LEAVING CHINZOMBO 9th October 2018

We are in Kaya Mawa, a resort on Likoma Island, which is in the north east on Lake Malawi (800 kms long by 80 kms wide, the third largest expanse of water in Africa.  Kaya Mawa means ‘maybe tomorrow’.  We can see Mozambique which is just 7 kms away.  In a trade when Africa was being carved up by colonials, this island was given to Africa although it is officially in Mozambique waters, as there were no beaches on the Malawian side of the lake.   Arbitrary, but apparently how they did things.  It is, according to Conde Nast, the most romantic destination on earth.  I wish you could see it. Before I tell you about it, I want to tell you how we got here.

We arrived yesterday afternoon about 3.30 pm after leaving Chinzombo at 9 am in a Land Rover with Bryan, who took us to Mfuwe airport, a journey of an hour, through forestsof stunted mopani trees, their tops eaten off by elephants, “habitat modification’ Bryan laughs, and dongas, thorn trees, and red dust.  We pass elephants, ambling along, there is seldom a rush with an ele, unless he is charging, and their graceful sway is remarkable considering their vast size. We see more impalas, most of the females are pregnant, and will drop their babies on Gerald’s birthday next week, a time when the family are particularly vulnerable to lions.  By 16th November, every farmer will have his crops planted, in readiness for the rains. We pass Norman Carr’s original camp, a piece of history, which should be a museum, this vision he created decades ago employs 36 people today, and has conserved the lives of thousands of animals, and informed the lives of thousands of people.

 Mfuwe is growing fast, there are already 5000 people here, spread over a wide area.  Its a consequence of tourism, and the local people able to earn a living are generating job opportunities for others, there are dusty clothing shops, barber salons, bars, hardware stores, “Trading Store” and “General Store” signs galore. But the camps close when the rains come, as road become impassable, the jungle becomes dense and impenetrable, and no animals can be seen and business suffers for nobody has any money.  It’s a busy town centre, and the roadsides are lined with market stalls selling clothing, a riot of coloured flip flops, vegetables, dishes of mangoes (1 cent each), children on their way to school, bicycles with large woven baskets attached behind the saddle, ferrying charcoal and grass.  Thatched roofed huts, mud plastered and with smaller structure some distance from the house, the toilet, ladies carrying heavy loads on their heads, a man on a bicycle obscured by hundreds of pairs of red, blue, pink and yellow flip flops.  A ghastly concrete building, with no windows, but through the open door, are hundreds of chickens.   Mango trees hanging low with bright green fruit (we used to eat these as children, sliced and sprinkled with salt), a circle of people in prayer, several schools and running children, small concrete buildings painted garish pink or turquoise, with a distantly Indian feel, and several investment companies, “The Biggest Investment” and “Try Me Investment” - so if you want to invest some money, Zambia might be the place! - and a few more affluent looking homes.  Bryan says there is one very wealthy man here, the Minister for Information, who owns a radio station, and he points out his house amongst a cluster of thatched roof dwellings, a modest brick home, and parked outside, is a white stretch limousine.  “He drives it into town and all the people go ‘waaaaaah!” Minister of what information, I wonder?

 Despite its title Mfuwe International Airport, there is nothing international about this airport, but its charming, with swept red dust surrounds, jacaranda trees and flowers, there are designated parking spots for 6 vehicles, all from safari camps, and ominous signs threatening fines if you linger in the drop off area.   As we are the only passengers here, this is highly unlikely, although there is a queue for the ‘post office’ lined with red individual post boxes, a queue for the bank teller, and several men lounging about checking mobile phones. It is decorated with wildlife, not real wildlife, but paper mache? - or wood, a life size baby elephant made of teak, a life size lion of the same wood, a giraffe and a zebra.  The toilets don’t work, there is no soap, no running water, and the cistern has an elaborate metal barred casing around it with a formidable lock.  Someone must be in the cistern stealing business, and on a window sill sits an open cardboard box, upon which someone has written ‘CONDOMS’ in felt tip pen.  No charge.  Help yourself.  So I take two, just to show you.  But I am not in need of a condom right now, we have to pass through “Customs and Immigration” a falling apart unmanned desk, and wait for Bryan to find our pilot, who doubles as customs and immigration officer.  His name is Riaan, a tall young man, blonde and Afrikaans, but his good looks belie his uncommunicative and unfriendly manner, he weighs our bags and makes notes in his manifesto.  Not only did we pay US$50 each to enter Zambia on arrival, we now discover there is a US$40 departure tax each to be paid.  Expensive.  Astonishingly, there is an ATM in the outpost, and Gerald withdraws Kwacha 1,000 - about Aus $100 - to pay for the tax, but it costs $5 to use the ATM, plus $5 international charges and $2-3 exchange rate charges - say $13 for a $100 withdrawal!  Riaan then informs us we are overweight by 6 kgs.  Impossible, says Gerald, we have been under the 40 kgs allowance on every bush flight we’ve made.   Apparently the allowance is 30 kgs on this particular flight, an oversight by our very efficient agent, and he says we will have to pay.   Gerald, unquestionably the most organised and planful  man I have ever met, has organised our American dollars down to the last US$5 tip, and an ‘overweight’ charge is not scheduled.  And Gerald is not spending another $13 to withdraw an as yet, unstated sum to pay for it. It’s a stand off, and Riaan stops talking altogether, and sullenly loads our bags and we pass through a farce of a security machine, laden down with water bottles and metal jewellery, with no alarms ringing.  There is a small shop selling artefacts, but I decline - a tiny bag of Zambian ground peanuts, Gerald’s favourite are US $8 a bag, and US$40 for an attractive Zambian chitenge strip of cloth to decorate a bed.  Someone is making a lot of money, and its not the locals. 

