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.

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.

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’.