Friday, October 22, 2010
Malawi's abortion debate (Gender Links)
I recently freelanced a piece for Gender Links, a South African website that publishes stories from across the continent. You can read my story on unsafe abortion in Malawi here.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
A Series on Religion, Part 4: The J-Word (Glimpse)
In high school, I learned my kind had a name: Cashews. We were that not-so-rare half-breed, part Catholic, part Jewish. I quibbled with the "sh" sound (shouldn't we really be Cajews?) but mostly embraced the label. In Malawi, however, I have made few attempts to explain that my parents come from different religious traditions. Sometimes I say they were raised in different churches, but on a few occasions I've clarified that my father attended no church at all. No, he called it a synagogue. Some Malawians are surprised to learn that Jews exist outside of Israel. Normally I just cause confusion by revealing that my father is one of these mysterious creatures.
Recently, I divulged my ancestry to a young Malawian woman. Fanny is an accountant at my partner organization, and we've gotten to know each other over the past few months. When I told her I was flying to the U.S. for my cousin's wedding, she asked if American weddings were like Malawian weddings.
Fanny looking serious at a workshop in Ndirande, the township where I’ve carried out my research project.
I told her that, yeah, mostly they were. There's no perikani perikani, an hours-long ordeal at Malawian weddings where guests toss money at the newly betrothed, but the bride also wears white and we also eat cake and American couples also receive too many appliances.
As guests at the wedding reception toss money at the newlyweds, some bills entangle themselves in the bride's train.
"Does the couple go to a church first?" Fanny asked.
Some couples, I told her. Others don't. "And my cousin and his fiancée," I went on, "are Jewish, but they won't get married at a synagogue — uh, a Jewish church. But they'll have a rabbi —a Jewish pastor, kind of — at their wedding. He'll, you know, officiate the ceremony."
This met silence, which I hastily tried to fill.
"Yeah, I guess Jewish weddings are a little different," I said. "There’s this dance, the horah, and we all hold hands and dance in a circle and sing." Fanny blinked. "Think of the traditional dances at Malawian weddings, chioda and chisamba and all of those. The horah is like the Jewish chioda." And then, against all better judgment, I found myself singing "Hava Nagilah." I tapped out a little snaking grapevine, running into a desk and knocking a newspaper to the floor.
Fanny blinked again. She looked at me, puzzled, this time ready with a question.
"So will they go to church first?"
Recently, I divulged my ancestry to a young Malawian woman. Fanny is an accountant at my partner organization, and we've gotten to know each other over the past few months. When I told her I was flying to the U.S. for my cousin's wedding, she asked if American weddings were like Malawian weddings.
Fanny looking serious at a workshop in Ndirande, the township where I’ve carried out my research project.
I told her that, yeah, mostly they were. There's no perikani perikani, an hours-long ordeal at Malawian weddings where guests toss money at the newly betrothed, but the bride also wears white and we also eat cake and American couples also receive too many appliances.
As guests at the wedding reception toss money at the newlyweds, some bills entangle themselves in the bride's train.
"Does the couple go to a church first?" Fanny asked.
Some couples, I told her. Others don't. "And my cousin and his fiancée," I went on, "are Jewish, but they won't get married at a synagogue — uh, a Jewish church. But they'll have a rabbi —a Jewish pastor, kind of — at their wedding. He'll, you know, officiate the ceremony."
This met silence, which I hastily tried to fill.
"Yeah, I guess Jewish weddings are a little different," I said. "There’s this dance, the horah, and we all hold hands and dance in a circle and sing." Fanny blinked. "Think of the traditional dances at Malawian weddings, chioda and chisamba and all of those. The horah is like the Jewish chioda." And then, against all better judgment, I found myself singing "Hava Nagilah." I tapped out a little snaking grapevine, running into a desk and knocking a newspaper to the floor.
Fanny blinked again. She looked at me, puzzled, this time ready with a question.
"So will they go to church first?"
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
A Series on Religion, Part 3: A Sunday at Church (Glimpse)
“You haven’t been to church yet?” Yamikani asked. She looked at me with a mix of disbelief and horror. True, I said—I’d been in Malawi almost a year but hadn’t attended a single service. “Why not?” she asked. I shrugged. “This week,” she said, “you’re coming with me.”
Yamikani at a conference. Her cap is scrawled with “Jesus,” but don’t mistake her for a proselytizer. She rarely raises the topic of religion with me, and we agree on numerous topics: improving access to contraception, encouraging girls to remain in school, spicy chips, handbags.
And so I found myself, on a breezy Sunday in July, at Yamikani’s Pentecostal church. I sat on a blue plastic lawn chair in an auditorium garlanded with gaudy drapes. Banners reading “2010, THE YEAR OF DOMINION” hung on the walls. A few people asked which church I attended in America. I told them it didn’t exist in Malawi. The answer made me feel a bit slimy, but I’ve met little success explaining my agnosticism or my confused religious heritage (a Catholic mother, a Jewish father, a lifetime of lighting the menorah as the Christmas tree twinkles in the corner).
We began by greeting each other with high fives. Nice! Way hipper than handshakes, and with recent reports of swine flu in Malawi, far more hygienic. The preacher’s stage presence was explosive. His voice boomed at the beginning and grew increasingly raspy as the sermon wore on. He beat his right hand up and down as if thumping a drum. Another man worked as Chichewa interpreter and personal sweat-mopper, chasing the preacher with a large white handkerchief. I admit, though, that I had trouble following the sermon, in which the preacher kept mispronouncing “irrevocable,” declared himself a lion, and accused another pastor of being a wizard (three days after they met, this wizard pastor died—don’t worry, though, our preacher assured us, “I did not kill him”).
My musings on wizardry were cut short, however, once it was time for personal prayers. “And if you can,” the preacher said, “you may speak in tongues.”
In what? Yamikani confirmed his words for me. Curiosity overtook skepticism and I strained to make out the voices of the congregants around me, but it was all a muddle—Chichewa, English, maybe some tongues.
As I rocked on my plastic chair, I instructed myself to be open-minded, but instinct told me this was bunk. I kept quiet, though, as the service proceeded. Near the end of the sermon, the preacher returned to the topic of witchcraft. I’ve grown accustomed to this topic during my time in Malawi. The daily newspapers carry frequent reports of witchcraft: men growing female genitalia, vindictive individuals preventing rain from falling over their neighbors’ gardens, invisible Satanists flying through the city, bewitched rats stealing money at local markets. Traditional healers set up stalls in the city center and in outlying townships, selling bottled herbs and gnarled roots. I try to stay mum when witchcraft enters the conversation, to remind myself that religion here is a blend of imported monotheism and traditional beliefs, but I couldn’t suppress an eye-roll as the preacher rehashed the topic. Then, however, he made me bolt upright.
“There is no witchcraft or sorcery—” he boomed.
Yes! Redemption! (In the rational, secular sense, of course.) Cogency!
The interpreter put his words into Chichewa.
“—that will work against me!” he continued. “In Jesus’ name, I am protected!”
I slumped back into my seat.
Yamikani at a conference. Her cap is scrawled with “Jesus,” but don’t mistake her for a proselytizer. She rarely raises the topic of religion with me, and we agree on numerous topics: improving access to contraception, encouraging girls to remain in school, spicy chips, handbags.
And so I found myself, on a breezy Sunday in July, at Yamikani’s Pentecostal church. I sat on a blue plastic lawn chair in an auditorium garlanded with gaudy drapes. Banners reading “2010, THE YEAR OF DOMINION” hung on the walls. A few people asked which church I attended in America. I told them it didn’t exist in Malawi. The answer made me feel a bit slimy, but I’ve met little success explaining my agnosticism or my confused religious heritage (a Catholic mother, a Jewish father, a lifetime of lighting the menorah as the Christmas tree twinkles in the corner).
We began by greeting each other with high fives. Nice! Way hipper than handshakes, and with recent reports of swine flu in Malawi, far more hygienic. The preacher’s stage presence was explosive. His voice boomed at the beginning and grew increasingly raspy as the sermon wore on. He beat his right hand up and down as if thumping a drum. Another man worked as Chichewa interpreter and personal sweat-mopper, chasing the preacher with a large white handkerchief. I admit, though, that I had trouble following the sermon, in which the preacher kept mispronouncing “irrevocable,” declared himself a lion, and accused another pastor of being a wizard (three days after they met, this wizard pastor died—don’t worry, though, our preacher assured us, “I did not kill him”).
My musings on wizardry were cut short, however, once it was time for personal prayers. “And if you can,” the preacher said, “you may speak in tongues.”
In what? Yamikani confirmed his words for me. Curiosity overtook skepticism and I strained to make out the voices of the congregants around me, but it was all a muddle—Chichewa, English, maybe some tongues.
As I rocked on my plastic chair, I instructed myself to be open-minded, but instinct told me this was bunk. I kept quiet, though, as the service proceeded. Near the end of the sermon, the preacher returned to the topic of witchcraft. I’ve grown accustomed to this topic during my time in Malawi. The daily newspapers carry frequent reports of witchcraft: men growing female genitalia, vindictive individuals preventing rain from falling over their neighbors’ gardens, invisible Satanists flying through the city, bewitched rats stealing money at local markets. Traditional healers set up stalls in the city center and in outlying townships, selling bottled herbs and gnarled roots. I try to stay mum when witchcraft enters the conversation, to remind myself that religion here is a blend of imported monotheism and traditional beliefs, but I couldn’t suppress an eye-roll as the preacher rehashed the topic. Then, however, he made me bolt upright.
“There is no witchcraft or sorcery—” he boomed.
Yes! Redemption! (In the rational, secular sense, of course.) Cogency!
The interpreter put his words into Chichewa.
“—that will work against me!” he continued. “In Jesus’ name, I am protected!”
I slumped back into my seat.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
A Series on Religion, Part 2: Sex and the Bible (Glimpse)
Malawi’s population is overwhelmingly Christian, and conversation often turns to religion. I, unfortunately, seem unable to clamp my maw when talk swerves this way (see Part 1 of this series, in which I discuss my mother’s exit from the Catholic Church). Here is Exhibit B.
As part of my research on gender issues here, I spend time with a group of young women in Ndirande, Blantyre’s most populous township. As a foreigner in Malawi, I’m often assumed to be an expert in every imaginable field, and the women call on me to answer difficult questions. Once, as they crowded into a bedroom to compare pregnancy stretch marks, one turned to me with a solemn look on her face. “Rebecca,” she asked, “is there a medicine for this?”
