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 eventually 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 captivated 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 up to the lovely grassy foothills of the Nyika Plateau and up to the rugged mountains of Zomba and Mulanje. Swimming in the freshwater lake is like diving into a warm tropical fish tank with countless multi-colored, flickering 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 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 courageous group of individuals. His ‘Mission Trips’ 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 unattended 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, survivors of malaria, were Chauncy Maples and Will Johnson. They were two noted propagators of the Gospel who had been together at Oxford University and their combined efforts led to the building of the famous Anglican cathedral on the island of Likoma in the lake. Johnson was the ‘apostle’ of the lakeside, which was his parish for more than 40 years, pacing up and down, thin in his long white robes. But if Johnson owned the shorelines, Maples certainly owned the waters. He drowned in them when his boat sank during one of those sudden and fierce storms that characterized the lake. His cassock dragged him down. The ‘Lake of Stars’, as Livingstone described it, is a very temperamental stretch of inland water, often dangerous… especially when the ‘mwera’ wind blows from the south-east. 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 to a high plateau overlooking the lake. This was far above the pestilential vapors on the lake shore which Dr. Laws believed were responsible for deadly fevers. Malaria pervades 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, semi-human, eyelash-wearing beings). ). This was followed by a sweltering journey by ship 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 raged for years, largely unnoticed by an outside world preoccupied with other wars of the late 19th century. Finally, 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 present-day Zambia, kneeling by his rough bed, plagued with dysentery and bleeding haemorrhoids. Faithful African followers carried his embalmed body many hundreds of miles to the coast from where he came to 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 story of Commander Rhoades that started the first naval engagement of the First World War. He struck the gunboat Hermon von Wissmann while in drydock at Sphinxhaven, on the eastern shore of the loch, with a salvo from a 6-pounder Hotchkiss in his gunboat Gwendolyn. Rhoades had been drinking and dining shortly before with his old friend, the commander of a German warship who had been unaware of the outbreak of war, so Herr Brent’s apoplexic fury echoed through the smoke and fire. through the waters with, “got 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 the great people. As a company pilot, 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 went to England to bask in the fame of his famous newspaper 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 lovely pieces of Livingstone memorabilia at the museum in the Zambian town named after him. And I visited the museum in Blantyre, Malawi, named after his birthplace. And I stared with morbid fascination at the tools of the slave trade, leg shackles and wooden neck yokes, on display at the Bagamoyo museum on the Indian Ocean shoreline. This was the last staging post for inland Zanzibar slaves.
The story came alive for me on my travels. Old German coins, emblazoned with the eagle, could be bought from youngsters 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, the Selous Game Reserve was impressive in its vastness and diversity of wildlife. I tracked Commander Paul Von Lettow-Vorbeck’s travels 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 World War I. He was never captured and finally surrendered at Abercorn in Northern Rhodesia (Zambia) in the Armistice.
Mount Kilimanjaro, Victoria Falls, ruins in 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 mahi mahi in Malindi on the Kenyan coast are deeply rooted memories. And so are the formative memories: 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 haunted the ghost of Beryl Markham (the famous aviator) at the Nairobi Muthaiga Club where she lived and at the Wings Club of East Africa where she frequented. I was intrigued by stories of ‘White Mischief’ and the Ngong Hills 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 the night fires to the beat of pounding drums. ‘Gurus’ are male secret society initiates who dress in a strange and fierce costume and are frequently seen running down the rural roads of Malawi; scary stuff. Kids scatter when approached and even adults scurry away quickly.
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. Just ask anyone who has been there. But I never made it to the top of Mulanje Mountain, and that’s a big regret I’ve had since leaving Malawi to live in Canada. So I have to go back to that Warm Heart one day.