A Hitchhiker's Guide to Africa

I had a surreal moment when hitching back to Mzimba last Wednesday. I found myself in a minivan packed tight as sardines with an array of neon dresses. A van so full that the front passenger seat was pushed all the way forward, my knees abutted the glove compartment dimpling them wit the Toyota logo. My giant pack lay atop my lap, my head barely peaked over the top. My sack of vegetables was wedged beneath my legs. The driver, one of the newly immigrated Chinese flooding into Africa right now, greeted me. His English was minimal. He was nice enough to pick me up, but our ride most mostly silent. Each time we approached a road block, he'd roll down his window while maintaining a steady gaze forward and hand the police officer a 100 kwacha bill (that's effectively $0.30 now). They take it and open the gate. He manages to say, “Police corrupt.” I acknowledge this and suggest it's quite true. We continue on with the sounds of Chinese pop songs to fill our ears. I read a bit to pass the two hours or so until we reach our destination. As I sat there, folded tightly into that cramped seat and occasionally trying to find something simple enough to say, I realized that this is my life here. I travel from place to place upon nothing but the generosity of other's. And the places and situations I find myself in are often comical. Or at least that's how I choose to look at them. That very morning I was on the side of the road just outside Lilongwe. I'd been there long enough for a few cars to pass and indicate that they were just around. It was starting to get irritating. The sun didn't help matters, Malawi seems chronically short of shade. I stuck my hands in my pocket, harrumphing, when I found a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup I'd put there that morning. It was a delight, melted a bit from my body heat and the unrelenting sun, but I still licked the wrapper clean. Just as soon as I did a fine white sedan pulls over. I run up and lean into the window to ask the driver how far he's going. If I'm to find a car that's only going to take me a couple kilometers down the road when I need to go 400km, it's not really to my advantage. Often people stop with the intention of taking you to a bus stage, which is in the center of some small town. However, that's completely antithetical to my hitching strategy, which relies on me looking destitute in the middle of nowhere, people then feel pity and stop. Thus, I ask to know whether they're going the distance. This gentleman demurs. He quickly snaps, “It don't matter how far I'm going, whenever someone offers you a ride, you get in.” I briefly reflected on this and how my mother would have a differing opinion. I don't ponder long though and I open the door and shove my bag across the leather of the spacious back seat. This man informed he was once the premier boxer in Malawi, Ben Chitenje. He went on for a bit, reminiscing on the old days or, as he put it, educating me on vital sports history. I nodded, giving him peremptory gestures. It's in my best interest to agree, if not verbally at least by nodding, with the driver – I want to get where I'm going after all. After a spell, he pulls over at a convenience store and gives me a 1000 kwacha. I'm to buy us all drinks. I do so and come back out, handing out the sodas and then handing him back the change. He won't accept it. I'm to keep it. I attempt to challenge this assertion, but he's not the type to back down. So I shrug and settle back in with my Coke Light, gaze out at the quickly passing scenery; that's just the way it is. We reach his destination, just before Kasungu, about halfway to Mzimba. He lets me out in the middle of a trading center. I walk out of town. I need to find a spot where I look appropriately pathetic. I settle down after a kilometer or so and as I turn around a shiny, new truck is swiftly making it across the stretch I just walked. I start to wave my hand up and down. They don't seem to be slowing and when they pass I curse under my breath. I walk back over to my pack when I hear a honk. I turn, they've stopped a bit up the road. I run up to it. It's a truck full of immaculately dressed tobacco buyers. They tell me to get in and off they are, speeding along. They offer me a cake, they all seem to be eating one, I oblige, this is my lunch today. They can only take me as far as Kasungu, but it's OK, I do need to get on the other side of that town if I'm to find anything going the rest of the distance. The driver seems very keen on my strategy. He suggests driving me to the opposite side of Kasungu and leaving me in a bare patch of nothing on the side of the road. As discourteous as it sounds, it's exactly where I wanted to be. I pull out my bags, settle them beside the tarmac and look up. A stuffed box of a van is hurtling up the road at me. I extend my arm and flutter it up and down. He slows down and stops before me. I lean into the window and the Chinaman says, “Herro, how are you?” He's going straight to Mzimba, my destination. No need to peddle myself at the turnoff to Mzimba. No need to hassle another driver to complete the distance. This is my last ride of the day before my matola takes me home. I relax, well as much as I can in this cramped space. I pull my book out of my bag. I'm reading the The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Let's see how they do it in other dimensions. Hitching is an unpredictable way to travel, but it never fails to entertain.

