So I realise I've painted a rather grim impression of Malawi in my previous four posts.
Just for some contrast, check out these videos taken by people from the World Food Programme in Lilongwe and Blantyre.
Note the obvious sense of humour that the kids have, despite their poverty, and the openness of the people selling food on the road and in the market. This, I think, is what Malawians would want to emphasise, more than some of the bad experiences I had.
Videos: on the road in Malawi, World Food Programme website
The diary of my good times in Malawi still to come :) xx
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Friday, July 31, 2009
Malawi - part 1
I arrived in Blantyre, Malawi on a Monday. Monday the 20th of April to be exact.
Getting there was an adventure in itself. A cancelled flight meant that instead of going from Nairobi straight to Blantyre, I would take 2 flights: one from Nairobi to Dar Es Salaam (Tanzania), and then one from Dar to Blantyre, via Lilongwe.
Oh yeah, and the flights were overnight. Joy.
I left my Kenyan host family and fellow volunteers outside the Jomo Kenyatta airport. It was a quick farewell. I suppose that is a good thing, like taking off a sticking plaster. I would miss them. I felt even more alone than when I first left New Zealand, but I was excited and determined too.
The flight left Nairobi at about 10pm, and arrived in Dar at about midnight. I had been told by the airline that they would arrange accommodation for the 5 hours between flights, which I thought was pretty nice.
At customs, I wondered how to explain my situation to airline staff. It was a busy night/morning. I watched the customs staff from the back of the line. They looked alert; they would tolerate no nonsense, but were friendly and welcoming all the same. One officer greeted a set of Chinese travellers with “ni hau”, and received a set of delighted grins in response.
“Mambo” said a female officer to me. I thought for a minute, and then realised that I knew this one: “Poa” I said in reply. “You are speaking Swahili” she said, sounding surprised, and wanted to know where I’d learned it.
30 minutes and $30 US dollars later, I had a fancy visa sticker in my passport, complete with my details and a picture of me taken with a web camera. I looked tired. I felt it.
I was the last one out of customs. My bags had been put on a trolley for me, which saved me having to look for them. “Here we go”, I thought to myself. I walked through the barrier to the waiting area, and there stood a Tanzanian man holding a sign with two names on it. One of the names was mine. Small mercies at midnight, my insides collapsed with relief. I would not have to explain after all.
The man drove me and the other passenger (a woman) to a nearby hotel. A very flash hotel, which also happened to be a casino, quite a distance from the airport. The driver apologetically drove through red lights. The streets of Dar were deserted.
I checked in with a little delay; we had to surrender our passports for checking, and then I did have to do a little bit of explaining about who was paying the bill. We got there in the end. I arranged a wake-up call, was escorted to my room and had a shower. Ohhh the shower was good. Then I got a solid three hours kip in a queen bed with incredibly soft pillows. I wished I could wash some of my clothes. I wished I knew whether I should have tipped the porter who took my bags for me.
All too soon I was back to the airport. The same driver took me again. He said he would be going back afterwards to get the pilot and flight attendants; they were staying at the same hotel. Small world.
A friendly Ugandan man chatted to me as we waited in line to check in. He lived in Lilongwe, and worked in development. He was interested in my volunteer work, and wanted to know my thoughts/impressions of the poverty I’d seen. “You will see more in Malawi” he noted.
Continued in the next episode...
Getting there was an adventure in itself. A cancelled flight meant that instead of going from Nairobi straight to Blantyre, I would take 2 flights: one from Nairobi to Dar Es Salaam (Tanzania), and then one from Dar to Blantyre, via Lilongwe.
Oh yeah, and the flights were overnight. Joy.
I left my Kenyan host family and fellow volunteers outside the Jomo Kenyatta airport. It was a quick farewell. I suppose that is a good thing, like taking off a sticking plaster. I would miss them. I felt even more alone than when I first left New Zealand, but I was excited and determined too.
The flight left Nairobi at about 10pm, and arrived in Dar at about midnight. I had been told by the airline that they would arrange accommodation for the 5 hours between flights, which I thought was pretty nice.
At customs, I wondered how to explain my situation to airline staff. It was a busy night/morning. I watched the customs staff from the back of the line. They looked alert; they would tolerate no nonsense, but were friendly and welcoming all the same. One officer greeted a set of Chinese travellers with “ni hau”, and received a set of delighted grins in response.
“Mambo” said a female officer to me. I thought for a minute, and then realised that I knew this one: “Poa” I said in reply. “You are speaking Swahili” she said, sounding surprised, and wanted to know where I’d learned it.
30 minutes and $30 US dollars later, I had a fancy visa sticker in my passport, complete with my details and a picture of me taken with a web camera. I looked tired. I felt it.
I was the last one out of customs. My bags had been put on a trolley for me, which saved me having to look for them. “Here we go”, I thought to myself. I walked through the barrier to the waiting area, and there stood a Tanzanian man holding a sign with two names on it. One of the names was mine. Small mercies at midnight, my insides collapsed with relief. I would not have to explain after all.
The man drove me and the other passenger (a woman) to a nearby hotel. A very flash hotel, which also happened to be a casino, quite a distance from the airport. The driver apologetically drove through red lights. The streets of Dar were deserted.
I checked in with a little delay; we had to surrender our passports for checking, and then I did have to do a little bit of explaining about who was paying the bill. We got there in the end. I arranged a wake-up call, was escorted to my room and had a shower. Ohhh the shower was good. Then I got a solid three hours kip in a queen bed with incredibly soft pillows. I wished I could wash some of my clothes. I wished I knew whether I should have tipped the porter who took my bags for me.
All too soon I was back to the airport. The same driver took me again. He said he would be going back afterwards to get the pilot and flight attendants; they were staying at the same hotel. Small world.
A friendly Ugandan man chatted to me as we waited in line to check in. He lived in Lilongwe, and worked in development. He was interested in my volunteer work, and wanted to know my thoughts/impressions of the poverty I’d seen. “You will see more in Malawi” he noted.
Continued in the next episode...
