One Aboard the MV Ilala
Halfway through the patrol Paul and I split up again. For me it was to board MV Ilala at the start of its weekly run from Monkey Bay at the south of Lake Malawi northwards on its many calls to
lakeside communities, delivering or collecting goods and passengers.
‘Try not to fall this time,’ pleaded Paul, doubtless having in mind my recent tumble on Mumbo; it looked Bad on the Report. He was staying on shore in order to catch up with a few friends and acquaintances before picking me up two days further up the lake. Fearing I might starve to death, which would look even worse on the Report, he insisted on my purchasing a few tins of food, such as spaghetti and baked beans. He’d heard, as I had, that food on board the Ilala was a chancy business. So, a visit to a Monkey Bay supermarket for the necessary purchases, topped up with bottled water.
Once on board, I as shown to my own cabin (actually the owner’s) and found everything in order: clean bed; toilet, shower and bath; fridge; air conditioning and an electric fan. Clearly the absent owner had no intention of roughing it; I blessed him.
Monkey Bay is the main port serving the lake and stands on the eastern side of Cape Maclear, and has seen far better days. From here the Ilala sets off on its weekly routine, leaving behind a small harbour that surely shelters as many vessels rotting away as still remain in service. From Ilala’s deck could be seen the now permanently stationary Chauncey Maples, the rusting Mpasa, then another derelict vessel with no name apparent and remnants of other former shipping long since gone. A still in-service launch was tied up nearby as were two small ships the Ufulu and Metendere.
Further round the small bay that contained the harbour lay a long stretch of fine sand, a natural facility that catered for small rowing boats or larger ones fitted with outboard motors. Small boys ran in and out of the water as, like boys everywhere, enjoying the freshness and coolness of the lake. Looking at this quite ordinary scene was also to remember that such bays were the residences of diseases, including the dreaded bilharzias, a condition that is no stranger to the rural poor of tropical parts, particularly in fresh water bays.
While the day was warm and bright and there was hustle and bustle around the Ilala there was no hiding the overall impression that Monkey Bay is a place that has seen better times. An air of tiredness hung over the small port, of decrepitude and slowness. Such a feeling was absent from the Ilala as passengers came aboard, goods were loaded much of them carried on the heads of local women as they hurried down to the jetty to deliver their loads.
‘Try not to fall this time,’ pleaded Paul, doubtless having in mind my recent tumble on Mumbo; it looked Bad on the Report. He was staying on shore in order to catch up with a few friends and acquaintances before picking me up two days further up the lake. Fearing I might starve to death, which would look even worse on the Report, he insisted on my purchasing a few tins of food, such as spaghetti and baked beans. He’d heard, as I had, that food on board the Ilala was a chancy business. So, a visit to a Monkey Bay supermarket for the necessary purchases, topped up with bottled water.
Once on board, I as shown to my own cabin (actually the owner’s) and found everything in order: clean bed; toilet, shower and bath; fridge; air conditioning and an electric fan. Clearly the absent owner had no intention of roughing it; I blessed him.
Monkey Bay is the main port serving the lake and stands on the eastern side of Cape Maclear, and has seen far better days. From here the Ilala sets off on its weekly routine, leaving behind a small harbour that surely shelters as many vessels rotting away as still remain in service. From Ilala’s deck could be seen the now permanently stationary Chauncey Maples, the rusting Mpasa, then another derelict vessel with no name apparent and remnants of other former shipping long since gone. A still in-service launch was tied up nearby as were two small ships the Ufulu and Metendere.
Further round the small bay that contained the harbour lay a long stretch of fine sand, a natural facility that catered for small rowing boats or larger ones fitted with outboard motors. Small boys ran in and out of the water as, like boys everywhere, enjoying the freshness and coolness of the lake. Looking at this quite ordinary scene was also to remember that such bays were the residences of diseases, including the dreaded bilharzias, a condition that is no stranger to the rural poor of tropical parts, particularly in fresh water bays.
