Boys and Puppies

A couple of months ago I was cycling through Rumphi, passed a friends house, noticed one of his dogs puppies loitering outside and decided to pop by and check on them. The litter of five had set up shop in an old, and sealed, outhouse shit-pit. Not very hygienic, but their Ugandan owner, like many things, had a very different sentimental and cultural attachment towards them than me. I picked up the first, a fluffy feisty black mutt, and noticed a large zit like sore on its belly. Being a bit of a sicko and out of pure curiosity I decided to give it a little squeeze. I nearly vomited when a wriggling white maggot popped out easily onto the dusty yard floor. I pushed a few more out of his body and inspected the other pups for more, extracting maybe another 15 from bellies, tails, eyes, heads. Apparently this affliction is quite common and can arise in humans, occurring when Putsi flies lay their eggs in any available living flesh. I was traumatised by the experience and for a week or so relayed the story to anyone who would listen, going into great detail about how I felt and what it was like. I was affected so much, that for a day or so, I could hardly think of anything else, perpetually relaying the image in my head.

Yesterday I was walking back from work and was attracted by a commotion in the grounds of the Ilala Bay Lodge, a defunct hotel nestled between the lakeshore and Nkhata Bay town. I was told what had happened, and again out of a sick curiosity, followed the crowd to its object. By the beach of the hotel a dilapidated jetty juts awkwardly into the lake, everyday young lads jape about using the platform as a jumping stage. As I mingled closer with the expectant and edging crowd I saw a few guys carrying the limp body of a 13-year-old drowned boy, in blue shorts, and laying it on the ground. His face was covered, and once the immediate row of onlookers got their fill, they filed back and made way for the next row to cop an eyeful of his carcass. A few metres away the obligatory wailing relative had shown up, being tenderly, yet ineffectively consoled by his mates. I remember noticing how small the boys’ nipples were. Strange. With a shrug of my shoulder I wandered off in search of a shower and some food. I didn’t think about it once until chatting with a mate about our respective days a couple of hours later.

A day later, I still feel rather sober and un-emotional about it all. What is bothering me is just that. What have I become if witnessing the aftermath of a child drowning leaves little impression on me? How come squeezing a few maggots out of a dumb animal affects me more? Have I really become so de-sensitised to death? And an un-tainted childs’ death at that? I have just spent the last 20 minutes lying naked on my bed, under a green mosquito net this time, contemplating the previous six lines. That awful and incessant Shakira tune from a nearby bar punctuating the lulling tones of the surrounding crickets and assorted insects. I have just squashed a travelling ant that was navigating my keyboard. Itching my bites. Clearly, as shown by my diversionary attempts to write about anything other that that dead kid, I am no closer to an answer. Maybe it is because I never saw his face.

I have written about this before, but death is everywhere. A few weeks back I saw a screaming mama going to pick her dead son up, killed by a bar to his head in a senseless pub brawl. A day later a mates’ mate was run down whilst stumbling drunkenly home. I’ve got a couple [that I know] of Malawian acquaintances with the effectively slow death sentence of HIV/AIDS. A friends’ colleague, Alice, disappeared from work to go and die near her family in Mzuzu. Apparently one of the three major posters in ‘Teacher Development Centre’ staff rooms gives the protocol of how to manage the logistics of a teachers’ death. Can you imagine that? The issue of teachers dying on their students is so common that a poster goes up addressing it. It’s like some committee deciding that Special Needs assessment, school library set-up, and oh yeah, teacher kicking the bucket, are the three most relevant topics to publicise.

Odd … I don’t really know where to go from here. Think I’m going to power the laptop down and power down myself. Work tomorrow.

Why is this night different to all other nights?

So … what does Pesach mean to me? Another excuse to spend a stormy evening with the family whilst debating, arguing and agreeing on the finer points of our secular lives as well as the meanings held within the Hagaddah. The one time in the year that we lather multiple layers of Chrayne onto our Matza, knowing that Mum is expecting the tablecloth to be pockmarked with deep purple stains, so doesn’t mind it so much. A time when we all agree that a couple of boiled eggs swimming in saltwater is an hors-d’oeuvre worthy of the Pharoahs, and always wonder why we don’t similarly supplement our main courses this way throughout the year. Enough of the anecdotes … what does Pesach really mean to me? Like Rosh Hashanah, it gives me a focal point to track my previous year and ponder over the forthcoming one. It signifies the physical, meta-physical, emotional and spiritual transition from a nation of slaves to a nation of free thinking, free living people. It includes a night [or two] where thousands of families are doing the same thing, at the same time, all over the world, and have done so for three thousand years. It marks the first steps towards Israel as our homeland, irrespective of how you view that land today. And today, I find myself in Malawi.