Malawi - part 2
The flight to Lilongwe was pretty uneventful; I was too tired to notice much, and new worries had started to eat away at my mind. It looked green out the window, I approved of that. Landing in Lilongwe airport was my first indicator that Malawi was definitely not Kenya or Tanzania. There were no x-ray machines, instead just a couple of wooden booths. You put your luggage up for checking by hand. My ukulele was particularly noted; I brought it out and strummed it a couple of times. The customs people seemed to like it. Then I was quickly patted down for weapons – by a female officer, thankfully – and gestured on.
The place looked almost deserted. It was a small airport, but confusing. I walked the wrong way up a broken escalator and wandered back and forth, looking for the domestic departures. The Ugandan man – my angel – saw my distress and showed me where to go.
Another plane, another flight. I longed for it to be over. My biggest fear now was what to do when we landed. I had a name for the lodge I was booked into, but no address. World Vision would not be there to meet me; as far as they knew, I was not arriving until the afternoon, and I had arranged no pickup with them. I had been given phone numbers for the local staff…but I had been too shy to ring them from NZ or even Kenya. I didn’t know how big the language barrier would be. I felt that if I failed at communicating by phone, I might chicken out and not go to Malawi at all.
We landed. There were barely any airport staff to be seen. I decided my first thing would be to sort out a SIM card and some local currency. I gathered my luggage, found a trolley and started looking for a shop or an ATM. I saw a currency exchange booth, but nothing else. I kept walking. Within seconds, the airport had suddenly ended: I was walking towards the exit. A man approached me and reached out to take my trolley, offering to push it. I said “no” firmly and kept walking, quicker this time. Further along, another man wearing a fluro vest took my trolley before I could say no. I thought perhaps he worked for the airport. Panic had taken over my brain.
“Where are you going?” he asked? I stuttered and said I was going to a lodge but had no address. “Which lodge?” he asked, as he gestured over another man from a nearby car. “Uuh, Wenela Lodge” I gasped, showing the name of the lodge in my notebook.
“I know it” the taxi man said; for that is what he was, a taxi driver working with a “tout” to get him business. The car did not look like what I knew of taxis in New Zealand, but then, taxis in Nairobi didn’t look like taxis either. “I have no local money” I said, hoping to buy some time to think. “Any currency, any currency madam” the man assured me.
I was out of ideas.
The tout pushed my trolley over to the car. It was a green car. It didn’t make me feel any better. The tout demanded a tip. I thought that was unfair as he’d barely pushed the trolley for 20 metres, but the taxi man was there backing him up and I was all alone. I took out my wallet and handed over my smallest US currency, $10. Bad idea. His expression brightened, and he did not attempt to bargain for more money. For all that I’d spent only a short time in Africa, I knew that was a bad sign.
I asked how much it would cost to get to the lodge, unsure how far I could stretch my US currency before running out entirely. I needed to sort my phone out asap. I agreed to a US$40 fare, and got in the car.
I was shaking, and clutching my belongings close to me. Everything about this situation screamed danger, but I could not find it in me to extract myself. There was no help for me back at the airport. There was no-one else I could ask. I had to go on.
As we drove, I asked the taxi driver if he knew where I could get a SIM card. He stopped in at a petrol station, and said he would get one for me. I handed over another US note, with no little trepidation. He went to the petrol station window, and then ran across the road. Just as I was planning what to do if he abandoned me, the driver came back with my SIM, and change in the local currency, Malawian Kwacha. Phew!
He continued on to the lodge without trouble, and insisted I take down his number in case I needed a lift anywhere else. Off he went. I walked up to the entrance. Wenela looked like a bed and breakfast, rather than a hotel or a backpackers. The reception was a lounge/waiting room with a TV and a stereo, and a couple of couches.
A young woman came over as I entered, and asked in slightly shaky English whether I was the person who called that morning to book Room 1. I knew that wasn’t me, but it might have been for me. I asked for a moment to call World Vision, fumbling with my phone and the SIM. In the end, the woman found out for me: the room was mine, and World Vision knew I was there. My heart rate started to drop. I agreed to the room tariff without truly knowing how much it equated to. Learning the exchange rate was next on my to-do list.
I was shown my room. It was very large, if a little strangely decorated. It came with its own ensuite including toilet and shower, a large queen bed and a mosquito net. There was a wall of cupboards, electric lights, a table and chairs and an armchair. A large window looked out on the lawn. In short, it was more than one person needed, although it would be good to have a nice hangout. I had 4 days to fill in Blantyre, and only one of them would be taken up with visiting sponsor children.
The electricity was out. I eventually understood that it was not off for good, but just for a few hours. A regular occurrence in Blantyre, apparently. My phone was running out of battery, so I sent word of my safe arrival home, and went in search of a bank. I had travellers cheques to exchange, which I thought would give me enough to cover my accommodation and food.
The lodge staff called a taxi for me. I assumed the driver must be a friend of the staff, as the car that drove up could only be called a car by a huge stretch of the imagination, let alone a taxi.
The windscreen was smashed in several places. I could not understand how it was hanging together. The taxi broke down at the first stop we made, and a local parking warden had to help jump-start it. We found a bank. I couldn’t exchange the cheques. Apparently the person who did exchanges was out to lunch. I would have to wait or come back. I chose the latter, and found an ATM. Thankfully, it gave me money from my credit card without trouble.
Malawian Kwacha comes in ridiculously small denominations. The largest you can get is 500 kwacha. To give you an example, the 4 days accommodation at Wenela Lodge cost around 21,000 kwacha. That’s forty-two 500 kwacha notes. It’s not a few notes you can put carefully away in a wallet…it’s more like robbing a bank: you have huge wads of cash which you have to somehow hide on your person without drawing attention. Getting spending money out from your hiding place is even harder.
Last stop was the supermarket. I bought bread rolls, bottled water, biscuits and chocolate. It took a long time, so I bought a drink for the waiting taxi driver. He had been friendly and helpful, and I felt bad about making him wait. Another mistake, I guess. He took the drink with thanks, but the gift must have confirmed the cultural belief that white people are walking ATM machines.
Back at the lodge, my next mistake was ignorance. I had no idea whether the driver’s asking price for the trip was reasonable or not. I confessed as much to him, and said I would pay what he asked for. He promised that if I rode with him again, he would offer a cheaper rate, because we knew each other. At the time, I believed him.
