African Adventure - 2. Chapter 2 - The Road to Hippo Bay

There is no place quite like an African bus depot. A London, England underground train station is full of little grey men in little grey suits carrying briefcases scurrying like shoaling fish in one direction then another as the rush to make the next connection or make it to street level plays out. Activity in an African bus depot is more a swirling mass of milling around people. Another significant difference is the sounds that accompany the experience. In a London tube station it is only the sound of the tinny public address system that rises above the sound of footfall. In the African bus depot there’s a cacophonic blend of noise from hooting buses to the shouts of ticket touts and vendors of everything that can be carried to the calls between family members all burdened with suitcases, cardboard boxes and sacks containing just about every commodity known to man. It is vibrant, it is alive, it is stimulating and it is where your wallet can go missing if you are not careful.

I found the Lakeshore bus, bought a ticket and refused to place my backpack on the buses roof rack insisting rather to take it inside with me. This was Rule 1 I had been told; never allow yourself to get separated from your kit. The bus was old and cramped. I battled to get my backpack up the stairs after me and it was only with some pushing and lifting by the smiling face behind me in the queue. I smiled my thanks and was immediately reminded of Rule 2; watch where anyone offering help carrying or loading your kit puts his hands. Like the naughty school boy I had been until a few months ago I headed for the back seats on the bus. I staggered backwards holding my backpack against my chest and was followed by a perfect set of ivory white teeth visible on a dark face that seemed to be locked in a permanent smile.

I pushed and kicked my backpack until it was under the back seat and then slipped in and slid up to the window seat and placed my smaller shoulder bag on my lap. The smiling face followed my in and sat next to me.

“I’m Luka,” he introduced himself, “where you from?”

“I’m Charlie from England,” I smiled and offered him my hand.

Luka nodded, “Where you going?”

“Hippo Bay.”

“Me too,” he replied.

I looked at him. His features were slightly different from the average face I had seen around the Blantrye bus depot. I looked around the bus and out of the window to confirm my observations. Not so much the common rounded Negroid features but slightly sharper nose and less full lips which I thought could be the Arabic legacy dating back to the lake slave trade which the missionary Dr David Livingstone had fought so hard to end in the mid-1800s as I had learned in school.

Luka’s skin was truly black and not a shade of brown. His build seemed to be athletic although that true of upper body which the T-shirt could not hide. He worn a tracksuit bottom which hid his legs. I could see he was wearing plastic beach thongs but could not see his feet as they were hidden under the seat in front. His hands were of normal size as one could expect in relation to his body with thin fingers and the nails were short and neat.

I had no idea what age he was but guessed he was certainly older than me and probably in his early 20s. Happy too that I had someone to talk to on the trip and as he was also headed for Hippo Bay I hoped he would be able to provide me with information on the place.

“Luka, do you live in Hippo Bay?”

“Yes I was born in the local village. Its real name is Nyambi Village named after the local headman and the name Hippo Bay came from the time when the flying boat service operated by B.O.A.C. that is the British Overseas Airways Corporation, was operating between 1949 to 1950 with Hippo Bay with its small hotel as a night stop over on the flying boat route between Johannesburg in South Africa and Southampton in the United Kingdom.” He looked at me for a reaction.

“Thank you Luka, that was very informative,” wondering where he had memorised that from.

“Tell me about the fish aquarium at Hippo Bay please.”

Luka continued in his best tour guide manner, “There is a certain white man who is doing scientific research into the local tropical fish found in Lake Malawi, which incidentally are called Malawi Cichlids or Mbuna in the local language. As part of his project and to assist with local tourism the man known to us all as Captain has built an aquarium which goes by the name Nyambi Aquarium named as such out of respect for and to honour our local village headman. This gesture is much appreciated by one and all of the people of Nyambi Village and in return and as a mark of sincere thanks Captain has been awarded the honorary status of village elder.”

