Friscalating Fleas of the Far West,A couple of stories:
Work brought us to Nkhata Bay and the surrounding region to meet with some people working on reforestation projects among other things, but we also got to sample the delights of the rocky lakeshore cascading down from emerald green slopes. The lake, as usual, provided its temperate waters and array of colorful cichlids. However, the most memorable part of our sejour in Nkhata Bay was definitely on Friday night when we enjoyed (and then were overwhelmed by) a conversation amongst some local businessmen: a man who ran a tourist operation, a local shopkeeper and the proprietor of the most popular lodge in town (a white fella). The conversation started between the Malawians, Noah and myself on simple introductions, interest in each other's work etc. Then our proprietor, who I shall call Harry, came waddling over in a fit of drunkenness. Immediately pouncing on the friendly words of his neighbors, he accused them of buttering us up for some sort of grand scheme,
"Don't bullshit these guys, this is the problem with this, Malawians always trying to bullshit the foreigners. No, you must know the soul of a man."
To understand our souls, Harry recollected some of his more embarassing and private memories for our listening pleasure (including his "gay experience," which was defintely a private matter), before asking us to explain ourselves. However, after hearing where Noah was from, he quickly made his own categorizations. Again, we only said our names and where we were from.
"This guy, Noah, he is from New York. He is a lawyer, he's Jewish and he's gay. These are people from New York. When they walk their dog on the sidewalk and it falls. They sue the sidewalk. Now we know him."
Despite Harry's intellectual diatribes, the conversation then turned sour as he began to look around the room wearily and accused his Malawian comrades of being the reason for so little business, eventually claiming, despite our appeals, that no whites want to be in a bar with blacks. However, there was karma for the awkward racism of the night when the next morning at breakfast, a shirtless and still intoxicated Harry vomited all over the place. Note to self, this is how you set an example for your employees.
Less than a couple days after this, after a nightmare-inducing series of public bus rides, we arrived in Blantyre, that splendid "economic engine"of Malawi for more meetings. But for you, I will impart yet another evening epistle. The place that I generally stay in Blantyre is home to an eclectic crowd, but mostly expats. On weekend nights, the oddities of the group are multiplied when a horde of local high schoolers invade the bar. Imagine your dreams as a fifteen year-old boy played out in reality as you have an evening with the grown-ups. Hoping to capitalize on my own evil sense of humor, I bet Noah to have this exchange with a particularly dour and acne'd up young'un.
Mr. Looking-for-his-first-kiss: "Barman, can I have a carlsberg green and an apple sour."
Noah: "Hey pal, next Shirley Temple is on me."
To be young, fun and harassed by creepy old guys becoming increasingly self-aware of the age gap.
This Sunday, before attending a huge reggae concert at the local golf club; which was certainly unlike any other concert I had ever been too, I bet one final good quote out of Noah. Early in the day, at the urging of my soon-departing British comrades, a few of us took a trip for brunch at the often acclaimed Kumbali lodge outside of Lilongwe. It is known across Malawi as the place where Madonna stays when she visits the birthplace of her adopted children. A gorgeous wood and thatch lodge, set on the true edge of town and looking out over the dramatic kopjes and savanna plains on the southern horizon, it lives up to the hype. And to make it more perfect, while ordering brunch, amongst a fit of laughter by the rest of us, Noah politely inquired of the waitress,
"Excuse me, but do you know what Madonna orders, because I want that."
Life is good,
Fox
Work brought us to Nkhata Bay and the surrounding region to meet with some people working on reforestation projects among other things, but we also got to sample the delights of the rocky lakeshore cascading down from emerald green slopes. The lake, as usual, provided its temperate waters and array of colorful cichlids. However, the most memorable part of our sejour in Nkhata Bay was definitely on Friday night when we enjoyed (and then were overwhelmed by) a conversation amongst some local businessmen: a man who ran a tourist operation, a local shopkeeper and the proprietor of the most popular lodge in town (a white fella). The conversation started between the Malawians, Noah and myself on simple introductions, interest in each other's work etc. Then our proprietor, who I shall call Harry, came waddling over in a fit of drunkenness. Immediately pouncing on the friendly words of his neighbors, he accused them of buttering us up for some sort of grand scheme,
"Don't bullshit these guys, this is the problem with this, Malawians always trying to bullshit the foreigners. No, you must know the soul of a man."
To understand our souls, Harry recollected some of his more embarassing and private memories for our listening pleasure (including his "gay experience," which was defintely a private matter), before asking us to explain ourselves. However, after hearing where Noah was from, he quickly made his own categorizations. Again, we only said our names and where we were from.
"This guy, Noah, he is from New York. He is a lawyer, he's Jewish and he's gay. These are people from New York. When they walk their dog on the sidewalk and it falls. They sue the sidewalk. Now we know him."
Despite Harry's intellectual diatribes, the conversation then turned sour as he began to look around the room wearily and accused his Malawian comrades of being the reason for so little business, eventually claiming, despite our appeals, that no whites want to be in a bar with blacks. However, there was karma for the awkward racism of the night when the next morning at breakfast, a shirtless and still intoxicated Harry vomited all over the place. Note to self, this is how you set an example for your employees.
Less than a couple days after this, after a nightmare-inducing series of public bus rides, we arrived in Blantyre, that splendid "economic engine"of Malawi for more meetings. But for you, I will impart yet another evening epistle. The place that I generally stay in Blantyre is home to an eclectic crowd, but mostly expats. On weekend nights, the oddities of the group are multiplied when a horde of local high schoolers invade the bar. Imagine your dreams as a fifteen year-old boy played out in reality as you have an evening with the grown-ups. Hoping to capitalize on my own evil sense of humor, I bet Noah to have this exchange with a particularly dour and acne'd up young'un.
Mr. Looking-for-his-first-kiss: "Barman, can I have a carlsberg green and an apple sour."
Noah: "Hey pal, next Shirley Temple is on me."
To be young, fun and harassed by creepy old guys becoming increasingly self-aware of the age gap.
This Sunday, before attending a huge reggae concert at the local golf club; which was certainly unlike any other concert I had ever been too, I bet one final good quote out of Noah. Early in the day, at the urging of my soon-departing British comrades, a few of us took a trip for brunch at the often acclaimed Kumbali lodge outside of Lilongwe. It is known across Malawi as the place where Madonna stays when she visits the birthplace of her adopted children. A gorgeous wood and thatch lodge, set on the true edge of town and looking out over the dramatic kopjes and savanna plains on the southern horizon, it lives up to the hype. And to make it more perfect, while ordering brunch, amongst a fit of laughter by the rest of us, Noah politely inquired of the waitress,
"Excuse me, but do you know what Madonna orders, because I want that."
Life is good,
Fox
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