A Brush with Malaria Drove Us to the Mountains
Escaping to the island in the sky
“I have Malaria,” said Ivo as he trudged back to camp, waving the small plastic test kit above his head.
This was not his first scrape with the disease. He had almost died as a two-year-old growing up in Kenya and was the only one, out of the four of us, who took any precautions against mosquitoes.
We exchanged baffled looks, that he was the one to fall ill.
The ‘Tuk South’ mission of driving two tuk-tuks through Africa was never meant to be easy. That was the whole point … but things were getting ridiculous.
Since driving into Malawi, any cut or scrape we had from the Tanzanian rainforest had become infected, the rainy season we longed to escape in East Africa, had moved south with us into Malawi, and our stomachs were displaying the tell-tale signs of the insidious parasite Bilharzia, a snail that feasts on your organs and nerve cells if left untreated. We were a sorry sight.
Ivo’s malaria diagnosis initiated a game plan; head south away from the rain. Less water, fewer mosquitoes.
We scanned a map of southern Malawi and our eyes fell on a mountain called Mulanje. Its highest point was 3000 meters, but the most interesting aspect was its topography. This thing was huge. Almost 60km wide with two-kilometre, vertical cliffs at its edge. There would be no mosquitoes up there.
We packed up our drenched belongings, rubbed antibiotic cream on our tropical ulcers, and hit the road. One thing Ivo’s doctor definitely didn’t tell him was to rest in the back of a tuk-tuk, with zero suspension, whilst travelling over some of the worst maintained roads in Africa.
Malawi is beautiful; lush green hillsides to the west that plunge down into its iconic lake, spanning almost the entire length of the country, North to South. The days of driving were punctuated by frequent stops to jump in the water and scrape off the grime generated by long-distance tuk-tuk travel.
After the hygiene aspect had been taken care of, the games began. A crowd favourite was “who could throw a stick the furthest.” For our second attempt, we were joined by a whole host of children, standing waist-deep in the water holding their sticks, dreaming of glory.
Three days on, Ivo’s symptoms were subsiding and for our last night of lakeside camping, we celebrated with a movie night.
We hung the projector screen off the side of Princess Buttercup (the van tuk-tuk) and set up a ground sheet for the kids to sit on. Despite the four of us wanting to watch “The Dark Knight Rises”, we were eventually won over by the 20 or so children and settled in for an evening of “Croods 2”.
As we left the lake, our spirits were high. The road south was flanked by pristine fields of tea, and all around we could hear bird song and people laughing, as the tuk-tuks chugged by. Make-shift stalls were set up along the roadside, from which laidback shopkeepers would sell you tea by the kilo. We had to invest in a three-litre kettle to keep up with our consumption.
With our brains swirling in caffeine, we chattered and joked until our cheeks hurt. Each interaction raised our mood until we forgot we were even heading to Mulanje. The joy of tuk-tuk travel is you are slow and there are no doors. Passers-by have enough time to see you coming, tell all their friends, and form a line to high-five you as you pootle past. Do this enough times and you forget about your stiff back from sleeping rough or the fact your groin hasn’t seen a bar of soap in a few days. It charges your soul.
Then we saw it.
A monster, raising its grey head above the horizon. We were still miles away, yet it already dominated the landscape. As we approached, it was all hands on deck, making frantic phone calls to campsites to request a spot in return for a promo video. This video-bartering method had become commonplace once we realised the trip was going to take us two years. We would shoot a whole film in exchange for fried chicken if we had to.
The good people at ‘Africa Wild Truck’ took us in and we got to work, filming and editing like our food and bedding depended on it … It was not a difficult shoot.
The buildings were old, converted barns with terracotta tiles and white-washed walls. Tea fields stretched away from the campsite in every direction, feeding off the never-ending waterfalls from Mulanje to the North. Everything seemed perfect, until the evening.
It got cold.
If we were going to survive up there, we needed layers. The next morning we scoured the markets, fighting over thermal socks and warm gloves. After a good deal of haggling, I waddled out layered from head to toe in winter wear.
In the afternoon we had a meeting with the Mount Mulanje Conservation Trust. We sat down with Karl, a man who had dedicated his life to Mulanje and looked at a map. He spoke of the different ecosystems that existed up there, grasslands, valleys, forests, and boulder fields. His speech became more animated as he described his adventures.