“Hmm, interesting thank you Luka,” I had to make him relax and talk normally as I didn’t think I could continue to suppress the urge to burst out laughing.

I put my hand on his and said, “Luka, I am your friend so you can just talk normally to me OK?”

“Thank you sir,” he replied.

“Not sir Luka, Charlie.”

“Yes sir… Charlie.”

I left my hand on his, “What do you do there Luka?”

“I arrange to take tourists out to the island for snorkelling to see the fish.”

“How much do you charge for that?” I asked as I slipped my fingers between his. There was no resistance in fact he pushed his shoulder against mine, turned his head towards me and smiled.

Our bus with a loud long hoot started to rev loudly and edge forward into the milling bustling throng. People reluctantly gave way and the bus made its stop start way out of the depot. A quick look down the bus and it appeared that the bus was nearly full and the people shuffled around as the settled down for what was to be a five hour journey. While the bus was termed an ‘express bus’ I had been warned that the driver would have been instructed to stop anywhere and everywhere along the route to make sure the ticket sales were maximised. The cynics or perhaps the realists would tell you that the bus company only gets the income from the full distance tickets while the driver and conductor share the spoils from the ad hoc sales along the route.

For the first ten minutes we travelled past row upon row of shanty dwellings which lined the road. Everywhere there was a mass of humanity with the women wearing colourful cotton wrap-around skirts locally called a chitenji. Was I correct in noticing as I thought that virtually every woman had a baby carried on her back? I don’t know why but I felt I was pretty close to being correct. We cleared the populated area and passed through an area where small agricultural fields took on the form of a patchwork quilt.

I turned to Luka, “What can tourists do in Hippo Bay.”

“There is the snorkelling at the island, you can take a scuba course and swimming on the beach and also private swimming at the rocks.”

“Private swimming?”

“Some of the tourists like to swim naked so they go to the rocks to find a private place.”

“They swim alone?”

“Some they do take local boys along for a trade.”

“A trade?”

Luka leaned towards me and whispered through his teeth, “For some money or some clothing.” He paused, then continued, “For these shorts you are wearing you and me can swim naked together for a few hours.” He looked into my face for a response.

“How much money?”

“Just for swimming together maybe two US dollars, if you want to touch when five or ten dollars according to what you like to do.”

“What would five dollars get me?”

He lent closer and whispered softly, “You fuck me or I fuck you, as you like.”

“Will all the village boys do that?”

“I can organise one for you if you want other boy,” he said matter of factly.

I nodded and turned away and looked out the window. As easy as that I thought to myself. Pretty sad really the way the tourist wants had led to the village boys turning themselves into commodities to make a quick buck.

We had stopped at a police roadblock. In 1986 Malawi was still a one-party state under the dictatorship of Hastings Kamuzu Bnada and the police ran permanent roadblocks on all the main roads.

“We must get out,” said Luka as the bus ground to a halt, “You must take your passport.”

We filed off the bus and snaked around to form a line at the door to climb back on board. A few policemen had climbed on board and on the roof rack to inspect what was being carried. We all stood quietly until they had finished their search. Once they were finished they allowed the passengers to climb on again. I had taken the opportunity to cross the road and pee in a clump of trees. Luka followed me and stood next to me and made sure his hands did not obscure a view of his cock and made a deliberate attempt to see mine. As we returned to the bus I bought two cokes in bottles and had to pay a deposit for the bottles. The cokes were coldish and Luka informed me to keep the bottles for ‘next time’.

I had to show my passport on entering and I noticed that Luka dropped back a few places in the queue I supposed not to be seen to be travelling with me. Maybe a wise move in a police state I thought. We got back to our seats.

“Check your backpack,” he whispered.

I nodded and checked and noted that all the pouches were closed and the cotton thread I had been advised to tie them off with was intact so I was happy that it had not been gone through.