While the day was warm and bright and there was hustle and bustle around the Ilala there was no hiding the overall impression that Monkey Bay is a place that has seen better times. An air of tiredness hung over the small port, of decrepitude and slowness. Such a feeling was absent from the Ilala as passengers came aboard, goods were loaded much of them carried on the heads of local women as they hurried down to the jetty to deliver their loads.
There was much shouting as small parcels, big packing cases and bundles of strange-looking shapes were buried in the depths of the hold. Curiously, I did not see a single hen, chicken or goat that I had been assured were loaded in numbers and shared the lower deck with the third class passengers.
A great conversation piece for those travelling on the Ilala, one imagines for crew as well as passengers, was its timetable. There were two constant factors: it leaves Monkey Bay each Friday and returns there the following Wednesday. A timetable is produced by the ship’s owners for the calls and timings in between, of which the vessel simply ignores except for the order of arrival and departure which is kept to. To be fair, the company and guide books (at least mine did) warns that this ship is a cargo-cum-passenger vessel, factors that are impossible to regiment as the Ilala makes its way round the lake. For me, and most other passengers (never a large number), this means regular gatherings around the bar, turning up for meals on time at the restaurant and reading a book. This simple but quite satisfying life style is regularly interrupted as the Ilala drops anchor off some lake side community to send off or take on passengers and a variety of goods in the ship’s two boats. As spectator-friendly occasions they took some beating.
The mythology of the ship’s timetable was best exemplified by my showing a copy of it to the ship’s advisor, name of Nigel. His vast experience ranged from working on the Thames Estuary shipping, restoring a Portuguese gunboat lying in a bay of the lake, to his present appointment as advisor. Not the captain, it was his expertise that had been contracted to bring the Ilala up to scratch in all directions. People who travelled the ship regularly vouched that the restaurant at least – a most obvious target – had improved no end since Nigel’s arrival.
I was having a drink with him when I mentioned my timetable, a possession that took his interest. He glanced down it. Our first port of call according to the printed word was a place called Chilinda. He had never heard of it and was faintly surprised to learn that on the trip back the Ilala was to call there gain. There it was in black and white, day and timings. To add to the mystery, Nigel knew from having done it all before, that the first port of call was a place called Chipoka, on the way up and last on the way back. All the other places named were as normal although the times were in the realms of guesswork: the weather (Lake Malawi can be quite stormy at times) and varying commercial requirements governed the timetable.
Chipoka turned out to be a typical lakeside community. Perhaps bigger than most, for at its small jetty another vessel, the Katundu, was being loaded with sugar to be hauled eastwards across the lake for importing into Mozambique, which occupied much of its eastern shore.
Away went the two boats to ferry passengers off and on and load and unload goods of amazing variety. Watching the busy scene it also proved a good time to get to meet one’s fellow travellers. The lower deck, or third class, was used almost exclusively by the lake’s communities, people born and probably bored by the lifelong use of the weekly ship to help carry life along. Next came the back packers, up on the next deck, who true to the toughness of their calling
slept on the deck, either in sleeping bags or on foam mattresses supplied by the company. There were a few first class cabins, occupied by those beyond the back packer stage and beaten by me to the luxury of the owner’s single cabin.
For some reason I thought the female back packers were university students in the main. So I was somewhat surprised to learn that most were nurses in training taking a well earned break from their studies. Noticeable was that female packers outnumbered male packers. Over a beer I mentioned this to Nigel and he replied that it was a most noticeable trend over the years. In his estimation, the female element nowadays usually comprised about 70% of the back packing element.
Once duties had been carried out at Chipoka, the Ilala upped anchor, turned northwards and headed off into the lake towards the next stop, on which both Nigel and the timetable were in agreement. This was Nkhotakota, once a dreadful place serving as a main centre to the once thriving slave trade. It was on my itinerary to visit, but not from the Ilala which dropped anchor there in the middle of the night. My visit would be made later on the Patrol when I met up with Paul again.
