Journals

I'm going to pause my narration for a moment here to discuss a powerful African phenomenon whose reach and influence span thousands of miles across tribal lines and international borders, touching rich and poor, tourist and local alike.  I speak, of course, about the bush grapevine: gossip.  Unbelievably, even in dispersed regions of Africa that have no electricity, scuttlebutt spreads across long distances with an efficiency that rivals the internet.  This distribution does not compare so much in terms of pure speed, but rather in coverage, because while gossip through electronic mediums tends to reach only those who seek it, when something comes up the bush grapevine everyone hears it.  Back in Maputo, during the endless wait for my motorbike's paperwork to come through, I learned of an expression the Mozambiquans have that reflects the prowess of their indigenous rumor mill.  They say, "If you slap someone in the face in Maputo, and then drive nonstop to Beira (720 kilometers away), their cousins will be waiting for revenge when you arrive."  This is in a country where less than five percent of the population has a telephone.    I heard about Gerard and Jennifer, the Swiss-American couple who was now hosting me at their guesthouse in northern Malawi, through the bush grapevine almost a month before meeting them.  I was still in Mozambique at the time, trying to enjoy a quiet drink at my hostel before leaving on the four-day journey that would take me out of the country.  A group of overlanders--tourists who choose to maximize their time in Africa by following long-distance, prepackaged itineraries in huge, distinctive trucks--poured into the bar area all of a sudden and started partying up a ruckus.  Before retreating back to my tent, I heard several of them discussing a story about a European couple 'up north' who had been attacked by machete-wielding intruders in the dead of night.  No one could provide any further details about where the incident took place, or if anyone was hurt.  But this lack of information would not last long.     During the next few weeks, as I made my way from Blantyre and the Ilala ferry to Nkhata Bay (ever closer to Mzuzu, where the protagonists in this narrative live with their children), fresh details of the attack reached me at regular intervals.  Against the odds, it seemed that the husband had managed to fight off both armed men and scare them away before they could rob his house or cause any serious physical harm.  And yet, by the time I recovered enough to resume heading north from Nkhata Bay, the story of Malawi's heroic, hearth-defending white man was all but forgotten.  Its place at the forefront of local conversation now belonged to an astounding new tale of survival that also arrived via the bush grapevine.  This one told of a man from Southern Malawi who had come across a young male lion in the bush, and escaped near-certain death by waving his arms and screaming until the lion turned and disappeared.  When I asked Gerard how he felt about his widespread, yet brief moment of fame, he was philosophic.  "Well, it wasn't as big a deal as people make of it.  I pretty much did the same thing as that chap when he saw the lion.  That must have been really scary."