A Monkey’s Wedding

Nick slowed the bike down as we decided to stop and have a cigarette. He swung his leg off the bike and I fell off attached to all the paraphernalia we had taken with us. “Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry” he said, over apologising. I was upset with him as he had promised me we’d leave for our Christmas holiday to Malawi with Geoff and Sandy on Saturday morning. When Geoff had called round Nick was nowhere to be seen and I could offer him no explanation for his whereabouts. Eventually they left and Rick came back on Sunday evening. 

Later on, that Monday morning we arrived at the outpost, an outlying little village called Nyamapanda, which forms the border of Zimbabwe with Mozambique. Nick was irritated and wound up, shouting at the border guard about when the convoy left. He ignored Nick and we ended up pitching the tent having missed the convoy for the day. I remember thinking how grim it was in Nyamapanda. Well, it was nothing compared to the other side of the border, immediately we rode into Mozambique it was hotter and so stark. We followed behind the leading tank having been told that it was the safest place to travel within the convoy. At the time everything that kept Malawi going was imported free from South Africa. It came up through Zimbabwe and Mozambique and into Malawi that is landlocked. Mozambique was in the middle of a bitter civil war. The former European administration had been Portuguese and when their dictator, Salazar, had died in 1970 they clung onto his policies until they had left in a hurry after the Carnation revolution of 1975 when Frelimo seized power. The civil war was still raging over 10 years later.  The convoy went from Nyamapanda to Tete where it liaised with the other convoy coming down from the Malawi border. They then each turned round to head back to where they started. Tete was a town on the Zambezi River and an horrendous place.  Women who had obviously walked miles to obtain water had buckets balanced precariously on their heads. All were accompanied with droves of children. One woman who stared at me was expecting a child, had one on her back and 3 trailing, they all looked under 10. The last child had a swollen belly and an inside out belly button and flies all around his leaking nose. Nick decided that it would be a good idea to see if we could get some petrol in Tete. We called into the petrol station to be told that we needed a pass in order to obtain fuel. He left me with the bike and our gear, whilst he went off to the Police Station. It was a frightening ordeal. The children stood and stared, their eyes boring into me, a policeman rode past, stopped and asked “Where is your Husband?” I explained about him wanting to obtain a fuel permit. He asked me to show him our passports, I duly obliged and was very nervous.  The crowd of children surged forward as soon as I produced the documents. He gesticulated at them and they flinched at his sharp remarks, moving back like a retreating tide as his arm swept forward.  He waited a while longer and then gave up. I can only presume that he could not read as if he could he would have been able to see that Nick was clearly not my Husband.  Just before Nick came back a load of diesel was spilt out of a lorry in front of us. It added to the tension and frustration I was feeling. He came back empty handed and we rode over the river – it was a beautiful bluey-green. I looked the other side of the bridge where the Zambezi flowed into the Indian Ocean to see a trajectory of sewerage scarring the beautiful water as it flowed into the sea. We waited for the other convoy to come down from the Malawi border. A young goat herder walked up to me and held out his hands pleading at me. I could see that whilst he was probably no older than 7 or 8 he had a hard life and desperation was etched into his young face. I shook my head and shrugged my shoulders. It was meant as an act of compassion, as I felt powerless and overwhelmed. 

Over the bridge the convoy moved into a secluded area, Nick shook hands with the Sergeant Major, and we could see the stares and hear some of the comments that the Zimbabwean soldiers were making about us. “Mahrungo” a derogatory term for the whites that even I knew. Eventually one of the soldiers came up to us and offered to sell his rations as he was a bit short. We both declined.  Finally, the Malawian escort arrived to accompany us to the border. This was the most frightening bit for me. It was less exposed as the first roads had been and was a winding and twisty. The area was littered with what must have been previous attacks. Abandoned, rusty, shelled vehicles cluttered this part of the road. It was obviously the easiest place to ambush the convoy. All the time the hot sun beat down upon us. 4 hours later we got to the border post with Malawi, a place called Mwanza. Nick said how he ached from riding the bike and sitting in the same position. The border guard was fascinated with us, his eyes darting in all directions; I caught a glint of nasty mischief and tried to avoid eye contact with him.  He indicated that he wanted us to unpack everything off the bike. Nick went ballistic taking his helmet off and throwing it onto the ground with venom. This scared the guard who let us pass without any further ado. 

What a relief to finally be in Malawi and out of the living hell that was Mozambique. We gulped in the sweet air and really enjoyed the beautiful landscape. It was several miles to the border post. We arrived at the hut to be greeted by several smiling Malawians; with cries of “Welcome to Malawi” I had travelled on the bike clad in leathers, trousers and jacket. The immigration officer tutted as we walked into present our passports. “In Malawi all women wear skirts” he said. He had a further problem as my passport said I am a photographer. I explained to him that I photographed weddings and portraits. He said to me that I needed to take my passport to the immigration office in Blantyre, within 24 hours, to get it stamped and ushered me into a back room to change into my skirt. Nick said to me please don’t have a fit at him. I was thoroughly perplexed at his remark given what had just happened over the border.  Having changed into my skirt he allowed us to leave. Nick was so tired and said he wanted to go and stay in a hotel. 

