by James Best
Back at Liwonde I was spotted by the same policemen I had spoken to earlier as I got off the bus.
One of them beckoned me over. ‘Hey, you buy me a Fanta.’
‘Err, okay.’ He was a policeman.
His friend chimed in. ‘Make it four.’ I’d been scammed by the constabulary. I walked home, chewing on some sugar cane.
That evening, as Sam hung out in the room with his DS, I watched football with Jules, who is a terrific player and a big fan of the game. It was a match between the Malawi Flames and Uganda, held to celebrate Malawi’s national day. We watched the action on the insect-covered small TV screen behind the bar, as Malawi pulled off a win in dramatic fashion, with a goal in the final minutes.
The crowd in the bar went nuts. The crowd in the stadium did likewise, but Malawian-style, swaying and dancing in unison, alternate rows swinging in opposite directions. How did they do that? The pitch was invaded by thousands of fans and celebratory flares were set off in the stands. It had been a good fifty-first Malawi Independence Day.
In the morning I went in search of cash once again, while Jules supervised Sam at the hostel. I waited by the road for over an hour before a minibus turned up, and then when it did arrive it wouldn’t leave. Nobody on the bus spoke English, so I never found out why. The driver would stop, start, go around in circles, talk to policemen, talk to random people on the street. He was pissing me off and everyone else too; even with the language barrier I could sense a mutiny was brewing, and I would gladly have joined in if I’d had a clue what was going on.
I eventually got to the bank. Was the ATM working? Well, there was a line of people in front of it, but the ATM was closed. The guy in front of me said it would open soon. ‘Soon’ ended up being an hour of standing in the sun, bored out of my brain.
Finally the machine got going, albeit slowly. I inched forward in the queue, willing the old, illiterate man now at the machine to hurry up and press the bloody buttons. Fortunately, a young guy helped him out. I had become unpleasant.
I was third in line when a tall guy wearing a Pennsylvania State University t-shirt emerged from the bank with what looked like the manager. He was agitated, pointed to receipts in his hand. A prolonged and heated discussion ensued, with the result that the machine had to reboot. Everyone in the queue wanted to kill the guy.
Forty, yes, forty minutes later, the machine restarted…and then promptly swallowed his card. Yelling and flapping his arms he stormed back into the bank, and those behind him in the queue frantically seized the opportunity have their go.
All I wanted was to get to the machine before the guy forced a second reboot. With seconds to spare I made it to the front. I had to make six withdrawals, three with my card and three with Jules’, to get all the cash we needed. Now I was the one pissing everyone off.
Ha ha! I didn’t care anymore! The manager kept tapping me on the shoulder, to get me to step away from the machine, but I feigned mzungu confusion and ploughed on. I got the cash.
In the end, despite all the delays, I still got back in time to go on the safari that afternoon. Jules had managed to get Sam to play three games of chess and also do some maths. More importantly, Sam had lost two of the chess games and had accepted the losses without fuss. That was a first—losing was not a highly developed skill for Sam.
We drove up through the national park, the riverbank dotted with impalas, warthogs and waterbucks. Yellow baboons stopped beside the road, the pernickety creatures indignant at our presence. A giant ancient baobab, scarred by elephants which had feasted on its bark, spread its beams across the canopy, defying all to challenge its authority.
‘What do you think of the big baobab, Sam?’ I asked.
He had a faraway look as he gazed up at the giant tree. ‘It’s in The Lord of The Rings.’ After a beat I realised he was referring to the Ents, the talking trees.
A forest of mopanes—with green, gold and auburn foliage rustling in a breeze off the river—gave way to a landscape brutalised by elephants, with the fractured remains of the foliage scattered on the mud. Only the baobabs survived.
Sam quizzed Jules about Super Mario Brothers; she was a new recipient of his rhetorical questions. Sam often asks questions he knows the answers to, frequently questions he has asked may times before, what I refer to as ‘false questions’. I suspect they’re props he uses to continue a conversation about a current obsession. When I’m motivated enough, I try to get him to turn his questions into statements. ‘What is my favourite Super Mario character?’ to ‘Yoshi is my favourite Super Mario character.’
