving a few hours after dawn, I arrived at the main highway's turnoff towards Cape Maclear, a once-legendary lakeside resort whose fortunes have declined in recent years, partly due to the end of white-minority rule in neighboring Rhodesia.  Based on the many descriptions of the region's past I heard while in Blantyre, I expected the lake road to be marked by a series of advertisements and informational signs pointing the way.  Instead, I was greeted by a lonely, unmarked dirt road that stretched far into the distance.  My map indicated that this was the place, but since I would run out of daylight soon, I asked two small boys sitting by the road "Which way to Cape Maclear?"  They pointed straight, past the dirt road I was about to take.  Relieved at having avoided a potential disaster, I thanked the boys and moved on, only to hear a chorus of stifled giggles behind me as I accelerated.   My instincts told me that I'd just been had, so I stopped a pair of young women walking north and asked them the same question.  They pointed back towards the dirt road, and, to the utter dismay of my would-be tormentors, I made a wide, ceremonious U-turn while tooting the bike's horn and revving its engine in triumph.  From the crossroads, it was another two hours' hard ride to the lake, and during that time, I saw no more than six or seven people.  Eventually, I reached a second intersection, and this one had a sign pointing left for Cape Maclear and right for Monkey Bay (from where I would catch the Lake Malawi Ferry north in a few days).  The road from this juncture wound its way through a lush tropical forest on its way to the lake, and after cruising past several incredulous baboons at the forest's edge, I reached the turquoise shores and booked two nights' stay at a lakeside campground.  That night, while setting up my tent, I could not help but notice how, despite having eaten no food since breakfast, I was not the least bit hungry.