Don't Take it Personal

12/26/2011
(Started writing this on an overnight bus from Mzuzu, Malawi to Dar Es Salaam, Tanzania)


We met Moses Mkandawire just days before we left Nola for the last time in 2011. He was part of a contingent of African leaders across respective faith communities sponsored by the U.S. State Department. They made stops in D.C, Cincinnati, and some other mid-western state like Idaho or Minnesota, Nola was the final stop. Hamilton had been invited to participate due to some consulting work he had done with Interfaith Works I was eager to accompany him, hopeful to make some contacts in anticipation of our travels in Africa. On the program for the afternoon Hamilton was listed as Operation Reach Inc. (retired). We both chuckled at the ring of it, an early retirement, the seed was planted. I think we both envision multiple early retirements throughout our time together, like Michael Jordan, using those intervals for much desired travel and visits with family and friends before returning to the court.
After a somewhat rushed discussion we ate lunch at Cafe Reconcile. At this point I was surrounded by several friendly faces eager to talk, seeking guidance on what to order, and taking credit for my yet undiscovered African roots. “Ooohh! No she is Nigerian! Listen to the big brother of Africa!” I ordered the fried catfish with yams, turnip greens, and macaroni and cheese prompting the others to follow suit. Months later I would discover that the fried Chambo fish of Malawi, which everyone insisted that I eat along with the foofoo like nsima, was in fact huge long whiskered catfish too! By the time lunch was over I had cards from new contacts in Liberia, Nigeria, Tanzania, and Malawi along with 2 free calling cards that the State Department had given the delegates. Afterwards they hit the Jazzfest, eventually scattering back to their homelands, and we continued on our junket around the world. Seven months later Moses responded to our last minute email and invited us to Malawi.
Throughout our successive buses, taxis, and hitchhiking I have been reminded of the words of our CouchSurfing host in Dakar, Johan. He advised us to lock the bedroom where our backpacks were even if we were going to the bathroom, not because people in the house would steal, but due more to curiosity. That in a more socialist style society we might find that someone had worn our shoes that we left outside the door (which would be returned upon demand), or that they might accidentally break our electronics that were carefully tucked away in our packs, the problem being that they wouldn't have money to replace it.
I am still grasping the concept that personal space is more of a western ideal, and all bets are off in Africa. Just because we were the first to get on a tro-tro or dalla dalla and our 4 person seat is filled, that is all illusion! At least 5 people will file in, and 6 if you are unfortunate to be a small framed man or woman, small-small. As for foot room, be prepared to pull your knees towards you navel while the driver pushes bag after bag of or rice, cornmeal, mangoes, or even full jerry cans of gas underfoot. This is all somewhat bearable if you are lucky enough to have caught a taxi with seats spaced far enough apart for someone over 5 feet tall. Too often though we've been forced to fit our legs into a space where I can't bring my knees together because there's just nowhere to go unless I sit on the very edge of my seat and bend my legs underneath it, but of course that space is usually all taken.
Depending on how stressed I'm feeling I will or not play ball, and will bark back at the greedy driver trying to squeeze in yet another bulging pair of hips and ass into my personal space. On these rides I'm a glass half full girl living in a glass half empty world. Finally, the headrest behind you doesn't belong to you either, its the domain of the poor creatures packed in behind you. Oftentimes I'll unapologetically use my head as a weapon and push back against the folded elbows obstructing my only source of comfort, or the fingers of the guy standing in the isle of the bus for most of its 20+ hour duration. Other times I do grant my back some much needed relief and lay my head across folded arms on the seat in front of me.
I've learned to fight to maintain my place in the long queues for everything, toilets, bus seats, border patrols...Fighting through sweaty women who aptly use the fullness of their round bodies and enormous cargo packages to bump you to the side. While I am often mistaken for a local where ever we are due to my face and friendly smile, I am most certainly outed as a black American when that determined scowl sets on my face as I fight to ensure that me and mine aren't the poor bastards left standing for a ridiculously long and treacherous ride.
While travel days can be really hard on us, the constant switching of taxis and negotiating prices while wielding our 50lb backpacks, its also really enlightening. These same people who will silently squeeze and push past you in line will also help you get the local fare for the taxi ride. These same strangers will smilingly shout out as you're walking by “you are invited” when they see you looking at the food spread out on the ground that they are partaking in. When I flirt with beautiful chocolate drop babies, in no time their mother has deposited them on my lap for as long as I feel like playing. Don't take it personal, not even your baby is your own. There is so much that I am learning from all of this, and I find myself thinking about my house in New Orleans, my car, my clothes....hoping that my attachment to these things has shifted and will continue to shift.
