Where the Orphans Practice Meditation and Learn Kung Fu (Glimpse)

The man wears a wide, bark-strip hat, a long gray robe, and simple pair of sandals. He clutches a mango in one hand and crouches among a group of boys. They chat and laugh together. The man? A practicing Buddhist. The boys? Malawian orphans. Their shared language? Chinese.



China is the world’s biggest investor in Malawi, with its most obvious influence seen in massive building projects and controversial uranium mining. With this venture pattern, a place like Amitofo Care Centre seems beyond anomalous. The focus here is neither construction nor mineral extraction. No, this is a place where the chief responsibility is “to transmit the Dharma in Africa and continue the Buddha’s spiritual life,” according to the posted list of work ethics.



My friends and I stumbled down a dusty, rutted road to find Amitofo, an orphanage established by a Taiwanese Buddhist in 2005. The sprawling, manicured complex plays home to more than 200 Malawian orphans and qualifies as one of the most curious places I’ve ever visited. On our stroll through the grounds, we greeted women preparing colossal quantities of bitter greens and nsima, the traditional Malawian maize porridge. We removed our shoes and entered the temple, with its imposing gold statues of Buddha and its soft mats for the children’s regular meditation practice. We cheered on a group of boys as they showed off their kung fu moves, sliding into the splits and scissoring their hands in front of them. We passed a cluster of girls who flashed us a “V” with their fingers, that stereotype of Asian tourists. We scanned a wall of drawings, where sketches of big-eared elephants abutted anime-style superheroes. We met local and foreign staff, all of whom brought their hands to the prayer position and bowed their heads to greet us.







This orphanage was Amitofo’s first, but the organization has since built care centers in Zimbabwe, Lesotho, and Swaziland. There is a primary school on site, and another instructor works with the older orphans. Teachers follow the Malawian government’s curricular regulations — with the addition of Buddhist philosophy and Chinese language classes, of course. In their free time, the children can learn both traditional Chinese and traditional Malawian dances. When neighboring orphanages organize soccer or netball games, the Amitofo children join in. Many of the orphans have traveled abroad — 30 are currently in Malaysia to present kung fu and dance exhibitions.

Our guide, a secretary named Elven, offers us more tea after we complete our informal tour of the compound. I continue reading the list of ethics and rules. Smile and speak softly. Offer hope to others. Treat people with politeness. No killing (not even mosquitoes!). No gossip. No gambling. No intoxicants. No meat, fish, onion, garlic, or leek.

A ban on meat and fish, sure. But onions, garlic, leek? “Ah,” chuckles Elven. “These foods will expand, how you say, the desire. You understand?”

I tell him I do. But along with the rest of my surroundings, I’m still puzzling things out.

P.S. Lovely readers, Landlocked is going on hiatus for a few weeks. I’m taking off for epic travels on Saturday and won’t be posting while I’m away, but expect crazy stories when I return. Bribing border officers in Mozambique? Dodging police roadblocks in Zimbabwe? Taking tipply wine tours in South Africa? Gorging myself on German pastries in Namibia? Bungee jumping at Victoria Falls? (Just kidding, Mom!) See you in 2010.

How I Survived My First (and Second) Malawian Wedding (Glimpse)

Malawian weddings are marathon affairs. Numerous parties lead up to the day, and smaller celebrations follow the main event. But prior to Saturday, I had only heard about the revelry (and literally heard — the wedding parades honk their way through town, a train of cars parceled up in white and pink ribbon, camcorder-toting passengers pouring out the windows). I still have yet to experience the pre- and post-festivities, but this weekend I made up for my wedding deficiency by attending two (two!) ceremonies in one day. I questioned my stamina at points, but my day of wedding hopping proved an ultimate success. After seven hours, I’ve emerged with a few tips for surviving Malawian weddings. Though you could take the tack of my friends Thoko and Nkhwachi (BYOB — no alcohol is served at the nuptials), consider heeding the following advice.





1. Don’t know the couple? Don’t worry! I knew neither pair and still received gracious smiles from the newlyweds. Provided you follow tip #4, you’re golden.



2. Arrive early. Or even on time — the wedding will probably start late. When I showed up to the first wedding ahead of schedule, I befriended a few nattily-dressed men wearing “OFFICIAL” labels affixed to their lapels. No such thing as a free lunch? Ha. A bit of pleasant conversation earned me a heaping plate of rice, meat, and relish. My still-full stomach didn’t complain when the evening meal consisted of two cold samosas, a die-sized hunk of meat, and half a plain muffin.

3. After carbo-loading, make a fool of yourself on the dance floor. Or, more precisely, in the parking lot. Here, you’ll find family and friends awaiting the couple’s arrival, shirtless drummers, and fur-clad children performing war dances. Ladies, make sure your chitenje (wrap skirt) falls off frequently — that’ll really get the guests howling. I knew some of the traditional dances, but others were unfamiliar — including one in which a single chitenje is knotted around the waists of a man and woman, locking them in choreographic, gyratory union.







4. Bring lots (and lots and lots) of small Kwacha notes. Though couples do receive gifts that would be at home in the U.S. (tableware they’ll never use and too many toasters), the wedding itself resembles a business proceeding. I zoomed out of the first wedding before the monetary donations began, but I arrived at the second with the gift-giving already underway. Four hours later, when I left, the money-fest was just ending. The MC, dressed head-to-toe in bold geometric print, summoned donors, who tossed 20 and 50 Kwacha notes into a wide wicker basket as hit Malawian songs spooled on repeat. Some notes fell to the floor and became tangled in the bride’s train. At a table to the side, three women furiously rifled through the bills and sorted them into piles. The draw can be upwards of $700, which is usually just enough to recoup the expenses of the ceremony.







