We caught the bus south to Zomba. This was the old colonial capital of Malawi and was completely different from the other towns we had been through. It was perched on the edge of a plateau surrounded by wooded hills, and there were wide paved streets lined with trees, and buildings more than two storeys high - the first we had seen outside Lilongwe.
In the middle of town there was a small, quiet graveyard for the European settlers who had lived and died here in the early part of the 20th century. Each of the gravestones told a story: farmers from Devon dying of malaria, children taken by fevers, soldiers of the East Africa Regiment killed in world war one. Next to this there was another more recent graveyard for the local inhabitants. These gravestones told a very different tale. Life in Africa is still hard, but now the killer is more likely to be Aids. It's been forecast that across the continent over 30m people will die from the disease by 2020. In Malawi, HIV is horrifyingly prevalent. Some statistics say that over 50% of pregnant women are infected. The government is trying to tackle the problem - we saw plenty of posters advocating the use of condoms - but there is a long, long way to go.
Leaving Zomba we headed north, back to the Lake.
Lake Malawi forms part of the Great Rift Valley that splits east Africa. It's the third largest lake on the continent, 580km long and up to 700m deep. At it's southern end sits the small port of Monkey Bay.
The journey had taken a few hours and we clambered out of the minibus, stretching our cramped muscles. We were immediately jumped on by 14-year-old Mark who offered to show us around - for a small fee, of course. Mark was very cheerful and, as we walked, kept up a running commentary about the town, pausing occasionally to shoo away other boys also keen to escort us.
After dropping our rucksacks at the only resthouse, we took Mark to a local bar to have some food. We all had chambo (a fish found in the lake) and nsima (a sort of dumpling made from maize flour). Mark told us about school and his favourite subjects (business studies and history - he asked me when the great fire of London was, I'm ashamed to say I didn't know). Exams were coming up soon and he was a bit worried about how he was going to pass maths. As an orphan living with his older sister, he paid his way by escorting mzungus - chichewa for foreigners - like us. When I was 14, I spent most of my time watching TV.
The next morning Mark was there to escort us down to the port (this one was on him). The Ilala is a large old steamship which was commissioned into service on the lake in 1951. She can carry up to 350 passengers and travels up and down the lake once a week stopping at about a dozen towns with exotic names like Chipoka, Usisya and Likoma Island.
On board there were three classes: cabin, first class (you sleep on the deck) and economy (you're in the hold with two hundred other people and lots of chickens). As we were going to be on the boat for two days we had booked one of the cabins for about £30 each. The cabins were certainly not the luxury option they had been once, but they were still in a reasonable condition and comfortable enough.
We were due to sail at 08:00 but in fact didn't get going until nearly 11:00. This, apparently, was pretty punctual and there was a jolly mood amongst the passengers as we crowded onto the boat. Up on deck we met our fellow first class passengers - all mzungus who were too soft to travel economy. There was a sprinkling of Americans, a couple of Aussies and a Dutch girl. The Americans, Rusty, Russell and Jill, had their own boua board (a Malawian game that is an excellent way of passing time) so we immediately made friends with them. The skipper was also there and he introduced himself: Captain Adonis.
Not long into the voyage, I began to feel ill. I had a fever, sore throat, pounding head and aching limbs. I stupidly hadn't brought a thermometer with me so I couldn't check my temperature, but clearly I had malaria, or perhaps yellow fever, or maybe typhoid. I spent most of the next two days asleep in the cabin feeling very sorry for myself.
In spite of this, the Ilala made its stately way around the lake. At each stop there was great excitement, both on the ship and on shore where crowds lined the beaches. Fisherman paddled out in their canoes to sell the day's catch. The lifeboats were lowered and people precariously clambered aboard to be ferried ashore. Everyone else watched from the decks in the faint hope that someone might fall in.
The Aussies and the Dutch contingent had opted for the deck and this proved to be a mistake. During one stop in the night, they woke to find themselves surrounded by interested local villagers who had been allowed on board to sightsee. The next night, a sudden squall left the deck rainswept and sent them scurrying to the shelter of our rooms. They gave up after that and paid the extra for a cabin.
Late in the evening of the second day we arrived at our destination (Nkhata Bay, as recommended by Charlotte in her email) to find a power cut had blacked out the town. Pushing through the crowds on the jetty we grabbed a pick-up to take us to where we were staying. Njaya Lodge was also in darkness so we went straight to bed. I was still feeling ill and woke in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat. My hair was soaked, the sheets were damp but the next morning I felt absolutely fine. Not malaria then.
Njaya is a lovely, relaxed place perched on a hillside sloping down to a quiet beach. The days have slipped by without us really seeming to do anything. Our $3-a-night reed hut overlooks the lake and in the morning we get up late and wander down to the beach for a dip. Our American friends from the Ilala, Rusty, Russell and Jill, are also staying here, and our evenings are spent playing pool and watching the fisherman paddle back in their dugout canoes as the sun set. We drink and eat lots.
Occasionally, for a change of scenery we walk into town to have a drink and share a joke with the market traders who are much friendlier than the ones in Cape Maclear. There are some nice pieces on sale here and Rusty has bought so much that I am beginning to suspect he is planning an African theme park on his return to Michigan.
He had the brilliant idea of bringing lots of old tee-shirts and trainers out with him to use as swaps. The traders are very keen on anything with a recognisable logo such as Nike or Addidas and will bring down their prices substantially. Rusty's negotiations resemble a bring-and-buy sale with him laying out his wares in front of the traders while they pore over them with a critical eye.
My cheap Australian mirrored sunglasses also came in for a lot of attention and I have been offered numerous wood carvings and chieftain's chairs for them. Helen's expensive Diesel sunglasses, however, are bluntly ignored.
Writing this report has been the most exhausting thing I've done all week - I'm going back to sleep on the beach now.
