We spent only one day and one night at Mdokera’s Beach Campsite near Chitimba, and yet there’s just way too much to write in one post. Over the next few entries I’ll try hard to capture the essence of our experience in my writing, although in my heart I know that I will never be able to do it justice. To begin with, let’s review the Lonely Planet’s description:

Mdokera’s Beach Campsite (camping US$2, beds in tree or tent US$4) About 5km north of Chitimba, this place is close to the road and the beach, run by a friendly Malawian couple and comes complete with a bed in the tree and a tree shower! Meals in the simple and clean restaurant range from US$1 to US$4, and there’s a visitors book of hints and comments, which your host will proudly show you.

The chance to sleep in a treehouse? A bit of fun, we thought. The minibus dropped us off just under the sign proclaiming that we had now found paradise. And a tree shower. We sauntered down the sandy path to the site which comprised of a few straw huts and a beautful, big tree right on the beachfront to Lake Malawi. Lake Malawi is so big, that it’s easy to mistake it for a borderless sea. It even has waves.

Mdokera is the name of the campsite owner, but it was his wife, Estine, that we met first. She greeted us and sat us in the restaurant–one of the beach straw huts–and produced a full-to-bursting photograph album and a guestbook for us to peruse. As you see from above, our guide book had mentioned the visitors book, so this was not completely unexpected. We read a handful of the comments that others had left and flicked through the photo album showing all things Mdokera; familyman, community builder, sportsman, hobbyist, host, volunteer, an apparent all-round-nice-guy. We both had a really good feeling about this place. After three days of buses and two nights of really disappointing hotels, we were excited to be in the hands of a host who cared.

We asked Estine about accommodation availability and rates, she asked us to wait for her husband who would be with us shortly. Mdokera appeared. Dressed more 1950’s prohibition, than Africa beach: White, patent leather shoes. Grey, woollen trousers, white shirt with chaulk-stripes. A not-insignificant bum-bag and a fraying, knitted fedora on his head. After vigorously shaking my hand, he hugged me. Not a fakey hug either. A squeeze that lasted a full two seconds longer than is expected; just like the ones I give to close friends and family. Claire received the same.

“Now you are here, I must go to the Chief and organise the dancers”, Mdokera chirped feverishly, “I get so excited when they dance, sometimes I dance too and forget that I am in Malawi.”

From stage-left, he produced a bongo-style drum, about a metre tall. “I got these drums. They are very expensive. VERY expensive. But I did this for you, my guest, so that the drummers do not bring their own.”

“Go to the beach and walk around. See the fishermen and the children. Take your camera. You must photograph everything and everyone; you do not need to give them money”, he continued, “Now I will go see the Chief. It is important that you have this cultural experience.”

In the time he was gone, Claire and I kicked-off our shoes and meandered along the beach, stopping to wave at the fishermen who mostly waved back. We played games with the children, who flocked towards us and performed endless somersaults into the water for our amusement. Unconventionally, the children mostly didn’t beg for money. A couple of them did put their hands out, but then quickly withdrew them as the watchful fishermen shouted at them from afar.

Over lunch, Mdokera told us of how he started the beach campsite fourteen years ago after the government bulldozed his home to lay a road. He never received any compensation, other than for his banana tree, which was destroyed in the process. He showed us letters from the government, which essentially said that his “money was in the post”. But it never arrived. He had been trying to get enough money to build a home on the beach ever since. His mother had died in April. He showed us a comment in the visitor book, from a guest offering his commiserations. His father, sister, brother- and sister-in-law had also recently passed-away; the dates were given. This was a man whose life was filled with sadness.

Mdokera has started a football mini-league in his village, but they don’t have a football. Instead, the children make footballs with condoms and plastic carrier bags, but they break often and so he has told a child to make another condom-football today, so that we can play with them. This story brought a silent tear to my eye and I decided that I would get Mdokera and his village the football that they so needed and deserved. Some point later in the conversation, I asked whether Mdokera had a postal address. I didn’t mention why, nor mention the football. I wanted it to be a surprise. I wrote down the address in my jotter pad. “You know, sometimes it’s easy to lose addresses. You should also write it down somewhere else”, he offered earnestly. I duplicated the note and put a copy in my wallet.

About 3 o’clock, a few people started to show-up at the fringe of the campsite from the road. Actually, there were more than a few. More like twenty.

“Are these the dancers?” I asked.
“Yes, they are starting to arrive. They have come from very far away. VERY far away” Mdokera responded.
“I didn’t realise that there would be so many. I thought there might be, like, four.”
“It is a VERY important cultural experience for you. And they have come from VERY far away you know.”
“But there’s only the two of us here. Are you paying for all of this just for us?”

Another twenty or thirty dancers arrived.

“Mdokera, who is paying for this?”

Mdokera sat down on the beach and ushered us to do the same. He picked up a stick and began to draw in the sand.

“This is a VERY important cultural experience for you. You will not believe it when you see it.”

(Continues tomorrow.)

[Show as slideshow]