Falling on Mumbo Island, Lake Malawi!
MUMBO ISLAND was the first of three what I might call ‘timetable visits’. Paul had divided the Patrol into two: these visits – meant just for me – and ‘roaming calls’ as I would wish to call them, when we just drove here and there, staying at places picked by Paul based on having been to Malawi before. Such a division probably ensured that I was privileged to have an insight into Malawi denied the more routine tourists. Anyway, I was happy with the arrangement; maybe not Paul since I had an awkward habit of falling over at times and if seconded from the Patrol anything might happen.
Mumbo lies at the southern end of Lake Malawi, situated north-west of Cape Maclear. Many might regard it as an island paradise and they wouldn’t be far wrong. Uninhabited except and for a holiday camp and its visitors, it is a heavily wooded hump of a place. Birds of many species are to be found there. Cormorants were everywhere; fish eagles, magnificent hunters, kept watch high in the trees while below them monitor lizards clumsily crash through the undergrowth. Fish are not so plentiful having been plundered extensively over the years. The small beach used by the fishermen was deserted when I was there and indeed now looked not that much used, although one or two dugout canoes with fishermen aboard were usually seen not far off the shoreline.
Most distinguished form of wildlife on Mumbo was a huge crocodile, just the one, a resident in solitary, undisputed splendour. Apparently he had arrived some years before having hitched a lift or fell asleep on a floating island of weeds and vegetation. Once cast ashore on Mumbo he decided to stay, since life had the promise of being fairly comfortable; in fact according to local understanding he had become rather a shy fellow who might or might not put in a noisy leathery appearance for visitors.
MUMBO ISLAND was the first of three what I might call ‘timetable visits’. Paul had divided the Patrol into two: these visits – meant just for me – and ‘roaming calls’ as I would wish to call them, when we just drove here and there, staying at places picked by Paul based on having been to Malawi before. Such a division probably ensured that I was privileged to have an insight into Malawi denied the more routine tourists. Anyway, I was happy with the arrangement; maybe not Paul since I had an awkward habit of falling over at times and if seconded from the Patrol anything might happen.
Mumbo lies at the southern end of Lake Malawi, situated north-west of Cape Maclear. Many might regard it as an island paradise and they wouldn’t be far wrong. Uninhabited except and for a holiday camp and its visitors, it is a heavily wooded hump of a place. Birds of many species are to be found there. Cormorants were everywhere; fish eagles, magnificent hunters, kept watch high in the trees while below them monitor lizards clumsily crash through the undergrowth. Fish are not so plentiful having been plundered extensively over the years. The small beach used by the fishermen was deserted when I was there and indeed now looked not that much used, although one or two dugout canoes with fishermen aboard were usually seen not far off the shoreline.
Most distinguished form of wildlife on Mumbo was a huge crocodile, just the one, a resident in solitary, undisputed splendour. Apparently he had arrived some years before having hitched a lift or fell asleep on a floating island of weeds and vegetation. Once cast ashore on Mumbo he decided to stay, since life had the promise of being fairly comfortable; in fact according to local understanding he had become rather a shy fellow who might or might not put in a noisy leathery appearance for visitors.
Paul drove down to Cape Maclear to drop me off at Chembe for the jetty from which the Mumbo ferry boat left. Trouble was, we couldn’t find it. Not that there was any shortage of jetties and no shortage of various small craft either, but nothing for Mumbo. Chembe, a long straddling village lying either side of a sand road from which I was supposed to leave, proved one long frustration. Everyone we asked where the Mumbo ferry left from either didn’t know or did. If the answer was in the affirmative invariably they pointed to the direction from which we had just come. At the end of half an hour Paul and I had a thorough working knowledge of Chembe, but no ferry boat. Suddenly, through a gap in the straggling line of buildings, we spotted a jetty with one boat waiting patiently – the one for Mumbo.
For visitors to Mumbo the attractions are various. Privacy is one, followed by peace and then there is the accommodation: tented with a balcony overlooking the lake. There is a bar and a local cook was employed who knew his trade to perfection. What to do? Well there was kayaking, snorkeling, scuba diving or just lazing about. Should you wish, paths criss-crossed the island and a map was provided for those wishing to explore. The latter was essential for, as I was to discover, the paths had a disconcerting habit of just ending, either suffocated by thick undergrowth or blocked by massive boulders or daunting rock faces.
There were just two other visitors on Mumbo: Rupert was in some business at Johannesburg while Debbie, his partner was unexpected, a Lancashire lass from Bolton and something in advertising in Jo’burg. She had the misfortune to be a follower of Bolton Wanderers, a team languishing second from bottom in the English Premiership football league; I followed Derby County, equally stranded at the bottom of that same league (we wept on each others shoulder!).