Malawi … home of it’s eponymous lake. The Lake … continuation of the Great Rift Valley that originates in Ein-Gedi and splits the Red Sea on its way South, breadbasket of the country, provider of water, fish, tourism, life. An archetypal tropical paradise nestled between the equator and the tropic of cancer, deep in the interior of the ‘Dark Continent’. Blessed with year round sun and a proud moniker as ‘the warm heart of Africa’ incessantly pushed by the tourist industry. Picture postcard views of fisherman plying their trade in dugout canoes unchanged through countless generations. But, there is trouble in Paradise. Crippling poverty as expected of the ‘8th poorest country in the world’, low life expectancy and high infant mortality, HIV/AIDS ruthlessly ravaging the population in tenth plague proportions, poor education, poor medical health, many impotent in the hope of pulling themselves towards a better quality of life, plenty of disease, pestilence, wild animals, frogs, boils, but thankfully no rivers of blood.

The eternal wandering Jew. It always amazes me that wherever I travel, however obscure, on or off ‘the beaten track’, whether Melbourne or Mangochi, I always manage to find a co-religionist or two. [As a sidepoint, when in India a couple of years back I heard a story of a local enquiring of an Israeli how many people lived in Israel, “I’m not exactly sure” said the Israeli “but probably 5 or 6 million”, “no” replied the Indian “you misunderstood, I wasn’t asking how many were currently in India, but in your homeland”.] And for some reason, unknown to me, Jews abroad always seem eager to celebrate Pesach more than other holidays. Apparently the biggest seder in the world is hosted by Chabad Khatmandu, and I have been fortunate enough to drink my four cups in years gone by in both Belize and Fiji. This year it happened to be hosted in picturesque Nkhata Bay, and enjoyed with another North London Jew, a few Israelis, a couple of non-Jewish friends, and the obligatory horde of unrelenting mosquitoes.

On realising Pesach was around the corner, a few of us decided to organise the impending gathering. I booked off a few days from building a house for a small NGO in Usisya, a remote and beautiful part of the world, uncontaminated by the internet, mobile phones or television, situated a few hours north of Nkhata Bay by boat. Others planned their travels from different parts of the North, and rumours filtered through that an Israeli family were planning to arrive decked out with canned Charoset, a box of Rakusens and a couple of Haggadahs.

Two days before the big night I was visited by the local Head of Police, accompanied by two burly C.I.D officers. In my best ‘humble yet confident’ manner reserved solely for officialdom [especially of the African variety], I asked how I could help. “We hear that there is a Jewish gathering here on Saturday night” stated policeman number one, “that is right” I replied with mild consternation of how they found out and why it was relevant. “We would like to offer our services, and give you protection”. Flabbergasted, I thanked them and told them that wouldn’t be necessary. You see, the Bay is no Baghdad, and Combat 18 have always had a slight ideological issue with their local recruitment drives. Hence, beyond braving the dubious perils of being a Mzungu in town [pretty much limited to incessant hassling from carvers trying to sell you dodgy chairs], being a Jew adds no extra security complications. The prologue to this finale is rather typical of Jewish paranoia. A hyper-protective father in Haifa phoned the Israeli Ambassador to Kenya, who in turn spoke to his counterpart in Lilongwe. Concerns filtered through to the Head of Police in Malawi, who ordered the local representative, who collared me. Straight from the top … CST, eat your heart out.

Food, obviously, was not going to be scarce for this particular family on this particular night. A hotch-potch seder plate was followed by lashings of Chicken Soup and mains accompanied by an assortment of Israeli sides, all washed down with the requisite wine. Omer, the kosher Israeli, ensured that his special evening wasn’t going to be marred by a lack of poultry. An abiding memory is of a sacrificial white chicken hanging upside down from a tree at dusk, Israeli Ben with sharp knife in hand, waiting for Omer to receive a phone call from his father in Israel with the correct Shechitah blessings, before ending its life in accordance with halacha.