With Ilala settled on her course, I decided to indulge in that well-known ship board pastime, taking a turn around the deck. My ‘turn’ exceeded all bounds. Within a few minutes I went sprawling, tripping over a cable that lay across the deck. Down I went, arriving not far from the feet of a black man who looked down without too much curiosity at the sudden arrival of a white man at his feet. Taking that only as his due, he left me there, to be picked up by a couple of backpackers.
Shaken, I was picked up gently and inquiries made after my condition. Apart from feeling foolish, I didn’t feel too bad. My trousers, torn from the Mumbo tumble were further torn and now smeared with grease from the offending cable. First thoughts were for Paul and how the matter would be dealt with in the Report. (Apart from the shaking I was not too bad although the resulting bang on my left leg eventually led to cellulitis, which Paul, writing some days after the Patrol, with some glee asked how it was spelt.)
The outcome of all this was that among the crew I was now the best-known passenger on board, known as Mr Ted and easily recognised by the awful state of the one pair of trousers then in my possession.
Among the passengers I struck up a conversation with an Englishman also travelling on his own. Simon his name was and it turned out he lived now at a place called Schull down in West Cork in Ireland. From my years living in that country I knew Schull and surroundings quite well and as Ilala sailed into the approaching night we chatted away about a fair land far away.
Next day, a Saturday, was my one complete day on board. Several times the anchor was dropped and off went the boats to the shore to deliver passengers and goods and return with similar loads. At one stop, two small boys paddling in the ubiquitous dugout canoe came out to sell mangoes to shipboard passengers, skilfully weaving their way between the lowering and raising ship’s boats and keeping away from the ship’s gently moving sides. Business seemed good and eventually they paddled off, one bailing out water that had lapped into their craft during the conduct of business.
Most of the communities which we served looked much the same, be they in Malawi or Mozambique. Thatched huts lined up along the golden beach, canoes and other small craft everywhere, including the occasional now rare dhow, and queues waiting for the ferrying boats. They seemed so remote these small villages and while from a distance the population may have lived quiet, maybe ideal lives, one could not help wondering just what the reality was. Despite the colourful setting, the surrounding beauty and down to the shore vegetation, living there was a hard existence and only the poor would choose to be there, or rather had to be there.
Once sighted from the ship was what looked like a cloud of black smoke in the distance. This was a massive airborne mass of lake flies, so dense that if anyone was unfortunate to find themselves in the middle they would think they were being suffocated. Once or twice both on ship and on land I spotted such clouds, but each time mercifully far away.
That evening as day faded we were rewarded with the sight of a full moon rising over the woodlands on shore and throwing a long corridor of light out to our ship. This was after the prelude of the sun setting, an extravaganza of gold and yellow, arched over by sky turning from a plum colour to full darkness.
After these wonderful displays I fell into conversation with Nigel in the bar.
A great conversation piece for those travelling on the Ilala, one imagines for crew as well as passengers, was its timetable. There were two constant factors: it leaves Monkey Bay each Friday and returns there the following Wednesday. A timetable is produced by the ship’s owners for the calls and timings in between, of which the vessel simply ignores except for the order of arrival and departure which is kept to. To be fair, the company and guide books (at least mine did) warns that this ship is a cargo-cum-passenger vessel, factors that are impossible to regiment as the Ilala makes its way round the lake. For me, and most other passengers (never a large number), this means regular gatherings around the bar, turning up for meals on time at the restaurant and reading a book. This simple but quite satisfying life style is regularly interrupted as the Ilala drops anchor off some lake side community to send off or take on passengers and a variety of goods in the ship’s two boats. As spectator-friendly occasions they took some beating.
The mythology of the ship’s timetable was best exemplified by my showing a copy of it to the ship’s advisor, name of Nigel. His vast experience ranged from working on the Thames Estuary shipping, restoring a Portuguese gunboat lying in a bay of the lake, to his present appointment as advisor. Not the captain, it was his expertise that had been contracted to bring the Ilala up to scratch in all directions. People who travelled the ship regularly vouched that the restaurant at least – a most obvious target – had improved no end since Nigel’s arrival.
