I have finally managed to slow down a bit and stop jumping from place to place. After the marathon that was Botswana-Zambia, and even the first couple of days in Malawi, I feel like I am finally starting to relax and take things at a travellers place, without always worrying about the next place I'm going to and how important it is that I get there now now. On the one hand, this is very relaxing, but on the other it gives me much more of a vacation feeling which for some reason I feel like I am not -- nor should I be -- on. I can't explain this, maybe I feel like I'm supposed to be communing with Africa and not spending my days laying on hammocks and watching the lake swish back and forth. Thats what tourists do. I am not a tourist. I am a peace corps volunteer, and we do thinks a little different from that generic backpacker-on-holiday set. Except now I'm not. I'm just one more unemployed girl watching the lake swish back and forth while drinking beer in a hammock. Which is, of course, not the worst thing in the world to be by a long shot.
Recently a lot of that hammock-lounging has been taking place on Likoma Island, in the middle of Lake Malawi. Likoma is, as you would hope a small tropical island in the middle of a large Rift Valley Lake would be, very beautiful and very laid back. There are two roads on the island, and maybe twice as many cars (the fancy resort's land rover, the Unicef truck, the ambulance, and the German guy's green jeep). The sunsets are also up to standard, and so I won't bother to describe them, I'll just allow you to consult all of the postcard sunset imagery in your head. Besides being an (unemployed) bum, on Likoma I spent four days learning to SCUBA dive, and have decided that I am totally in love. Diving is like nothing else, you become completely a part of the water around you, as much as the fish and the rocks and the light that floats down in tendrils and waves. Its amazing to swim 3 inches above the sandy bottom of a lake, and know that the surface is 18 meters (thats 54 feet) above your head. Plus, the gasses and pressures and whatnot involved made my freshly burnt arm break out in little bubble-wrap like nodes. Icky and fun, what a great sport!
Unfortunately, I got those sunburnt arms from one of the most GOD AWFUL boating experiences of my entire life. Likoma, like I said, is an island in the middle of one of the world's largest freshwater lakes. So of course, you can only reach it by boat (or plane, but like I can afford a private plane flight). The boat of choice coming from the Malawian main land is the Ilala Ferry, a huge old steam boat thats been chugging up and down the lake for half a century. Most people rave about the thing. They have fantastic experiences, meet cool people, spend their time admiring the Mozambican and Malawian shores while drinking beer and generally having a good time. I, of course, happened to hop on during one of the worst storms of the year. Which really confused me, since there was no rain or clouds or even swells (though, in retrospect the ones I were estimating at 2-3 feet were probably a lot closer to seven, with occasionally bursts up into 9 or 10 if they were feeling particulary energetic.) There was just wind. Lots and lots of wind, which in turn made the boat rock and pitch continually, so that everything slid back and forth on the deck and most people had to give up and crawl to where they wanted to get. This still might have been fun (at no point did it feel dangerous -- just very rolly) had I not spent most of my time leaning over the side, trying not to lean over the side, or racing for the side, instead of just watching it all happen. So I was a little distracted and forgot the sunblock. (Mostly I was more angry than sick. Well, maybe almost as angry as sick. There was a lot of sick. BUT, I am not the one who gets sea-sick. I've been on boats my whole life! Don't the sea gods know this? I decided the problem was that we were on a lake and not an ocean. Stupid lake.)
Now, however, both my island and my lake times are up. Today I'm in a beautiful little place called in Nkhata Bay, staying at possibly one of the world's most social backpackers. So mostly I'm just hanging out and making friends before making the final run up to Tanzania. I like the place (Mayoka Village, should you ever find yourself here) for many reasons, but a major one is that they are heavily involved in the community around them, they don't set themselves apart. So last night a local church choir came to sing before dinner in the hopes of raising money for a new church roof. I like that this is something the owners would agree to, and something the church felt comfortable requesting. So the choir came up -- four ladies, two men, and a guy in back playing a keyboard with all the backbeats and synth settings he could muster. And the choir rocked out, and the ladies sang and dance, and the pastor/baritone held up his arms and called out 'Hallelujah!' whenever he felt the music required it, and the tourist audience sat quietly and attentively and applauded very nicely when it was over. And I laughed, because it was such a classic combining (I won't say clash, there was nothing violent) of cultures. Everybody played by their rules and wanted to be at their absolute best, and the rules were totally different on both sides. So the choir kept singing, and then of course the kitchen staff, and the barmen, and all the locals in the place got up and started singing and dancing too (because those are, of course, the proper rules to play by. There's no divide in African music, no performance space and audience space, no creator/reciever. Its all just music, and you're all inside of it) and the tourists thought to themselves 'oh, how charming' or maybe 'oh, how rude!' and I thought 'Rock on,' but I'm still too much of a chicken to get up and play even when I know the right rules. Until the next song, when the inevitable of course happened and the choir and other people up front starting pulling up the tourists to join -- starting with the girls in the front, of course -- and the tourists thought 'oh, how daring and how local we are!' and I'm sure the Malawians just laughed, or wondered what it was that glued those white butts to their wicker seats. Finally it ended like it should, with many people from many places up and dancing -- though still with a clear front and back to the room. Here is where people sing and dance, here is where we sit and admire people singing and dancing -- and a hat was passed around, and people gave money for the new church roof. I liked it. There was such an honest effort on both sides to come across that gap, or at least take an open eyed look. Nobody made it entirely to the other side of course, but it was a solid and friendly attempt. Which is all you can really ask, isn't it?
No comments:
Post a Comment