 We head out on to the steaming tarmac.   The flight is with Ulendo and plane is tiny, its a Cessna C210, with four seats, and the interior is very compact.  Gerald does not travel well in small planes as you know, and this plane is verrrry small, with his engineering background he notices every detail that is not working, needs repair, and can read many of the metres, which adds to his distress.  The propellers whir, we get a safety briefing and head to the end of the runway, Riaan is on his mobile phone, and turns to us and says in his first attempt at humour “I am not on social media, I am sending a text to tell them we are ready to depart.”  He is 23 yers old and has been flying for five years, these bush pilots are legendary for their skills, and although he says our hour long flight to Lilongwe will be bumpy because of heat thermals, and he will try to get up to 11,500 feet to avoid them, I am not troubled.  Sullen he may be, but I am certain he is skilled - although not very aware, he has been living locally for a couple of years, and cannot tell me the name of the mountain range in front of us.

 But the flight is uneventful, although Gerald asks me every ten minutes what time it is, and holds tightly to the base of his seat, keeping it in the air, and we land an Lilongwe INTERNATIONAL (??) Airport an hour later, this too is a very pretty place, lined with green grass, gorgeous gardens, and purple jacaranda trees.  We are met at the plane by Paul, a colleague of Riaan’s, who informs him we are overweight and adds tersely “You sort this out.”  Clearly Riaan does not want to deal with Gerald and our itinerary which clearly states we are allowed a weight of 20 kgs each, and palms us off to Paul, who takes us to the terminal, where we now have to pay US$75 each to enter Malawi, an amount Gerald has planned for, although we hadn’t realised it was necessary until a few days ago.  However, the ATM doesn’t work.  Some days it does, some days it doesn’t, and today, it doesn’t, so we have to use our precious cash US dollars. 

 We then go through a laborious customs and immigration process, with a dozen unmanned cubicles, and eventually two languid women arrive, wearing gold braid and military style uniforms, and propping themselves on their elbows, advise it will be quicker if we do our formalities separately, Gerald at one cubicle, me at another.  It’s a long process which involves interminable stamping and flipping through pages, and long and loud discussions with each other across four unmanned cubicles.  People are strolling around and although we are not yet through customs, I am told I can use the toilet which is outside the customs area, through a pleasant flower lined corridor outside - what if I wanted to avoid customs!!!???  The toilets here don’t work either, and the door is broken and doesn’t close, there is no paper, no water and no soap.  Luckily for hand sanitiser and tissues.

 Finally we are through, and head from “International” to “Domestic” a two minute walk, and after ‘security’ our luggage is placed on the ground, and a policewoman with a sniffer dog, called Nikita, sniffs our bags.  I am impressed - I have lunch in mine - and Nikita barely gives it a glance, and I think how Cino would stop an wag her tail in delight.  I take a photo and a policeman springs into action, admonishing me for taking a photo without his permission, but he’s a charming man, a dog lover, and when I show him they photo of Nikita, he beams, and then I show him photos of Cino;  we’re friends in minutes, and I apologise for not asking to take a photo of ‘state secruity’.  N ow Paul tells us we have to pay a US$7 departure from here to Likomo Island, and will need $US10 each to come back from Likomo Island.  Really?  We have used most of our dollars and the small amount of Zambian Kwacha we have left is useless here, although Malawi also uses Kwacha, its a different Kwacha. 

 Paul takes Gerald back to the International, to an ATM, there is a limit to what you can withdraw in one transaction, designed I am sure, to slug you with another hefty fee.  We are slugged with another fee, and are led to another cubicle where a lady is talking loudly on her mobile phone, and we stand, ignored, for five minutes.  Paul eventually tells her to put the phone down, and she protests that she is ‘busy’.   We wait some more, and we pay for the departure tax. Now we turn to the matter of our ‘overweight’ and no matter what Gerald says, we have to pay, its now in the manifesto, and Riaan will be ‘fired’ if we don’t.  Gerald says we will take our heavy jackets out and wear them, we only put them in the bags for convenience, but no, its in the manifesto.  But - we have run out of money again - and unbelievably, the airline has no credit card facility, not even to pay for flights. We are NOT going back out to the ATM and being slugged AGAIN with another fee, let’s call Johannesburg and speak to Ubuntu who can perhaps transfer the cost on our behalf?  But no, that is impossible too.   So Gerald heads back out to the ATM - once again to the International - and gets slugged again with more fees to pay the US$45 for our 6 kgs overweight. Gerald says to Paul “PLEASE TELL ME there is nothing else to pay?!” Paul laughs - I think, embarrassed. Current rate of exchange is 730 Malawi Kwacha to US$1.