5. Don’t expect cake. Though you might luck out at some ceremonies, guests at the second wedding I attended had to shell out additional Kwacha for foil-wrapped slabs the size of domino tiles. These contained not cake but sticky blocks of unidentifiable pulp (fig was our best guess).





If these tips fail, turn to those old standbys — befriend the children, admire the sumptuous attire, and estimate the intensity of the groom’s hangover.











Now go forth, merrymakers, and rejoice.

Planning Families After They’ve Already Begun (Glimpse)

An oversized spiral-bound book in her hands, Yamikani circles the dilapidated schoolroom. She shows an illustration to each of the young women, 14- to 25-year-olds seated in flimsy plastic lawn chairs. Giggles develop into hoots as the women glimpse the image. They slap each other’s arms. Yamikani joins in the laughter.

The next picture meets a more considered reaction. The women are quiet and lean forward to examine the diagram. Yamikani runs her finger across the page, pointing out the illustration’s main features.

It’s a humid Wednesday afternoon in this Blantyre township, and these women are learning about family planning. The first picture? A comical image of an underwear-clad man gaping at a woman as she stands over him and gulps down a birth control pill. And the second? A diagram illustrating the insertion and placement of an intrauterine device.





I’ve attended one other educational program in Malawi that addressed family planning. There, the message did not extend beyond abstinence and fidelity. (OK, the facilitators briefly mentioned condoms at the end of their presentation, but they told me afterwards that discussing such contraception is futile. Sex with a condom is considered artificial, they said.)

But today, the women hear it all: in addition to the pill and IUD’s, they receive information about the patch, hormone injections, vasectomies, sterilization, child spacing, and, yes, condoms. (I hold out for a demo — goodness knows this country has enough bananas for everyone to practice — but none occurs.) It is deeply refreshing to hear the women discuss these topics with such candor. It is a rush of Chichewa and I understand few details, but I can tell the discussion is animated and frank. A cell phone occasionally buzzes, and the women stir restlessly at times, but several take notes and raise their hands to ask questions or contribute opinions.

Yamikani and Mercy, the two women leading the training, say the need for such a workshop became apparent during the past year. As part of their work for Girls Empowerment Network, a nongovernmental organization that promotes gender equality, they run 10 afternoon clubs for women across Blantyre. When they launched the clubs in June 2008, few of the women had children. Eighteen months later, an astonishing number have become mothers. Yamikani didn’t have exact figures, but she estimates that she and Mercy saw more than half of their club members become pregnant.



There’s a baby corner on Wednesday. The mothers have clustered here, their sleeping infants across their laps. We begin the training with a series of lively games, and the mothers join in, their children swaddled with strips of fabric and bouncing against their backs. A few toddlers wobble around. One boy has slipped on his mother’s glittery silver heels and shuffles across the pitted, dusty concrete floor.



The presence of so many children surprises me at first. The babies coo and wail as Yamikani explains to the women about contraception, about ovulation, about HIV transmission. Mercy addresses unwanted pregnancies. I wonder about the children here. I wonder what their mothers are thinking.





But I don’t ask. Perhaps, I decide, it makes sense that these children, the reason for this training, have joined their mothers in attendance.

Into November

My most recent Glimpse post describes a family planning training I attended, run by an organization called Girls Empowerment Network. GENET has been a fantastic contact. Mercy and Yamikani, the two women who run the women's clubs across Blantyre, are eager for me to participate. They're planning a conference for December and have talked to me about holding a dance workshop or creating a dance piece. Yikes.

Saturday was one of the best days I've had in Malawi so far. My last Glimpse entry mentioned the arts festival, which occurred this past weekend. I ended up not performing (the dancers told me to show up at 7 a.m. on Sunday, which didn't sound so tasty), but I was at the festival all day on Saturday and saw a slew of fantastic (and a few dreadful) performances. Most of the dance groups were there, and members greeted me all day long. I recognized most of them, but have learned few of their names. Better get on that. Lucius Banda, one of Malawi's biggest musicians (in terms of both fame and physical size), closed the day. People danced so energetically that a veritable dust storm developed.

That evening, I went out with Mullu and James, two of my landlord's children, and then headed to a truly epic party. All of Blantyre attended. I woke up the next morning sore from dancing.

I enjoyed a beautiful moment on my way to catch the minibus today. I turned onto Naperi Road and heard a drumbeat. A group of schoolboys, dressed in uniforms the color of hospital scrubs, had gathered on the opposite side of the street. One clenched an empty water jug between his knees and slapped out a beat as the others danced. "They're doing traditional dances," a passerby told me. As I rounded the corner, the boys ran over to me. "We're dancing," they told me (in Chichewa! And I understood! Did I mention I'm taking private lessons?). I told them (again, in Chichewa!) that I can dance, too. "Beni?" they asked, which is a men's dance that mocks the movements of British soldiers. No, I told them - and they proceeded to teach me. I tossed my backpack aside and shook my shoulders and stamped my feet with them. The women selling maize and peanuts across the road hooted and laughed. We carried on a very limited, very broken Chichewa conversation. I told them which dances I knew - chisamba, chioda, marikamba. They had to run off eventually. "See you later!" I called. "Tomorrow!" they called back.