Speech therapists refer to this style of speech as declarative, as distinct from imperative speech. In declarative speech you make a statement or observation, you declare something. Imperative speech, such as a question or command, requires a response, such as an answer or action. Most of our speech should be declarative—this style of speech makes conversations more interactive and collegial. It was something I was trying to encourage in Sam.
‘Hey, Jules,’ I declared, ‘I think we should throw Sam into the river with the hippos.’
Sam smiled. ‘No!’
Jules joined in. ‘But, Sam, you like the hippos.’
‘But I don’t want to swim with them,’ he said.
The next morning, after breakfast overlooking the river, we said goodbye to the Shire hippos and lugged our backpacks up the dirt road. The three vagabonds sang the theme to Harry Potter as we skedaddled along to our minibus, on our way to Zomba.
CHAPTER 23
Zomba
A thousand metres above sea level, the town of Zomba has a cool and calm air. High above it, disappearing into wispy clouds, is the plateau, rising up to over two thousand metres.
Zomba had been Malawi’s capital under the British, and glimpses of colonial architecture poked out between African mahogany, blue gums and honeysuckles. Sam observed that the town looked like Gerringong, a beachside town on New South Wales’ South Coast where his maternal grandparents had lived for many years, and I could see his point: they were both lush, green and hilly. But there is no beach in Zomba, and there are no two-thousand-metre plateaus towering over Gerringong.
Pakachere Backpackers hostel was well organised and comfortable. High mud-brick walls surrounded a sprawling garden replete with pawpaw, palm, mango and avocado trees. A friendly dog met us at the door, but she had a nasty ulcer on top of her head, the legacy of a fight with a monkey. The laidback Dutch manager kept the chaos that is Africa at bay as best he could, notwithstanding the intermittent wi-fi and electricity blackouts. It would be nice to spend our last few days in Malawi here.
After settling in, Jules and I got talking to a Dutch couple in their early twenties, Mike and Lenneke. Mike—lean, tall and crisply neat—had a razor-sharp mind and a single-minded determination to win, always. Lenneke was a placid and considerate soul who watched him wryly as he vainly tried to keep his ambition in check.
Over the next few days we staged many games of chess and cards with them as well as video interviews for the university. They were so good with Sam, engaging him constantly and involving him as much as they could. Lenneke had a brother with autism with some behavioural issues, and so she got it, and this attitude had also rubbed off on Mike.
Our first full day in Zomba was spent in neuroplasticity exercises, schoolwork and organisation: chess, cards, drawing and maths; shopping, charging electronics, writing and posting. We prepared ourselves for the next day; we had planned a long hike up on the plateau with our new Dutch friends and a guide. I hoped Sam would cope because I didn’t really have a back-up plan.
In the taxi ride to the entry point for the walk to the plateau, the driver danced in his seat to reggae, while stickers on his dash advised DON’T WORRY, GOD IS IN CHARGE and LAZY MEN GET NO FOOD. The road wound up the mountain side. The hike would be twenty-four kilometres long and take approximately six hours. We’d ascend seven hundred metres in altitude from our starting point to the highest point on the pla
teau, then cross to the other side of the plateau and back down again.
Our guide was Isaac, a softly spoken Malawian Christian, proud of his biblical name. The six of us set off, trundling past a giant kachere, a strangler fig with significance in Malawian society. Kacheres marked traditional tribal meeting places, where people would gather together and discuss important issues. Today the beautiful sprawling fig marked the start of the path to the summit.
Shortly after we began, Sam started voicing his displeasure. ‘I’m tired, I want to rest.’
Twenty seconds later, ‘I want to go back.’
Soon afterwards, he held my arm as he pleaded with me. ‘This is too far for me. How much further is it?’
