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Driving 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.
The Madala told that in the next village, which was near 20
kilometres 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 picanins (toddlers) were darting here
and their, chasing chickens, their smiling mother's looking
on, whilst pounding maize.
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 parked my Land cruiser and ventured out amongst them. They
were kind and friendly and the women adored my young son,
Ashley, touching and clucking about his blonde hair.
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 car 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.
Back on the tarred road, I passed many plantations of what
looked to be Macademia trees. As it was the 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."
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.
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.
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 jewelry 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?
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. |
Travel Writers: In a small corner of Africa by
Cindy-Lou Dale
