The Harlot of Blantyre

12/13/2011 (during our long bus ride)

Life fade beyond the horizon, leaving us as our only friends.
Through the darkness a new life is dawning,
she is my beginning she's my end.

With steps wider than oceans and the stars our only plan
we will scan the depths of our devotion
and receive what comes with open hands.

Patience with her perfect balance
shifts underfoot as distant sands,
in our souls we long for creation
pink mountains, teal ripples,
tiny fingers grasp for knowing hand.

12/20/2011
Malawi reminds me that resources are finite, not just petro and clean drinking water here, but all over the world. Before we arrived into the southern region's lush rainy season we were warned that transport across the country would be challenging because international support in the form of foreign exchange (forex) had been cut, and there are widespread oil shortages. It is a difficult thing to enter a new place with its own memory, languages, conservative values, history and to claim to understand the political climate. The expats in S. Africa warned that Malawi was in danger of turning into Zimbabwe with its hopelessly corrupt politicians and waste, a modern day failed state. The only Malawian take we got on the subject so far came from a milk chocolate girl who works on a “tourist island” in Cape Maclear. She had a shaved head, tatoos, and a smattering of unidentified piercings to match her British tinged accent. Unfortunately, I lost most of her drunken banter under the disapproving mumbling of her fellow vacationers an Afrikaaner expat and an Irish nurse.

We arrived in Blantyre after a 38 hour bus ride, that despite an acceptable amount of drama and several tedious border/immigration check points, was very comfortable and a good ride. I read all 400 pages of Anita Diamante's first novel “The Red Tent,” a historical fiction account of the life of Dinah, the daughter of the biblical figure Jacob the Cannanite, the father of Joseph with his multicolored robe whose brothers sold him into slavery not unknowing that one day he would be a king. I wish to be able to weave a story together like this. To master the art that makes the shapes of worlds and the faces of children appear vividly in a readers' mind. I know the very basics from my work, that every story has a beginning, middle, and end. But I am truly envious of those writers who can skillfully deconstruct the pieces and create a patchwork that warms the creative spirit with each turn of the page. I imagine once our trip is over, writing a book using these blog entries (and some private journaling) and tackfully weaving in the stories of our families, how the romance of Vicki and Tony sparked in Marrakesh, love at first sight when my dad caught my 9 year old mom stealing a watermelon from his family's patch. Their stories are our own.

In Blantyre we CouchSurfed with Elaine an English teacher from the U.K. In her mid-50s. Her spacious apartment was sunny, comfortable, and minimally decorated with a few Indian scarves draped across windows, an tapestries depicting women in the marketplace or farming decorated the walls. She immediately offered us beers and real french bread with olive oil, fresh tomatoes, cucumbers, celery, 2 types of cheese, olives, and balsalmic vinegar. We ate our fill and enjoyed her easy conversation for another hour or so before heading to bed.

The next morning I awoke early to find Elaine sitting off the back porch outside our room reading a book and smoking a cigarette, she has only taken up smoking this year and intends to stop for the new year. I join her and delve into my newest addiction by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, “Half of a Yellow Sun” a novel about love, family, and the Biafran war in Nigeria in the 1960s. A few hours later Ham and I decide to make the 20 minute walk into town to explore on foot, our time honored tradition that has gone a bit neglected over the last month or so.

By 10am the air was already steamy and I opted to wear my billowing blue shirt-dress that falls a few inches above my knees, a cheap purchase in Madrid on a day where each of us needed some alone time. For good measure I threw on my black shorts underneath. It wasn't long before I realized that all of the people we walked past along the way had their eyes transfixed on my bare legs. I had not heeded the suttle guidebook warning that Malawians are a bit conservative. I had wrongly assumed that in a place where it is common to see the bare breast of women bathing or feeding children, my bare legs would be no big offense. I was wrong. For a couple of hours that felt like an eternity we walked through town, stopping at the delicious Indian owned vegetarian restaurant Veg Delight. Even after the power went out shortly after our arrival I was still grateful to eat a tasty dossa stuffed with spicy potatoes, my sweaty legs sticking to the chair, momentarily free from the accusing glares of the women on the street.