The electricity was still out at 6pm, when it started to get fully dark. I was starting to resign myself to a very early night, when one of the staff brought in candles. It was kinda romantic, sitting by the window, writing in my journal by candlelight. The bars on the window made me pause though. I tried to sit further behind the curtains, not wanting to be seen. I had made enough stupid mistakes for one day, it was time to start being cautious. I locked my door.
The lights magically came on at around 8pm, and all was right with the world. A dinner of chocolate and rolls sent me off to sleep.
Continued in the next episode...
The place looked almost deserted. It was a small airport, but confusing. I walked the wrong way up a broken escalator and wandered back and forth, looking for the domestic departures. The Ugandan man – my angel – saw my distress and showed me where to go.
Another plane, another flight. I longed for it to be over. My biggest fear now was what to do when we landed. I had a name for the lodge I was booked into, but no address. World Vision would not be there to meet me; as far as they knew, I was not arriving until the afternoon, and I had arranged no pickup with them. I had been given phone numbers for the local staff…but I had been too shy to ring them from NZ or even Kenya. I didn’t know how big the language barrier would be. I felt that if I failed at communicating by phone, I might chicken out and not go to Malawi at all.
We landed. There were barely any airport staff to be seen. I decided my first thing would be to sort out a SIM card and some local currency. I gathered my luggage, found a trolley and started looking for a shop or an ATM. I saw a currency exchange booth, but nothing else. I kept walking. Within seconds, the airport had suddenly ended: I was walking towards the exit. A man approached me and reached out to take my trolley, offering to push it. I said “no” firmly and kept walking, quicker this time. Further along, another man wearing a fluro vest took my trolley before I could say no. I thought perhaps he worked for the airport. Panic had taken over my brain.
“Where are you going?” he asked? I stuttered and said I was going to a lodge but had no address. “Which lodge?” he asked, as he gestured over another man from a nearby car. “Uuh, Wenela Lodge” I gasped, showing the name of the lodge in my notebook.
“I know it” the taxi man said; for that is what he was, a taxi driver working with a “tout” to get him business. The car did not look like what I knew of taxis in New Zealand, but then, taxis in Nairobi didn’t look like taxis either. “I have no local money” I said, hoping to buy some time to think. “Any currency, any currency madam” the man assured me.
I was out of ideas.
The tout pushed my trolley over to the car. It was a green car. It didn’t make me feel any better. The tout demanded a tip. I thought that was unfair as he’d barely pushed the trolley for 20 metres, but the taxi man was there backing him up and I was all alone. I took out my wallet and handed over my smallest US currency, $10. Bad idea. His expression brightened, and he did not attempt to bargain for more money. For all that I’d spent only a short time in Africa, I knew that was a bad sign.
I asked how much it would cost to get to the lodge, unsure how far I could stretch my US currency before running out entirely. I needed to sort my phone out asap. I agreed to a US$40 fare, and got in the car.
I was shaking, and clutching my belongings close to me. Everything about this situation screamed danger, but I could not find it in me to extract myself. There was no help for me back at the airport. There was no-one else I could ask. I had to go on.
As we drove, I asked the taxi driver if he knew where I could get a SIM card. He stopped in at a petrol station, and said he would get one for me. I handed over another US note, with no little trepidation. He went to the petrol station window, and then ran across the road. Just as I was planning what to do if he abandoned me, the driver came back with my SIM, and change in the local currency, Malawian Kwacha. Phew!
He continued on to the lodge without trouble, and insisted I take down his number in case I needed a lift anywhere else. Off he went. I walked up to the entrance. Wenela looked like a bed and breakfast, rather than a hotel or a backpackers. The reception was a lounge/waiting room with a TV and a stereo, and a couple of couches.
A young woman came over as I entered, and asked in slightly shaky English whether I was the person who called that morning to book Room 1. I knew that wasn’t me, but it might have been for me. I asked for a moment to call World Vision, fumbling with my phone and the SIM. In the end, the woman found out for me: the room was mine, and World Vision knew I was there. My heart rate started to drop. I agreed to the room tariff without truly knowing how much it equated to. Learning the exchange rate was next on my to-do list.
I was shown my room. It was very large, if a little strangely decorated. It came with its own ensuite including toilet and shower, a large queen bed and a mosquito net. There was a wall of cupboards, electric lights, a table and chairs and an armchair. A large window looked out on the lawn. In short, it was more than one person needed, although it would be good to have a nice hangout. I had 4 days to fill in Blantyre, and only one of them would be taken up with visiting sponsor children.
The electricity was out. I eventually understood that it was not off for good, but just for a few hours. A regular occurrence in Blantyre, apparently. My phone was running out of battery, so I sent word of my safe arrival home, and went in search of a bank. I had travellers cheques to exchange, which I thought would give me enough to cover my accommodation and food.
The lodge staff called a taxi for me. I assumed the driver must be a friend of the staff, as the car that drove up could only be called a car by a huge stretch of the imagination, let alone a taxi.
The windscreen was smashed in several places. I could not understand how it was hanging together. The taxi broke down at the first stop we made, and a local parking warden had to help jump-start it. We found a bank. I couldn’t exchange the cheques. Apparently the person who did exchanges was out to lunch. I would have to wait or come back. I chose the latter, and found an ATM. Thankfully, it gave me money from my credit card without trouble.
Malawian Kwacha comes in ridiculously small denominations. The largest you can get is 500 kwacha. To give you an example, the 4 days accommodation at Wenela Lodge cost around 21,000 kwacha. That’s forty-two 500 kwacha notes. It’s not a few notes you can put carefully away in a wallet…it’s more like robbing a bank: you have huge wads of cash which you have to somehow hide on your person without drawing attention. Getting spending money out from your hiding place is even harder.
Last stop was the supermarket. I bought bread rolls, bottled water, biscuits and chocolate. It took a long time, so I bought a drink for the waiting taxi driver. He had been friendly and helpful, and I felt bad about making him wait. Another mistake, I guess. He took the drink with thanks, but the gift must have confirmed the cultural belief that white people are walking ATM machines.
Back at the lodge, my next mistake was ignorance. I had no idea whether the driver’s asking price for the trip was reasonable or not. I confessed as much to him, and said I would pay what he asked for. He promised that if I rode with him again, he would offer a cheaper rate, because we knew each other. At the time, I believed him.