So, 18 of us sat down, boys with comical conical kippot fashioned from cereal boxes [mine was a Rice Krispies special], in a rented open sided restaurant perched on a peninsula. Lake spitting distance away on three sides, the dull hum of bad African Pop filtering up from town a short way down the dusty road, the full moon of Nisan casting its tapered glow over the long table, the days activity from the primitive harbour nearby coming to a close. The unfamiliar surroundings soon gave way to the familiarity of seder night drones. Mahnishtanah being sung in an awful cacophony of bad harmonisation, poison to the ears of any nearby Malawian, who is used to the effortless beautiful sounds of local and church music. A drawn out discussion over the meaning of the ‘Four Sons’, and the relevance of those ancient words to our modern lives. Skipping through the boring bits and dwelling on the singing bits. Trying to make sure that the seder virgins weren’t getting too lost in the ensuing balagan and the inevitable arguments over the correct way of leading the service. All fuelled by a steady increase in our drunkenness.

Irony. On the night that signifies our journey from slavery to freedom, a group of Westerners with one thing in common, are celebrating this supposed transition, in the developing world. None of us know what it is like to be a conventional slave, all of us have the freedom to pack our bags and travel, a privilege that the vast majority of Malawians don’t enjoy. A role reversal for which we all feel grateful, an opportunity to make the choice of spending our time in a land where most are shackled by poverty. From freedom to slavery. A few of us have been working for various NGO’s in an almost pointless and vain effort to try and loosen those shackles a little bit. Another privilege of the rich.

On the other hand, despite all the problems of being part of the developing world, Malawi is a wonderfully free place. Problems here are raw and basic in nature. Choices are over life and death. People don’t worry about child obesity or the mental health of Britney Spears, people worry about finding their next meal or whether they will be paid that week, which though tragic and deeply unfair is paradoxically uncomplicated. I come from a land that despite all its undoubted benefits [of which I am, of course, a willing recipient] charges you £8 to drive into town, where CCTV watches your moves unceasingly, the media bombards us about the ‘War on Terror’ and makes us feel guilty if we don’t get our ‘5-a-day’, rising inflation, interest only mortgage repayments for the rest of our lives, 9 to 5’s 365 days a year. A friend of Dad recently worked out that after 30 years of commuting into town, he had spent 3 years in total, on the Underground.

Malawi has huge problems, as does every country on this earth. This Pesach I have had the liberty to choose and spend it in Nkhata Bay, I wonder whether this is still part of my personal journey from a contemporary slavery to freedom.

Underbelly

After a 3 month ‘honeymoon period’ I am increasingly starting to notice the darker underbelly of Malawian life. It isn’t that I have been immersed in a utopia since February, just that you tend to gloss over the bad and focus on the good. Isolated in Usisya, by the beach, shielded by the village under the African Sun, I was subjective and selfish. My life was a direct contrast to that which I had left behind in London. I was working hard in a meditative state, the rhythmical movement of tamping earthbags resonated with my emotional well-being, I was finding my zen, contemplating as I sweated. My body becoming a temple [apart from the cigarettes and cane spirit eagerly ingested] as I slimmed down and bulked up, fuelled by staple carbs of maize, rice and fish. I was aware of the abject poverty everywhere I walked, the high infant mortality rate, people swatted like flies and succumbing to TB and HIV/AIDS around me … in 3 months, at least five people who I have come to know have disappeared for a few days attending a close relatives funeral. You focus on the good and gloss the bad … my unfurling 6-pack of more interest to me than Elias’s brother dying. ‘It is just one of those things’, ‘This is Africa’, ‘Life here is cheap’ whilst admiring my reflection in a truck window.

