This Place Where I Have Arrived

Week three in Malawi has just concluded and my sense of place has finally returned.  I know where to buy chickens and eggs and beans and rice.  I know where to go for a relaxing dinner and a quick swim.  I know where to find notebooks and pens, clothsline and rat traps.  I even have begun to negotiate the second-hand clothes section of the market where I duck under hanging shirts and dig through piles of imported unwanted Western –style clothes to find something suitably professional to teach in.  Unfortunately, I still haven’t learned where to find the unbelievably delicious large green mangos that Jesse and I first sampled after flagging down a bicyclist on the side of the road two weeks ago.

 

The location of places in this small part of Malawi are described as either up the road or down the road.  The road is the main passage for all types of traffic- foot, bicycle, car, and truck, and, being recently paved, one can observe a terrify range of speeds from all manner of vehicle.  Nevertheless, this is the road upon which we live.  MCV is located several kilometers north of the town of Mangochi along this road.  The distance is far enough that, for us, walking under the hot sun is not a particularly good option (especially since the medication that Jesse takes to prevent Malaria increase his chances of quickly turning into a lobster).  Biking would work, except that as mentioned before, bikes share the road with cars that do not seem to obey speed laws or the left-side driving convention.  With no way to procure a helmet, I don’t want to risk a collision.  So, the only way to get to town is to catch a ride on a passing minibus or metola.

 

A metola is a curious phenomena that exists around the world under many different names that seems to spontaneously arise in any economy in which very few people have cars and subsidized public transportation is non-existent.  The basic principle is a man and his friend drive back and forth along a route, picking up passengers and dropping them off, the only passenger limit appearing to be the number that can cram in the vehicle and still have the door shut.  One man drives while the other is responsible for collecting a not-quite-standardized fare.  In Malawi a metola does not have the door-closing passenger limit, since the vehicle of choice is a pickup truck (think Toyota Tacoma not Ford F350). 

 

On our first adventure into Mangochi, we had the joy of experiencing Malawian transit first-hand.  The metola that pulled over to pick us up was already packed to the gills (at least I thought this until I saw another metola several days later with at least half again the number of people). Despite my protestations that there wasn’t enough room, Jesse and I were hoisted aboard.  I ended up sitting on a boy named ‘John’s lap and Jesse crouched in the bed of the truck until he was asked to stand to make more room.  At one point I counted 23 of us in the back of the truck and 4 in the front.  Thankfully, the metola driver had some sense of the safety of us passengers in the back and plodded down the road at a nice safe speed of 35 mph.

 

As for Mangochi, I do not have much to say.  It’s a town where we can purchase supplies, but I’ve yet to find a reason to go there apart from restocking the pantry.  The more interesting adventures occur within a 2km radius of our little cottage.

 

Last weekend I had the privilege of experiencing two events that gave me a little insight into the importance of religion here in Malawi.  The first was the official opening ceremony for the new school year.  Three hours of Saterday morning were dedicated to school prayers in which student religious groups sang songs and local clergy and administrators gave speeches.  Prior to Saterday I had believed that most Malawians are soft-spoken.  In class I often have to walk right over to a student and bend down close to hear the question they are asking.  And it is virtually impossible to practice one of my favorite pastimes of eavesdropping in on conversations since a discussion between two people is usually held at a volume a librarian would envy.  However, the unamplified sound of eight students singing hymns together in the hall where we gathered for the ceremony was almost deafening.  In addition to volume, the students could sing harmony that rivaled the prestigious acapella groups at my alma mater.  What those college groups accomplished with twenty members, these high school students created with 6-8. 

 

The other remarkable aspect of Saterday’s ceremony was the religious acceptance that pervaded the entire program.  The region around Mangochi is in a large part Muslim, so the two main speakers were an Islamic sheik and Catholic priest.  The speeches were both greeted with enthusiasm as well a the appropriate Christian or Muslim call and response.  The linguistic ability of those in the room was also commendable, as the ceremony was conducted in three languages: English, Chichewa, and Arabic.  Even though the 3 hours passed slowly, in the end I was glad that I attended.

 

On Sunday, due to Jesse’s friendly chatting with a man named Bennett, we were invited to attend church at a small Anglican church across the road.  One doesn’t turn down invitations like this, and since we were curious to experience local religion, we accepted.  A student named James came to escort us in the morning and to act as translator since the entire service would be in Chichewa.  Three things stand out in my mind after the two-hour service.  One, church building was perhaps one of the most humble religious structures I had ever seen.  Measuring 20ft by 50ft, there were no chairs, only woven grass mats, and the wooden ceiling beams sagged under the weight of a tile roof.  Small glass-less windows lit the room and the alter was cover with a simple white cloth and a few flowers.   Being visitors, we were provided with two chairs in which we awkwardly sat as the congregation sat before us on the floor.  Two, the singing was amazing.  The sound of the congregation singing together was beautiful and fervent, with no voice timid or silent.  I would have liked to join in, but the words were all Chichewa and the melodies unfamiliar.  Three, an isle down center divided the men from the women and children, with the women’s side out-numbering the men by at least 5 to 1.   I was absolutely astounded by the number of small children-  some sitting in their mothers’ laps, others tawdling from one lap to another, and still others, probably not more than 2 or 3 years old, wandering out of the back of the church on their own.  All were adorable, and I spent the hour that the preacher gave his sermon, entertained by their small theatrics.  After the service we were greeted by every member of the congregation and I got to shake many hands- many shyly offered by the little ones.

 

Perhaps my previous description of the singing did not fully convey my appreciation.  Let me clarify: I am in love with the singing here.  On nights that the power goes out, the girls and boys that live at MCV gather in impromptu groups and sing for hours.  It is such a treat to lay in bed listening to their songs in the dark.  It is a sound that I have never experienced in the US.  I wish that I could record the songs and bring them home with me at the end of the year.  I will have to go out and join them one night to see if they can teach me their songs. 

 

I will have to save the rest of my stories for the next post.  To my friends and family in the US – I hope you are all well.  Take care.  Until next time,

 

-Jes