Crimson and Clover,
This one is gonna be shorter because I'm busy. This past weekend introduced me to some of the finer spectacles that anonymous cities in Africa have to offer. After a rousing round of golf Thursday afternoon (I still cannot get over how cheap it is-like $10 with a caddy who has to be a five handicap to qualify, its like a free lesson every time), I was watching some good old American basketball on TV when the group behind me including the Ugandan high commissioner, the Tanzanian ambassador and one of the richest guys in the country-a Korean named Mr. Kim (who looks, talks and probably is a Bond villain) came in. Turns out the Tanzanian ambassador went to Baylor who was playing on a ten-hour delay and he and I watched and cheered the end of the game. This culminated in some fine beers and his invitation to join him on the 'morrow for a Texas-style barbecue.
I went to his house the following evening and got an abrupt introduction to his version of "Texas barbecue." Thirty people in suits and ties with linen tablecloths and servants waiting on me at the door. I wonder if this is how my fraternity chapter at Baylor had dinner together? Although in fairness, there were ribs, imported barbecue sauce and he and I drank Bud Heavy, which he has to import (who imports Budweiser?!). A wonderful social event, even though people did regard me in my jeans like you would a homeless streaker showing up to a black-tie Presidential ball.
Saturday night, my friendly neighbor, Assa, (see last weeks post) took me out to American Pirates Casino: a preeminent gambling hall and social hotspot. It was pretty great. Built by a South African guy, who was utterly hammered, he targeted successfully the large Asian population here, "These [Polite word for people of Oriental heritage] love it. It's a cash business, in a cash economy where ain't no one gonna pay taxes." Then he classily knocked over a waitress carrying a stack of plates and blamed her. Guy is an innovator. Best part about the casino, besides winning a bunch of money and watching Assa drink FIVE red bulls and dance like a lunatic with a pack of prostitutes, was that if you gambled with more than the US-value $50, you got a valet assigned to you to fetch you drinks and follow you around. Worst part: 200 Asians chain-smoking, muttering angry things and side-betting on your bets; they would stand over me playing Blackjack and scream and throw money down whenever I took a card or passed.
Finally, Sunday there was a protest-which turned into a bit of a riot downtown over fuel shortages and prices. I was up early, attempting to late-night Skype a gaggle of Richmonders, but I couldn't find internet anywhere. I called my friend who finally told me the government had shut down the internet and power temporarily while they broke up the protest. Lo and behold, fifty protesters came around the corner as I was finishing the conversation screaming and being chased by police in riot gear. Ten minutes later, a church group of 200 came by singing and holding hands with some of the protesters and police joining in. It gets weird sometimes.
Scoobity doo wop,
Foxy
PS: I taught my Chinese neighbor a fun US phrase (based on another email request, keep em comin' steven.er.fox@gmail.com)
"There's two ways to milk this goat, Butch Cassidy"
She uses it in lieu of phrases like "Are you sure?"-I told her Jack says it in one of the later episodes of Lost.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Treez and My New Place
Intellectuals,
I moved into a new place. This ends a parade of caverns that I called home for the past month and a half. My new place, "Blessings House," (complete with a sign) is a sprawling set of buildings that I share with four sets of occupants. There is my intense landlord Calvin, who runs like four businesses/NGOs here in Malawi and speaks only in serious tones about trivial things and hates being interrupted. We had a conversation about soap preference that ended in a four minute monologue: "Chamomile is ESSENTIAL FOR YOUR SKIN!" There are an unknown number of Arabs living somewhere in the compound, the only one I really met, Assa, loves to party.
Monday at 6PM:
Assa: "You going out right now?"
Me: "Grabbing dinner, yep, you need anything."
Assa: "Just four smirnoff ices, some Chris Brown and [a ladyfriend]" (This was said in seriousness)
I'm going out with him Friday. The final group in my compound are a Chinese couple . He is never around and she speaks very little English, but is learning via five seasons of LOST. She calls me Jack Shepard, and every one of the arabs are known as Sayid. "Sayid, music always loud." She has promised more evenings of Lost reruns and pudding snacks, I cannot wait.
