Laptop Was Stolen

You are gonna have to give me a couple of days.

But so far, it'll at least be a very colorful blog post.

Steven

Backdated-Pt2

Disclaimer: For those who know me, this is in my top three craziest trips, definitely.

For a finale to my latest stretch in Africa, my friends, Everett, Noah and I had planned to try to make it to the DRC overland from Malawi. If you are looking at a map, we had considered several routes: Lilongwe-Lusaka-Lubumbashi. But that was going to take too long and we could spare just over a week from work. The Lilongwe-Lusaka-Lake Mweru route looked promising for while until we learned our hiking path was still “littered with land mines.” We finally settled on Lilongwe-Karonga-Nakonde-Mpulungu-Up the Coast of Lake Tanganyika. It looked doable.

We budgeted 8 days. 2 travel to Mpulungu, 3 days hiking along the coast, 3 days back to Lilongwe.

It began well on the first day as we left early in the morning to make the 8-9 hour drive north to just outside of Karonga. We stayed at a wonderful spot owned by an American friend. Although we hit a minor snag. After dropping our stuff to get a beer and go for a swim, I came back to find my tent slashed (although nothing was stolen). Luckily, they had extra tents, although it added considerable girth compared to my ultralight tent. Rest of the night was enjoyable however, as we ate fish and drank beers before heading off into the unknown.

We woke at 5, and made good time northbound by minibus for two hours and then switched to a cramped sedan (at one time, they put eight people in a five-seater). Making it to the border after a mere five and half hours of vehicle travel. Gladly, we walked to Malawi immigration and for 2 kilometers, filled out our departing paperwork and to their surprise, decided to walk the four kilometers of no-man’s land to the Zambia border where we hoped to catch a bus. But when we got there and checked in, it was clear from the location and the Zambian immigration official’s blankness at our questions that there would be no bus for a while. So we decided to start hiking up the road, 13k to the next village. Dry, remote and hot. We made it past that village, with still no sign of a car and so we decided to keep walking. We had made it about another 6 or 7k, before we saw the oncoming storm and villagers started racing past us on foot. In true, ignoramus arrogance, we kept walking until the last minute, when the rain started pelting down on the deserted road like a firestorm. Desperately we ran to the first settlement we could find and huddled into a dark, long hut packed with close to 50 Zambians. Tough to say what exactly it was: my guess would either be church or bottlestore (local version of a bar, but much rowdier, with the regional moonshine as the drink of choice). After about 30 minutes of everyone laughing at us for stomping in from the storm and being incredibly uncomfortable and soaked, they started to bust out the drinks and we bought a couple of Fantas while peering out into the muddy road, hoping for a passing car. Just when I was figuring out how we would settle in for the night, Everett jumped to the door, the fastest I’ve ever seen him move, and was outside hailing down a passing truck. Quickly we negotiated in the pouring rain with the driver to take us to the closest town with an inn and the three of us crammed into the filthy, covered back of the pick-up next to an enormous blue tank. As we took off, I suddenly put two and two together, and figured out we were in the back of a pickup with a septic tank perched precariously on cinderblocks. However, after taking off this was the least of our worries.

To accurately describe the road we were on is kind of like describing driving along the bottom of a river: you never knew what bouncing you would take and it was wet as hell. For five terrible hours we were bumped and bruised in the back of this truck, as this lunatic driver played pothole hopscotch. To top it off, the rain didn’t let up, and then it got dark (as in pitch black, rural-Africa-new-moon-no-lights-dark). Already we were breaking one of my cardinal rules of travel in Africa: don’t be out at night travelling unless its local.

Finally we made the main road, where the driver was passing willy-nilly on a possibly even more pot-holed tarmac road, this time without the comfort of not running into any person or vehicle as tractor-trailer’s rumbled past. But we made it, somehow, in one piece. Not to our destination, Nakonde, but another town, Isoka. The scene was pretty grim, still pouring, we navigated some dirty, scruffy looking, urban slum buildings to find our quarters: one queen size bed for three people (the option of sleeping on the floor was pretty much out of the question as the bed took up almost the entire room). The guy showing us the room actually giggled as he left. At least when we got there, we were able to secure a meal (our first in 28 hours) of chicken, nsima (corn maize porridge) and the greatest beer I’ve ever tasted. Went to bed soundly to the sound of Everett’s snores 16 inches away and Noah’s music echoing from his headphones another 2 feet beyond that.

After waking the next morning in a terrible fright next to two bearded, filthy guys, we were ready to hit the road again by 5 and got a good look in the daylight at the creature cave that we had inhabited. Think basically the scene of any depressing brothel or gang hideout from the gold rush era, except dirtier and you stand out like you glow in the dark. But we quickly negotiated a ride with a man who assured us that he, and not the man clearly drunk at 6 AM with a full one in his hand, was the driver. After we had negotiated an immediate departure we messed around town for four hours (this is the most frustrating part about group travel in Sub-Sahara) loading up the tiny sedan with as much crap on the top of the cab and people in the trunk that we could and then took off.

Another disgustingly long trip got us to our original destination of Nakonde before noon as we searched for yet another ride to our next destination, Mpulungu at the bottom of Lake Tanganyika. On maps, the road between these two places is clearly outlined, indicating it would be of good quality. In reality, only a supply truck and a sedan would be taking off for Mpulungu that day. We negotiated extensively with the drivers of both and were almost left behind, by a particularly rude lackey, but finally the three large white guys jammed into another trunk of a sedan with seven people occupying the usual five-person area. This trip also did not start well. In fact, it was a bit like a Wiley Coyote adventure as we tried to avoid “traffic” by taking a back route the driver didn’t know and getting lost, having to do a three-point-turn on the edge of a cliff, getting out, pushing and then watching the car slide down a muddy hill in the rain, miraculously breaking before going over a bridge made of sticks (not logs, sticks). Finally, the sedan got stuck on train tracks and we decided we were destined for yet another terrible trip. The rest of it only took 10 hours. Cramped in the back of a sedan, most of the time in the rain. Bouncing on a terrible dirt road. 

