Bongo Fire

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