(This is Part 4, and assumes that you’ve read Part 1 – Introduction, Part 2 – Dance Festival and Part 3 – A Bed in a Tree first.)

I don’t know how well I’ve conveyed to you, dear reader, the fact that Mdokera was ever-present during our stay and continually mentioning to us how hard life was for him and his dear wife. And that of his village. And if they just had this, or that, life would be so much better for the poor community. Whilst I have no doubt that the community was poor, say in comparison to an equivalent village in the West, ever since the footballs-made-out-of-condoms story I couldn’t quite get past my own nagging cynicism of what I was experiencing. Claire felt much the same.

At breakfast our host, Mdokera, stated that today we would visit a local school in the village to see how the children were taught and to listen to his important (and now spectacularly hyped) stories about his life, business and the community. I think it’s fair to say that, by now, nobody around the breakfast table honestly expected these stories to be solely for the stories’ own sake.

I put it to Mdokera that Claire and I must get going soon and so would not have time to visit the school. Claire jumped-up to repack her bag. Andrea and Nate, the other travellers that turned-up last night, indicated that they would rather sit on the beach and relax for the day.

“Then I will have to tell you my stories now”, Mdokera ushered Claire to stop packing and return to the table.
“You can start your stories, Mr. Mdokera, I can hear you fine”, Claire responded politely.
Mdokera was clearly irritated, “No. You are too distracted. It is VERY important that I have your full attention for my stories.”

“I used to be a millionaire you know”, he began ,”very, very rich yes. A miiii-llionaire. Yes…”

I sat po-faced at Mdokera’s right-hand. I did not like the way we were being treated and my body language must have screamed it.

A honking horn sounded on the road. Mdokera jumped-up and ran over to it and back to the hut, “there is a bus and I’ve got you a VERY good price on it. You must go now. So you do not have time to hear my stories. You must write down your address here so that I can send you my stories.” A pen and notebook was thrust at me.

“We don’t have an address now, we’re travelling for a long time. Maybe you can e-mail your stories to us instead?” I questioned, conscious that a busload of people were waiting for us. The bus driver appeared. Curious to receive his stories, but not wanting to open myself to become spammed with extortion attempts, I jotted-down a disposable e-mail address in his visitors book. If I ever get any ‘stories’, I’ll publish them here.

As I went for my bag, I noticed that it was in a different position to where I had left it last night. I asked Claire whether she had moved it; she had not. My backpack is of an intelligent design and is padlocked shut and the only way in is with a knife (thus making undetected tampering difficult). Contrast this with Claire’s conventional rucksack, which has numerous pockets, toggled drawstrings and pastic clips on ripcords; easy to open, inspect and pilfer without detection, if the owner is not paying attention. For this very reason, last night I had deliberately put both backs in a disused ‘corner’ of the hut, and mine in front of Claire’s. A casual rummage would be child’s play — our bags were in a straw hut and we were sleeping half way up a tree, romantically listening to the wind and the waves, for gawd’s sake.

Conscious that people were waiting, I made nothing more of it. We said our goodbyes to our US friends, and were escorted to the bus by Mdokera. Once again, Claire got a hug and a hair-stroke which creeped her out. I got a firm hug with the words “please, send us a football” whispered into my ear. The bus to Mzuzu departed and we spent the next three hours processing the last twenty-four.

(Continues tomorrow.)