The bus pulled away and soon we were on our way again. The whole length of the road so far had been lined with small villages and small scale agriculture. Where was the real Africa I wondered and thought back to Zimbabwe and its National Parks and wildlife areas? I was to find out that the small country of Malawi with its relatively high density population had a few remaining National Parks from the colonial days but these were coming increasingly under pressure from expanding human settlements. Going, going, gone I feared and wondered what I would find at the Lake itself which itself had been designated a National Park.

We finished our cokes and I put the bottles in my shoulder bag. I looked at Luka and down to his crotch and reminded myself of what I had seen. He was about my size, maybe a little bigger and tightly circumcised and unlike me his head was round like a little apple with mine being pointy.

“Are all the boys circumcised?” I asked. He did not understand and I had to make the scissor movement with one hand while pointing to his crotch with the other.

“Yes, every single one. The reason is half Muslim, half traditional.”

I nodded.

“You too,” he stated as a fact.

I nodded.

“Like American,” he added, “I see they also cut nice.”

“How many Americans have you seen?”

“Three.” I marvelled at his ability to project a universal from such a small sample. Not a surprise really as these villages only see tourists passing through all of which are rich by comparison so it is understandable that they arrive at the belief that all white people are rich.

I wanted to organise something with Luka but I did not have the confidence to do so.

“Are you also catching the pick-up to Hippo Bay?” I asked.

“If you want me today otherwise I will stay with my uncle and go to Hippo Bay tomorrow.”

“Best you stay with your uncle and I’ll see you tomorrow.” I did not want to commit to something which could turn out to be a blank cheque for him.

Luka looked a little disappointed.

“Tell me more about Captain,” I requested.

“Captain is our friend; he does good things for the village.”

“Has he got a wife or girlfriend?”

“No, his wife and two babies die in a motor accident three years ago. He take no woman again after that.”

“No woman?”

“No.”

“So who he stay with?”

“Some local boys then for some months an American boy.”

“American boy?”

“We call him Joshi. They very happy then one day, last month, they fight and Joshi run away. Captain very sorry for that, but he still have some village boys who stay on the boat with him.”

“Tell me about the boat.”

“You will see it is a big boat like a house. There is place for four or five to sleep inside and more can sleep outside.”

“What does he use it for?”

“For science. They go round islands, to swim with the fish and catch some for aquarium and count numbers of fish and take video and photo. Things like that.”

“And the boys?”

“They his boys. They work for him. They stay with him on the boat.”

“You ever stay with him on the boat?”

“Ahh… I can’t tell you that.” With that he turned away in an attempt I read to end that line of discussion.

“Are there other people who work for him? Like tourists?”

“White people?”

“OK, white people.”

“Captain have scuba diving school he run with his wife before she die. After she die he get a lot of money from insurance and even more from court case because driver who bump them was working for big British international company. So Captain he buy the big boat and hire South African guy to run diving school.”

“This South African guy does he also sleep on the boat?”

“No, not him. He stay in Captains small house in the camp site and he don’t like boys. He like to try and fuck every girl tourist who comes to Hippo Bay.” He laughed shaking his head. “Ay… Nico is very naughty guy.”

“And who else?”

“There is Sally, she is British. Before she was with VSO – UK. You know it?”

I nodded. The volunteer Service Organisation is the British equivalent of the Peace Corps.

“Then she come back to run Aquarium for Captain. She only hire village women to work there because there are only all boys on the boat and all girls on the beach.” He smiled at the simple logic.

“That’s it?”

“No then there was Joshi.”

"What about Joshi?”

“You will find out when you get there.”

“Come on Luka, please tell me because I would like to try and get some work there.”

“Joshi a young guy like you and me come from American university to learn about Malawi fish. Him and Captain become big friends and stay together on the boat. We hear that they sleep together in big cabin. We see they are very happy for months then one day there is a big problem and Joshi just leaving on the same day. That’s all I can say. Please Charlie.”

“OK, thanks Luka,” I reached for his hand to give it a squeeze and he met me with open fingers and we locked hands.

