Vomit and Golden Waves: Surviving the Ilala II Ferry in Malawi

Malawi made big news when Madonna adopted kids from there in 2017, but I first heard about this East African country while hitchhiking from Kenya to Botswana on a crazy overland trip through the continent. Over half of Malawi’s eastern border is a massive sea of fresh water, named appropriately enough, Lake Malawi. The lake is beautiful, full of tropical fish and dotted with coastal villages with a laid back vibe. On the surface it has all the elements that make up a traveler’s paradise. 

However, this beautiful country didn’t receive the same flow of visitors or attention as Kenya or Tanzania, because of one thing…Banda. Excuse me, I meant to say “ His Excellency the Life President of the Republic of Malaŵi, Ngwazi Dr Hastings Kamuzu Banda.

That’s the thing about being an African dictator. With unlimited power, it’s fairly easy to create lengthy titles for yourself that everyone has to say when they refer to you. In all fairness, no one is gonna take a name like “Bob” seriously, but “his excellency” and “life president”? Well, that’s job security.

Besides the lengthy title, it was a crime to say anything negative about his lordship, and just starting a conversation criticizing the government could land anyone into jail. To add insult to injury, any public spaces had to have a photo of Banda with all 15 words of his title. Nothing on the wall could  be higher than his picture. Also, dances had to be arranged and performed upon his arrival. 

Banda had lots of rules, but 2 of them were geared towards travelers to Malawi. He spent a great deal of time traveling in Europe and the US and he could not stand to see women in pants or short skirts.  He also hated men to have long hair. Once he began his reign, both became outlawed. Female travelers arriving at the border better be wearing a conservative dress or they’d be denied entry. Men with long hair were either not allowed in the country or got a haircut before entering by a staff member. Word quickly spread among travelers to hide their hair or at least get a professional haircut before showing up to Malawi immigration. Unfortunately custom officers rarely have cosmetology degrees, so it was easy to spot the backpackers who hadn’t taken the intel seriously. 

When I arrived at the border, my hair was not quite short enough to get past the officials. Several months in Africa and a lack of trust in barbers who didn’t know how to cut white peoples’ hair resulted in my non-Banda-approved mane. I had a hat and a rubber band though so I made it past the hurdles that were detaining other backpackers. I didn’t plan on staying in the country very long. I wanted to catch the ship that left from the northern part of Malawi and transported passengers to the most southern part of the lake at Monkey Bay. The ship would be a much smoother alternative than going overland on potholed dirt roads that were bumpy enough to churn butter. Once in Monkey Bay, I’d catch a ride to Lilongwe, one of the major towns in Malawi, where I’d regroup and continue on to Zambia. 

My plan seemed simple enough. I sat on wooden bench eating the most memorable banana pancakes I’ve ever had, gazing out at the massive tranquil lake so large it seemed to be an ocean with no waves. Walking to the water, I had to admire the perfectly shaped pebbles that made up the shoreline. Colorful fish darted back and forth in their crystal clear natural aquarium. It was perfect enough to have been a scene from a Pixar film. The ferry however, was not. 

It wasn’t the worst boat I’ve ever been on, but African transport has never exceeded my expectations. There’s usually too many people on a rusted hulk of a ship that looks like it should have been retired decades before. I once met an African who had been on board such a ship between Zanzibar and Dar es Salaam and had been the only survivor when the ship sank. He had only lived by grabbing a giant plastic jug and holding onto it until he’d floated to the island of Pemba. Subconsciously, to this day, whenever I board a questionable African sailing vessel, I look around for things that will float. 

I wasn’t worried about this ride though. I’d never seen a calmer body of water. Lake Malawi is freshwater, so there was no fear of sharks or killer whales either. I climbed aboard and prepared myself for my African cruise adventure. 

The Ilala II was built in 1949 and has been running since 1951 across the lake, arriving sometimes as much as 24 hours late to its destinations. Goats, giant bags of flour and all kinds of random objects were piled on board as the locals immediately started scrambling for their spots on the deck. “Mzungu” is the Swahili slang word referring to all white people and translates literally to “white face”. As we boarded with the other Mzungus, I could hear the locals discussing us. I don’t speak Swahili, but that one word can be heard so distinctly that it was almost comical when I’d look at them and say “Mzungu? Mzungu?” In a loud voice and watch them become embarrassed thinking I’d understood their entire conversation. 

