Two weeks in ‘The Warm Heart of Africa' - Malawi
First, a confession: going to Malawi was not at first our final destination. Originally the target was the mysterious ruins of Great Zimbabwe. For various reasons that idea had to be dropped and There then followed several weeks of voluminous e-mailing (how on earth did David Livingstone ever manage?) attempting to put together a tour that would perhaps be more than a conventional outing. Namibia, Mozambique, Botswana, Zambia, Lesotho and others all came under consideration and then discarded. Finally only Malawi remained on the list and so that’s where we went, to ‘the warm heart of Africa’.
There were two of us on ‘patrol’. I use that term advisedly since it was part of the vocabulary of Paul, a former policeman in the then Southern Rhodesia and then a soldier in the South Africa army, finishing up as a major. Since retirement he has built up a successful career as a battlefields guide, organizer of tours around Africa, instructing those wanting to become game wardens and branching out into environmental matters. An ability to converse in the seemingly endless African tongues, Paul was the ideal companion to have on such a patrol and he took endless delight in the fact we were both ex-military, me being a former warrant officer. Just twice he let me go off on my own for three or four days, finally returning rather red-faced having to explain why my trousers were torn, covered in grease and flapping over much battered and bruised legs. I must have looked like Ben Gunn. More ventures ‘off patrol’ might have found me rehearsing the role of Long John Silver himself.
Paul’s abiding interest is in 19th century history of southern Africa. This made him the ideal guide. Much of Malawi’s history is occupied by the time David Livingstone, the missionary-cum-explorer, spent in that country and Paul followed some of the trail blazed by that remarkable Scot. Lake Malawi, that huge expanse of water, the third largest on the African continent, had seen Livingstone’s vessel plying up and down the shoreline, to be followed by ships of various shapes and missions that today make for a fascinating study. Some time was spent visiting people or museums, such as Mandala House in Blantyre (originally a trading post), viewing the fading pictures of the lake and its shipping past and present, even, surprisingly, a Sunderland flying boat in the 1930s. Although the Victorian and colonial ages have now slipped away, Lake Malawi has much to remind one of the heydays of that colourful imperial era.
(This account of a short time spent in Malawi was intended originally to be in diary form, I decided against this, favouring short passages, usually illustrated. That way highlights and background would be better presented and so, hopefully, making for a more interesting presentation.)
First, a confession: going to Malawi was not at first our final destination. Originally the target was the mysterious ruins of Great Zimbabwe. For various reasons that idea had to be dropped and There then followed several weeks of voluminous e-mailing (how on earth did David Livingstone ever manage?) attempting to put together a tour that would perhaps be more than a conventional outing. Namibia, Mozambique, Botswana, Zambia, Lesotho and others all came under consideration and then discarded. Finally only Malawi remained on the list and so that’s where we went, to ‘the warm heart of Africa’.
There were two of us on ‘patrol’. I use that term advisedly since it was part of the vocabulary of Paul, a former policeman in the then Southern Rhodesia and then a soldier in the South Africa army, finishing up as a major. Since retirement he has built up a successful career as a battlefields guide, organizer of tours around Africa, instructing those wanting to become game wardens and branching out into environmental matters. An ability to converse in the seemingly endless African tongues, Paul was the ideal companion to have on such a patrol and he took endless delight in the fact we were both ex-military, me being a former warrant officer. Just twice he let me go off on my own for three or four days, finally returning rather red-faced having to explain why my trousers were torn, covered in grease and flapping over much battered and bruised legs. I must have looked like Ben Gunn. More ventures ‘off patrol’ might have found me rehearsing the role of Long John Silver himself.
Paul’s abiding interest is in 19th century history of southern Africa. This made him the ideal guide. Much of Malawi’s history is occupied by the time David Livingstone, the missionary-cum-explorer, spent in that country and Paul followed some of the trail blazed by that remarkable Scot. Lake Malawi, that huge expanse of water, the third largest on the African continent, had seen Livingstone’s vessel plying up and down the shoreline, to be followed by ships of various shapes and missions that today make for a fascinating study. Some time was spent visiting people or museums, such as Mandala House in Blantyre (originally a trading post), viewing the fading pictures of the lake and its shipping past and present, even, surprisingly, a Sunderland flying boat in the 1930s. Although the Victorian and colonial ages have now slipped away, Lake Malawi has much to remind one of the heydays of that colourful imperial era.
(This account of a short time spent in Malawi was intended originally to be in diary form, I decided against this, favouring short passages, usually illustrated. That way highlights and background would be better presented and so, hopefully, making for a more interesting presentation.)
Wayside chameleonFirst impression was of a relaxing of tension. We had flown up from Durban in South Africa, survived the hustle, bustle and annoyance of a change-over, anthill-gone-mad stop at Johannesburg, and eventually landed rather bumpily at Chileko International, Blantyre’s airport. Going through formalities was a way of meeting a host of officials, suitably uniformed, a-bristle with authority, some armed others carrying millboards. Surviving the corridors of form-filling, rubber stamps crashing down on passports and other documents, and questions about why you were coming to Malawi, Paul and I found ourselves backtracking to our luggage. Passengers’ luggage had been unloaded from the airplane and stacked neatly in rows on a lawn in front of the entrance building, which we had just navigated.
The idea, which seemed sensible, was that each passenger identified their own luggage and then for Customs. That was quickly passed, first answering more questions, then baggage searching, and finally a tennis racquet-shaped metal detector wafted over your body. From leaving the ‘plane to emerging at the other side of the main building was to witness a classic example of job creation. I would imagine that had the ‘plane carried just a few less than its full complement of passengers, they would have been outnumbered by those waiting to process them through requirements.
But there had been cheerfulness about he whole procedure. Emerging into the normal day of Malawi it took me abut half an hour before I realised what my first emotion was: one of relaxation, a lack of tension. Back at home in Pietermaritzburg I had become used to the miasma of ever-present security, the abiding threat of robbery, of violence and the fear of venturing out at night. That first feeling when arriving in Malawi never left me; Paul was aware of it to. Not seen (although there must have been some) were the security gates, the protecting, encircling walls, the private security guards patrolling here and there. Crime was there inevitably, but as we were informed more of the petty nature and not at the encroaching, intimidating and life threatening levels cursing South Africa.
Also greeting us was the heat. Throughout our two weeks the temperature was sandwiched between 38º and 42º; each morning we would dash for the hired car, set off and turn on the air conditioning as soon as possible. Either that or head for the nearest bar and order a couple of bottles ‘of green’, Malawi-speak for Carlsberg lager.
oOo
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