Anyone who has lived in Malawi (the former British Protectorate of Nyasaland) knows that there is something very special about the place that grows on you and ultimately envelops you in its warm and friendly grasp. You can’t point your finger at it; it’s just there, ethereal. But whatever it is, it certainly wowed my little family for 16 years. Without a doubt, they are some of the happiest years of our lives.
It is a beautiful country, a third of its surface covered with water. From the low lake, the ground rises to the enchanting grassy hills of the Nyika Plateau and to the rugged mountains of Zomba and Mulanje. Swimming in the freshwater lake is like diving into a warm tropical fish tank with countless flickering, multi-colored cichlids. But in some areas, keep an eye out for crocodiles (known colloquially as ‘flat dogs’) and hippos (‘mvu’ in Chichewa, the local language). Lake Malawi is called Calendar Lake, it is 365 miles long and 52 miles wide, and it is the deepest lake in the Rift Valley.
What attracted me to the country, among many other things, was its history. I was fascinated by all the early Victorian Christian missionaries who came to spread the Word, over 150 years ago. David Livingstone was the first of this brave group of people. His ‘Mission Travels’ opened up vast areas of Africa, including what is now Malawi, and his spirit remains there to this day. Five crosses mark the graves of later missionaries at the old Livingstonia Mission on the south shore of the lake, at Cape Maclear. They testify to the evangelical zeal of the owners of the old bones that now lie buried. These missionaries faced unimaginable difficulties. Anopheles mosquitoes claimed them; mass murderers, serial killers. Dr. Livingstone’s wife, Mary, succumbed to them and is buried under a baobab tree in an untended grave on the banks of the Zambesi River. Bishop Mackenzie, that tall, handsome, athletic man of God, died on an island near the confluence of the Shire and Ruo rivers, ravaged by parasites.
Other missionaries, malaria survivors, were Chauncy Maples and Will Johnson. They were two notable propagators of the Gospel who had been together at Oxford University and their combined efforts led to the construction of the famous Anglican cathedral on the island of Likoma in the loch. Johnson was the ‘apostle’ of the lakeside, which was his parish for more than 40 years, pacing back and forth, slim in his long white robes. But if Johnson owned the shorelines, Maples certainly owned the waters. He drowned in them when his boat capsized during one of those sudden and fierce storms that characterize the lake. His cassock dragged him down. The ‘Lake of the Stars’, as described by Livingstone, is a very temperamental, often dangerous stretch of inland water…especially when the ‘mwera’ wind blows from the southeast. The spirit of another missionary, Dr. Laws, still ‘walks’ in the cool shadows of the old ‘stone house’ where a new Livingstonia Mission was relocated on a high plateau overlooking the lake. This was far above the foul-smelling vapors on the lake shore that Dr. Laws believed were responsible for the deadly fevers. Malaria permeates Malawi’s history and, like the slave trade, decimated the population.
In Nkhotakota, the former Arab slave emporium on the lake shore, a sense of evil pervades to this day. From here, thousands upon thousands of captives were sent by dhow across the lake and then yoked together and driven to the shore of the Indian Ocean, driven by the cruelty of the ‘ruga ruga’ (wild, painted, half-human beings who wear eyelashes). ). This was followed by a sweltering boat ride across the sea to Zanzibar, the central slave market for the Arab world and the Orient. Only about a quarter of the slaves survived this journey to hell. Fierce battles to stop this bestial practice ensued in the Karonga area of Malawi, led by British settlers: Sir Harry Johnston, the Moir brothers, Frederick Lugard, and Monteith Fotherington. These wars dragged on for years, largely unnoticed by an outside world preoccupied with other wars of the late 19th century. Ultimately, the infamous Arab trader Mlosi was defeated and hanged at Karonga, marking the end of slavery in the region. But it was Livingstone who first exposed the horrors of it all. This and his voyages of exploration form his lasting legacy. He died a lonely death in what is now Zambia, on his knees beside his rough bed, plagued by dysentery and bleeding hemorrhoids. Faithful African followers carried his embalmed body many hundreds of miles to the coast from where he reached his final resting place in Westminster Abbey. His heart, however, remains in the land of Africa that he loved.