But finally, we got to Mpulungu by 1:30 AM. We befriended a local, David, in the car and he first brought us to one resthouse/bar to stay the night, which was utterly packed with drunk prostitutes and patrons, we were glad to hear they didn’t have any vacancy as we were groped from all angles. And after checking two other places and angering everyone else in the sedan extensively, we found a place, picked two VERY basic rooms and collapsed. Welcome to Mpulungu.

Three days, three meals, 54 of 72 hours in transit. A good start.

Next segment: By Sea, then Land,

Steve

Backdated-Pt 1

For Everett’s (our newest recruit) first two weekends, we really stacked up the activities and Africa beat down on him pretty bad for it. First, we ventured north to beloved Nkhata Bay for a weekend of relaxing, scuba diving and good eats. Highlights definitely included the owner of the establishment at which we stay not remembering me (this is the 6^th time we have been introduced, I also did their books one quarter) and during introductions confusing Everett’s name for “Marvin.”

We got in two scuba dives in beautiful Lake Malawi (see Planet Earth for details). A day dive where we saw a sweet mouth-breeding fish collect all its babies like Jonah the Whale and a night dive with the Dolphin Fish, who sleeked around us barracuda-like in the night. It was a very relaxing weekend indeed.

After a week of serious work and catching up, we headed to Blantyre for some meetings before pressing on to Mount Mulanje, one of the tallest mountains in Africa. To get there, you head about an hour and a half south of Blantyre through gorgeous tea estates. The mountain (or really a series of peaks on top of a plateau) is massive both in height and girth. We got there around midafternoon and immediately dove into the hike, trying to hike 4 tough hours the first day to get up to one of the cabins on top of the escarpment, about 1.2 miles up. Because of the size of the mountain, you are encouraged to hire guides, porters or both. For three people we hired two porters to carry one of our bags and the other the food and sleeping bags we brought. The person who had been in Malawi the shortest ended up with one porter carrying his bag and the other two of us carried our bags—it takes some time to learn how to pack and generally be filthy.

Our porters, Rabson and Edmond, struggled to keep up with us on the first day, but were fine afterwards. Mulanje is a massive green and granite plateau expanding out into northern Mozambique like the Misty Mountains. Rising up the side of the plateau, it is dusty and craggily: rocks jut out of the side of the mountain and the makeshift paths wind through them often at a steeper pitch than 45 degrees. But once you reach the beginning of the plateau, the landscape changes into a beautiful set of rolling plains, like undulating green waves interrupted intermittently by great round granite ice cream scoops. Beautiful.

The first night we were all pretty exhausted when we arrived at our sleep spot. The forestry service of Malawi first put these cabins up to monitor the mountain’s extensive logging operations, but now there are a number of very basic log cabins, which have the look and feel of a Manifest-Destiny-pioneer-adventure and although we bought a good amount of food before the trip, we hadn’t planned extensively for a range of meals. So for most meals we choose between peanut butter and smooshed bread or the lengthy process of preparing dry beans and rice. It was rice and beans: and LOTS of water the first night as Noah, our porters and I packed in as much food as we could to prepare for the long day, while Everett (who was suffering from blisters, altitude sickness and exhaustion) slept. We all passed out rather early to rise for a traverse from one plateau peak to another the next day.

The next day was easier and filled with beautiful views as we crossed a section of the great Mulanje Plateau, passing underneath its highest peak, through valleys of controlled burning, black and white with ash and reaching edges of the plateau looking out over the dusky Malawian plains or at the prehistoric buttresses of the mountain. We reached our second location and in the afternoon, Noah and I attempted to reach another peak of the mountain, sprinting up the damp jungle-like sides of the mountain. We ended the day with another lengthily-prepared meal of rice and beans and passed out.

On our final day, we woke before dawn to begin the trip down in hopes of arriving at the base in time to get all the way back to Lilongwe that day. We took off down the mountain at full-tilt, resting occasionally to let the porters catch up. From the top the landscapes we encountered changed from green plains and damp air to boulder fields and sharp, rocky declines to an autumn-like forest in New England. On the final part of the descent, as we rested by a little creek I was stung by a bee. It hurt a little, but nothing too bad.

Once we reached the bottom, we tried to arrange a ride into town to catch a minibus back to Blantyre and a bus to Lilongwe after that. But, as with most plans in Malawi, we had to abandon it within a couple hours as our ride never arrived so we hopped on the back of bicycles to take us into town, then our minibus took nearly twice as long to take us back to Blantyre as we would’ve expected. So we spent the night in Blantyre. The next morning, I woke with Everett still feeling tremendously sick and the bee bite on my arm swelled up to the size of a tennis ball. I went to a clinic  for an opinion on it and after the doctor drained it and gave me some steroids to treat it, he finally told me it was a “killer bee bite.” I felt dizzy for a couple of days, but survived the killer bee.

Glad to be back, it’s raining like crazy here, and for some reason the running water is out. Feels like the Fourth World.

Steven

I'm back in Africa.

Back to Blogging!!!!

Came over on the most turbulent airplane ride of my life, and they lost my bag, and my car was broken when I got here. Typical.

Posts coming up this week.

Steven

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

The Parents Continued

Sorry,

Definitely the boldest part of my itinerary for my parents was my ambition to have us reach Likoma Island, a beautiful island plopped right in the middle of Lake Malawi and perhaps my favorite destination in Malawi. Unfortunately, the ferry to Likoma (a hulking, century-old beast that I have braved twice before) finally realized her old age earlier this year and has been undergoing some severe elective surgery. But the inhabitants of the islands are not completely stranded; there are still two much smaller ferries sending supplies out to them and bringing back the wares for sale of the islanders.