Flora and Fauna of Zomba Plateau

Chance and the Youth Troupe

Last week was marvelous. I felt that things were moving forward just as they should be. A moment of sheer certainty, my place here has had meaning. As someone who once explained their belief in déjà vu to me. They suggested that it’s a moment to tell you your life is on the right track; harmony and balance are present. I’m quite partial to this belief. I’m rather prone to déjà vu myself. It happens with startling frequency. And each time that moment of queasy verisimilitude happens, I eschew the cause to this.

One of these moments occurred as I sat by watching the youth club for Mhalaunda perform a drama and HOPE kit activities. They are preparing for the upcoming Youth Day at Embangweni, a small town roughly 15km from where I stay. Youth Day is a summit for youth, to display different activities they’ve been working on, to network with other villages, to dance, sing, and eat in the company of hundreds of other youth. It’s an understatement to say they’re excited. This is huge. They’ve been practicing for weeks now.

Chance is the one directing the “troupe.” She’s Mama Chavula’s niece, a girl I’ve grown quite fond of. She also was selected to represent Mhalaunda at Camp GLOW (Girls Leading Our World) this past August. After watching her grow so much in that short week, I then asked her to be one of my esteemed counselors at Women2Women in December. Chance is taking it all in stride; she’s becoming quite the leader, shepherding her peers to be assertive and self-confident.

This week, she’s playing the role of director. She’s suggested the other members of the troupe play out several outcomes to a scenario, the boy-meets-girl type. One girl was to reply to the scenario that she’s not interested in what the boy has to offer; she wants to focus on school and abstain from relationships. One to reply that the boy and the girl may marry, but only if he remains faithful. One replies that they may have sex, but only if a condom is used. And the last pair, to continue a healthy, happy marriage the man and woman plan to be faithful while still using condoms.

And Chance directed the whole production, giving pointers, suggestions, supplying a way of phrasing to the actors. These actors are the youth of my village, the nurse’s daughter, the headmaster’s son, the reverend’s girl, the various kids (I suppose I should say adolescents) I see on a daily basis. Then upon the close of the drama, they performed the bridge activity. Chance, demonstrating for our small rehearsal audience, explained its symbolism. The bridge lies across troubled water full of dangers, herein recognized as snakes, crocodiles, and hippopotamuses. The plethora of dangers are an allusion to perils in life, those posed by early marriage, dropping out of school, unwanted pregnancy, etc. Across the troubled water there at first lies one bridge of two colors, one side white, and the other blue (this is essentially a long stick with a width of an inch and a half). Chance asked each of the actors to attempt a crossing. After much fanfare, they are of course practicing being theatrical here; many fall off, splashing into the waters of uncertainty. Only two make it across safely. Chance elucidates. The white and blue bridge is to symbolize abstinence and being faithful. Yet few cross to their future relying on that method alone, hence the two lonely actors on the other side. Chance adds on to the bridge, a counterbalancing stick of yellow, making the cross all the more facile. This part of the bridge is condom use and accurate information about sex. Each of the actors then crossed the dual bridge. This time everyone made it across, making that final step with an exuberant cry of “Nditha!” Meaning “I can!” An affirmation that one may pursue their future without being mired in the dangers that afflict life.

It was well done. A performance that’s sure to knock the socks off the other programs at Youth Day. The kids think they have a showstopper and I tend to agree.

I sat and observed the show, only to participate when I crossed to give my peremptory “Nditha!” I recognized that my role was only to advise and otherwise marvel at the agency Chance has taken in this instance. It felt good. I know that Chance has adopted and incorporated the many teachings she’s been exposed to through GLOW and Women2Women. She’s effloresced under mentors and proper role models. And I’ve had the pleasure of watching her bloom. She takes such initiative and care, now steering her peers to be more self-assured, confident, and well-informed. Her guidance is empowering more now. She’s paying it forward.

I looked on and marveled. A bit proud. I know I’ve had an impact with at least one young woman – and by the transitive property perhaps more. But even the thought that Chance will go on empowering others that makes all my time here worth it.

Chance and me at Women2Women

The Malipenga Dance - Ifumbo, Chitipa

It's rainy season again, and I forgot my umbrella

We're at the St. Francis Outreach clinic, the whole hospital staff, in the village known as Kayeleka. We're just waiting, or more simply as we say here, we're just staying until the food is prepared and the car returns.