Days here are made up of tiny, life-affirming moments like these. Sometimes the frustrations and disappointments get to me, but I try to remind myself of these small wonders.

I Will Never Be Able To Shake My Rear End Like That (Glimpse)

Triza beamed at me with the pride of a fairy godmother. “You’re a real Malawian woman now,” she said, “a real African lady.” She had just bound my chitenje, the traditional fabric wrapper worn by Malawian women. I had yet to purchase my own, but Triza had an extra. It was red and black and featured large, realistically rendered elephants. I wore madras shorts underneath. I looked down at my feet and the glaringly white crisscross of my sandal tan. I felt far from a Malawian woman, far from an African lady.

After a few weeks, I had finally worked up the courage to participate in the dance rehearsals I’d been observing. As part of my fellowship project, I’m learning traditional Malawian dances from Blantyre-based troupes. Once I realized that I would look ridiculous no matter how long I waited to join, I tossed my dignity aside and decided to dance. My inaugural rehearsal was with Dance Unit, a group that pools dancers from various troupes. (The group’s name may actually be Dance Unity — I’ve heard both labels, though this may be due to the Malawian tendency to tack on vowels to the end of English words. A while ago, a young woman complimented my panties. I was halfway to tugging up my belt before I realized she wasn’t talking about my unmentionables.) I chose a few women to watch: compact, athletic Triza; lithe, exuberant Joyce; graceful, expressive Debora.







I first attempted chioda, a joyful women’s dance. The intricate footwork gave me pause, but let the record stand that I excelled at running around in a circle and clapping.



Chisamba, a women’s dance that celebrates the first-born child, proved my next test. Here, Triza commended my footwork, and I even pivoted in time with the drums. Once, however, the women fell to their knees and continued the hip and shoulder convulsions, I grew less confident. (Watch the thrusts in the video, and now imagine the women kneeling.) But I felt grateful for our al fresco rehearsal space, a concrete stage under big-leafed trees — and without mirrors.

Meanwhile, I silently cursed all those past dance instructors who had pushed in my tailbone, repeating their mantra: “tuck in your butt, tuck in your butt.” That’s the last thing these Malawian dancers expected. I could see the way their eyes fell to my waist and hips. Now, my mother did endow me with something to shake (and I thank her for that), but I was neither a child of music videos nor a pioneer on the middle school freak dancing circuit. The hip isolation exercises from my modern dance classes were one thing. These gyrations were another. The dancers laughed. I laughed back.



Laughter has become a constant at these rehearsals, and I’ve appreciated the lighthearted welcome of the dancers. They’ve been quick, too, to induct me into their circle. They clench my arm and pull me onto the stage if I hesitate. In addition to the dances, they have taught me Chichewa proverbs (learn from the other man, but do not let him steal your eyes). They share their cheese puffs and pink nail polish. They let me play with their children, including one little girl named Rebecca, who has a tendency to smear her half-chewed cookies all over her face. This attracts flies, which settle on her nose to feast on the crumbs. I swat the flies away.



Last Friday, at a marathon seven-hour rehearsal, the dancers and I ate lunch together, the Malawian staple nsima (a stiff, sticky maize porridge) with usipa (tiny, salty fish, their tails torn off).





“Umadya nsima?” they asked, disbelievingly, as I rolled the mush between my fingers and scooped up a tomato. “You eat nsima?” I responded in the affirmative. One group member, Hussein, snapped a photo of me with his cell phone. I offered a title for the shot: “Azungu ndi nsima,” “white person with nsima.” The dancers hooted.

I’d hoped the Malawian meal would provide the springboard for instantaneous progress. I’m not so sure this came about, but I like to convince myself I’m improving. There’s an arts festival in Blantyre next weekend, and the dancers have been prodding me to participate. I think I might accept the offer. Wish me luck.

And To Think The Burning Piles Of Trash Once Attracted My Attention (Glimpse)

Five weeks into my yearlong stay in Malawi, I’ve been reflecting on those aspects of life I thought would remain forever foreign but have already become familiar. When my plane landed, I peered out the window and found myself overwhelmed with how tremendously different it all was — the tarmac so covered in dust I couldn’t see the asphalt, the brightly clad onlookers standing on the observation deck just to watch the jets take off and fly in, the impressive loads carried atop the heads of pedestrians, the deep purple jacaranda blossoms, the enormous quantities of firewood piled onto antiquated bicycles, the burning piles of refuse, the infants strapped onto women’s backs with vibrant swathes of fabric, the trees shaped like broccoli florets, the goats grazing by the roadside. But by now, most of these things have grown commonplace. What else barely makes me blink twice?







As an obvious foreigner, I attract a great deal of attention on the street. This attention manifests itself in marriage proposals, travel requests (“take me to your country!”), and all variety of name-calling. So far, I’ve been every member of the family (sister, baby, mama — but not yet yo’ baby’s mama), friend, girlfriend, miss, madam, customer, azungu (a respectful term for a white person), mzungu (a less respectful term), and “I LOVE YOU!” The other day, a group of university students crowded onto a bus called out their windows. “A-ZU-NGU!” they hollered. “MWASWERA BWANJI?” they asked. I was walking along a busy thoroughfare during rush hour. The bus was a good distance away. “NDASWERA BWINO! KAYA INU?” I shrieked back, my hoarse voice straining to return the afternoon greeting. The students cheered. Several pedestrians cast me surprised looks, but I continued along, delighted with my laboriously pronounced Chichewa syllables.