The final stretch to Malawi was bittersweet. We were grateful to ride in the backs of pickup trucks for several hours. On the first ride the sun beat down on us, but the freshness of the wind and the views of the villages along the way were totally worth it. I like seeing the people walking along the highways in small pairs with huge packages on their heads, the children sitting in their dirt yards completely focused on the solitude of their game under the canopy of a acacia like tree with piercing red blossoms. I wave at these children, wondering if they know how lucky they are to sit under such a beautiful tree like that. These truck rides quickly take a turn for the worse the further we go, as more and more people are piled in. Picture a single cab pickup truck with a short bed filled with 20 people and their cargo. I mean its ridiculous sometimes, if your lucky enough not to have to stand you are often unlucky enough to sit with your feet crapped under bags or wood and someones crouch or sweaty flapping shirt tail flapping in your face. Can you see me scowling? Despite my personal views on overcrowding, I am still one of the first people to offer the firm grip of my right hand to help an older woman or a woman with child pull herself into the malay.
The absolute worst though was the morning we were leaving Nkotakota. We spent the night at the Anglican Church's boarding house with the 2 sisters from Holland that we met at Cape McClear. Our pleasant ride became down right gross when the fish mongers started turning up. There was an early initial stop where a young woman with a large rubber tub of fish sought to pack in, I was whispering under my breath “no not you, no room for fish” and she must have heard my prayers because she decided that there was no way to fit in her tub. However, after the next police checkpoint there was an aggressive young man with 2 other women who determinedly pushed and shoved and dropped his large tub of small fish in the bed of the truck, it had a garbage bag covering the top of the hundreds of tiny silver fish in hot shallow water. He held another smaller uncovered tub on his lap. When the truck jerked the water from his lap tub would gather on top of plastic of the bottom tub, threatening to run on the the floor of the bed and towards our packs, splashing the older woman I gave my hand to who was now sitting at my feet on a spare tire. There was another tub that was thrown on top of the cab of the truck and held in place by one of the driver's standing hype men. He faced forward, his crotch at the back of Kim's head. When the speed of the vehicle picked up we were splashed with streams of hot fishy juice! I was pissed, I dig into the part of my bag that I have access to and grab the closest cover possible, Ham's towel, and wrap around my head. I have to face the man with the fishy tubs and can no longer luck frontwards without risking a mouthful of fish juice. Behind my sunglasses I make no attempts to camouflage my disdain for this man. We lock eyes a few times during that trip, and I know he can feel the love lost. I grow slightly irritated when he has to never to talk to his wife, smiling and chatting. Splash, splash.
By the time we make it to Mzuzu, all is right with the world again. I call Moses and he gives us easy walking instructions to his office. We find it with no problem and are relieved that he has decided to take us to his home to stay there during our visit, we didn't know where we were going to sleep beforehand and were hoping for this comforting and cost saving invitation. I'm sure that Hamilton has given a day to day report of how we spent our time, so I won't rehash all of that. But the bulk of our time was spent at the local Golf Club, frequented by all of the judges, politicians, businessmen, and people of interest, where no one actually plays golf. We definitely drank well, the big beers and shots of Jameson, the gins and tonics kept coming. As did the conversations with the whos whos. There were the diplomatic politicians, members of the opposition party, who were too happy to share their viewpoints on the fuel crisis and the ineptitude of the current administration. On of my personal favorites was the drunken professor, he rebuffed his title despite that fact that all of his friends referred to him as the professor, and the fact that he worked at the University. He reassured us that he is merely a lowly teacher, not a professor. That the point of education is for societal transformation, and at this task he was a supreme failure. He also went on to talk about the fact that both Jesus and Muhammad were crooks. He asserted that Muhammad married an older woman solely for her wealth, that Jesus had some hypocritical dealings with moneychangers. I can't remember the specifics, but it was amusing. He himself believes in the ancestors and their intervention in our lives, on that sole point I can't say I disagree with him. We visited the club multiple times everyday throughout our stay there, our bar tabs were excessive, particularly for our limited budget. Fortunately, we had a very generous host in Moses.
On Christmas Eve we attended a funeral and a wedding. That morning we left the house a little after 9am and made the hour drive to a small village. Jenipher, Moses's wife had left early in the morning, as it was customary that women all go to cook for the funeral. The departed was Chief Justice of the Supreme Court in Malawi, and a former commissioner for the Anti-Corruption Bureau in Swaziland, C.J. Harris Michael Endaga. There were probably close to 300 people in attendance when we walked up. There were only 2 shaded areas under tents, 1 black and 1 white, with 4-5 roughly assembled rows of chairs filled by mostly men with the exception of a few women, presumably officials and perhaps a couple of family members. We walk under one of the tents where most of the seats are taken, I am the only woman there and Hamilton the only white person in the whole village, Moses quickly offers me a loan open seat, another man gets up so that Hamilton can sit, and yet another man brings his chair over for Moses. We are honored guests, we are welcome.
