Malawi 2004 - 2007

 A letter from Africa (First Impressions)

14th June 2004

David Livingstone came to Malawi in the 19 th Century and was promptly lost for two years ( he must have used the same taxi driver ). With inflation I reckon that the modern equivalent is two weeks, which is ironically the time I have been lost in Malawi.

Those of you who know me well will not be surprised to hear that my entry was less than dignified. Having left the surrealism of my last month in Blighty, I arrived tired and emotional in Johanesburg, where, experienced international traveller that I am, I managed to sleep-walk past the transfer desk and was too late to catch the onward flight. British Airways (fascist branch) were only mildly sympathetic and offered me a complementary 24 hr reservation on an airport bench and a flight the next day. As they own the plane I was forced, in the end, to settle out of court.

As it turned out my first impression of Africa was not the hot breath of a steamy African evening but a distinctly chilly Johanesburg winter welcome spent in the company of an Indonesian soap salesman and a black South African plumbing engineer en-route for Zambia. We sought solace at the hotel's recommended venue, Caesars, a Disney-style shopping mall with casino, shops, rides and a tasteful ‘real ‘cargo plane crashing through one of the walls. I wondered if the news of ter'ism was a bit late reaching this part of the world. However, the Michaelangelo inspired ceiling covering the whole of this temple dedicated to consumerism was a vision of the sky that created the impression that the ceiling did not exist at all. As we sampled the local cuisine (veggie burgers and chips) we could not help but agree with the plumber that South Africa was much better than Zambia, Malawi etc because it was more ‘American'.

Having learnt my lesson I arrived back at the airport in good time for the flight. This was fortunate because the Hell's Angels Chapter of South African Airways had joined forces with British Airways Militant Tendency to set me a challenge. SAA needed my luggage; BA had my luggage; BA couldn't release it from the customs cage; BA wanted SAA to phone their baggage dept; SAA phoned but no-one was home. At this this point I hit ‘the wall' that all marathon runners experience at around 16 miles – the distance I had covered running between the two desks.

The plane was a sweet, small one. It was a perfect metaphor for the world I was entering. AsI passed through the first class compartment I became aware that it was full of rich people who's wealth was derived from ruining people's health – ‘ didn't I meet you in Brazil ? I thought so, yes, I'm with Phillip Morris (tobacco giant)' .The economy class had 90% WASP occupancy of which 90% were missionaries determined to save everyone in sight, and out of sight for that matter. The proper Africans had their place, of course. The rich ones had a seat, the others were allowed to bring our food.

Lilongwe airport was reassuringly ramshackle although the weather was disappointingly British – bright and sunny but only moderately warm. I was feeling a bit sheepish and wondering what sort of welcome I would receive. Would there be anyone there at all? As I reached the passport desk I recognised the VSO rep because she had a tee-shirt with VSO printed on it. She recognised me too. I must have been the only person who didn't look as though I had been saved. The Marks & Spencers ‘up to the minute look' also might have been a give away. It turned out that ‘ no we haven't listened to the answer-phone over the weekend', although she did admit that they were a bit concerned to have misplaced a volunteer. ‘Are you the driver for VSO?' I asked. ‘ No I'm the Country Director' ‘ I thought so – delighted to meet you'.

Lilongwe is not your average African city. Having been driving for 5 minutes on a good tarmacadamed road through rubbish - free forested areas I asked ‘ are we far from Lilongwe ?' . ‘ We are in Lilongwe' This was very disappointing. I had come to clear the slums not to live in the Surrey suburbs. It could be seriously damaging to my image with donors back home who had gone hungry on the basis that this was a deprived country. How could I tell them that it was, in fact, the stockbroker belt? There wasn't even a beggar in sight.

I was driven straight to a secret base somewhere in Lilongwe. It was here that I realised that VSO was not the only acronym I would come across in the world of development. ‘ We've arranged the ICT at the NRC I hope you won't find it too basic' . I suspected that all of the old Letraset sheets with letters you never used had been dumped on Malawi and they felt duty bound to use them up. This was confirmed when ‘ GTZ' was introduced into the conversation. Nevermind it would all be good for Scrabble.

As it happened The Natural Resources Centre was, although a bit soviet, not too bad. There was a monkish cell with a bed and blockboard furniture nailed down to avoid theft. I was given a mosquito net with nowhere to hang it. But hey, it was home. The Chechewa teacher was pulled out of the language class to carry the heaviest bags but I had to walk.