On Saturday night I was drinking in Kaya Papaya, Nkhata Bay, a new business run by the energetic East German, Dani. It was a leaving party for Luke, and was busy. Mzungu’s and locals alike drinking, dancing, flirting, eating, socializing. Setsuko, new friend and long-term Japanese volunteer walked passed me looking harassed, followed by Benson, a ‘carver boy’, who was aggressively berating her. I don’t know the history between them, nor do I care, I did the same as I would in any similar situation. I stepped into Bensons way and told him to calm down. I don’t like Benson, not for any tangible reason, I don’t even know him. I don’t like Benson because I dislike the way he looks, and I saw him trying to grind someone who I do like at a party a few weeks back. Male possessiveness is enough of a reason for me. A short while later I saw Setsuko being consoled by another friend, James ‘the enigma’, as they filed past me on their way home. Benson drunkenly followed them sipping from a bottle of Carlsberg ‘Special’ as he went. An instinct took over and I calmly followed at a distance with my own ‘Special’, knowing that James wouldn’t be able to handle the situation if anything kicked off. Maybe it was chivalrous, maybe a sense of concern, but probably just the booze. I caught up with the group just as Benson had caught up with Setsuko and James beyond the reach of the dying light of the last street lamp, and just in time to witness Benson throw a badly aimed punch at Setsuko’s face, her go down in tears, followed by a cacophony of abuse. Shocked, I restrained Benson firmly though un-aggressively, and tried to coax him back to the bar whilst telling James to take Setsuko home. A few minutes passed, and Benson, fuelled by liquor, distress, adrenaline and passion broke my grip and ran towards the others. I floored him with a spear tackle into the reeds and pinned him down with my knee, from nowhere, Ram the Israeli also jumped on him. Holding firm I tried to calm him and finally picked him up and handed him to two other ‘Carver boys’, Preacher and Gift, telling them to take him home. I didn’t want to deal with this. This aint the rough streets of Woodside Park, this aint my hood. Benson broke their grip again to finish his business, I kicked him, he went down for the second time but jumped up with a bloody nose and fists raised in my direction. I could take him, I already had twice, he is a cunt, it would’ve been a pleasure unleashing Setsuko’s vengeance on his face. Though, still in fighting stance I pulled him towards me, holding him, hugging him, horrified by his stench and moral iniquities, trying to calm him down.
Preacher and Gift took over once more and led him home.

I returned to the bar, back to the drunken party, no-one the wiser. With every step closer my melancholy increased, my bare feet [sandals lost in the scuffle] carried me to my salvation. I think it was a mixture of the adrenaline and the trauma of being involved in something so messy, or maybe I’m just a pussy, but as soon as I saw her I nestled her shoulder and cried. Inconsolable. I hadn’t shed a tear since Dad was initially diagnosed with cancer over five years ago. Honeymoon over.

Later Ram phoned me. Setsuko was in a state, though safe. I spoke to her. She thanked me profusively, I apologised equally profusively. Ram informed me that Benson was ‘positive’ and to check if I had any cuts … I hadn’t.

Repercussions. Everything is cause and effect. Everything has repercussions. Do I feel bad … yes. Would I act the same in the same situation with hindsight … unequivocally yes.

Even though I have been timidly scratching the surface of this culture over the last few months, this weekend I reached the undercoat. There is still a long way to go till I reach the mortar and I will never get to the foundation. Benson is a cunt, though a tormented cunt. He knows that in a couple of years he will be dead, stigmatised by the manner of his downfall, unable to stem the flow. He will wither and disappear like so many before him, and many more to come. I will be fine, my eyes a little wider, still intoxicated by the paradoxes of this place.

A couple of weeks ago I was sitting in a bar playing with a puppy. The chap next to me asked me to explain something to him, “of course” I replied, “Why do Mzungus treat dogs better than niggers?”. I have been carrying that question with me every day since. Contemplating not necessarily the question itself, but what led that drinker to ask the question? What led him to use the word ‘treat’? What leads someone to compare themselves with a dog?

I am chilling at Kawalazi Tea Plantation, nestled between Nkhata Bay and Mzuzu. Sitting by the side door of a very beautiful house that some inspirational friends are living in, whilst they build a local school. Tea bushes of light green follow the terrain to the horizon, shielded by undulating forested hills of darker green. This is a good thinking place, and will serve as my convalescence as I plot my next steps.

Matthew, Luke and John

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.

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.

Rain

I’m sitting on my lopsided chair, on the sanded stoop of my little banda that I take a leak off in the middle of the night, the lakeshore not five metres in front of me. I intermittently have to pick ants off my legs … there is really no point however as they always find their way back, persistent little buggers. I am wearing my newly acquired ‘Beach Park Fortaleza’ T-shirt that I picked up in Mzuzu to work in, it is already heavily stained by cement, soil and sweat.

