Blogosphere,
Hiya, its been a busy week here as I’m sure it is for each of you
languishing in lazy American summer heat or… doing something else.
I thought for this particular post I would describe some of the more
day-to-day aspects of life in Lilongwe. Life starts at 6AM with the sun
blasting my eyes like a 6-year old with a watergun. Our house is a
three-bedroom mini-palace in Area 3 of Lilongwe: think the Beverly Hills of a
city on the scale of Omaha. In addition to the location, we enjoy the
unbelievable amenities of two bathrooms (although only one shower until I
recently fixed the other one from wee-person size to normal human size), with
hot water, a back up water tank, a refridgerator! a washing machine! a
microwave! and then the mandatory “staff” (as our friends from the UK call
them) of Matthews, our gardener and day guard, and Mwale, our night guard.
To defend this neocolonialist lifestyle I must justify a few points: the
guard and gardener are required by our sweet landlady (and former Bostonian)
and are the norm for houses here. In fact, our poor neighbors had their house
broken into recently and it has only made me warier. As much as I’d like to
pretend it is not the case here, being white and living in a nice house doesn’t
lend yourself to universal peace and love. I had previously lived in a dungeon
of doom/Spartan lair with the tarantulas and mosquitos as my only bodyguards—it
was a nice spot.
Work begins when I awake, turn on the hot water button (like a hot tub,
except it takes 40 min to heat up, I ain’t complaining) and get down to the
computer: shifting through the virtual library of information we have compiled
here in Lilongwe for snippets relevant to the various enterprises we have
undertaken (there are only 3).
The days consist of meetings at various ministries, NGOs, IGOs and
private companies around town often in the back of a minibus crammed with
goats, chickens, sacks of corn, charcoal and rice, and occasionally some
people. Public transport: saves cash and the environment.
I have a spectacular car, Madge, which I have referred to lovingly in
former posts, but I only take her out if I have a long way to go, she needs a
hosing down or just to strut her around town so the ladies look.
I usually lunch at the various establishments around town, although they
have been raising prices because of currency devaluations here, so I am become
perturbed by the $5 gigantic plates of food instead of the usual $3. Sometimes
I just eat angry peanut butter sandwiches and mutter about the good old days.
Afternoons and evenings consist of sports, dinner and occasionally a
weekday jaunt to one of Lilongwe’s nightlife scenes to make new friends. For
sports: it is to the richest (but not whitest) place in Lilongwe: the Lilongwe
Golf Club, where I can enjoy any of the fine preppy sports that one might find
at Augusta National: tennis, squash, snooker, billiards, pink pong, swimming,
football and of course, golf. Squash most nights: I would say, not to brag,
that I am a top 20 player on the Malawi squash scene. Did you just make that
exhaling snort of someone who has been impressed?
For dinner, we cook at home a lot and recently built a homemade grill in
the back. It is made of bricks and cement and will be my sole legacy in this
land in 10,000 years when after many attempts no one is able to uproot it (It
probably weighs 700 pounds).
Finally, an anecdote consistent with the jaunting out into the night:
Last weekend, I agreed to join two of my more local Malawian friends in an
adventure to Chez Ntemba: a Congolese Nightclub chain which has two location in
Malawi. Upon arriving, we chanced upon a mutual friend who I will call P-raj
for anonymity. P-raj owns a family restaurant on the other side of town, likes
to tell terribly boring stories about the golf courses he has played at and
talk about his kids: think typical, yuppie, family man. Chez Ntemba is a LATE
nightclub which doubles as a homework assignment for every prostitute, predator
and overall creep in town. If you trip in Chez Ntemba and fall down, male or
female, people will start to jump on you like a football pile-up and gyrate
accordingly: believe me, I witnessed it and felt like calling in the Marines.
Either way: Family Man + Night Club = Bizarro. Upon asking my friends
what he was doing here, I got a vulgar response alluding to his tendency to bed
the local ladyfolk. P-raj pretended not to notice me and quickly fled the
premises, as I giggled and pointed like a child. The next day, we saw him and
his wife on the golf course.
Moral of the story: In Malawi, I guess you can be whatever you want to
be... except good at soccer, they are just awful at soccer.
E Plurbius Unum,
Steven
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