Even though I am currently the only white person in Usisya, three of us intermittently live here: Matt [6 months, tall, fair, well built, bearded], Luke [18 months, tall, dark, skinny, clean shaven] and myself [2 months, short, dark, medium build, bearded]. Despite our different appearances, durations of stay and reasons for being here, many locals seem completely perplexed as to who is who, or, simply can’t tell us apart. I am constantly being called Luke or Matt as well as Jonny. It is usually just an occupational hazard of being White in Usisya and is little more than a casual annoyance, but sometimes it can be a real pain in the arse. The worst occurrence happened a few weeks ago. It was a seriously hot day, the sun unremittingly frying my skin. I was 5 metres up, barefooted, balancing precariously on the as yet un-tiled roof of the house we are building. The reason: To apply Solignum to the trusses and beams [check out my builders terminology!!]. Solignum is a highly toxic varnish covering used to protect wood from termites, it is horrible stuff and should really only be used with protective clothing and facemask. My arms and face quickly reddened with the dual exposure to the sun and varnish. I was feeling weak and dizzy, constantly aware of the leg-breaking fall below. A crowd of children gathered to watch the Mzungu on the roof, and seemingly enthralled by the view, quickly fell into a non-stop chant of “Matt-eo, Matt-eo, Matt-eo”. I lost patience in a matter of minutes and started shouting rather aggressively, letting loose a torrent of abuse that went something like this:
“Listen you little shits, can’t you see that I am 5 metres in the air, wearing no protective clothing, trying to apply a highly toxic finish to the wood, which is making me feel sick. Now isn’t the time to be cheering me on. Now FUCK OFF. And by the way, my name is Jonny not Matt”
They stopped. I was smug in my victory. Seconds later a new chorus began: “Luka, Luka, Luka” … what the fuck. I chuckle at the thought that maybe, hunched over a couple of Kuche-Kuche’s and a game of Bau, a few old men chew the fat, when one turns round to the others and exclaims “they all look the bloody same to me”.
The fumes had become too much, and I had to take the afternoon off work, retiring to my Banda and falling into a piriton-induced, dreamless, 16 hour coma.
Usisya is a pretty religious place and considering its small size, many different congregations worship. There is an Anglican Church, a Baptist Church, a Church of Jesus Christ, a Seventh Day Adventist Church, a few other Churches and a couple of Muslims kicking about. Most people I know go to Church every Sunday, my colleague and friend Steven Kamanga is a choir-boy. I have experienced an amazing belief system in higher beings and orthodox religion in other developing countries too. My second most spiritual experience was set in an all night ‘crusade’ I stumbled upon a few years back, situated on the edges of the notorious Kibera slum, Nairobi. The religious fervour was palpable and intoxicating, to the point that I was moved to put down my beer, stand up, face the wall, and murmur a few prayers of my own. My ultimate spiritual experience was in Hyde Park, stoned, watching Roger Waters amble through ‘Dark Side of the Moon’.
I’m not sure why religion is so prevalent. Possibly because life is so hard people need to believe in something higher, possibly because without T.V and internet people haven’t been influenced by newer religions and cults, such as Brent Cross, Facebook and Eastenders.
Despite this conservatism and Christian religiosity, people get up to some pretty un-conservative and un-Christian stuff, much of which is accepted and even encouraged. Polygamy is widespread. Mistresses, affairs and general promiscuity are seen as a male badge of honour. A latent yet virulent belief in Witchcraft, Witchdoctors and Black Magic is standard. And tits … everywhere you go, you see tits. Women generally dress in skirts down to their ankles, careful not to show too much leg, but equally get their wabs out at any opportunity. On the rammed mini-buses, on the street, even when doing business. A couple of weeks ago I was involved with a bit of hard haggling with a local woman over 30p when contracting a group of ladies to transport 20 wheelbarrows of sand to the site. She had braided hair and was tough, no doubt she would have made a successful, hard-nosed, power-suit wearing City trader if born into another life. Throughout the entire process I had to concentrate not to avert my eyes from hers and drift my gaze to her left tit that a hungry toddler was aggressively attached to.
Kate is a lady who often comes to collect water from the standpipe installed on the construction site. She is young, tall and loud with a straightened combed afro. She looks and sounds like a crack-head in need of a fix. She also has the saggiest breasts I have witnessed on an African woman under the age of 60. Two days ago I let my intrigue get the better of me. I was sitting on the wall of my un-finished earthbag kitchen, and spying Kate nearing the standpipe, called her over. I had never previously spoken to her. Using Foreman George as a translator, I asked her how old she was. After a little japery she replied “22”. I asked her how many kids she had … “4”. I told her I was 28 and had no kids. She laughed, and with no coyness whatsoever, looking me straight in the eye, asked “do you want to have a child with me?” A little taken aback, I declined the offer. She continued the offensive … “What are you scared of?” I countered … “having children and HIV”. She finished me off … “lets both go for a blood-test, and if we are clean we will have a child”. I had no retorts left, though I don’t think I’ll be taking her up.
I have garnered a few nick-names around the site and further afield in Usisya. ‘Jonny Mzungu’, ‘Jonny Mphipa’ [I’m rather proud of that one … means ‘Jonny Black Man’, ‘Jiggidi’ [local vernacular for an Afro-American, apparently due to the manner in which I wear my shorts low on my hips]. My friend Lenzo, the bad carpenter and disgruntled work colleague, calls me ‘Mustaph’, on account of my apparently Muslim appearance. I explained that I was in fact a Jew. Tambo the idiot and cigarette pleader, in Chi-Tombuka, muttered something to someone else in the circle whilst looking at me in a rather menacing manner. Lenzo translated … “Tambo said that you killed Jesus”. I looked at Tambo in the eye, and conforming to my own slightly sick sense of humour slowly replied “you are right … I killed Jesus” whilst gradually drawing my thumb across my neck in one swift movement. I immediately regretted my response after having visions of Tambo carrying a burning torch leading a lynch mob to my Banda at night, accosting me, attaching me to a cross and leaving me to rot in the African sun. I covered my mistake by blaming it on the Romans, making sure that this had been explained to Tambo at least three times. I asked him if we were still friends whilst offering him a ‘Safari’ cigarette, he nodded.
Tambo is a shmuck. A few weeks back the police visited the site, explaining that Tambo had left his wife and children in his home village and wasn’t providing for them. He left for a few days to patch things up. After a bit of digging, I heard that his brother had given him 10,000 Kwacha to buy fish in order to sell in Mzuzu market. He has pissed 8,000 up the wall, enjoying the local Compot and no doubt the adjoining troop of Tanzanian prostitutes. I dislike Tambo, and nearly fired him this week after seeing him raise a hand, to our female bricklayer Faustina. After some quizzing, Faustina said it was a joke. I didn’t mention it to Tambo. On the flipside, I like and have enormous respect for some of my other colleagues. Faustina … widow, female bricklayer, conversationalist, sweetheart. Steven Kamanga … an astonishing sense of initiative, entrepreneurial, hard-working, general good bloke. Lenzo … joker. Foreman George … legend.
I’m sitting under the bar thatch awning on the beach. It is overcast. The weekly ferry, the ‘Ilala’, is nearly here. I’m going to rush and join the thronging crowd, eager with anticipation, to see what delights it will drop off today … hopefully a couple of friends, I think I am succumbing to cabin fever.
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