In the years to come (and may there be many) I shall look back on the Malawi Patrol. Time of course adds its own patina that will emphasise certain (more pleasant?) aspects while dulling others; some memories or thoughts will have disappeared altogether. This means that now, a few weeks after flying back from Malawi, is the right time to get down in writing about those aspects not covered up to now.
My most abiding recollection would always be that feeling of relaxation that overtook me about an hour after the ‘plane from Johannesburg to Chileka airport (Blantyre). Customs and immigration had been successfully negotiated to a background one-note beat of rubber stamps striking passports and other documents. Outside the airport buildings, while waiting for our car, I mentioned to Paul this feeling of relaxation, a lessening of tension about me. He, too, was experiencing it and knew the reason. We were out of South Africa and its oppressive need for security, the constant awareness of security guards, the high walls, and the obvious alarm systems. There were some, of course, but you had to look more carefully than was our wont. Of course there was crime, but largely of a petty nature; serious, vicious crime a la South Africa there was not beyond what might be termed the expected average. Back packers, singly or in groups, male, female and mixed, were much in evidence around the tourist attractions and their unwinding presence was surely a good benchmark.
Overnight accommodation generally speaking was not too bad, although poorly trained staff were in evidence at some; Mumbo Island and Mvuu Camp were the exceptions but management there had paid much attention to how their staff dealt with visitors. Having to wait an hour and forty minutes at one establishment for two toasted sandwiches, and Paul and I were the only customers, was more indicative than unusual.
At one quite delightful overnight stop, the Chintheche Inn, the accommodation and cuisine could not be faulted. Dinner that night was taken at a table laid out on a grassy area overlooking southern Lake Malawi. Absolutely ideal: stars littered the heavens, a moon lit up the lake waters and there were no mosquitoes. Two young black boys waited on and as long as they were not deviated from their normal duties all went well.
The meal was steak and so Paul asked for mustard. Confusion; both went off to the kitchen and came back a few minutes later with a tin of powdered mustard, which was placed on the table with great solemnity. Paul looked at the tin, the boys looked at Paul. He patiently explained that the powder needed to be mixed with water. Off went the lads once more, taking the tin of mustard with them. Back they came; no mustard but a small container of water. Paul, showing enormous patience, explained as best he could that the mustard and the water first had to be mixed. Away went the lads again, taking both the mustard and water with them, returning a few minutes later with neither.
Clearly, a battle of differing comprehensions was about to take place. Paul did his best to clear matters up; off went the lads again, this time returning once more with the mustard and the water, unmixed. Side by side they both sat; Paul admitted defeat, the lads took the mustard and water away again, baffled by the sometimes odd ways of visitors.
Another establishment, The Wheelhouse at Salima (again at the southern end of the lake) on the penultimate night of The Patrol before being stood down, supplied the weirdest experience. The wheelhouse itself was an ingenious bar, octagonal-shaped (or something like that) reached by a walkway out into a bay edged by a reef-lined beach; a guide book mentions it as a location high in risk of bilharzias!
Accommodation was fairly basic, consisting of several buildings in which one either went upstairs or downstairs, along darkened corridors into bedrooms of great simplicity where electric light bulbs were mementoes of days when they were worked by switches that nowadays didn’t always operate
Seclusion from the sun
Everywhere you walked made the buildings sound sort of hollow; there were no other guests as far I could work out. A maid drifted in and out, grinned and walked in and out further along a darkening corridor. The whole set up was quite weird, rather like a modern times Castle Dracula.
Paul, doubtless thinking of The Report and the endless opportunities I might seize to tumble down stairs, contacted the management and had me shifted to a beachside cottage. Much more pleasant, except that the famine of functional light bulbs continued. The drifting-in-and-out maid suddenly and silently turned up and placed a bedside lamp in my room, as well as an electric fan to shift the humid air about a bit. She gave me a shy smile and then disappeared; she never spoke a word and I never set eyes on her again.
Time for a shower; no water. Turned on the one tap in the hand basin; again no water but as if by magic or sudden release from their pipe-like dungeon, small black ants came in columns of route (a military term!) down the tap to vanish down the plug hole. Turned the tap off; the parade of ants ceased. Waited for a couple of minutes, turned the tap on, down came the ants and into the plug hole. The reserve of ants must have been enormous. To amuse myself while waiting for Paul to return from some Patrol mission I would turn the tap on and off at intervals; the ants always appeared, bang on cue.
Later on, in the bar, I mentioned to the barman about the water shortage in my accommodation. Looking wise, he ventured the opinion that the water had been cut off. I whispered that I could only agree, having already reached the same diagnosis. Barman promised to look into the matter and, in due course of time, the water ran once more. Later that night, back in my room, I turned on the tap and flushed out the ants, wishing them well on their journey.