The electricity was still out at 6pm, when it started to get fully dark. I was starting to resign myself to a very early night, when one of the staff brought in candles. It was kinda romantic, sitting by the window, writing in my journal by candlelight. The bars on the window made me pause though. I tried to sit further behind the curtains, not wanting to be seen. I had made enough stupid mistakes for one day, it was time to start being cautious. I locked my door.
The lights magically came on at around 8pm, and all was right with the world. A dinner of chocolate and rolls sent me off to sleep.
Continued in the next episode...
Malawi - part 3
I woke naturally around 7.30am, leisurely got ready, and then went to see about breakfast (which came with my accommodation). It was a weird mixture of bread, margarine, a boiled egg and potato oven fries…but I wasn’t about to complain. It was hot and filling, and the tea was plentiful.
I stayed at the lodge most of that day, writing, and washing my clothes…outside in the rain, hehe. Eventually, I plucked up the courage to ring World Vision to introduce myself. I spoke to a friendly sounding woman called Monica. She said she would come to pick me up about 10am the following morning for the sponsorship visit. That done, it was time to explore. I wasn’t up for another ride in the taxi, so I went on foot.
I had seen a sign for the local backpackers, Doogles, on the drive in so I went to see how far it was. It was barely a minute’s walk away, and had a nice looking café/bar, and an outside pool. Unlike other local eating establishments, it actually advertised what food it was selling on a big blackboard, along with prices. The food sounded like home: lasagne, nachos, etc. And they had internet! I was sold. I ordered a coke and a vegetarian lasagne at the bar. When it came out, I almost cried, it was so beautiful. It came out with fresh leafy salad. Real tomato. Lots of lovely cheese sauce. Beautiful.
Later, exploring their internet access, I found a grand total of three computers, one of which looked broken. But it must have been a quiet time, as I had no competition. Facebook wouldn’t work, but my email would, as would my blog site. Small mercies.
I walked down to the local petrol station to see if there were any other options for dinner. I ended up buying a torch and some batteries. Take THAT, unreliable electricity!
It’s a good thing I did, as I would need them again the next night.
All this time, I can’t say I ever felt completely safe. I felt watched as I walked, although the looks did not seem necessarily unfriendly. I walked quickly and with purpose. I didn’t want to stop and chat.
Next morning, Wednesday, I got up a bit earlier and had the same breakfast with a slight variation: the egg was fried. This time I was not alone in the breakfast area, there was a Zimbabwean couple there too. We exchanged pleasantries, and I borrowed their milk jug for my tea.
The rest of that day is a story best told on its own. Suffice it to say that it was an incredible experience, visiting my sponsor kids, their families and the area office. One of the best days of my life.
Thursday came, my last day in Malawi – or so I thought. In the morning, World Vision picked me up again. Today, I would meet the Area Manager who I had not met the day before. She was lovely, we shared tea, and I got a bunch of photos from my visit put on my memory stick. They took me back to the lodge, and we said our farewells. Monica asked me to text her from the airport, so she would know I had got there safely.
My next task was to arrange a taxi for 5.30am the next morning, so I could catch my flight out to Dar Es Salaam. I asked the lodge staff for help, but they seemed busy, and said they would try and arrange it later. I didn’t want to press them; they’d already gone out to get me phone credit twice, which was pretty nice. I went out for another walk, I needed to get money out to pay for my accommodation at an ATM – I’d given up on the bank – and for another internet fix. The closest ATM was at the BP station. It had a guard, but it was in full view of the bus station across the road. Using it was a mistake, I felt it even at the time, but what other option was there?
On the walk to Doogles, I saw the taxi (the one with the bashed in windscreen) waiting with a pile of other cars and drivers. A taxi waiting area. Good to know, I thought. He recognised me, and seemed pleased when I recognised him. I decided it would be a good idea to try and arrange transport for the next day myself. I had to repeat what I wanted a few times, but eventually I felt sure that he understood, and would come and pick me up at 5.30am the next morning. Sorted.
I stopped by the lodge to tell the staff that I was all organised. There were a group of men outside, who greeted me as I went in. On my way out, one of them said “we’re just here, outside for a drink”. I nodded and smiled politely, although I was confused. I was pretty sure we hadn’t met, so why he’d be telling me this, I didn’t know. Another meal at Doogles, beef lasagne this time: oh yeah, I was branching out. I came back to Wenela in the early evening, just as it was starting to become dusk. The men were there, four of them, drinking and chatting. As I went to go inside, one of them said “can I buy you a drink?”
Thus begins the infamous “my mother would kill me” conversation.
Having never actually met these men, I thought it would be unwise to sit and drink with them. But I wasn’t expecting the question, so I had no polite answer. The best I could come up with was “my mother would kill me”. Oh Sarah. Really? Really.
I then had to explain what I meant by that comment. The man, Master was his name, took it rather well, but expressed surprise that someone my age would still be doing what her mother said. Slightly annoyed, I defended my comment. I was in an unsafe position. I was a female travelling alone. Another mistake mentioning that, but now I felt I had to make this man understand that I was being rational, not offensive. I began to enjoy the discussion despite myself, and when a chair was offered, I took it.
I found out that Master, get this, was a pastor. Pastor Master? Oh yes. Hilarious. He introduced me to his friends. They all seemed pretty intellectual, discussing politics and agriculture, and wanting to know about New Zealand. In return I learned some of the history of Malawi, and the reason why the belief that white skin=rich ran so deep. Blame the missionaries. Helping people has its downfalls it seems.
We talked for about an hour and a half, and for the first time since arriving in Blantyre I started to relax. Master brought up the “my mother would kill me” comment several times, teasing me relentlessly. He said, “you do not need to be afraid of Malawians, we are all friendly”. “Do you not have crime?”, I asked? He said they did, of course, but seemed to dismiss the idea all the same. Master and his friends left, and I went indoors to pack, and pay for my stay. I included what I hoped was a reasonable tip.
My clothes were not all dry yet; I hung some up in the bathroom and packed the rest. I wore my dress to bed. Everything sorted, I set my alarm to get up at 5am and went to sleep.
Continued in the next episode...
