Mushroom Farm

You'll have to forgive me - this one sort of fell by the wayside, so we're going to have to play catch-up here. I invite you all to time travel with me back to Malawi.

Livingstonia: A small town nestled high up in the hills that adorn the Northwestern shore of my good friend Lake Malawi.
Hard to find and even harder to access, Livingstonia is a sleepy and oft-overlooked place which has little to offer to tourists in terms of excitement. It does, however, have one major draw card: one of the best views in all of Africa.

To reach Livingstonia, you must follow a dirt track, which is at times no wider than a car, as it snakes for 15km up the side of a mountain, switchbacking 21 times in the process. There are very few vehicles making the trip up, especially during the rainy season, so for the most part it's hike or bust. Not a pleasant task when it's hot as Hell and you're carting everything you own on your back - trust me. The good news is that most backpackers - myself no exception - choose to stay at a hostel called Mushroom Farm, which is 5km closer to the bottom of the hill.

Why Mushroom Farm? Quite simply because the place is a famous landmark on the South/East Africa backpacking circuit. It is a self-sufficient, fully sustainable lodge (read: smattering of bamboo huts) that comes complete with solar-heated water, a composting toilet and a shower built into a tree. The owner is a rather eccentric Aussie named Mick, who seems to have taken a page out of Carlos Valderrama's hairstyling manual, and the chef is a Mr. Bundu, who cooks up a wide selection of organic vegetarian dishes in cauldrons that bubble over an open flame.

Right, this is beginning to sound like a brochure for the place, so let's cut the crap and get to the entertaining bit: my walk up.

Despite an honest effort, I wasn't able to reach the base of the hill until 5:30PM. The daylight dwindling, I was faced with a decision: do I call Mick and have him come down in his Land Rover to pick me up, a service for which he charges 35USD? Or do I walk up the hill alone in the dark? Forget Option #1; 35 dollars is a complete piss-taking. But the second choice is equally dicey: I don't know how safe the road is.

A very nice thing about Africa: as long as you are willing to pay, someone will guide you to anywhere you wish to go. I had only to stand at the entrance to the access road, and before long there were two teenage boys who were keen to come along. We agreed on a price of $6, and set off.

The pace was gruelling. You'll know, if you've ever watched an athletics competition, that Africans are light on their feet, quicker than the wind and have unlimited stamina. I'm no couch potato, but with 30lbs of weight on my back I simply could not keep pace with these guys, bounding as they were up the slope like gazelles. I did my best to stay with them, but they kept shouting at me to go faster, only relenting when I threatened not to pay them.

To make matters worse, they lead me on a series of shortcuts: near-vertical climbs through rock gardens and root ladders that have formed on the face of the mountain. Technically, these did save a lot of time, but clambering on my hands and knees was exhausting. By the fifth or sixth shortcut, I began to teeter with lightheadedness.

It was during one of my frequent "catching my breath while trying not to wretch" breaks that I remembered an interesting fact: Northern Malawi has an abundance of poisonous snakes. I asked one of the boys if he knew about that.
"Oh, yes!" he chirped enthusiastically. "There are definitely green mambas and puff adders here!"
He must have seen the terror disclosed in my face, because he hastened to add:
"But they are not dangerous!"

A very problematic thing about Africa: people often are not educated about what can hurt them. Green mambas are highly venomous, and one bite is potentially lethal to even a full-grown, healthy adult. Your only hope of survival in the case of being bitten is to administer the appropriate anti-venom as quickly as possible. My guess? The closest bottle of serum to Livingstonia is in Lilongwe, 11 hours away by bus. By that time, you'd be carrion.

Anyway, after nearly two hours we arrived at Mushroom Farm. I paid the kids and threw in a generous tip - they'd earned their keep. Mick, who'd seen me coming up the path, sweating profusely and near the point of losing consciousness, greeted me in the most Australian way:
"Oi, Mate! Noyce ta see yeh! Care foha bee-uh?"
Did I ever, Bruce.

Needless to say, once you do the walk up to Mushroom Farm, you can't be arsed to leave for a few days. But it's not exactly a taxing holiday; the prices are cheap, the food is delectable, the music is good, and the view - HOLY SHIT - the view is mind-blowing.

From just about any spot on the property - the bar, the tent platforms and even from the seat of the composting loo - you can see the entire valley below, along with a huge piece of the lakeshore, as well as the mountains on the opposite side. The latter are 50km away. In Tanzania. Since the rainy season was just about to begin, farmers were lighting massive brush fires (to sterilize the soil and flush out the rats, which are captured and eaten), and the landscape glowed at night, with red and orange balls of flame dancing against the black backdrop. It felt like you were staring into space, only the universe was below you, and the stars a Hell of a lot closer.

So I stayed for a while. Probably would have stayed longer, if it wasn't for the fact that I ran out of money and had to make for the border. On my last day in Malawi, I walked down the hill and hitched a ride to Tanzania, feeling a bit sad that I was leaving a country I'd grown to love. Then, one kid made sure that even my last few moments would be unforgettable.
I heard the call as I walked across the bridge between the two nations:
"MAAAAAAAZZZUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUNGUUUU!!!"
It came from all directions at once, as if riding on the back of the wind. I froze. I looked around, but I couldn't spot the kid who belonged to the voice.
"MAAAZUUUUNGUUUUU!"
Got him. He was just a head and torso, swimming in the river about 100m downstream. I raised my arms in the air, questioningly.
"GIMMMMEEE MONNNNEEEEY!"
What did he want me to do, throw some bills in the river? I shook my head, laughed, and continued along.
Just then, a group of Africans passed by me, and they laughed too. A few moments later, they burst into song.