We left for the clinic in a downpour. We ran the clinic in a downpour. And now we wait, it only makes sense that the rain would stop now. My shoes, a new pair of loafers are soaked through. My toes and heels feel clammy and cold. My linen pants, carefully concealed under my chitenje, damply cling to my calves.

At times like this I despise the rain. I despise the clammy morbid touch of my face, pliant and moist. I hate the squish of my shoes. A squishy sandwich as my heel digs in to the sponged leather and then further digging into the mollified sandy dirt. I hate how my cardigan dampens and becomes a stringy cloth sutured to my arms. Hate how my umbrella must become a permanent appendage. I hate that I have hardly any task today. In anticipating of the car being late on account of the rain, the volunteers went ahead and did my part of the clinic. Now, I'm walking aimlessly through the clinic, outdoors of course. With a few of the various parts housed in school blocks, dozens and dozens of people shoved in open air rooms. I wander form block to block looking for a task to entertain me and keep me from pondering my soaked galoshes and overall wet-dog appearance. Finally, Bright asks me to help with the feeding program for the underweight children. I entered the weights, jotted down their village and traditional authority, and measured the MUAC (mid upper arm circumference). I breezed through the recording, as I always tend to do with data entry. The numbers jump from my hand, pulsing through the pen, onto the paper in a motion so fluid you would think my arm was mechanized. As quickly as I entered the date, I was again through, just to sit again. To sit again in this rain, wet clothes plastered to me, only to wait until lunch is prepared and I can climb back into the ambulance to go back to Mhalaunda.

To the Very North

A journey to Chitipa
In my more recent journeys, I traveled to Chitipa, the northernmost district in Malawi. A place so remote that it's jokingly referred to as the Wild West of Malawi, ironic right, considering the dearth of paved roads and the dismal rates of rural electrification. Chitipa is the one district that has yet to receive paved roads of any kind (but they are on the way, courtesy of the Chinese who are paving the way, literally). In this remote corner of the country, nestled between Zambia and Tanzania, lays the district so unlike any other place I've been in Malawi. There's such a confluence of tongues here, 27 are said to be spoken in the area, many of them found nowhere else in Malawi. It's a place set aside from the rest of the country, demarcated by forests, the escarpment, and the nature reserve. It folds in upon itself, perpetuating a unique, innate culture known for their dances, Red Gold (hot sauce of the gods!) and their chips mayeye.

I went there on Wednesday, October 26, traveling up with a fellow volunteer, Brian. We came up to visit another mutual friend and volunteer, to see her site and be around for Halloween. Chitipa Halloween is a volunteer party staple on the social calendar. Well, we traveled up, north from Mzuzu, and oh my it was miserable. Hot season is upon Malawi and traveling north means traveling along the lake shore, through the thick of it. The air is stagnant, and heavy with latent heat and smells of fish, drying on racks stretching for miles and miles all along the shore. Sitting in the bus, my cotton, cargo pants were drenched and trying to re-situate myself called for a peeling away of flesh from pliant plastic. It was disgusting. The sun is so strong here that within a half hour, my skin reddens, even with SPF60 sunscreen. Yuck.

The drive from Karonga, the district along the lake shore rampant with scorching temperatures and odorous fish, goes up and over the escarpment into Chitipa. The escarpment is really just the mountainous region that limns the lake shore area, setting it aside from inland. It runs the length of Malawi and it's a constant vision from anywhere along the shore. The road winds its way, switch-backing to and fro, through scrubby, indigenous forests. The matola, a lorry truck with dozens and dozens of people seated in the back, moved along at a good clip. It was attempting to cover the 100km distance in the short amount of time before dusk descended on Malawi, which happens at around 6pm. Between Karonga and Chitipa there are few diversions, few roads that branch off, and there is hardly a trading centre (small town), let alone a filling station anywhere along the dirt road stretch. At one point, we come across a particularly sparsely populated stretch, and pull off. The driver's helpers dismount and start to root through the grass, pushing aside the bush, obviously looking for something. I was a bit bewildered, wondering what could they possibly be in search for in the grass, a rock? Someone's katundu (a Chitimbuka catchall word meaning luggage, or more generally stuff)? No sooner than I tease out these possibilities, then one of the men pulls a jerry can of fuel out of the ditch. And behind, five other guys pull out identical jerry cans of fuel, all in a line in this particular ditch, in the middle of nowhere. I can barely contain myself; I find it hysterical that they've managed to hide fuel in the wild ditches along this road. Malawi is in the midst of an ongoing and nearly crippling fuel crisis. It's not that it's overpriced as so often happens in America when there's hitch in the supply, there's just no fuel to be had. People park outside fuel stations, lining up for days and days because a rumor circulates that a fuel truck will be arriving. There is never a guarantee that you'll find fuel, it's always a gamble, and I've been on my fair share of vehicles that run out of gas. And in the absence of a filling station, the middle of nowhere seems like a perfect place for fuel cans. Of course, as we always say here in times like this: TIA, this is Africa. I found it hilarious and wildly clever to boot.