The singularities of Malawian transport have been growing on me as well. It’s not just the minibuses that produce disconcerting death rattles and heave any time a passenger shifts their seat. On my way to a party a few weeks back, I was picked up by four Malawian guys crammed into a puny sedan. The exhaust pipe dragged on the ground, the steering wheel was half-intact, and the side view mirrors had been rendered useless by the opaque packing tape that affixed them to the body of the car. The passengers took generous swigs out of a bottle of gin. I held my breath and hoped for the best.

The insects in my house now generate resignation rather than disgust. I sigh at the parades of ants, whip out my can of insect killer, plug my nose, and spray the six-legged offenders. I favor the ominously named DOOM, which has special formulas for crawling insects and flying insects. There’s even DOOM Fresh!, a combo formula that leaves those creepy crawlies dead and my domicile smelling juicier than an orange grove.

I would estimate that power outages have occurred more than half of the days I’ve been in Malawi. And I’m lucky to be in Blantyre, which is on the electric grid — much of Malawi isn’t. I hardly notice the blackouts anymore. Once the electricity cut as a friend and I were chatting in my kitchen. We carried on the conversation in the dark. I have, however, developed a newfound appreciation for generators. But there are times when even those don’t do the job — while checking my e-mail last week, the generator’s reassuring hum sputtered. G’bye, Internet. “What happened?” I asked. “Generator ran out of fuel,” reported my Malawian friend Robert. “Ah, I love…” I began. “Malawi,” Robert finished.

Indeed. And it happened so fast.

Navigating Blantyre

Though I've been writing weekly, I figured it was about time to give the scoop on daily life in Malawi. My Glimpse entries have given a few details of the everyday, but there's far more to say.

Daily life in Blantyre is by turns hilarious, frustrating, surprising, exhausting, sluggish, speedy, heartening — I could go on. The city is remarkably compact and I run into friends and acquaintances regularly. Life in Lilongwe would be tough without a car, but Blantyre is (usually) easily navigable by foot and by minibus. While the pace of life is generally slow (things rarely start on time, shops will take two-hour lunch breaks, people can be difficult to reach, accomplishing anything on the Internet takes ages, lines at the supermarket stretch to remarkable lengths), some tasks feel instantaneous. An informal economy means I can buy my bananas or mangoes (or metal chains or cell phones or chickens or strips of rubber or milk or kittens) on the sidewalk while walking through town — no need for a market detour.  Access has rarely been an issue, either. I've spent time at the organizations I'd contacted from the States, tagged along for an HIV/AIDS outreach program in rural Mulanje, observed interactive theater training in Zomba, and watched (and participated in!) dance rehearsals.

That brings me to the progress of my project. Progress may be an overstatement. Or maybe not — after a few initial hitches, I have a short-term plan. I began by observing the dance rehearsals of various traditional dance groups in Blantyre, and I finally worked up the courage to participate. I felt ridiculous during that first rehearsal, but I had a fantastic time. The dancers were supportive and welcoming. "Come back next week!" one called as I left. "We love you!" Though my plans to attend regularly this week were derailed by travel and a nasty cold, starting next week I'll be dancing most weekdays (thank goodness — I haven’t really gotten proper exercise during my first month in Malawi). I’m not sure I'll ever be able to shake my rear like the local women, but I'll keep at it. Many Malawian dances are gender-divided, which makes for an interesting dynamic during rehearsals (simultaneous senses of solidarity and tension). I've found some of the men's dances more compelling — they incorporate more upper-body movement than the women's dances. Think they'll let me cross the gender line sometime?

I have yet to assemble a group of young women, but I've made a bit of headway with the gender prong of my project. I observed a women’s community theater group today, and I think I'll be able to draw some ideas from the workshop. I also learned about a gender-based NGO in Blantyre that runs a number of local girls' clubs, so that should prove a beneficial contact.

I'm excited to develop a daily routine. Waking up without a plan can be exhausting. I've found ways to fill my time, but my days have had little regularity. I go to the market, looking for vendors who have sold to me before — if they recognize you, you can often ask for a discount. I bought cucumbers from quite the character yesterday. He told me his name was Forest (Foster? Faster? Something with an F) Fantastic, and that if I come back, he'll offer me a good deal on gingerroot. (Speaking of odd names, I met a security guard named Sixpence the other week.) I'm tentative about bargaining — while it's expected at the clothing markets, produce prices are more firmly set. But I do sometimes. Yesterday I dropped the prices of bananas (bought a really lovely bunch) and tomatoes. Actually, the prices of the latter simply dropped when I looked skeptically at the pile of five tomatoes. "100 Kwacha," she said. "Ah, 80 Kwacha," she conceded. (It's 160 Kwacha to the dollar.) I should have bought one of the huge baskets on the way back to Blantyre from Zomba last weekend — about 15 tomatoes for 50 Kwacha. The vendors stack the produce into impressive piles. Though this means you have to inspect the undersized or bruised vegetables relegated to the bottoms of the mounds, it makes for a wonderful tableau. We've moved into mango season here — six or seven for a dollar. There are both the standard green-skinned ones you see in the U.S., as well as petite yellow-skinned mangoes, stringy and very sweet. I'm yet to buy any exotic produce, but I'll hopefully be able to collect some from my yard soon. There’s a masuku tree right outside my door, and guavas and granadillas grow a few steps away. Panashe, the 11-year-old Zimbabwean girl who lives in the guesthouse adjoining mine, usually gets to the ripe fruit first, but maybe I'll convince her to share.