So after two days at Nkhata Bay (during which I was calling the boat captains every hour to get updates—as usual there is no fixed schedule because it is Malawi), my parents and I embarked from a sandy beachfront carrying our luggage on our heads out to a double decker “ferry” which was just an empty cargo bay and then a top deck with a big tarp and benches along the sides. We were lucky to be only three of a couple of passengers, saving my parents the real African experience of being packed like actual sardines into a boat made to carry sardines. It took about five hours and because of some vicious winds, it often felt like we were going to tip over. But we made it. Kind of. The ferry was only going to Chizimulu Island, the smaller sister island of Likoma. When we arrived at the little remote outpost, immediately it became apparent where we were staying: someone of lighter skin began wildly waving at us and hopped into a run-down rowboat to start making his way out to us, the whole time tenaciously bailing out the bottom of the rowboat with a coffee mug while his compatriot paddled with a single oar against the strong waves. After some serious finagling, my parents and I were able to crawl off the ferry, clinging to the side of it like sort of action movie. We made it through the bumpy waves and to Chizimulu where our Japanese rescuer, Aki, informed us we were to stay with him at the “only” lodging on the island, Wakwenda Retreat. We had no problem with it. Everyone was very doting and we were the only ones there. They cooked us meals, bowed before and after every interaction: a taste of Japan in the middle of a lake, in the middle of Sub-Saharan Africa.

From the looks of the place, it was constructed to accommodate some sort of spring break group tour. The bar was built into the side of an enormous boulder on the water with party platforms, an enormous central bar and a series of amusements broken by the rough waters and time: a hot tub, waterslide and luge, for example. The owner, who was not Japanese, but rather a strange old British dude, who clearly was washed up. He had been on this one little island in the middle of Lake Malawi for 18 years with a population of less then 2000 people. He had had girlfriends come and all of them go and his days were brightened by us to an extent I cannot communicate. Note to self: do not stay here for 18 years.

After a hot and quiet sleep, we awoke to pancakes and a promise of onward voyage. We made it to Likoma the next morning in classic Malawian fashion: we were able to negotiate for a fishing boat to take us the 12 kilometers and drop us at our intended location. However, because of the winds, waves and general shoddiness of the boat, we were forced to delay our scheduled morning retreat for after lunch. Then we all crowded into a dinghy with a simple engine on the back of it and made a rather dubious crossing, accompanied at the last second by a woman with an enormous umbrella (for the sun) and her two children. Throughout the trip, my father, who was sitting next to her, found himself pushed closer and closer to the side of the dinghy by her umbrella and we were lucky at the end to get off at the island before she pushed him off.

We did get to enjoy 24 hours at Likoma Island, one of my favorite spots in Malawi. We enjoyed the beach, solitude and our wonderful, hilarious South African hotel manager, who kept telling stories about when he was an “extremely obese, like a-pizza-in-between-meals-obese” high schooler. He also had an interesting take on modern racial dynamics in South Africa and stories of life as a crewman on Saudi Yachts. We even got a tour around the $1000/night exclusive resort on the island also owned by our proprietors. Not worth it.

Then we got to splurge and took an unreal (and extremely bumpy) plane ride back to Lilongwe and then on to South Luangwa in Zambia. It was both fascinating and a little saddening to see this country that I have learned summed-up in two one-hour plane rides. But the lake does look magnificent from a couple-thousand feet up, even if we were getting tossed around like a kid kicking a hamster ball.

Highlights of South Luangwa: HONEY BADGER! Leopards, Lions, Elephants, Giraffes and baby giraffes, tons of hippos and crocodiles. We stayed in a beautiful place on the river overlooking the activities of burping hippos, crocs and elephants straying down for a trip out of the sun. It was a really magnificent safari location, with everything extremely accessible. We even got to go on a walking safari and at night we had hippos and elephants pounding around outside our little house. We also hung out with a strange Dutch woman who looked exactly Gary Busey—literally exactly like Gary Busey, I have pictures.

Three days there and then we moved back to Lilongwe with a long overland sedan ride through a very rough ride. They told me the road wasn’t bad. Sorry Mom and Dad.

We made it back to Lilongwe and then that evening after going out to our last fancy dinner and listening to some live music, I prepped myself to stay up until the early morning to pick up our newest company arrival, Everett from the airport: at the 2AM arrival from Nairobi. Noah and I went to the casino to wait it out. But promptly either lost our designated funds or won enough to not go back. So we decided to just head to the airport 30 minutes outside of town and wait there. Little did we know, we would arrive to one of the more bizarre situations for a raucous party night. All the waiting relatives, friends and taxi drivers awaiting the 2AM plane had congregated on the outer balcony of the very basic and very small Lilongwe airport in seats overlooking the runway to wait for the plane. They had also taken liberal advantage of the bar located there, and when we arrived around 1AM we were by far and away the only sober people there (again everyone had to drive 30 minutes back into town). So we waited with the local drunkards for our buddy to get in and then just 8 hours later I put my parents on there plane and that was that. They had a great time. But I’m pretty sure I wore them out. I have been in Africa far too long and forgot what a normal vacation is like.

I know this was a long one. I’ve got an amusing one to catch you up to the latest next time.

Walter Cromwell,

Esteban

The Parents Continued

Sorry,

Definitely the boldest part of my itinerary for my parents was my ambition to have us reach Likoma Island, a beautiful island plopped right in the middle of Lake Malawi and perhaps my favorite destination in Malawi. Unfortunately, the ferry to Likoma (a hulking, century-old beast that I have braved twice before) finally realized her old age earlier this year and has been undergoing some severe elective surgery. But the inhabitants of the islands are not completely stranded; there are still two much smaller ferries sending supplies out to them and bringing back the wares for sale of the islanders.

So after two days at Nkhata Bay (during which I was calling the boat captains every hour to get updates—as usual there is no fixed schedule because it is Malawi), my parents and I embarked from a sandy beachfront carrying our luggage on our heads out to a double decker “ferry” which was just an empty cargo bay and then a top deck with a big tarp and benches along the sides. We were lucky to be only three of a couple of passengers, saving my parents the real African experience of being packed like actual sardines into a boat made to carry sardines. It took about five hours and because of some vicious winds, it often felt like we were going to tip over. But we made it. Kind of. The ferry was only going to Chizimulu Island, the smaller sister island of Likoma. When we arrived at the little remote outpost, immediately it became apparent where we were staying: someone of lighter skin began wildly waving at us and hopped into a run-down rowboat to start making his way out to us, the whole time tenaciously bailing out the bottom of the rowboat with a coffee mug while his compatriot paddled with a single oar against the strong waves. After some serious finagling, my parents and I were able to crawl off the ferry, clinging to the side of it like sort of action movie. We made it through the bumpy waves and to Chizimulu where our Japanese rescuer, Aki, informed us we were to stay with him at the “only” lodging on the island, Wakwenda Retreat. We had no problem with it. Everyone was very doting and we were the only ones there. They cooked us meals, bowed before and after every interaction: a taste of Japan in the middle of a lake, in the middle of Sub-Saharan Africa.