Within minutes I was greeting my fellow volunteers – all African Kenyans who spoke English with insultingly fake Indian accents – in Chechewa. ‘Moni banjo' . ‘No Paul that should be moni bambo' . ‘Oh sorry, meany bimbo' . Luckily there was plenty of Fanta on hand to keep the sugar levels high. I was a bit concerned that I was becoming hyperactive. There is a new Fanta Pineapple drink that is popular. How they ever decided to call it Pineapple is a mystery to me. It is so full of chemicals that I suspect its consumers glow in the dark.

The Kenyans were a lovely bunch. Five men, Enoch, Johnson, Silvester, Wellington and older Peter were accompanied by Linda who was do a similar job to me in the north.

The ICT (in country training) took five days. The first three days were mainly spent learning Chichewa and decoding acronyms. On the Wednesday we were let loose on Lilongwe in the company of selected VSO personnel. First stop, The British High Commission, where we were greeted by a Douglas Heard imitator with a throaty tenor voice who turned out to be the High Commissioner. He invited us to ask any question we liked – dead silence - the Kenyans suspected a colonial catch. After breaking the ice with general questions like ‘ who's your favourite pop star? ‘ the party started to go with a swing. He felt that democracy was making progress – people are now much more comfortable speaking out. The elections were free but not fair but probably were a true reflection of public sentiment. Mr Muluzi, the retiring President, had left a bitter legacy. He had borrowed money on internal markets for good causes like ministerial cars, shopping and expenses. It seemed a good idea at the time to borrow at 42% interest rates but this meant that currently Malawi is spending 40% of its finances paying off the interest. This was compounded by inflexible tax regimes that drove out investors and irritated the IMF and World Bank. The major donor countries pulled out their aid.

All of this means that the economy is completely stuffed. The IMF is currently helpfully suggesting that they solve the problem by sacking more of the people in the public sector who should be implementing the anti-poverty strategy. At least they can console themselves that they will feature in an anti-unemployment strategy sometime in the future when the civil servants left have time to write it. However, it has to be said that the Government has a terrible record and the pressure exerted by foreign donor governments is at least pushing the Government to concentrate upon the most pressing needs. The B.H.C. ,as we affectionately came to know him, feels that the economy cannot re-start without some initiatives to build confidence and activity that will attract investment and he is ‘pressing the British Government to respond'

The British government is also backing health initiatives very strongly. B.H. – by now we were on first letter terms – wanted both short-term staffing support and longer term training and development of Malawian Health Staff. He said that U.K. inc. owed that to Malawi, especially since they take 80-90 trained medical staff each year to meet the U.K.s staff shortages. Add to that the ravages of AIDs on the medical profession and the defence can rest its case. At least the Health Ministry is functioning in an organised and half planned way and the great news is that huge amounts of money is being pumped into AIDs prevention and treatment. By next year they hope to be able to offer the majority of HIV/AIDs sufferers anti retroviral treatment and will have a widespread set of health clinics across the country. VSO is already part of a plan to supply up to 60 health professionals over the next two years.

We left feeling that we would probably remain life-long friends with B., although we didn't swop addresses; anyway I know his and at this stage I didn't have one.

We were then rushed over to meet Dr Friend who told us not to get HIV infected and spent most his consultation with me discussing Devon – he lives near Barnstaple.

In the afternoon we tried to remember and take inspiration from the words of the BHC. What could we remember of his words? Oh yes the Malawian President had spent a lot of money on shopping and economic initiatives were of the essence. So, we decided with VSO's help to pump prime the economy ourselves.

The Kenyans were so enthusiastic that they had to buy stocks of extra bags and were abandoned by their distraught volunteer who came to the rest of us for shopping counselling close to a breakdown. It seemed that they had endeared themselves to locals by haggling for half an hour about a ten kwatcha reduction on goods (about 5p). I was not quite so successful and ended the session with an iron and a sheet to practice with.

Days four and five were our introduction to our employers. A motley crew gathered to welcome our motley crew. The Kenyans had dressed to kill. They had arrived with case loads of Nirobi fashion suits. I had the half of my suit that had survived ( the trousers luckily) and a borrowed tie. My employer was an articulate slight young man called Desmond Mhango. We did lots of activities to make sure that we scared each other to death and ended with complete clarity about the expectations on each side. They were expected to have a house ready for us, provide a detailed induction, look after our every need etc. We were to ensure that we had a nice time for two years.