“Here!” He pointed to a dark patch on the map with his foot while sipping red wine. “This is where you have to make ten, or fifteen-foot jumps from boulder to boulder.”
“Are you a bloody clip springer?” Ivo asked after a small pause
“You have to be, at times,” Karl said, grinning at us.
“In terms of recommending which huts to stay in, they’re all incredible. There are ten in total, some built 130 years ago.”
Karl was kind enough to give us rucksacks, a bed to sleep in, and a bottle of wine to toast the journey. He seemed thrilled by how excited we were to get up there.
In the morning we had a coffee, a few slices of toast slathered in peanut butter and assembled our gear at the front gate.
“Take this key,” he said to us, like a character in a children’s novel, “It opens up the stores, with cooking equipment and blankets,” and with that, we were off.
We hopped in a small Suzuki and weaved along tracks through the tea fields, eventually coming to the start of the trail.
Shouldering our gear, we watched in astonishment as a group of Malawian women passed us, each carrying their backpacks on their heads.
We struggled on the walk-up.
Our bodies had become accustomed to long periods of sitting, and we hadn’t done exercise for months. The trail went through a forested valley for the first few hours, and as we gained altitude the ecosystem began to morph. Pink and green moss added a fuzzy texture to the granite boulders and the tree branches were draped in a lichen known as ‘Old Man’s Beard’.
After three hours we broke free of the forest and were climbing a winding mountain path that followed a slow trickle of water. Jasper reached his hand down and plucked a perfectly formed quartz crystal from the ground.
“Look at that! It’s so bloody clear.”
It was the coolest bit of quartz I’d ever seen, three fingers wide and fashioned in the hexagonal shape of a cut diamond.
“There’s probably loads up here though,” He said, casting it to the side… There wasn’t.
After four hours of trudging upwards, we made it to the plateau. The sun was angled as evening approached and the light was gorgeous. I stretched my hand out into the purple sea of grass. I’ve often touched things in nature that look soft, only for my fingers to be betrayed. Not this time. It was like a goose feather.
We were now walking on the flat and had enough air in our lungs to talk to one another.
“There it is!” Said Robbie, his finger pointing at a thin line of smoke in the distance, that signalled the mountain hut we were aiming for.
Our strides grew as we imagined that first mug of Mulanje tea. Now the hard walking was over, we switched our legs into autopilot and let our eyes explore the surroundings. Everywhere promised adventure.
To our right, a stream snaked through columns of prehistoric ferns. To the left was a purple meadow that you could walk through until you reached the edge of the mountain. Your next step would take you a thousand meters down. There was a reason Karl loved this place.
We arrived at the 130-year-old mountain cottage at 4 o’clock. Thin patches of peeling blue paint curled away from its wooden panels and the floorboards groaned as the four of us entered. The atmosphere was hard to describe. You could feel how many people had taken shelter around its fireplace. There was nothing shiny or new anywhere, but the objects held stories. Cups made from lead hung from rusted nails and tiny, homemade wooden stools invited you to attempt a squat. We poured ourselves tea and drank on the veranda. Mountain life was a good life.
“We’ve got two hours until sunset,” Jasper said, cupping his enamel mug with both hands, “let’s have a look around.”
Leaving our rucksacks behind, walking was now a breeze. We found a stream that headed west and followed it towards the sun. After a while, the water seemed deep enough to swim in. We stripped off and launched ourselves in. It was freezing, but refreshing. We swam downstream, with boulders on either side, before hearing the unmistakable din of a waterfall.
With our clothes and shoes far behind us, we navigated our way through the rocks in our pants and emerged at the top of the falls. I’m not sure my eyes have ever had to take in so much of the world before.
I have climbed mountains, but from the summit, most slope away in every direction. Mulanje has a literal edge, where the ground ceases to exist. It’s the first mountain I’ve climbed where the summit was not mentioned once as a goal. The top of Mulanje is the least interesting part. This scene before me was what it was all about. From this vantage point, I could see it all; the lake to the North, Mozambique to the South, and the sun setting over Zambia.
The soundtrack wasn’t bad either. A wall of water thundering off the rocks, into the void.
I struggle to think of a time I’ve been more grateful to exist, stood with three mates, in our pants, at the top of that waterfall.
It’s a feeling we wanted more of, a feeling that existed up here … a feeling that kept us on that mountain for twenty-six days.
Mount Mulanje, the island in the sky.