Journals

To my surprise, I woke up feeling rested and healthy that next morning on the Ilala .  Despite the noise of the engines and the clamor of my fellow passengers talking, drinking and sleeping around me, I had managed to sleep for most of the time since our tardy departure from Monkey Bay.  Now, the Ilala was at anchor, roughly 200 meters from the coast of Metangula, a Mozambique-administered island in Lake Malawi, and the ferry's third port of call.  Originally built in 1949, the single-hulled steamer is legendary in African travel lore. It has been running its route up and down the lake uninterrupted, with only an engine overhaul, since it was transported from Scotland and assembled by the shore six decades ago.  And though it often runs hours--or sometimes day or more--late, the Ilala serves as a vital source of supply and transportation for Malawi's lakeside residents, whose remote villages often cannot be reached by paved roads.  Consequently, the boat's lower deck remains crammed with up to 400 heavily-laden Malawians at a time, and each arrival and departure sequence involves exchanging one mass of produce and livestock for another.    According to the schedule, this would be a brief stop, just two hours in the harbor before we fired up the engines again and continued north.  I ate a small breakfast, and then sat lounging on the top deck while below, dozens of locals gathered their belongings in anticipation of being ferried ashore.  The sunny skies and clear water made for an enticing swim, particularly when coupled with the fun of diving off the ship's top deck.  I dove in, and although the other shore-bound tourists opted for one of the ferries, I decided to get some excercise and swim for it.  There was no immigration office on the island, so I didn't need my passport, and after making a quick stroll around the port area, I returned to the water.  Swimming back, the effects of my unknown illness made me strain a little more than I normally would have, but the surroundings were lush and peaceful, and it felt good to be active again.   Unfortunately, within hours of this swim, the organism lying dormant within my entrails sprang to life and went on a full offensive, leaving me as weak as a kitten by the time we arrived in Nkhata Bay.  The crew was unloading my bike for me, but there was no way I could carry my overstuffed backpack off the boat, so I had to contract the job out.  I hired a local kid who was panhandling on the pier, and despite his attempts to win sympathy from disembarking tourists by looking sad and saying "Just for bread," he was strong enough to carry the bag down with no problem (incidentally, this is just one reason why I feel travelers should avoid giving money to children who beg: most are not destitute, and usually just use the money to go and buy a coke). Once I paid him for his work and finished tying my gear down, I set off to find a place where I could lay low and recuperate.