Making sure our stay lacked for nothing was Pam, the centre’s manager; a Canadian she had been in the job six months and loved it. Presiding over the staff meant treating them as a team; they had to be told collectively their duties, to inform them separately was to court disaster – they compared notes and then went their separate ways! Constant, patient repetition was the key to success. For we visitors, the key led to a pleasant stay.
A feature that made Mumbo so appealing was the fact that the tented accommodation was on a small islet reached by a board walk thee or four feet above the lake’s waters. Each tent commanded its own private view, shared mainly by cormorants which perched on nearby trees. Fish eagles apparently found those same trees a little too close to the island’s visitors and avoided them. For myself, the islet posed problems in that there were obstacles to be avoided coming and going from the main island; to avoid stumbling I carefully noted where each possible impediment to progress was situated
Next day Rupert and Debbie went off snorkeling and kayaking. Since neither appealed to me I opted for a walk round Mumbo with my camera. Borrowing a map I set off, deciding to walk up the west side of the island then when I reached the top, then cut down the middle and so back to base, maybe around four kilometres I judged.
Within minutes all traces of the tented camp and other buildings had disappeared into the all pervading vegetation as I headed slightly uphill, followed the path to my left and entered a shady world of trees, undergrowth and massive boulders. Birds darted about, but difficult to see, no doubt startled perhaps by a rare walker in their part of Mumbo. Heard but not so often seen were lizards. Some quite large, others of brilliant colouring and once or twice the larger monitor lizards, looking quite prehistoric as they lurched noisily into the safety of the undergrowth. Once they were thought to give warning of crocodiles but somehow I doubted Mumbo’s sole representative of that evil-looking breed had bothered himself to venture that far inland.
The suddenly I was lost, well almost. Behind I could see quite plainly the path I had come along. In front – nothing. Everywhere the all embracing confusion of trees, brambles, briars and rocks. Here and there one or two small trees or, incongruously to my eyes, large boulders; both being strangled by powerful roots of what might be termed predatory trees. Strange as these sights were, my dilemma at being lost was not being diminished. Looking at the borrowed map served no purposes; had I read it correctly, then I should have been still on a marked route. My eyes were not deceived: there was no way forward. Through the enveloping trees the lake could be seen peeping through. Birds were still flitting about; lizards popped their heads over boulders to inspect me or simply scurried away to greater safety. There was nothing for it; I had to retrace my steps.
Finally, I came in sight of the base again much to my relief for the sun was well risen and the attendant heat sapping despite the saving shade of the trees. Back in time just for lunch, a cool beer and later a welcome rest at my quite luxurious tent on the islet.
Pam had arranged a boat trip part way round Mumbo as a prelude to the evening meal and after the heat of the day had gone. So around four o’clock Debbie, Rupert, Pam and myself clambered aboard the boat, with its outboard motor in the capable hands of Choice, one of the staff.
The early evening was absolutely perfect. Lake Malawi lay almost still with the faintest of breezes making barely discernable ripples. Feathery white clouds of little substance provided the perfect canvas for the slowly sinking sun to gently paint them with delicate colours ranging from orange to pink. Slowly Choice guided the boat close enough to the shore to let us glimpses of fish in the shallower waters. From the trees fish eagles, often in pairs, perched serenely but no doubt their keen eyes scanning the lake waters below, searching for some unsuspecting, or rather none too lively, fish for the last meal of the day. Suddenly an eagle would rise and swoop, but as far as we could see the target fish were much too aware to be caught – at least on this occasion.
Out in the lake one or two dugout canoes with their two man crews fished away in a lake that by common consent was already severely over fished. Cheerfully the fishermen waved to us, but we were passing strangers; what was their future on a lake that no longer provided the bounty of past years? Choice steered past the small beach where fishermen were apparently in the habit of using as a resting place from their endeavours. No one was there, nor were there signs of any recent casual habitation.
Suddenly there was a mighty turmoil and the calm of the water was broken into a miniature maelstrom as a long leathery body, wicked head and powerful tail rose and then with a quick swirl disappeared again beneath the lake. The solitary hitch hiking crocodile had risen to see just who had disturbed his peace. Curiosity satisfied, he had departed much to our collective relief. Bolton and Derby still had their supporters.
The rest of our slow voyage passed without incident and almost at a snail’s pace Choice turned the boat and headed back to base. As near as possible the evening had been absolutely perfect. Once landed supper was next on the agenda and quiet conversation as we discussed the day’s events and what and where we would be going after the Mumbo ferry and taken us once more to the mainland.
