Day 1 in Malawi: Chongoni and the Smuggling Route to Mozambique

Direct flights from Nairobi to Lilongwe are not scheduled for every day, so I was lucky that Ethiopian (which owns a large stake in Malawi’s national carrier) just so happened to have an itinerary perfectly suited to my needs. My plan for Malawi was the following: On the first day, I would see the Chongoni Rock-Art Area en route to Lake Malawi; on the second day, I would telework from the shores of Lake Malawi; on the third day, I would explore Lake Malawi; and on the fourth day, I would return to Lilongwe and then Nairobi. I would need to take no time off for this, as I had planned my itinerary to begin with the Labour Day holiday, which falls on a Thursday this year.

My flight departed at quarter past six in the morning. This meant that I had to go to sleep quite early and still could only get about five or six hours of rest. The flight was completely packed. When we arrived in Malawi, I was the first among a very small group of people to spot the E-Visa desk, which was placed right in front of the corridor through which the airport employees were ushering transferring passengers. The process was smooth but long. By the time the officer was finished, half of the people waiting in front of the desk for citizens had already been shown through. I visited the bathroom and made another quick stop by the currency exchange desk. Although I knew my hotel would be able to accept my US Dollars, I made sure to exchange some for Kwacha to avoid being entirely dependent on it.

My driver was waiting for me with a big piece of paper bearing my name. He was a short, bald man who was quick to laugh at any remark either of us made. After going over basic introductions in the car, I pulled out my wallet to put away the Kwacha I had received.

“They’re very nice,” I observed politely and truthfully, and Andrew chuckled his assent. “I really like the fish,” I added, looking at the glossy cichlid on three different denominations in my hand. This comment seemed to come as a surprise to Andrew, and he had to have it repeated. It struck me that for him, the nicest part of the banknotes might be the portraits, which was a perfect opportunity to broach more sensitive topics. I continued: “I see Banda is on many of these.”

“Excuse me?” the driver asked, and I wondered whether I had perhaps been too familiar.

“I was just saying, I see President Hastings Banda is on many of these.”

“You know Hastings Banda?”

“Yes,” I replied, without wanting to give away a single shade of personal opinion. “I am reading a book about him – kind of.” I added the last two words because halfway through the sentence, I had to concede to myself that I was not, in fact, reading a book about Hastings Banda but a book written by a man who had been arrested and jailed by the Banda regime.

“Yes,” Andrew chuckled and added, after a short pause, “he still is on the money.”

“Still?” I asked. Andrew did not elaborate. “I have heard that people are still upset with him,” I ventured noncommittally.

“Yes.”

“But he is still on the money?”

Andrew chuckled. “You know, in Malawi we have been complaining about Banda for a long time, but now we are seeing that the people who came after him might be even worse. At least Banda was trying to develop the country.”

I laughed the polite laugh that only a foreigner can make when he hears a singular perspective on a very divisive issue. As we continued, it struck me how few visible marks Banda’s eccentricities had left on the country. The dictator had encouraged people to wear conservative attire and provided special patronage for the instruction of western classics in schools, but I found little indication of this ever happening by looking at the young men walking along the road in their football jerseys.

The city of Lilongwe lies south of the airport and from the motorway it seems like little more than a sprawling agglomeration of family houses. The most important stretch on this road has two lanes in each direction with working traffic lights and at least one modern-looking bus stop. These were built by a Chinese company. Much farther out of the city, I began to see projects sponsored by the European Union, most likely conceived of as aid rather than as investments. There was also, I was amused to find, a sign in one of the nearby towns that welcomed visitors to an “Open Defecation Free Zone.” I interpreted this to mean that relieving oneself in public is not allowed there.

Southeast of Lilongwe, the disconsolate plain on which the city is built begins to sprout steep hills and rocks. Farther on, these hills and rocks coalesce into entire ranges that stretch into neighbouring Mozambique. Right on the border sits the town of Dedza, an altogether unremarkable agglomeration except for the fact that it finds itself straight in the middle of the Chongoni Rock-Art Area. Dozens, possibly hundreds of sites belong to this collection, the most famous among them being Mphunzi and Chenchelere. Just like the rock paintings in Nyero, the oldest specimens were created by the Batwa people, who have since then been driven out of Malawi and survive in tiny pockets in nearby countries. Later additions were made by the Chewa, who are the dominant ethnicity today.

Just before Dedza, we picked up a guide my hotel had arranged for me. The guide turned out to be entirely necessary, for as soon as we left the main road, we found ourselves on an incredibly bumpy dirt path that was constantly branching off left and right with no signage. Despite our car having a four-wheel drive, I almost thought the road was better suited to the occasional oxcart. I asked Simeon, the guide, whether the site does not receive many visitors and whether that is why the road is so poorly kept. He replied that locals intentionally keep the road from being improved as dirt paths like these are major arteries for smugglers from Mozambique. If the quality were improved, it would be easier for the police to clamp down on this activity.