This morning my feet were cold. They haven’t been since I’ve been in Malawi. It rained from at least when I awoke [5.30] till lunchtime. Not the flashing heavy torrent of tropical rain that breaks up the night, more like London rain … grey rain, slow rain. The sky was heavy and relentless in colour, from the horizon touching Tanzania over the lake to the tops of the escarpments behind.

Unbeknownst to them, I have been locked in a game of cunning with the nightwatchmen over the last couple of mornings. It concerns my morning coffee, which in turn concerns my morning shit. Two mornings ago they locked the kitchen-cum-parlour, so I had access to the fire hearth, paraffin heater and water but not to the coffee. I could also get to the coffee strainer stored in the bar/eating area on the beach. Last night, after just missing out on scorching my eyebrows with the paraffin cooker, I remembered to move the coffee to the cooking area smug in the knowledge that I had out-foxed Elias and Mr Lidini. This morning I started heating my water, grabbed my coffee and went for the strainer … it had been locked in the kitchen. The game continues.

So I ventured out in the rain to the construction site, unawares that people don’t work when it rains. The 10 minute walk through the village was different than usual. Despite the fact I was concerned with dodging the growing puddles on the sand paths, I noticed less people about. No Mama’s giggling as I got my morning greetings mixed up with my afternoon ones, or even my ‘second meeting of the day’ ones. The site was deserted apart from Steven Kamanga, the hard working labourer and part-time nightwatchman, and a pretty 16 year old girl who wanted to marry a white man as they have ‘too much’ money, both sheltered under the makeshift shed/eating area/shade. I tried to convince her, through Stevens’ translating skills, that money doesn’t matter but am pretty definite that it fell on dead ears. It was just as well that it was raining, as I was going to tell the workers that like yesterday, there would be no work today unless the roofer turned up. Work was supposed to start last week, but instead the roofers’ daughter was buried. I returned to my banda and read another book – The Last Family in England, which is ok. Yesterdays was a cracker – The Time Travellers Wife, comes highly recommended by me.

I returned to the site once the sky had briefly cleared up at 2 this afternoon. ‘Oliver’ Tambo, the illiterate labourer who likes my cigarettes, and the two brickmakers and concrete slab specialists Mr Pirri [boozing Muslim] and Musisya were all pissed. They had been drinking the local brew … compot. Compot is fermented Maize, looks and has the consistency of vomit, and tastes like really bad cider. It’s not too alcoholic, but will get you drunk if you drink enough. Four guys had ploughed through ten litres in the afternoon, and the fourth, the foreman George, had plodded off to get some more. It is served in 10 litre plastic buckets, the type you would use with a mop to wash your formica floor, the colour of our offending bucket was bright green. I sat under the shelter with Tambo and drunk a mug at his invitation. We mainly stared occasionally at one another, unable to converse due to he being wasted and not speaking English and me not knowing much Tombuka, and watching Mr Pirri and Musisya operate the manual brickmaking machine with comical consequences. The inebriated Mr Pirri proudly introduced me two of his children whilst showing me the new concrete slab covering the shit-pit. Vincent was shy after I extended the formalities in English, he was quickly admonished by Mr Pirri in a swift bark of Tombuka, where I picked out the words ‘UK’ and ‘school fees’. Tina was also shy, but my attention was drawn to her companion by virtue of her clothes. A shoeless 12 year old girl wearing an ugly leopard skin evening dress with thin straps and folds down to her knees … clearly a discarded fashion faux pas made by a European, given to a charity, finding its way to Mzuzu clothes market, and ending up on a school girl in Usisya.