I spent this week in the bush of Cameroon, getting training in replanting trees, cutting them down, carving them up and packaging them, in that order. The work was exhausting, I actually went to sleep and woke according to the sun for the first time in my life, and I was re-introduced to a lovely night spent in a tent in the middle of nowhere, while it pours. We scoured the countryside for hints on the rare Mpinga tree and were lucky to find one that the villagers had already chopped down and were planning on transforming to charcoal. The scene was bleak. A community ravanged by HIV and mudslides, nestled into the foothills of the Malawi-Zambian border. To turn something so precious into so simple a commodity, these people were the sad combination of a miserable education and destitute situation. But we reimbursed the community for their troubles, planted three new trees and taught them techniques to care for them, gave them a number to call with questions etc. The town, which resembles an oil painting of green and brown swirls, may think twice next time.
Additionally, at one village we spent the night in, word was spread that I was a doctor. This resulted in a stream of people coming to see me about various ailments, even as I repeated that I wasn't a doctor. The worst of the bunch was a man with a deformation on his male unit, that caused too much skin on one side of it, leading to the appearance of it being bent. I might have nightmares for all eternity.
Finally my anecdote. While picking up groceries for my new place, I put down my full basket to examine the price discrepancies of biscuits. When I turned around, the nightmare of every shopper came true and it was gone. I asked employees if they had taken it and in utter desperation swept through the aisles in search of my basket. Finally, I reached the cues waiting to check out and I found someone actually holding my basket with all of its items. Who in the hell, would actually do that. Rogers, a mid-30s man who lived nearby and had been stalking me along the aisles and decided he liked me mixture of produce, home goods and cheese. He said he was sorry and that when I put it down he didn't think I wanted it anymore.
Only in Africa,
Steven
I moved into a new place. This ends a parade of caverns that I called home for the past month and a half. My new place, "Blessings House," (complete with a sign) is a sprawling set of buildings that I share with four sets of occupants. There is my intense landlord Calvin, who runs like four businesses/NGOs here in Malawi and speaks only in serious tones about trivial things and hates being interrupted. We had a conversation about soap preference that ended in a four minute monologue: "Chamomile is ESSENTIAL FOR YOUR SKIN!" There are an unknown number of Arabs living somewhere in the compound, the only one I really met, Assa, loves to party.
Monday at 6PM:
Assa: "You going out right now?"
Me: "Grabbing dinner, yep, you need anything."
Assa: "Just four smirnoff ices, some Chris Brown and [a ladyfriend]" (This was said in seriousness)
I'm going out with him Friday. The final group in my compound are a Chinese couple . He is never around and she speaks very little English, but is learning via five seasons of LOST. She calls me Jack Shepard, and every one of the arabs are known as Sayid. "Sayid, music always loud." She has promised more evenings of Lost reruns and pudding snacks, I cannot wait.
I spent this week in the bush of Cameroon, getting training in replanting trees, cutting them down, carving them up and packaging them, in that order. The work was exhausting, I actually went to sleep and woke according to the sun for the first time in my life, and I was re-introduced to a lovely night spent in a tent in the middle of nowhere, while it pours. We scoured the countryside for hints on the rare Mpinga tree and were lucky to find one that the villagers had already chopped down and were planning on transforming to charcoal. The scene was bleak. A community ravanged by HIV and mudslides, nestled into the foothills of the Malawi-Zambian border. To turn something so precious into so simple a commodity, these people were the sad combination of a miserable education and destitute situation. But we reimbursed the community for their troubles, planted three new trees and taught them techniques to care for them, gave them a number to call with questions etc. The town, which resembles an oil painting of green and brown swirls, may think twice next time.
Additionally, at one village we spent the night in, word was spread that I was a doctor. This resulted in a stream of people coming to see me about various ailments, even as I repeated that I wasn't a doctor. The worst of the bunch was a man with a deformation on his male unit, that caused too much skin on one side of it, leading to the appearance of it being bent. I might have nightmares for all eternity.
Finally my anecdote. While picking up groceries for my new place, I put down my full basket to examine the price discrepancies of biscuits. When I turned around, the nightmare of every shopper came true and it was gone. I asked employees if they had taken it and in utter desperation swept through the aisles in search of my basket. Finally, I reached the cues waiting to check out and I found someone actually holding my basket with all of its items. Who in the hell, would actually do that. Rogers, a mid-30s man who lived nearby and had been stalking me along the aisles and decided he liked me mixture of produce, home goods and cheese. He said he was sorry and that when I put it down he didn't think I wanted it anymore.
