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.

Lest you assume it a myth

Before arriving in Malawi, I'd read that mice on a stick were the local version of the gas station candy bar - a quick roadside treat, right?

I hadn't been in the country even an hour when I saw my first skewered mice. I couldn't tell if the little rodents, hawked by a young boy on the dusty roadside, were cooked, salted, or dried, or if they indeed had that post-harvest plumpness. And without any kwacha in my wallet, I had to bypass the snack. I'll be sure to write again if the craving for some Malawi steak - how it's popularly referenced here - strikes.