My day was not quite over. Making my way in the gathering darkness over the board walk to the islet I forgot to circumvent a particular small boulder that lay in wait on the route to my tent. Before knowing what had happened my right foot found it and I crashed to the ground, by good fortune landing on the surrounding sandy soil and not the rock.
A frustrated cry of “Oh No!” brought Rupert coming to my aid from his nearby tent. No real serious hurt done: an impressive cut (approaching gash classification!), torn trousers and me all shook up was the total damage. Paul would have to open a ‘Walking Wounded’ section in the Report. A thorough wash down with bottled water (sparkling) cleaned up the wound and the night’s sleep was barely disturbed by an aching leg.
Next morning ushered in the all-too-short stay on Mumbo. Each chose their activity; for me a leisurely read on the balcony, occasionally to watch the cormorants or wave to Rupert and Debbie swimming far below in the warm waters of the lake. I was the only one travelling on; Paul was coming out on the morning ferry boat, joining us for lunch, and then the Patrol would resume activities.
All too soon the morning passed and the pleasant interlude of lunch, with Paul in fine fettle asking how I came to tear my trousers, insisting on seeing the rock that brought about my downfall and an entry in the Report. Then it was in the ferry, the 45-minute trip back to Chembe and ‘goodbye’ to Pam who had come over to welcome the next visitors to magic Mumbo.
These turned out to be what Paul called scathingly ‘bloody diplomats’ from, we later understood the British Embassy somewhere or other. Two of them, both male, neither of whom seemed capable of grasping that turning up rather late for an earlier ferry had thrown Mumbo’s necessarily careful planning into partial disarray. That it might be their fault circled somewhere outside their confused orbit.
A last look at Mumbo, lying hazily out in the lake and then it was into the car and off southwards; the Patrol once more was operational, with one walking wounded.
oOo
For visitors to Mumbo the attractions are various. Privacy is one, followed by peace and then there is the accommodation: tented with a balcony overlooking the lake. There is a bar and a local cook was employed who knew his trade to perfection. What to do? Well there was kayaking, snorkeling, scuba diving or just lazing about. Should you wish, paths criss-crossed the island and a map was provided for those wishing to explore. The latter was essential for, as I was to discover, the paths had a disconcerting habit of just ending, either suffocated by thick undergrowth or blocked by massive boulders or daunting rock faces.
There were just two other visitors on Mumbo: Rupert was in some business at Johannesburg while Debbie, his partner was unexpected, a Lancashire lass from Bolton and something in advertising in Jo’burg. She had the misfortune to be a follower of Bolton Wanderers, a team languishing second from bottom in the English Premiership football league; I followed Derby County, equally stranded at the bottom of that same league (we wept on each others shoulder!).
Making sure our stay lacked for nothing was Pam, the centre’s manager; a Canadian she had been in the job six months and loved it. Presiding over the staff meant treating them as a team; they had to be told collectively their duties, to inform them separately was to court disaster – they compared notes and then went their separate ways! Constant, patient repetition was the key to success. For we visitors, the key led to a pleasant stay.
A feature that made Mumbo so appealing was the fact that the tented accommodation was on a small islet reached by a board walk thee or four feet above the lake’s waters. Each tent commanded its own private view, shared mainly by cormorants which perched on nearby trees. Fish eagles apparently found those same trees a little too close to the island’s visitors and avoided them. For myself, the islet posed problems in that there were obstacles to be avoided coming and going from the main island; to avoid stumbling I carefully noted where each possible impediment to progress was situated
Next day Rupert and Debbie went off snorkeling and kayaking. Since neither appealed to me I opted for a walk round Mumbo with my camera. Borrowing a map I set off, deciding to walk up the west side of the island then when I reached the top, then cut down the middle and so back to base, maybe around four kilometres I judged.
Within minutes all traces of the tented camp and other buildings had disappeared into the all pervading vegetation as I headed slightly uphill, followed the path to my left and entered a shady world of trees, undergrowth and massive boulders. Birds darted about, but difficult to see, no doubt startled perhaps by a rare walker in their part of Mumbo. Heard but not so often seen were lizards. Some quite large, others of brilliant colouring and once or twice the larger monitor lizards, looking quite prehistoric as they lurched noisily into the safety of the undergrowth. Once they were thought to give warning of crocodiles but somehow I doubted Mumbo’s sole representative of that evil-looking breed had bothered himself to venture that far inland.