I was having a drink with him when I mentioned my timetable, a possession that took his interest. He glanced down it. Our first port of call according to the printed word was a place called Chilinda. He had never heard of it and was faintly surprised to learn that on the trip back the Ilala was to call there gain. There it was in black and white, day and timings. To add to the mystery, Nigel knew from having done it all before, that the first port of call was a place called Chipoka, on the way up and last on the way back. All the other places named were as normal although the times were in the realms of guesswork: the weather (Lake Malawi can be quite stormy at times) and varying commercial requirements governed the timetable.
Chipoka turned out to be a typical lakeside community. Perhaps bigger than most, for at its small jetty another vessel, the Katundu, was being loaded with sugar to be hauled eastwards across the lake for importing into Mozambique, which occupied much of its eastern shore.
Away went the two boats to ferry passengers off and on and load and unload goods of amazing variety. Watching the busy scene it also proved a good time to get to meet one’s fellow travellers. The lower deck, or third class, was used almost exclusively by the lake’s communities, people born and probably bored by the lifelong use of the weekly ship to help carry life along. Next came the back packers, up on the next deck, who true to the toughness of their calling
slept on the deck, either in sleeping bags or on foam mattresses supplied by the company. There were a few first class cabins, occupied by those beyond the back packer stage and beaten by me to the luxury of the owner’s single cabin.
For some reason I thought the female back packers were university students in the main. So I was somewhat surprised to learn that most were nurses in training taking a well earned break from their studies. Noticeable was that female packers outnumbered male packers. Over a beer I mentioned this to Nigel and he replied that it was a most noticeable trend over the years. In his estimation, the female element nowadays usually comprised about 70% of the back packing element.
Once duties had been carried out at Chipoka, the Ilala upped anchor, turned northwards and headed off into the lake towards the next stop, on which both Nigel and the timetable were in agreement. This was Nkhotakota, once a dreadful place serving as a main centre to the once thriving slave trade. It was on my itinerary to visit, but not from the Ilala which dropped anchor there in the middle of the night. My visit would be made later on the Patrol when I met up with Paul again.
With Ilala settled on her course, I decided to indulge in that well-known ship board pastime, taking a turn around the deck. My ‘turn’ exceeded all bounds. Within a few minutes I went sprawling, tripping over a cable that lay across the deck. Down I went, arriving not far from the feet of a black man who looked down without too much curiosity at the sudden arrival of a white man at his feet. Taking that only as his due, he left me there, to be picked up by a couple of backpackers.
Shaken, I was picked up gently and inquiries made after my condition. Apart from feeling foolish, I didn’t feel too bad. My trousers, torn from the Mumbo tumble were further torn and now smeared with grease from the offending cable. First thoughts were for Paul and how the matter would be dealt with in the Report. (Apart from the shaking I was not too bad although the resulting bang on my left leg eventually led to cellulitis, which Paul, writing some days after the Patrol, with some glee asked how it was spelt.)
The outcome of all this was that among the crew I was now the best-known passenger on board, known as Mr Ted and easily recognised by the awful state of the one pair of trousers then in my possession.
Among the passengers I struck up a conversation with an Englishman also travelling on his own. Simon his name was and it turned out he lived now at a place called Schull down in West Cork in Ireland. From my years living in that country I knew Schull and surroundings quite well and as Ilala sailed into the approaching night we chatted away about a fair land far away.
Next day, a Saturday, was my one complete day on board. Several times the anchor was dropped and off went the boats to the shore to deliver passengers and goods and return with similar loads. At one stop, two small boys paddling in the ubiquitous dugout canoe came out to sell mangoes to shipboard passengers, skilfully weaving their way between the lowering and raising ship’s boats and keeping away from the ship’s gently moving sides. Business seemed good and eventually they paddled off, one bailing out water that had lapped into their craft during the conduct of business.