As official after official stand to give their long winded remarks I scan the crowd. An old man in an worn oversized dark suit wearing a knit orange ski cap with a wool ball on the end is made to give up his seat for a much younger sharply dressed man with an official looking flag pin on his lapel. There are multiple clusters of people, the 2 tents are perpendicular to one another, dominated by men, and there are another few rows to finish out the partial rectangle. There is no tent there, mostly men seated on chairs and several sit on the moist dark red earth mostly shaded by the 2 or 3 loan trees. Across from us is a modest red brick home, the departed's father's house, with its rusting tin roof. The shelter of the porch is symmetrically divided by several church officials in dark black suits with emperor collars, and men in white jackets with black ties and pants, that look to be usher. On the other side of the porch sit the women, many of them with common scarves tied on their heads, but not in the magnificent style one would imagine, but as any black woman wraps her hair at night before going to sleep. They are simply dressed in teeshirts and shortsleeved blouses with mismatched colored wrappers of many fabrics. Last night at the club house my new friend, one of the only other women present, explained that Malawians are poor so that when someone passes it means that a breadwinner is now gone and many peoples' lives will change. Therefore people are too consumed with grief to worry about what to wear or whether their hair is done. She quipped in her sensual style, “It's not like America where you probably go buy new clothes for a funeral.” We nodded in agreement, conceding, and I thought back to Vicki's memorial service and how amid all of the planning and coordinating how Mara and I had to go shopping for something appropriate but also cheerful, thinking that Vicki wouldn't want us to wear black. Mara ended up with a gray sleeveless wool dress from Banana Republic and knee high boots that were a size too big but on a great sale at the Bass store I doubt she's worn either of those items again. I found a cream dress with big blue and grey flowers splashed across it and silver heels that hurt my feet. My new friend in her tightly fitting gold sequined dress, ample breast sitting up, and fluffy Afro Tech afro wig continued to differentiate the grief. She confirmed that the women mourn very loudly and publicly, and that their sad durges will make you cry, their voices pulling at your heart.
Sitting in the shadow of the tent in the hot still air, listening to speech after speech, facing the casket surrounded by women in white jackets their heads wrapped in white, sit around hunched over under the casket table and its flower arrangements. I am not yet moved to tears, as the speakers acknowledge all of the important officials present, taking longer in these formalities than in their reflections on the dearly departed. All have been requested to be brief and summarize, few adhere. When one young man, the son of a chief, gives his remarks in about a minute, he is met with applause and the shrill ululating of a handful of approving women My mind flashes back to how that same sound only last week announced a different passing, that of the Harlot of Blantyre. The minister MC jokes, “This is why we love young leadership!” I also think back to our first meeting with Moses back in Nola. Eric Schwartz had the difficult task of moderating the discussion that morning which was full of religious officials and their translators. The conversation was very rushed, in an attempt to get around to everyone and to make it to lunch on time. A number of times both the participants and the translators voiced their disapproval of this efficient pace, that thoughts were getting lost and people were being cut short. It all makes more sense now, at important gatherings where important people are present everyone must have ample time to speak and everyone must be acknowledged repeatedly. This is just the proper way.
Even a funeral is an acceptable forum to talk politics and take jabs at the president and the current leadership for being poor shepards of the people. Moses had introduced us to his boss the day before, now this priest was delivering his sermon today using a mix of English and Chichewe, causing lots of laughter, agreements and responses from the crowd, more ululating. While a lot of the humor was lost on us we caught the jist.
When the speechifying and preaching concludes there are songs and finally it is time to view the body. Moses invites us to go take a look, we agree. Once again we were fighting our way in a swarm of people as the air slowly fills with the sobs of several grieving women, leaving me to wonder what aid he provided to them. Did he pay their childrens' school fees? Was he their shoulder, confidant, mentor? This swelling crowd felt like we were all waiting for the same cramped bus, the casket the final destination. The shoving was much more subdued though, instead of throwing elbows and butts, there was the flat nonthreatening pressure of flat upper arms pressing against more arms. One of the priests made the call to close the casket, the sky had been threatening rain all morning, and they thought it best to get the body in the ground before the rains started. We never laid eyes on the Chief Justice.