How else do I fill my days? I hang out with eight-year-old Nigel (see my last Glimpse entry) and six-year-old Eme. I run errands. I take cold (sometimes lukewarm!) showers. I've met various people involved with dance or gender work here, including a British dancer, a women’s drama group, and the head of a Malawian theater organization. I scratch mosquito bites. I read. And read and read. I walk. A lot. I wither in the heat. I try to do a better job of handwashing my clothes than I did in Romania (no major detergent streaks yet, so it seems I've improved). I listen to the BBC (I bought a radio last week, which has revolutionized my news awareness). After developing a bit of a Ben Franklin early-to-bed, early-to-rise pattern in Lilongwe, I've eased up on the early wakeups and bedtimes. Never mind the burning piles of trash on the roadside, the name calling I receive (I'm every family member you could imagine — baby, sister, mama), the ramshackle huts in Blantyre's townships, the tailors on the sidewalk working at their old-fashioned sewing machines, the minibuses that remind me more of rickety rollercoasters than of any road vehicle — one of the most challenging adjustments has been the early nightfall. It's dark (and I mean dark, nighttime dark) by 6 p.m. The compound where I live has a generator — a real stroke of luck, because power shortages can occur daily. It's frustrating, though, to have to hurry home by sunset. It's not safe to walk around alone at night, and I dislike reliance on taxis. I live a few hundred feet from Mustang Sally, a popular bar, and I've had to get rides or find a group of guys to walk with me.

But I shouldn't overstate that nuisance. During daylight, Blantyre is a safe city, and a bit of caution and planning at night is all that's necessary. The nightlife scene is low-key (though I have taken a few 3 a.m. cab rides home). I’ve been mostly to bars with mixed Malawian/expat scenes, but Thoko has promised to show me some of the local dives. I miss Oregon microbrews with a fierceness only a Portlander could feel. It's all Carlsberg here, all the time — the only Carlsberg brewery on the African continent is located in Blantyre. Ok, there's Chibuku as well (traditional gruel-like African beer made from maize). I have yet to try it, but I have plans to make it. Stay tuned.

What else? After informal lessons with Eme and Nigel, I'm beginning proper Chichewa classes soon. At the moment my vocabulary is limited to soccer cheers, greetings, and food names (I taped labels on everything in my kitchen today). I did, however, succeed in delivering this sentence to Nigel yesterday: "Ndinadya mbuzi ku Zomba." Turns out I wanted this sentence: "Ndinadya nyama ya mbuzi ku Zomba." The latter translates to "I ate goat meat in Zomba" (true). The former indicates that I consumed an entire goat (not true).

I also learned the phrase "vuula akugwa" yesterday — "it's raining." It did indeed rain, a harder rain than we've had so far. The rainy season has been a mere tease so far, but it'll hit soon. I'm looking forward to it. Even today, the little bit of rain cleared the dust (all right, and turned much it to mud). The purple jacaranda flowers have fallen, so we need the color the rains will bring. The flamboyant trees in the yard have started to bloom. I'm especially excited for the green (miss you, Oregon).

And that's life, I suppose. There's more to it, of course, but this entry has meandered long enough. If you've got questions about Malawi, ask! I'm curious to know what interests people outside this little sliver of a country.

Gettin’ Down With Nigel, My Eight-Year-Old Zimbabwean Neighbor (Glimpse)

After three years in the dorms and one year in a house of 10 women (if you dated any of us, we knew everything about you), living on my own in Malawi has been a surprisingly welcome change.

Hold on, who am I kidding? I hardly live alone. There’s the friendly wildlife that share my abode — the tiny ants that crawl in through the kitchen window, the cockroaches that scuttle across the concrete floor, the crafty mosquitoes that make it inside my bed net, the agile lizards that sashay along the walls and hide behind the bathroom mirror. And there are the three flea-bitten “guard” dogs that root through the trash and have finally stopped barking when I enter the compound. But my steadiest companion has been Nigel, my eight-year-old neighbor.



Nigel lives in the guesthouse adjoining mine with his 11-year-old sister Panashe and their mother, a nurse. His father works in Lilongwe, four hours to the north. Nigel’s family has been in Malawi since April, when they left Zimbabwe.

Nigel doesn’t talk much, but when he does, he precedes each statement with a lengthy, well-considered pause. When I ask him why his family left Zimbabwe, he falls silent and thinks for a long time. Standard practice.

“Because people were killing people,” he replies.

“Who was killing whom?”

“People were killing people.”

Such serious conversations are unusual, though. When I first moved in, Nigel would knock on my door, bound in, and drop into one of the frayed easy chairs. He would flash a close-mouthed smile and watch me wordlessly. This made me a bit uneasy. But our relationship made halting progress. We shared candy. I introduced him to the word game Bananagrams. He promised to teach me Shona. We chatted about school — he told me he was number one in his class in Zimbabwe, and as a reward, his friend’s mother gave him a green t-shirt emblazoned with the words “WEST COAST” (I abandoned an attempt to explain where the West Coast is, and that I live on it).

Now I’m comfortable with Nigel’s quiet presence. We sometimes talk and sometimes don’t. He keeps me informed about celebrity news. Madonna, he told me, is in Malawi this week. He practices his kung fu kicks as I prepare tea in the morning, and when I shoo him out so I can shower, he knocks on my door as soon as I’ve switched off the water and laughs at the towel swaddling my wet hair. We have plans to bake cookies together, chocolate-banana, he requested.

