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A Small Corner of AfricaBy Cindy-Lou DaleDriving my Land Cruiser from Lilongwe heading towards Monkey Bay, which is at the foot of Lake Malawi, I became aware of passing more people on a more frequent basis the higher I got in the Dedza mountains. Curiosity got the better of me and I stopped at a road-side caravan for lunch and quizzed the Madala (term of respect when addressing a wise old African father). On the menu that day was Mopani worms with Matabele (thick brown porridge) or barbequed mice on sticks with Matabele. My young son, Ashley was travelling with me on this occasion. He ordered a plate of Mopani worms and tucked in with relish. Having savoured traditional food many times before he knew the best accompaniment with Mopani worms was peanut butter and politely enquired if the Madala had a jar secreted away somewhere. The Madala considered him sternly for a while and then grudgingly produced a small bottle from beneath the counter. The Madala told me that in the next village, which was near 20km’s away, there was a tribal witch doctor that had “powers” when throwing the lotaola (bones). The Madala claimed the lotaola spirits spoke with the Sangoma and told him which potion to mix for his patient. His patient would dutifully drink this muti and supposedly be cured of AIDS. That would explain the purpose in their stride, I thought. I was fascinated at there blind belief and decided to see for myself. I found the village, off the beaten track at the end of a single lane of soft red sand. There were many reed huts, built close to the Baobab trees, with immaculately swept earth around them. Little picanin’s (toddlers) were darting here and their, chasing chickens, their smiling mother’s looking on, whilst pounding maize.
I parked my Land Cruiser and ventured out amongst them. They were kind and friendly and the women adored Ashley, who squirmed under their touches whilst clucking about his blonde hair.
Back on the tarred road, I passed many plantations of what looked to be Macademia trees. As it was weekend, farm Lorries were traveling to Blantyre -- it was customary for the local farmer’s to treat their labourers, and their families, to a day out in the town once a month. They were all dressed for the occasion and overflowed the Lorries. Beaming, happy people, obviously excited at the day’s prospects, waved excitedly as I passed. Apart from the friendly people, I noticed Malawi’s little villages had curiously worded signs adorning shops and other premises, some of which I found mildly amusing – a chemist called “Dealers’ Drugstore”, a shoe shop called “Buy One Get One Free”, a haberdashery named “You Sew and Sew”, and out of business furniture store, in the middle of nowhere, aptly named “Suite F.A.”
At Chilumba I disembarked and drove towards Dar Es Salaam in Tanzania. A long road traveling through some of the most picturesque African villages I had yet seen -- part of the route passed through a private game reserve where I encountered a group of Masai warriors riding bicycles. Their red robes flowing behind them in their slipstream, their spears clutched in one hand, and with the other ringing their bells in greeting as I passed.
Approaching Dar Es Salaam’s city outskirts I passed hundreds of cyclists. I paused at a busy cross road and was fascinated to see a cyclist in a giant bird costume passing in front of me. Ashley was beside himself with excitement yet there was no reaction from the local Africans to a huge bird cycling through their town. On arrival at my hotel I decided to immediately freshen up as my dishevelled appearance had led to me being occasionally greeted as “Master”. So I had a shower and put on a dress, hoping this would prevent any further confusion.
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I knew this was where the Sangoma
held court as several large groups had gathered to one side of the village pump, patiently waiting to be
summoned. The local women were a colourful and noisy explosion of skirts and
plastic containers. They shrieked with hilarity at the gossip being told.
I came across a village school with
its classroom beneath the trees. The teacher smiled when he saw me and
gestured that I approach. He spoke fluent English and translated what I said
to his pupils. I introduced myself and Ashley and told them why I was in
their country. They laughed and clapped hands and seemed overjoyed. The
teacher then dismissed the class, telling them
to play soccer for a while. Two young boys took Ashley by the hand and led
him to their “soccer field”. Several other villagers joined the teacher, who
fervently translated all I said. They were all enthusiastic about what they
did, what they grew and were very positive about their future for their
children. I felt humbled by these people who opened their hearts to me.
When I got back into my 4x4 to
continue the journey, Ashley asked if he could give his soccer ball, which was in the boot, to his new friends.
He took his ball and ran over to the pupils who were standing under the
trees waiting to wave us a farewell. He told the teacher he wanted his
friends to have his soccer ball and remember him by it. In exchange, the
class representative gave Ashley their soccer ball, sharing the same
sentiment. Beaming from ear to ear, Ashley told me about the ritual trade
and then showed me the ball they had given him – it was composed of a large
bundle of plastic bags, which were tied up with string.
I
boarded an overnight steam ferry, leaving Cape Maclear and bound for
Chilumba in the north. Sitting with my feet up against the decks railings, I
relaxed with an ice-cold beer whilst Ashley and a newfound friend played on
the deck.
A
little further up the road I pulled in at a roadside stall. The Masai cyclist soon
caught up and also stopped for a drink. They were awesomely tall and
dignified looking men in brilliantly bright robes, elaborate hair plaited
and dyed red, huge holes in their earlobes, splendid jewellery and
glistening spears. In pigen English they asked how I got my hair to be
straight and what mud did I put on Ashley’s hair to make it so white?
Overlooking the Indian Ocean, Ashley and I watched a spectacular sunset from
our hotel balcony. Lost in thought I contemplated the journey ahead and
reflected on the people we had met earlier. Later, whilst tucking Ashley
into bed, he asked when we would return to Malawi. “I want to go back there
mummy.” I gently smoothed his hair and whispered, “I do too, my boy. One
day, one day soon” and tucked his plastic bag and string soccer ball in next
to him. A promise I endeavour to keep.