Over a couple of ‘greens’ Paul and I discussed The Wheelhouse and came to the conclusion that the fault lay with the management rather than the staff, with the staff in second place.
Other memories. One has to be the men crouched by roadsides chipping away at piles of boulders. This was evidence of the cheapness and availability of labour. Stone aggregate was in heavy demand for the road works passed on several occasions. It was far cheaper to hire such labour than hire expensive heavy plant to do the same task. At other places we passed piles of different coloured stones, crushed by hand into the smallest possible chips. Some of the piles were brilliant white, others the colour of sand, some black. For once Paul was stuck for an explanation. Stopping by a gathering of these piles he asked a young man in charge the reason for them and was told they would eventually end up in the main as decoration in a mosque. Parts of Malawi have a strong Muslim presence (primarily in the converted Yao tribe), evidenced by the numbers of mosques passed in our journeyings.
Heading up into the mountains or skirting around them provided scenic and often quite spectacular changes to the lakeside idylls of local communities, holiday resorts and miles and miles of golden beaches.
Mountains give a sense of security, set boundaries and horizons; they can provide comfort and a challenge. The Mulanje Massif rears up from the Phalombe Plain south of Blantyre and emphasizes its dominance by the number of peaks of over 8,000 feet, some twenty of them. One towers above them all, the majestic and awesome Sapitwa reaching over 9,600 feet, the highest in central Africa. The whole area of the massif is covered by a variety of vegetation pierced by deeply wooded ravines or denied a footing by great faces of granite outbursts. Mulanje is a haven for the walker, the climber, the bird watchers and those seeking wildlife. Too inaccessible for the car, our Patrol Report would have to show that we followed the roads down on the plain, but that didn’t mean we could not appreciate the wonder of this Nature’s vast playground.
Another quite similar area was the Zomba Plateau, northwards of Mulanje but allowing cars reasonable access to the higher parts. Again vegetation reigns almost supreme, with the familiar woodlands and extensive pine plantations. The plateau takes its name from the town of Zomba, a fading colonial outpost that was the country’s capital before Lilongwe took over the honour in 1975.
Paul, doubtless thinking of The Report and the endless opportunities I might seize to tumble down stairs, contacted the management and had me shifted to a beachside cottage. Much more pleasant, except that the famine of functional light bulbs continued. The drifting-in-and-out maid suddenly and silently turned up and placed a bedside lamp in my room, as well as an electric fan to shift the humid air about a bit. She gave me a shy smile and then disappeared; she never spoke a word and I never set eyes on her again.
Time for a shower; no water. Turned on the one tap in the hand basin; again no water but as if by magic or sudden release from their pipe-like dungeon, small black ants came in columns of route (a military term!) down the tap to vanish down the plug hole. Turned the tap off; the parade of ants ceased. Waited for a couple of minutes, turned the tap on, down came the ants and into the plug hole. The reserve of ants must have been enormous. To amuse myself while waiting for Paul to return from some Patrol mission I would turn the tap on and off at intervals; the ants always appeared, bang on cue.
Later on, in the bar, I mentioned to the barman about the water shortage in my accommodation. Looking wise, he ventured the opinion that the water had been cut off. I whispered that I could only agree, having already reached the same diagnosis. Barman promised to look into the matter and, in due course of time, the water ran once more. Later that night, back in my room, I turned on the tap and flushed out the ants, wishing them well on their journey.
Over a couple of ‘greens’ Paul and I discussed The Wheelhouse and came to the conclusion that the fault lay with the management rather than the staff, with the staff in second place.
Other memories. One has to be the men crouched by roadsides chipping away at piles of boulders. This was evidence of the cheapness and availability of labour. Stone aggregate was in heavy demand for the road works passed on several occasions. It was far cheaper to hire such labour than hire expensive heavy plant to do the same task. At other places we passed piles of different coloured stones, crushed by hand into the smallest possible chips. Some of the piles were brilliant white, others the colour of sand, some black. For once Paul was stuck for an explanation. Stopping by a gathering of these piles he asked a young man in charge the reason for them and was told they would eventually end up in the main as decoration in a mosque. Parts of Malawi have a strong Muslim presence (primarily in the converted Yao tribe), evidenced by the numbers of mosques passed in our journeyings.
Heading up into the mountains or skirting around them provided scenic and often quite spectacular changes to the lakeside idylls of local communities, holiday resorts and miles and miles of golden beaches.