And then last Thursday, our relationship took a quantum leap forward. I was getting ready for happy hour at Doogle’s, a bar frequented by tourists, the teenage children of expats, and grizzled South African men nursing bottles of Carlsberg and fumbling with fat wads of Kwachas. Nigel sprang through the open door and gestured at me to listen to his left pants pocket. Michael Jackson chimed out. Nigel produced a cell phone, along with a crumpled tabloid, proclaiming Jackson’s death suicide.

“Nigel, we can do better than that cell phone,” I said.



It was instantly dance party o’clock. James Brown, Kool & The Gang, Tower of Power. My laptop speakers were tinny and we lacked a disco ball or flashing lights, but Nigel and I let loose. I sidestepped around the kitchen, and Nigel whipped out punching moves that would have made Richard Simmons proud. I tried introducing him to Journey, which met little success, but “Boom Boom Pow” and “Get Busy” received resounding approval. He disliked the Macarena but vowed to teach the Electric Slide to his sister.



Yet Nigel wanted the King of Pop back.

“Out of luck,” I said, scrolling through my music library. “Wait! Jackson 5!” I hit “ABC” and cranked the volume. “That’s Michael Jackson when he was a kid,” I told Nigel. “Maybe when he was your age.”

Nigel considered this. He looked to one side and then the other. He moved his lips without producing sound. I waited, as has become my custom.

Then he spoke.

“Back when he was brown?” Nigel asked.

Yes, Nigel, back when he was brown.

Why You Do Not Tell Your Mother About Your Mode of Transportation (Glimpse)

“They say no vehicle in Malawi is ever full,” a friend told me last week. Indeed — commuting in Malawi has been a most intimate experience. Though the omnipresent minibuses are designed for 10 or 12 passengers, they typically carry upwards of 16 or 17 folks, not including infants, gargantuan potato-filled sacks, and any number of live chickens. For my first two weeks here, I rode minibuses only for short-haul jaunts across Blantyre, doing my best to ignore the baler twine holding the door together, enjoying informal Chichewa lessons, and perfecting the art of clambering over knees, groceries, and small children. But after this past weekend, these short trips now seem like small peas.



The 100-mile journey from Blantyre to the southern shore of Lake Malawi takes about three hours by car. Our voyage lasted a full six. For the sake of dwindling attention spans, I’ve compiled six highlights from the four-leg (Blantyre to Limbe to Zomba to Mangochi to Nkopola) adventure.



1. Bribing our minibus driver to chase another vehicle bore no fruit. Thoko and I tried our darndest to make up for our late departure from Blantyre, but our friends Charles and Tawonga were off. Taking curbs and potholes at such zippy speeds, however, proved quite exhilarating. I checked in Limbe to make sure my bum had arrived intact. It had.

2. No matter how potholed, even by Malawian standards, the stretch of road from Limbe to Zomba proved, I found the hour-long ride glorious. Wind whipped through the grimy window as I bounced on the sticky red vinyl seat and soaked up the landscape, which turned lusher and greener as we approached Zomba. Had this been a movie, a contemplative song about the beauty of youth would have spun in the background.

3. And who was there in Zomba, waiting for their minibus to fill? Charles and Tawonga. They badgered us for our tardiness but then welcomed us into the back row, where we shared a greasy, paprika-flecked portion of fries. Thoko finally had his wish, the crew sitting four wide and making noise and nonsense in the backseat.

4. Not that the minibus needed us for nonsense. We took a poky pace, halting every quarter hour to drop or pick up passengers and pack in fresh loads of cargo, including a massive knot of shredded tire rubber and enough two-by-fours to construct a small house. We bought fruit through the window at each stop, juicy, tough-skinned masuku and tiny, sweet bananas.

5. Right before sunset, police at a roadblock fined our driver 5,000 Kwacha, about $35, for overloading our minibus. A recently passed law limits minibuses to three people per row, which is obeyed about as often as it snows in Malawi. As soon as we were past the roadblock, the driver continued to collect additional passengers. Have to recoup your losses, right?

6. After disembarking in baobab-studded, whitewashed Mangochi, we deserted the driver who told us his bursting minibus, already holding 20, could squeeze five more. We instead rode the last 22 kilometers in the flatbed of a vegetable truck. In a reassuring show, our driver and his cronies stopped at one point to buy drinks. I pushed visions of doom aside, nestled in among the wilted lettuce and turned my gaze up to the stars, searching for constellations, flipped upside down in the vast southern hemisphere sky.

Fanning the Flame(s) (Glimpse)

The roads of Blantyre are louder than most I’ve navigated — I’m still learning to tune out the honking, which seems the all-purpose method of communication among vehicles. On Saturday, though, the beep-beeping cars and trucks contributed just one voice to the veritable magnum opus of whistles, songs, claps, yells and yodels. Horns produced cacophonous goose honks and mimicked the wails of very unhappy infants. Passengers leaned out splintered minibus windows and bellowed. It was game time in Malawi.

Commentators heralded this weekend’s World Cup qualifier match versus Ivory Coast as one of Malawi’s biggest games in years. The last time the two countries played, Ivory Coast creamed Malawi five-nil. My friends Thoko and Tawonga told me I had no choice in the matter — I would don red, flutter a flag and lose my voice while cheering for the Flames. They needn’t have worried. Though I’m no diehard soccer devotee, I experienced Euro Cup fever in Germany a year ago, climbing atop the roof of a bakery and boogieing in the street after Germany’s semifinal victory over Turkey. I would be there.