During another meeting, a few of the young women asked me to confirm a Biblical detail. I hedged the question. “Interpretations vary,” I said, the consummate liberal arts graduate. Mistake. Especially because the women had just asked me about masturbation. I have no idea how this entered the conversation—the discussion was in Chichewa, and I made feeble attempts to follow along—but suddenly I found myself explaining that while some might consider masturbation a form of sex, others may not. I should have stopped here, but, again, I carried on. “Some may say only intercourse is sex, while some include…uh, other types of sex,” I fumbled. And still I didn’t shut up. “Like, uh, oral sex, or…uh—”
“Anal sex!” the matriarch of the house interrupted. The young women roared.
Oh no. How did our tame discussion about problems in Ndirande turn into this? I hastily attempted (and failed) to divert the conversation.
And then, inexplicably, came the big question—“But Rebecca, you still believe in God, don’t you?”
I handled this query better. “Let’s discuss this another time,” I said.
Across the room, I could hear the matriarch chuckle. “We need to get Rebecca to church,” she murmured.
I sighed and sank into the overstuffed couch, swatting away a fly.
Coming next: the women succeed—I make it to church.
During another meeting, a few of the young women asked me to confirm a Biblical detail. I hedged the question. “Interpretations vary,” I said, the consummate liberal arts graduate. Mistake. Especially because the women had just asked me about masturbation. I have no idea how this entered the conversation—the discussion was in Chichewa, and I made feeble attempts to follow along—but suddenly I found myself explaining that while some might consider masturbation a form of sex, others may not. I should have stopped here, but, again, I carried on. “Some may say only intercourse is sex, while some include…uh, other types of sex,” I fumbled. And still I didn’t shut up. “Like, uh, oral sex, or…uh—”
“Anal sex!” the matriarch of the house interrupted. The young women roared.
Oh no. How did our tame discussion about problems in Ndirande turn into this? I hastily attempted (and failed) to divert the conversation.
And then, inexplicably, came the big question—“But Rebecca, you still believe in God, don’t you?”
I handled this query better. “Let’s discuss this another time,” I said.
Across the room, I could hear the matriarch chuckle. “We need to get Rebecca to church,” she murmured.
I sighed and sank into the overstuffed couch, swatting away a fly.
Coming next: the women succeed—I make it to church.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Culture/Shock/Waves (Glimpse)
As I settle back into Malawi after a brief stint at home, I’ve been giving some thought to what surprised me about these few weeks in the United States. I don’t mean the soul-rocking stuff of true reverse culture shock, but the little things, the numerous tiny adjustments I had to make.
First, I no longer had to carry toilet paper with me, most bathrooms provided soap, and I never had to squat over a keyhole in the ground. I looked the wrong way when crossing the street. The Internet was SO BLAZING FAST. Everyone around me spoke English, and I was suddenly able to eavesdrop. I found myself constantly checking the location of my cell phone, both to make sure no pickpocket had swiped it (it’s a commonly nabbed item; I had mine stolen at a Blantyre soccer game) and out of fear I would miss a call and have to spend buckets of cash calling the person back (cell rates are astronomical here). I was jolted by the monochromatism of Portland, Ore., my 75 percent white hometown. On one of my first days in town, my mom and I drove past a man with very pale skin. As we approached from behind, I noted the man’s longish sleeves and large-brimmed hat — here was a guy clearly protecting himself from the sun. My first thought? An albino! (Malawi has relatively high rates of albinism.) No, I couldn’t believe myself either.
Then there were even smaller things, teeny-weeny surprises for which I hadn’t thought to ready myself. I’ll keep this snappy — here’s a list of things I hadn’t seen in nearly a year:
• Escalators
• Moving sidewalks
•Vending machines (what, in particular, is the deal with the iPod/camera/Nintendo dispensers?)
• Sliding doors
• Automatic faucets
• Automatic flush toilets
• Automatic soap dispensers
• Automatic paper towel dispensers
• All right, motion-activated or automatic anything (I had particular trouble navigating my library’s new checkout machines)
• Toilet seat covers
• Bike lanes
• Water fountains
• Disposable coffee cup lids
• PDA (public displays of affection)
• PDAs (personal device assistants) — I arrived in Malawi before the massive iPhone boom
• Miniskirts, short shorts, thighs in general
• Mullets
• Yarmulkes
And now I’m back in Blantyre, readjusting to plastic bags of milk (terrible design; I invariably spray milk all over the counter and often over myself), my too-soft foam mattress, the smell of burning trash, blackouts and water shortages, the incessant attention I receive for my skin color, the barefooted street children already trained at age three to stretch out their dirty and chapped hands and ask for help, mama, help. These changes are annoying, tough, painful. But as I bought a heap of perfect tomatoes on the roadside yesterday and watched the late afternoon sunlight go from blinding to soft, the leaves made somehow greener and the sky somehow bluer, the mountains sheathed in a gauzy purple blanket and the dusty horizon shimmering pink, women pumping water at boreholes and cyclists wheeling home enormous loads of firewood and children racing cars fashioned from old cartons of beer, I vowed, this time around, to lock these images in my mind, to not forget this country’s stubborn beauty when I next return home.
First, I no longer had to carry toilet paper with me, most bathrooms provided soap, and I never had to squat over a keyhole in the ground. I looked the wrong way when crossing the street. The Internet was SO BLAZING FAST. Everyone around me spoke English, and I was suddenly able to eavesdrop. I found myself constantly checking the location of my cell phone, both to make sure no pickpocket had swiped it (it’s a commonly nabbed item; I had mine stolen at a Blantyre soccer game) and out of fear I would miss a call and have to spend buckets of cash calling the person back (cell rates are astronomical here). I was jolted by the monochromatism of Portland, Ore., my 75 percent white hometown. On one of my first days in town, my mom and I drove past a man with very pale skin. As we approached from behind, I noted the man’s longish sleeves and large-brimmed hat — here was a guy clearly protecting himself from the sun. My first thought? An albino! (Malawi has relatively high rates of albinism.) No, I couldn’t believe myself either.
Then there were even smaller things, teeny-weeny surprises for which I hadn’t thought to ready myself. I’ll keep this snappy — here’s a list of things I hadn’t seen in nearly a year:
• Escalators
• Moving sidewalks
•Vending machines (what, in particular, is the deal with the iPod/camera/Nintendo dispensers?)
• Sliding doors
• Automatic faucets
• Automatic flush toilets
• Automatic soap dispensers
• Automatic paper towel dispensers
• All right, motion-activated or automatic anything (I had particular trouble navigating my library’s new checkout machines)
• Toilet seat covers
• Bike lanes
• Water fountains
• Disposable coffee cup lids
• PDA (public displays of affection)
• PDAs (personal device assistants) — I arrived in Malawi before the massive iPhone boom
• Miniskirts, short shorts, thighs in general
• Mullets
• Yarmulkes
And now I’m back in Blantyre, readjusting to plastic bags of milk (terrible design; I invariably spray milk all over the counter and often over myself), my too-soft foam mattress, the smell of burning trash, blackouts and water shortages, the incessant attention I receive for my skin color, the barefooted street children already trained at age three to stretch out their dirty and chapped hands and ask for help, mama, help. These changes are annoying, tough, painful. But as I bought a heap of perfect tomatoes on the roadside yesterday and watched the late afternoon sunlight go from blinding to soft, the leaves made somehow greener and the sky somehow bluer, the mountains sheathed in a gauzy purple blanket and the dusty horizon shimmering pink, women pumping water at boreholes and cyclists wheeling home enormous loads of firewood and children racing cars fashioned from old cartons of beer, I vowed, this time around, to lock these images in my mind, to not forget this country’s stubborn beauty when I next return home.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
A Series on Religion, Part 1: Of Exoticism and Guilt (Glimpse)
From the beginning of my stay in Malawi, I knew religion would prove a sticking point. And indeed, in conversations with both Malawians and with expats, I have said many (many, many) foolish things. I try to tell myself to avoid the topic of religion, but I’ve often broken this rule — attempting to explain agnosticism, confessing I’m unfamiliar with Biblical stories, admitting I don’t attend church at home. The occasions are too many for a single blog entry, so I’m working on several posts about my religion-related mishaps. Here begins the series.
On my second day here, a German woman asked if I had been raised in the church. I should have said no, I wasn’t, and diverted the conversation (“Hey look, baboons!”). But instead I explained, in German, that my parents come from different religious traditions. My father is Jewish, I told her (“oh, I thought he looked exotic in photos,” she replied), and my mother was raised Catholic. But she left the Church, I said, because she disliked the guilt foisted upon followers.
Oops.
I spent the rest of the car trip learning that God did not intend to make his children feel guilty. And when I met the woman’s husband later that day, he gave me a shrewd look before beginning the conversation.
“So,” he said, “I hear you’re of Jewish heritage.”
I clenched my teeth. “Yes, I am,” I said. (“Can’t you see my curls?” I wanted to scream. “And hey, I’m of rebellious heritage, too!”) I stretched out my hand. “I’m Rebecca. What’s your name?”
On my second day here, a German woman asked if I had been raised in the church. I should have said no, I wasn’t, and diverted the conversation (“Hey look, baboons!”). But instead I explained, in German, that my parents come from different religious traditions. My father is Jewish, I told her (“oh, I thought he looked exotic in photos,” she replied), and my mother was raised Catholic. But she left the Church, I said, because she disliked the guilt foisted upon followers.
I spent the rest of the car trip learning that God did not intend to make his children feel guilty. And when I met the woman’s husband later that day, he gave me a shrewd look before beginning the conversation.
“So,” he said, “I hear you’re of Jewish heritage.”
I clenched my teeth. “Yes, I am,” I said. (“Can’t you see my curls?” I wanted to scream. “And hey, I’m of rebellious heritage, too!”) I stretched out my hand. “I’m Rebecca. What’s your name?”
Stay tuned as I attempt to explain Jewish weddings, discuss the Bible and masturbation, and spend a Sunday in church.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Tyra, I'm Ready for My Close-Up (Glimpse)
Of all the entreaties my skin color provokes — mostly requests for marriage or money — I never thought my pallor might help me snag a modeling contract.
Not that I sought one out. (Then again, neither do I ask for the marriage proposals.) But when a white male friend, Maarten, was enlisted by a coworker for an ad campaign, a woman at the modeling agency asked if he could recruit a pal. The requirements: female (check), white (we’ve established this), tall (I’m barely 5’4”, but I still tower over many Malawians), beautiful (you be the judge).
For me, the main draw of the campaign, a series of ads for a countrywide hotel chain, was the free upmarket lodging. I would get to spend one night at a woodsy inn perched high on a plateau and another on the shores of Lake Malawi. I packed my entire (highly limited) closet — let them decide what I should wear, I figured — and embarked on this new career.