 We sit and wait.  There is absolutely nothing to do at Lilongwe Airport, thre’s an empty bar decorated with posters of smiling good looking Africans having a wonderful life drinking Coca Cola, another toilet without water, but thoughtfully placed outside is a big plastic drum of water, fitted with a tap, and underneath it is a bowl, and some handwash.   The Africans are a resourceful people, and I appreciate this gesture.   There is a Muslim prayer centre, also closed, but the Ethiopian Airlines have a long queue of people,  a lot of Muslim travellers in traditional dress, with their bags wrapped in plastic.  A few elegant black and beautiful women, in high heels, with long fingernails, and a mother travelling with three children, including one small boy about five years old, who she assists walking, until a wheelchair is brought. I unwrap our lunch, but it’s unappetising, apart from the two apples, yet I cannot throw it in the bin.  I take it to a ‘shop’ and ask the young female attendant if she would like it, I emphasise it is untouched - and her face lights up in gratitude.

 Apparently, we have a German man flying with us, Ludwig, he is an electrician on his way to Kaya Mawa to install some important cabling for a vital battery, and his bag weighs a ton, filled as it is with cables. We sit aimlessly waiting, until at 2.15 pm we are shuffled through a door into the ‘departure lounge’ with dozens of chairs, and us three sat waiting for our pilot.  Paul arrives and escorts us to the plane, another tiny 4 seats Cessna C210, I think he deserves a tip, he’s had a lot of hassle with us, but Gerald is adamant he’s been ripped off, and declines.   Our pilot is Jakkie (pronounced Yucky), another Afrikaans man, who also does not know the name of the mountains in the distance, despite living here.  We have another hour’s flight o Likomo Island, Ludwig sits alongside Jakkie, and tells us he is nervous: that makes two nervous people out of four in the plane.  No need, although the flight is bumpy, and Gerald keeps checking the time, the views over the lake and Mozambique to our right are beautiful, and as we bank towards the airstrip, we can see green and turquoise oceans lapping white sandy beaches lined with blue fishing boats.  It’s gorgeous.

 The terminal is two rooms and two toilets (which have water!) and a bar, enclosed with burglar bars, and nobody behind the counter.  We have arrived early, and our pick up has not arrived.  It’s hot and men sit in the shade, lounging on plastic chairs, cattle graze behind barbed wire fences, and the pilot changes behind the aircraft - the only one here - from his uniform into shorts, tee shirt and thongs.  He is staying here overnight and flying back tomorrow. He looks a lot less imposing in his casual gear.  McDonald, our driver, arrives in a dusty beat up Land Rover and drives us 7 km, a twenty five minute journey, through jolting red dust terrain, through a village of houses and a school where we hear a choir practising (there is a detour for road work!), the road falls away sharply to left and right, we drive along a ridge lined with granite boulders, passing children who screech in delight when they see and and chase the vehicle, we move so slowly as the baked earth road is so broken they can keep up with us.  Adults and kids alike, wave and shout hello! What a welcome!  Gerald looks dubious and says he doesn’t have high hopes for Kaya Mawa, I tell him I think we are going to be surprised.

 ARRIVING AT KAYA MAWA - 9th October 2018

 And we are……... 

McDonald drives on to a relatively flat piece of road, through an arbour of laden mango trees, and comes to a stop in the shade.  A barefoot white woman in a faded print dress is sprinting towards us, she is Lucy, the assistant manager, and Keira, a golden Labrador.  As we clamber out of the Land Rover and head towards a group of thatched roofed buildings, I am absolutely in awe.  A small bay of turquoise water, edged with white sands upon which are artfully arranged umbrellas and lounges and plump bean bags in the colours of sorbet:  pale pink, yellow, turquoise and nut, woven baskets and sturdy tables made of old wooden boxes and sea faring trunks serve as tables and bowls of striped towels.   The bay is protected by mounds of  huge granite boulders, and high up along rough planked board walks, I can just make out two or three thatched roofed houses amongst swaying heavily laden mango trees. It’s breath taking.

 The lake looks like an ocean and the waves are small and a gentle lullaby, washing up on to the sand.  I want to yell in delight and sob with joy at the same time.  We walk across the sand and climb three rough wooden steps to sit in the second of the buildings on the beach, all of which are open on three sides, with fine muslin curtains drifting in the breeze.  I’m trying to work out where I am.  We could be in the South Pacific, or the Cayman Islands, Barbados, Fiji, Bali, Thailand - or even Mozambique, which officially is where we are, and where I holidayed twice, forty years ago, to Paradise Island with my sister and my parents. It left a lasting impression upon me.

 The decor is beautiful, perfect and simple.  There are three large ‘rooms’ - one is a dining area, one is a lounging area, and the other is a bar.   A smaller, separate building is an outdoor thatched bathroom, with polished concrete floors, perfumed with frangipani flowers and piles of soft hand towels, brass fittings, the toilet sits on a raised platform, and sitting on it, like a throne, you have a beautiful view out of the open window at eye level.  The traditional African “occupied” sign - a strand of rope which one hooks from one side of the doorway to the other - indicates the room is in use.