From the looks of the place, it was constructed to accommodate some sort of spring break group tour. The bar was built into the side of an enormous boulder on the water with party platforms, an enormous central bar and a series of amusements broken by the rough waters and time: a hot tub, waterslide and luge, for example. The owner, who was not Japanese, but rather a strange old British dude, who clearly was washed up. He had been on this one little island in the middle of Lake Malawi for 18 years with a population of less then 2000 people. He had had girlfriends come and all of them go and his days were brightened by us to an extent I cannot communicate. Note to self: do not stay here for 18 years.

After a hot and quiet sleep, we awoke to pancakes and a promise of onward voyage. We made it to Likoma the next morning in classic Malawian fashion: we were able to negotiate for a fishing boat to take us the 12 kilometers and drop us at our intended location. However, because of the winds, waves and general shoddiness of the boat, we were forced to delay our scheduled morning retreat for after lunch. Then we all crowded into a dinghy with a simple engine on the back of it and made a rather dubious crossing, accompanied at the last second by a woman with an enormous umbrella (for the sun) and her two children. Throughout the trip, my father, who was sitting next to her, found himself pushed closer and closer to the side of the dinghy by her umbrella and we were lucky at the end to get off at the island before she pushed him off.

We did get to enjoy 24 hours at Likoma Island, one of my favorite spots in Malawi. We enjoyed the beach, solitude and our wonderful, hilarious South African hotel manager, who kept telling stories about when he was an “extremely obese, like a-pizza-in-between-meals-obese” high schooler. He also had an interesting take on modern racial dynamics in South Africa and stories of life as a crewman on Saudi Yachts. We even got a tour around the $1000/night exclusive resort on the island also owned by our proprietors. Not worth it.

Then we got to splurge and took an unreal (and extremely bumpy) plane ride back to Lilongwe and then on to South Luangwa in Zambia. It was both fascinating and a little saddening to see this country that I have learned summed-up in two one-hour plane rides. But the lake does look magnificent from a couple-thousand feet up, even if we were getting tossed around like a kid kicking a hamster ball.

Highlights of South Luangwa: HONEY BADGER! Leopards, Lions, Elephants, Giraffes and baby giraffes, tons of hippos and crocodiles. We stayed in a beautiful place on the river overlooking the activities of burping hippos, crocs and elephants straying down for a trip out of the sun. It was a really magnificent safari location, with everything extremely accessible. We even got to go on a walking safari and at night we had hippos and elephants pounding around outside our little house. We also hung out with a strange Dutch woman who looked exactly Gary Busey—literally exactly like Gary Busey, I have pictures.

Three days there and then we moved back to Lilongwe with a long overland sedan ride through a very rough ride. They told me the road wasn’t bad. Sorry Mom and Dad.

We made it back to Lilongwe and then that evening after going out to our last fancy dinner and listening to some live music, I prepped myself to stay up until the early morning to pick up our newest company arrival, Everett from the airport: at the 2AM arrival from Nairobi. Noah and I went to the casino to wait it out. But promptly either lost our designated funds or won enough to not go back. So we decided to just head to the airport 30 minutes outside of town and wait there. Little did we know, we would arrive to one of the more bizarre situations for a raucous party night. All the waiting relatives, friends and taxi drivers awaiting the 2AM plane had congregated on the outer balcony of the very basic and very small Lilongwe airport in seats overlooking the runway to wait for the plane. They had also taken liberal advantage of the bar located there, and when we arrived around 1AM we were by far and away the only sober people there (again everyone had to drive 30 minutes back into town). So we waited with the local drunkards for our buddy to get in and then just 8 hours later I put my parents on there plane and that was that. They had a great time. But I’m pretty sure I wore them out. I have been in Africa far too long and forgot what a normal vacation is like.

I know this was a long one. I’ve got an amusing one to catch you up to the latest next time.

Walter Cromwell,

Esteban

The Parents Continued

Sorry,

Definitely the boldest part of my itinerary for my parents was my ambition to have us reach Likoma Island, a beautiful island plopped right in the middle of Lake Malawi and perhaps my favorite destination in Malawi. Unfortunately, the ferry to Likoma (a hulking, century-old beast that I have braved twice before) finally realized her old age earlier this year and has been undergoing some severe elective surgery. But the inhabitants of the islands are not completely stranded; there are still two much smaller ferries sending supplies out to them and bringing back the wares for sale of the islanders.

So after two days at Nkhata Bay (during which I was calling the boat captains every hour to get updates—as usual there is no fixed schedule because it is Malawi), my parents and I embarked from a sandy beachfront carrying our luggage on our heads out to a double decker “ferry” which was just an empty cargo bay and then a top deck with a big tarp and benches along the sides. We were lucky to be only three of a couple of passengers, saving my parents the real African experience of being packed like actual sardines into a boat made to carry sardines. It took about five hours and because of some vicious winds, it often felt like we were going to tip over. But we made it. Kind of. The ferry was only going to Chizimulu Island, the smaller sister island of Likoma. When we arrived at the little remote outpost, immediately it became apparent where we were staying: someone of lighter skin began wildly waving at us and hopped into a run-down rowboat to start making his way out to us, the whole time tenaciously bailing out the bottom of the rowboat with a coffee mug while his compatriot paddled with a single oar against the strong waves. After some serious finagling, my parents and I were able to crawl off the ferry, clinging to the side of it like sort of action movie. We made it through the bumpy waves and to Chizimulu where our Japanese rescuer, Aki, informed us we were to stay with him at the “only” lodging on the island, Wakwenda Retreat. We had no problem with it. Everyone was very doting and we were the only ones there. They cooked us meals, bowed before and after every interaction: a taste of Japan in the middle of a lake, in the middle of Sub-Saharan Africa.