“America’s Next Top Model” it was not. On the first day, one of the models didn’t show, so the young women from the modeling agency scoured a nearby college campus for a replacement. Because they were off searching for our mystery model, the photographer’s assistant took over hair and makeup. “You don’t have any makeup?” she asked. “Not even lip gloss?” I shook my head. She slathered me with Vaseline.
Maarten and I posed together for the first photo. “Couple, smart casual, taking food from buffet,” the plan read. My “smart casual” comprised a 12-year-old dress, which I think I wore to a cousin’s Bat Mitzvah, and the $7 secondhand wedges I’d found at the market the day before. The buffet was a dessert spread, with distractingly labeled “raspberry fruits” and cheesecake with a Barbie pink glaze. Maarten and I took turns serving. “Rebecca, smile at the chocolate cake,” the photographer, Arjen, instructed. “Smile at the cake. Now smile at Maarten. No, close your mouth. No, I don’t want any teeth. Ah, ok. Now back to the cake. Smile at the cake. Smile at the cake. Smile at the cake. Beautiful.”
We were a difficult duo. Arjen kept imploring us to take it seriously, something I found difficult to do when he also instructed us to “Love the place, love the food, love each other, love everything.” To get into the scene, Maarten and I tried creating a narrative (we were a young married couple; this was our second wedding anniversary), but it quickly devolved (I was anxious about kids; I didn’t like his tie; each thought the other had grown tubby since the nuptials). I’m sure Arjen was relieved to release us once mystery model arrived.
We had another shot in the late afternoon, though: “Couple, casual clothes, looking in the distance.” It turns out looking into the distance is a real challenge. What do you do with your hands? Do you stand with legs akimbo? Or maybe one leg crossed over the other? How do you conjure up an expression of awe when the only sight around is a red “FIRE ASSEMBLY POINT” sign? “Don’t overplay,” Arjen repeated, wearier each time. “Especially you, Rebecca. Don’t overplay.”
I finally relaxed for my third and final shoot: “Two models having lunch on terrace.” We were on the lake by this time, and I had a whole fish on my plate (I poked its gluey eye with my fork; Arjen promptly reprimanded me). This was the first multiracial photo — I was paired with Aubrey, a radio journalist. We toasted glasses of wine (well, ginger ale) and held our silverware awkwardly. But conversation flowed (whenever you learn how to say “to bite” in a foreign language, you know banter has been lively) and Arjen said we looked glamorous. His assistant swore I had improved.
“So Rebecca, how did you get into modeling?” mystery model Chloe asked. I explained I’d never modeled before.“Oh, that’s always how it starts,” she responded, nodding knowingly.
Somehow, I don’t think so.
Not that I sought one out. (Then again, neither do I ask for the marriage proposals.) But when a white male friend, Maarten, was enlisted by a coworker for an ad campaign, a woman at the modeling agency asked if he could recruit a pal. The requirements: female (check), white (we’ve established this), tall (I’m barely 5’4”, but I still tower over many Malawians), beautiful (you be the judge).
For me, the main draw of the campaign, a series of ads for a countrywide hotel chain, was the free upmarket lodging. I would get to spend one night at a woodsy inn perched high on a plateau and another on the shores of Lake Malawi. I packed my entire (highly limited) closet — let them decide what I should wear, I figured — and embarked on this new career.
“America’s Next Top Model” it was not. On the first day, one of the models didn’t show, so the young women from the modeling agency scoured a nearby college campus for a replacement. Because they were off searching for our mystery model, the photographer’s assistant took over hair and makeup. “You don’t have any makeup?” she asked. “Not even lip gloss?” I shook my head. She slathered me with Vaseline.
Maarten and I posed together for the first photo. “Couple, smart casual, taking food from buffet,” the plan read. My “smart casual” comprised a 12-year-old dress, which I think I wore to a cousin’s Bat Mitzvah, and the $7 secondhand wedges I’d found at the market the day before. The buffet was a dessert spread, with distractingly labeled “raspberry fruits” and cheesecake with a Barbie pink glaze. Maarten and I took turns serving. “Rebecca, smile at the chocolate cake,” the photographer, Arjen, instructed. “Smile at the cake. Now smile at Maarten. No, close your mouth. No, I don’t want any teeth. Ah, ok. Now back to the cake. Smile at the cake. Smile at the cake. Smile at the cake. Beautiful.”
We were a difficult duo. Arjen kept imploring us to take it seriously, something I found difficult to do when he also instructed us to “Love the place, love the food, love each other, love everything.” To get into the scene, Maarten and I tried creating a narrative (we were a young married couple; this was our second wedding anniversary), but it quickly devolved (I was anxious about kids; I didn’t like his tie; each thought the other had grown tubby since the nuptials). I’m sure Arjen was relieved to release us once mystery model arrived.
We had another shot in the late afternoon, though: “Couple, casual clothes, looking in the distance.” It turns out looking into the distance is a real challenge. What do you do with your hands? Do you stand with legs akimbo? Or maybe one leg crossed over the other? How do you conjure up an expression of awe when the only sight around is a red “FIRE ASSEMBLY POINT” sign? “Don’t overplay,” Arjen repeated, wearier each time. “Especially you, Rebecca. Don’t overplay.”
I finally relaxed for my third and final shoot: “Two models having lunch on terrace.” We were on the lake by this time, and I had a whole fish on my plate (I poked its gluey eye with my fork; Arjen promptly reprimanded me). This was the first multiracial photo — I was paired with Aubrey, a radio journalist. We toasted glasses of wine (well, ginger ale) and held our silverware awkwardly. But conversation flowed (whenever you learn how to say “to bite” in a foreign language, you know banter has been lively) and Arjen said we looked glamorous. His assistant swore I had improved.
“So Rebecca, how did you get into modeling?” mystery model Chloe asked. I explained I’d never modeled before.“Oh, that’s always how it starts,” she responded, nodding knowingly.
Somehow, I don’t think so.
Friday, July 16, 2010
My Name is What? My Name is Who? (Glimpse)
I have never been one for nicknames. As a child, I hated the name Becky, and after meeting a whole string of Beccas I disliked (sorry), that option was out as well. My elementary school soccer coach called me Beckers and my eight grade math teacher dubbed me Jake (because of Jacobson), but neither handle survived. A high school friend mashed my first and last names to make Rebjac, and this one actually had some holding power. But I still prefer Rebecca.
In Malawi, however, I have found myself entertaining all variety of new labels and names. Mzungu/azungu (white person, less respectfully/more respectfully) tops the chart, but the name-calling doesn’t stop there. I’m also mama, mami, sister, baby, friend, girlfriend, customer, you, and all of these in Chichewa. Hardly noteworthy — every foreign young woman receives this kind of attention. But sometimes locals know my real name, and I’m always pleased with their variations. Malawians tend to spell my name “Rabecca” (my bank card even identifies me this way — every time I slide it into an ATM, the screen shouts “GOOD AFTERNOON RABECCA!”), and the confusion over L and R in Chichewa means I’m sometimes called “Labecca.” In Ndirande, the township where I’m doing my research, I often buy samosas from a young boy who calls me “Rabe” (no, not pronounced like the bitter broccoli leaf). And when I visit Mrs. Mkutu’s house, she places her two-month old grandson in my arms and announces the arrival of “Auntie Rebecca.”
But my two favorite soubriquets have nothing to do with my given name. The first is “azungu dala,” a name I’ve heard only twice but would continue to welcome. I was in Ndirande the first time, trudging up a dusty hill with a Malawian friend. She gently punched my shoulder, laughing and repeating the name to herself, “azungu dala, azungu dala.” I asked her to explain. “It’s like a white person, but a white person who —” she paused. “It’s like ‘mwana dala,’ someone who looks like a child but isn’t a child.” I considered this. “So I look like a white person, but I’m not one?” I asked. She wasn’t entirely sure how to answer. But I heard the same name later that week, this time while disembarking from a minibus. I’ve decided to take it as a compliment — I may look like a white person, sure, but I also take local transport and spend my time in gritty urban townships, and maybe that makes me something else.
The second moniker has even more curious origins, and may not even qualify as a nickname, but let’s run with it, ok? Several weeks ago, I tromped to the market to buy a table and chairs for my house. Lacking transport, I hired two men to carry the furniture home for me. We cut quite the spectacle — me in front, chomping on groundnuts, and the men behind, balancing heavy wooden furniture on their sweaty bald heads. As we made the last turn to my house, I greeted the cluster of women and children who gather there to sell sugarcane and fried balls of dough and cell phone credit. They looked at us with surprise and confusion. “Ndilibe galimoto!” I called — “I don’t have a car!” They hooted with laughter, and we continued on our way.
Several days later, I rounded that same corner, this time alone. I smiled and waved at an adolescent girl. “Ndilibe galimoto!” she called, then pointed at me and ran in the opposite direction. I shrugged. It’ll do.
In Malawi, however, I have found myself entertaining all variety of new labels and names. Mzungu/azungu (white person, less respectfully/more respectfully) tops the chart, but the name-calling doesn’t stop there. I’m also mama, mami, sister, baby, friend, girlfriend, customer, you, and all of these in Chichewa. Hardly noteworthy — every foreign young woman receives this kind of attention. But sometimes locals know my real name, and I’m always pleased with their variations. Malawians tend to spell my name “Rabecca” (my bank card even identifies me this way — every time I slide it into an ATM, the screen shouts “GOOD AFTERNOON RABECCA!”), and the confusion over L and R in Chichewa means I’m sometimes called “Labecca.” In Ndirande, the township where I’m doing my research, I often buy samosas from a young boy who calls me “Rabe” (no, not pronounced like the bitter broccoli leaf). And when I visit Mrs. Mkutu’s house, she places her two-month old grandson in my arms and announces the arrival of “Auntie Rebecca.”
But my two favorite soubriquets have nothing to do with my given name. The first is “azungu dala,” a name I’ve heard only twice but would continue to welcome. I was in Ndirande the first time, trudging up a dusty hill with a Malawian friend. She gently punched my shoulder, laughing and repeating the name to herself, “azungu dala, azungu dala.” I asked her to explain. “It’s like a white person, but a white person who —” she paused. “It’s like ‘mwana dala,’ someone who looks like a child but isn’t a child.” I considered this. “So I look like a white person, but I’m not one?” I asked. She wasn’t entirely sure how to answer. But I heard the same name later that week, this time while disembarking from a minibus. I’ve decided to take it as a compliment — I may look like a white person, sure, but I also take local transport and spend my time in gritty urban townships, and maybe that makes me something else.
