Journals

I emerged from my tent the next morning and was greeted by a scene of utter serenity: three meters from where I had slept, Lake Malawi's gentle waves were washing lazily up onto a rocky beach, while a hilly, tree-lined massif dominated the offshore horizon, framed by clear blue skies.  There were clusters of fishermen mending their nets on the beach, along with a few women doing their laundry in the knee-deep shallows, but other than that, I was completely alone.  Unfortunately, my peaceful surroundings were not mirrored by what I felt on the inside.  During the night, my appetite failed to return, and although I still did not feel nauseous or flu-like, my strength and vigor seemed to be fading with each mad dash I made for the latrine.  Over the next day and a half, I did little more than lie in the shade, drink copious amounts of water and force down the occasional meal of fruit, plain rice or fresh fish and vegetables.  I was planning to board the Ilala, Lake Malawi's only passenger ferry, in Monkey Bay at 10 a.m. Friday, but before leaving I needed to cash some traveler's checks.  The nearest town with a bank was Mutande, which sat ninety dusty, rugged minutes away.    About twenty minutes after leaving Cape Maclear, I began to notice that my engine was acting sluggish.  By the time I arrived in Mutande, the bike had all but shut down.  In my weakened condition, this might have proven disastrous, if not for the fact that almost every village and small town in Africa has at least one mechanic who specializes in motorcycles--which are far more affordable, and therefore more plentiful, than cars.  After cashing in $200 worth of traveler's checks, I sought out the local mechanic, who turned out to be a fifteen year-old kid sitting in the dirt amidst a maze of tools, metal parts and motorbikes in various stages of repair.  He stopped what he was doing and examined my bike for about thirty seconds before pronouncing his verdict: "Clogged fuel line because of shit in your gas tank."  Evidently, while emptying my spare gas can into the bike's tank, I failed to notice that a leaf was swirling around inside.  It seems that when I filled up at a roadside "gas station" on the way north from Blantyre, the enterprising young man with the plastic jug had poured me five litres of unleaded, and then threw in a sample of the local foliage at no extra charge.  The mechanic told me that he could clean it out and get me moving again, but that I would have to replace the fuel line as soon as possible to avoid damaging my engine.       On Friday morning, I packed up my bike and made the short drive to Monkey Bay.  After parking in the shade, I bought a ticket at the window and then walked into the harbor office to see about putting my bike on board as cargo.  The man behind the desk directed me down to the docks, where a company official calculated the fee for 125 kilograms of cargo, while I tried to convince him that, despite what his scale said, the bike only weighed 100.  Eventually, we agreed upon a price, and not long after, I was watching nervously as my wheels were  hoisted onto the forward deck.  By this point, I was feeling so poorly that even the morning''s moderate routine had completely worn me out.  And so, once I saw that everything was (more or less) secure, I boarded the ship, walked up to the top deck and promptly fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.