 The living areas have bleached grey wooden floor boards, roughly hewn, strewn with woven mats, white squashy lounges and chairs, tables made of glass and twigs, chandeliers made of tumbled glass (from recycled bottles), photos and paintings of Africa and drums and beaded lampshades made of heavy wood, cushions in pink and blue and white and yellow, and others in candy coloured pinstripes, in fabrics of nubbled linen and cotton, decorated with coloured beads, tiny shells, and intricate embroidery, hangings, lamps and art work made of shells of every shape yet everything co-ordinates to perfection, these are natural soft shades of the rainbow, which matches the tumbling bougainvillea, the ocean, the sky, and the beach.  These are natural materials which reflect the environment and its exquisite.

 After a short briefing about how the island works and a safety message - there is a spider called the Whip Spider, which looks ferocious, its about an inch wide with long scorpion like claws, but its absolutely harmless and eats the mozzies and the flies, electricity is off at 10 pm, please use the torch to come to dinner - we are taken to our ‘room’.   There are only 11 rooms here, and today they are not all full, there’s nobody about, its as if we have the whole island to ourselves.

 We walk to the far end of the beach, the sand is coarse and a beige colour up close, each step is hard work for the sand is soft, and we sink into its warmth. Lucy leads us through a grove of mango trees, and a collection of grey giant granite boulders, and along rough granite pathways and a wooden planked boardwalk, hung with a strand of rope strung between poles, which acts as a handrail, then up a circular, steep set of rough wooden stairs, up up up.   It’s like being in an enchanted forest, we walk in dappled shade in silence, as if its a secret nobody knows about.  There is a sign which announces “Madimba”, the name of our ‘room’.

 We reach the top step which opens on to a wooden deck, and to the right is a small pear shaped concrete pool upon which jacaranda flowers have dropped from the nearby tree, and there boulders protruding through its wall, its been dug into rock! - and a mango tree so full of fruit, hangs over it, so that anyone in the pool could pluck a luscious snack.  There are white wicker chairs and a table, two white bean bags and two sun lounges built of wood and strung with sturdy rope, one with a blue sarong for Gerald and the other with a pink sarong for me, and two woven straw hats.  I turn around and look at the view.

 OMG. OMG. OMG.

 It’s a 180 degree view of the bay, and the colourful buildings we just left behind, yet the deck is completely private from below, shielded by trees amongst which flit colourful birds.   There are hanging lamps which look like the nests the weaver birds build.  The ‘room’ is a misnomer - its a house really - has a Dutch gabled front, stone walls, with a thatched roof, all the huge multi panel windows are open and their frames are painted pale blue wooden, with big wooden pegs and sturdy poles to keep them open against the breeze from the lake, with cushion covered window seats at each window, the huge French doors lined with billowing white cotton curtains stand open to welcome us in.

 Inside, after the heat and glare of the sun, the white floors, white walls, white curtains are cool and welcoming.   It’s a very rustic vast space of open living 15 m x 12 m - and split into three sections.  The stone walls are whitewashed, and in the centre is a gigantic concrete bed - you have to step up into it - strung with muslin mosquito nets supported by huge tree trunk poles, which also support the building. The floors are cool under our bare feet, made grey/white polished concrete, imperfect, and a work of art, all by themselves.  The ceiling soars to the gable and is straw lined and the floors are polished concrete. To either side of the main ‘bedroom’ through matching stone archways, are a vast bathroom with a sunken concrete bath which looks out to the ocean, framed by blue framed open windows and gently drifting soft white curtains, a concrete stand with two concrete round basins, an open ended double shower hung with pale turquoise tumbled pebbles size glass , curtains, and up three concrete stairs is a toilet, with s light blue door, and an open window looking on to a forest of trees.  On the opposite side of the ‘bedroom’ is a room which matches the size of the bathroom, is a double chaise lounge in white linen laden with coloured cushions, and a concrete bar with bamboo bar stools and a  fridge, loaded with wine and beer and drinks.   There are large mirrors propped against the walls.  On either side of the extra large king size bed are three matching concrete steps which lead to the ‘dressing room’ - a huge space with a dressing table and cupboards made of concrete, and a blue stable door leading to a small mountain of granite boulders.   There are a steep set of stairs leading up to a narrow walkway and a gable window which looks down on to the ocean, but the climb is treacherous, for the young, and I only visit once.  The space is decorated with hanging basket woven lamps, glass beaded and shell studded chandeliers, open weave fabric blinds at all the windows bar the ones which face the sea, there are straw mats, piles of towels, huge white candles waiting to be lit.

 I am enchanted, I have never seen anything like this, anywhere.  It’s an architectural marvel, but quirky, charming, creative design at its absolute best, and most simple.  Natasha Marshall, our architect, who is designing our new home in Berry - I would love you to see this place!