The second moniker has even more curious origins, and may not even qualify as a nickname, but let’s run with it, ok? Several weeks ago, I tromped to the market to buy a table and chairs for my house. Lacking transport, I hired two men to carry the furniture home for me. We cut quite the spectacle — me in front, chomping on groundnuts, and the men behind, balancing heavy wooden furniture on their sweaty bald heads. As we made the last turn to my house, I greeted the cluster of women and children who gather there to sell sugarcane and fried balls of dough and cell phone credit. They looked at us with surprise and confusion. “Ndilibe galimoto!” I called — “I don’t have a car!” They hooted with laughter, and we continued on our way.
Several days later, I rounded that same corner, this time alone. I smiled and waved at an adolescent girl. “Ndilibe galimoto!” she called, then pointed at me and ran in the opposite direction. I shrugged. It’ll do.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Keeping Pace With the Porters (Glimpse)
The World Cup might be the globe’s most sensational sporting event (and how I mourned its completion yesterday, though not as much as I’d bewailed Germany’s semifinal exit at the hands of — ok, header of — Carlos “Giving a Bad Name to Curly Haired People Everywhere” Puyol), but the Mulanje Porters Race is undoubtedly Malawi’s prime athletic contest. Imagine, for a moment, 200 participants, ages 13 to 74 (though I swear some must have been preadolescent), tearing up a rocky crag, traversing a grassy plateau, and then bouncing back down the mountain, logging 25 kilometers and about 2,000 meters of elevation change. Now imagine many of these participants barefoot, or perhaps in plastic sandals or beat-up Converse All-Stars, some in boxers or cuffed golf shorts or bedraggled denim cutoffs, and several of the women (that’s right, this is not just a stag affair) dressed in skirts or even swimsuit tops. With the fastest runners clocking just over two hours, the whole occasion makes for quite the spectacle.
I attended the Porters Race this past Saturday, rolling out of Blantyre toward Mount Mulanje at 5 a.m. in a 37-year-old, sea green Mercedes. (We didn’t return with the same grace — the clutch spring broke somewhere en route, and we lurched, rather than glided, our way back to the city.) The race was scheduled to start at 6 a.m., but this being Malawi, the runners didn’t pound up the mountain until 7:45. No matter — this being Malawi, I knew half of the attendees (ok, not half) and we sized up the competitors. The event is open to foreigners (26 took part this year, though the fastest non-Malawian man and woman finished about an hour after their Malawian counterparts), and numerous people asked me if I was participating. No way, I said — I’ve tackled Mulanje my share of times, but it’s a steep beast of a mountain (and did I mention it was 6 a.m.?).
I didn’t see the action up on the plateau, but judging by the participants’ post-race injuries, the mountain didn’t spare any punches. A cadre of nurses tended to cuts and abrasions, as well as some truly gnarly wounds. Runners finished with mud-splattered legs, and many with muddy bums (I could sympathize – I tore the seat of my shorts on a Mulanje descent in March).
When the Porters Race began 15 years ago, it was exactly what the name suggests — a contest between the porters who lug hikers’ gear up the mountain. It quickly expanded, though, including women in its fifth year and drawing competitors from across the country. Now, porters rarely number among the top finishers. Saturday’s male winner is a soldier in Lilongwe and said he spent the last two months training for the race. The female winner belongs to a local athletic club. She displaced a woman who has dominated the podium, losing the race only once in the last seven years.
As impressive as the competitors proved, I had to ask what heights they could reach with proper athletic training. When I spoke with the winner of the men’s race, he said he intended to put his prize money (about $300) to better training equipment and access to facilities. He had the lean yet powerful build of a marathoner and a confident gait. I’m no fan of financially swollen sports programs (or of the swollen egos of overpaid and overhyped athletes), and goodness knows other sectors in Malawi need the attention more. But I had to wonder — what if this country had proper athletics infrastructure? Could there have been a Usain Bolt at Saturday’s race? Just askin’.
I attended the Porters Race this past Saturday, rolling out of Blantyre toward Mount Mulanje at 5 a.m. in a 37-year-old, sea green Mercedes. (We didn’t return with the same grace — the clutch spring broke somewhere en route, and we lurched, rather than glided, our way back to the city.) The race was scheduled to start at 6 a.m., but this being Malawi, the runners didn’t pound up the mountain until 7:45. No matter — this being Malawi, I knew half of the attendees (ok, not half) and we sized up the competitors. The event is open to foreigners (26 took part this year, though the fastest non-Malawian man and woman finished about an hour after their Malawian counterparts), and numerous people asked me if I was participating. No way, I said — I’ve tackled Mulanje my share of times, but it’s a steep beast of a mountain (and did I mention it was 6 a.m.?).
I didn’t see the action up on the plateau, but judging by the participants’ post-race injuries, the mountain didn’t spare any punches. A cadre of nurses tended to cuts and abrasions, as well as some truly gnarly wounds. Runners finished with mud-splattered legs, and many with muddy bums (I could sympathize – I tore the seat of my shorts on a Mulanje descent in March).
When the Porters Race began 15 years ago, it was exactly what the name suggests — a contest between the porters who lug hikers’ gear up the mountain. It quickly expanded, though, including women in its fifth year and drawing competitors from across the country. Now, porters rarely number among the top finishers. Saturday’s male winner is a soldier in Lilongwe and said he spent the last two months training for the race. The female winner belongs to a local athletic club. She displaced a woman who has dominated the podium, losing the race only once in the last seven years.
As impressive as the competitors proved, I had to ask what heights they could reach with proper athletic training. When I spoke with the winner of the men’s race, he said he intended to put his prize money (about $300) to better training equipment and access to facilities. He had the lean yet powerful build of a marathoner and a confident gait. I’m no fan of financially swollen sports programs (or of the swollen egos of overpaid and overhyped athletes), and goodness knows other sectors in Malawi need the attention more. But I had to wonder — what if this country had proper athletics infrastructure? Could there have been a Usain Bolt at Saturday’s race? Just askin’.
Friday, June 25, 2010
On the Passage of Time (Glimpse)
I am unsure how to mark the passage of time in Malawi. I’ve just been spit out of 17 years of academia, with its easy dividing lines, its semesters and exam schedules and holiday vacations. Now I’m in this landlocked country, somewhere between southern and central Africa (Malawi can’t seem to decide where to place itself), without a job title or a work schedule and only the occasional deadline. I make my own days and have little routine, which can be liberating and exciting, but it’s also exhausting.
And now about 270 of those routine-free days have passed. There have been, predictably, interminable hours and blink-of-an-eye weeks. But rather than marking the elapsed time with those old, familiar rulers, I have had to seek out other methods of measurement.
The seasons scarcely work as a guide. When I arrived in Malawi at the end of September, it was hot and dry. Somewhere around December it became hot and wet. Now the rains have slowed to a sputter and people say we’re moving into winter, but the mercury can still run high during the day. And even if the seasons do change, if winter does arrive and I find myself haggling for turtlenecks and wool socks at the market, my trained northern hemisphere mind does not understand why it has arrived in June, just when I should be riding my bike, eating ice cream, and gaping at wildflowers in the Columbia River Gorge.
Events seem to come at the wrong time. In January, stores flew banners advertising back-to-school book discounts and summer clothing sales. Now, in late June, I pass flyers for winter concerts and winter parties. Mother’s Day was in October. Thanksgiving Day was scorching. When I was in Germany for the Euro Cup, it was light out till 9 and we gathered to watch the games on giant screens, al fresco. Now the World Cup is underway, but it’s dark by 5:30 and too chilly to sit outside (I started writing this entry a month ago; in the time that’s passed, the temperatures indeed have dropped – I could see my breath last week).
With wonky seasons and holidays landing in the wrong months, I’ve paid greater attention to the trees and the plants. The jacarandas were out when I arrived, and as soon as they dropped their soft purple blossoms the flamboyants (an appropriately audacious name for the bright red flowers) bloomed. Then the rains began, and the whole landscape sprouted green.
The fruits and vegetables have become a marker as well. Though part of me misses the round-the-calendar accessibility of the supermarket, I’ve been able to mark the passage of time by the changes in my diet. I watched with sadness as the mango season puttered out, to be replaced by a flood of sugarcane and avocadoes. The tree outside my door hung heavy with loquats when I moved in; then the guavas and passionfruit arrived; now we have tangerines. The initial tomato crop was mind-blowing. There are staples, to be sure, potatoes and bananas and papaya, but I have come to enjoy eating at the whims of the harvest. Still, without the rituals and familiar associations of the shifting agricultural calendar — the apple picking of the fall, the watermelon seed spitting of the summer — I struggle to measure the months by the alien produce in my kitchen.
Every so often I will be jolted by the abrupt recognition that the earth is, indeed, orbiting. A young woman I know gave birth recently, and I watched her stomach grow to improbable fullness and then shrink back to her slim frame. I’ve watched her sister hit puberty, her posture growing straighter and prouder as she’s adjusted to her new figure. Many of the young women I work with have children, and I’ve seen them grow from infants to boys and girls, with evermore animated facial expressions and legs strong enough to stand on. I received an email from my mother when the United States switched to standard time, and then another when the country returned to daylight savings, reminding me of the shifting time difference between my home here and my home there.
I can’t figure it out. Of course the cadence of a place is unique — a New England college campus runs at a different pace than the state capital down the hill. It’s not as if I’ve gone back in time, the way I felt during my three-week stint in rural Romania, in a village that lacked indoor plumbing and landlines. Time simply seems to operate differently here. Its passage feels less real, somehow, seeming to occur in a strange sort of vacuum, in a warped space where the clock ticks without regard for the timepieces of the rest of the world.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
An Island Paradise (Glimpse)
Likoma Island is something of an impossible place. It's accessible only by private plane (I met a few South African men who'd flown in) or by the MV Ilala, a ferry that has run up and down Lake Malawi since 1957. This isolation lends the island a distinctive serenity, and renders it immune from many plagues of the mainland: honking minibuses, urban poverty and crime, choking pollution. By necessity, the pace of life on Likoma runs slow, but not sluggish. I spent one morning with two islanders discussing whether inhabitants are lazy. No, they concluded, as we lolled in hammocks and watched the waves lap at the sand, just good at taking it easy.