Only in Africa,
Steven
Saturday, February 18, 2012
Who's ready to work?
Dearest Penny,,
It has been a less exciting, yet thoroughly fulfilling week since I stopped touring the countryside in fast and furious fashion and settled down in my adopted Lilongwe for recommenced commerce. With the departure of my father the biblical rains have returned. It makes for an exciting afternoon when the phenomenally sunny morning skies suddenly show apocalyptic signs and in less than an hour you are outracing the rains on foot or plowing through flash floods by car or minibus. One particularly exciting adventure I weathered (pun), was when I was on a real estate tour as I look for a residence to make my own (instead of living out of rooms that make me think of "the hole" in prison movies). My guide, Eddie, and I were driving into one particular compound, which Eddie calls "China Fortress," when an impromptu storm hit Lilongwe. As we arrived at the compound I couldn't believe the muddy river that was flowing into the small gated community via the main entrance. The rain was falling so heavily that this downhill compound had become a fetid pool of mud and flowing water. We drove in despite the water up to the car doors but decided the house wasn't for me as my Chinese compatriots stared angrily out at the car and Odysseus-style whirlpool going on in their backyard.
I've also had the pleasure of having some of my technical brethren from Mozambique coming to instruct me on the ins and outs of operating my wood business. They will be here until Thursday, but are off to take in the Lake for the weekend. It has been a heavy-workload for the past couple of days with them poking and prodding me on everything I've missed, downplaying my little victories and lamenting the price of beer (in comparison to Mozambique).
Finally, a fun anecdote. Some of the local Rastafarians who I change money with for a better rate are serious characters. My favorite, who legally changed his name to Captain Jack Sparrow (Best Passport I have ever seen), and I were changing dollars the other day, when I told him he needs a boat to be a real captain. Cap'n Jack took this to heart and when I saw him two days later he had constructed a cardboard and newspaper sailboat that he wears around his body like a suspendered suit. Watching him cross through busy intersections in this get-up is a dream come true. I told him I'd make him a hat and then I'll take a picture and send it to all the saucy wenches I know back in the States.
Obscurum per Obscurius,
Steve-Unit
It has been a less exciting, yet thoroughly fulfilling week since I stopped touring the countryside in fast and furious fashion and settled down in my adopted Lilongwe for recommenced commerce. With the departure of my father the biblical rains have returned. It makes for an exciting afternoon when the phenomenally sunny morning skies suddenly show apocalyptic signs and in less than an hour you are outracing the rains on foot or plowing through flash floods by car or minibus. One particularly exciting adventure I weathered (pun), was when I was on a real estate tour as I look for a residence to make my own (instead of living out of rooms that make me think of "the hole" in prison movies). My guide, Eddie, and I were driving into one particular compound, which Eddie calls "China Fortress," when an impromptu storm hit Lilongwe. As we arrived at the compound I couldn't believe the muddy river that was flowing into the small gated community via the main entrance. The rain was falling so heavily that this downhill compound had become a fetid pool of mud and flowing water. We drove in despite the water up to the car doors but decided the house wasn't for me as my Chinese compatriots stared angrily out at the car and Odysseus-style whirlpool going on in their backyard.
I've also had the pleasure of having some of my technical brethren from Mozambique coming to instruct me on the ins and outs of operating my wood business. They will be here until Thursday, but are off to take in the Lake for the weekend. It has been a heavy-workload for the past couple of days with them poking and prodding me on everything I've missed, downplaying my little victories and lamenting the price of beer (in comparison to Mozambique).
Finally, a fun anecdote. Some of the local Rastafarians who I change money with for a better rate are serious characters. My favorite, who legally changed his name to Captain Jack Sparrow (Best Passport I have ever seen), and I were changing dollars the other day, when I told him he needs a boat to be a real captain. Cap'n Jack took this to heart and when I saw him two days later he had constructed a cardboard and newspaper sailboat that he wears around his body like a suspendered suit. Watching him cross through busy intersections in this get-up is a dream come true. I told him I'd make him a hat and then I'll take a picture and send it to all the saucy wenches I know back in the States.
