Who's the Bwana?

Who’s the Bwana? … apparently it is me.

When Matt isn’t around and I am left as the only Mzungu on the site, despite my general protestations, denial of responsibility and continued professions of zero knowledge of construction, the dubious responsibility of the man in charge falls squarely at my feet. George the Foreman, friend, drinking partner, wise-man, believer in Black Magic, expert African plumber, carpenter, labourer, brick-layer and by far the most naturally gifted man-manager I have ever worked with shrinks from being the boss. “George … you are the Bwana”, “no … you are the Bwana Mr Jon”, “why?” … and with not a hint of sarcasm, irony, sense of historical injustice or my incredulity he will always reply with a straight face “because you are white”.

I am no social scientist, and certainly can’t tackle the complexities of contemporary inter-racial relations in central Africa, yet in my laymans mind I have subscribed this to several possible factors. If Usisya is representative, then many citizens of Malawi, previously Nyasaland under British Colonial rule until its independence in I think 1963, haven’t shaken off their instilled subservience to the white man. A South African friend once crudely theorised that a decade into post-Apartheid SA, three types of black reactions to whites exist. Those who still look at their feet whilst doffing their caps to their previous oppressors, those who have been schooled and worked with whites who rightly view themselves on a level pegging, and those who snort at whites with a sense of ‘you treated my people like animals for two generations, fuck you’. I wonder, after forty years of independence, whether some Malawians I have met are languishing in the mentality of the cap doff.

My entire education, continuing to this day, both formal and informal has taught me to question. I have been actively encouraged to try and deconstruct myths and use what little initiative and creativity I have to try and solve quandaries. This has translated itself onto the building site I find myself on today. If the one handsaw we share to build a house, kitchen and toilet is at the carpenters home, and we need to split bamboo to hold in the window forms of the earthbag kitchen, I will scope around looking for alternative ways to split that bamboo instead of sitting in the shade hoping the problem will solve itself. Through conversations with many volunteer teachers in Malawi, I have understood that many schools operate in a ‘parrot-fashion’ method of education. “Repeat after me … 2+2=4 … the cat sat on the mat”, if a pupil doesn’t understand why two 2’s make 4 … tough, worse still if they verbalise their lack of understanding they are likely to be publicly ridiculed by the teacher, so why bother sticking your head over the parapet? This may have created an army of accepting, un-questioning people who will stumble at a hill instead of trying to climb it. Maybe this is why the strict following of orthodox religion is so prevalent. This thesis however, completely ignores how African mechanics can run a de-commissioned ex-Japanese Toyota for years with nothing more than a stretched piece of rubber and a tin of oil. But, may go some way to explain why I automatically fill the Bwana’s shoes.

The third is money. The fact is I have a comparatively fat bank balance and my co-workers don’t have a bank balance at all, and they know it. Money talks.

George wants me to run for local MP in 2009. “Would you vote for me”, “yes … I will be your campaign manager”, “would others vote for me”, “yes”, “why”, “because you are white”.

So … I am the Bwana. And this embarrassingly interweaves itself into every day life. At breakfast [9am. Two bread scones and sweet black tea] and lunch [1pm. Nsima – a gooey staple of boiled Maize flour, Ugali in Swahili and Mealie Pap in South Africa – eaten sometimes with greens or beans and invariably accompanied by lake fish, which I am training myself to find palatable – I hate fish] I will get served first, immediately after the pre-food ritual of a quick prayer to the Lord Jesus Christ. I will be consulted on most technical aspects of building and have to force opinions out of my far more skilled co-workers, usually for my word to become the general consensus. I hope the mechanics of Lego construction are similar to the real deal, or this kitchen is in for some serious subsidence.

I have to admit, I have used this selectively to my advantage. On all four of my five-hour trips from Usisya to Mzuzu I have claimed one of the two coveted seats next to the driver in the cabin. You see the seats are coveted so, because the ‘road’ is no doubt the most perilous I have ever travelled on. At times, it is more like a random selection of granite boulders clinging to a sheer drop that a mountain goat would balk at, never mind a three-ton open backed truck plied and overflowing with market goods, luggage and people. Three times it has been genuine, I have got there first so can rightly claim my throne. On Thursday afternoon I was late to the truck stop in Mzuzu. The back was crammed as usual and a few people were hovering around the last seat up front. All it took was a glare, and the seat was mine, no questions asked. I feel little remorse … this is a dog-eat-dog world, and the claim for the golden seat wipes any pretensions to chivalry. So … you’re 83, female, got arthritis, in a wheelchair, husband just died, broken back from incessantly cultivating your maize … don’t give a shit, get in the back, this seat is mine, and you know it. It didn’t matter in the end as 10 kilometres out of town the Truck died and waited two days to make the trip. I got lucky as my friend Jumbo [pronounced Choombo], Temwa project manager with glasses [seldom seen on a local] and Mugabe/Hitler style moustache, sailed past on his 125cc Yamaha dirt bike. With little sense of remorse and not looking back I jumped on the back, supplies in my backpack, and left the stranded hoard in Jumbos’ dust.

My sins were punished soon after. Night was falling as we alternately rose and fell through the mud road, whilst edging our way higher into the mountains before the ominous fall to the lake shore. After 10 minutes my shoulder blades were in agony as I held onto the back of the bike, I still had three hours to go. As we rose I held on for life, straining every sinew, keeping my unprotected head to the side so as not to smash my nose against the back of Jumbos’ helmet when he dropped a gear. As we fell, my stomach tightened and I had to ride out the long periods where my balls slowly crushed between my thighs and the leather seat. The temperature dropped with the sun. Simultaneously cursing my decision to wear shorts and praising my fleece and light blue stripey-scarf-type-thing that was protecting my ears, nose and mouth. Mosquitoes in the dusk took joy in using my eyeballs for target practice. Long grass encroaching the road mercilessly whipped my legs as the bike used all of its’ 125 cc’s navigating the hill. I tried to lose myself in the dramatic silhouettes of the approaching escarpment and the marvel of the moonless starry night sky, but the granite boulders roughly shook me from my false reverie. We made it, and after three shots of ‘Powers No1’ cane spirit in my gut and 400 grams of Sirloin steak medallions [bought in Mzuzu earlier that day] in my belly, I felt at ease.

My laptop battery is at 12%. I am sitting on my stoop, alone, wearing a blue vest and underwear. The sky is blue and the horizon stretched by white cloud. A temperate breeze is cooling the heat of the day off my skin. The lake is translucent jade and inviting. I think I’ll strip off and go for a swim. I love it here.