I stayed at the lodge most of that day, writing, and washing my clothes…outside in the rain, hehe. Eventually, I plucked up the courage to ring World Vision to introduce myself. I spoke to a friendly sounding woman called Monica. She said she would come to pick me up about 10am the following morning for the sponsorship visit. That done, it was time to explore. I wasn’t up for another ride in the taxi, so I went on foot.
I had seen a sign for the local backpackers, Doogles, on the drive in so I went to see how far it was. It was barely a minute’s walk away, and had a nice looking café/bar, and an outside pool. Unlike other local eating establishments, it actually advertised what food it was selling on a big blackboard, along with prices. The food sounded like home: lasagne, nachos, etc. And they had internet! I was sold. I ordered a coke and a vegetarian lasagne at the bar. When it came out, I almost cried, it was so beautiful. It came out with fresh leafy salad. Real tomato. Lots of lovely cheese sauce. Beautiful.
Later, exploring their internet access, I found a grand total of three computers, one of which looked broken. But it must have been a quiet time, as I had no competition. Facebook wouldn’t work, but my email would, as would my blog site. Small mercies.
I walked down to the local petrol station to see if there were any other options for dinner. I ended up buying a torch and some batteries. Take THAT, unreliable electricity!
It’s a good thing I did, as I would need them again the next night.
All this time, I can’t say I ever felt completely safe. I felt watched as I walked, although the looks did not seem necessarily unfriendly. I walked quickly and with purpose. I didn’t want to stop and chat.
Next morning, Wednesday, I got up a bit earlier and had the same breakfast with a slight variation: the egg was fried. This time I was not alone in the breakfast area, there was a Zimbabwean couple there too. We exchanged pleasantries, and I borrowed their milk jug for my tea.
The rest of that day is a story best told on its own. Suffice it to say that it was an incredible experience, visiting my sponsor kids, their families and the area office. One of the best days of my life.
Thursday came, my last day in Malawi – or so I thought. In the morning, World Vision picked me up again. Today, I would meet the Area Manager who I had not met the day before. She was lovely, we shared tea, and I got a bunch of photos from my visit put on my memory stick. They took me back to the lodge, and we said our farewells. Monica asked me to text her from the airport, so she would know I had got there safely.
My next task was to arrange a taxi for 5.30am the next morning, so I could catch my flight out to Dar Es Salaam. I asked the lodge staff for help, but they seemed busy, and said they would try and arrange it later. I didn’t want to press them; they’d already gone out to get me phone credit twice, which was pretty nice. I went out for another walk, I needed to get money out to pay for my accommodation at an ATM – I’d given up on the bank – and for another internet fix. The closest ATM was at the BP station. It had a guard, but it was in full view of the bus station across the road. Using it was a mistake, I felt it even at the time, but what other option was there?
On the walk to Doogles, I saw the taxi (the one with the bashed in windscreen) waiting with a pile of other cars and drivers. A taxi waiting area. Good to know, I thought. He recognised me, and seemed pleased when I recognised him. I decided it would be a good idea to try and arrange transport for the next day myself. I had to repeat what I wanted a few times, but eventually I felt sure that he understood, and would come and pick me up at 5.30am the next morning. Sorted.
I stopped by the lodge to tell the staff that I was all organised. There were a group of men outside, who greeted me as I went in. On my way out, one of them said “we’re just here, outside for a drink”. I nodded and smiled politely, although I was confused. I was pretty sure we hadn’t met, so why he’d be telling me this, I didn’t know. Another meal at Doogles, beef lasagne this time: oh yeah, I was branching out. I came back to Wenela in the early evening, just as it was starting to become dusk. The men were there, four of them, drinking and chatting. As I went to go inside, one of them said “can I buy you a drink?”
Thus begins the infamous “my mother would kill me” conversation.
Having never actually met these men, I thought it would be unwise to sit and drink with them. But I wasn’t expecting the question, so I had no polite answer. The best I could come up with was “my mother would kill me”. Oh Sarah. Really? Really.
I then had to explain what I meant by that comment. The man, Master was his name, took it rather well, but expressed surprise that someone my age would still be doing what her mother said. Slightly annoyed, I defended my comment. I was in an unsafe position. I was a female travelling alone. Another mistake mentioning that, but now I felt I had to make this man understand that I was being rational, not offensive. I began to enjoy the discussion despite myself, and when a chair was offered, I took it.
I found out that Master, get this, was a pastor. Pastor Master? Oh yes. Hilarious. He introduced me to his friends. They all seemed pretty intellectual, discussing politics and agriculture, and wanting to know about New Zealand. In return I learned some of the history of Malawi, and the reason why the belief that white skin=rich ran so deep. Blame the missionaries. Helping people has its downfalls it seems.
We talked for about an hour and a half, and for the first time since arriving in Blantyre I started to relax. Master brought up the “my mother would kill me” comment several times, teasing me relentlessly. He said, “you do not need to be afraid of Malawians, we are all friendly”. “Do you not have crime?”, I asked? He said they did, of course, but seemed to dismiss the idea all the same. Master and his friends left, and I went indoors to pack, and pay for my stay. I included what I hoped was a reasonable tip.
My clothes were not all dry yet; I hung some up in the bathroom and packed the rest. I wore my dress to bed. Everything sorted, I set my alarm to get up at 5am and went to sleep.
Continued in the next episode...
Malawi - part 4: the day God saved my life
I have been wary of sharing this part of story. I’m not really sure why. Is it because I don’t want it to taint my memories of my trip? Or is it that I want to protect friends and family from knowing the gritty details?
Both are good reasons to stay quiet, I think.
There is only one thing that makes me change my mind. It is hard to state convincingly that God saved my life without letting you know what he saved me from.
God can get a pretty bad rap of late. Natural disasters, religious tensions, incurable diseases…none of these speak of the love of a father God for his sons and daughters. You don’t see many miracles in the 21st century.
I know I don’t always speak well of him. This is one instance when I can say categorically that God was on my side. He intervened.
---------------
The noise started at midnight.
It was a cracking sound, but also like someone was banging against something. I woke up confused, and sat up in bed to listen. A couple of options went through my mind. Perhaps the door had come open and was swinging shut. No, that wasn’t an option, as I’d locked the door.
Perhaps there was an emergency, like a fire, and the staff were trying to get my attention, or even trying to get me out. I waited.