Mountains give a sense of security, set boundaries and horizons; they can provide comfort and a challenge. The Mulanje Massif rears up from the Phalombe Plain south of Blantyre and emphasizes its dominance by the number of peaks of over 8,000 feet, some twenty of them. One towers above them all, the majestic and awesome Sapitwa reaching over 9,600 feet, the highest in central Africa. The whole area of the massif is covered by a variety of vegetation pierced by deeply wooded ravines or denied a footing by great faces of granite outbursts. Mulanje is a haven for the walker, the climber, the bird watchers and those seeking wildlife. Too inaccessible for the car, our Patrol Report would have to show that we followed the roads down on the plain, but that didn’t mean we could not appreciate the wonder of this Nature’s vast playground.
Another quite similar area was the Zomba Plateau, northwards of Mulanje but allowing cars reasonable access to the higher parts. Again vegetation reigns almost supreme, with the familiar woodlands and extensive pine plantations. The plateau takes its name from the town of Zomba, a fading colonial outpost that was the country’s capital before Lilongwe took over the honour in 1975.
SS Empress - lake transport of the past
A rotting floating flotilla
Climbing up towards the plateau is to run the gauntlet of small groups of boys selling fruits of many kinds, souvenirs and quartz of different cuts and hues. While persistent in their efforts they were quite cheerful in their approach and most did not have the belligerence of their more sophisticated cousins to be found almost anywhere. The souvenir carvings were good, well executed, nicely finished off and, after much hard but friendly bargaining, reasonable in price.
However outshining these sellers in their efforts to earn some income were the dozens of boys pushing their bikes down from the upper reaches of the plateau. They could hardly ride them since every inch of metal that could bear the load was covered by cut logs. Those logs must have formed a dangerous burden; Paul was certain that in past years some of those boys actually rode their machines down, but the practice seemingly has ceased now for mounted on such a heavily loaded bike must have sent machine and rider hurtling down the hills, sweeping round bends that could have caused nasty accidents.
Once there was a dark side to the Zomba area. Back in the 19th century there was an extensive traffic in slaves, when blacks raided blacks, the prisoners being sold on into the slave markets run by the Omani Arabs. European minds tend to think of the slave trade as the trafficking in African blacks by Europeans, exporting them across the Atlantic into the West Indies and the United States. When that trade route was closed down, the movement of black prisoners reversed, going eastwards to Zanzibar instead of the New World westwards.
Several hours was spent on the shores of Lake Malawi at the rundown town of Nkhotakota where unspoken memory still haunts of the evil trade in human flesh. Here at the biggest slave market on the lake, the captured blacks were herded together to be transported and marched to Zanzibar; most would never survive the journey. Estimates show that out of every 300 despatched, it was not that remarkable that at times only 20 still lived after the terrible journey. Profits were fantastic which perhaps explains why such heavy wastage of lives was countenanced by the slave traders.
A cloud of Lake Flies in the distance
David Livingstone came to Nkhotakota in 1861 and discovered the area as an abode of wickedness and lawlessness, ‘literally strewn with human bones and putrid bodies’. The explorer and the local chief Jumbe, with other chiefs, sat beneath a large fig tree (still standing) and tried to get them to enter into a treaty to put a stop to the trade. Livingstone failed in his attempt and the brutal business did not cease until the mid-1890 when, under the British Commissioner, Harry Johnston, finally got Jumbe to agree to cessation.
Only echo and suggestion bear witness to Nkhotakota’s dreadful past, that and the air of general listlessness. Where once slaves were bundled on to vessels to make the journey across the lake and then onwards, there is a crumbling, rickety-looking jetty, still in use for casual shipping. On the shore stands the once handsome port building, also going the way of so many in the state of Malawi.
A more positive step in historical progress stands not too far from the fig tree. This is St. Anne’s church, focal point of the mission, in which lie the remains of Chauncey Maples, first bishop of Likoma, drowned in Lake Malawi on his way to take up his duties. This was very much Paul’s territory and we spent some time exploring, reading various plaques and taking photographs.
Malawi is a beautiful country, dominated by the great lake, the wide spread of woodlands and the towering mountain ranges. Serving as counterpoints and emphasis were the sprawls of the sugar and tea plantations, boundless acres of commercial enterprise and orderliness; Malawi is not only beautiful but bounteous, if treated properly.