I am a celebrity. I don’t like it much, and am starting to understand why Britney is loopy. First thing in the morning I get waved to by the fisherman, serenely paddling their canoes past my stretch of private beach, as I stumble to the water for my wash in my boxers. All the Mamas and Bwanas greet me as I walk past, though greeting one another isn’t unusual in Usisya, unlike London. Walking through the village, it isn’t long before I get cocooned by small children who have swapped their paparazzi cameras for gawps. Some ask for money. Some yell “AAAIYOOO” [Translation: “Hello”], inadvertently expertly mimicking the ‘Team America’ parody of Kim Jong Il. Some pluck up the courage to ask me “What is my name?” [Translation: “What is your name?” – Some English teacher has a lot to answer for, though I have made it my mission to re-programme the children of Usisya to ask someone their name correctly in English]. Some cry when encountering a Mzungu like me. One, George the Foremans son [the comedy isn’t lost on me], pissed his pants when I came near. Most however simply gawp. My favourite kid is a little retard who lives near me. He isn’t affected by the requisite invisible barrier surrounding me, which seems to repel other kids when they feel they have got too close [though not the really small kids who 10 at a time clasp a finger each to walk me down a path]. Unrestrained by any form of shyness, the retard will always run up to me with his filthy T-shirt, no trousers and wait till I have picked him up and swung him round a couple of times. I always oblige, mindful of his dirty arse and little penis. He always lands with a thump quickly falling to the floor in a fit of dizzy giggles.

My laptop is running out of battery. Hopefully tomorrow back to work, and I think I’ll head to Nkhata Bay for Easter weekend … If I can get there of course.

Kelvin

I am back under the blue mosquito net, in the same banda, in Usisya. The night is less tempestuous than last time I wrote, though the occasional lightning flash illuminates the sky far off over the Lake.

I had quite a big night a couple of Fridays ago. I indulged myself with the legendary Friday night barbeque buffet at Mayoka Village, a well-known backpackers in Nkhata Bay. The barbecued Chicken and Beef was heaped high on my plate, garnished by rice, salad, veggie patties, garlic bread, kasava chips and I don’t know what else. I washed it down with a few beers, and being in the generous mood bought a round of shots for some people and white wine and tonic for others. The bill came to 4,500 Kwacha, about £16. I was a little shocked, but what’s £16? … the price of the congestion charge over consecutive days, and certainly a lot less than a piss-up in London. Fuck it, I thought whilst unfurling my gangsters stash of 500 Kwacha notes. I felt a little more sober after Benjy the barman responded to my drunken enquiry of how much he earns … 10,000 Kwacha a month.

Kelvin is a nice chap. He doesn’t drink, doesn’t smoke, and is an avid member of the conservative Church of Jesus Christ. Kelvin told me after dinner tonight that he is currently in Standard Four. In equivalent terms to the UK, that is the upper sixth. Kelvin is 27. He started Standard One in 1998, but intermittently had to take years off. Not to spend a year on a kibbutz, or get stoned in Thailand whilst thumbing through ‘The Beach’ and ‘The Celestine Prophecy’, but to fish. You see, Kelvin and his family couldn’t afford to send him to school every year. School fees in Malawi are 4,450 Kwacha a year … just short of what I spunked at the bar, in one night, at Mayoka last week. So, in the time it has taken me to get a decent university education, jet around the world a few times and work for 5 years, Kelvin a seemingly diligent and smart bloke, hasn’t got his high school diploma.

I have been made responsible for paying the wages to the builders, labourers, bricklayers, carpenters and plumbers on the construction site. Tomorrow is payday. Each worker is getting 200 Kwacha per day worked, totalling up to around 4000 Kwacha a month … which I am informed, for Usisya, is a healthy package. If school fees are roughly the same as a months work, it shouldn’t be too hard to manage them … right. Wrong. Take into account that the average number of kids per household in Usisya is four or five, that paid work is temperamental at best, and that some costs are exorbitant. For example, it costs 1000 Kwacha to travel the round trip to the nearest town by truck or boat. In UK terms that would mean an average earner would have to pay around £500 to get, lets say, from Watford into central London and back. The cigarettes I like to smoke, Stuyvesant Blue, are the expensive variety and cost 200K … a days wage. And that’s a good wage. My nightwatchman Elias earns 3000 Kwacha a month, to support 3 wives and sixteen kids [1 wife and 6 kids inherited from a dead brother]. We were both amused/bemused the other night when considering that if he spent two weeks wages in London, he wouldn’t have enough change from a pack of fags to buy some king size rizla.

Food for my thoughts.

It’s 21.42 … way past my bedtime. Up at 5.30 tomorrow for a swim, wash, coffee, cigarette and shit, then off to the construction site for 7.