We also attended a session about Malawian culture. In my area of the country there is a matrilinear structure. That means that the husband goes to live with the wife's family and is treated like muck. In pure form the wife's brother (uncle) acts as the real father to the children and in the event of the wife's death or divorce the husband is sent packing, back to his own village, leaving the kids with the wife's family. Makes a change anyway. Just to complicate things there is still a practice called Fisi which happens at the initiation of girls (10-15 years). Following up to a month's instruction by the female village initiator, a man is selected to road test all of the initiates to judge whether they have learnt how to please a man, sometimes under the watchful eye of the instructor. Whilst all of these traditions are wilting there are remnants which are often secret and very scary in these times of HIV infection. I made a note not to try to establish a family tree activity.

We were also warned that the cultural norms are very conservative. ‘ You will be expected to dress smartly at work' . I shifted uneasily in my seat. ‘ Do young people and older people share the same idea of what is considered smart? ‘ I asked trying to shift attention away from my half-suited state. She thought for a moment, fixed me with a steely gaze and said ‘ smart is smart' . I resisted the temptation to ask ‘ African dress smart or western dress smart?'

After lunch on day five we were dispatched with our employers to go to our new homes. Suddenly things were getting serious. Our little family was split-up. Brothers and sisters were sent off with strange uncles and aunts. Me and Wellington were to be garrisoned in Lilongwe in separate houses. Wellington was working for the Government. No there was no house for him. He was to stay at the Korean Garden Hotel, whilst the appropriate procedures were put in place. It seemed as though the decision had to be ratified by a Parliamentary decree.

At least I would have a home.

Desmond and I arrived first at CEYCA headquarters. I was greeted by Rogers Newa, a short stocky man in his early fifties casually dressed in an African print shirt. He obviously had not attended a cultural briefing. He was a self-assured and warm man who made me feel at home straight away. I say made feel at home with some irony. ‘ Would you like to see your new house?' . We drove out through some real houses that looked like proper African dwellings that had no intention of standing for too long. We even turned onto a dirt road. We stopped at a large gate. ‘ This is your house' . A man was called to open the gate exposing a brand new single story house of impressive proportions. I was thrown into yet more confusion. ‘ Wait a minute the doners back home think I am sacrificing my life to live in insufferable rat-infested conditions.' I saw sympathy and sainthood fading into the far distance. ‘On the other hand why shouldn't I have two showers, two toilets, three bedrooms and a sitting room? Kitchen's a bit small though – have to get something done about that‘ . There was a catch, however. I was not alone. I seemed to be sharing my new house with a team of workmen. Yes, things were not quite ready for me to move in. They would be finished in the next two days.

After two weeks I am writing to you from a fancy maisonette with no chairs at the other end of town with my bags still packed – the house will be ready this week. At least there were rat droppings on my pillow though.

My first weekend probably saw me peak too soon. I had arranged to meet Wellington in town. He showed up with Silas, a man from his Ministry. From that point our feet did not touch the ground. Silas had a car and within the hour we had met the whole family, been invited to a wedding reception in the afternoon, and were saying ‘moni bambo' to a man from the Olympic Committee who was running a table tennis competition. We also visited a youth athletics event where the boys had shorts but the girls ran in their long skirts. Not a shoe in sight let alone spikes.

The wedding was worth the price of admission. It took place in an ageing 500 seater theatre built in a concrete minimalist style in the seventies by Hastings Banda for the youth pioneers movement (yes it was what it seems – the youth arm of the single party state). The audience filled all of the seats, arriving by truck and foot from towns and villages near and far. We faced the stage which was draped in white with balloons in licac and white profusion. The family of the bride were colour co-ordinated and arranged, presumably in order of status, around a large sofa reserved for the happy couple. We sloped into our seats near the back of the auditorium. Nobody could tell if the Kenyans – Wellington and Enoch – were part of the family, but I was a bit concerned that my solitary pallor might give the impression that I was not. I think I got away with it, however. I don't think anyone noticed.

Eventually, the happy couple arrived accompanied by drummers, and singing, dancing women of all ages from the bride's village. As they swayed and shimmied down the aisle the couple were greeted by whoops, ululation and applause. They took their places on the sofa, the groom in a dark suit and the bride in a flared , mid-length, white wedding gown.

