Malawi 2004 - 2007

Rickety Cultural Bridges

Just when you think you are turning native. At the very time you are pontificating about the nature of Malawi mentality. When you are convinced that the locals see you as one of them. It is then that you see the deep chasm awaiting you through the cracks in the bridge you have been trying to construct.

1. Pwetakale Funeral Collectors.

Pwetakale is the area of Lilongwe in which I live. I use the local shops and the market, talk to people in the street, smile at the children and wave to anyone who is keen to exchange greetings. Pretty native you might be thinking. 

Well, I have been aware for a long time that whistles are blown frequently at night around the roads close to my house. At first I thought it was a communication system for the neighbourhood watch, a locally appointed group of vigilantes who charge local people for the privilege of being stopped by them at night and interrogated about their plans. When, at last I asked if my theory was correct I was met with mild surprise.

" No it's to announce a funeral."

When someone dies there is great pressure to attend and spend a long time sitting with the bereaved. They in turn must feed and water the mourners sitting outside and inside the house. This is why it is not unusual for someone to simply fail to show for work or arrive for that special appointment you have arranged on which the future rests. Sometimes, whole village programmes have to be cancelled at the last minute. 

Because weddings and funerals have grown into consumer monsters, poor people struggle to meet the costs of the wake, the coffin and the family re-adjustments. This means that on most days of the week there is a collection - each of the many coffin-makers make up to a thousand a year. Young men move from door to door with a book in which they log contributions. 

Because of my ex-pat prison wall, I am somewhat insulated from this practice. Sometimes Alex, my house guard, comes and says, 

" They are at the gate. They want money for a funeral."

I usually give 100 kwatcha and wonder if that is appropriate . Then, as with most charity giving I don't give it another thought.

Tonight, as I said good-night , to Richard, one of my Malawian chums, there were a shouts of " odi " at the gate. This is the usual request for attention at the threshold. As it was already dark Richard peered through a hole in the gate and asked what they wanted. They were funeral collectors.

" How much shall I give Richard - 100?"

" No that is far too much. They are just collecting to buy firewood to keep the mourners warm."

He went outside the gate to give my contribution and was immediately involved in a lengthy discussion with three young men. It did not seem entirely positive.

" Contribution not large enough eh?" I asked.

" No they think that the man who lives at this house doesn't help them."

It turned out that they expected me to answer the door when they came with their book during the day. They had no experience of a house being left empty all day and little understanding of regular work patterns. They could not understand why I didn't answer the door. Richard was in a dilemma. He did not wish it to be widely known that the house was empty all day - an invitation to robbery - but he had to tell them that there were mitigating circumstances. So he told them that I did not understand their culture and could not always hear them at the gate. He asked them why they didn't take me to a funeral.

So here I sat in my palace, blissfully unaware that going to work on behalf of the youth every day had caused offence amongst the local young people. I am excluded from the social bonding woven into the grieving ritual. They have a cocktail of preconceptions about mzungos and little empathy with the arrogant stranger. The bridge wobbled a bit. I will try to nail a plank across the gap by using John a local Congolese refugee shop-keeper as my post box for regular donations, in the hope that it is recorded as being from the mzungo .

2. American Blues

The American Embassy has a centre for cultural contact. Mitchell a tall thin good-looking southerner from Louisiana is the sensitive, but self-assured diplomat responsible for the programme. I have already been to see a DVD projected film - last year's low budget German movie.

This week Mitchell wanted to mark black history week by showing a couple of films. Tonight was a 'Buena Vista' style documentary about ageing blues men turning up to a Memphis celebration.

Mitchell was determined to make an evening of it. He opened the evening by welcoming the audience of about twenty-five people. Unlike the other film I had attended this was an all-Malawian audience with the exception of me and half a dozen Asians.

" What does the blues mean to you?" - silence

" Does any one know who was singing on the last song we played?" - no one admitted to being a fan of Robert Johnson.

Mitchell was not to be deflected from his purpose. We learnt all about his personal history, his trip to Nigeria, the link between blues and Africa. Then we were allowed to watch the film.

The film was a well-made documentary involving BB. King and a host of lesser known ageing blues men. The characters were sympathetic and we were taken into their poverty ridden progress and fight against the odds. One even died in time for his coffin to be scripted at the end of the film.

Mitchell emerged at the end of the film. 

" Would anyone like to talk about the film?" No one dared to move. Mitchell started to discuss the film with us, or rather to give a lecture.

" Are their any questions, you have a diplomat here - you can ask what you like."

A brave soul raised his hand.

" Can you turn down the music I can't hear what you are saying?"

" Is it true that some people in America call black people monkeys?"

" Is it true that white people can't go into Hispanic areas?"

Each question gave Mitchell an opportunity to talk in a sophisticated and emotional way about his thoughts, observations and philosophies. It became an audience with Mitchell.

At the end I was left reflecting upon the link that Malawians felt with their long lost African-American brothers and sisters. It seemed to me that they had little sense that these blues men were like them. They were on the whole rather bemused by the 'American' experience.

On the way home I asked a petrol attendant how Black Americans were seen by Malawians. 

" Do you see them as Africans?"

" No they are black Americans ".

Four builders gave me the same view next day. Difficult for people who feel their roots are in Africa, but their identity and experience are in America.

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