So even with all the urging Brian and I did, to persuade the driver to move along faster, we still did not arrive in Chitipa until 7:30pm. And as we're speeding along the wash-boarded gravel, the headlights cast a dark glare on the rugged curves of dirt just ahead. We bend around one curve, moving along hastily, when the headlights take an oxcart into their line of sight. Directly in our path, it's only a split second that the driver has to react. He pulls hard left, the wheels begin to skid, and the back fishtails. I let out a scream, a brief burst of fear; my front seat companions are stone cold silent, and only merely acknowledge my reaction. We skid to a halt, barely missing the oxcart; I'm sure the shepherd was relieved, even if covered in dust particulate. The helpers dismount again, casing the car and noting any damage. We line up alongside, it's already fully nighttime, the moon overhead our only source of light. The helpers poke and prod the underbelly of the lorry, their source of light a camping headlamp kindly donated by Brian to the cause. It seems we've busted a spring, or more accurately a strut, but they call it a spring nonetheless, lost in translation. They continue to hoist and fumble with the undercarriage until they settle on a way to jimmy-rig it, using rope and leverage to hold it in place until a mechanic can be found. It's impressive the ingenuity with which Malawians problem solve. Especially in these sorts of situations, in the real world, with something tangible, where they know if they don't fix it they'll be stranded. They will find a solution. I like to call their ingenuity MacGyver ability, the ability to jimmy-rig or solve any sticky situation with little more that what's in your pockets.

The next day, after a good sleep to melt away all the built up tension, we went for a walk. Our friend Kara speaks endlessly of the river near her, for swimming, for swinging off vines into the water, and crossing a true monkey bridge. Her counterpart, Watchi, wants to take us to the Songwe River, the river that limns the border between Tanzania and Malawi. We began, striking out from Ifumbo (Kara's village), ambling along and greeting everyone in our path: Maona / Maona mwemwe / Ena / Panandi / Ndagadaga. The ubiquitous greeting in this area, simply banter on how your day is going. We hike on, reaching the river in less than 20 minutes. We first come upon the rope bridge Kara goes on about. And it is the veritable monkey bridge that reminds me of such cheesy, adventure flicks as Romancing the Stone or Indiana Jones: The Temple of Doom. The bottom of the bridge is but one incredibly thick vine, the sides, many many vines wrapped and stretched along the breadth of the river. We hiked across, treading lightly on the wrapped vines and looking over only occasionally to see the distance down to the water's lapping, frothy surface. That was my you-know-you're-in-Africa moment. Life wouldn't be as enjoyable if I didn't have at least one of those a week.

As we descended the bridge and attempted to scout a good sand bar from which we could swim, a friend of Watchi approached us. After the customary introductions, he told us about a nearby celebration, a malipenga. As soon as he mentioned it, my ears perked at the sounds of drums floating over to us from the nearby Misuku hills, the pounding still several kilometers off. I was intrigued. We followed the echoes of the drumbeats, coming upon a large throng of people, encircling dancers. They moved in tandem, thrusting one way, arms outstretched above them, doubling back into a crouch, and then swinging their arms around. Their movements matched both the intensity and force of the drumbeats. Accompanying the drums were what I can only describe as kazoos. They produced a high-pitched, duck call of sorts. A trio of kazooists played the instrument, looking similar to a nose trumpet, but made of rawhide. The nasally cadence gave a certain alacrity to the dance. At the forefront of dancers, of the 30 or so, one's attention was drawn to three. These lead dancers wore white shirts, with bright cerulean-hued pants. Around their necks hung a necklace, made of many various colors of yarn, tied together by a leather strap, each side looking like a shaving cream lather brush. A similar yarn head band rested on their forehead and their faces had many smears of white paint. They thrusted and parried to the beat, telling a story with their mock spears and shields. I was transfixed by one dancer in particular, he looked no older than 12. He speared his way thought the crowd. At a particularly past-paced meter, he doubled over backwards, popping his shoulders to and fro, dipping into a low limbo and hopping forward. And they went on like that, dancing for nigh on an hour, before taking a break to allow for a skit.

