A boat lying at anchor in the bay, her rigging reaching effortlessly into the apricot skies of early morning, and hardly a ripple on the water. A low murmur of voices rises in the quietness. Three dugout canoes are paddled towards the beach through the light mists sitting on the face of the lake and men jump from them into the water to drag them up onto the sand. They unload their catches of fish; women appear from the bushes with straw baskets on their heads. The fish are soon spread out on mats to dry and I watch the scene from behind the fallen tree where I slept the night before.
Wednesday, 6 April 2016
Lake Malawi: a fine memory.
A boat lying at anchor in the bay, her rigging reaching effortlessly into the apricot skies of early morning, and hardly a ripple on the water. A low murmur of voices rises in the quietness. Three dugout canoes are paddled towards the beach through the light mists sitting on the face of the lake and men jump from them into the water to drag them up onto the sand. They unload their catches of fish; women appear from the bushes with straw baskets on their heads. The fish are soon spread out on mats to dry and I watch the scene from behind the fallen tree where I slept the night before.
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