I placated him, encouraged him, and tried to distract him. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t. The complaining continued but it didn’t escalate. Jules, Mike, Lenneke and even Isaac became Sam’s motivational squad. He would complain for a while, and then retreat into silent protest before starting up again. ‘We should get a car back.’
‘There are no cars here, Sam,’ I explained.
‘Let’s call a taxi.’
Jules turned to him. ‘Taxis can’t come up here, the track isn’t big enough.’
He put a hand to his forehead. ‘I think I’m going to faint.’ I’m pretty sure he got that last line from a Harry Potter movie. Still he kept going, and we kept going. It was hard work up the steep incline.
The path cut through forests of pine, patula and cypress, intermingled with the indigenous montane and riverine vegetation. The pine timber had been planted by the Malawian government as a vital source of revenue for the local economy. Local women carted bundles of logs on their head down the path to the city below. Isaac informed us they could carry more than their body weight that way.
The view opened up as we left a stretch of pine forest. Sweeping grass plains rolled across the enormous bowl-shaped plateau, dotted with red mahogany, khaya, African juniper and jacaranda. Brightly coloured locusts and butterflies buzzed and darted over the wildflowers. Pale flycatchers, sunbirds and blue waxbills darted for their prey. Miombo blue-eared starlings soared above, and Isaac spotted a rare pin-tailed whydah. Africa was putting on a show again.
On we plodded, and on Sam did too, whinging when he wasn’t too short of breath. We negotiated an automatic score of eight if he completed the walk, which had to be upgraded to an automatic nine as the summit approached. With his low muscle tone it was harder work for him than the rest of us.
The path took us disconcertingly close to the cliff line. At times only a metre or so separated us from a drop hundreds of metres down the side of the plateau.
Finally we reached the apex, tumbling onto the soft grass, a sweaty mess. We ate the cheese and tomato sandwiches provided by the tour company as we gazed across the grassed plateau, the forests on its lower reaches, and plunging cliff lines at its edge. When the British held sway in Malawi, they described the views from Zomba Plateau across the Rift Valley as ‘the best in the British Empire’.
Sam’s complaints eased as we descended along the narrow walking tracks crisscrossing the top of the plateau. Some locals had set up a makeshift shop on the side of the site, selling precious stones collected from the plateau; black tourmaline, jasper, apatite and pink quartz. Jules bought a couple and I tried some gooseberries that were also on sale.
We reached Chingwe’s Hole, a gap a mere ten metres’ diameter but of unknown depth. Hundreds of years ago, the bodies of those who had died of smallpox or leprosy were cast in. It made for an unpleasant image. I just hoped the poor folk were actually dead at the time.
Sam didn’t like it. ‘Are the bodies still in there?’
‘Their bones would be.’
His eyes widened. ‘Are they skeletons?’
‘Well, sort of,’ I said. ‘Do you want to join them? We could push you in.’
He jumped back from the edge, grinning. ‘No! You are joking!’ It was good to see a smile on his face again.
We followed the rim of the bowl, skirting along cliff lines, over mounds of granite, through grassy fields. The far side of the plateau was home to a valley where potatoes were grown. Local farmers and their family members would walk the produce along a track over the plateau to Zomba, unsurprisingly called the Potato Track, carting the potatoes on their heads. Our retinue followed the track, slowly descending towards the city.
Sam called to me from the rear of the troupe. ‘Hey, Dad, I’m more relaxed now.’ It was an interesting choice of words. It appeared his distress had been primarily emotional rather than physical. Now that he realised the end of the walk was approaching and he was going to make it, he was feeling more comfortable. You would have thought that his complaints would have escalated by the end of a long walk, but instead they were abating.
Meanwhile my complaints were increasing. My knee was playing up again on the prolonged descent, and soon I was limping badly. I had at least twenty-five years on my trekking companions and was feeling every single one of them. We descended the steep slope from the rim, through a forest of mahogany, their trunks and limbs carpeted in moss and festooned in beard lichen. The light glinted through the canopy as we tumbled down to a series of waterfalls, our finish line. The taxi would collect us from a road near the falls.