 We spent the next couple of hours unpacking, testing things:  lying on every chair, bed, window seat, bean bag, and sun lounge.  I run water into the sunken bath and lie there, drinking gin.  I take a hundred photos of the beauty around me.  I switch the beaded lamps on and off, immerse myself in the pool, overhung with mangoes, and have another gin.  Then we walk as the sunset, around 5.30 pm along the warm sand to the lodge, where tables have been set out in the sand, lit with lanterns and white table cloths, silver and glasses glint as both men and women (unheard of until not so long ago) wait, smiling with extended hands.  “Hello!  I am Luke.  Evan.  Martin.  Pamela.  Modessa. Christina. Charles.”  The three course meal would do a Two Hatted Restaurant justice, superbly presented, top quality produce, and delicious.   A spinach baklava, followed by roasted pork fillet with vegetables, and lemon tart. 

 Stuffed, with a torch and Charles carrying a tray of hot water for tea, we walk through the crunching sand to our room at the opposite end of the bay.  Charles practically runs.  Gerald and I inch along, our soft feet ouching on the sharp grains.  Charles sprints up the steep wooden ladder like stairs in the dark like an antelope and lays the tray on the bar.  Grinning, he farewells us.

 The room has been prepared by the Laundry Ladies, as they are known - its dark, electricity is used as little as possible, and lights attract insects, but the blinds are drawn yet the main doors and window remain open, which they do all night.  It’s fairyland when we put two small lamps on, we can hear the waves, and after our early start and after 16 days on safari, at 8.16 pm, Gerald drops his book as he falls asleep, and I put the light out. 

 We are in heaven. 

 Camp History:  “The Lodge was built entirely be hand, not one power tool, drill, planer or cement mixer was used.   All the labour used on the project came from the island, and all the unskilled labour came from Nkwhazi village or the neighbouring village.  The timber was hand cut using pit saws in the forest, every plank carried at least 7 kms on a workers head, every plank was hand planed, and every door frame, window frame, lintel, bed, chair, table, shelf, door and window was made on site, in a workshop under a mango tree by three carpenters, the youngest aged 50, the oldest, Mr. Chicotti, aged 67.  The stonemasons, all island born, were led by Mr. Karonga, brother of the chief and a village elder, who thought nothing of clambering over homemade blue gum scaffolding 20 metres above the ground, carrying a 30 kg rock and placing it expertly in the wall.  The quality of their work is an immense source of pride.  Another achievement which is reflected in the teamwork and coordination of the workforce is that in six years of building, with a team of up to 100 employees, there were only three accidents which required hospital treatment, two of which were out the same day.” 

 The obstacles were many, as the island is so very remote, and the logistics behind a project of this magnitude are so great, with the closest hardware store a 4 day round trip. Building in a new style, with energy technologies never used in the country before, and the sheer scale of the project was sometimes daunting as were local solutions to problems.  The roofing poles (the size of tree trunks) came from a forest in mainland Malawi, dragged to the nearest track by a 70 person strong church choir, and then loaded in a truck and driven to the nearest port before coming over to the island on a steamer.  The first time, it took 18 months to get them from forest to beach, only to find they could not be used, as the crew of the steamer had cut them in half to make them easier to load.

 It’s an unbelievable achievement and an authentic bonding and interaction, a sense of ownership with the locals and the chiefs.  The women still use the beach for bathing, washing their clothes and dishes, children come and screech with delight after school in the afternoon as they leap in the waves.  Everybody smiles and talks and asks our name, they hold our hands and ask questions, this is a happy place, a sleepy place, untouched by the modern world.  I love to hear the chatter of Chinyanja in the background, children’s laughter, and the waves splashing on the shore. 

 Unlike some of its neighbours, Malawi is a ver densely populated country, and over 7000 people live on Likoma Island.  After the government, Kaya Mawa is the largest employer on the island.  There are 130 staff, all of whom are locals, and management endeavours to employ a member from every family, and there are some mothers and daughters, fathers and sons, and three generations of women, one of whom sometimes arrives with the fourth generation strapped to her back.  There is a genuine respect between management and employees, and I have never met more genuinely interested and helpful staff.  The relationship is successful because it is run in partnership - with some of the most warm-hearted people in the warm heart of Africa.

 Lake Malawi is the islanders ‘garden’ as the soil is so poor.  Fishing is the main source of income for the villagers, and obviously the lake is the primary source of drinking, cooking and was having water for the women.  The quality of the water is exceptional, crystal clear and supports over 1000 species of tropical fish.  Efforts were entered around establishing better hygiene when washing in the lake to avoid the spread of Bilharzia (Shitsomaiasis) which is passed through urine.  A tap was introduced in the village and explained that the beach could not longer be used as a toilet as water would be bumped from the lake and during the rains, faeces etc gets washed in. Within eight months of the women in the village regularly using the tape no more faeces were found amongst the rocks.