We found a spot where we could talk about Mzungu things and started counting the hours. This wasn’t a cruise ship. It was a rusty crowded way of getting to Lilongwe. 

The sunset was beautiful and it was interesting to see boats arriving to drop off wares and disembarking passengers carrying lifetime supplies of sacks of something. One man pulled up with hundreds of clear bags of tropical fish. These were clearly fish just taken from the lake but the same kind of fish you’d spend lots of money buying in a tropical fish store. “So that’s where they come from!” I thought out loud. 

As night approached and we made it to parts of the lake where the land was no longer visible, the water started to become choppier. I’m not one to get seasick, but the rolling of the ship became more noticeable as the hours passed until it was impossible to sleep. The front of the ferry would rise, then crash down hard and then lurch forward again. Who could have guessed this smooth beautiful lake was capable of ocean swells? 

I learned years before this ride that it’s best to not think about being sick and find a fixed object or point on the horizon to focus on. I felt queasy, but I seemed to be one of the few who could handle the rolling of the ferry without throwing up. The ride got worse until there was vomit all over the deck. Most people will agree that the smell of vomit usually creates new vomit. I held my ground in my Mzungu territory, staring at the horizon and thinking happy thoughts until I had to use the toilet. 

Getting there was a challenge. Like walking across a giant mechanical bull, the ship rolled back and forth, maniacally. I tried to hold onto anything that was attached, but even that was a challenge. We were positioned a little distance away from the toilets because, well…they’re usually horrific. 

I finally reached the entrance, carefully navigating the pools of throw up and other foreign liquids. The restroom had bigger issues . When a European-manufactured ship has western style toilets in a country where people are used to holes in the ground, locals can become confused as to how they operate. They often step up, put both feet on the seat and squat above the toilet. It makes sense to them, but on a turbulent ship, disastrous results occur. Being just about ANYWHERE is better than a ship or train toilet stall in Africa. Fortunately, I just needed the urinal. 

As I approached it, I realized that the drain was clogged and it was at least 3/4 full of urine and God-knows-what-else. I wasn’t going to unclog it, certainly, I just needed to take care of business and leave. Hopefully I wouldn’t ever have to come back. Actually, at that moment, I vowed not to drink anything ever again until I got off the ship.  As I walked to the urinal, the ship rolled forward and a yellow wave came crashing forward towards me onto the floor. I stepped back just in time to miss the surf. That was close!. Imagine being covered in other people’s urine on a rusty ship with no running water or even a towel. Spending the night shivering in piss-soaked clothes on an African boat is the stuff nightmares are made of. 

I still had to go. 

I summoned up my timing skills from years of playing Donkey Kong. If I really thought about it, the whole scenario was nothing more than a liquid version of donkey barrels. One just had to watch for patterns and move out of the way at the correct time. Too slow and you die. Well, at least socially. I doubted that I’d be let back into the backpacker circle if I slipped up. For the next couple of minutes I danced across the bathroom floor like a ballerina, anticipating each amber wave and dodging it at the exact moment. Golden tidal waves sloshed back and forth against the walls as the ship reeled to and fro. i was amazed that any remained. I suppose I should have just gone on the floor, but my bathroom manners had been ingrained in me since childhood. 

Miraculously, I left the bathroom with my clothing as dry as a martini. I avoided any further visits until the ferry landed the following afternoon. Of course once it became daylight, the lake calmed, land was spotted, the vomit dried and everyone tried to forget about the hellish ride a few hours prior. 

Monkey Bay was even more beautiful than the northern shore, with domed hills peeking out of lush forest and calm waters that seemed to deny the true malicious nature of the lake. After relaxing for a day, I was offered a seat with some fellow travelers who were anxious to hire a driver and cut through “the gun run” a crazy path that illegally bore through a dangerous section of war-torn Mozambique. This allowed the ambitious speed demons a way to get to Zimbabwe fast and completely avoid Zambia. Plenty of travelers had pulled it off, but there had been occasional gunfire on some routes which had earned it its name. 

Nah. I had learned sometimes it’s good to not try to hurry Africa. I’d take take the long way around.