And indeed I was, along with 25,000 others, a good number swathed in Malawian flags and body paint. We arrived a full two hours before the match began, which provided time for a brief excursion into the raucous bleacher section (terrific if you love fervent embraces from strangers, sprays of water and beer, and the occasional airborne rock) and a return to our calmer bench. As the conspicuous white girl, Malawians visited my seat to teach me cheers and songs. One fan specked my face with overzealous spittle as he instructed me in the proper pronunciation of “Malawi yidoda dadada!” This apparently translates to “Malawi is skilled on the ball,” though exactly how that figures I’m still trying to grasp.

For the first half of the game and the beginning of the second, I found the crowd more compelling than the players. Spectators wore screwy masks and costumes (one man had donned a bridal gown and another sported a graduation robe), waved imposing signs (most maligning Drogba, the star Ivory Coast striker), and inflated balloons (we’d wondered why the vendors hawked condoms in addition to lollipops and straw hats). As for the athletes, their footwork was sloppy and slow.

But then, but then! “WAKA! Malawi chinya! Malawi moto!” That’s right — “GOAL! Malawi scores! Malawi is on fire!” Flags thrashed overhead and men threw off their shirts. A friend of mine, a few kilometers away during the match, told me he heard the roars erupt from the stadium after the goal.

The celebration proved short-lived. Ivory Coast scored mere minutes later. The match ended in a draw. Yet the post-game street scene didn’t disappoint. The procession of lorries, their flatbeds heaving with fans, recalled the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade — albeit much lower-tech, much drunker, and much, much louder.

Green Tea and Moon Cakes: This is Africa? (Glimpse)

In the film “Blood Diamond,” Leonardo DiCaprio’s character often grumbles a brusque “T.I.A.” — “This is Africa.” Machete-wielding vandals, a nightclub party turned bloodbath, corrupt money dealings — “T.I.A., T.I.A., T.I.A.” I, fortunately, have yet to utter the three letters in any comparable scenarios, but in ten days here, I’ve murmured the phrase more than a few times: while switching on my headlamp during one of the frequent power cuts, while crushing cockroaches under my shoe, while passing boys on the roadside hawking skewers of mice, while riding a jostling minibus as vendors reach their hands through the windows to sell tiny plastic bags filled with sugarcane juice. Last Friday, though, I muttered it more quizzically. “This is Africa?”

I had been invited to a blowout festival, celebrating not one, but two major holidays. I was promised performances, a multi-course meal, bottomless wine and beer, hundreds of guests. The party was being held at a restaurant just outside the city center.

Let me clarify: at a Chinese restaurant just outside the city center. These weren’t Malawian holidays being celebrated — the owners were feting the 60th anniversary of the establishment of the People’s Republic of China and the Mid-Autumn Moon Festival, the second biggest holiday after New Year’s. And that’s how, on my second day in Blantyre, I wound up feasting on moon cakes and pig ears (full disclosure: I avoided the latter, though I did take a nibble of the pork tongue) with what appeared to be Malawi’s entire Chinese population.

The party began with subdued karaoke, the lyrics spooling across video images of mountains and oceans. Guests performed songs about communism (including one called “Soldiers, Stand Up”) and popular pop tunes. My American friend Dave repped our homeland with a few Johnny Cash and John Denver ditties. I met Richard, a Taiwanese man who considers himself a second-generation Malawian — his parents came as missionaries decades ago and eventually turned to business investment. This has proven a common pattern among Chinese immigrants, and China is now the world’s number-one investor in Malawi.

As the evening wore on and the wine pitchers emptied, the karaoke performances grew sloppier. I earned a number of fans at my table, thanks to my adept chopstick skills and my willingness to sample the white wine made from maize, sticky rice, and sorghum (harsh and foul-tasting, with an odd pineapple aftertaste and an alcohol content of 42 percent). Our table was visited by countless revelers, all wanting to toast us. “Ganbei!” they hollered (literally “empty your cup” in Chinese).
Toward the end of the celebration, marveling at the gaudy red and gold décor and fanning away cigarette smoke, I got up to chat with the only Malawians in the room, two waiters dressed in crimson tunics.

“Hey, bambo, what do you think of all this?” I asked.

The first one, another Richard, cringed. “I don’t like the singing so much,” he said.

Davidson, the second waiter, was more direct. “This is boring,” he said. He went on to question the order of the courses (“why do they serve the soup last?”) and the peculiar food items (“the only things from Malawi are the fish and the soft drinks”). Then he had words for me. “I want you to be my friend. Can I have your phone number?”

Dave overhead this as he slipped out the door. “Just the first step to a marriage proposal,” he quipped.

Yep, this is Africa.

Turtledoves and Tarantulas: My First Week in Malawi

I've been in Malawi almost a week, and it has been a veritable monsoon for the senses. From the magnificently purple jacaranda trees in the airport parking lot to the pungent, dirty diaper smell of the freshly ground maize flour, my eyes and ears and nostrils are working overtime. Rather than an exhaustive summary of the week's activities (count yourself lucky), here's a speedier rundown of a few first impressions. For photos, head to Flickr.