T.I.A

So let me paint you the picture … It’s 2.21 am. I’m smoking a cigarette – a menthol, it’s all I can get here. I’m sheltered under a blue mosquito net that provides me with adequate protection from flying nasties, but none whatsoever to the fleas and bed-bugs that have colonised my mattress and dine on my fresh blood nightly. I’m hungry, though don’t want to tuck into my solitary bread roll for fear of the ruthless and unstoppable ants that rapidly hunt any spare crumb. The net is hanging from the roof of my banda, which in turn is scantily protecting me from the elements. A brewing tropical storm outside will no doubt break in a little while and violate the thatched roof and bamboo ‘windows’. I am squinting from the glare of the laptop screen, which is my only light source, save for the odd lightning, which occasionally punctuates the night sky with a brilliant and brief flash of daylight. All I can hear beyond the tapping of these keys are the unusually un-rhythmical waves of Lake Malawi, which must be spurned by the approaching storm, breaking about 5 metres from my ‘door’.

I’m in Usisya – look it up on google earth. A small slice of paradise isolated from the rest of the world. When I say ‘paradise’, you must understand that this is so for a sun, beach and water starved Mzungo with a fair amount of cash in his money belt, like me. For the indigenous, Usisya is similar to any rural part of the ‘5th poorest country in the world’. The area is poor, yet not desolate. The rains have been kind this year and the soil fertile for subsistence crops – Maize and Kasava predominantly. The village consists of a spattering of huts, some plastered with tin roofs, most mud brick and thatch. Each plot is hidden by 2 metre high maize crops, which for a short-arse like me, means tackling Hampton Court maze each time I step outside. Pointing, staring and laughing barefooted children wearing the obligatory ripped T-shirt and oversized shorts is standard fare, and seem to be the de rigeur of every African village I have visited. Usisya is located on a small peninsula plateau, hemmed in by the aqua blue Lake to the East and the seasonally green steep escarpments to the West. There are no creature comforts here – no electricity, no internet, no phone coverage. There are only two ways in or out, by boat which is reliable but limited to twice a week, and by truck through the hair raising mountain pass which should go daily though is un-reliable due to the rains.

Which brings me to why i am hunched under my net at this ridiculous hour. I am trying to leave. Last night, at 3am, I was woken by the faithful nightwatchman Elias, who escorted me with the help of his trusty torch to the truck stop in the village. It left at 4.30 and I was rewarded for my early start with a prime spot in the cab, nestled between the driver and his prize for his previous days work … a young looking prostitute. My other journeymen, all locals, were huddled in the back covered by a tatty piece of tarpaulin. By 5.30 we were well on the way, in the hills, on course to hit Mzuzu town by 8am. Then the rain started. Within minutes the up-hill dirt track had become a torrent of red-brown water, the truck slipped and squealed. We stopped and did nothing for an hour but watch the rain. We started again, I don’t know why then, and managed the hill only by jumping out and pushing or pulling. The sight of me helping to physically pull the truck in the downpour caused a certain amount of amusement amongst my co-travellers, I was happy to provide some humour. After that monumental effort, the driver turned round to head back to Usisya. I guess it was a judgement call at what was to come. My Tombuka and his English were both too inadequate for a full explanation. Tonight Elias woke me at 1am. He had buried his younger brother earlier in the afternoon, yet seemed un-perturbed - he had died from a ‘mystery illness’, which at a guess is the same ‘mystery illness’ which is ravaging the rest of Africa. Elias soon realised that the truck had left already and we trotted off [I should qualify – Elias trotted, I wheezed, trying to keep up whilst cursing the menthols] on a wild goose chase through the Maize fields of the village looking for the allusive second truck. It too had already left.

So I found myself sitting outside my door, in the middle of the night, awaiting the storm, contemplating my experience. Instead of leaving on Wednesday I hope to take a boat on Friday to Nkhata Bay. There’s no real option but to shrug my shoulders and wait 3 days. It is equivalent I guess to waiting another 6 minutes for the Northern line after missing the tube into town. Rattling through my brain is the rather obnoxious Dicaprio line in a bad ‘Rhodesian’ accent … ‘T.I.A – This Is Africa’. Granted, I’m not being chased by AK-47 wielding, blood diamond mining, Angolans. But for the minute this is my Africa.

I hope to return to Usisya next week for a little while. There is a project here with the local small-scale NGO, to build a house and the ‘first sandbag kitchen in Malawi’. I have been invited to get involved, and I may just do that. So, it is likely that I’ll be as isolated for the next couple of weeks as Usisya has since its’ existence.