 Lucy is an English woman who came here just six weeks ago with Mike, her partner, also English, to assist Allie and Ollie, good friends from the UK, who came here in June to manage Kaya Mawa, including Chizumulu Island and Mango Drift (a backpacker haven) and Katundu, a community involved, creative trade workshop, where the women make beautiful, high quality and high end textiles for sale at the lodge and for export.  All of the exquisite decorator items in Kaya Mawa are made by these local women.  Driven by the MD Suzie Lightfoot, her vision was to bring a sense of ownership to the lives of women in the community by empowering them to support themselves rather than by giving out short term remedies that patronise the ego and fade away.  The aim of the company is to teach skills and invest in women in a society where they are often overlooked.  It says speaks volumes about the relationship between the management and the employees in this architecturally imaginative, environmentally friendly beach camp, which has been open since 2000, that there are no locks on the doors or windows in any of the ‘rooms’ and not one client has ever been robbed.  But it takes Gerald and I some time to be comfortable leaving our I-Pads and I-Phones unattended, but within hours, Gerald hands over our passports, tickets, wallet, and credit cards to a man behind the bar who says he will take it to the safe.  And he does.  I leave my I-Phone on the table as we snorkel and take a couple of boards out for a stand up paddle, and its absolutely safe.  Villagers walk past our open windows and doors with big smiles and a wave, carrying their washing, their dishes and their babies.  Amazing, absolutely amazing, for that to occur anywhere, and especially in Africa.

 10th October, 2018 - second day on Kaya Mawa

 Gerald wakes at 5.45 am and when I arise half an hour later, he is sitting in the window seat reading.  Our tea and coffee arrive at 7 am carried by Pamela, a beautiful elegant woman, wearing traditional clothing, unbelievably bearing our heavy wooden try of tea on her head, swaying down the beach and up our wooden ladder staircase.  Already, I’ve swam in the pool, walked on the beach, taken photos of the Mamas and the kids bathing.  She smiles like a movie star, and poses for photos, and we are at breakfast by 7.30 am, a delectable array of coconut, pomegranate, melon, nuts, banana and mango smoothie, poached eggs and bacon and toast, tea and coffee. We walk back down the beach, seeing hardly a soul, to our clifftop house, and I’m ready to write by 8.30 am.

 An Australian couple from the Gold Coast invited us to join them on a three hour car tour of the island, visiting the Katundu workshop, the town and the cathedral.   We want to do nothing, so decline.  And we spend the rest of the day doing NOTHING. Sabrina, a travel agent we met in Sausage Tree Camp, is here!  She lives in Italy, where she runs her company - Safari Online - and is married to a South African man.  She has been travelling for 12 days so far on a tour of prospective camps and resorts for her clients;  Gerald asks her which place she would have recommended for us two, and without hesitation, she says “For you two?  Chinzombo.”  We looooved Chinzombo, but I think our favourite was Sausage Tree Camp, for we had the Luangwa River at our doorstep.  Today she is going out on a quad bike to see the town and the Cathedral.  I cannot think of anything worse in this peaceful eco-place than a loud, aggressive, fuel pumping quad bike.  No thank you.

 Well, we do something.  I write, I bathe in our pool, we read our books (I am reading Lawrence Anthony’s “The Elephant Whisperer”, a riveting read of this man rescuing nine elephants from death and bringing them to his game reserve in Thula Thula in Zululand.  I can scarcely put it down, and it seems particularly pertinent to be reading such a book, by such a man, in Africa.  I recommend it.). I lie on the patio, I lie in the big squashy chaise lounge, I lie on the bed.  We make love.  We eat lunch in the beach side dining room, coconut fish cakes, Asian chicken kebabs, and mango sorbet.   We sleep, we read some more.  We make love.   I write some more, and take more photographs.  I bathe in the sunken bathtub.  It’s a decadent divine way to spend a day. 

 The sun is setting and we’ve forgotten how quickly it gets dark, we don’t want to put the lights on as it attracts insects and all the doors and windows are open, so I fumble around in the gloom finding a dress and a hairbrush, and we slowly walk down the treacherous stairs, its time for more food.  I’ve noticed that we have become ‘careful’ - a sign of our age - and walk more slowly down and up stairs, that it’s become more difficult to clamber up sandhills and in and out of the waves.   We are determined to return home unscathed, and Gerald’s frequent message to me is “Be careful.  We haven’t come all this way to ......” letting his words trail off, imagining some dreadful consequence.

 More guests have arrived and the lounge is buzzing with conversation, about 8 guests are here - when an American couple arrive, they got off the plane an hour ago, and his voice booms around the bay, reliving the story of losing a suitcase as the plane had too much weight, and he jettisoned one which luckily contained all their dirty washing “from Cape Town” which they will pick up on the way back.  We hear the story three times tonight.

 We find a table in the dark on the beach as far away from them as possible, yet still his voice carries in the silence.  We eat another gastronomic feast.  We eat another three incredible courses, including a beef fillet so tender, it melts in the mouth.  I have smuggled gin into the camp, yet a small can of tonic water costs US$2.50, (you an buy whiskey for the same price!), and Gerald drinks Carlsberg Chill beer, also US$2.50.

 Luke and Charles have been especially helpful, and Charles escorts us back to our room with a tray laden with boiling water for my chamomile tea.  It’s lights out by 8.25 pm.