From the looks of the place, it was constructed to accommodate some sort of spring break group tour. The bar was built into the side of an enormous boulder on the water with party platforms, an enormous central bar and a series of amusements broken by the rough waters and time: a hot tub, waterslide and luge, for example. The owner, who was not Japanese, but rather a strange old British dude, who clearly was washed up. He had been on this one little island in the middle of Lake Malawi for 18 years with a population of less then 2000 people. He had had girlfriends come and all of them go and his days were brightened by us to an extent I cannot communicate. Note to self: do not stay here for 18 years.

After a hot and quiet sleep, we awoke to pancakes and a promise of onward voyage. We made it to Likoma the next morning in classic Malawian fashion: we were able to negotiate for a fishing boat to take us the 12 kilometers and drop us at our intended location. However, because of the winds, waves and general shoddiness of the boat, we were forced to delay our scheduled morning retreat for after lunch. Then we all crowded into a dinghy with a simple engine on the back of it and made a rather dubious crossing, accompanied at the last second by a woman with an enormous umbrella (for the sun) and her two children. Throughout the trip, my father, who was sitting next to her, found himself pushed closer and closer to the side of the dinghy by her umbrella and we were lucky at the end to get off at the island before she pushed him off.

We did get to enjoy 24 hours at Likoma Island, one of my favorite spots in Malawi. We enjoyed the beach, solitude and our wonderful, hilarious South African hotel manager, who kept telling stories about when he was an “extremely obese, like a-pizza-in-between-meals-obese” high schooler. He also had an interesting take on modern racial dynamics in South Africa and stories of life as a crewman on Saudi Yachts. We even got a tour around the $1000/night exclusive resort on the island also owned by our proprietors. Not worth it.

Then we got to splurge and took an unreal (and extremely bumpy) plane ride back to Lilongwe and then on to South Luangwa in Zambia. It was both fascinating and a little saddening to see this country that I have learned summed-up in two one-hour plane rides. But the lake does look magnificent from a couple-thousand feet up, even if we were getting tossed around like a kid kicking a hamster ball.

Highlights of South Luangwa: HONEY BADGER! Leopards, Lions, Elephants, Giraffes and baby giraffes, tons of hippos and crocodiles. We stayed in a beautiful place on the river overlooking the activities of burping hippos, crocs and elephants straying down for a trip out of the sun. It was a really magnificent safari location, with everything extremely accessible. We even got to go on a walking safari and at night we had hippos and elephants pounding around outside our little house. We also hung out with a strange Dutch woman who looked exactly Gary Busey—literally exactly like Gary Busey, I have pictures.

Three days there and then we moved back to Lilongwe with a long overland sedan ride through a very rough ride. They told me the road wasn’t bad. Sorry Mom and Dad.

We made it back to Lilongwe and then that evening after going out to our last fancy dinner and listening to some live music, I prepped myself to stay up until the early morning to pick up our newest company arrival, Everett from the airport: at the 2AM arrival from Nairobi. Noah and I went to the casino to wait it out. But promptly either lost our designated funds or won enough to not go back. So we decided to just head to the airport 30 minutes outside of town and wait there. Little did we know, we would arrive to one of the more bizarre situations for a raucous party night. All the waiting relatives, friends and taxi drivers awaiting the 2AM plane had congregated on the outer balcony of the very basic and very small Lilongwe airport in seats overlooking the runway to wait for the plane. They had also taken liberal advantage of the bar located there, and when we arrived around 1AM we were by far and away the only sober people there (again everyone had to drive 30 minutes back into town). So we waited with the local drunkards for our buddy to get in and then just 8 hours later I put my parents on there plane and that was that. They had a great time. But I’m pretty sure I wore them out. I have been in Africa far too long and forgot what a normal vacation is like.

I know this was a long one. I’ve got an amusing one to catch you up to the latest next time.

Walter Cromwell,

Esteban

The Parents Continued

Sorry,

Definitely the boldest part of my itinerary for my parents was my ambition to have us reach Likoma Island, a beautiful island plopped right in the middle of Lake Malawi and perhaps my favorite destination in Malawi. Unfortunately, the ferry to Likoma (a hulking, century-old beast that I have braved twice before) finally realized her old age earlier this year and has been undergoing some severe elective surgery. But the inhabitants of the islands are not completely stranded; there are still two much smaller ferries sending supplies out to them and bringing back the wares for sale of the islanders.

So after two days at Nkhata Bay (during which I was calling the boat captains every hour to get updates—as usual there is no fixed schedule because it is Malawi), my parents and I embarked from a sandy beachfront carrying our luggage on our heads out to a double decker “ferry” which was just an empty cargo bay and then a top deck with a big tarp and benches along the sides. We were lucky to be only three of a couple of passengers, saving my parents the real African experience of being packed like actual sardines into a boat made to carry sardines. It took about five hours and because of some vicious winds, it often felt like we were going to tip over. But we made it. Kind of. The ferry was only going to Chizimulu Island, the smaller sister island of Likoma. When we arrived at the little remote outpost, immediately it became apparent where we were staying: someone of lighter skin began wildly waving at us and hopped into a run-down rowboat to start making his way out to us, the whole time tenaciously bailing out the bottom of the rowboat with a coffee mug while his compatriot paddled with a single oar against the strong waves. After some serious finagling, my parents and I were able to crawl off the ferry, clinging to the side of it like sort of action movie. We made it through the bumpy waves and to Chizimulu where our Japanese rescuer, Aki, informed us we were to stay with him at the “only” lodging on the island, Wakwenda Retreat. We had no problem with it. Everyone was very doting and we were the only ones there. They cooked us meals, bowed before and after every interaction: a taste of Japan in the middle of a lake, in the middle of Sub-Saharan Africa.