As we make the short walk to the graveyard we stroll single file down narrow paths in between row after row of tender green crop seedlings. Their wavy lines like beautiful cornrows in a little girl's hair, careful and loved. There are only 3 rows of chairs at the graveyard, most people are left to stand or sit on the ground and on other graves. I walk towards the back of the row of chairs, not really intending to sit but wanting to remain close. A man who I would later discover was the Director of Protocal, informed me, “These seats are just for judges please.” I nod and smile, confirming that I was not a judge, merely a lawyer. I was invited to sit. I refused but then some of the other men surrounding me insisted that I sit. So I sat on the back row, right next to a big chief with his Davy Crockett style hat on and his son, the one who gave the brief remarks. I am not clear of the proper protocol for addressing a chief, I know that only some people are permitted to speak directly to him, I don't know where I fall. So instead of engaging in conversation, I smile at him warmly and that is the extent of my acknowledgement. It isn't long before the sky opens up and lets forth the afternoon rains it has been building up. The crowd scatters underneath trees around the perimeter of the graveyard, many stay right where they are and hold the plastic chairs upside down over their heads. As we chat away under the trees in the cold rain, someone remarks that they've never seen that at a funeral before and instruct me to take a picture, I comply.
After about 20 minutes or so the rain stops and the burial continues, so does business as usual. There is some delay that we are unaware of, and the choir continues to sing song after song. I have once again been instructed to take a seat, when I get up to offer my chair to an older gentleman the Director of Protocol informs me, “he is a man, he can stand! Please sit.” I feel very self conscious as one of maybe 3 or 4 other women actually sitting in a chair. I can see the questioning looks of some of the other women sitting in their wrappers on the wet ground, beside tombstones. To add to the speculation my attire was a bit misleading. Don't worry, I hadn't made another fashion faux paux. I was told to wear a wrapper, which I was to borrow from Jenipher. So that morning, I put on my Harlot pick shirt dress, my brown flesh colored tights, and asked Moses for a wrapper. He came out with a simple pink wrapper with a logo and ACB printed all over it. Initially I thought, oh I don't like this one, but I quickly agreed that it was fine and wrapped and tucked it around my waist. Later, when people kept speaking to me in Chichewe shocked at my lack of comprehension, I appreciated that I was wearing the Anti-Corruption Bureau swagg, of which the Chief Justice had been a commissioner, many thought I was affiliated with him professionally. The delays continue and I overhear the Director of Protocol talking to a tobacco industry man and other important men, “Jesus was a politician, he was the president, Peter the prime minister,” the others nod in vigorous agreement.
Not much later a man announces all of the financial contributions that have been made towards the burial and the family, reading the names of the giver and the amount. Later on Hamilton and I would discuss this, how we both prefer the anonymous giving of the Jewish and other peoples. However, I also appreciate that this is just another form of acknowledging the peoples' contributions. After the financial announcments, a gravedigger in a holey teeshirt makes an angry announcement. I ask the tobacco guy what the deal was. Basically, while this guy was digging the grave for the Chief Justice another big man in the neighboring village passed away. So what was initially the hole for the Chief Justice became the final resting place of the neighboring big man. Instead of waiting to see that the other hole was dug for the CJ, some of the local villagers took it upon themselves to dig the new grave. The problem is that they didn't know the dimensions for the casket and ended up digging a grave that wasn't long enough. So the gravedigger's point was, stay in your lane and let the people who's job it is to handle such matters do their f*cking jobs. Point taken brother. Within the next hour the hole is enlarged, the casket lowered and the flowers and garlands are laid by all of the important people present and the women ushers in white while the choir sings. Afterwards, we walk back through the fields and head towards the food. Most people are stopping at the tents where the service took place, while several women are pouring water from pitchers for handwashing. We continue to walk past all of this towards the house where Jenifer has put aside food for us. A woman grabs my arm speaking to me in her language, pointing back at the food. I thank her and tell her that I will be sure to eat and that we are eating over there (pointing at the house). Its a tasting spread, and after we wash our hands we settling into our bowls, fingers first, of smothered chicken, beef, greens, rice, cabbage, and nsima. A tasty meal indeed. Not much later we head back home, intending to rest a little while and change for the wedding.
The wedding was at the club house of course, we arrived freshly dressed, smelling good, with 2 bottles of champagne for our private consumption. I wish that I had something to report about the wedding, something cultural or exceptional. However, there wasn't anything particularly traditional about the whole show. The bride was beautiful all dressed in white. There was lots of dancing, but in a fragmented way. They had hired an MC who basically gets paid 10% of all the money the couple gets throughout the night. That said, the DJ would play a song and people would come up and dance and throw their money at the bride, the groom, the floor, and then the song would cut off. Then the MC is talking, talking, talking, and then a song with more money throwing, and then that damn MC's voice again. I went up once to give our small contribution, hoping that later in the evening there would be real uninterrupted dance time. Everyone kept asking if Hamilton and I would dance, I know they wanted to see if the Mzungu had any moves. We reassured them that we intended to dance all night, unfortunately that opportunity never really arose. The wedding program continued on for more than 4 hours, we lost interest in all of the fundraising and walked around, talked to each other about the funeral, trying to keep ourselves awake. We ended up at the bar, laughing at the distinguished drunks as they told jokes, sang songs, and stumbled about.