Blood and Steel in search of Edgar Makwinda's Africa Part 1

Blood and Steel Part 1.

12th March 1979

The flight from Dodoma had been some what slow and jerky as the Tanzanian Airlines DC-3 struggled to stretch the distance to the supposed Airport that was Lilongwe International. Aiport and International in name only.

I was in no ways new to this part of Africa, but this was my first time to the Republic of Malawi and it was with some Chichewan phrases, and the elusive myths of this man who I had heard so much about, that I set of on my little journey. From the outset it was a quest without end or structure, it was something I had convinced my editor to do with a great amount of reluctance on his part.

I had heard from several parts of Southern Africa of this wise teacher of men, one who could defy the logical world in which we lived. A man who was a throw back to the dark days of pre colonial Africa, a man who could show this pale skinned 'white man' just what this part of the World was really about.

I was in search of Edgar Makwinda.

I was approached by two round faced men, whose sweat stained Khaki's seemed to be two sizes to small for their rotund though perfectly orbital trunks. Each man greeted me with a wide smile, and shook my hand with a vigour that I can feel still just now as I type away.
One of the men, who called himself 'Cook' explained to me that he could show me to any part of Malawi that I was interested in. Cook seemed to have learned English at a young age and spoke with only a slight accent. His companion however though the same age was completly bald spoke only the slightest of English. He had introduced himself to me as 'Hendrix". For no other reason other than he seemed to be a fan.

Our Land Rover rolled away and carried us over dirty roads and barely walkable tracks as we neared our destination of Salima. This was where we were to meet Edgar, or as my contacts had called him, The Teacher.

It was slowly ebbing into darkness as we reached the hotel, a four bedroom two story building with a Pepsi Cola sign leaning against the entrance. Grabbing my belongings I ventured into the building with my two guides close by. All the time Cook was explaining to me why the subtle nuances of the his favourite Jetsons episodes.

It appeared that Edgar was not going to be in town tonight. Or so I gathered as Cook and Hendrix spoke to the Hotel owner and the town leader. The conversation was fast and aggressive at times, but it soon relaxed into laughter and smiles as each man took their turns at looking in my direction with varying smiles and nods. It seems that they forgot I was isolated in my lack of lingual ability.

Cook later explained to me that Edgar had been here earlier in the week and had fought of several 'badmen' that had stolen the local chicken venders stall.

"These badmen were defeated by Edgar as he beat them to death with his fists. They stood little chance not even their weapons or guns could stop him. It was a great victory for us."

Cook had explained to me excitedly. Though I found no evidence of a great battle from where I had visited, nor could I see any proof of this show down other than those excited retellings by my local friends.

I went to bed that first night some what tired and drained. It was as I fell into a deep sleep that I had the most vivid of dreams, it was what my Malawi friends would call a 'story sleep'. In this Story Sleep a crying woman kept yelling at me, I could not answer her, but some strange faceless man helped her. I could not get near and every time I did I heard a voice whispering "Go home strange man" followed by some Chichewan curse words.

I told Cook about my dream, he retold it to Hendrix and the hotel owner. Each man looking at me with only what I could deem to be a concerned look.

Cook told me some what somberly that I had been warned away. That my dream was more a warning or a bad omen. It was with this in mind that we went on our journery deep into the dark, untamed jungles of Central Malawi. My two local friends sitting in silence the joyous conversations of yesterday far gone, only to be replaced by darting eyes and a cold sweat slick across each mans forehead.

And some hours into our safari it seemed that my Story Sleep truely had been an Omen for the worse.

The Land Rover came to a sudden halt when Hendrix noticed two obviously placed logs in the road. Several armed men stepped out of the foliage and approached us. They exchanged savage words with Hendrix and Cook, disarming each man of their token side arms. I at this time was helpless and isolated by the language barrier.

"Who are they and what do they want Cook?" I asked desperate to understand the situation.

"These are badmen" He answered moments before being thrown into the mud of the road with Hendrix and I.

I looked up to protest the situation, my naive Western sensibilities kicking in. As I opened my mouth it was filled with a leathery boot followed by pain and blood.

I could hear Hendrix say something only to be answered by a loud muzzle blast that sent his body into a limp and lifeless state. I felt numb. Though frightened I felt more as though I were spectating the inevitable and not experiencing it.

The armed men stood over Cook and I, pressing their rifles into the bases of our necks. I closed my eyes and accepted that I shall meet my end, foolheartedly in pursuit of a Myth in this narrow, muddy and soon to be blood soaked African road in the centre of Malawi.

End of Part 1.

The Lens of Truth - Cameron Casliner

"The Lens of truth"
Photo Journalism of Cameron Casliner 1977-2001

This is an exerpt of the upcoming book being published by Falsehood Bookhouse.















12th March 1985. Beirut.