The suddenly I was lost, well almost. Behind I could see quite plainly the path I had come along. In front – nothing. Everywhere the all embracing confusion of trees, brambles, briars and rocks. Here and there one or two small trees or, incongruously to my eyes, large boulders; both being strangled by powerful roots of what might be termed predatory trees. Strange as these sights were, my dilemma at being lost was not being diminished. Looking at the borrowed map served no purposes; had I read it correctly, then I should have been still on a marked route. My eyes were not deceived: there was no way forward. Through the enveloping trees the lake could be seen peeping through. Birds were still flitting about; lizards popped their heads over boulders to inspect me or simply scurried away to greater safety. There was nothing for it; I had to retrace my steps.
Finally, I came in sight of the base again much to my relief for the sun was well risen and the attendant heat sapping despite the saving shade of the trees. Back in time just for lunch, a cool beer and later a welcome rest at my quite luxurious tent on the islet.
Pam had arranged a boat trip part way round Mumbo as a prelude to the evening meal and after the heat of the day had gone. So around four o’clock Debbie, Rupert, Pam and myself clambered aboard the boat, with its outboard motor in the capable hands of Choice, one of the staff.
The early evening was absolutely perfect. Lake Malawi lay almost still with the faintest of breezes making barely discernable ripples. Feathery white clouds of little substance provided the perfect canvas for the slowly sinking sun to gently paint them with delicate colours ranging from orange to pink. Slowly Choice guided the boat close enough to the shore to let us glimpses of fish in the shallower waters. From the trees fish eagles, often in pairs, perched serenely but no doubt their keen eyes scanning the lake waters below, searching for some unsuspecting, or rather none too lively, fish for the last meal of the day. Suddenly an eagle would rise and swoop, but as far as we could see the target fish were much too aware to be caught – at least on this occasion.
Out in the lake one or two dugout canoes with their two man crews fished away in a lake that by common consent was already severely over fished. Cheerfully the fishermen waved to us, but we were passing strangers; what was their future on a lake that no longer provided the bounty of past years? Choice steered past the small beach where fishermen were apparently in the habit of using as a resting place from their endeavours. No one was there, nor were there signs of any recent casual habitation.
Suddenly there was a mighty turmoil and the calm of the water was broken into a miniature maelstrom as a long leathery body, wicked head and powerful tail rose and then with a quick swirl disappeared again beneath the lake. The solitary hitch hiking crocodile had risen to see just who had disturbed his peace. Curiosity satisfied, he had departed much to our collective relief. Bolton and Derby still had their supporters.
The rest of our slow voyage passed without incident and almost at a snail’s pace Choice turned the boat and headed back to base. As near as possible the evening had been absolutely perfect. Once landed supper was next on the agenda and quiet conversation as we discussed the day’s events and what and where we would be going after the Mumbo ferry and taken us once more to the mainland.
My day was not quite over. Making my way in the gathering darkness over the board walk to the islet I forgot to circumvent a particular small boulder that lay in wait on the route to my tent. Before knowing what had happened my right foot found it and I crashed to the ground, by good fortune landing on the surrounding sandy soil and not the rock.
A frustrated cry of “Oh No!” brought Rupert coming to my aid from his nearby tent. No real serious hurt done: an impressive cut (approaching gash classification!), torn trousers and me all shook up was the total damage. Paul would have to open a ‘Walking Wounded’ section in the Report. A thorough wash down with bottled water (sparkling) cleaned up the wound and the night’s sleep was barely disturbed by an aching leg.
Next morning ushered in the all-too-short stay on Mumbo. Each chose their activity; for me a leisurely read on the balcony, occasionally to watch the cormorants or wave to Rupert and Debbie swimming far below in the warm waters of the lake. I was the only one travelling on; Paul was coming out on the morning ferry boat, joining us for lunch, and then the Patrol would resume activities.
All too soon the morning passed and the pleasant interlude of lunch, with Paul in fine fettle asking how I came to tear my trousers, insisting on seeing the rock that brought about my downfall and an entry in the Report. Then it was in the ferry, the 45-minute trip back to Chembe and ‘goodbye’ to Pam who had come over to welcome the next visitors to magic Mumbo.
These turned out to be what Paul called scathingly ‘bloody diplomats’ from, we later understood the British Embassy somewhere or other. Two of them, both male, neither of whom seemed capable of grasping that turning up rather late for an earlier ferry had thrown Mumbo’s necessarily careful planning into partial disarray. That it might be their fault circled somewhere outside their confused orbit.
A last look at Mumbo, lying hazily out in the lake and then it was into the car and off southwards; the Patrol once more was operational, with one walking wounded.
oOo
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