Bongo Fire
Ugh,
I feel like I open up each of these with an excuse. No
excuses. But a promise to be more diligent and catch up on the last few weeks
(almost a month). Its been EXTREMELY interesting and I wouldn’t want you to
MISS OUT on the life of Steven. That would be a certifiable tragedy.
A couple of weeks ago, we had gotten wind from someone
that in addition to their lifestyle and nefarious ways, the Rastafarians also
took time out of their busy schedules to congregate at a “Rasta Church.” Eager
to see such a display, we began asking around their community for ideas on how
to participate. Surprisingly, we were rebuffed time and again, despite numerous
contacts as we tried to join a service.
Finally, we were able to leverage our contacts in order to
get the number of a more enthusiastic host and he invited us on a Wednesday
morning to join him at the church. Eager as beavers, our entire contingent in
Malawi (there are three of us now) decided to postpone work activities for the
morning (I actually rescheduled a meeting).
First we drove to the Rastafarian hangout to pick up our
escorts, our Rasta buddies, Mo and Chris. They then piled into the car and
directed us to a new part of town for me. A pretty remote place between the
poorer residential areas and the centre of town, Area 17.
Here we got directions from a homeless person and started
down a dirt road through a bunch of improvised farmlands. Finally Chris and Mo
told us to stop along this dirt road and we got out (in full business proper
regalia for our meetings later) and walked through more dusty shrubberies and
dry seed plots towards a basic African shack and beyond it an open space with
flags on high poles blazing like some Genghis-Khan-style encampment and finally
a gazebo covered in the Rasta colors of red, green and yellow.
We were led right to the shack. Here we met Bongo Fire,
the preacher and spiritual leader of his Rasta community. He was certainly
going for the Bob Marley look, his dreadlocks and scraggly short beard were eerily
reminiscent, however, his wry smile and clothing appearance were of a more
predatory nature. The little shack also had another inhabitanat, the filthiest,
oldest Rasta I have ever seen. A man with dreads piled on his head like a
rag-stacking-contest and skin the texture of an aged elephant.
The shack had a little tent in it. Presumably where the
great preacher slept and meditated. He enthusiastically welcomed us and gestured
to a mat on the floor which as the five of us sat down we noticed was the sole
protection from a floor blanketed with discarded marijuana seeds. In fact, as
he introduced himself and begun discussing “The Rastafari Way” and introducing
their belief in HIS IMPERIAL MAJESTY, HAILLE SELLASIE!!! the dirty Rasta in the
corner was picking through an enormous plant of marijuana. He also asked us if
we would like to join with them in the spirit of ganja, but we also declined
and instead watched him roll a cigarette style joint the length of a pen and
width of your big toe. He then used this as a baton which he waved at us during
his speech.
We huddled down on the floor and the diatribe started. We
sat there for two hours as Bongo Fire preached the Rasta way of life, along
with a slew of personal stories to vaguely support his points. First, while he
was justifying the Rasta lifestyle and their roles as productive members of
society, he made reference to their contributions in agriculture beyond
marijuana growth and sales. For this, he pointed to a pile of rusty pipes in
the corner, which he said was a “water pump” to grow “agricultural products.”
This was the sole reference to productive activity in his TWO AND A HALF HOURS
monologue. In this first session their were certainly some highlights.
1. Bongo Fire seemed particularly obsessed with himself as
a sort of martyr; him against the world. The other Rastas didn’t like him for
inviting us to understand their religion, his friends had released him for
being too committed to the Rastafari way. But he had some friends. Bongo Fire
claimed that a western girl had come to Malawi and befriended him. He then
explained how the relationship had developed into her trying to seduce him.
Which he “rejected,” although they still slept in close proximity “as friends.”
He turned her into a Rasta and now apparently she sends him cars, money and
other gifts from the UK. Again, this man lives in an old tent, inside a hut, in
a ghetto of Lilongwe, Malawi.
Continuing, his by far most entertaining story, but also
most inappropriate, so consider this section PG-13 was of meeting a man who
tried to seduce him. He prefaced this with a 30 minute talk about how Rastas
love everyone. Except gays. “It is not a one-love hate. It is a spiritual
hate.” Apparently, Bongo Fire had been at a location on Lake Malawi and met a
man who took to him and his crazy ways and asked him to come with him to
another inn for a “Blowjob.” To this Bongo Fire responded, “I thought it was a
ganja thing, so I went.” Apparently, despite many instances in which Bongo
should have realized that the man was coming onto him, he kept accompanying him
to more and more remote locations. Until the man bought a room for them at a
fancy hotel and went into the bathroom,
“Then he came out of the bathroom without any clothes on
and he asked me again to give him a blowjob…”
At this point, Bongo Fire paused and finally lit the
enormous joint he was holding and inhaled enormously. We were left in suspense
for a minute as he enjoyed his smoke, wondering if Bongo had taken the plunge
and giggling so crazily that he must’ve thought we were on his level.
“And then, I realized this was not a ganja thing. He was a
homosexual. And I did not give him a blowjob.” He continued by concluding that
the man was good and could be saved from these bad ways and they are still
friends.
Next he led us out at our request, and first words in two
and a half hours, to the “tabernacle, which was the little gazebo outside. It
had a central worshipping area covered with pictures and drawings of Haille
Selassie, a king in Ethiopia whom Rastafarians believe was the second coming of
Jesus Christ. There was also a series of drums which he explained were used to
beat out their spiritual rhythms. After another hour and a half of him talking
there, we finally politely made an excuse to leave because we actually did have
work to do. As we were leaving he decided to come with us back into town and to
this day, I still have an iconic image of him tromping up this hill towards our
car, his dreadlocks flying about him like Captain Jack Sparrow, the iconic
buildings of Lilongwe in the background and a plume of smoke around him. Bongo
Fire.
Just another morning in Malawi. Met with a bunch of
government officials and pumped out some spreadsheets that afternoon.
If you have Sufferage, let it rage,
Foxytime