My Father had lived in Malawi in the 1950’s during the Federation days when it was the British protectorate of the Rhodesia’s and Nyasaland. My Parents had spent three years living in Malawi and there were some old friends, Simon and Jean that I was keen to catch up with and my Mother had given me their number before I left Zimbabwe. The following morning I rang them. Jean answered and it took me 3 explanations until she realised who it was. We were invited out for lunch at Riles hotel in Blantyre. I explained about the problem I had had at the border. At the immigration office I was greeted by an immaculately dressed man. It was Simon, although I didn’t recognise him immediately.  The meal was splendid; Simon and Jean were really like the last of the old colonials. We had chambo, the local delicacy, a white fish caught in the lake – Lake Malawi, a fresh water lake. Jean explained about how we could find our way to the campsite at Cape Maclear and that there was no need to wear a skirt at the lake side. She also gave a strong warning about not swimming in the lake at night. The threat of hippo attacks was a real danger. I heeded her warning. The conversation went onto lighter subjects, like that of Simon and Jean’s recent silver wedding celebrations; they had hired a boat for all their friends and had a huge party on the lake. Jean picked up her napkin and wiped her lips delicately and then added, “Deary me what a drunken affair that was!” Nick and I were in stitches. We made arrangements to meet further up the lake the following weekend. 

The hotel was a welcome nights’ sleep however it was  perhaps unwise as there was a strict amount of money anyone could take legally out of Zimbabwe on an annual basis and the night’s accommodation cost  us over half of what little money we had. The only money I had was £80 Sterling, it might not sound like very much but the black market potential for hard currency was very lucrative, however I did not know the exchange rate in Malawi. Nick was keen to try and track down Geoff and Sandy. At several points along the way he asked people if they had seen them. Geoff had a very distinctive white Paris – Dakar BMW. Eventually we found them at a campsite on Cape Maclear. We arrived in the early evening and I could hear the hippos grunting in the lake. Geoff was a teacher who was originally from Germany and his girlfriend Sandy taught at the same school. She was very welcoming and had a meal ready when we got there. She always smoked behind Geoff’s back and right under his nose. I had to stifle a giggle on more than 1 occasion seeing her indulging in her secret pleasure within feet of where he was standing and the crafty ways of disposing of the evidence just before he walked in. Sandy was a mixed race woman and Geoff was white – something very frowned upon in Central Africa in those days especially as they had a small baby and were not married either. So double whammy. There was a well- worn joke about adjusting your watches back 50 years when you touched down from London to Harare. We had a lovely evening and Nick explained his whereabouts over the previous weekend. Up at an old friend’s, who farmed out in the bush and they had had a brilliant time connecting up with a lot of old pals from the Rhodesian war – people he had grown up with. I then told them of the problems I had with my visa and how I now needed to get to Lilongwe – the Malawian capital – in order to get out of the country. What a petty piece of administration. All men in Malawi must have short hair too. Geoff explained how he had got away with keeping his long hair at the border, by keeping his helmet on and how he was wise to the little tin gods at the border controls who in spite of all their old fashioned idiosyncrasies were not adverse to a bribe. 

The following morning revealed the lake. It was simply beautiful. The skirt was off and the shorts on. Geoff had been to Malawi before and knew this spot to be particularly spectacular. He took us to a particular area which had an island that was very close to the shore and handed me some goggles and a mask and invited me to swim. Wow, what a colourful scene greeted me when I put them on. The most beautiful and wonderful variety of tropical fish swimming nonchalantly amongst the rock formations. I was mesmerised. The closest I had come to that was in the dentist’s surgery and I had definitely not been swimming above them. It was one of the most memorable and breath taking natural spectacles I have ever experienced. The African bush was also very beautiful there too. Typical flat msasa trees framed by the balancing rocks and red soil. I asked Nick to take me on a ride as I wanted to photograph the countryside. We had a BBQ, (or a braai as it is locally known) at the lake side having purchased local produce.  We spent a few days at this tropical paradise and decided to move further up the lake. Geoff decided – in his infinite wisdom – that we were leaving early one morning. It turned out that he had made an economy and had not paid the ground rent. 

We left Geoff and Sandy and went to visit Simon and Jean at the prearranged house on the lake. It belonged to friends of theirs and whilst we were there their friend offered to purchase some of my £’s - he took the largest note I had and gave me what turned out to be a really bad exchange rate – what a rotter I subsequently thought. The afternoon was further marred when Nick got shirty with me for some reason and said we had to leave early. We made our apologies – in spite of gentle offers of tea. We got on his bike and rode a short way up the road. He proceeded to rip me off a strip for the un-lady like way I had been sitting exposing my underskirt to all and sundry. He said that when we got back to Zimbabwe that I should write and apologise to everyone at the tea party. 