From this point the whole affair took on a revivalist gospel feel. A guitar, drums and synth band accompanied a fifteen strong choir in afro-gospel songs. People left their seats to dance down the aisle, where they were greeted by a family member with a large washing basket. Bundles of pristine bank notes were produced and the swaying shouting throng threw money into the tub, onto the floor and at each other. I found myself picturing the chaos that would be ensuing in town where there must surely have been a bank note crisis. At the end of the song people returned to their seats and a money counting committee started work immediately. As we waited an M.C. delivered a high voltage peroration in Chechewa pointing out the finer points of the couple and exhorting us to increase our giving. This was repeated over the next three hours until even us ‘ asungus' found ourselves mincing around throwing money at the front – I hope they can change farthings. Oh yes – and we also had a Fanta.

That evening we celebrated with Silas by visiting every watering hole known to ex-pat. The only problem was that Lilongwe thinks that there is a curfew. Although Malawians are the friendliest people imaginable everyone warns you not to leave your bunker after dark. It seems as though the streets are given over to extras from the Michael Jackson Thriller video. Our journey by car was punctuated by warnings ‘ you must never walk down here at night' , ‘ there are so many places to hide here – it is very dangerous' . It seems that a combination of people leaving the streets by 6 p.m. (dark) and a lack of street lighting do surrender the streets to the dark spirits.

On Sunday I had my first taste of village life. At last a trip in a four wheel drive - with the Malawian District Youth Officer. We were greeted by a throng of singing, dancing youths. The only time this had happened to me before was outside the John Tallack Youth Centre following a bout of youth drinking. It took me a while to stop ducking and weaving, but luckily they thought it was my welcome dance. I was asked to give a speech. The Chechewa version took about three seconds before I fell back on an English translation. We were then treated to three hours of drama, singing, poetry, and dance by young people from six villages. The themes were all about early marriage, the dangers of promiscuity and HIV. Young people are encouraged to form anti-AIDS clubs which meet at least twice a week. They have up to 60 members. The standard of acting was stunning. At least three of the young people could have been professional actors. During all of this time the audience of mainly young people and women with children sat respectfully watching, many in the full sun. The event ended with speeches by everyone and the obligatory Fanta. We all agreed that the day had been a great success.

So, Monday dawned at 6 a.m. and I was ready for my first day of work. I arrived ready for my induction. The office is close to the main market through which I walk from the bus. This is a much edgier place with street kids - orphans, rough diamonds, wounded fighters, women with fruit and veg and kids without the slightest idea about selling – ‘how much is that?' 180 kwatchas' ‘ but it is only 50k in the shops' shoulders shrugged – no sale – Wellington delivers a lecture on pricing policy. I am often challenged by young men who want to remind me that I am an ‘asungo' and call me ‘boss'. At the office greetings were done and I sat down to await my induction. I sat down for four hours idly flicking through files of past reports, computer records etc whilst my new employer busied himself with other things. This set the tone for the rest of week and I realised two things very quickly:

1. Patience is more than a virtue – it is a necessity because people don't tell you what is on their mind, you must give things time to unfold.

2. Don't make any bright suggestions – they won't be welcomed.

So by the end of week one I have set up my bank account, done most of my shopping, read every file in the place and started the long march towards getting a phone line in my house. The whole process was not helped by the collapse of the ‘vehicle' which meant that we could not get to the rural areas in which we are to work. Still next Monday is a holiday – I feel about ready for a break.

N.B. I am finishing this on Wednesday of week two – things are starting to move. I have managed to agree some work with the boss and we have finally visited our priority area – a village with real poverty issues – many children in rags, food aid being distributed, people at the water pump. There are very few motor vehicles in sight, no electricity and people have incredibly little money. Strangely, there are Chinese aid people building a secondary school in the village. The young people told me that they looked like me – couldn't see it myself – and spoke even less Chechewa than me. We had another drama and dance session and I entertained the children by getting them to teach me a local dance.

Things are looking up – I am moving into my house on Friday and it looks as though I will be getting a car. So, look forward to seeing you all sometime – do drop in if you are passing.

Best Wishes

Paul

P.S. don't worry I do not expect to have the time to write this much again. I will write from time to time tho'. Ta ta for now.

Paul Hague explains.

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