There was one big crack, and then more noises, different ones. Scuffling and strange voices, talking at once. And running, a stampede. I suppose the light must have come through from the corrider, because I could now see faces of men, strangers, running over to my bed.
My brain was still partially asleep, and trying in vain to understand the situation: the reason why a dozen men had seemingly broken down my door and rushed in…
One of them reached the bed, and started to grapple at the mosquito net that covered me; another said quickly, loudly, “where’s the phone?”.
I started to wail, a sound close to a scream, but it mostly consisted of the word “nooooooooo!”
My brain had finally reached its conclusions as to why these men could be here. In my room. Trying to grab at me. This was it. This was the reason for the bars on the windows and the guard at the gate. This is the situation you consider to be possible, but hope or believe will never happen to you. My wail was one of sudden understanding and disbelief, as well as outrage and fear.
One of the men grabbed hold of the phone in my hand, and started to pull. My instinct was to struggle, still wailing. Another man said quietly, matter-of-factly, “no, we will kill you”.
No. We will kill you. Those five words changed everything. I believed him. I believed they could do it easily. I did not even register that they had weapons. My imagination did not supply a method, simply the truth that if I did not shut up, I would die.
I shut up.
The man finally forced the phone from my hand. I was helpless. “Where’s the money?” he barked at me. I pointed to my packed bags, “over there” I said. They got to work. I realised that all this time, men had been coming and going; they now started to carry away my things, and search through cupboards. I watched them, silently. One of them turned on my torch and took it with him.
They went out in in drips and drabs, coming back in a couple of times. Eventually it was quiet. I was alone.
I got out of bed. Possibly a stupid idea, but I figured I had nothing to lose. I could stay there no longer. It dawned on me that no-one had come running when I screamed. It was so quiet. I started to consider the possibility that everyone else was dead.
I stumbled into the light of the corridoor. It hurt my eyes. I couldn’t stop shaking.
I stopped at the first doorway I came to. It was another guest room, with the door open. I looked inside.
There was the face of another woman, a slim middle-aged woman, a “mzungu” (white-skinned person) like me. She looked at me wordlessly for a moment, and then, seeing how much I was shaking, she held out her arms. She gave me a tight hug, and I felt some of the tension ease. She began to tell me what the men had taken from her, in a whisper. We wondered together if they were gone.
We found out soon; they weren’t gone. Three of them came again, asking the same question, “where’s the money?”. Here I was glad of the woman – Karin’s – presence. She was so calm. She explained to the men slowly and quietly that they already had all her money, “please” she said “we have given you everything”. They obviously did not believe her because they came to search us, looking, I suppose, for hidden stashes of cash or valuables. It was scary and shaming, and mercifully quick. We were obviously not hiding anything.
They went, and another man came back. Same question. Lack of organisation, we supposed later. This one gestured to me and said “you, come with me”. Horrified, I cried out “no!”. I expected an angry response, and to be dragged out kicking and screaming…to what end I wasn’t sure. Instead, Karin simply repeated her plea, “please, leave us alone, you have everything”. Incredibly, the man left without a word.
One more time they came back. One man gestured for us to stay sitting, saying “cool, cool” with his arm extended, palm down. I never expected to be told to remain calm by an attacker. It was surreal. On one level, my mind was actually amused, and strangely gratified.
Then silence once more. Karin and I waited, possibly five minutes. We wondered if this time, they were really gone. Eventually I could wait no longer, and started creeping towards the door. And heard voices. I felt sick. They were still here.
But it wasn’t them after all. I peeked around the corner and saw the Zimbabwean guy I’d met at breakfast, talking to another man, also a guest at the lodge. They were discussing whether it was safe to walk over to the police station yet. Yes, that’s right. The police station was in walking distance. They decided to see if the neighbour behind the lodge was there instead.
The bad men were gone, but it felt like any minute, they would come back. The lodge could not protect us. There was nowhere safe.
I walked into the reception and saw one of the lodge staff on the ground. He had been gagged and tied up, and was being released by the other guests. Interestingly, the robbers had taken the cushions off the couch and put them on the floor for the man to lie on. Was this compassion? I couldn’t tell. They had taken the TV and the stereo, leaving wires sticking out of the wall.
I heard later that my decision to give the lodge guy my payment that night might have saved his life. He still had the cash on him when the men came. Certainly it was at least as much money as they would have found in my bags. What would have happened if he’d had nothing to give them?
The police arrived. They wandered around, looking largely disinterested. I was waiting for them to acknowledge me and the rest of the guests, to express sympathy, to ask questions about what happened…that sort of thing. In the end, all they did was recommend we write down what had been taken, and come into the station at 8am the next day to write a statement. I’m trying to remember whether they were carrying guns. If they were, I didn’t care enough to be scared. These were not police, not as I understood the word. They would not protect us.
The neighbour behind Wenela was awake, and she came over to see how we were doing. I found out later that she was the daughter of the lodge owner. She graciously let us use her cellphone to text family/friends. The only number I knew by heart was my mother’s and the message did not get through. I decided that was for the best. There was not much anyone could do at that time. We all needed sleep, but there was no way I was going back to my bed. I went back into the room to get my chocolate. At least I could share that around and be of some help. I found blood on the sheets, obviously one of the men had been injured. I thought about how important that sort of evidence would be for police in New Zealand, and how obviously little it meant in Malawi.
I turned over the bedspread absently. There I found my iPod, sitting innocently. It had been missed in the rush. I picked it up triumphantly. This was a prize, and they had missed it. They had taken my phone, my pack, my ukulele, my journal, my money bag, my passport wallet, my camera, my pills, my airplane tickets, everything I needed to get home, as well as every memory of my trip thus far. But they did not have this. I checked the bathroom. I also had at least one other change of clothes, and my shoes. Small mercies again.
I listened to Eric Wainaina’s Sawa Sawa on repeat, letting the lyrics “you’re alright, you’re okay” sink in. The other guests were sharing their own experiences. We were all shaken or angry, but still thanking God for how lightly we got off. I heard the gate man had been tricked and tied up, but not killed. No-one had died. The Malawian man, the guest, had been hurt but not too badly. I felt glum though. I was now entirely at the mercy of whoever decided to help me. If that was no-one, then I was really in trouble. I prayed. God, please help me. Later, after hearing that the other guests had lost even the shoes off their feet, and didn’t even have travel insurance, I prayed that not only would God help me but that somehow he would help me help them.