As we arrived, we were escorted to the front, being the only white people, the azungus, we were honored guests. We sat next to the chief, crouching to greet him. He invited us to sit, to surrender to the drum beats and enjoy.

A Few Anecdotes

Allow me to set the scene, I'm sitting in the home of my dear friend, confidante, and adopted mother, Mama Chavula. As a family, we're sitting down to dinner. Once again, I've singed the prints off my fingers as I pried the top nsima patty from the pile. While this is a nightly affair, always I'm the first to peel off the top patty, the last one into the serving bowl and that final spoonful that came from the bottom of its cooking dish, steaming enough to cast a mirage in the air just above the serving dish. But this night was different. As we ate Erita, the sister-in-law to Mama Chavula, was cutting up a carcass of sorts. She sat with all of us while we ate, serrating bits of pork away. Well the rest of us were in the middle of eating, she's set slicing and dicing. It was a tad revolting, please note I'm still an avid vegetarian, even in Malawi. I queried her as to what part of the animal she was amputating, her response: “chamuganganga” meanwhile grabbing at her breast. Oh indeed, she was cutting away the teats. It was this response, the indicating of her breast, that led to my explosion. If nsima was a tad runnier it would have come streaming out of my nose. I burst out laughing along with the rest of the family.

There is a supreme difference in parenting techniques from Malawi to America. As per usual, I'm sitting over at Mama Chavula's watching Erita force feed Eugene, her firstborn son. She holds the phala, the cornmeal porridge, in her hand and holds it up to his mouth, making him swallow. He slowly gurgles it down, making funny sounds all the while. But clearly he in no way enjoys the phalli. At other times, Mama Chavula feeds him and it sounds as if he's being tortured. She forces the spoonfuls of porridge down his throat as he screams bloody murder. I have a hard time watching it or even listening to it. Not to mention this is generally while the rest of us are eating dinner; his screams are hardly ambient white noise. Compared to what I can only imagine is a western approach, we encourage babies to play with their food or coax them into eating with airplane personified baby spoons. Not here. As Mama Chavula says, he has to learn to take his phala, he can't stay on the teat forever. I suppose that's a fair point, but the tough love approach is so …. tough. How is he supposed to eat his porridge if he's force-fed it? We need to bring a little fun to phala time.

I just ate a vimpwete. It's a spiky fruit, green in color and covered in small spikes. It looks similar to a cucumber, simply covered in small "horns." And that's exactly what it tasted like, like a cucumber. I rather liked it. Now I just need to grow some dill and I could make a fabulous cucumber dill sauce.

Wow, I just had an amazing afternoon. One of those afternoons that make me smile and love life. I went for a run this afternoon, as I often do when the sun starts to set and the heat begins to dissipate. I head over to the football pitch and run a few laps in the last hour of daylight. And as I ran a few laps around the football pitch, I rounded the bend a group of five pregnant women came out and announced they were going to run with me. Off we went, me leading the pack, followed by a trail of five pregnant women. And I don't mean women in their first trimester either, these women could have their water break at any moment, bellies so round and bulging there is no way they could see the ground in front of them as we ran. But they kept on, we ran three laps, jogging at a slow pace, but they managed. I couldn't help but laugh and revel in the moment. I felt euphoric. It was really something. I laughed so hard that afternoon, never had I experienced anything like it.

I'm sitting on my front porch, watching a gaggle of birds walk by. It's amusing to watch for the birds aren't all chickens, in fact only two are chickens. The chickens are the momma hens, and their chicks, they are the be-speckled, blue-necked birds here call guinea fowl. It's such a funny concept. When the hens are roosting, atop their meagre amount of eggs, you swap the chicken eggs for the guinea fowl eggs and allow hatching and tending to run its course. The chickens don't seem to notice the switcharoo, they raise the fowl like their own. Off they go to roam the village, the guinea chicks, eight or so and the momma hen. Such a motley crew, but they never fail to amuse me.