I spent a few days on Likoma in April (the ferry schedule requires travelers to stick around for several nights, contributing to the island's easy rhythm), and they go down as some of my most supremely enjoyable in Malawi. Lacking the funds to charter a plane, Riley and I boarded the Ilala in Nkhata Bay, a verdant lakeside town populated by rasta wannabes and drunken British backpackers. The Ilala is part cruise ship, part minibus. Locals use it to transport goods (sacks of maize, bananas, mattresses, furniture, chickens, goats) between the mainland and the islands, so a distinctive perfume and soundtrack suffuse the lower decks. A first-class ticket, though, buys you a spot on the open top deck. It's a red-eye from Nkhata Bay to Likoma — provided the ferry is on schedule (we departed only a couple hours late). The sky felt vaster and the stars brighter as I lay on my back, swaddled in my sleeping bag to shield against the breeze. The moon rose late in the evening, an unusually yellow orb in the black sky. A Carlsberg sets you back 150 Kwacha, about a dollar, and we brought a slab of chocolate. The bar played Celine Dion's greatest hits, and a few hours in, the inevitable tune rang out. I sang along. Riley groaned. "Number one rule of maritime travel," he said. "Don't mention the Titanic."
We were scheduled to arrive at Likoma around 3 a.m. but instead dropped anchor right after sunrise. I was grateful for the daytime disembarkment. Tiny Likoma has no pier where the Ilala can dock, so lifeboats shuttle passengers from the ferry to the shore. Maximum capacity 20 people, the lifeboats claim, but why would anyone heed the order? We held out aggressive elbows and jostled our way to a worn wooden ladder, lowering ourselves onto a pitching lifeboat overloaded with passengers and cargo. I squatted on a sack of cassava and gripped a waterlogged cardboard box.
The rest of our time on Likoma proved far less stressful. We split our time between the beach and Chipyela, the main town on the island. The beach was predictably blissful — hot sand, clear and temperate water, underwear-clad children hauling in impressive catches of fish (they used nsima, maize porridge, as bait). And the town, unlike many faded, depressed Malawian villages, was lively and welcoming. Our first day we met a 17-year-old boy named Alexander, who was studying Middle Eastern geography in school. He quizzed us on capitals. "Iran?" "Tehran." "Syria?" "Damascus." "Yemen?" "Yikes, tricky one," we replied. "Sanaa," he answered, without a beat.
Alexander led us to St. Peter's Cathedral, an improbable feat of architecture. The massive granite building, with its soapstone choir stalls and stained-glass windows, feels Malawian only in its corrugated tin roof, no doubt part of a more recent renovation. We met Richard, the church reader, who agreed to lead us up one of the towers. We met only a locked hatch door — and a crowd of bats. Richard asked to swap addresses and promised to write Riley in the U.S.
Our Likoma circuit took us next to a strip of stalls selling dried goods, soap, Vaseline, eggs, salt, sugar, cooking oil. In the first days after the Ilala's arrival, you can find tomatoes and avocadoes and bananas, but these stocks dwindle as the week passes. The fish, of course, are in constant supply, usipa and matemba and other tiny varieties drying in the thousands on lakeside racks.
Well, perhaps not constant supply. Riley and I ate several meals at the brilliantly-named Hunger Clinic, a thatched roof hut meters from the water. When we asked if they had fish, Nyamwezi (whose red t-shirt read "head doctor") laughed and shook his head. "No fish?!" we cried. "No fish!" he confirmed. "But the lake!" we pointed. "No no, lake for swimming!" We instead downed massive portions of beef, beans, and rice, cheap and simple and delicious. After lunch, the television suddenly switched on — Likoma is powered by three diesel generators, which take a siesta from noon to 2 p.m.
(For the record, Nyamwezi came through for us the next day, and we shared a flaky plate of butterfish for dinner.)
One of the most astonishing things about Likoma was the lack of begging. When islanders greeted us and engaged us in conversation, their questions were not followed with appeals for money. True, children did ply us with incessant requests for balloons (some long-gone backpacker must have brought a pack and started the craze), but they were mostly eager to tag after us, recruit us for games, wave at the camera, try on our sunglasses. One young girl death-gripped my hand and pronounced firmly to her friends: "Mzungu wanga!" "My white person!" Everyone was glad to provide us with directions, which invariably instructed us to turn at that big baobab tree. Too bad the entirety of Likoma is studded with big baobab trees — only they and the mango trees remain, all the others felled for firewood.
We arrived on Likoma at sunrise and departed at the same time, this time on a sailing dhow bound for a neighboring island. We found our way to the boat in pitch darkness and only made it on time thanks to several women who interrupted their early morning tasks to correct our false turns and lead us down the proper path. We stepped over fishermen sleeping on the sand, resting for another day in their dugout canoes. The dhow's dozen passengers boarded sleepily and we set off for Chizumulu. The sails caught the morning wind and the waves caught the pink morning light and the dhow pitched across the lake. Behind us, the sun rose over Likoma Island.
I spent a few days on Likoma in April (the ferry schedule requires travelers to stick around for several nights, contributing to the island's easy rhythm), and they go down as some of my most supremely enjoyable in Malawi. Lacking the funds to charter a plane, Riley and I boarded the Ilala in Nkhata Bay, a verdant lakeside town populated by rasta wannabes and drunken British backpackers. The Ilala is part cruise ship, part minibus. Locals use it to transport goods (sacks of maize, bananas, mattresses, furniture, chickens, goats) between the mainland and the islands, so a distinctive perfume and soundtrack suffuse the lower decks. A first-class ticket, though, buys you a spot on the open top deck. It's a red-eye from Nkhata Bay to Likoma — provided the ferry is on schedule (we departed only a couple hours late). The sky felt vaster and the stars brighter as I lay on my back, swaddled in my sleeping bag to shield against the breeze. The moon rose late in the evening, an unusually yellow orb in the black sky. A Carlsberg sets you back 150 Kwacha, about a dollar, and we brought a slab of chocolate. The bar played Celine Dion's greatest hits, and a few hours in, the inevitable tune rang out. I sang along. Riley groaned. "Number one rule of maritime travel," he said. "Don't mention the Titanic."
We were scheduled to arrive at Likoma around 3 a.m. but instead dropped anchor right after sunrise. I was grateful for the daytime disembarkment. Tiny Likoma has no pier where the Ilala can dock, so lifeboats shuttle passengers from the ferry to the shore. Maximum capacity 20 people, the lifeboats claim, but why would anyone heed the order? We held out aggressive elbows and jostled our way to a worn wooden ladder, lowering ourselves onto a pitching lifeboat overloaded with passengers and cargo. I squatted on a sack of cassava and gripped a waterlogged cardboard box.
The rest of our time on Likoma proved far less stressful. We split our time between the beach and Chipyela, the main town on the island. The beach was predictably blissful — hot sand, clear and temperate water, underwear-clad children hauling in impressive catches of fish (they used nsima, maize porridge, as bait). And the town, unlike many faded, depressed Malawian villages, was lively and welcoming. Our first day we met a 17-year-old boy named Alexander, who was studying Middle Eastern geography in school. He quizzed us on capitals. "Iran?" "Tehran." "Syria?" "Damascus." "Yemen?" "Yikes, tricky one," we replied. "Sanaa," he answered, without a beat.
Alexander led us to St. Peter's Cathedral, an improbable feat of architecture. The massive granite building, with its soapstone choir stalls and stained-glass windows, feels Malawian only in its corrugated tin roof, no doubt part of a more recent renovation. We met Richard, the church reader, who agreed to lead us up one of the towers. We met only a locked hatch door — and a crowd of bats. Richard asked to swap addresses and promised to write Riley in the U.S.
Our Likoma circuit took us next to a strip of stalls selling dried goods, soap, Vaseline, eggs, salt, sugar, cooking oil. In the first days after the Ilala's arrival, you can find tomatoes and avocadoes and bananas, but these stocks dwindle as the week passes. The fish, of course, are in constant supply, usipa and matemba and other tiny varieties drying in the thousands on lakeside racks.
Well, perhaps not constant supply. Riley and I ate several meals at the brilliantly-named Hunger Clinic, a thatched roof hut meters from the water. When we asked if they had fish, Nyamwezi (whose red t-shirt read "head doctor") laughed and shook his head. "No fish?!" we cried. "No fish!" he confirmed. "But the lake!" we pointed. "No no, lake for swimming!" We instead downed massive portions of beef, beans, and rice, cheap and simple and delicious. After lunch, the television suddenly switched on — Likoma is powered by three diesel generators, which take a siesta from noon to 2 p.m.
(For the record, Nyamwezi came through for us the next day, and we shared a flaky plate of butterfish for dinner.)
One of the most astonishing things about Likoma was the lack of begging. When islanders greeted us and engaged us in conversation, their questions were not followed with appeals for money. True, children did ply us with incessant requests for balloons (some long-gone backpacker must have brought a pack and started the craze), but they were mostly eager to tag after us, recruit us for games, wave at the camera, try on our sunglasses. One young girl death-gripped my hand and pronounced firmly to her friends: "Mzungu wanga!" "My white person!" Everyone was glad to provide us with directions, which invariably instructed us to turn at that big baobab tree. Too bad the entirety of Likoma is studded with big baobab trees — only they and the mango trees remain, all the others felled for firewood.
We arrived on Likoma at sunrise and departed at the same time, this time on a sailing dhow bound for a neighboring island. We found our way to the boat in pitch darkness and only made it on time thanks to several women who interrupted their early morning tasks to correct our false turns and lead us down the proper path. We stepped over fishermen sleeping on the sand, resting for another day in their dugout canoes. The dhow's dozen passengers boarded sleepily and we set off for Chizumulu. The sails caught the morning wind and the waves caught the pink morning light and the dhow pitched across the lake. Behind us, the sun rose over Likoma Island.
Pardon my cynicism
It would have been little surprise had my mother's SMS delivered the announcement (she often gets to the news first; I have to wait for a BBC briefing), but it was already coursing through the mostly expatriate crowd — the gay couple sentenced to 14 years in prison had received a presidential pardon.
My astonishment quickly gave way to happiness for the two men, but I didn't feel particularly cheerful about Malawi. Madonna last week condemned the sentence as a step backward for the country (Elton John joined the debate as well, penning an open letter to the president in The Guardian), but this pardon is only superficially progressive. Had it not been for international pressure, the couple would remain in prison. Only after meeting with U.N. Secretary General Ban Ki-moon did Malawi's president, Bingu wa Mutharika, decide to release the men, and only with continued scorn for their actions. Earlier in the course of the trial, Bingu had called homosexuality "evil and very bad before the eyes of God." His views haven’t budged — while announcing his pardon, he added that "These boys committed a crime against our culture, our religion and our laws." He went on: "In all aspects of reasoning, in all aspects of human understanding, these two gay boys were wrong — totally wrong."
