Salutations,
I have a sweet, little bacterial infection in my belly right now, which I mistook for Malaria the other day. I got my first test of the Malawi hospital system, which I can say I'm sudo-impressed by. I am told that I attended the finest facilities: Mbunguthu Private Hospital ("Where Illness Evaporates.") However, like all hospitals the bureaucracy was at times overwhelming, and when I passed out on the floor in front of the cashier, they awoke me and made sure I paid before they treated me (I passed out because of dehydration, the patient who woke me up told me I needed chocolate and was pulled off me as she tried to force feed me a Mars Bar). But all is well, I am back to feeling dandy and they liberally pass out painkillers here.
Other suggestions for curing me included local advice to just drink gin and eat barbecue for three days (for Malaria) or sleep with my head in a bowl of cold water.
I have also made my first major purchase here in Africa: a Mitsubishi Pajero, or Slick Mitt as I will call him. The car is scratched around the edges, but is the perfect 4x4 compliment to my tasks and lifestyle.
Buying a car in Malawi is a bit like navigating Craigslist for the first time. Only imagine that instead of Craigslist anonymity, you got to see these people face to face. There are a lot of weirdos and a cut-your-throat culture for every penny. Negotiations usually transpire with a lot of transparent bluffing: people will ask for $20,000 even if there is a sign on the car advertising to sell it for $10,000. Pieces of advice:
Speaking of which, my final note. I don't know if I have touched on this before, but something you see all the time here in Malawi and many places out of the US is two men holding hands while carrying on a conversation. Often they are businessmen in suits and with briefcases, sometimes they are sitting on a bench chatting about sports. It is something I am still coming to understand, as my hand is continually assaulted by strangers attempting to wrap me in conversation. Most recently, I was playing basketball on one of the only bright sunny days we have had here, and an argument broke out during the game. Actually, it was quite Malice in the Palace-esque as an observer dropped a ball he was holding that tripped one of the people in the actual game. Metta World Peace dove after the observer and they started fighting while I nervously backed away and started to collect my things to leave. Just as I was ready to go, I felt not one, but both my hands grasped by the two biggest guys on the court who turned me around. Together we watched this terrifying beatdown continue as they talked with my cowering frame about politics, girls and the weather.
I'm thinking about sewing more pockets onto all my clothes to protect my hands from future imprisonment.
Hot Water Burn Baby,
Steven
PS: In response to my first question from a reader I am not familiar with (Got me SOOO excited): Yes, people do smoke marijuana in public places here, but they disappear like bush babies when anyone gets too close, leaving just a distinct haze and an abundance of half-eaten pork rinds.
Keep the Questions coming.
I have a sweet, little bacterial infection in my belly right now, which I mistook for Malaria the other day. I got my first test of the Malawi hospital system, which I can say I'm sudo-impressed by. I am told that I attended the finest facilities: Mbunguthu Private Hospital ("Where Illness Evaporates.") However, like all hospitals the bureaucracy was at times overwhelming, and when I passed out on the floor in front of the cashier, they awoke me and made sure I paid before they treated me (I passed out because of dehydration, the patient who woke me up told me I needed chocolate and was pulled off me as she tried to force feed me a Mars Bar). But all is well, I am back to feeling dandy and they liberally pass out painkillers here.
Other suggestions for curing me included local advice to just drink gin and eat barbecue for three days (for Malaria) or sleep with my head in a bowl of cold water.
I have also made my first major purchase here in Africa: a Mitsubishi Pajero, or Slick Mitt as I will call him. The car is scratched around the edges, but is the perfect 4x4 compliment to my tasks and lifestyle.
Buying a car in Malawi is a bit like navigating Craigslist for the first time. Only imagine that instead of Craigslist anonymity, you got to see these people face to face. There are a lot of weirdos and a cut-your-throat culture for every penny. Negotiations usually transpire with a lot of transparent bluffing: people will ask for $20,000 even if there is a sign on the car advertising to sell it for $10,000. Pieces of advice:
- Make sure the car is a "runner." This literally means that it is working.
- Get someone trustworthy to recommend a mechanic, and have him test it out for you.
- There is no such thing as non-negotiable in Africa.
Speaking of which, my final note. I don't know if I have touched on this before, but something you see all the time here in Malawi and many places out of the US is two men holding hands while carrying on a conversation. Often they are businessmen in suits and with briefcases, sometimes they are sitting on a bench chatting about sports. It is something I am still coming to understand, as my hand is continually assaulted by strangers attempting to wrap me in conversation. Most recently, I was playing basketball on one of the only bright sunny days we have had here, and an argument broke out during the game. Actually, it was quite Malice in the Palace-esque as an observer dropped a ball he was holding that tripped one of the people in the actual game. Metta World Peace dove after the observer and they started fighting while I nervously backed away and started to collect my things to leave. Just as I was ready to go, I felt not one, but both my hands grasped by the two biggest guys on the court who turned me around. Together we watched this terrifying beatdown continue as they talked with my cowering frame about politics, girls and the weather.
I'm thinking about sewing more pockets onto all my clothes to protect my hands from future imprisonment.
Hot Water Burn Baby,
Steven
PS: In response to my first question from a reader I am not familiar with (Got me SOOO excited): Yes, people do smoke marijuana in public places here, but they disappear like bush babies when anyone gets too close, leaving just a distinct haze and an abundance of half-eaten pork rinds.
Keep the Questions coming.
haha I totally agree with the holding hands thing ... I was in TZ a few years ago when I found myself walking down the street holding hands with an older, married African man who, to my knowledge, had never been an employee at Penn St.
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