Of the people met, a few have remained in memory’s sight. One was an 82-years old fisherman, black as ebony, long fishing spear in hand, trekking along a dusty road to his favourite fishing spot. Paul and he chatted for a while, agreeing that fishing was not what it was (the world anthem of all fishermen). Then there the two young boys, goatherds, who solemnly refused to come any closer when I asked them to, just to get a better picture. Not that they were averse to being photographed, one suspects rather they feared abduction. Never to be forgotten are the two waiter boys for whom the mysteries of making mustard would ever remain a closed book, a white man’s oddity. Not speaking the language meant I could not fully engage with those I met; Paul on the other hand fell into conversation almost at the drop of a hat, usually good humoured and with much accompanying laughter.
Only echo and suggestion bear witness to Nkhotakota’s dreadful past, that and the air of general listlessness. Where once slaves were bundled on to vessels to make the journey across the lake and then onwards, there is a crumbling, rickety-looking jetty, still in use for casual shipping. On the shore stands the once handsome port building, also going the way of so many in the state of Malawi.
A more positive step in historical progress stands not too far from the fig tree. This is St. Anne’s church, focal point of the mission, in which lie the remains of Chauncey Maples, first bishop of Likoma, drowned in Lake Malawi on his way to take up his duties. This was very much Paul’s territory and we spent some time exploring, reading various plaques and taking photographs.
Malawi is a beautiful country, dominated by the great lake, the wide spread of woodlands and the towering mountain ranges. Serving as counterpoints and emphasis were the sprawls of the sugar and tea plantations, boundless acres of commercial enterprise and orderliness; Malawi is not only beautiful but bounteous, if treated properly.
Of the people met, a few have remained in memory’s sight. One was an 82-years old fisherman, black as ebony, long fishing spear in hand, trekking along a dusty road to his favourite fishing spot. Paul and he chatted for a while, agreeing that fishing was not what it was (the world anthem of all fishermen). Then there the two young boys, goatherds, who solemnly refused to come any closer when I asked them to, just to get a better picture. Not that they were averse to being photographed, one suspects rather they feared abduction. Never to be forgotten are the two waiter boys for whom the mysteries of making mustard would ever remain a closed book, a white man’s oddity. Not speaking the language meant I could not fully engage with those I met; Paul on the other hand fell into conversation almost at the drop of a hat, usually good humoured and with much accompanying laughter.
Evening Interlude - lessons in mustard making
For a couple of nights we stayed at the home of a tobacco farmer and his wife, David and Yvonne Lewis. Their home was a big, rather rambling house full of memories and redolent of that other influence on the country of Malawi, its colonial past. Those days have gone, of course, but here we had its good side: a large commercial undertaking that provided income, employment and, carefully nourished, two ways of life that could be of mutual benefit. Maybe not perfect, of course, but then what is.
Here Paul and David spoke of the past, of military times (David, like Paul, a former Army officer), anecdotes, characters and long ago wars almost forgotten. David produced albums of old photographs, some back into the 19th century; pictures of Isandlwana, Spioen Kop, soldiers on parade, Boer farmers in a mounted hunting party, a Zulu wedding group. Groups of officers, the more senior sitting their juniors standing and all dressed in their regimental best; long skirted ladies on horse back decorously sitting side-saddle. There was a slice of history, coming more to life though those old pictures.
But of all the memories, the one that stands out is that of the ladies of Malawi dressed in all their colourful finery, making their way to market. All carried gaily-coloured umbrellas, for the sun was bright and hot, while on their head was carried a variety of things: cooking pots, full shopping bags, bundles of sticks. Some had babies slung in small blankets and hoisted on their backs. All in all, a carefully balanced load; one never saw a man carrying anything at all, or rarely. Maybe these women would bend with age and toil as the years passed, but when young they moved with grace, assurance and a casual posture that many would envy.
Here Paul and David spoke of the past, of military times (David, like Paul, a former Army officer), anecdotes, characters and long ago wars almost forgotten. David produced albums of old photographs, some back into the 19th century; pictures of Isandlwana, Spioen Kop, soldiers on parade, Boer farmers in a mounted hunting party, a Zulu wedding group. Groups of officers, the more senior sitting their juniors standing and all dressed in their regimental best; long skirted ladies on horse back decorously sitting side-saddle. There was a slice of history, coming more to life though those old pictures.
But of all the memories, the one that stands out is that of the ladies of Malawi dressed in all their colourful finery, making their way to market. All carried gaily-coloured umbrellas, for the sun was bright and hot, while on their head was carried a variety of things: cooking pots, full shopping bags, bundles of sticks. Some had babies slung in small blankets and hoisted on their backs. All in all, a carefully balanced load; one never saw a man carrying anything at all, or rarely. Maybe these women would bend with age and toil as the years passed, but when young they moved with grace, assurance and a casual posture that many would envy.
A vanishing day on Lake Malawi
oOo
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