"It is with a sense of optimism after the recent car bombings that took eighty lives including Sayyed Mohammad Hussein Fadlallah that I am reporting on the Lebanese national basket dancing competition, a non secular event that had been temporarily halted under the Israeli occupation. I stand in a square room that is no smaller than a full basket ball court that I watch with some interest the pre competition preparations that go into this unknown event. For a nation that has for a decade that has been known for its occupations, war and bombings, it is uplifting and a sign that these determined peoples are willing to get by and press forward despite the horrific realities of scared buildings, cratered roads and the the ever present threat of violence.

A young woman in her twenties, a striking beauty with lustry black hair and freckled cheeks weaves her uniform, next to her sits another maronite woman as each prepares their baskets for the competition, her eyes smile while her face is a determined painting that best symbolises the stoic nature of these people. Across from the pair sits a hijab wearing woman, her features disguised by here islamic veil, but it is hard not to see a striking similarity in the eyes of the woman. The contrast of faiths and upbringings that separate these two is in no way that great, that one can not help to notice with greater appreciation the similarities of the two. I sit by the maronite women and ask them about their baskets, both are shy at first, as only one is able to speak English with a broken tongue, though it is better than my Arabic. I find some common fluidity in French with the young beauty, her face now glowing with her smile.

"We prefer to use a cross weave that allows more contents and power." She informs me in near perfect French. I notice the Islamic woman, her competitor is observing us with greater interest now.

"The Moslems prefer to use a more open stitch, this allows them more baskets that are of a lesser quality though."

It is then that I notice the young islamic woman is shaking her head from within her veil. Her splendidly green eyes smiling as she did so.

"No, it is because the basket is more flexible." She tells us both in heavily accented English.

"And this flexibility allows greater movement for the dance." I ask. She nods and goes back to her weaving.

The young Maronite pair also continue their weaving. I stand up again the awkward outsider as I watch the competitors prepare for the upcoming competition. Who will win is truely anyone's guess, but unifying in its entertainment and cultural significance it certainly is."


20th November 1986. Dakar, Senegal.

"And it is with the upcoming 'Domestix' concert that I find myself wandering the streets of down town Dakar with the bands lead singer and guitarist, Neil Sampson. Sampson an intriguing fellow has always been fond of the developing world and has on two other occasions held concerts in such nations, offering a free nights performance for the local peoples. Even if the music that he is most famous for has no real meaning or relevance to the daily plights of such peoples. And here we are bartering with vendors in a market place as though we are regular tourists with nothing better to do.

"I feel a linking bond with all of these people, black faces or yellow its all red blood under that coloured skin." Sampson tells me as he bites into a strange roasted insect as though it was a piece of chocolate.

I watch with interest to see how his face reacts to the insect, he shows no distaste for it.

"The other guys do not want to do any more concerts like this, but I like them. It makes me realise that I am more than, you know, a rock and roller. It lets me be an ambassador to the world and the peoples in it." Sampson continues to inform me of his global philosophy as he throws a hand ful of dried ants into the same mouth that in a few nights time will be singing chart topping lyrics.

Sampson decides to take me down a narrow alley way that seems screams to me, stay out Westerner. Sampson however leads me almost by the hand as he navigates ahead like an excited boy in a toy store determined to find the latest action figure. We near the end of the alley as several tired eyes stare at us suspiciously, one elderly man running a machete against a wet stone who looks deep into my eyes with a look of sheer hate. Sampson is however oblivious to these men, I notice his jewlery and custom made swiss watch, items almost as pricey as this small nations GDP let alone the annual earnings of these tired souls. Though almost naively Sampson takes me into a small building, in place of a door is a shredded canvas curtain, as we enter my nostrils are assaulted by a disgusting odour that only the nearly dead can produce.

Inside of this putrid building, if one could call such a structure that, Sampson introduced me to an old man, he was a witch doctor of sorts, whose name was 'Bert', perhaps a simply westernisation of a more complicated indigenous name, but then again I thought as I noticed Bert was sipping a can of Tab as he watched an episode of Scooby Do on a small black and white TV.

Sampson offered Bert a large wad of american bills for something I shall never truely know what it was, but later I would find it was the secret to Sampson's sexual prowse, or so Sampson believed. The brown clump wrapped in plastic looked more like cow manure or fudge at best than anything of such properties so as to ensure, peak sexual performance. Like most rock stars, Sampson was proud of the numbers that he had 'bagged', though he feels each woman that he has slept with is a piece of a greater puzzle so as to complete his physical and spiritual being.

Sampson lead me through the maze that was downtown Dakar back to our hotel and all the while he explained to me further the philosophies of his life, I could not help to feel annoyance at his ego centric selfish rantings as I passed several starving faces and below poor Senegalese, who for the most part were nothing more than an addition to a scrap book that would some day be the life of Neil Sampson."


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