Sam punched the air as we collapsed onto the soft grass. ‘Yes, I did it!’
Yes, he did; an awesome achievement. We were all stoked on his behalf. More than anything else, I could sense Sam’s self-belief rise when he overcame these obstacles, whether it be a helicopter ride, jumping in a lake or climbing over a plateau.
Sam had a well-deserved break playing his DS until dinner. But after dinner he seemed agitated, which worsened when a blackout began.
‘I want an automatic ten. I ate dinner.’
‘No, Sam,’ I stated firmly, ‘You have a nine. That is enough.’
Juliette broke out the video camera and started recording.
He hammered his fist. ‘I demand a ten. What do I have to do for an automatic ten?’
I shook my head. ‘No, Sam. I don’t want to discuss this further.’
It went on and on. Sam flapped and clenched his fists and bit his lips, leaning towards me threateningly. At times he looked like he was about to grab my throat or strike me but then he backed away again.
‘You are a murderer!’ he yelled. ‘You must give me a ten!’
‘I’m not talking about it,’ I said quietly, but through gritted teeth. ‘If you want to talk then do so, but I’m not talking about it.’
I was getting more experienced at handling this sort of situation and remained calm, but I felt self-conscious as Juliette, Mike and Lenneke watched. The power came back on, and the room lit up. Finally the impasse broke and Sam agreed to calm down in our room. Jules and our Dutch friends were very sympathetic. Lenneke could relate to such behaviour, and became a little emotional. So did I.
Sam returned to the dining room soon enough, apologetic. ‘Hmm, I’m sorry, Dad.’
‘That’s okay,’ I sighed.
‘Do I still get an automatic nine?’
‘We’ll discuss it tomorrow.’
He grabbed my forearm and looked directly at me. ‘I don’t want to get a six.’
‘Tomorrow,’ I said, avoiding eye contact in order to help kill the conversation.
‘Okay, Dad. I’m sorry, Dad.’ This Is Autism.
In the morning, Sam awoke early and rolled towards me through the mosquito netting. ‘Nine?’
‘Eight,’ I replied.
He accepted the adjustment with surprising grace. ‘I’m glad I got an eight.’
CHAPTER 24
Bordering on the ridiculous
We were sad to say goodbye to Mike and Lenneke as we left Pakachere. We hit the road again, lugging our backpacks to the minibus station a kilometre away. We had some daunting travel ahead of us today: we were going to try to get to Cuamba in northern Mozambique—Moz, in the local vernacular. We’d need to
catch three minibuses and make a potentially difficult border crossing, where visas were required. We didn’t have our visas arranged, and apparently they were either difficult to obtain at the border or a way to get ripped off, or both. Lonely Planet and other travellers said it was possible but might require a bribe for the border guards, so I thought we’d be okay.
The first minibus trip went well enough, complete with breakfast bought through the bus window, but transferring from the first minibus to the second proved problematic, as several drivers shouted and pulled us to their vehicle. There was a lot of pushing, shoving and pointing. I bristled.
Once we made it onto a bus, Sam started to give me some grief. ‘I want a Sprite.’
‘No, Sam,’ I said. ‘You know no fizzy drinks in the morning.’
‘I’m thirsty! I want a Sprite.’
‘Sam, not now! I don’t need this now, I’m stressed enough.’
The driver demanded four thousand kwacha each, much more than usual. Because of all the pushing and shoving I’d made the classic mistake of not fixing the price before we got on, so he had us over a barrel and wouldn’t budge. I reluctantly handed over the cash.
Despite being ripped off, the day wasn’t going too badly, all things considered. After a couple of hours, the minibus parted the tumbling noisy crowds of a city I’d never heard of and came to a halt outside the central open-air market, where a sign declared Australian government foreign aid had funded the local irrigation program.
It was getting hot in the late morning sun as we exited the minibus. The driver told us to move into the rear of a utility parked nearby. ‘I paid to go all the way to the border,’ I reminded him.
He dismissed this with a wave. ‘Yes, yes, you have to pay no more.’