Obscurum per Obscurius,
Steve-Unit
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Part Deux
To continue the whirlwind tour that I gave my father of the lands and lake of Malawi, we set off from Zomba to the famous Cape Maclear. Maclear is a stunning beach destination off the main road up a dirt path into a UNESCO Natural Heritage site. We took in a fine afternoon and the next morning of the landscape by foot and kayak. Our kayak trip included going around a secluded island, populated only by a large population of swooping fish eagles and then swerving amongst the locals in their fishing canoes on the way back to shore.
From Cape Maclear we took the whole next day to drive up the coast of the lake to Nkhata Bay, a hippie, lake retreat posted on rocky shores overlooking the lake. In contrast to the sandy, village setting of Cape Maclear, Nkhata Bay is like a rocky hobbit town with grass and stone houses set into the hills rising from the lake. With the dive shop crippled by a dearth of fuel supplies and a long wait of those semi-permanent, seasonal citizens that occupy N-Bay, we were forced to explore the underwater land by snorkeling or sit out over our personal patio five feet above the swaying, turquoise waters. Hobbits and all their magic wouldn't do this place any justice.
The lake experience was a calming departure from what can be a hectic city life. But then we ventured inland towards Nyika National Park. Nyika is, in fact, a large plateau rising into the Western border with Zambia. It's location can be described kindly as the middle-of-nowhere. To get there we settled into Slick Mitt (my car, if you missed it) and followed directions (with a few couple-hour-getting-lost-detours) to Mzuzu, then Rumphi and up the "dirt road" to Nyika. This dirt road was in fact a 120km stretch of potholes and puddles suited for spelunking, jutting rocks like stone scimitars after your tires and muddy stretches that would have transformed the Chattahooche music video (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JW5UEW2kYvc&ob=av2e) from gleeful, muddin' hillbillies, into a screaming slide to a perilous end.
It took four hours there and back, plus the virginity of my spine and a tire. That being said, Nyika was a stunning expanse of rolling, vivid green hills. It was a Scottish Serengeti, at 8000 ft above sea level, with antelope, leopards, hyenas, elephants, serval cats and a plethora of birds. Hopefully my pictures came out well and I can post them for you at some point because its gorgeousness is not being done justice here. We enjoyed the luxury of only two other guests in the entire national park and had our own cabin with a fire for the chilly nights and a valet to cook us scrumptious meals. God Bless the value of a dollar in this country. Almost made it worth the drive.
My Dad has departed in one piece, I am back to work, and as usual, I will have more for you soon enough.
Nine holes of golf tomorrow morning,
Steven
From Cape Maclear we took the whole next day to drive up the coast of the lake to Nkhata Bay, a hippie, lake retreat posted on rocky shores overlooking the lake. In contrast to the sandy, village setting of Cape Maclear, Nkhata Bay is like a rocky hobbit town with grass and stone houses set into the hills rising from the lake. With the dive shop crippled by a dearth of fuel supplies and a long wait of those semi-permanent, seasonal citizens that occupy N-Bay, we were forced to explore the underwater land by snorkeling or sit out over our personal patio five feet above the swaying, turquoise waters. Hobbits and all their magic wouldn't do this place any justice.
The lake experience was a calming departure from what can be a hectic city life. But then we ventured inland towards Nyika National Park. Nyika is, in fact, a large plateau rising into the Western border with Zambia. It's location can be described kindly as the middle-of-nowhere. To get there we settled into Slick Mitt (my car, if you missed it) and followed directions (with a few couple-hour-getting-lost-detours) to Mzuzu, then Rumphi and up the "dirt road" to Nyika. This dirt road was in fact a 120km stretch of potholes and puddles suited for spelunking, jutting rocks like stone scimitars after your tires and muddy stretches that would have transformed the Chattahooche music video (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JW5UEW2kYvc&ob=av2e) from gleeful, muddin' hillbillies, into a screaming slide to a perilous end.
It took four hours there and back, plus the virginity of my spine and a tire. That being said, Nyika was a stunning expanse of rolling, vivid green hills. It was a Scottish Serengeti, at 8000 ft above sea level, with antelope, leopards, hyenas, elephants, serval cats and a plethora of birds. Hopefully my pictures came out well and I can post them for you at some point because its gorgeousness is not being done justice here. We enjoyed the luxury of only two other guests in the entire national park and had our own cabin with a fire for the chilly nights and a valet to cook us scrumptious meals. God Bless the value of a dollar in this country. Almost made it worth the drive.
