Kumbooka Charlie

An unfortunate week for blog-worthy posts: Until Today!

This week we enjoyed the end of the Olympics here in Malawi in splendid American fashion: no one except what felt like three Americans and the Brits were even interested or conscious that it was going on. Regardless, the Women's 4x100M relay altered my bodily existence, and watching Kobe Bryant get a pass and then being surer than anything that he would never pass it gave me a well-deserved boost of patriotism and a country music marathon urge.

I also had the distinct experience of feeling like an overambitious teenager again experiencing his first-ever concert; only I am 23 and in Malawi and I’m pretty sure my first concert was either Raffi or some combination of 90s pop songs, people dressed up as cartoons and ice. After mixing up the time that the concert started, the trio I was with arrived early to the venue to find a Malawian wedding in full swing. We decided not to crash it as weddings in Malawi generally consist of hours and hours of individuals getting up in front of the bride and groom while everyone watches, throwing money at the newlyweds’ feet and dancing for them. It is a long day. And we also might have stood out a little bit from the friends of the family. To buy time, we went to the Casino just as it was opening, watched a thrilling hour of the women’s 20k speed walking final and proceeded to each lose the money we hoped to spend on drinks.

Aside: Speed-walking has as much of a right to be in the Olympics as synchronized shaving.

Finally, we decided to return to the concert at its starting time of 8:30. We made it to the beginning of the sound check, which lasted for two and a half hours, and by the time the grossly overweight Lucius Banda struggled onto the stage, we were, as our British comrade Tom would describe it “Quite knockered, guvna.” Reminded me of my days when I thought you had to get to movie theaters early, sports venues in time to watch the warm ups and parties before all the drinks were gone. Oddly it felt like a strange bell curve of being “hip,” that I ascended for a brief three weeks in my late teens and am now on a steep decline.

But to make everything better. I went to get my haircut today. For the record, I have spent 1.89 years of my life in Africa now and this was my first hair cut experience. I had been warned very often in the past, that artists of the head-fur in Africa were not experts in “mizungu” hair (white person); thus my trepidation.

But at the suggestion of my longtime expat friend, I finally embarked on my quest to Unisex Beauty Salon. Donna, my layered stylist, started in on me with the scalp massaging and prepared my hands for a manicure before I stopped her. But when it came time to cut my hair she nearly had a seizure, picked up every instrument in the room before putting it down again and rethinking. Finally, she started with her “thinning scissors,” which led to this exchange:   

“You’re hair is so thick.”

“I know.”

“Very, very, very thick” Every “very” was followed with her taking a huge clump out of my head with a pair of machetes linked by a rubber band (Africa scissors).

Then she told me to wait, made a phone call, and ten minutes later there were eight women concurrently cutting, clucking and cackling at my locks. After which, they washed it with DEEP EBONY SHAMPOO and gave me hugs.

And then He made it happen, captain,

Steven


PS: A little short on the bangs, but overall, I look pretty good--Kick Teschke for me Bragg

Tobacco-Town

For those of you not entirely familiar with ins and outs of Malawi:

Malawi's biggest cash crop is tobacco. While much of the world is pulling back on its collective tobacco reins, the feeling in Malawi is to spur the tobacco industry into a gallop. It has only helped spur otherwise stagnant development to date, so why not? As people continue to craze cigarettes, cigars and chew, Malawi will meet that demand.

Wednesday, I had the pleasure of revisiting Malawi's tobacco centre: a series of massive complexes, silos, auction floors and processing plants thirty minutes outside of Lilongwe. Literally a city within itself, complete with grocery stores, offices, housing developments and banks and ATMs (A big deal here, since there are less than 200 ATMs in the whole country), it feels a bit like entering the Death Star. Not in a smoking-kills-way, more in an industrial, fortified powerhouse way. Additionally, the whole place smells like I imagine Vegas would in the 1950s. 

There are about seven tobacco companies operating out of Malawi and then hundreds of foreign traders who arrive weekly or daily to purchase bales of tobacco fresh off the floor for their own operations. The silos and processing facilities are all pretty lock and key, and if you weren't scared off by the ever-frowning guards, signs that say "Enter at Your Own Risk," "Scary Dogs" and "Visitors are Responsible for ALL Actions" or the piles of barbed wire that strings the place like your most intensely festive neighbor's house come Christmastime, there is a little warning on every single thing in the approximately 5 square miles that says "Combustible." I hope not. 

Anecdote 1: There are a lot of stray dogs in our neighborhood. A lot. So many, that if they all grouped together and marched on the presidential palace, there would actually be a firefight: I like to imagine scenarios when Joyce Banda (Google) is holding a machine gun, protecting herself and running to the song "Danger Zone" from Top Gun. 

Sometimes, to start trouble, I ride around the neighborhood barking to get them up in a fury, chasing my car, barking like crazy (for those of you familiar with me from college, you may remember this is a method I sometimes used when people would stay at a party too late). 

Anyways, I started barking the other night and got a particularly good crowd of them going, so good that the whole neighborhood was going off with barking. Cackling like a madman, I sped away from the scene of the crime, losing the pursuers of my bumper. However, when I returned to my house and was getting ready to open the gate to go in the front door, I heard an approaching horde of barks and to my surprise, they had communicated and found me. I spent an hour in my car waiting for fifty dogs to leave me be. I actually played dead. 

Hilary Clinton visited Sunday, we couldn't get a security clearance to see her. Either that or she just wanted to have a girls night out with Joyce Banda, no boys allowed.

Bill knows what I'm talking about,

Steven