2 Sides

Surely no country, however bland, can be boiled down to having just two faces. By virtue of being a ‘country’, any national identity would be based on a multitude of factors, spanning from religion to culture to economy to natural resources. Malawi is no different, an impossible place to break down to such a simplified equation. This morning however, I saw two obvious faces of this country … one which can make me cry, and the other smile.

Driving in Lilongwe in our new Toyota Sprinter, I was pulled over by the police. The speed traps were out, and as in London, the Lilongwe Traffic Police were taking great glee in subsidising the government with on-the-spot fines from craftily placed cameras. I was doing 73 in a 50 kph zone, and was dutifully informed so by a very officious police officer. Hoping to get away with it, I turned down the radio, but not enough that the policeman wouldn’t hear that I was listening to a morning Christian sermon. He didn’t have to know that ‘Bible FM’ was the only station the radio would tune, and in a god fearing country such as Malawi, maybe any illusion that I too followed the words of the good lord would stand my pleas for clemency in good stead. Over the clean American tones of some preacher exuding the virtues of Isiah 15, I waved my plane ticket in his face explaining that I was flying in the afternoon and therefore had no Kwacha to pay the fine. I handed over my International Drivers License, replaceable for £6 at the Post Office, smug in the knowledge that my real license was stashed away … ho ho ho I thought, keep that worthless piece of paper you idiot and I’ll jettison out of this bureaucratic sinkhole in a couple of hours. His riposte was firmly delivered and lethally executed … “If you don’t pay, i have the authority to impound your vehicle, go and get some money and return to pay your fine, if not I will contact the airport authorities and you will not get on that flight” … touché you crafty bugger. Check-mated I swiftly reviewed my options, for the sake of £20 and a slightly damaged ego based on the dubious and arrogant premise that I could get away with a legitimate traffic offence, a quick dollar change and fine wasn’t too bad. “OK” I mumbled, head bowed as I was outmanoeuvred and shamed into submission “I’ll get some cash and be back in 5”, then reverting to my lingering ‘fuck you authority’ sentiments I drove off whilst he was still talking to me and tucking my license into his top pocket. Yeah … no one can tell me what to do, whatever authority they may have … sucker.

Or maybe not.

As promised I returned 5 minutes later, cash in hand, ready to pay. They had vanished. No longer was there a troop of white capped and neon jacketed traffic police, flanked by a mobile speed gun and a mobile cashier. Must have been teatime. Who was the sucker now? Decisions decisions … do I ignore the threat, give up my license and turn up at the airport hoping I’m not pulled off the plane? Or do I give up my planned morning of sunning by the pool, drinking coffee and catching a few early Malawian summer rays before dealing with two weeks of late English summer drabness, and replace that with what would obviously be a nightmare of tracking down my license which maybe may have turned up at the local police station and running the gauntlet of inefficient Malawian bureaucracy? This one face of Malawi that can drive you mad … an army of jobsworth civil servants, seemingly incapable of helping you efficiently or tracking down what you need. I have been into countless government offices, whether immigration, police or local government. All of them look like a teenagers bedroom. Piles of official documents pouring out of 1970’s style filing cabinets or stacked on the floor. The occasional computer sitting on a desk, invariably with solitaire minimised in the corner. The only method of copying being carbon paper. No printers, photocopiers, internet, intranet, broadband, networks, landlines, in-trays, out-trays. Unsurprisingly, it is not uncommon for important documents to get lost in government facilities, or for someone to be far down a bureaucratic process just to get asked to re-provide some documents that initially sent of two years earlier, because they had gone missing.

It wasn’t worth me underestimating what was probably an idle threat and missing my flight. So, I saddled up and drove to the cop shop, in anticipation of what would inevitably be a waste of my time and a test of my patience. Once in, I was greeted at reception by three officers. After explaining the problem, I was shunted to the Traffic department, and greeted by an orange neon jacketed young policeman. I recounted my problem. “What colour is your car?” he asked, “silver, though I don’t understand why that is relevant” I replied. “Have you got the officers phone number?” was the next carefully worded question, “no, why would I have his number?”. I was raising my voice a little, infuriated at the absurdity of the questioning, and not helped by the fact that I had to shout over the ridiculous volume of the CB radio sitting on the desk. “So, it was a speed trap” he exclaimed, biting my tongue and my temper I explained that it was a speed trap, as I had told him 5 minutes earlier. “Well, if it is a speed trap, then you need to go to the speed trap office in a different building on the other side of the compound”. My prediction of playing a pointless game of bureaucratic ping-pong was being realised. I shrugged my shoulders, sighed and sidled out of the office in the direction of where he pointed me.

I was greeted at the office by three jolly, fat and badly wigged female police officers sitting in a line and wiling away their morning sipping canned Redbull in a small and shambolic looking office. Just the sight of them immediately cheered me up and we traded pleasantries before I recanted the reason for my visit, and derided Redbull as being a caffeine and sugar bomb good only for mixing with Vodka and getting messed up on. Before I finished my well rehearsed tale, fatty on the left interrupted me and asked if I wanted to pay. I was a bit put out, being interrupted in full flow and not having the chance to finish my recollection of events, so I started to continue the telling of the tale. “Listen … do you want to pay?” she rather impatiently jettisoned. Hit in my stride I said yes, and then noticed that fatty on the right was fingering a white envelope with my grey license poking out the top. Middle fatty was much more interested in her Redbull. Quality … a stroke of either luck, or some sensible work on behalf of the disappearing policeman. Pulling a roll of Kwacha out of my pocket, I started counting out 5000. “Are you paying?” left fatty asked again, I thought that the counting of money might have made that intent obvious, but clearly not and clearly it wasn’t going to be that straight forward. Right fatty wrote out a ticket whilst left fatty pointed me in the direction of the cashiers’ office in an adjoining building. I found him, or he found me, only after following the fatties directions into a badly lit corridor and then into the precipice of a brightly lit room with 3 plain clothes policeman and an AK47 on a table. I was quickly harried out and told the cashier would find me … no idea what was going on there.

Gabriel the cashier had three stripes on his lapel and a breezy disposition. We chatted a little, and I handed over the cash. “Ah … you are from Nkhata Bay, my home” Gabriel said as he was filling in the triple carbon papered receipt form. “Whereabouts in the district?” I enquired, “Usisya” … no shit, I know it well. He seemed pleased at me showing some knowledge of his home area, and I took the opportunity to pass on my condolences after the death of the Chief in Usisya a couple of weeks back. We smiled, shook hands and I walked out. Not before popping into the three fatties to pick up my license and wave a cheery goodbye.

You see, that is the great thing about Malawi. Despite the relentless muddle that one can get caught in, you’re never far from a smile and a giggle. It can be easy to breakdown barriers with authority. A few months ago I was pulled off the road by a platoon of fully kitted out Malawian soldiers. I think they were either on an exercise or looking for drugs, and in the process some heavily armed and bandoliered chaps searched me. Despite the severity of the situation, it wasn’t long till a young soldier took the opportunity to ask my name and business whilst the truck bonnet was being rifled through. I left 5 minutes later with a new best friend eager to visit me when he was next in Nkhata Bay.

It was apt that I had a taste of both experiences this morning. It’s been a year since I was in the UK and I feel it. I am looking forward to a bit of perspective on my life, and have been feeling a bit ‘Malawianed out’ of late. The occasional officiousness, deference and ineptness can get at you after a while, so it was good to be reminded of some of the nice bits of living here.