Malawi 2004 - 2007 |
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Night Life
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Since getting my new car I have been able to get out a bit. The sparse nightlife that exists is spread around this sprawling city and is not reachable by public transport after dark. Taxis are prohibitively expensive for the lone traveller. In the last few weeks I have set myself up as the Egon Ronay of Lilongwe clubland. 1. Cinderella's - Lucias Banda in Area 25. Those of you who have taken the trouble to read about healing will know that Area 25 has a reputation of being 'bandit country' at night. For some strange reason a club had moved nearly 20 km from the even more dangerous night spot of Kawali to set up out of town. I suppose being in a slightly less dodgy part of greater Lilongwe counts as a move up the ladder of respectability. I went with a young German (10 week) volunteer and a Malawian to see Lucias Banda play his version of Malawian reggae. He is one of the big stars in Malawi and one of two musicians who are also M.Ps in the Parliament. Following a long drive past the ostentatious and incongruous glass E.U. building, past the flowering, lilac-blossomed jacaranda trees, past the huge maize silos emptied by the ex-finance minister in a scam , past the turn for Salima and the lake, we finally reached a dirt road that whispered we were leaving civilisation. At the end of the road a sign and a large compound with bottle stores and a big white building came into view. There was not much sign of life, let alone civilisation. Even so the welcome was warm. Yes Lucias Banda was playing tonight, yes the sound system was set up, yes we could look around before committing ourselves. The helpful doorman showed us into a large room with a bar at one end and a pool table tucked away in one corner. The walls were covered in thick plaster that had been textured by that 80s fashion of combing. High above the bar on the wall was a well-painted message welcoming the 'valued customers' who were, in small numbers, spread along the bar and the wall seating already enjoying their 'greens '. We were then led to 'The Cave ', a smaller basement room with similar decoration. There were fewer people here. A lounging young man half-reclining with a young woman attentively listening to the few words he could be bothered to summon; three men huddled close together with a table full of empty 'greens' in front of them, two older men talked animatedly on high stools at the bar and two very young women with brightly coloured clothes, highly made up and with long hair in bunches sat and giggled loudly. This looked alright . We ordered some sodas. We sat for a while - somehow we felt a little ill at ease - and watched rather than talked. Men approached the girls, who seemed not to want accept what was on offer. Greens were drunk. After a while we decided to see if the music had started. " you buy me one green?" said one of the hopeful huddled men as we passed without stopping to reply. We took our seats on the wall seating. This was a proper African set-up. All of the seats were along the walls facing the big central dance space. Taped music was already playing so loudly that it was distorting. The bar began to fill slowly. The two young girls arrived from 'The Cave' and there was much coming and going. Eventually the musicians came onto the low stage and began to tune their instruments. After a while you noticed that the tuning had turned into a melody and the evening had begun. The head-beer-waiter tucked his tray under his arm and began to dance in a staccato style on his own in the middle of the room. Two other men danced together. The big difference between African dance style and Euro-style lies in the inventive use of rhythm and transfer of balance. Europeans tend to go into a simple rhythm and repeat it endlessly. Africans change rhythm, direction, and limb movements often and with ease and invention. As the singer came on stage people began what were obviously the rituals that marked out the regulars. Red plastic Carlsburg bottle crates were taken from under tables and used as seats in front of the stage. Soon several chaotic rows of 'crated' spectators had created a festival feeling in the room. The second ritual applied to the dance code. I realised that everyone - mainly men at this stage - was holding a Carlsburg 'Green '. As they danced they all had a bottle in each hand. A variation on this theme was the carrying of two bottles in the rear pockets of your jeans. By now the dancing was in full swing. The joint was very much for locals. There were no city slickers in here and we felt that, as the only ' azungus ', we would be well advised to remain as inconspicuous as possible. We sat like iguanas in the sun, motionless, lest notice of our presence would lead the pianist to stop and all heads to turn in our direction. By 10.30 p.m. our Malawian friend had plucked up the courage to get up and dance. We dipped our toes in the water and rather self-consciously slipped into the throng. The water turned out to be lovely. The two-bottled dancers encouraged us to 'get down '. Men and young women came up and danced with us. We did our best to look African and sweated like pigs. Eventually I found myself trying to hear what an older man next to me was saying to me. He motioned for me to come out of the dance room to talk. By this time I was glad of the respite. We sat in the less steamy atmosphere of the annex room. This man was Henley, the owner of the club. I had been told that he was South African, but he soon told me that he was Jamaican by birth and had emigrated to Britain in 1958. He had lived in Shirland Road, just down the road from me in Paddington. We laughed about pork pie hats, blue beat' and overcrowded houses, and within half an hour I had heard most of his life story. A young woman of about 16 or seventeen came up and flung her arms around his neck. She wanted a free beer, although she was already drunk. She got her drink. Henley had been a mechanic. He lost his job, his wife went off with his best friend and he met up with an African woman who brought him to Malawi. In true Jamaican male style the conversation was peppered with references to the availability and desirability of women in a very good humoured