From the looks of the place, it was constructed to accommodate some sort of spring break group tour. The bar was built into the side of an enormous boulder on the water with party platforms, an enormous central bar and a series of amusements broken by the rough waters and time: a hot tub, waterslide and luge, for example. The owner, who was not Japanese, but rather a strange old British dude, who clearly was washed up. He had been on this one little island in the middle of Lake Malawi for 18 years with a population of less then 2000 people. He had had girlfriends come and all of them go and his days were brightened by us to an extent I cannot communicate. Note to self: do not stay here for 18 years.

After a hot and quiet sleep, we awoke to pancakes and a promise of onward voyage. We made it to Likoma the next morning in classic Malawian fashion: we were able to negotiate for a fishing boat to take us the 12 kilometers and drop us at our intended location. However, because of the winds, waves and general shoddiness of the boat, we were forced to delay our scheduled morning retreat for after lunch. Then we all crowded into a dinghy with a simple engine on the back of it and made a rather dubious crossing, accompanied at the last second by a woman with an enormous umbrella (for the sun) and her two children. Throughout the trip, my father, who was sitting next to her, found himself pushed closer and closer to the side of the dinghy by her umbrella and we were lucky at the end to get off at the island before she pushed him off.

We did get to enjoy 24 hours at Likoma Island, one of my favorite spots in Malawi. We enjoyed the beach, solitude and our wonderful, hilarious South African hotel manager, who kept telling stories about when he was an “extremely obese, like a-pizza-in-between-meals-obese” high schooler. He also had an interesting take on modern racial dynamics in South Africa and stories of life as a crewman on Saudi Yachts. We even got a tour around the $1000/night exclusive resort on the island also owned by our proprietors. Not worth it.

Then we got to splurge and took an unreal (and extremely bumpy) plane ride back to Lilongwe and then on to South Luangwa in Zambia. It was both fascinating and a little saddening to see this country that I have learned summed-up in two one-hour plane rides. But the lake does look magnificent from a couple-thousand feet up, even if we were getting tossed around like a kid kicking a hamster ball.

Highlights of South Luangwa: HONEY BADGER! Leopards, Lions, Elephants, Giraffes and baby giraffes, tons of hippos and crocodiles. We stayed in a beautiful place on the river overlooking the activities of burping hippos, crocs and elephants straying down for a trip out of the sun. It was a really magnificent safari location, with everything extremely accessible. We even got to go on a walking safari and at night we had hippos and elephants pounding around outside our little house. We also hung out with a strange Dutch woman who looked exactly Gary Busey—literally exactly like Gary Busey, I have pictures.

Three days there and then we moved back to Lilongwe with a long overland sedan ride through a very rough ride. They told me the road wasn’t bad. Sorry Mom and Dad.

We made it back to Lilongwe and then that evening after going out to our last fancy dinner and listening to some live music, I prepped myself to stay up until the early morning to pick up our newest company arrival, Everett from the airport: at the 2AM arrival from Nairobi. Noah and I went to the casino to wait it out. But promptly either lost our designated funds or won enough to not go back. So we decided to just head to the airport 30 minutes outside of town and wait there. Little did we know, we would arrive to one of the more bizarre situations for a raucous party night. All the waiting relatives, friends and taxi drivers awaiting the 2AM plane had congregated on the outer balcony of the very basic and very small Lilongwe airport in seats overlooking the runway to wait for the plane. They had also taken liberal advantage of the bar located there, and when we arrived around 1AM we were by far and away the only sober people there (again everyone had to drive 30 minutes back into town). So we waited with the local drunkards for our buddy to get in and then just 8 hours later I put my parents on there plane and that was that. They had a great time. But I’m pretty sure I wore them out. I have been in Africa far too long and forgot what a normal vacation is like.

I know this was a long one. I’ve got an amusing one to catch you up to the latest next time.

Walter Cromwell,

Esteban

Parents 1

Ok,

I lied. Here is the post I promised.

Then my parents showed up. My dad has actually been to Malawi before (if you note earlier blog posts). Guess he just loved the 8^th poorest country in the world so much, he HAD to come back. They arrived and got the Lilongwe scoop for two days. First I took them to their lovely hotel on the outskirts of town: Kumbali Lodge. It is set in a picturesque farm looking south out of Lilongwe over the kopjes: giant granite monoliths popping out of the Rift Valley like great grey thumbs. A beautiful green paradise on the edge of the dustbowl of Lilongwe; it is adjacent to where Madonna adopted two of her children from and where she stays when she is on charitable ventures in Malawi or introducing her children to their homeland. I was eager to keep them from getting too much rest however, so I took my parents within three hours of their arrival to a Black Missionaries concert (the preeminent band in Malawi) at Mungo Park (A construction site turned into a concert venue). The band plays upbeat reggae music and has a large following here in Malawi spearheaded by some hardcore Rastafarians and lovers of the “peace herb.” My parents were a little overwhelmed and the oldest white people there by the difference in my and their ages. Highlights included a drunken man kissing my father’s hand and my mom’s bewildered pointing at the wafting marijuana clouds.

The next day I gave them a Lilongwe tour in brief. I showed them around the city: taking them to my favorite restaurants and places of labor. We also took a day trip with CARE International 45 minutes outside of town to an irrigation and nutrition project they were funding and directing. It was a wonderful morning of touring a traditional rural Malawian community complete with demonstrations of the techniques being taught by NGOs here. The afternoon was spent shopping and taking my friends in town out for dinner and drinks.

Then we took a full day drive to Livingstonia: the community on the edge of a plateau. It took most of the day to get there and then when we arrived at the bottom of the plateau, we were met by a truck to take us up. A little disoriented by the long trip and definitely still jetlagged, we piled into the truck and started the 45 minute bumpy adventure up the side of a winding cliffside road. At about ¾ of the way, we ran into a car that had broken down and stopped to help. It was at this particular moment that my mother turned and noticed that the back of the truck was open and all our luggage gone. We had forgotten to lock the back of the truck and because of the bumpy nature of the ride, the bags had gone wandering. Just two minutes later as freaking-out started to set in, another big jeep came up the road behind us filled to the brim with people and luckily, our bags. Except 1. So we started back down the hill until we got to a little village where we figure the lost bag might have landed. In fine fashion, a local home had taken the bag into their house “to protect it” including a very nice camera, iPad and some other nice items. With a handsome reward, the bag was returned and we continued on our voyage.