My Dad has departed in one piece, I am back to work, and as usual, I will have more for you soon enough.
Nine holes of golf tomorrow morning,
Steven
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Mista Chris Visits
Pagizis,
I'm sure I have not made this abundantly clear in my previous blogposts, but I have had the distinct pleasure of a week and a half off from work with the arrival of my father in Malawi. Desperate to experience the bush, the beer and brazen bavardry of the local rastafarians, he and I dove headfirst into a whirlwind tour of Malawi in 11 days.
First I gave him the city-scoop: Lilongwe and Blantyre. We conquered these cities with timely stall-outs of my freshly introduced hands to the British-style manual driving and ice cream. We subsequently left my areas of comfort for the massive Zomba Plateau. The plateau could very well be a scene out of a movie based in Montana. Something with Liam Neeson being hunted by baboons and leopards, written by Stephen King. The Plateau rises like a marshmallow in the microwave beside the colonial capital of Zomba. It is covered in pine trees and other deciduous shrubberies with two vast dams gleaming like plates of mica on its green surface, but it also shares the distinctly African animal life of baboons, monkeys and exotic birds tramping about. For two days we marched around in the mud and clouds (Elevation 2000 meters above sea level) looking out across the lands like bizarro Lewis and Clark. In our final hike we met up with a local who promised us a shortcut back through the woods and took us down steep slick paths and past illegal woodcutters and farming.
Finally we stayed up in fervent anticipation of the Superbowl with a stream of constant reminders to the hotel staff that we would like to watch the game on an easily accessible channel for them. They responded in kind words, assuring us that they would accommodate our impending misery. Luckily enough, this is Africa. The staff screwed up, we missed the game (despite our screaming and whining), a night of sleep and the chance to be thoroughly depressed. All-in-all, just an OK day. Honestly, it was a very nice place except for the massive screw up and the baboons running across the tin roof all during breakfast.
I promise to give more updates on where else we have traveled soon (Cape Maclear, up the coast to Nkhata Bay and tomorrow into Nyika national park), but for now, I am basking in free food, accommodations and the whipping flow of my father's Kennedy haircut.
In Secretarial Services we trust,
Steven
I'm sure I have not made this abundantly clear in my previous blogposts, but I have had the distinct pleasure of a week and a half off from work with the arrival of my father in Malawi. Desperate to experience the bush, the beer and brazen bavardry of the local rastafarians, he and I dove headfirst into a whirlwind tour of Malawi in 11 days.
First I gave him the city-scoop: Lilongwe and Blantyre. We conquered these cities with timely stall-outs of my freshly introduced hands to the British-style manual driving and ice cream. We subsequently left my areas of comfort for the massive Zomba Plateau. The plateau could very well be a scene out of a movie based in Montana. Something with Liam Neeson being hunted by baboons and leopards, written by Stephen King. The Plateau rises like a marshmallow in the microwave beside the colonial capital of Zomba. It is covered in pine trees and other deciduous shrubberies with two vast dams gleaming like plates of mica on its green surface, but it also shares the distinctly African animal life of baboons, monkeys and exotic birds tramping about. For two days we marched around in the mud and clouds (Elevation 2000 meters above sea level) looking out across the lands like bizarro Lewis and Clark. In our final hike we met up with a local who promised us a shortcut back through the woods and took us down steep slick paths and past illegal woodcutters and farming.
Finally we stayed up in fervent anticipation of the Superbowl with a stream of constant reminders to the hotel staff that we would like to watch the game on an easily accessible channel for them. They responded in kind words, assuring us that they would accommodate our impending misery. Luckily enough, this is Africa. The staff screwed up, we missed the game (despite our screaming and whining), a night of sleep and the chance to be thoroughly depressed. All-in-all, just an OK day. Honestly, it was a very nice place except for the massive screw up and the baboons running across the tin roof all during breakfast.
I promise to give more updates on where else we have traveled soon (Cape Maclear, up the coast to Nkhata Bay and tomorrow into Nyika national park), but for now, I am basking in free food, accommodations and the whipping flow of my father's Kennedy haircut.
In Secretarial Services we trust,
Steven
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