way. No smut or innuendo here. A young man in his early twenties who had invested most of his ambition in his body approached and pushed a fist in between us. " zabo " - a youth greeting, was said in a humourless tone and we touched fists. He wore a tee-shirt that was almost closer fitting than his skin, which in turn was stretched tight across his knotted muscular frame. As he talked conspiratorially to Henley I saw that he had a badly healed scar on his arm and another on his neck. His head was shaved and even his face appeared to be made of pure muscle fibre. As he left our space Henley nodded in his direction, " one of the local hoods" -a part time thief. He went on to confirm that this was not a neighbourhood to walk in at night. Drunks tended to stay in the club until daylight when it was safer to stagger home. In Kawali , Henley had not believed the warnings until one night he was attacked by two men with a panga knife (machete). "They wanted to cut my head off ". He pulled back his collar to reveal a substantial scar on his shoulder. "I only go out in the car at night ". As we chatted on, a trail of glass-eyed young men and women moved around in alcohol bubbles, unaware of friend, foe or surroundings . Everyone except Henley and the azungus appeared to be on track for oblivion. However, unlike similar scenes on a Friday night in anytown U.K. these drunks were not fighting, nor were they sick nor threatening. At midnight Henley was called away - Lucius Banda had arrived. He was a man of generous bulk and a presence born of a long experience of unquestioning loyalty and admiration. A group of youths squeezed into the door jam and waved and shouted cheerily. He spotted azungos and came over to shake hands " Hello , sorry I am bit late" he said to me as if I had some stake in the event. Then he was gone. Ready to deliver "numbers from my ten albums over ten years ". We went back to dance to a mixture of reggae and Malawi. The atmosphere was hot, stifling and joyous. We entered that part of the night when drunks get friendlier and overbearing and non-drunks get more aloof and supercilious. Finally, defeated by the heat, tiredness and space invasion we left Lucius to the fans who could still remember who he was. As I waited for my companions the incredible hulk moved towards me and took my hand in a firm grip. " you want some sex?" he whispered hoarsly into my ear. "Ndi kufuno kugona " I pluckily replied, which loosly translated meant "I would prefer a nice cup of cocoa and a sleep ". He looked puzzled "sex is dangerous" he said as he left to set up another deal. Henley came to escort us to the car. He gave me his number and told me I should come out to see him. He was whistful . This was his life until he died. He lived alone and knew he could not make enough money to change anything radically. As we drove home I said "Henley was a nice man ". Caesar was a little dismissive. "He has just come out of jail - he killed his wife." 2. The Shack - Young Americans The Shack has live bands outdoors every Friday evening. It is the home of the Lilongwe Rotary Club and charges twice the price of entry to Cinderella's. So it was little surprise to find it to be a mirror image of the Area 25 palais. We, the azungos , were dominant here. A few well-behaved Malawians were sprinkled amongst the crowd. Over on the other side of the volleyball league court a group of Malawian men and women sat in a tight group watching, separate from the event. People sat in groups around tables, chatting as they might in the village pub beer garden. I was introduced to several teachers from a private school. We talked about drama and the cost of living. The first two bands took to the stage. The second, especially, was energetic and enthusiastic. The singers danced but the audience did not dare. It was only when the third band took to the stage that the young Americans had fuelled up with enough beer to feel the party in their feet. A Malawian dancer ran onto the grass and the azungos followed. As ever, the party spirit was in full flow just as the evening was coming to an end . The separate Malawians turned out to be 'stringers' who came on to liven up the azungos by dancing at the front. We left before the end. 3. Chez NTemba I announced at the office that some of us were going to Chez NTemba and asked if anyone wanted to come. This had an electrifying effect on the staff. Desmond came out from behind his desk, raised his arms and swivelled his hips. From that moment everyone who passed through the office felt they had to do a little dance and laugh excitedly. By Friday morning all but Charity had pledged their allegiance to the Chez Temba outing. By Friday evening each one in turn had made their excuses and left. The twenty two year old secretary later explained that her parents would not let her go out. She even has to ask her parents about attending work trips. Another young man used the pressure on car space as a get-out clause, others melted away. In the end only Ned, a twenty one year old young man, saw this as his opportunity to liberate himself. So it was that Ned, Dambuki , Donald, Julian and me arrived at Chez Temba ready to rock. It was an upmarket Malawian disco with loud but undistorted African dance music. People were seated at tables all around the floor between bars at either end of the room and there was a notional dance floor with flashing lights. I say notional because as the evening progressed people danced just where they stood, at the bar, between the tables and probably in the loos. The dance floor became more and more crowded as the bars around closed. As with Cinderella's people got very drunk. Young women danced with prospective patrons and people tended to knock into things and other people more often. 80s and 90s Disco music brought in the ex-pats. By this time I was worried about Dambuki . He kept disappearing, drank a lot and could be found surfacing from yet another group of young females at yet another table. By two o'clock we could not find space to dance and decided to leave. Ned was in heaven. He was well and truly liberated. He was to leave his uncle's house, with permission, to move in with Dambuki . He had become a man at the Chez Temba initiation ceremony. ***************************
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