Livingstonia, as I may have described it before, is a beautiful church community complete with college, beautiful church and stunning waterfalls dropping hundreds of feet. So for my father’s birthday we enjoyed a hike into town, went to see the waterfalls and made it back for a lunchtime Banana and Strawberry Birthday Cake.

The next morning we made the bumpy trip back to the bottom of the plateau (this time with all our bags) on our way to Nkhata Bay. It threw my parents a little when we got to the bottom of the hill and I didn’t have a taxi waiting for them. But as I had anticipated, with a couple of questions, I was able to procure a taxi to take us the three hours to the lake. Granted, at the last minute, a third man jumped into the back of the sedan with my mother and I because the driver didn’t know the way to Nkhata Bay (there aren’t that many roads here) and needed assistance. We got there safe and sound though, and proceeded to relax by the stunning lake for two days.  

Part Two tomorrow.

Foxy

Back on the Move, and Dancing

Hey,
Sorry for the lengthy interlude between my last post. It has been a most wonderful time of the year here with my birthday and then my parents arriving for a two week tour of Malawi and a safari in Zambia, all without the confining comforts of the inter web and cellular contact. I'll try to break this down into three parts and relate them with all haste.

So since I last checked in, I passed the remarkably lame year of 23 into the spectacular decadence of 24. That was nice.

Next on the list, I was alone in my big house for a week or so with my various roommates out and about Africa and so I have begun running a bit of a row-house for various friends of mine who are volunteers in Malawi. During this time, I had a business dinner with a prospective business associate (a pretty impressive man in this poor country). The meeting began in typical fashion with us stalemating on forking over too much information to the other person, bragging and blustering over our accomplishments and generally feeling each other out.

After settling in 20 minutes that we could do work together, the dinner got a little strange.  It started with him relaying his complex life story, continued with him basically asking to be my friend and what I do for fun on the weekends (a common sad circumstance amongst expats who run out of things to do) and ended with him relaying his passions for weightlifting and salsa dancing.

"Dancing for twelve years, wow. You must be nearly professional by now?"
"No. It's just something I do... It's all about the dancing. I love to dance"

Then he got the check.

As a result of this dinner, I was obligated to show up at the Thursday night Salsa event at a local bar (the only one that hosts Salsa) to see this man dance. I brought the protection of two lady friends (so that I didn't feel entirely weird). But when the business partner arrived, I realized it could not be avoided. He glided into the relatively empty bar like a king surveying his court and although they were playing pop music at the time, they immediately switched on the salsa for him and his dancing partner. They took the floor and danced very well. Then he snapped his fingers and they turned the music back to local pop music. He sat down sent my party drinks and waited five minutes before showing off his moves again. It was a performance. Just him and his lady friend dancing in front of a crowd of people.

The next couple of nights before my parents showed up included a stop at the only DUI checkpoint in Lilongwe where the police complimented my car passengers on their mixed drinks for the road, a business meeting that ended in us going to an underground restaurant and the man I was meeting with ordering an entire chocolate cake for the two of us and standoffs with the Malawi immigration departments ending in me now having to testify on corruption.

More hopefully tomorrow. I'm catching up.

Kowabunga,
Fox

Rastafari

In case I haven't made this clear in the past: one of the odder aspects of life in Malawi, especially in my town of Lilongwe is the presence of a vast number of Bob-Marley-paraphernalia-toting, dreadlock-wearing, perennially-mind-altered Rastafarians. They are all over Malawi, one government official I spoke to believes that the population is coming close to 1% of Malawians. They perform several functions in the Malawian economy (interfacing with the tourist community as sellers of souvenirs and growers/distributers of marijuana are their primary industries), but are also distinctly visible around town due to their appearance and outgoing/occasionally aggressive demeanors. I count a couple of them as my friends. Although to associate with Rastas often certainly gives you a stigma in the community that is not entirely, or sometimes in any way, positive.

Anyways, the other day we were hosting one of our work teams at our house: guys working on an investment project for us, Noah took them out to lunch and when he returned, realized he had locked himself out of the house. I was in the meeting on the other side of town at the time, but after receiving a couple of frantic text messages, I eventually got out of it and heard the news. I called my landlady who told me to go pick up her carpenter and he would fix it.

I drove to a part of town I'd never been to before and he showed up: an extra-crazy looking Rasta, decked out with a leaning tower pile of dreads on his head wrapped in a Jamaican-flag woolen cap. The "tools" he brought with him were in a little purse he carried with him.

I drove this man, whose name incidentally is Ras, to our house where Noah and the group were standing around outside. Unfortunately I missed the next hour of awesomeness as I had to go to a meeting, but got text messages the whole time from Noah about what was going on:

“The alcoholic rasta is on our roof”

“This is the greatest spectacle I’ve ever seen”

“Matthews (our quiet and very creepy gardener) is up there now too”

“The rasta just took his pants off”

"He's hammering on the roof and smoking a cigarette"

"Pants are still off by the way"

"He disappeared into the house"

Apparently, the Rasta couldn’t figure a way to get into the house except through the roof (he was definitely drunk), so he got up there with a hammer and cigarettes and somehow unhinged part of the roof, crawled through some small spaces in the house to open the front door. He then hung around for the rest of the day in the yard, laying around, invited his cousin over to smoke, prayed at 4:20 in the afternoon and was generally weird.

The next day, he showed up again. I called our landlady to ask what was up, and she said he was going to make an extra copy of the house key just in case. He was there the whole day, most of the time just staring at the door and slowly eating peanuts he brought with him. Although at one point, I had to drive into town to do an errand and he asked if he could get a lift, and then just hung out in the car while I was in a meeting.

The last day of Ras completed his spectacle, he arrived again in the morning in the same clothes and smelling like a sniffable pen whose color was "Drunk and High Hobo" and asked if he could take out the lock for the day. This altered our plans a little bit, as someone always had to be at the house. And when I got a basically incomprehensible call from Ras at noon (I had to hand the phone to a stranger for translation), I was starting to get fed up with the antics. It turns out the key copier would not make a copy for this clown of a human without the presence of a more responsible person or a note and ID of the person whom the house.  I wouldn't have trusted him either.

