The Mushroom Farm - Part I
Malawi. The land of smiles, hospitality and best of all, NO immigration fee! The accustomed 50 - 100 USD visa fees of every country previously reduced to a big fat ZERO. Greeted with nothing more then pleasant smiles, cordial conversation and a recurring welcome to, “the friendliest country in Africa”. Traveling south from the Tanzanian border, myself and 2 other backpacking buddies, Nofar and Emanuel, made our way to the town of Chitimba, located on the coast of Lake Malawi. Hot, sweaty and suffering from severe leg cramps (25 people crammed into a 13 seater minibus) we thought the worst of our journey was over. Boy were we wrong! |
Our hostel, "The Mushroom Farm", was not in Chitimba itself, but 900 vertical meters up the adjacent mountain.
A nearby sign read, "Mushroom Farm…Call for Transport". Perfect, we thought. Surely such a remote hostel would provide a free lift. Wrong again. For the "small" fee of 50 USD, the owner said she would be happy to pick us up. Are you kidding me? For 50 bucks, I expect to be heli'd onto the property and offered complimentary in-flight cocktails.
Snapping back into the receiver of my prepaid samsung, I expressed frustration and our unwillingness to pay. "We will find another form of transportation!" CLICK!
Turning to a nearby shop owner, I asked when the next vehicle would drive up the mountain. His response, a hearty laugh. "When they come, they come madam." Argh! We've traveled all this way to perch under the hot sun and wait for transportation that might never arrive? Staring up the rocky, dusty, discombobulated road, a final option materialized. Blurred into the scorching heat waves, three hikers bobbed in and out of the browning foliage. The hike was estimated at 1.5 hours up, that was, if you were carrying nothing more then sun cream and a water bottle. Easily shlepping 10-times their combined weights we decided the climb could quite possibly kill us.
A nearby sign read, "Mushroom Farm…Call for Transport". Perfect, we thought. Surely such a remote hostel would provide a free lift. Wrong again. For the "small" fee of 50 USD, the owner said she would be happy to pick us up. Are you kidding me? For 50 bucks, I expect to be heli'd onto the property and offered complimentary in-flight cocktails.
Snapping back into the receiver of my prepaid samsung, I expressed frustration and our unwillingness to pay. "We will find another form of transportation!" CLICK!
Turning to a nearby shop owner, I asked when the next vehicle would drive up the mountain. His response, a hearty laugh. "When they come, they come madam." Argh! We've traveled all this way to perch under the hot sun and wait for transportation that might never arrive? Staring up the rocky, dusty, discombobulated road, a final option materialized. Blurred into the scorching heat waves, three hikers bobbed in and out of the browning foliage. The hike was estimated at 1.5 hours up, that was, if you were carrying nothing more then sun cream and a water bottle. Easily shlepping 10-times their combined weights we decided the climb could quite possibly kill us.
Melting against a nearby tree, I was beginning to think the Mushroom Farm was a futile, overrated Lonely Planet recommendation. Nofar and Emanuel were convinced otherwise. The challenge would be worth the reward, they said. So wait we did, amidst a sea of ever-excitable children. Approaching us first with shy, averted eyes the moment we welcomed their advances, the onslaught began. Racing towards us with glee, they vied for our outstretched hands. Holding tightly they beamed back to their fellow kids as if to say, look at me and my fabulous mzungu!
Their charm and innocence were enough to divert our attention from the annoying task at hand but as the sweaty hours passed, not even their delightful grins could keep our spirits alive. And as our enthusiasm waned, the begging began. "Gimme Pen. Gimme Biscuit." As if to assume our lack of energy meant we would offer anything to make them go away. My patience was all but gone, and I resorted to my unimpressed adult voice. "No, it's rude to ask for things. No, No, No." They would recoil momentarily but like a broken record, 5-seconds later, sheepishly ask again. |
Nearing a backpacker meltdown, liberation arrived in the form of a rickety old Jeep 4X4. The owner, an overweight local bearing the first scowl I'd seen on any Malawian's face, jumped out and huffed past me. "Excuse me sir…Mushroom Farm…mountain…you go?" No response. Pursuing his quickened pace, I asked the same question at least a half-dozen times before he eventually responded in the form of annoyed grunts. Still, no discernible answer. Disappearing into a nearby establishment we had no choice but to await his return. 30 minutes later, he huffed passed once more but this time I finally gained his attention. "Money!" His reluctance in transporting 3 mzungu chicks with large backpacks was evident but for the going rate of 5 dollars a head, he conceded.
The 20 km ride up was anything but comfortable and the roads poor condition made our 5 dollar fare well worth it. Dozens of switchbacks, hair pin turns, and gravel spin outs later, we arrived at the Mushroom Farm. And no, the farms main clientele were not hippies in search of a magical vegetable, they were backpackers in search of something far more magical, the view over Lake Malawi.
For more details on the farm itself and the surrounding mountain, please wait for my next blog installment: "The Magical or not so Magical Mushroom Farm?"
The 20 km ride up was anything but comfortable and the roads poor condition made our 5 dollar fare well worth it. Dozens of switchbacks, hair pin turns, and gravel spin outs later, we arrived at the Mushroom Farm. And no, the farms main clientele were not hippies in search of a magical vegetable, they were backpackers in search of something far more magical, the view over Lake Malawi.
For more details on the farm itself and the surrounding mountain, please wait for my next blog installment: "The Magical or not so Magical Mushroom Farm?"