Journals

In spite of everything, the sleepy lakeside village of Nkhata Bay turned out to be an ideal place to convalesce.  It was quiet and shady, and though the hills made it difficult for me to reach my hostel, I somehow made it and booked a week at their campsite.  Then, over the next several days, as my body endured waves of fever, chills and aches, I laid low in the shadows and let the illness run its course.  Apparently, I was not the only one there in recovery mode; a young Israeli woman, sick with malaria, was occupying a spot up the hill from me, though we were rarely awake at the same time.  I was never worried for my life, but the seriousness of my symptoms convinced me that I might as well try visiting the local clinic to see if they could help.  And so, still feeling a little woozy, I guided my bike over the town's poor roads, to the two-room building that housed the only medical facility in the region.  In the lobby, as I waited for the doctor to see me, I noticed a metric bathroom scale on the floor.  The last time I had weighed myself was in Durban, South Africa, not long before I crossed into Mozambique and bought the motorcycle. At the time, I tipped the scales at a robust, sloth-induced 110 kilograms; now, after ten weeks on the road and ten days of illness, I weighed eighty-seven.  I had lost fifty pounds.   As I stepped off the scale, a beautiful young Malawian woman entered.  She was dressed in bright traditional clothing and held a tightly-wrapped infant in her arms.  The doctor walked in several minutes later, and since there was no place for me to be, I motioned for her to go first.  She nodded in thanks, and as he led her past me into the examination room, she began peeling her baby out of his blankets.  In the brief moment that I saw him, my stomach turned.  The boy seemed healthy and well nourished, but his skin was covered with enormous lesions that leaked a foul-looking, gelatinous discharge--I remember telling a friend in an email soon after that 'It looked like shit was flowing out of his skin.'  Even today, I still think about that boy at least once a week, and wonder if the doc was able to make him better.   Unfortunately, my own encounter with the man did not fill me with optimism about his curative powers.  He looked at--not examined--me for about five minutes, asked a few questions regarding my appetite and bodily functions, then gave me a bottle of pills, which I later discovered were for stomach worms (an affliction for which he did not test me).  At that point, I realized I was on my own, and though it might sound ironic, the days that followed were among the most serene of my entire time in Africa.  Now freed from the burdens of planning, getting supplies and mapping out my route, I was able to concentrate on just existing .  I lived a quiet, simple life for several more days there by the shore, and during this time, I came to enjoy the fact that every completed chore--cooking, washing, fetching water--was done only out of immediate need.  No frills, no indulgence, just me taking my fair share and living in the moment.  As my energy and appetite continued to return, I started taking daily walks into town, swimming in the lake and sunning myself on its tranquil shores.  Soon, I would be strong enough to continue the journey northward, but I now understood that my down time in Nkhata Bay was good for more than just a chance to rest.