We sat in silence for a while. I wanted to read the fish book but I didn’t want to let go of his hand.

After some time Luka lent forward and whispered, “OK, I stay with my uncle tonight but I send a message to the village for a good young boy to meet you there. OK?”

“Well …” I started but instead just nodded in the affirmative.

“His name is Joao. He is a good boy and he will help you with your tent and if you want you go private swimming with him and he can sleep with you if you like him.”

I nodded, sounded like a deal to me.

“What do I give him for all that?”

“You give him five US dollar for all that and he can go to the village to eat supper.”

I nodded. The ease of all this was overwhelming.

“How will I find him?”

“Don’t worry Charlie he will find you.”

“And when will I see you again?” I asked.

“You get there by 2 o’clock today and Ill get there same time tomorrow by same pick-up, OK?”

I must have dozed off because I woke as the bus was pulling into the final stage at the end of the line. Luka was still holding my hand and I gave his hand a squeeze and released it. He jumped up.

“I go organise for you. You will find Hippo Bay pick-up in front of small bakery.” And with that he took off through the mass of now standing passengers towards the door.

I had to wait for the passengers close by to clear the area so I could pull my backpack out from under the bench seat. I checked the cotton threads and all were still intact. Can’t be too careful I thought. Again clutching my backpack to my chest I backed down the aisle and out the door. Once outside I struggled to get my back-pack on and once on I set off in search of the pick-up in front of the bakery.

It was all quite simple as there was a single row of stores on one side of the road and the one with a battered looking pick-up parked in front had the word bakery scrawled on the wall above the door. I made for it and had to fend off the vendors trying to sell a variety of drinks and snacks.

I found Luka at the vehicle where he was in conversation with another boy of probably his same age. I studied them both as I approached. They were both about the same height at just under six foot, both were lean and athletic, both had the slight Arabic look and both were attractive. To be honest the boy Luka was with was a better looker by some margin and this was confirmed as on my approach he turned and offered a handsome smile.

“Charlie, this is Matti he works for Captain. He will escort you to the camp site and call Joao for you.”

I offered Matti my hand. We shook and he was in no hurry to withdraw it.

“If you need to pass urine you must go now then we must get a seat on the pick-up, said Matti.

I did so and on my return met the driver and paid my fare and in front of Luka gave him the amount to cover Luka’s fare the next day. It was agreed and Luka shook my hand and walked away to find his uncle I supposed.

The driver decided that Matti and I would sit in front with him and it was safer he said for me to put my backpack across Matti and my laps. The driver got out to collect the fares and supervise the loading. Travellers in Africa are always amazed at just much baggage and how many people can fit on the back of a one-ton pick-up. While not unique to Africa I am told this overloading is certainly a credit to the engineering quality of these Toyota and Nissan vehicles. That they can carry so much for so long before finally falling apart is truly remarkable.

At the end of the single row of five stores there was a petrol station. Behind the stores lay a low rocky hill and all the thatched huts with the odd corrugated iron roofed house in between were on the other side of the road. The arrival of the bus was obviously the event of the day and a small crowd of people waiting for passengers, people wanting to travel to Blantyre on the return journey, a hoard of vendors and just some inquisitive bystanders had gathered. The bus having been loaded for the return journey took off without ceremony. And with that the crowd began to disperse.

I looked at Matti. He carried himself with confidence.

“So you work for Captain, Matti?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“What work do you do?”

“I am Captains boat boy,” he stated proudly.

“That’s great, so what kind of things do you do?”

“I do cleaning, I do cooking, I help with the small boat, I do some fishing and other small things.”

“Good for you.”

The driver climbed in and slammed the door and we were off. We turned off the tarmac surfaced road immediately and followed a winding dirt road into the low scrub bush and between a series of low rocky outcrops. It was hot but having spent the last month in Zimbabwe I had become somewhat acclimatised to the heat and looking at Matti and the driver beads of sweat were evident on the sides of their foreheads.