 Another divine day in paradise.

 11th October 2018 - third day in Kaya Mawa

 This is the most peaceful place I have ever been to, anywhere, ever.  There is no time. There is nothing to fear in the water or on the land, the people are welcoming, there are no baboons in the boulders, no lions in the forest, no snakes in the foliage, no crocodiles, hippos or stingers in the water.   There are no phones, no wifi, no radio, no TV, no cars, and few people.   There are no shops, no restaurants, nowhere to go and nothing to do.  Well, there is a Malawian Festival on, and there is a huge brick Cathedral built in 1903, and there is Katundu. But not for us, not today.

 I had a shop once in Brisbane, selling African artefacts, shortly after we arrived - around 1974, it was in West Chermside.  Gerald made a huge sign which hung over the front door ‘KATUNDU” in black and white.  It was filled with wooden carvings of heads, masks, salad servers, bowls, strands of malachite beads and ear rings, African paintings, chitenge cloth and we decorated in in a very Afrian style,   I lasted six months and had a small loyal following, including one Australian woman called me “An Exotic African Flower” and purchased many of my treasure.  But I was a useless saleswoman, for I wanted to sell nothing, I dissuaded potential customers from purchasing anything, I wanted to keep it all, my African homeland, my African heritage, my memories which in some small way, connected me to home.   Today, my home is filled with much of those treasures, although I made a mass sale to an art dealer in the Gold Coast when we left Brisbane, selling those treasures to a savvy businessman for what was probably peanuts. My Mother remarked to me once “You don’t express your African heritage in your home, why is that?”   And I realised I had packed all of those precious things away, apart from a few which I decorated our home with, and it was only after she died, that I brought it all out and displayed it all.  She would have liked to see it as it is today;  our house looks like an African Art Store, or Katundu, my shop from years ago.

 The sun rises and the sun sets, delicious food is provided, beds are made, laundry is whisked away and returned, the managers stop to chat, we’ve met Ollie and Allie, who are related to the owner, who are friends of Lucy and Mike, which is how the latter couple got here, just for a short stint, to help out, before they head to Canada for ski-ing.   What an amazing opportunity for these two young couples, who are working hard to create a once in a lifetime idyllic holiday for anyone lucky enough to come here.

 Tea is delivered by Luke at 6.30 am, but I’ve been reading for half an hour, walked on the beach, and taken dozens of photos before he arrives.  And he carries the tea to us on his head, and then happily poses for photos.   We sit on the deck overlooking the ocean and drink it.

 Today we have a plan, and are covered in sunscreen and I wear a long sleeve tee shirt of Gerald’s - my vitiligo skin (thyroid induced, apparently) cannot take the sun anymore.  Just a few years ago, I had skin the colour of almonds, and could spend all day in the sun, and never burn, just turn a deeper shade of almond.  It started on my face about four years ago, patches of brown and white, which within three years turned all white, the same with my back, chest and arms, which are also mostly white, and now I have brown and d white spotted tummy, thighs, calves and feet, which I suppose will also gradually turn white.  Apparently one’s pigment can sometimes be magically ‘turned on’ again, and I hope that happens, but for now, I can tolerate minimum sun.  As it is, my hands are very sore and red, from sitting in the back of the Land Rover for the last 17 days, exacerbated I think, by something that is in our malaria tablets.  It is not catching, not itchy, not life threatening except that its unsightly, and it was only after it happened that I realised how vain I was about my smooth, brown skin.   Now I am the Leopard Lady, spotted and proud of it, but averse to the sun, unfortunately. Yesterday, Lucy remarked on my ‘pale, white skin’ and at first I was flummoxed, who is she talking about, and then realised it was me. 

 We take out the kayaks, ably helped by the life guard, the lake has not a ripple, not a wave, and is crystal clear, the granite pebbles and rocks below outlined by the sun shimmering on the surface.   It’s like a movie.   We paddle out to Honeymoon Island, an outcrop of rocks just 50 metres from the shore and paddle around it, looking for some of the tropical fish the lake is famed for.  This is not the Great Barrier Reef, and there are lots of fishermen here, and people fish for food every day, but we do see a few.   Gerald ensures our kayaks are wedged amongst the rocks, and we don our flippers and face masks and ungainfully make our way out of the kayaks, as there is no sand to stand on, and into the water, which is the temperature of baby’s milk.  I cannot work the snorkel, my nose is too big to fit into the ‘nose space’ and take it off, but we swim about, with me holding my nose, and coming up for breath regularly.  Gerald takes my hand and we flipper along, like an advert for a tropical island.  We ARE on a tropical island.

 An hour later we are back on shore, and stumble through hot sand to one of the shaded double swings, clad with a turquoise mattress and piles of pink and blue cushions, where I drink tea whilst my sarong and bathers get dry.  Breakfast of shredded coconut, bananas, mango, melon and crunchy muesli, mango juice and poached eggs and toast.  We leave as a French woman lights up a cigarette and blows smoke our way.