My first confirmation that I had left the country occurred on the flight from New York to Johannesburg. My seatmate, a young woman traveling to Namibia, asked for Amarula, a creamy, sweet-looking fruit liqueur, and the brassy, big-busted, gold-eyeshadowed, heavily perfumed flight attendant asked to see ID. The woman dove toward her purse and the flight attendant let out a deep laugh. "Ha, you're not in the States anymore, baby," she cooed, fishing out a small bottle from the top drawer of her cart. I asked for red wine. "Wow, big bottle," my seatmate said. "Yeah, I won't have any trouble sleeping after this," I replied. "Or singing!" the flight attendant responded. "You’ll be singing a South African song!" (To follow up: no singing – and very little sleeping – took place.)

Each morning in Lilongwe at Ruth's (a relationship too complicated to clarify in a measly parenthetical), I've enjoyed a leisurely breakfast on the screened porch in an oversized, cushioned wicker chair. The peanut butter and honey are thick and Malawian-made and the tea and coffee strong and Malawian-grown. The turtledoves provide the soundtrack.

The turtledove soundtrack is not particularly pleasing to the ear. It also begins at 4:30 a.m. I cherish my earplugs.

Other things I cherish: my insect killer, mosquito repellent, and hydrocortisone cream, and I'm growing fond of sleeping under a mosquito net. It's a romantic canopy, really, in a house filled with wildlife. A night guard killed a large green snake (jury’s still out on whether it was a mamba) with a stick today, and a few nights ago Ruth found a tarantula the size of my palm on her washcloth. I hear it's even worse in the rainy season. Bring it on, Africa.

Along with my earplugs and mosquito net, I'm getting good use out of my headlamp thanks to the frequent power cuts. They've happened most evenings and tend to last an hour or two. We pull out the so-called bush lamps, the paraffin lanterns, and eat dinner by their warm, oily-smelling glow. Again, it's all about the romance here.

In a less trivial category, yesterday I attended a rehearsal for City Public Arts Awareness Group, a dance troupe based in Lilongwe, and I realized for the first time that my project may indeed be feasible. The members of the group were energetic and joyous as they danced (and sang – the songs were perhaps even more impressive than the dances). They looked me in the eye and flashed mischievous smiles. Partway through the rehearsal, two teenage girls walked by the volleyball court where the dancers were gathered. Just like that! Dance! Teenage girls! Collide! The girls stayed and watched for the rest of the hour, occasionally dancing a bit themselves. Were I not so green, I might have pounced on them to ask if they wanted to learn. Even during the months I spent developing my proposal, I remained doubtful. Did I really have the chops to carry this out? What is a dance-based gender advocacy campaign? And when I arrived in Malawi, I realized the mzungu (white person) hurdle might be greater than I'd anticipated. I knew I would be coming in as a foreigner, a presumptuous young person with lofty goals and limited knowledge of Malawian subtleties, but a single week here has driven home just how conspicuous I am. During my travels in Europe, I've tried to tone down the "I'M AMERICAN!!!" vibe. Here, I can avoid the bulky tennis shoes and keep my guidebook stashed away, but I can't quite blend in. Guess I'll just need to learn how to milk the whole mzungu thing.

Trafficking in Tobacco (Glimpse)

Walking into the vast tobacco auction room, my nostrils feel as if they have entered a hay maze. The smell emanating from the massive burlap sacks is pungent, straw-like, musty. It’s not the aroma of tobacco smoke (though the occasional buyer puffs a cigarette), but of the plant itself — brittle, thin, wrinkled leaves that resemble layers of coffee-stained parchment. The odor is overwhelming at first, as is the dust that puffs up from the bales, but my nose soon calms.



Welcome to the tobacco auction floors, just north of Lilongwe, Malawi’s capital city. In a room double the size of an aircraft hangar, thousands of bales of tobacco sit in neat rows awaiting sale. On this Monday in September, 9,039 bales are up for sale. Tobacco is Malawi’s primary cash crop, responsible for 70 to 80 percent of the country’s export earnings —and for employing, either directly or indirectly, an equivalent percentage of the Malawian population.



These floors alone provide work for 3,000 people, my guide tells me, and the auctioneers are the undisputed stars. But they’re not the sort of auctioneers who stand at a podium and wave at demurely seated bidders. These auctioneers move at a rapid clip down the numbered aisles, calling out the prices for the six buyers walking alongside them. I follow one auctioneer, a tall man whose eyes bulge as he ululates. This is neither English nor Chichewa — it’s a language of its own, a kind of lilting singsong. His intonation rises and falls as buyers up the price. Each auctioneer has a distinct refrain, some shouting, some crooning, others nearly yodeling. Buyers have their own sign language: a thumbs up raises the price one cent, an open palm five cents, the thumb and forefinger joined in an a-OK sign 10 cents. The subtleties are mesmerizing. I have to remind myself to keep scuttling along to clear the path for the sellers and buyers. Yet for all their speed — a bale sells in two to three seconds – the exchanges are remarkably calm. The auctioneer’s eyes remain trained on the hand signals of the buyers, who keep their gaze on the tobacco leaves.



Ticket markers follow the auctioneers, recording the price of the tobacco (or tossing a blue card onto the bale if the leaves are moldy). Porters bring up the rear, heaving the 100-kilo sacks onto trolleys and racing them down the middle aisle. Most want their photo taken. “Picture, picture!” they call, posing with a trolley or leaping atop a bale.



Some, however, ask for a little more. “Muli pabanja?” they ask. “Are you married?” “Muli pabanja?” Not quite what I bargained for, but I chuckle and smile. I depart the floors at 10:30 a.m., three hours after the auction began. By 1 p.m., perhaps even by noon, all the tobacco will have sold, and porters will wheel in the next day’s bales.



I blow my nose after leaving. It tars the tissue black.