Most of the communities which we served looked much the same, be they in Malawi or Mozambique. Thatched huts lined up along the golden beach, canoes and other small craft everywhere, including the occasional now rare dhow, and queues waiting for the ferrying boats. They seemed so remote these small villages and while from a distance the population may have lived quiet, maybe ideal lives, one could not help wondering just what the reality was. Despite the colourful setting, the surrounding beauty and down to the shore vegetation, living there was a hard existence and only the poor would choose to be there, or rather had to be there.
Once sighted from the ship was what looked like a cloud of black smoke in the distance. This was a massive airborne mass of lake flies, so dense that if anyone was unfortunate to find themselves in the middle they would think they were being suffocated. Once or twice both on ship and on land I spotted such clouds, but each time mercifully far away.
That evening as day faded we were rewarded with the sight of a full moon rising over the woodlands on shore and throwing a long corridor of light out to our ship. This was after the prelude of the sun setting, an extravaganza of gold and yellow, arched over by sky turning from a plum colour to full darkness.
After these wonderful displays I fell into conversation with Nigel in the bar.
Earlier that day he had taken a photograph of me in my state of ragged trousers, evidence needed for a protective rail to ward off passengers; apparently he had been asking for such a rail for months past; flying passengers were not unknown. Nigel also mentioned that Paul had ‘phoned from a shore location to ask if I was OK, (or check that I still remained on board?).
Biggest disappointment was not being able to go ashore at Likoma Island. Ilala arrived there in the middle of the night and upped anchor well before day broke.
Although lying within Mozambican waters, Likoma comes under Malawian jurisdiction, a legacy of its long association with the Scottish missionaries. Bishop Chauncey Maples was consecrated as Likoma’s first bishop, a post he never took up being tragically drowned in Lake Malawi while on his way to the island. The island’s most extraordinary sight is that of St. Peter’s Cathedral, standing in the middle of the island opposite the Mission Hospital. This building is huge for its location, being of similar size to Westminster Cathedral. Alas, it was not something I would see; anyway with two badly bruised legs I was not going to risk stepping into the ship-to-shore ferry and possibly earning more black marks in "The Report"!
So Likoma remained unseen and unvisited as Ilala set off across the lake and back into Malawian waters. That was my second and last night board. In the morning the ship tied up at the jetty at Nkhata Bay, which seemed the hub of all activity as far as one could see. As I looked down from the top deck on to the busy scene below I wondered how an earth I was going to make contact with Paul. Everywhere there were people, greeting returning passengers, unloading bags, cases and crates and loading more of the same for the journey south. Nkhata was the furthest north Ilala went on this huge freshwater lake.
This final stop for me was in such direct contrast to Monkey Bay. There, there had been an air almost of indolence, of a once busy port crumbling. Here it was so different. Brightly dressed women, bearing the almost inevitable packs on their head, glided effortlessly through the milling lines of people going to and coming from Ilala. Workmen hurried in between, while on board the now familiar scene of miscellaneous cargo items were being hauled in and out. What appeared like chaos were only temporary localized outbreaks of such; overall a time-established routine was in full operation. Beyond the long gangway that connected Ilala with the shore lorries were waiting to be filled or unloaded with goods. Like hurrying ants, the people of Nkhata Bay were scurrying to and fro at their once weekly tasks.
Reluctantly I packed my small bag, said farewell to the steward and barman, waved to Nigel (busy keeping an eye on everything) and barged my way off the Ilala and down the long iron gangway to the shore. On board I had seen the rough and ready order of things; now in the middle of the crowds it seemed so different. Like crowds everywhere, I seemed to be the only one going in the same direction. No-one took the slightest notices of me; wandering tourists were no great news here, neither were bag packers as a couple of erstwhile passengers struggled alongside, also finding they were swimming against the human tide.
Eventually I reached the security gates which controlled entrance to the dock area. Once through I stopped: where was I going to find Paul in this melee? The jumble of people had now been added to by the merely curious, attracted by the weekly arrival. By the side of the dirt road were the inevitable casual traders, selling in the main a variety of freshly picked fruits. Old, battered cars and small lorries added further weight to the confusion. Back in South Africa being in a crowd such as this would have been a wary, nervous experience; here there was no tension, just joining in the general movement and getting to where you wanted to go.