 We take out the paddle boards, which I have done once with Josh, Belle (his girlfriend at the time) and Sam, our godson, in Jervis Bay, but Gerald has never tried it.  He has problems with his feet, an extremely high arch gives him two small patches of foot to balance upon, he does everything with no problems, including yoga, but balancing on a board, even if it is as flat as a pancake, is tough, so he kneels and paddles around the bay.  I am surprised at how quickly I am up on my feet and paddling, I can see to the bottom of the bay and the small fish flitting about.  We are the only ones on the beach, and its heavenly.  The Australians have left, and we check out their ‘room’, the last one on the beach, after ours.   It’s unbelievable.   Twice the size of ours, with two vast bedrooms, into which granite boulders jut, and the room is built around it, outdoor decks, toilets and bathrooms, a vast elevated lounge area, a small pool overlooking the beach.  It’s opulent, its rustic, its gorgeous.

 Back in our room, I write and write and write.  I plunge in the pool, and write some more.  We eat lunch late, hardly over breakfast, its a bruschetta of tomato, beetroot, aubergine, and tahini, followed by Combe, (Kombay) the local fish, and chocolate ice cream.  After lunch, Charles tries to teach Gerald and I a local game, called BAO, this particular one is carved into a massive chest of wood, it has four rows of xxxxx grooves, and in each one, is a small pile of granite stones.  Opponents face each other, and move the pebbles from one groove to another, winning their opponents pile of pebbles, a bit like chess.  I think its a complex, mathematical game, which involves counting and adding and subtracting, but Gerald says its more visual - observing your opponents weakness and then acting. We have seen children playing it on the beach, having made grooves in the sand.  Charles wins one round and then lets Gerald win the second.   I’d love to see Aussie kids playing it.

 We shower together in the big double shower with its glass hanging curtains, and climb into the big white bed, and make love.  The fan whirs, I hear children and their Mamas laughing, a baby wails, the African language drifts softly like a song in the background.  An abrupt “Ikona!” We laugh, that is the Chinyanja word for “No!”

 And I write some more.  It’s not yet 5 pm but Gerald has poured me a gin and tonic, and I am heading for the pool.  We walk to the lodge as the sun sets, and sit in a boat, renovated into a comfortable lounge, and talk to Lucy and Mike.  Tomorrow we will walk to Katundu and to the children’s school early before the sun is too hot, and she draws us a map.  We an be back for breakfast and another paddle.   There is still no wind and the lake is as flat as a pancake.

 We eat in the dark - oh the African night is so so SO dark! - although the sky is alive with diamonds and a crescent moon - and we can hardly see what is on our plates.  Each dish is served ceremoniously with a solemn pronouncement of what it is.   “Hellooooooo!” As they approach bearing each dish, walking out of the dark, which they present with a flourish, and beaming, stand in a theatrical pose:  “Tonight your starter is gazpacho soup with involtini of auburgine and feta cheese.”  I do not understand his accent, and question the ‘involtini’ part.  He grins and proudly says “It is a FRENCH word!”  So perhaps you will teach me French, I ask?    The Africans laugh so easily, at so little, and he doubles up, slapping his hands “Oh yes!  I can TRY!” And he walks off chuckling.  Despite the fact we have asked for small portions, our meals are huge, and we carefully remove half of each dish to one side.   Our second course is chicken stuffed with spinach, carrots and snow peas served on a bed of mash.   It’s out of this world, followed by baklava with a very citrusy lime sauce which is light as a feather. 

 Charles sprints through the darkness with a tray of boiling water and cups for my night time tea, its black as ink, the sand is sharp and chunks of granite can cut your feet, the wooden steps are treacherous, but he is off like an antelope, and back walking towards us before we are hardly half way to our room.  His teeth shine whitely in the dark as he takes our morning tea and coffee order.   The white floors, white walls, and white bed glow in the dark, there are no lights left on, and using our torch we find our way in as all the doors and windows are open, and the curtains gently drift in a light breeze.

 The light is out at 8.20 pm.  What a glorious day.

 12th October 2018.  Fourth day in Kaya Mawa.

 I don’t sleep well, am restless, my left shoulder hurts, I hope it isn’t arthritis, I have to turn regularly for my hips ache if I lay too long in one position.   My body still serves me well, I am physically active, and resilient, but I am going to be 69 next month.  I get at 5.30 am - but Gerald has already been awake for an hour, and is sitting on the deck, reading.  I join him, and precisely at 6.30 am, Pamela arrives with a heavy wooden tray of tea and coffee, on her head, swaying effortlessly up the steep wooden steps, she doesn’t grasp the rope rail for support, not once.

 Walk at 7 am to Katundu, through the village, met Philia on the way, the Production Manager.  They are working on a big Ugandan order. Goodbye to Sabrina.

 To the look out.  Look once more at the view

 Breakfast, fruit, yogurt, guava juice, omelette and bacon.  French smoker.

 On the swinging double bed on beach, clear blue water, I kayak out to the edge of the bay and see our house from the water.   Then Gerald comes out - and goes further.  I paddle board across the bay.  Lie in sun and read and cry.

 Cephus, the chef - wants a chef hat. Explaining two hats!

 Massage,  Smoking French woman  at lunch, Black night,