And here's the next chapter in the adventure, and I'll warn you that by no means is it the last, as you'll find out in the course of the entry. I waited in Lilongwe for almost two days, with no sign of life from the project manager at Thuma, although I sent him almost daily emails telling him about my hotel changes. Lilongwe is quite expensive, especially the modernized section I was in, so I was telling myself that if I spent a second night and didn't hear from my contact, then I would try to make it to Thuma on my own.
On the afternoon following my first night in Lilongwe, my hotel was entered by my friend Helen from the Dar es Salaam bus and her friend Kenneth, both of whom seemed to have adopted my problem as their own and had decided to check on me. Kenneth is a diplomat working in youth counselling, and seemed to have pull over all manner of things. He declared that my hotel was too expensive, and he brought me to a different place and negotiated my room. The next day, when the internet at the hotel wasn't functioning, his driver took me to his workplace, and after establishing that my contact was still MIA, we worked out a way of getting there.
Okay, to be fair, HE worked out a way to get there, and I argued. The plan which to him seemed incredibly easy and simple, seemed much less so to me. He had me taking a mini-bus towards Salima (he hadn't told me yet that the driver would take me to the bus station, so this was my first concern, knowing where to go), then disembarking at the last police checkpoint before the city. The police, he said, had the most efficient phones and should be able to reach my contact, or at least would be able to tell me how to act next. Now, I was raised on the principle that police in South America and Africa are largely corrupt, and the last thing I wanted to do was place myself in their hands. Moreover, it seemed to me there was a great difference between HIM, as a diplomat, asking people to do favors for him, and ME, as an ignorant foreigner, asking them. But he assured me that at least during the day, Malawian police are friendly and helpful.
This turned out to be true. The policemen at the checkpoint took up my cause enthusiastically, but their phones had no better luck than anyone else's. In the end, they called over a bicycle taxi- yes, you read that correctly. You sit on the back of a bicycle, and pay the barefooted man with no brakes to pedal.
I stared at the bike and gulped. You need to understand, I haven't sat on a bike since I was thirteen, and crashed painfully in the woods. At the end of the day, I'd be much more willing to jump on the back of a strange horse, or stand on a dogsled's second set of runners, than to climb on a bike. Until that moment, I hadn't realized that the old dread had actually lingered. Silly me.
The thought that decided the point went like this "You've come all the way here, just to balk at riding a bike? You call yourself an adventurer?"
The police were all for strapping my big hiker's backpack onto the bike as well, but at this I put my burned and bug-bitten foot down. No bike-taxier deserved that fate, hauling both me and that bag on a hot day. I left the big bag with the police, making sure to get a name and number in case it disappeared, took the small bag with me, and zoomed off with my biker, Girlium George.
It was fun, once I relaxed. The trail was lovely, Girlium George was a truly charming person, and the villagers nearly swallowed their tongues at the sight of a mzungu on the back of a bike. We covered 8 kilometers, mostly of dirt trail through villages surrounded by corn and tobacco crops, with goats running amuck everywhere you looked. After two hours, we arrived at the Thuma gate, where two men live. Here we found yet more complications. No one could be spared that evening to guide me the extra 10km to the camp, which would need to be done on foot. With elephants and cape buffalo along the way, both cranky with visitors, I could not go alone. In addition, the manager, who was the only mzungu at the camp, had been gone since last Sunday (incidentally, the same day I left Arusha) and no one knew when he would be back. Come back tomorrow.
Back on the bike, back to the police, and we had to go VERY fast, because night was falling, and a mzungu wasn't safe, even with a Malawian escort. Somehow Girlium managed it, and the police brought me to a nearby resthouse. This was the sort of place where farmers and tradespeople would stay, so it wasn't fancy- a bed, a small table, and a mosquito net that wasn't quite large enough. As I entered, I saw a tiny lizard the length of a quarter squiggle across the wall. I'm not picky.
At six the next morning, Girlium picked me up and took me back to the gate. The men at the gate had by then gotten in touch with the base camp. They told me that no one there had known anything about my coming. They weren't prepared for me, had no food for me, and didn't know if they had work. They asked me to wait while everyone tried to figure out what was going on. I was starting to feel a lot of antipathy for the absent manager. As I sat by the gate, it occurred to me how strange it was that any manager should take the only car without telling anyone where he was going or when he would return, and for such a long time. Something fishy was going on, and the idea of marching out there was starting to feel very dubious.
Meanwhile, Girlium George brought me my bag to the gate, and upon hearing the situation, swore that he wouldn't leave me until the situation was sorted. On discussing it with the gatemen, he decided to call one of the trustees in Salima. What's more, he brought two fish, impaled on stakes and cooked whole, which he presented to me for my lunch.
Well, first of all, I confessed that I had no idea how to go about eating them (which inspired gales of laughter), and second, I refused flatly not to share with the others. Girlium warmed the fish up over the gatemen's fire, stripped the meat into a bowl, and then he, myself, and the two men all shared it. The gatemen contributed salt and a large bowl of sima, essentially maize mush, about the consistency of play-doh. Not half bad, as lunch goes.
We wasted time by teaching me some chichewa words (chule=frog). Girlium had been trying to teach me greetings. In the afternoon, the gatemen called again, and informed me that the scouts were on their way to collect me. As it happened, the scouts and the trustee in Salima, an englishman, arrived at the same time, the scouts on foot and the trustee in a land rover. Tony lost no time in telling me that the manager had stolen not only the project's car, but both laptops, and that nobody could find him. He apologized profusely for the situation I was in. He drove me and the scouts up to the camp, where they showed me around, and the jist of what he had to tell me was that I couldn't stay.
In rainy season, Thuma forest is covered in deep, high grass. It hides all manner of beasties that shouldn't be surprised, including elephants and cape buffalo, both of which can and have willingly killed people there. In addition, the tall grass makes it essentially impossible to work on the most prevalent volunteer project, the mammal survey. And without a manager to find alternative work for me, there wasn't much I could do. The scouts were also dubious that they could protect me in the tall grass while doing my work.
I have handled myself with dangerous situations before, but if a scout got hurt because I didn't climb a tree fast enough, I would never forgive myself...
I was sad. I was already half in love with the forest- it's beautiful, it's dangerous, I looked over a cliff and saw a troupe of baboons.... I wanted so much to get to know it. Also, I liked the scouts. They laughed easily, they were competent, they seemed easy-going. It didn't hurt that they were also truly beautiful examples of Malawian men- I wouldn't have lacked for eye candy at Thuma. And they were going to teach me to play bau. But with no work, and the possibility of putting others in danger?
Tony took me back to his house, and I'm trying to reverse engines and find a new plan, and not trespass on his hospitality too long. Right now, everything's looking a bit hopeless, and I've had my share of despairing moments. Remember when the first job in Skagway didn't work out? This isn't as bad as that, because there's no way to blame it on myself. I just hope I bounce back as thoroughly this time.
I should close with a happy thought: I've had bad luck these past two weeks, no one can deny it. But I've been consistently and extremely lucky in the people I've met along the way who have given me help. David and Helen, Kenneth, Girlium George (whom I've promised to write) and now Tony and his wife and friends. Where would we be without kind people?
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