It’s not often that I can say a prayer has been answered without the word “coincidence” lurking over my shoulder. I could this time.
Morning came, and some of the guests looked around outside to see if the robbers had abandoned anything. I thought this was pretty pointless – why would they leave anything behind that they had a hope of selling or using? Lord knows they needed anything they could get. In the night, the other guests had remembered that few of them had shoes, and one had no shirt. One had left behind a hat with holes in it. I hadn’t noticed their poverty.
Someone passed me a black bag. It looked a lot like my money bag, and it was. Woah. The cash was gone, but there were several items still inside:
1. My notebook. This had memories of my first days in Kenya, my passport details, and the names/numbers of friends/family, including the numbers for World Vision in Blantyre
2. My memory stick. This had a scanned image of my passport and my plane tickets, complete with electronic numbers, plus all my photos from my time in Kenya copied from my camera
3. My credit cards. Two of them. In short, the means to buy plane tickets, alternative accommodation, clothes if I needed them. And the ability to help some of the other guests to get home.
Before I left NZ, my church gifted me with some money. While in Blantyre, I heard from another friend who had given me another sum of money, to help with my trip. These two donations helped the young Zimbabwean couple to get clothes, accommodation, food, and travel back home. None of that money came from me, but the means to help them had. Answered prayer: affirmative. Remarkable.
There is much more to this story, such as our visit to the police station, and being rescued by my adoptive “Malawi mum” and her incredible family. But I am tired of writing now, and you are probably tired of reading.
I will leave that for next time.
For now, kia kaha. I can say “be strong” to anyone without fear of being unreasonable, because I know of a God who saves lives, and makes good experiences come from bad ones. Check him out, I hear he works pretty reasonable hours.
Sarah
PS: one last thought. I met the taxi driver again after the robbery. Either he’s a bad man (ie. he was “in” on it) or he’s a simple one, because he claimed that I asked to be picked up at 5.30PM, not AM. So I would probably have missed my flight anyway. Interesting, that.
Both are good reasons to stay quiet, I think.
There is only one thing that makes me change my mind. It is hard to state convincingly that God saved my life without letting you know what he saved me from.
God can get a pretty bad rap of late. Natural disasters, religious tensions, incurable diseases…none of these speak of the love of a father God for his sons and daughters. You don’t see many miracles in the 21st century.
I know I don’t always speak well of him. This is one instance when I can say categorically that God was on my side. He intervened.
---------------
The noise started at midnight.
It was a cracking sound, but also like someone was banging against something. I woke up confused, and sat up in bed to listen. A couple of options went through my mind. Perhaps the door had come open and was swinging shut. No, that wasn’t an option, as I’d locked the door.
Perhaps there was an emergency, like a fire, and the staff were trying to get my attention, or even trying to get me out. I waited.
There was one big crack, and then more noises, different ones. Scuffling and strange voices, talking at once. And running, a stampede. I suppose the light must have come through from the corrider, because I could now see faces of men, strangers, running over to my bed.
My brain was still partially asleep, and trying in vain to understand the situation: the reason why a dozen men had seemingly broken down my door and rushed in…
One of them reached the bed, and started to grapple at the mosquito net that covered me; another said quickly, loudly, “where’s the phone?”.
I started to wail, a sound close to a scream, but it mostly consisted of the word “nooooooooo!”
My brain had finally reached its conclusions as to why these men could be here. In my room. Trying to grab at me. This was it. This was the reason for the bars on the windows and the guard at the gate. This is the situation you consider to be possible, but hope or believe will never happen to you. My wail was one of sudden understanding and disbelief, as well as outrage and fear.
One of the men grabbed hold of the phone in my hand, and started to pull. My instinct was to struggle, still wailing. Another man said quietly, matter-of-factly, “no, we will kill you”.
No. We will kill you. Those five words changed everything. I believed him. I believed they could do it easily. I did not even register that they had weapons. My imagination did not supply a method, simply the truth that if I did not shut up, I would die.
I shut up.
The man finally forced the phone from my hand. I was helpless. “Where’s the money?” he barked at me. I pointed to my packed bags, “over there” I said. They got to work. I realised that all this time, men had been coming and going; they now started to carry away my things, and search through cupboards. I watched them, silently. One of them turned on my torch and took it with him.
They went out in in drips and drabs, coming back in a couple of times. Eventually it was quiet. I was alone.
I got out of bed. Possibly a stupid idea, but I figured I had nothing to lose. I could stay there no longer. It dawned on me that no-one had come running when I screamed. It was so quiet. I started to consider the possibility that everyone else was dead.
I stumbled into the light of the corridoor. It hurt my eyes. I couldn’t stop shaking.
I stopped at the first doorway I came to. It was another guest room, with the door open. I looked inside.
There was the face of another woman, a slim middle-aged woman, a “mzungu” (white-skinned person) like me. She looked at me wordlessly for a moment, and then, seeing how much I was shaking, she held out her arms. She gave me a tight hug, and I felt some of the tension ease. She began to tell me what the men had taken from her, in a whisper. We wondered together if they were gone.
We found out soon; they weren’t gone. Three of them came again, asking the same question, “where’s the money?”. Here I was glad of the woman – Karin’s – presence. She was so calm. She explained to the men slowly and quietly that they already had all her money, “please” she said “we have given you everything”. They obviously did not believe her because they came to search us, looking, I suppose, for hidden stashes of cash or valuables. It was scary and shaming, and mercifully quick. We were obviously not hiding anything.
They went, and another man came back. Same question. Lack of organisation, we supposed later. This one gestured to me and said “you, come with me”. Horrified, I cried out “no!”. I expected an angry response, and to be dragged out kicking and screaming…to what end I wasn’t sure. Instead, Karin simply repeated her plea, “please, leave us alone, you have everything”. Incredibly, the man left without a word.
One more time they came back. One man gestured for us to stay sitting, saying “cool, cool” with his arm extended, palm down. I never expected to be told to remain calm by an attacker. It was surreal. On one level, my mind was actually amused, and strangely gratified.