Never mind the pejorative use of "boys" (then again, the laws on homosexuality stem from the colonial era, so why not maintain the racist language of the white boss?) — this is not a country moving forward. Not long after Bingu made his announcement, the Minister of Gender and Children, Patricia Kaliati, told the BBC the couple risk rearrest if they continue their display of homosexuality. The Minister of Gender — gender! Kaliati is a firebrand, to be sure, the first to comment on any controversy, but her remarks underlined the lack of reasoned discussion about homosexuality in Malawi. (Meanwhile, Madonna declared it "a historic day for Malawi." Really, Madge?)
"Malawian gay couple got pardoned!" my mom wrote in her SMS. "Was there a big celebration?"
Hardly.
My astonishment quickly gave way to happiness for the two men, but I didn't feel particularly cheerful about Malawi. Madonna last week condemned the sentence as a step backward for the country (Elton John joined the debate as well, penning an open letter to the president in The Guardian), but this pardon is only superficially progressive. Had it not been for international pressure, the couple would remain in prison. Only after meeting with U.N. Secretary General Ban Ki-moon did Malawi's president, Bingu wa Mutharika, decide to release the men, and only with continued scorn for their actions. Earlier in the course of the trial, Bingu had called homosexuality "evil and very bad before the eyes of God." His views haven’t budged — while announcing his pardon, he added that "These boys committed a crime against our culture, our religion and our laws." He went on: "In all aspects of reasoning, in all aspects of human understanding, these two gay boys were wrong — totally wrong."
Never mind the pejorative use of "boys" (then again, the laws on homosexuality stem from the colonial era, so why not maintain the racist language of the white boss?) — this is not a country moving forward. Not long after Bingu made his announcement, the Minister of Gender and Children, Patricia Kaliati, told the BBC the couple risk rearrest if they continue their display of homosexuality. The Minister of Gender — gender! Kaliati is a firebrand, to be sure, the first to comment on any controversy, but her remarks underlined the lack of reasoned discussion about homosexuality in Malawi. (Meanwhile, Madonna declared it "a historic day for Malawi." Really, Madge?)
"Malawian gay couple got pardoned!" my mom wrote in her SMS. "Was there a big celebration?"
Hardly.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Out Of School And Into Motherhood (Glimpse)
My feature story about Modester has gone up on Glimpse. Read it here.
Friday, May 21, 2010
14 Years
It's no death sentence (see proposed legislation in Uganda), but yesterday a magistrate in Malawi meted out the maximum punishment for a gay couple: 14 years in prison, with hard labor. The men were convicted on Tuesday of unnatural acts and gross indecency ("buggery," according to language held over from the colonial era), and they received their sentence Thursday. The couple have been held, without bail, since the end of December, when they threw a chinkhoswe, or traditional engagement ceremony.
The verdict didn't surprise me, but it was still disappointing. I had hoped, at least, that the judge might refrain from the maximum sentence. After a lifetime in liberal bubbles, I walked by the courthouse yesterday feeling very separate from the scene. I observed the pre-trial hubbub, a strange blend of well-heeled reporters with voice recorders, passers-by with babies on their backs and baskets of groundnuts on their heads, and barefooted street children holding out grubby hands and weaving through the throng. I thought back to high school, when my county briefly allowed gay marriage (though the state later voted to revoke the licenses), and my daily commute passed a long queue of couples waiting to be wed. Yesterday I mostly avoided the crowd, having heard enough homophobic comments since this fiasco began. The standard lines accuse the couple of being "strange," "unnatural," and defying what it means to be a proper, God-fearing Malawian. But I heard my share of comments later that evening on the BBC, along with recordings of the celebratory cheers outside the courthouse. I'm not so disappointed I missed them.
Numerous news outlets, including the New York Times and the BBC, have published articles on the sentence. While reading coverage, though, I would keep in mind a comment I overheard outside the courthouse yesterday – in an interview, a British man praised the international condemnation of Malawi, but he also maligned the Western press for presenting the country as backwards. Indeed, articles about Malawi seem to recycle the same few lines: insular, landlocked, desperately poor, very conservative, deeply religious. These descriptors may be accurate, but they also convey a one-dimensional Malawi.
The couple's lawyer said they're likely to appeal. Perhaps there's hope yet.
Monday, May 17, 2010
SLIDESHOW: Images of Malawi (Glimpse)
Click here to view a Glimpse slideshow of my top Malawi shots.
Monday, February 22, 2010
HOW TO: Drink (and Brew) Beer Like a Malawian (Glimpse)
My how-to piece on Chibuku has gone up on the Glimpse website. Check it out here.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Pointing at Difference and Finding Inclusion (Glimpse)
The four young women and I hop from rock to rock, avoiding the sewage that carves dirty channels in the dusty ground. Our narrow path cuts under mango and banana trees and behind mud-and-brick houses, through those in-between spaces where young siblings bathe even younger ones and their mothers chop leafy greens for lunch. Overgrown, startlingly emerald bushes brush against my legs and make this neighborhood seem more lush jungle than urban township.
The women and I make mostly futile attempts at conversation. My Chichewa continues to muddle along, and the women all left school before attaining any kind of English proficiency. I settle for silence, happy to listen to their lively banter and imagine the subject of conversation. Their families? Price increases at the produce market? Local gossip?
We are five women walking together, but we actually number nine. Aside from me, each woman has a baby on her back, an infant swaddled in a strip of colorful fabric. Modesta and Debra, Patuma and Siffa, Mphatso and George, Delia and Fanny. I carry only a backpack. We are all close in age, even in height, yet I am conspicuously the non-mother, the township outsider, the white foreigner.
Our walk takes us to numerous doorsteps, where the women call out the name of a friend. “Laina!” they holler. “Laina! Laina!” Laina promises to meet us later. We can’t find Esther.
At one point I swivel around, checking that I haven’t walked too far ahead of the others. In the doorframe of a tin-roofed house leans a girl, a girl with pale skin and light hair. She gives me a surprised smile.
I turn to the women. “Ndinaona mzungu!” I screech. “I saw a white person!”
The women erupt. They laugh and slap my back and exchange high fives. They give me expressions of incredulity, as if I have somehow forgotten my own skin color. “I know, I know,” I explain in Chichewa. “I know I’m white, but I saw another white person!” I don’t know how to say “another” in Chichewa. Whatever. “Ndinaona another mzungu!” I cry.
The path has widened here, and we walk five abreast. I have somehow ended up in the middle of the chain, no longer several steps ahead of the other women. Their peals of laughter continue, and one of the women grips and shakes my hand. I laugh as well, feeling more included than I have all day, but well aware that this moment of inclusion has come at the hands of a frustratingly superficial but nevertheless unshakeable difference.
The women and I make mostly futile attempts at conversation. My Chichewa continues to muddle along, and the women all left school before attaining any kind of English proficiency. I settle for silence, happy to listen to their lively banter and imagine the subject of conversation. Their families? Price increases at the produce market? Local gossip?
We are five women walking together, but we actually number nine. Aside from me, each woman has a baby on her back, an infant swaddled in a strip of colorful fabric. Modesta and Debra, Patuma and Siffa, Mphatso and George, Delia and Fanny. I carry only a backpack. We are all close in age, even in height, yet I am conspicuously the non-mother, the township outsider, the white foreigner.
Our walk takes us to numerous doorsteps, where the women call out the name of a friend. “Laina!” they holler. “Laina! Laina!” Laina promises to meet us later. We can’t find Esther.
At one point I swivel around, checking that I haven’t walked too far ahead of the others. In the doorframe of a tin-roofed house leans a girl, a girl with pale skin and light hair. She gives me a surprised smile.
I turn to the women. “Ndinaona mzungu!” I screech. “I saw a white person!”
The women erupt. They laugh and slap my back and exchange high fives. They give me expressions of incredulity, as if I have somehow forgotten my own skin color. “I know, I know,” I explain in Chichewa. “I know I’m white, but I saw another white person!” I don’t know how to say “another” in Chichewa. Whatever. “Ndinaona another mzungu!” I cry.
The path has widened here, and we walk five abreast. I have somehow ended up in the middle of the chain, no longer several steps ahead of the other women. Their peals of laughter continue, and one of the women grips and shakes my hand. I laugh as well, feeling more included than I have all day, but well aware that this moment of inclusion has come at the hands of a frustratingly superficial but nevertheless unshakeable difference.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
The Day I Followed Jimi Hendrix Across the Zambezi (Glimpse)
“Hey, bobo!”
Maryan and I pivoted. It had been weeks since we’d heard the Chichewa greeting (which bears no resemblance to the playground slur). To our left stood a slim dreadlocked man leaning against a wooden railing and fiddling with his beaded Rastafarian ring. We’d met him on the minibus that morning. He’d told us his name was Jimi Hendrix.
“Been to the lip of the Falls?” he asked. “Come on.”
Jimi led us along a paved path, indicating where the Zambezi’s current had grown stronger since the rains had begun. “Over there, do you see?” he asked, pointing to a marshy area hidden behind tall grasses. “That’s the lip of Victoria Falls. It’s not flooded yet, so we can cross the river.”
Maryan and I swapped glances. This was an adventure, right? “We need to make a chain,” Jimi said, grabbing Maryan’s left hand. I went to grab her right, but then a short, taciturn man appeared from behind the bushes (I swear) and nabbed the spot between Maryan and me.
We took our first exhilarating steps into the Zambezi. The warmth of the water distracted me from the force of the river. We shuffled along a manmade wall the width of a balance beam. The water hit at knee-level.
During college, I led backpacking trips in New Hampshire. Shelley, our program coordinator, loved river crossings. We discussed an endless array of techniques — rotating tripods and hand-over-hand chains and buttressed doubles — and tested these out in the carpeted dormitory lounge. None of these methods had ever proven necessary in the White Mountains. But as I faced upstream (to prevent my knees from buckling) and bent my legs (to brace against the current), I thought of Shelley. Who knew her advice would aid me in Zambia?
The water grew deeper. What had seemed a mere hop-and-a-skip from the bank was proving to be an unremittingly soggy schlep. We often paused to let giant, glowingly green, bulbous plants pass between our legs. The silent man from the bushes became increasingly shaky. Midway across the river, we had to straddle a boulder in order to continue. I remembered my earlier comment — “Maryan, you’d hardly believe such a calm current turns into those enormous falls!” I was ready to rescind the statement.
“Way better than whitewater rafting, isn’t it?” Jimi asked.
We grumbled.
“We’re nearly there,” he said. “That’s the office.” He pointed at a tree on the opposite bank. Discarded water bottles lay strewn at its base. Waterlogged clothing hung from the branches.
We arrived saturated with Zambezi and sweat. It had taken us 45 minutes to go a few dozen meters. I wondered if the river had parasites. Or crocodiles.
“Where’s the lip of the Falls?” Maryan asked.
