peregriNation: shiver me timbers

Mayoka Village is actually a hostel, but the owners were determined to get off the grid as their own village, and made the place ecologically friendly and self-sufficient. Their delicious food is organically grown and meals are prepared from produce that is in season. They have their own filtering system so the water is drinkable from the tap. (Though I wasn't willing to test that.) The showers have hot water for a few hours each morning and they harness energy from lightening strikes to heat them. They also have a compost toilet which, for those of you who have never had the pleasure, is quite interesting. It doesn’t smell, and the compost will eventually be used as fertilizer. Mayoka is also very involved in the community and finds creative ways to support the locals. It sits on the side of a steep hill and overlooks Lake Malawi, the largest lake in all of Africa. It was so nice that I stayed for a week.

As I left Mayoka Village, a four-wheel drive taxi picked me up, and took me to Nkhata Bay where I would catch a bus back to Mzuzu. The bus, it turns out, was actually a small car. I paid 500 Kwacha, three dollars, for a seat and luggage was free. We had to wait for the car to fill up with people before it would leave. I sat in the hot vehicle forty-five minutes, wedged in between two men, until we were at maximum capacity. It was a tight fit. Right before we left, someone brought a roll of laminate flooring, and after failing to tie it to the top, they shoved it in through the hatchback, up the side to the front. Now we were so squeezed that I sat upright on the edge of the seat with my face in between the driver and front passenger, the two men’s shoulders touching behind me. The driver cranked up the volume on some American Pop music so I sang along. Fortunately for them, it was only an hour ride.

At the depot in Mzuzu, I found a taxi to take me to a hostel for the night, as the next morning, I would catch a real bus for a nine-hour ride to Blantyre. It was early on a rainy afternoon when the driver turned onto a slippery dirt road beside a field. It seemed an unusual place to have a hostel, but it was in my guidebook, so I was going on the assumption that it was all right. It was called Mzoozoozoo, a clever play of words on Mzuzu. The place looked like an unkempt house. As we pulled in, the driver said,

“I’ll wait to see if they have a room, and make sure you want to stay.”

“Its fine, I called ahead and they have room.”

“I’ll wait.” He said as he pulled my bag out of the back.

“Um, ok.” I soon found out why. I walked in the front door and surveyed the room. The living room had been converted into a bar. There were five white men lounging in the room, each with a beer in their hands and several empty bottles already on the table. The air was a little creepy. They looked crusty and worn, like they had done too many drugs in the sixties and seventies. One stood at the bar with his sunglasses on, a beer in his hand and snorkel flippers on his feet. They stared at me, no one saying a word.

Flippers? I thought.

“Hello,” I said to snorkel man, “I called about a room.”

“Yea, it’s a dorm," he said with a British accent, "but you won’t have to share, no one else is back there.”

Back there?

I was nervous about being the only woman around, but I figured if they were this trashed early on a Sunday, they’d be harmless or passed out by nightfall. I thanked the driver for his kindness, told him I would stay, and asked him to pick me up at 5:30 the next morning. The men looked at me, still in silence.

I turned to snorkel man again, “The room?”

“Yea?” Pause.

“May I go there?”

“Oh yea, yea, right, right. Follow me.” He tried unsuccessfully to flipper his way to the front door.

Barefoot, he took me out on the porch and around to the back yard. As we walked through the high grass, I searched the recesses of my mind to remember what the guidebook had said about this place. “A favorite haunt of back backers.” Haunt, that was the word they had used. I also remembered something about “sleeping in the room of the timbers.” We passed a small shed where the bathroom was located and then he led me to the timbers all right, he opened the door and it was a barn. The room had four beds with mosquito nets. It smelled of mold and dirt, and I could see the outdoors between the cracks of the timbers. There were only sheets on the bed, no blanket. It was going to be cold at night at this altitude, so I was trying to think of clothes I had that I could pile on. Ah me, sometimes you get what you pay for. I need to get better about reading between the lines of the guidebooks. On one of the other beds was a backpack with a man’s toiletry kit. He must be checking out. I dropped my bags, grabbed my laptop and walked into town for food and Internet.

I returned before nightfall and discovered a young woman at the hostel. She was a Peace Corps Volunteer and had a weekend off from working in her village. She was as relieved to see me as I was her. We sat at the bar and had a beer, all the while getting to know not only each other, but the crustys as well. One, named Phil, told us they were self-proclaimed 'harmless, chain-smoking alcoholics’. Who, it turns out were very entertaining and quite nice. They were old rockers from London who came here many years ago and never left. The electricity went out in the evening so they lit up the place with candles, and found snacks for us since food couldn't be cooked. We laughed and traded stories until the evening wore on and I was ready for sleep.

Phil said, “Oh, you’re staying in the dorm room, I need to get you a blanket.”

Thank goodness!

He came back into the room with both palms turned up. One hand held the blanket and the other tipped up and down as though weighing something on a set of scales.

“You can have the blanket, or the Phil, either one will keep you warm. I’m just offering, it’s your choice.”

I laughed, “Thank you Phil, I’ll take the blanket, it’s a lot less complicated.”

I made my way back to the room and as I opened the door I heard a rhythmic heavy breathing as though someone were in a deep sleep. It appeared the man had not checked out. I quietly prepared for bed in the dark. I had a sleeping bag liner and decided this was a good night to put it to use. I was afraid to try the mosquito net because I envisioned it being full of dust and holes. Surely I could go one night without it and not get Malaria. I climbed in, and within minutes a mosquito buzzed my ear. I dove completely under the blanket. He made his way in. I fought the little bloodsucker for a long time, and finally decided to let the net down, just so I could get some sleep. Surprisingly, I found the net to be in very good condition, and I dozed off.

A dog started barking at about two in the morning, waking the man across the room. He sat up, fumbled through his bag, lit a cigarette and lay back down. Should I be worried about the barn burning down? I watched the red glow for a few minutes, but lost track of where it was extinguished. The only solace was that it was pouring down rain outside,which also sort of meant, inside. He smoked and went back to sleep. At five I rose, wrapped my backpack in a poncho and waded through the back yard. I never even laid eyes on the man in the timbers.

As I stood on the porch in the dark waiting for my ride, the front door flew open. Snorkel man was standing there in his shorts rubbing his eyes, his hair was going in all directions.

"Oh brilliant, you're awake." He said, "I was about to come get you to make sure you didn't miss your bus."

"Wow, thank you, that was so thoughtful."

I realized I had done a pretty good job of misjudging and underestimating this place.