Page 18 - SoMJ Vol 74 - No 1, 2021

8 The Society of Malaŵi Journal

paler and it had stopped raining. But, more importantly, the noise level from
below seemed to have dropped a little. We prayed for a corresponding fall in
water level. So, early on the Monday morning, we stowed away our soggy
possessions and descended to the river for the second time. It had subsided a lot
but crossing at the normal place was still out of the question.
Many new streams had formed as Mulanje’s sponge effect was exhausted
– the water had nowhere else to go. We staggered about in the forest and around
boulders for an hour or so, searching for a way through the water. Finally, by
fording two upstream tributaries, we did manage to stumble across to the other
side of the swollen river. By keeping to high ground, we forced our way back to
the path some 50 yards above the river, just before the final descent to the Forestry
depot. The watchman at Fort Lister said there was no point in starting the Kombi
as “something terrible has happened and all the bridges are down!” Ignoring his
advice, I drove off anyway, only to return 5 minutes later: “John, let’s try the
Muloza route”. Again, we managed less than half-a-mile before the road
disappeared into a raging torrent. Our only remaining option was to abandon the
vehicle and walk to Phalombe, hoping to get a lift or a bus from there. On a
previous trip, thieves had broken into the Kombi and stolen my tool kit, so we
added my new dead-weight tools to our already rain-heavy packs.
Long before we reached Phalombe, it was obvious that something very
unusual had indeed happened – for example, debris was lodged in forks of trees
above our heads – house-sized white boulders where none had been before –
indeed the final approach into Phalombe was a whole new boulder field. We could
not then see the massive new scars on the NW side of Mchese and either side of
the gorge. These could be seen from Mpingwe and BCA Hill, Limbe – 30 miles
away. Two great landslips, one from Mchese and the other from Phalombe Gorge,
had joined forces immediately above the town and inundated it. The Post Office
had vanished. There was devastation in every direction. One of my abiding
memories is of a UTM bus parked outside PTC. The bus had roof-high debris
piled against one side. Its front bumper was bent double like a giant hairpin. The
bus had been parked outside the P.O. when the avalanche struck. The force had
apparently shunted the bus sideways several yards and dumped it, an entire bus,
outside PTC. John and I slurped our way through thigh-high mud towards where
we thought the road West might be. Phalombe was cut off. The Phalombe river
had divided, thus forming an island with the town centre in the middle of it.
Desperate people were poking around in the mud and debris, searching for
relatives and possessions. The mood was tense. We received angry glances. We
had appeared from the same direction as had the landslides. The people needed
someone, anyone, to blame. John and I kept moving. “Let’s get out of here
quickly”, muttered John. That was easier muttered than done. The Phalombe
river, i.e., the new West arm, was now 100 yards wide and it took us more than
20 minutes to wade cross, often losing our foothold. Our priority, apart from food,