Then silence once more. Karin and I waited, possibly five minutes. We wondered if this time, they were really gone. Eventually I could wait no longer, and started creeping towards the door. And heard voices. I felt sick. They were still here.
But it wasn’t them after all. I peeked around the corner and saw the Zimbabwean guy I’d met at breakfast, talking to another man, also a guest at the lodge. They were discussing whether it was safe to walk over to the police station yet. Yes, that’s right. The police station was in walking distance. They decided to see if the neighbour behind the lodge was there instead.
The bad men were gone, but it felt like any minute, they would come back. The lodge could not protect us. There was nowhere safe.
I walked into the reception and saw one of the lodge staff on the ground. He had been gagged and tied up, and was being released by the other guests. Interestingly, the robbers had taken the cushions off the couch and put them on the floor for the man to lie on. Was this compassion? I couldn’t tell. They had taken the TV and the stereo, leaving wires sticking out of the wall.
I heard later that my decision to give the lodge guy my payment that night might have saved his life. He still had the cash on him when the men came. Certainly it was at least as much money as they would have found in my bags. What would have happened if he’d had nothing to give them?
The police arrived. They wandered around, looking largely disinterested. I was waiting for them to acknowledge me and the rest of the guests, to express sympathy, to ask questions about what happened…that sort of thing. In the end, all they did was recommend we write down what had been taken, and come into the station at 8am the next day to write a statement. I’m trying to remember whether they were carrying guns. If they were, I didn’t care enough to be scared. These were not police, not as I understood the word. They would not protect us.
The neighbour behind Wenela was awake, and she came over to see how we were doing. I found out later that she was the daughter of the lodge owner. She graciously let us use her cellphone to text family/friends. The only number I knew by heart was my mother’s and the message did not get through. I decided that was for the best. There was not much anyone could do at that time. We all needed sleep, but there was no way I was going back to my bed. I went back into the room to get my chocolate. At least I could share that around and be of some help. I found blood on the sheets, obviously one of the men had been injured. I thought about how important that sort of evidence would be for police in New Zealand, and how obviously little it meant in Malawi.
I turned over the bedspread absently. There I found my iPod, sitting innocently. It had been missed in the rush. I picked it up triumphantly. This was a prize, and they had missed it. They had taken my phone, my pack, my ukulele, my journal, my money bag, my passport wallet, my camera, my pills, my airplane tickets, everything I needed to get home, as well as every memory of my trip thus far. But they did not have this. I checked the bathroom. I also had at least one other change of clothes, and my shoes. Small mercies again.
I listened to Eric Wainaina’s Sawa Sawa on repeat, letting the lyrics “you’re alright, you’re okay” sink in. The other guests were sharing their own experiences. We were all shaken or angry, but still thanking God for how lightly we got off. I heard the gate man had been tricked and tied up, but not killed. No-one had died. The Malawian man, the guest, had been hurt but not too badly. I felt glum though. I was now entirely at the mercy of whoever decided to help me. If that was no-one, then I was really in trouble. I prayed. God, please help me. Later, after hearing that the other guests had lost even the shoes off their feet, and didn’t even have travel insurance, I prayed that not only would God help me but that somehow he would help me help them.
It’s not often that I can say a prayer has been answered without the word “coincidence” lurking over my shoulder. I could this time.
Morning came, and some of the guests looked around outside to see if the robbers had abandoned anything. I thought this was pretty pointless – why would they leave anything behind that they had a hope of selling or using? Lord knows they needed anything they could get. In the night, the other guests had remembered that few of them had shoes, and one had no shirt. One had left behind a hat with holes in it. I hadn’t noticed their poverty.
Someone passed me a black bag. It looked a lot like my money bag, and it was. Woah. The cash was gone, but there were several items still inside:
1. My notebook. This had memories of my first days in Kenya, my passport details, and the names/numbers of friends/family, including the numbers for World Vision in Blantyre
2. My memory stick. This had a scanned image of my passport and my plane tickets, complete with electronic numbers, plus all my photos from my time in Kenya copied from my camera
3. My credit cards. Two of them. In short, the means to buy plane tickets, alternative accommodation, clothes if I needed them. And the ability to help some of the other guests to get home.
Before I left NZ, my church gifted me with some money. While in Blantyre, I heard from another friend who had given me another sum of money, to help with my trip. These two donations helped the young Zimbabwean couple to get clothes, accommodation, food, and travel back home. None of that money came from me, but the means to help them had. Answered prayer: affirmative. Remarkable.
There is much more to this story, such as our visit to the police station, and being rescued by my adoptive “Malawi mum” and her incredible family. But I am tired of writing now, and you are probably tired of reading.
I will leave that for next time.
For now, kia kaha. I can say “be strong” to anyone without fear of being unreasonable, because I know of a God who saves lives, and makes good experiences come from bad ones. Check him out, I hear he works pretty reasonable hours.
Sarah
PS: one last thought. I met the taxi driver again after the robbery. Either he’s a bad man (ie. he was “in” on it) or he’s a simple one, because he claimed that I asked to be picked up at 5.30PM, not AM. So I would probably have missed my flight anyway. Interesting, that.
Monday, June 29, 2009
thank you letter
Dear Sarah
I write this letter to say thank you for visiting our family on 22nd April 2009.
This date will never get out of my mind it has been great honour.
Secondly, thank you for the gifts a ball, pens and balloons. I enjoy using the pens at school.
I also play netball with colleagues during my free time after classes.
My grandmother and mum wish you well.
Greetings from the family.
God bless you.
I write this letter to say thank you for visiting our family on 22nd April 2009.
This date will never get out of my mind it has been great honour.
Secondly, thank you for the gifts a ball, pens and balloons. I enjoy using the pens at school.
I also play netball with colleagues during my free time after classes.
My grandmother and mum wish you well.
Greetings from the family.
God bless you.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
it's been a while...
I've been slowly working away on writing up my journal. Hoping to finish this sooner rather than later, or I'm gonna forget everything!
In the meantime, I've done a short writeup on my volunteering experience on the All Saints website entitled: I never intended to go to Africa. Hehe, so true.
love huggies xx
In the meantime, I've done a short writeup on my volunteering experience on the All Saints website entitled: I never intended to go to Africa. Hehe, so true.
love huggies xx
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