Our arrival under the rocks created a stir among the local community: Little children immediately flocked to our car and proceeded to follow us on our tour. The first painting we saw was made by the Chewa people. Simeon explained that the white circle symbolised the continuity of kingly rule. It hovered above what looked like the tusks of an elephant, whose shape was worn but vaguely discernible. Simon said that in some rituals, two to four people would dance around wearing one big elephant costume made of either wood and plant material or fabric.

The second site was more abstract: it was decorated with circles and stripes, the latter of which Simeon claimed were the ladders Batwa people climbed on to paint these images using limestone and blood. He went on to recount a silly story about what allegedly happens when a person meets a Mutwa. The Mutwa, he says, will ask at what distance the other person saw him. Because the Batwa are short, the answer tends to be very short as well, but this angers the Batwa. The correct thing to tell a Mutwa, therefore, is that you saw him from very far away. Simeon told me that although the Batwa no longer live in Malawi, he has seen a few. He said he could tell it was not just some short people of another ethnicity, as Batwa people have very specific proportions and facial features by which they can be recognised.

Just as I am skeptical of Simeon’s anecdote about the Batwa, I am also skeptical of his interpretation of the painting. In Nyero, the exact same shape was interpreted as a pod, which makes me think that no one – and perhaps not even the long-removed descendants of these Batwa – knows what the paintings mean. He interpreted another set of lines as counting how long some woman was on her period, which I find even more farfetched. Of course, I must acknowledge that bringing a group of wazungu to a bunch of shapes on a rock and saying “this is a circle, these are lines, and we have no idea what they mean” is probably not a recipe for success in the tourism industry.

The third and fourth paintings Simeon showed me were allegedly of a giraffe and scorpion, but again, I had my doubts. The fifth panel was meant to be a hook and a basket. These were the last paintings we saw before heading back to the car and continuing our journey, passing by fields of corn, cassava, and sweet potatoes. Andrew and Simeon were amused that in Europe, we only have one type of potato which we call simply a “potato.” In Malawi and much of East Africa, it is called an “Irish potato” and sometimes just “Irish.”

After leaving Simeon in his home village, which was on the way for us, we paid to enter a toll way; Andrew did not understand my puzzlement that the road behind the booth was even fuller of potholes than the road before it. The concept of paying to drive on a fast road seemed completely alien to him. Heading northeast, the road entered the mountains which we had been passing all day long, and I soon found myself marvelling at the beautiful vistas around me. The road climbed and sank, snaking its way along the mountainsides, and new peaks emerged near and far behind every bend. Sometimes, we passed a quaint mudbrick village perched atop a hilltop and overlooking a mountainous landscape, while at other times, the land seemed untouched by human hands.

As we drew closer to the lake, the hills flattened into fields dotted by occasional patches of trees. Some of them could be seen from afar, their branches extending in a broad semicircle around their bulbous trunks. These were the famous baobabs of Malawi. If a baobab stood close to the road, it was inevitably accompanied by a little shop or rest stop, illustrating the high regard in which they are held. I had intended to ask Andrew to slow down at some point so I could take pictures, but my tiredness made me taciturn, and I eventually fell asleep. I only woke up again a short distance from our destination.

We arrived in Cape Maclear a little after two o’clock in the afternoon. Still a little groggy, I unpacked and paid for my room. The owner accepted my US Dollars but could only return Kwacha, so I asked him to keep the remainder on my tab for dinners. Somehow, despite my tiredness, I found myself asking the owner whether there were any hiking trails in the area, and before I knew it my legs were carrying me to the gate of Lake Malawi National Park. Having met far too many people that day and feeling socially exhausted, I refused the offer of a guide and decided to go up the trail to the lookout point myself. This seemed to worry the park ranger who sold me my ticket, so he insisted on accompanying me to the trailhead, where I gave him a little tip.

The walk was gruelling. On my way to the gate, I had bumped into a souvenir seller who had told me that at my pace, the walk would take me an hour. After an hour, however, the top was still far out of sight, and I cursed the souvenir seller, who I was sure had only told me this so that I would not turn back and miss his stall. My shirt was soaking wet with sweat, but I could not stop, for as soon as I paused to take pictures or take a swig from my water bottle, insects started buzzing around my head and arms. I told myself that I would not be so daft as to investigate whether or not they were mosquitoes. As if that were not enough, the grass around the trail kept attacking me with its sharp seed pods, which burrowed into my clothes and irritated my skin with every step. That evening, I found them even in my underwear, and I was still pulling them out of my trousers the next day.

The view was worth the struggle though. The peak of Mount Nkhunguni overlooks Thumbi Island to the north and the much larger Domwe Island to its west. Framing this view are trees and large smooth boulders, which take on a golden tint in the late afternoon sun. Noticing this, I realised that I would have to hurry down again before it began to get dark, and I slipped and slid my way down the sandy path until I got home to a long shower.