The road divided, now what should I do? Down which road would Paul come? Had I in fact missed him, or had something happened to him? Since there was no sense gained in going down either road, I stayed at the divide, pulled out my camera and took a few pictures. No one took much notice, a few people grinned for my benefit but by and large I was ignored. Just when the crazy notion crept into my mind that I had disembarked at the wrong place, Paul drove into sight down the dusty main road, weaving in and out the crowds. We waved, he braked, glanced at my battered, greasy trousers; “Won’t look well in The Report,” was all he said.
oOo
Biggest disappointment was not being able to go ashore at Likoma Island. Ilala arrived there in the middle of the night and upped anchor well before day broke.
Although lying within Mozambican waters, Likoma comes under Malawian jurisdiction, a legacy of its long association with the Scottish missionaries. Bishop Chauncey Maples was consecrated as Likoma’s first bishop, a post he never took up being tragically drowned in Lake Malawi while on his way to the island. The island’s most extraordinary sight is that of St. Peter’s Cathedral, standing in the middle of the island opposite the Mission Hospital. This building is huge for its location, being of similar size to Westminster Cathedral. Alas, it was not something I would see; anyway with two badly bruised legs I was not going to risk stepping into the ship-to-shore ferry and possibly earning more black marks in "The Report"!
So Likoma remained unseen and unvisited as Ilala set off across the lake and back into Malawian waters. That was my second and last night board. In the morning the ship tied up at the jetty at Nkhata Bay, which seemed the hub of all activity as far as one could see. As I looked down from the top deck on to the busy scene below I wondered how an earth I was going to make contact with Paul. Everywhere there were people, greeting returning passengers, unloading bags, cases and crates and loading more of the same for the journey south. Nkhata was the furthest north Ilala went on this huge freshwater lake.
This final stop for me was in such direct contrast to Monkey Bay. There, there had been an air almost of indolence, of a once busy port crumbling. Here it was so different. Brightly dressed women, bearing the almost inevitable packs on their head, glided effortlessly through the milling lines of people going to and coming from Ilala. Workmen hurried in between, while on board the now familiar scene of miscellaneous cargo items were being hauled in and out. What appeared like chaos were only temporary localized outbreaks of such; overall a time-established routine was in full operation. Beyond the long gangway that connected Ilala with the shore lorries were waiting to be filled or unloaded with goods. Like hurrying ants, the people of Nkhata Bay were scurrying to and fro at their once weekly tasks.
Reluctantly I packed my small bag, said farewell to the steward and barman, waved to Nigel (busy keeping an eye on everything) and barged my way off the Ilala and down the long iron gangway to the shore. On board I had seen the rough and ready order of things; now in the middle of the crowds it seemed so different. Like crowds everywhere, I seemed to be the only one going in the same direction. No-one took the slightest notices of me; wandering tourists were no great news here, neither were bag packers as a couple of erstwhile passengers struggled alongside, also finding they were swimming against the human tide.
Eventually I reached the security gates which controlled entrance to the dock area. Once through I stopped: where was I going to find Paul in this melee? The jumble of people had now been added to by the merely curious, attracted by the weekly arrival. By the side of the dirt road were the inevitable casual traders, selling in the main a variety of freshly picked fruits. Old, battered cars and small lorries added further weight to the confusion. Back in South Africa being in a crowd such as this would have been a wary, nervous experience; here there was no tension, just joining in the general movement and getting to where you wanted to go.
The road divided, now what should I do? Down which road would Paul come? Had I in fact missed him, or had something happened to him? Since there was no sense gained in going down either road, I stayed at the divide, pulled out my camera and took a few pictures. No one took much notice, a few people grinned for my benefit but by and large I was ignored. Just when the crazy notion crept into my mind that I had disembarked at the wrong place, Paul drove into sight down the dusty main road, weaving in and out the crowds. We waved, he braked, glanced at my battered, greasy trousers; “Won’t look well in The Report,” was all he said.
oOo
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