Other fascinating stories emerge from Malawi; like the famous account of Commander Rhoades who started the first naval engagement of the First World War. He hit the gunboat Hermon von Wissmann while dry-docked at Sphinxhaven, on the eastern shore of the lake, with a salvo from a 6-pounder Hotchkiss in his gunboat Gwendolyn. Rhoades had been dining and drinking shortly before with his old friend, a German warship commander who had been unaware of the outbreak of war, so Herr Brent’s apoplectic fury echoed through the smoke and fire. across the waters with “I’m going for fucking Rhoades.” , are you drunk?
It was a great pleasure for me to visit many of these places that I have mentioned and reflect on the lives of great people. As a pilot for the company, I got to know the surrounding territories quite well between 1991 and 2008. My fascination with Livingstone extended to Tanzania, where I explored the old house of Unyanyembe (modern Tabora), the house where Livingstone and Stanley parted ways. company in 1872. Stanley headed to England to bask in the fame of his famous news report, while Livingstone wandered off in search of the illusory source of the Nile River. He was never seen alive again by another white man, and after a year was dead. I saw precious pieces of Livingstone memorabilia in the Zambian town museum named after him. And I visited the museum in Blantyre, Malawi, named after his birthplace. And I stared in morbid fascination at the tools of the slave trade, leg irons and wooden neck yokes, on display at the Bagamoyo museum on the Indian Ocean coast. This was the last stopover post for slaves from inside Zanzibar.
The story came alive for me on my travels. Old German coins, stamped with the eagle, could be bought from young people on the beach at Bagomoyo, the former capital of German East Africa. And KAR (Kings African Rifles) medals and antique brass trinkets from ancient Arabia could be found in the busy bazaars of Zanzibar. Named after the famous hunter who was killed there by a German sniper in World War I, Selous Game Reserve was impressive in its vastness and diversity of wildlife. I traced the travels of Commander Paul Von Lettow-Vorbeck with his askaris through this area and up the Rovuma and Lugenda rivers to Mozambique. I marveled at the man’s audacity and skills in leading a guerrilla war against British forces in East Africa during the First World War. He was never captured and eventually surrendered at Abercorn in Northern Rhodesia (Zambia) at the Armistice.
Mount Kilimanjaro, Victoria Falls, the ruins of Zimbabwe, chimpanzees in Uganda, the Caborabasa dam and the Zambesi and Chobe rivers, circling the volcano in the Comoros Islands and fishing for sailfish and dorado in Malindi off the coast of Kenya are deep-seated memories. And so are the memories of training: flying with vultures in a glider over the Wankie Game Reserve, tracking wild dogs near the Gwaai River Lodge (now raised), collecting spices and old books in Dar-es-Salaam. I chased the ghost of Beryl Markham (the famous aviator) at the Muthaiga Club in Nairobi where she lived and at the Wings Club of East Africa that she frequented. The stories of ‘White Mischief’ and the Ngong Hills intrigued me and the unsolved murder mystery of the Earl of Erroll in Nairobi and Van der Post’s ‘Ventures to the Interior’ on the Nyika Plateau. The ruins of the Flying Boat base can still be found at Cape Maclear. These BOAC ‘ships’ landed there in 1949, en route from England to the Vaal Dam in South Africa. In the nearby bush, ‘Guru wan kulus’ still dances around night fires to the beat of pounding drums. The ‘gurus’ are male secret society initiates who dress in a bizarre and fierce costume and are frequently seen running down the rural roads of Malawi; scary stuff. Children scatter when approached and even adults quickly scurry away.
Africa is a fascinating continent and Malawi is, for me, at its heart. In fact, it is known as the “Warm Heart of Africa” and I often reflect on this beautiful description at sunset in the tropics. Drinking ice-cold Carlsberg beer (locally brewed) in the company of good friends, as the sun set over Monkey Bay, was a perfect setting for reflection. Ask anyone who has been there. But I never made it to the top of Mulanje Mountain, and that’s one big regret I have since leaving Malawi for Canada. So I have to go back to that Warm Heart one day.