“Over there,” Jimi said, waving his arm toward the horizon. “Not far.” Jimi loved understatements.
“No,” Maryan said. “I’m done.” She remained at the office with Shaky Bushman (who informed her, she later said, how small children cross the Zambezi all the time. “And I run across!” he’d boasted).
I’d made it this far, I reasoned, so I continued with Jimi. We were off the manmade wall and into the rocky, slippery rapids. “Step where I step,” Jimi said. Never mind that the water rushed too fast for me to make out Jimi’s feet. “I’ll keep you safe,” he assured.
I slipped. Jimi sneered. “You have short legs,” he said. Jimi was at least six feet tall.
I slipped again, this time soaking my entire right side.
I swore. “Enough,” I said.
“But we’re nearly there!” he insisted. Jimi said this frequently. He pointed across an interminable stretch of whitewater. “That’s the regular route, but there’s a shortcut along this way.”
I steeled myself. “Wait,” I said. “How deep is the water?”
“The regular way — ” he gripped my calf. “And the shortcut — ” he karate chopped my waist.
“No way,” I replied.
On our return slog, we passed a group of guys making the crossing.
“Was it worth it?” one asked.
“Chalk this up to stupid things I’ve done in Africa,” I said. “Have fun.”
Maryan and I pivoted. It had been weeks since we’d heard the Chichewa greeting (which bears no resemblance to the playground slur). To our left stood a slim dreadlocked man leaning against a wooden railing and fiddling with his beaded Rastafarian ring. We’d met him on the minibus that morning. He’d told us his name was Jimi Hendrix.
“Been to the lip of the Falls?” he asked. “Come on.”
Jimi led us along a paved path, indicating where the Zambezi’s current had grown stronger since the rains had begun. “Over there, do you see?” he asked, pointing to a marshy area hidden behind tall grasses. “That’s the lip of Victoria Falls. It’s not flooded yet, so we can cross the river.”
Maryan and I swapped glances. This was an adventure, right? “We need to make a chain,” Jimi said, grabbing Maryan’s left hand. I went to grab her right, but then a short, taciturn man appeared from behind the bushes (I swear) and nabbed the spot between Maryan and me.
We took our first exhilarating steps into the Zambezi. The warmth of the water distracted me from the force of the river. We shuffled along a manmade wall the width of a balance beam. The water hit at knee-level.
During college, I led backpacking trips in New Hampshire. Shelley, our program coordinator, loved river crossings. We discussed an endless array of techniques — rotating tripods and hand-over-hand chains and buttressed doubles — and tested these out in the carpeted dormitory lounge. None of these methods had ever proven necessary in the White Mountains. But as I faced upstream (to prevent my knees from buckling) and bent my legs (to brace against the current), I thought of Shelley. Who knew her advice would aid me in Zambia?
The water grew deeper. What had seemed a mere hop-and-a-skip from the bank was proving to be an unremittingly soggy schlep. We often paused to let giant, glowingly green, bulbous plants pass between our legs. The silent man from the bushes became increasingly shaky. Midway across the river, we had to straddle a boulder in order to continue. I remembered my earlier comment — “Maryan, you’d hardly believe such a calm current turns into those enormous falls!” I was ready to rescind the statement.
“Way better than whitewater rafting, isn’t it?” Jimi asked.
We grumbled.
“We’re nearly there,” he said. “That’s the office.” He pointed at a tree on the opposite bank. Discarded water bottles lay strewn at its base. Waterlogged clothing hung from the branches.
We arrived saturated with Zambezi and sweat. It had taken us 45 minutes to go a few dozen meters. I wondered if the river had parasites. Or crocodiles.
“Where’s the lip of the Falls?” Maryan asked.
“Over there,” Jimi said, waving his arm toward the horizon. “Not far.” Jimi loved understatements.
“No,” Maryan said. “I’m done.” She remained at the office with Shaky Bushman (who informed her, she later said, how small children cross the Zambezi all the time. “And I run across!” he’d boasted).
I’d made it this far, I reasoned, so I continued with Jimi. We were off the manmade wall and into the rocky, slippery rapids. “Step where I step,” Jimi said. Never mind that the water rushed too fast for me to make out Jimi’s feet. “I’ll keep you safe,” he assured.
I slipped. Jimi sneered. “You have short legs,” he said. Jimi was at least six feet tall.
I slipped again, this time soaking my entire right side.
I swore. “Enough,” I said.
“But we’re nearly there!” he insisted. Jimi said this frequently. He pointed across an interminable stretch of whitewater. “That’s the regular route, but there’s a shortcut along this way.”
I steeled myself. “Wait,” I said. “How deep is the water?”
“The regular way — ” he gripped my calf. “And the shortcut — ” he karate chopped my waist.
“No way,” I replied.
On our return slog, we passed a group of guys making the crossing.
“Was it worth it?” one asked.
“Chalk this up to stupid things I’ve done in Africa,” I said. “Have fun.”
Monday, January 18, 2010
I Never Knew I Wanted to Spend a Night at a Botswana Truck Stop (Until I Spent a Night at a Botswana Truck Stop) (Glimpse)
Serule, Botswana is a charmless truck stop in the country’s arid east. It consists of a filling station, a sad-looking bar, and a dingy guesthouse. Lonely Planet would never include Serule. Ever.
But as we wheeled down the A1, bucketing rain and a darkening sky gave us little choice. “I’m done driving,” Charles grumbled. I didn’t blame him. He’d been behind the wheel since sunrise and had just received his second speeding ticket of the day. He’d managed to haggle down both fines (raise your hand if you love corruption!), but the cop in Botswana had been more stubborn than her Zimbabwe counterpart. “We’re stopping here,” he said. Maryan and I, the permanent passengers, put up no resistance.
A cluster of round huts comprised Sunshine Guesthouse. A barefooted woman said ours was the last empty room. And what a room it was. The floor hadn’t been swept since the colonial era. The bathroom reeked of mildew. Neither the toilet nor shower functioned. I think a large carnivore had clawed at the sheets. The mosquitoes were enormous and abundant.
“I need a beer,” Charles grumbled. Once again, I didn’t blame him. We made the muddy trek to the bar and hunkered at a picnic table beneath a thatched roof. Chickens pecked at our ankles. A nearby car, its doors propped open, served as a de facto sound system. Skimpily dressed women tried to pick up passing truck drivers.
It was there that we met Rodney. A ruddy-faced South African engineer, Rodney bought us a round before even introducing himself. He told us he’d driven his pick-up all over Africa. He’d taught in Malawi. He was on his way to Namibia. He kept a cooler of ice in his truck and added cubes to each brandy and coke he ordered. He’d joined a South African gang as a teenager and had the tattoos to prove it. He’d lost his fiancée Melissa to a stray bullet in Johannesburg.
And he was determined to show us a good time in Serule. “You guys hungry?” Rodney asked. Maybe gnawing at our bottle caps had given us away. “I know a place nearby,” he continued. “Just a few minutes down the road — follow my truck.”
As our other dining options were limited to peanut butter and the bar’s gray-tinged chicken cutlets, we seized Rodney’s offer. “Just a few minutes down the road” turned out to be quite the distance along an unlit highway, but our destination did not disappoint. The bartender stood behind a barricade of iron rods, locals played pool, and “Ally McBeal” spooled on the television. But then the ultimate diversion arrived: several cardboard boxes filled with hot, grilled meat.
Let me interject here: some of my fondest memories abroad involve absurd quantities of meat. I celebrated my 19th birthday in a small Romanian village, where my surprise party featured neither cupcakes nor ice cream but endless rounds of mici (tiny sausages made from beef, mutton, and pork) and slow-cooked chicken (and I mean slow-cooked chicken — it didn’t come off the grill until after midnight, at which point I was still forced to consume half the bird). I developed quite a liking for ostrich meat in South Africa. I studied abroad in Germany.
But Serule put these other carnivorous feasts to shame. We devoured pork, beef, and sausage, along with mounds of maize porridge. After months of Malawian cuisine, where seasoning rarely ventures beyond salt, this spicy, zesty meat assailed our taste buds. With juices dripping down our chins and fingers, we told Rodney we loved him. He bought us another round.
We awoke the next morning with heartburn and meat still threaded in our teeth. Maybe Lonely Planet should reconsider.
But as we wheeled down the A1, bucketing rain and a darkening sky gave us little choice. “I’m done driving,” Charles grumbled. I didn’t blame him. He’d been behind the wheel since sunrise and had just received his second speeding ticket of the day. He’d managed to haggle down both fines (raise your hand if you love corruption!), but the cop in Botswana had been more stubborn than her Zimbabwe counterpart. “We’re stopping here,” he said. Maryan and I, the permanent passengers, put up no resistance.
A cluster of round huts comprised Sunshine Guesthouse. A barefooted woman said ours was the last empty room. And what a room it was. The floor hadn’t been swept since the colonial era. The bathroom reeked of mildew. Neither the toilet nor shower functioned. I think a large carnivore had clawed at the sheets. The mosquitoes were enormous and abundant.
“I need a beer,” Charles grumbled. Once again, I didn’t blame him. We made the muddy trek to the bar and hunkered at a picnic table beneath a thatched roof. Chickens pecked at our ankles. A nearby car, its doors propped open, served as a de facto sound system. Skimpily dressed women tried to pick up passing truck drivers.
It was there that we met Rodney. A ruddy-faced South African engineer, Rodney bought us a round before even introducing himself. He told us he’d driven his pick-up all over Africa. He’d taught in Malawi. He was on his way to Namibia. He kept a cooler of ice in his truck and added cubes to each brandy and coke he ordered. He’d joined a South African gang as a teenager and had the tattoos to prove it. He’d lost his fiancée Melissa to a stray bullet in Johannesburg.
And he was determined to show us a good time in Serule. “You guys hungry?” Rodney asked. Maybe gnawing at our bottle caps had given us away. “I know a place nearby,” he continued. “Just a few minutes down the road — follow my truck.”
As our other dining options were limited to peanut butter and the bar’s gray-tinged chicken cutlets, we seized Rodney’s offer. “Just a few minutes down the road” turned out to be quite the distance along an unlit highway, but our destination did not disappoint. The bartender stood behind a barricade of iron rods, locals played pool, and “Ally McBeal” spooled on the television. But then the ultimate diversion arrived: several cardboard boxes filled with hot, grilled meat.
Let me interject here: some of my fondest memories abroad involve absurd quantities of meat. I celebrated my 19th birthday in a small Romanian village, where my surprise party featured neither cupcakes nor ice cream but endless rounds of mici (tiny sausages made from beef, mutton, and pork) and slow-cooked chicken (and I mean slow-cooked chicken — it didn’t come off the grill until after midnight, at which point I was still forced to consume half the bird). I developed quite a liking for ostrich meat in South Africa. I studied abroad in Germany.
