Malawi 2004 - 2007 |
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One Beach, A Wedding and An Oddity
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I am not a great lake lover. It is a magnet for the ex-pat looking for a lazy day at the beach. It is a must-do for back-packers and package explorers in big trucks. For me it is a pleasant way to spend a few hours, but not a big priority. When Mike, our young twenty something VSO worker said he wanted to take CEYCA staff to the lake for a farewell weekend I tried to hedge. " Yes, of course I would love to go ... only, I might have to go out to Tsabango , my toe is a bit sore, I am too worried about global warming." As I heard myself running out of plausible excuses I knew in my heart that I had better start packing my sleeping bag and fake sun tan lotion. " Who is going?" " Well, Eric and Neddie (CEYCA Malawian staff) are organising it - I'm not sure." Regular readers will not be surprised to know that Malawian organisation is more lottery than railway-timetable. When it came to it Eric and Neddie did not turn up for their trip, but a whole bunch of unexpected chums, expecting a free trip, eventually drifted into the Shoprite car park at 12 noon. Crisis meetings were held, budgets were agreed, cars were filled and we were off to the seaside. As we drove into the Livingstonia beach site I was already speaking through clenched teeth. " Yes I am looking forward to spending an uncomfortable night in a tent. Of course I don't mind spending six times as much as I expected for a short stay on a beach covered with azungos . No I am not bad tempered. In fact I have never enjoyed myself more ". As we struggled to find the holes for the tent poles I noted with dismay that there was already a truck not far up the beach with six blotched white bodies stretched out in the sun - gently sizzling sausages in a line on a sun-fuelled barbie. Oh no, I don't believe it. A little further along the beach - an instant homestead. There was no doubt about it - they were Americans. A huge camper vehicle, big fat dad, mom and two kids, netting fence enclosing a yard with bikes, and every thing needed for pretending that you are still at home. And the piece de resistance - a T.V. satellite dish set up twenty metres from 'home '. As it turned out Mom and Dad never left the safety of the compound, preferring the joy of cooking, watching T.V. and pottering in the yard. The tent finished I gave up my shorts to Desmond, who had no shorts, but would love to swim. I would go for walk up the beach. I walked past the multi-national sausages making sure I flicked sand onto their sun creamed backs, sneered at the homestead with Silverton number plates and rounded the bend leading to the five-star Meridian complex. I stopped immediately . There in front of me was a church-on-a-beach that would not have looked out place in California or Hawaii. Rows of white chairs, a flower decorated arch, through which you were viewing the lake. From the steps of the hotel patio ran a post office red carpet. I hesitated not sure if I should be here. Already half a dozen seats were filled by women in African dress and a variety of headware . " Hello Paul." I turned to find a jolly, short, almost spherical Malawian man. It was Chimango Jere, our pot-bellied project manager from the European Union. " Hello Chimango, what are you doing here?" Chimango was here along with rest of the European Union Malawians because the groom was marrying a top-executive from the Meridian Hotel chain. Would I like to come to the blessing? I declined a seat, but promised to see him at the dinner dance afterwards and squeezed a promise of some desks for the youth centre from him while he was off-guard. I settled on the steps with 'Uncle Sam' an already drunk local man who ran a tour-guide network and wanted advice on how to deal with his village orphans. The wedding was held up by the late arrival of parents. The choir from Lilongwe, in blue, filled in time by singing a medley of well- know gospel songs. The seats began to fill with oversize guests. And the show began. The vicar gave me a cheery greeting as he made his way to the floral arch. The choir sung lustily and swayed as the bride and groom entered the scene executing the traditional 'shimmy' shuffle, which is bit like a slow march set to an African rhythm. The bride was in a brilliant white gown and head-dress, the groom was in a light suit. To describe them as a beautiful couple would not do the scene justice. This was more like a seaside post card. The groom was a small square-shaped man. The bride was not small. In fact viewed from any angle she was large - a Desperate Dan of a woman wearing pebble glasses, in all senses putting the poor man in the shade. When they kneeled before the vicar it might have been more appropriate if he had remained standing to equalise the height. I was half expecting a saucy sermon in sympathy with the post card theme. " I say old man you've got a big one." The vicar did not quite see the point but did not disappoint. After a bit of a sing-song he blessed the couple in a Chichewa vicar-tone. Then because there were three azungos present he showed off by repeating the sermon in English. The gist of it was that marriage is like gluing two pieces of paper together. Anyone trying to tear the paper apart would ruin both pieces. I imagined the two of them being super-glued together and winced as I imagined them being pulled apart. The final part of the ceremony turned into a game show. " George and Loreen do you want to be married? ". They were forced to agree. Then he turned to the audience. " Do you agree that they should be married?" I was wondering if anyone would propose an amendment, but they all looked at each other and gradually raised their hands to vote for the motion. Ululation followed.
The wedding was followed about an hour later by a beach dinner dance in Malawian style. This meant that food was served on long tables and everyone had to line up, school dinner style, to be served one at a time. It took an hour before everyone was served. Then the drinks were opened. ... Free drinks? The message reverberated around and the beach filled with locals. The women from the bride's village, who came to dance for her, realised that Fanta was on offer and besieged the freezer-chest bar. Babies bobbed about on their backs like corks on the choppy lake. A couple of crates were placed in front of them and something like a cross between the Hemyock Scout Jumble Sale and a New Zealand rugby scrum emerged as they fought to ensure that they had their bottle. I feared for the back-pack infants. At a recent azungo -Malawi wedding reception the village guests embarrassed the couple by shovelling plates of food into their bags to take home and stole half of the booze . A disco played American soul music as the European Union and Capital Hotel groups were called several times to throw bank notes at the couple and locals started to gather round the bonfire to ward off the evening chill. The M.C. read out donations from those not present. " The Hon.Mr Banda, (MP) mk12,000" " Mr Phiri (Village) mk 50" The couple then cut the cake. The tradition is that the bride and groom must feed each other a piece of cake as a symbol of union and then perform a super glue kiss. In this case the bride had to sit down to make the kiss possible. At last the odd couple took to the sand to lead the dancing. The groom was swung around the floor and then we all came onto the dance space to save him from further punishment. By now the free bar had run out of soft drinks and locals were filling their coke bottles with wine. Greens were moving faster than exchange rates. As I danced a woman in a red dress moved in. " We can dance!" She became my inseparable dance partner for the evening. It was not long before I found out why. Malawi probably has some of the highest rates for church attendance and religious affiliation in the world. Almost all meetings are begun and ended with a prayer. Abstinence from sex is the only acceptable message in the fight against HIV infection. All in all Malawi is a very moral society, until, that is, alchohol and opportunity present themselves. Those still able to stand for more than a minute danced enthusiastically. A lone woman would not be alone for long. Dancing was the opportunity for men to shamelessly 'propose to the woman '. The proposal was not of marriage but of a trip to the rocks close by. There was soon a trail of alcohol-fuelled, amorous couples disappearing in the direction of the glitter-moon reflecting from the lake. I was the safe haven for the woman in red. Dancing with the mzungo offered some protection from the barrage of proposals. The music carried on deep into the night, the wine gave way to spirits, amore gave way to slumber and I left the few determined drinkers and dancers to their weary, dutiful, vigil. The odd couple had long since retired to their luxury Meridian Hotel suite, the glue, presumably, already beginning to set. . ***************************
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