We moved on to another campsite – not nearly as nice either - we ended up spending Christmas day there. We were so broke by then and the only thing that any of us could afford was catfish. I must say it was beautifully white and completely tasteless. Everybody that worked at the campsite was off their heads on the local dagga – cannabis to you and I. On one occasion when I hadn’t eaten for about 3 days I said I said I was so hungry I was going to have a hamburger. I ordered it, went to pay for it and the barman told me to pay the kitchen staff, the kitchen staff told me to pay the waiter. The waiter told me to pay at the bar. They all had glazed bloodshot eyes and looked so far away without a care in the world. I was frustrated and said” look I just want to pay for my burger!” I ended up telling them that I was on the campsite if they wanted their money. No response. Sandy said she had spotted a lot of prostitutes at that camp. A crowd of 4 young women who frequently wore each other’s clothes descended upon the new arrivals and were like a moth to a flame when the men arrived. I shuddered at the thought.  I remember how coarse the sand was on the beach and how cold and choppy the lake was, nothing like Cape Maclear. It turned cold and we spent a week doing very little. 

Nick let me ride the bike. I had no license. It was a fantastic piece of engineering. Very easy in slow control, it sat there beautifully balanced. The only thing I couldn’t do was hold it when we stopped. He got off the bike in order to ride it and I dropped it. I was thankful it had crash bars as I was wearing a skirt.  

After the New Year we went to Lilongwe – the country’s capital to attend to the tedious task of getting my visa sorted out. The roads were loosely tarred and full of pot holes. It was amazing that we managed to sort out the visa without hanging around too much. It cost more precious money of course. We carried on up north. We stopped on the side of the road where we could see a couple of stalls selling fruit. One woman upon seeing us screamed and ran up over the ridge through the mealie field and back to her hut.   I can only think she must have been frightened by the roar of the large motorbike engines.  That was the furthest north that we went up the lake and started to make our way back down after that. On another occasion we called into an African village to seek out the local restaurant. All the children gathered round and started to chant Honda, Honda, Honda. Nick was delighted but it really put Geoff’s nose out of joint. We ordered eggs on toast and whilst waiting Geoff taught them to say BMW, BMW. The sea of inquisitive faces staring at us whilst we ate. The only privacy we had was a 2 x 6 ft. tent. I remember thinking that all the staring must be what it’s like for the Queen and all the Royals and how completely ghastly it must be for them. I took this black and white photograph of the people that gathered round the bikes that day. The heavens opened as we were leaving that village, the children scattered and we were left with spectacular small round rainbows glistening in the brilliant sunlight as we rode out of the village. The local expression for sunshine and rain is a monkey’s wedding, as it always produces rainbows.  

We had just left the clack of the tailor’s sewing machines behind in Blantyre when a particularly well dressed gentleman proceed to walk straight at us, he appeared to not even blink. We missed him by a whisker. Nick swore at him and we carried on. It was in direct contrast to what had happened further up the lake. Very strange behaviour. It was even more dangerous as it was mango season and there were a lot of slippery skins and pips strewn on the road by the locals. 

When the time came for us to go back to Zimbabwe, I was very nervous about taking the convoy. Geoff advised us to go back through Mozambique and not through Zambia. It was shorter and there are no petrol stations in the copper belt (Northern Zambia) and it was extremely lawless. The last thing I asked him was if we could borrow money from him to which he replied he had little left himself. As soon as he responded Nick shot me down in flames for asking him, even though we had just had a conversation about asking him. I spent the next couple of hours fuming and thinking what a bully he was. 

The adventure was not over yet, back at the Mwanza border again Nick yelled at the border guard about the convoy. It was the same bloke who had tutted at me and given me all the problems with my visa. It was ill advised as we missed the convoy again and had to hang about until the following day, our bellies rumbling. Back into Mozambique, I felt tense and breathed a huge sigh of relief when we got back to Tete. We eventually got back to Nyamapanda and then in order to get back to Harare had to ride back at a very slow speed. Typical Africa, hot and slow. Just inside Harare the bike ran out of petrol. Nick left me with the bike and I hid in the bushes, where I could see but not be seen. He came back in remarkable time having been picked up by a bloke who lent him his petrol can and gave him $20 for petrol and dropped him back. He repaid him the following day and also sent him a bottle of whisky.    

I decided that relationships are about compromises and I did write to Simon and Jean and apologised about the way I had been sitting. Simon responded by saying that he had noticed but that Jean had been upset I felt it necessary to write and that he thought it was all down to Big Bad Nick.Nick was just too ancient, or so I thought at the time – as he was 12 years older than me and also how controlling and manipulative he was. I had such a free spirit and he was clipping my wings. Eventually we had a blazing row and that was the end of our relationship. I was sad as we had been such good friends, I really disliked the way the women were treated and expected to behave in that part of the world. In spite of everything it was an amazing experience and not a Christmas I will ever forget.

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