By 5 o'clock Ras replaced the lock and had a copy of the key. After two days, a large amount of beverages and smokables and hours of staring at inert objects, he left.

And I never got a picture,
Fox

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

Hey Y'all,
Apologies for the delay, a nice combination of our busiest work to date coupled with a little sickness. Whatever. It rained for the first time in three months the other day. Mind-blowing. In other news, this post is completely devoted to a man who assisted me with work the other day, giving me one of my strangest African work stories.

I went to the Anti Corruption Bureau of Malawi today hoping to gather rather pesky information on the operating budget of a particular government body that I knew must be public information. After a particularly grueling scavenger hunt looking for the information, I happened on the ACB and asked if I could speak to someone. I was immediately guided up through the maze of a building (without windows, just white walls and doors with stickers saying "This is an corruption-free zone," felt like something oddly out of 1984) to meet with an appropriate person. They had me wait in the hall when they couldn't find the right person and that is when I met my contact. He noticed me at the far end of a long, thin, insane-asylum corridor, and came bustling down it. Maybe 5'2, a suit jacket that fell to his knees and glasses like coke cans, he nearly bowled me over trying to shake my hand. He has a slight speech impediment, so to this day I am still not sure if his name is Villary or Hillary. Or maybe something in between like Vihilarny.

He hustled me into an office, with an introduction as Deputy of Investigations, an over-the-top welcome and a health ration of vigorous head nods and promises of aid. I told him the information I was looking for, and he sat back thought for a moment, literally disappearing below his desk in ponderance (New Word). Then he told me we should go, asked if I had a car and we were off.

This was the beginning of a day-long dream. We were simply in search of this budget, but Villary took it upon himself to barge unexpected into any government office we passed, with me as his entourage and demand various information, accuse corruption and watch for the response. First, he found a secretary at the Ministry of Finance, roused her from her seat and pillaged her desk for "articles of suspicion"(again for image sake, keep in mind this man is the size of a 13-year old, dressed like a hobo clown at an old-timey circus and has an unintentionally hilarious speech impediment that turns "Where" into "Vere"). He found nothing, but asked her if she had seen anything, and when she said no, took out a notebook and recorded in capital letters her name and the word "Reinvestigate."

His best impromptu attack though was on an office where I was actually receiving some of the help I needed, and Villary, impatiently twitching around in the corner, took the opportunity to open more drawers. He found a 20 Kwacha note, which is the equivalent of less than ten cents, underneath a calculator and almost lost it. He asked the poor man working there where he got the money, did he have a receipt to justify the calculator, if he had ever committed acts of corruption and so forth. Finally, he took all of my business cards I had with me, promising to give them to the "right people." And handed out all of them to anyone he found "justifiable," secretaries that let him peruse their logs, guards who opened the door for him etc. He kept the last one and said "I will not forget this day of exorcising corruption."

Terribly Nice Guy,
More to come soon,
I Promise,
At the Approval of the Wizengamot,
Steven 

Kumbooka Charlie

An unfortunate week for blog-worthy posts: Until Today!

This week we enjoyed the end of the Olympics here in Malawi in splendid American fashion: no one except what felt like three Americans and the Brits were even interested or conscious that it was going on. Regardless, the Women's 4x100M relay altered my bodily existence, and watching Kobe Bryant get a pass and then being surer than anything that he would never pass it gave me a well-deserved boost of patriotism and a country music marathon urge.

I also had the distinct experience of feeling like an overambitious teenager again experiencing his first-ever concert; only I am 23 and in Malawi and I’m pretty sure my first concert was either Raffi or some combination of 90s pop songs, people dressed up as cartoons and ice. After mixing up the time that the concert started, the trio I was with arrived early to the venue to find a Malawian wedding in full swing. We decided not to crash it as weddings in Malawi generally consist of hours and hours of individuals getting up in front of the bride and groom while everyone watches, throwing money at the newlyweds’ feet and dancing for them. It is a long day. And we also might have stood out a little bit from the friends of the family. To buy time, we went to the Casino just as it was opening, watched a thrilling hour of the women’s 20k speed walking final and proceeded to each lose the money we hoped to spend on drinks.

Aside: Speed-walking has as much of a right to be in the Olympics as synchronized shaving.

Finally, we decided to return to the concert at its starting time of 8:30. We made it to the beginning of the sound check, which lasted for two and a half hours, and by the time the grossly overweight Lucius Banda struggled onto the stage, we were, as our British comrade Tom would describe it “Quite knockered, guvna.” Reminded me of my days when I thought you had to get to movie theaters early, sports venues in time to watch the warm ups and parties before all the drinks were gone. Oddly it felt like a strange bell curve of being “hip,” that I ascended for a brief three weeks in my late teens and am now on a steep decline.

But to make everything better. I went to get my haircut today. For the record, I have spent 1.89 years of my life in Africa now and this was my first hair cut experience. I had been warned very often in the past, that artists of the head-fur in Africa were not experts in “mizungu” hair (white person); thus my trepidation.

But at the suggestion of my longtime expat friend, I finally embarked on my quest to Unisex Beauty Salon. Donna, my layered stylist, started in on me with the scalp massaging and prepared my hands for a manicure before I stopped her. But when it came time to cut my hair she nearly had a seizure, picked up every instrument in the room before putting it down again and rethinking. Finally, she started with her “thinning scissors,” which led to this exchange:   

“You’re hair is so thick.”

“I know.”

“Very, very, very thick” Every “very” was followed with her taking a huge clump out of my head with a pair of machetes linked by a rubber band (Africa scissors).

Then she told me to wait, made a phone call, and ten minutes later there were eight women concurrently cutting, clucking and cackling at my locks. After which, they washed it with DEEP EBONY SHAMPOO and gave me hugs.

And then He made it happen, captain,

Steven


PS: A little short on the bangs, but overall, I look pretty good--Kick Teschke for me Bragg