Matti and the driver were conversing in the vernacular so I took in the scenery we passed by. The odd small villages we passed by were evidence of just how dirt poor the people here were. Malawi is one of the poorest countries in the world and it showed. Little wonder that the local kids were so willing to pragmatically bend to the tourist market forces. Here I had been set up for a ‘trade’ through a casual meeting on a bus. The kid concerned I was yet to meet and I was not sure that I could go through with it and was quietly preparing to back out of the deal by paying the kid off.

We drove over a crest and there before me lay the lake. It looked beautiful. Far in the distance I could see land which I knew to be Mocambique. Then there were three island s that I could see. Two were quite far into the lake and looked conical and well treed while the closer one was narrow and longer and running parallel with the line of the beach. Also well treed I was able to see that all around the visible side it was rocks and not beach sand at the waters edge. And there at anchor lay what I assumed to be the boat. Captain’s boat.

It was not of the racy modern design that one sees moored at Monaco but looked so good it was almost out of place on an African inland freshwater lake. James’ father had known the design name for the boat which had apparently been assembled by a South African shipbuilder on the lake from pre-manufactured parts road freighted into Malawi from their shipyard in Cape Town. A newish boat of an older proven design to be used as a work and dive boat on Lake Malawi.

I knew that it was around 40 foot in length and had a covered fly bridge and sitting there on the glass flat lake surface she looked beautiful. I couldn’t see the campsite through the trees but guessed where it lay by the position of the coconut palms which not being indigenous to the area would have to have been planted.

Matti pointed, “Hippo Bay.”

I nodded.

It was still hot and we were all sweating as the speed we were travelling was not fast enough to generate a sweat evaporating air flow. We just bumped and rattled our way down towards the lakeshore. As we drew closer I could see the area of the campsite as being the more wooded area where planted trees some forty years ago had created what looked like a shady canopy.

We came around a bend in the road and stopped momentarily at a fork in the road. There were a group of young boys watching to see what the pick-up was bringing in today. Matti called to one of them, gave what appeared to be instructions and the boy took off and we took the left hand fork towards what the sign said was the Hippo Bay Campsite.

We swung in through the open gate and travelled the last 100 metres to the buildings and stopped. The passengers who were all locals spilled off the back and begun offloading their baggage. I opened the door and climbed out with my backpack. Matti indicated that I should follow him to the office and I did. He introduced me to the clerk standing outside and I went inside with the clerk to pay for a ‘tent-space’ as they called it. I put down a deposit and was given a receipt.

Matti said, “Come we find a good place.”

I thanked the clerk and followed Matti. He stopped at a small sign with the number 36 which was on the far side of an large umbrella tree with a thick trunk. The shade was so deep that it was just sand on the ground as nothing could grow in such shade. I dropped my pack and turned to take in the view of the lake. It was breathtaking as beyond the shade of the trees was the beach lined with coconut palms. The sand was light grey and the lapping water was clear. And out there close to the island was the boat. The setting was magnificent.

I turned at the sound of running feet and there approached a boy about my height. The boy stopped in front of Matti and Matti passed what I assumed to be the instructions from Luka. While listening to Matti the boy’s eyes flicked towards me and then back to Matti in quick succession.

Matti turned and came towards me and the boy followed.

“This is Joao,” Matti introduced the kid.

I offered him my hand and my best smile. I received another wonderful happy African smile, my third that day, “Hi Joao.”

Matti summarised Luka’s plan, “OK, Joao help you put up your tent, then you go for private swim, then he go to village to eat, then be come back to sleep here, OK?”

I nodded, and with that Matti, his duty fulfilled, offered me his hand and turned on his heels and set off in the direction the campsite buildings.

I turned and looked at Joao. He met me with another beautiful smile. I realised I was in paradise in more ways than one and had to handle this carefully.