“You are dressing very smart sister,” a sarcastic compliment from a passerby. Once we were in the city center I swear there were a couple of blocks where all the men sitting grouped on steps in front of stores all stopped talking, their entire heads following my every move. Then it happened, someone started to whistle, the shrill sound pierced the air and traveled up the length of the block as others also sounded the alarm, the Harlot of Blantyre is passing! At some point we ducked into a grocery store to survey the unappetizing packaged food, poorly refridgerated meats, and long life milk stored in cartons on hot shelves. We found an on site internet cafe and passed an hour on fantasy football, facebook, an CouchSurfing. The oscilating fan was quite pleasant until young man sat in front of it, the air stream blowing the familiar stench of body odor over us all.

Once again we were out the door, in search of a market that Elaine described as worth seeing. With a little guidance we found our way there and quickly walked through the stalls of second hand clothes, fresh fruits and vegetables. By the time we reached the hardward aisle and food vendors I was quickly scrambling past various animal intestines being grilled next to fryings pots of potatoes. The hawkers, mostly men, were smiling and staring, murmuring things like 'black-American' and other phrases in other languages. The discomfort was almost unbearable. I quickly led Hamilton out of the market and we started walking uphill in a direction that I hoped would lead us back home. This final stretch on the outskirts of the market was filled with women sitting on the ground in the shade and hawking miscallaneous goods repetitive of all of those we had just seen. They jeered at me, and then it happened again! A woman started ululating, and howling loudly, as if annoucing "her she comes in all of her boldness!" It felt as if each person we passed after that participated as well, other women offering up their loud wails with smirks on their faces, and the now familiar secession of whistles from the men. At one point Hamilton turned to me, astonishment splashed across his face, asking "is that all for you?" It clearly was.

Only a week later we would be walking through Nkohtakota with some new friends we met at Cape Maclear, 2 sisters from Holland braving the heat in much shorter shorts than my own and bare shoulders, their pale white legs glowing like alabaster in the sunlight. While they would be met with the expected stares received by random white people walking in the hood, there would be no big show outside of the standard hellos and eager greetings of naughty children and curious adults. This double standard leaves my mind reeling. Perhaps my judge and jury in Blantyre believed that I was Malawain, a common occurence in every African country we've visited, who was blatantly ignoring the established mores and dress code. Add my white "friend" to the mix and I definitely would look like an abomination. But what about those who assumed that I was a black American, what excuse would apply for their reception of me? Its a bit frustrating, like how the mini-taxi drivers eagerly rush to carry Hamilton's backpack to place in the back of the truck, leaving me to struggle alone with mine which is equally imposing and heavy. Hamilton was always apologetic the first few times, assuming that because he had been relieved of the weight of his pack, naturally so would I. Now he'll loudly instruct the men to "take my wife's bag" which is often ignored, until he himself comes to help me. Frankly, while I would like the help sometimes I really don't need it. African women carry far more unweilding cargo than my neatly contained (though heavy) pack. While there is a fellowship of having the same-ish skin, there is also a disregard or demotion in status in the presence of my white husband. In moments like these I revert back to my family roots, I can haul a 50 lb sack of cow feed off a truck and down to the stalls, I'm a Mississippi woman!

Hamilton started to make other suggestions for where to walk, I quickly cut him off saying that I only wanted to go home. Despite my visible embarrassment and discomfort he was still hesistant to comply, insisting on stopping at a decrepid building that had once been a cultural center to see if there were any shows coming up. There weren't. I chose to walk on a shaded dirt path that was out of sight of most of the passing cars on the road, Hamilton continued to walk on the other side of the street, not perceiving my desire for some sort of protection or shield. When we reached the turnoff for Elaine's apartment he shouted that he was going to the store, leaving me to walk the last quiet stretch alone, my Malawian walk of shame. I turned into the wrong drive way and knocked on an identical door of an identical apartment building, only to scandalize the small girl who answered the door. We laughed later on when Hamilton confessed that he made the same mistake.

That evening we walked onto the campus of Saint Andrews with Elaine to sample the homemade ginger beer and other assortments of her fellow co-workers, the husband French and the wife Scottish. While there Hamilton inquired about hiking routes in the nearby ranges, asking for directions on the best ways to get there. I already knew that I would not be walking through the city of Blantyre again. While I would not have on the same clothing, I would still be totally recognizable, I could imagine people sitting at their dinner tables that evening mentioning in passing the disgusting display they witnessed earlier that day.

When we woke up that next morning I was thankful to see that it was going to be a rainy day. We opted to pack up our bags and continue to treck on to the coolness of the Zomba Plateau. Its a shame, I really would have liked to spend more time talk with Elaine, learning about her extensive travels and the disfunctionalities of U.K. culture. But alas, the Harlot of Blantyre wears shorts and hiking boots, and these boots were made for walking.