Anyone who has lived in Malawi (the former British Protectorate of Nyasaland) knows that there is something very special about the place that grows in you and eventually wraps you in its warm and friendly hands. You can’t put your finger on it; it is there, ethereal. But whatever it is, it certainly captured my little family for 16 years. Without a doubt, they are some of the happiest years of our life.

It is a beautiful country, a third of its surface covered with water. From the lower lake, the terrain climbs up to the beautiful grassy hills of the Nyika Plateau and up to the rugged Zomba and Mulanje Mountains. Swimming in the freshwater lake is like diving into a warm tropical fish tank with a myriad of flickering multi-colored cichlids. But in some areas, a watchful eye should be kept for crocodiles (colloquially known as ‘flat dogs’) and hippos (‘mvu’ in Chichewa, the local language). Lake Malawi is called Calendar Lake, is 365 miles long and 52 miles wide, and 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 old Victorian Christian missionaries who came to spread the Word, over 150 years ago. David Livingstone was the first of this brave group of people. 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 former Livingstonia Mission on the south shore of the lake at Cape Maclear. They bear witness to the evangelical zeal of the owners of the old bones that are now buried. These missionaries faced unimaginable difficulties. The Anopheles mosquitoes claimed them; mass murderers, serial murderers. Mary, Dr. Livingstone’s wife, succumbed to them and is buried under a baobab tree in an unguarded 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, devastated by parasites.

Other missionaries, survivors of malaria, were Chauncy Maples and Will Johnson. They were two extraordinary spreaders of the Gospel who had been together at Oxford University and their combined efforts led to the construction of the famous Anglican cathedral on Likoma Island in the lake. Johnson was the lakeside ‘apostle’, which was his parish for more than 40 years, walking, lean in his long white dresses. But if Johnson owned the shores, Maples certainly owned the waters. He drowned in them when his boat sank during one of those sudden, fierce storms that characterize the lake. His cassock dragged him down. The ‘Lake of the Stars’, as Livingstone described it, is a very temperamental, often dangerous stretch of inland water … particularly when the southeastern ‘mwera’ wind blows. The spirit of another missionary, Dr. Laws, still ‘walks’ in the cold shadows in the old ‘stone house’ where a new Livingstonia Mission was relocated on a plateau overlooking the lake. This was far in excess of the foul fumes on the lake shore which, according to Dr. Laws, were responsible for the deadly fevers. Malaria permeates 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 united and driven towards the coast of the Indian Ocean, driven by the cruelty of the ‘ruga ruga’ (wild, painted, semi-human beings, who transported eyelashes). This was followed by a suffocating boat trip across the sea to Zanzibar, the central slave market of the Arab world and the Orient. Only a quarter of the slaves survived this trip 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 lasted for years, largely unnoticed by an outside world preoccupied with other wars of the late 19th century. Eventually the infamous Arab merchant Mlosi was defeated and hanged in 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 enduring legacy. He died alone in what is present-day Zambia, kneeling by his rough bed, riddled with dysentery and bleeding hemorrhoids. Faithful African followers carried his embalmed body many hundreds of miles to shore from where it reached its final resting place at Westminster Abbey. His heart, however, remains in the land of Africa that he loved.

Other fascinating stories emerge from Malawi; like the famous tale of Commander Rhoades that started the first naval engagement of the First World War. He struck gunboat Hermon von Wissmann while in the dry dock at Sphinxhaven on the eastern shores of the lake with a salvo from a 6-pound Hotchkiss on his Gwendolyn gunboat. Rhoades had been drinking and dining shortly before with his old friend, the commander of the German battleship, who was unaware of the outbreak of war, so Herr Brent’s apoplectic rage echoed through the smoke and fire through the waters with “gett for damn Rhoades, aren’t you silly?”

It was a great pleasure for me to visit many of these places that I have mentioned and to reflect on the lives of great people. As a company pilot, I got to know the surrounding territories quite well between 1991 and 2008. My fascination with Livingstone spread to Tanzania, where I explored the old house in Unyanyembe, (modern Tabora) the house where Livingstone and Stanley parted ways. Company in 1872. Stanley made his way home to England to enjoy the fame of his famous newspaper report, while Livingstone wandered in search of the illusory source of the River Nile. He was never seen alive by another white man and after one year he was dead. I saw precious pieces of Livingstone memorabilia in the Zambian city museum that bears his name. And I visited the museum in Blantyre, Malawi, named after his birthplace. And I looked in morbid fascination at the tools of the slave trade, leg shackles and wooden neck yokes, on display at the Bagamoyo museum on the coast of the Indian Ocean. This was the final staging post for slaves from the interior to Zanzibar.

The story came to life for me on my travels. Old German coins, stamped with the eagle, could be bought from young people on the beach in Bagomoyo, the former capital of German East Africa. And KAR (Kings African Rifles) medals and ancient bronze trinkets from ancient Arabia could be found in the crowded bazaars of Zanzibar. The Selous Game Reserve, named after the famous hunter who was killed there by a German sniper in World War I, was impressive in its vastness and diversity of wildlife. I followed Commander Paul Von Lettow-Vorbeck’s travels with his askaris through this area and along the Rovuma and Lugenda rivers to Mozambique. I wondered about the audacity and skills of the man in conducting guerrilla warfare against British forces in East Africa during World War I. He was never captured and eventually surrendered at Abercorn in Northern Rhodesia (Zambia) in Armistice.

Mount Kilimanjaro, Victoria Falls, the ruins of Zimbabwe, chimpanzees in Uganda, the Caborabasa Dam and the Zambesi and Chobe rivers, circling the volcano on the Comoros Islands and fishing for sailfish and dorado in Malindi off the Kenyan coast are all souvenirs. deeply rooted. And so are memories of flying in formation with vultures on a glider over the Wankie Game Reserve, tracking wild dogs near the Gwaai River lodge (now raised to the ground), collecting spices and ancient books in Dar-es-Salaam. . I chased after the ghost of Beryl Markham (that famous aviator) at the Muthaiga Club in Nairobi where she lived and at the Wings Club of East Africa that I frequented. The stories of ‘White Mischief’ and the Ngong Hills intrigued me and the mysterious unsolved murder 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 on 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 the throbbing drums. The ‘guru’ are male initiates of the secret society who dress strangely and fiercely and are frequently seen running along the rural roads of Malawi; scary things. Children scatter when they approach and even adults scurry quickly.

Africa is a fascinating continent and Malawi is, for me, at its heart. In fact, it is referred to as the “warm heart of Africa” ​​and I would often ponder this beautiful description during sunset in the tropics. Drinking chilled Carlsberg beer (brewed locally) in the company of good friends, as the sun set in Monkey Bay, was a perfect setting for reflection. Ask anyone who has been there. But I never made it to the top of Mulanje Mountain, and that’s a great regret I’ve had since I left Malawi to live in Canada. So one day I have to go back to that warm heart.