But Serule put these other carnivorous feasts to shame. We devoured pork, beef, and sausage, along with mounds of maize porridge. After months of Malawian cuisine, where seasoning rarely ventures beyond salt, this spicy, zesty meat assailed our taste buds. With juices dripping down our chins and fingers, we told Rodney we loved him. He bought us another round.
We awoke the next morning with heartburn and meat still threaded in our teeth. Maybe Lonely Planet should reconsider.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Six Countries in Six Photos (and a Bonus Video) (Glimpse)
My passport received a great deal of ink over the past five weeks. As I mentioned in my last entry, I took off for an ambitious circuit of southern Africa, lasting 35 days and covering more than 4,200 miles (not including wrong turns and various detours). I didn’t enter a single plane or train — I spent the stretch from Blantyre to Cape Town in a friend’s car, and from there opted for crowded local buses. Ever wondered what it’s like to spend 14 hours on a bus with two dozen wailing, pooping babies? Spare your imagination.
Before I record the journey’s adventures in detail (up next: a night at a truck stop in Botswana! Crossing the Zambezi with Jimi Hendrix!), here’s the six-country trek in six photos. And because I couldn’t resist, I’ve included a bonus video at the end.
That’s Clutch!
Tete, Mozambique
When traveling, it’s always polite to learn a few words in the local language — hello, thank you, toilet, etc. I never thought, however, that I would learn how to say “clutch spring” in Portuguese. Somewhere between Malawi and Zimbabwe, a stretch of road with potholes the size of moon craters, Charles felt his clutch give out. We went on to spend a few hours searching for an auto mechanic in Tete, the sauna of Mozambique, and eventually found a nice man who sold us three bottles of brake fluid. They did little for the clutch, but they gave us the charade of repair. We wound up spending three days in Harare waiting for a proper fix-up.
Pimp My Minibus
Harare, Zimbabwe
In Malawi, the minibuses have crosses hanging from the rearview mirrors and windshields rendered useless by spider web fissures. In Zimbabwe, they had blue velvet upholstery, crystal chandeliers and gold glittery gear shifts. Such an ostentatious display shouldn’t have surprised us — we visited a shopping mall with larger-than-life statues of Mickey Mouse, My Little Pony, Santa, and Japanese geishas (of course). Zimbabwe also proved notable for its currency situation. The country uses U.S. dollars ($2 bills are in astonishing supply) but lacks coins. When I needed 40 cents in change at the grocery store, the cashier pointed me back to the aisles, where I bought the cheapest chocolate bar I could find.
Hemingway Drank in Africa, Didn’t He?
Somewhere Along the Road, Botswana
When we picked up Frank, our tattooed Swedish friend, he encouraged us to inaugurate a new tradition — celebrate every 500 kilometers with a drink. We commemorated that first marker with a gin and tonic (served in a sawed-off plastic bottle) and all subsequent milestones with a beer. Here, Maryan makes Hemingway proud by blazing through her book and guzzling a Black Label, a brew advertised as “America’s lusty, lively beer.” The girl’s Canadian, but a passenger’s duty comes before national loyalty.
I’ll Trade You a Magenta Push-Up Bra for a Shot of Jägermeißter
Somewhere Near Barrydale, South Africa
Along Route 62, an impossibly picturesque highway in the Western Cape, we spotted a sign for Ronnie’s Sex Shop. (Actually, there was no apostrophe, but my inner grammar stickler can’t bring me to leave it out.) We couldn’t resist the souvenir possibilities and pulled over. Turns out the place wasn’t a sex shop (Ronnie had some prankster friends, who repainted the sign after a tipsy night) but the most cluttered bar on the African continent. Padded bras, gossamer thongs and the world’s largest onesie dangled from the ceiling. Christmas tree tinsel and money notes from across the globe plastered the graffitied walls. Elderly women drank wine with their tea as they played chess, and our bartender Hugo lit his cigarette underneath a newspaper bearing the headline “PENIS FOUND IN HOSPITAL SOUP.” It was 11 a.m., the perfect time to order a round and make friends at the bar. Leon was a young South African who argued for a reappraisal of Hitler. Anthony was an Oxford-educated Brit who dreamed of living in colonial-era Kenya and wearing white shorts and tall socks (his bed, he told us, would straddle the equator, so he could fall asleep in one half of the world and wake up in another).
Where Everything You Touch Turns to Photographic Gold
Sossusvlei, Namibia
Sossusvlei played home to the most stunning landscapes of the journey. But being tourists raised on Facebook, we couldn’t stop ourselves from taking dozens of jumping shots. Taro, an Aussie medical student, got the best air. He also entertained us with stories of past travels, including the time he tore down an entire wall in his friend’s London apartment and the garment he fashioned from leaves and mud in the Amazon. He told heaps of dead baby jokes as well, none of which are appropriate here. But here’s this gem on feline euthanasia, courtesy of Taro’s veterinarian friend: Dude, kittens are so hard to put down. Their veins are just so small.
My, What Big Rapids You Have
Victoria Falls, Zambia
We drove across the Zambezi in Mozambique and crossed it by ferry in Botswana, but you don’t really know a river until you wade through it, right? Or get sucked down the waterfall. We evaded the latter, but fording the torrents above the falls seemed the grand Zambian adventure (and way cheaper than whitewater rafting or a helicopter tour!). Expect a full entry devoted to the soggy escapade.
And now the bonus video!
I’ll Take Feathers Over a Mane Any Day
Oudtshoorn, South Africa
Thanks to some scarring summer camp incidents, I’m lousy on horseback, but these ostriches were no more temperamental than the angry stallion who tossed me off the saddle a decade ago. Think I’ve got a future as a jockey? In the video, take note of the KKK-style hood the ostrich wears. It’s tossed aside right before the gallop begins.
Before I record the journey’s adventures in detail (up next: a night at a truck stop in Botswana! Crossing the Zambezi with Jimi Hendrix!), here’s the six-country trek in six photos. And because I couldn’t resist, I’ve included a bonus video at the end.
That’s Clutch!
Tete, Mozambique
When traveling, it’s always polite to learn a few words in the local language — hello, thank you, toilet, etc. I never thought, however, that I would learn how to say “clutch spring” in Portuguese. Somewhere between Malawi and Zimbabwe, a stretch of road with potholes the size of moon craters, Charles felt his clutch give out. We went on to spend a few hours searching for an auto mechanic in Tete, the sauna of Mozambique, and eventually found a nice man who sold us three bottles of brake fluid. They did little for the clutch, but they gave us the charade of repair. We wound up spending three days in Harare waiting for a proper fix-up.
Pimp My Minibus
Harare, Zimbabwe
In Malawi, the minibuses have crosses hanging from the rearview mirrors and windshields rendered useless by spider web fissures. In Zimbabwe, they had blue velvet upholstery, crystal chandeliers and gold glittery gear shifts. Such an ostentatious display shouldn’t have surprised us — we visited a shopping mall with larger-than-life statues of Mickey Mouse, My Little Pony, Santa, and Japanese geishas (of course). Zimbabwe also proved notable for its currency situation. The country uses U.S. dollars ($2 bills are in astonishing supply) but lacks coins. When I needed 40 cents in change at the grocery store, the cashier pointed me back to the aisles, where I bought the cheapest chocolate bar I could find.
Hemingway Drank in Africa, Didn’t He?
Somewhere Along the Road, Botswana
When we picked up Frank, our tattooed Swedish friend, he encouraged us to inaugurate a new tradition — celebrate every 500 kilometers with a drink. We commemorated that first marker with a gin and tonic (served in a sawed-off plastic bottle) and all subsequent milestones with a beer. Here, Maryan makes Hemingway proud by blazing through her book and guzzling a Black Label, a brew advertised as “America’s lusty, lively beer.” The girl’s Canadian, but a passenger’s duty comes before national loyalty.
I’ll Trade You a Magenta Push-Up Bra for a Shot of Jägermeißter
Somewhere Near Barrydale, South Africa
Along Route 62, an impossibly picturesque highway in the Western Cape, we spotted a sign for Ronnie’s Sex Shop. (Actually, there was no apostrophe, but my inner grammar stickler can’t bring me to leave it out.) We couldn’t resist the souvenir possibilities and pulled over. Turns out the place wasn’t a sex shop (Ronnie had some prankster friends, who repainted the sign after a tipsy night) but the most cluttered bar on the African continent. Padded bras, gossamer thongs and the world’s largest onesie dangled from the ceiling. Christmas tree tinsel and money notes from across the globe plastered the graffitied walls. Elderly women drank wine with their tea as they played chess, and our bartender Hugo lit his cigarette underneath a newspaper bearing the headline “PENIS FOUND IN HOSPITAL SOUP.” It was 11 a.m., the perfect time to order a round and make friends at the bar. Leon was a young South African who argued for a reappraisal of Hitler. Anthony was an Oxford-educated Brit who dreamed of living in colonial-era Kenya and wearing white shorts and tall socks (his bed, he told us, would straddle the equator, so he could fall asleep in one half of the world and wake up in another).
Where Everything You Touch Turns to Photographic Gold
Sossusvlei, Namibia
Sossusvlei played home to the most stunning landscapes of the journey. But being tourists raised on Facebook, we couldn’t stop ourselves from taking dozens of jumping shots. Taro, an Aussie medical student, got the best air. He also entertained us with stories of past travels, including the time he tore down an entire wall in his friend’s London apartment and the garment he fashioned from leaves and mud in the Amazon. He told heaps of dead baby jokes as well, none of which are appropriate here. But here’s this gem on feline euthanasia, courtesy of Taro’s veterinarian friend: Dude, kittens are so hard to put down. Their veins are just so small.
My, What Big Rapids You Have
Victoria Falls, Zambia
We drove across the Zambezi in Mozambique and crossed it by ferry in Botswana, but you don’t really know a river until you wade through it, right? Or get sucked down the waterfall. We evaded the latter, but fording the torrents above the falls seemed the grand Zambian adventure (and way cheaper than whitewater rafting or a helicopter tour!). Expect a full entry devoted to the soggy escapade.
And now the bonus video!
I’ll Take Feathers Over a Mane Any Day
Oudtshoorn, South Africa
Thanks to some scarring summer camp incidents, I’m lousy on horseback, but these ostriches were no more temperamental than the angry stallion who tossed me off the saddle a decade ago. Think I’ve got a future as a jockey? In the video, take note of the KKK-style hood the ostrich wears. It’s tossed aside right before the gallop begins.
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