On The Ground in Malawi: the Experience

Discovering the underwater landscape of Lake Malawi

From the diary of Helena Telkänranta

The record-breaking species richness of cichlids of Lake Malawi is sometimes called a biological miracle.

The lake can work miracles in another way, too.

Just take a Finnish journalist with a stomach-ache, immerse her into this underwater world – and behold: an hour later, the patient emerges from the lake, totally cured, complete with a broad, foolish, euphoric smile...

The African afternoon is hot. More than 30 degrees Celsius (90 degrees Fahrenheit). I have just finished interviewing Dr. Ken McKaye, a top specialist in cichlid behaviour and ecology. In other words, finished pestering him with questions relating to his moments of despair, and what he likes best in his work, and all those things that us journalists ask in order to drive our poor conspecifics crazy.

Ken gives me one of his charming boyish grins and asks, “Want to join me, to do what I like best in my work?” Yes, I’ve been waiting for this: Ken has promised to take me to one of the fish protection areas of Lake Malawi National Park, and to teach me some snorkling in the midst of the spectacular fish.

Given the stomach situation, is this the right time to aquire a new skill?
Yet I hesitate. On my week-long trip to Malawi, this is the only day when my stomach has decided to revolt against the foreign microbial world. Given the stomach situation, is this the right time to aquire a new skill? asks the reasonable fraction of my brain. But luckily, Ken is wise enough to ask again half an hour later. I decide to grab at the opportunity (an attitude one seldom regrets).

Off we go, a boatful of people with snorkling masks and flippers. Landing on one of the shores of a no-fishing area (which means it is also a no-bilharzia) is the first step to heaven. The sand is soft, the water is warm – and safe for swimming.

In the group, there are two of us beginners. Ken gives us instructions on how to get along with flippers and masks. Busy photographing, I miss half the instructions, which I later regret as I make my first clumsy attempts to wallow in the shallow water with flippers. Not getting anywhere, it feels as easy as travelling in a pool of melted sugar candy.

“Walk backwards”, Ken hints, and yes: despite all my childhood summers, when I watched crayfish lead their quiet life carrying their huge claws in front of them, only now do I realize why they, too, advance a lot faster if they do it backwards... Water is not air, which I very soon will discover again in another way.

We start swimming along the shore. I try to breathe through the snorkel, but the only outcome is an increasing feeling of suffocation. Very interesting: I never knew I could feel a bit claustrophobic, but now my life is enriched with that feeling, too.

The muddy water starts getting clearer... and then I suddenly see them
I splash to the surface, splattering like a wounded whale. Ken patiently repeats the breathing instructions and promises that once I start seeing the fish, I will forget all about any difficulties.

Having listened to the instructions this time, I find it a lot easier to breathe (this kind of experiences surely reminds you of the basic things of life, like how wonderful it is to have oxygen in your lungs...). Ken leads me and the other newcomer by hand. The muddy water starts getting clearer... and then I suddenly see them.

Dozens of small light-brown fish with darker markings appear from the middle of nowhere. They travel righ in front of me, in a loose flock. The tropical sun penetrates the water and illuminates their delicate bodies. They swim elegantly, seemingly free of gravitation – or seemingly free of everything, for that matter – in this silent, magnificent world.

Ken leads us further along the shallow, rocky area. The water is amazingly clear now. You can see everything at the distance of less than 20 metres (70 feet) from you. Which is great, since there is so much to see.

The fish are surprisingly indifferent to our presence
New fish keep appearing. Some are yellow, some are blue. Some sport handsome stripes like zebras. Others are decorated with spots that seem to have originated from an artist’s paintbrush. Others again have the whole garderobe: several colours complete with stripes and spots in a compostion showing artistic taste.

The fish are surprisingly indifferent to our presence. Many of them swim past us at an arm’s length. All the fish, colourful and grey, those in front of your nose and those far away, just continue their breathtaking underwater ballet as if you were not there at all.

Many males are busy defending territories from their rivals. Their mood is easy to see in their looks: they are glittering in the full shine of their brilliant colours.

...this astonishing place is an underwater Serengeti
The rocky lake-bottom is covered with a downy layer of algae. Many of the fish are absorbed in feeding. Dozens... no, hundreds of these little jewels are industriously scraping algae off these huge rocks with their tiny teeth. Seemingly paying no attention at all to us intruders, they graze silently in this vast landscape under the tropical, water-filtered sunlight. In many respects, this astonishing place is an underwater Serengeti.

My only problem is that my mask is leaking. The water level inside it is slowly rising, covering now the lower half of my field of vision. Come on now, I think to myself. Here I am, in the middle of the greatest biodiversity of freshwater fish in the whole wide world. Am I really going to complain about something as banal as some water inside a snorkling mask?

But as the water level starts to raise uncomfortably high inside my nostrils, I once more interrupt the experience of the others by surfacing and gasping for air. Another member of the group, an experienced snorkler and diver, offers to trade masks with me, sacrificing the rest of his own experience. Thankfully and happily I return to the wonderland.

As you can guess, any feeling of stomach problems is long forgotten. As is almost everything else in the world, too. At some point, I start wondering why the other members of the group are nowhere to be seen. Reluctantly, I raise my head out of the water. They are sitting on the rocky shoreline. It takes a while for me to slowly realize that some of them have snorkled enough for the day and are planning for us to get back on the boat and to leave... oh no. It hasn’t occurred to me that anyone could ever want to leave this place...