The True Meaning of Peanuts

Village Food, Anti-Lice Cermonies, and Real Gratitude.

My nerves jangled as I approached the large hut.

A mother in the village had prepared lunch for us. Maybe I'd make a mistake, like insult my hosts accidentally, or get sick later from eating something I should have passed up. I ducked under the cloth in the front doorway and was plunged from the bright sunshine into a room lit by a candle. A small table, quite low to the ground, was set for two. Two small wooden chairs, decorated with carved scenes of lions and giraffe, sat squat on either end.

"These chairs look hand-carved," I said to H--. "Did you make them?"

He grinned. "Yes, I spent many days making them for our guests today. Otherwise you would have had to sit on buckets. I did not know whether you liked giraffes or lions, so I made both."

"I like them both. Thank you."

After thanking him, I realized it was a drop in the gratitude bucket. It was the first time I had met H--, but he had already been carving my chair for a month.

Veggie Delight

Mama served lunch. I rejoiced as the platters were laid down: greens, eggs, tomatoes, squash, potatoes. I recognized everything. There was no meat. The grave thoughts of salmonella that had plagued me for the day swiftly departed. I was introduced to nsima, a Malawian starch staple made from corn flour and water that resembles white play-doh. Nsima is a tasteless filler, meant to accompany meat and vegetable dishes. Proper etiquette dictates that you eat with your hands, balling up a small amount of nsima and using it to scoop up the other dishes served. I ate with delight, comfortable with anything vegetarian. I even remembered to leave a small amount of food on my plate at the end of the meal, which I was told is a polite way for a guest to show that she is satisfied and has been treated well.

Of Lice and Little Sisters

The climax of the visit was the post-lunch dance. A group of boys had planned a dance routine in our honor. Nine boys dressed completely in banana leaves and performed a choreographed number around a tenth drummer who positioned himself in the center of their circle. The lyrics were translated to me as giving thanks for the rain, but not for the lice that came with the rain. At that point, the boys mimed picking pretend lice out of his clothes and giving them to the dancer on his right.

A much younger girl spontaneously joined the ceremony, despite the boys' protests, after hearing the drums start. She would not take no for an answer. Everything they did, she mimicked perfectly - and with a huge smile on her face. Mama and several aunts laughed hysterically as the girl wiggled her way around the circle of dancers. The boys themselves were less amused and tried their best to ignore her.

The True Meaning of Peanuts

When it was time to leave, a funny thing happened. Each member of the household suddenly produced something to give us. I'm not talking about normal party favors. My friend and I received enough food to feed us for a week: a dozen tomatoes, bowls of peanuts, bags of onions, and lots of greens. H--'s family probably earned ten dollars a month, and they were feeding us. I began to protest. "Don't," my friend hissed. "Just take it." I knew better than to disobey, but I was mostly speechless on the drive home. I managed to ask why this incredibly hard working but very poor family felt they had to give me food.

"Because they don't want you to think they don't have enough."

"But do they have enough?"

"No."

Celebrity Fever in the Veld

Teenagers are the same everywhere, six hours of TV a day or not.

After I spent several days in the city, it was time for me to venture into Malawi's rural areas. I was invited to stay at my friend's site, a mission in the valley below the Zomba plateau. The mission reminded me of a tiny town. It consisted of a main house, a primary school, a secondary school, a maize mill, a youth center, a small vegetable market, a church, and scattered housing for the mission staff.

The schools were the heart of the mission. Seven villages within a 50 mile radius fed into them, so plenty of youth were always running about, doing mission chores, grinding their maize into uffa, or flour, playing soccer, and hanging out waiting for the American visitor to show.

There were two boys in particular who were very curious about what America was like. The tall one, Alex, walked around with a cane although I noticed no limp. I believe it was for style, as he liked to read fashion magazines that mission guests left behind. The second boy said he had three names but mostly went by Arnold because he liked Terminator 2. They asked me lots of questions, most of them about American celebrities.

"Madame from America, do you know Arnold Schwarzenegger? We hear he is a political leader now."

"Yes, he was just elected to be California's governor. And no, I don't know him."

The boys exchanged an incredulous glance. They tried again.

"Well, then, Madame, do you know Jennifer Lopez?"

"No."

They looked at each other again, dismayed.

"Well, then, Madame from America, who do you know?"

I explained that there were lots of other people in America that I knew, like family and friends. They nodded politely, chatted with me some more, and eventually wandered off to find their friends, probably disappointed that I wasn't more socially connected.

On Strip Malls and Straight Rows

Commercial development in Malawi is spotty, but neatness is universal.

On the way from the airport to the commercial part of town, I noticed a huge billboard by the side of the road. The face of an African man in a blue suit towered over me. "President Muluzi warns you about the AIDS virus! Let Us Save Our Country!" the sign screamed. This puzzled me. I thought AIDS was spreading so rapidly because of a lack of education, or a refusal to confront the problem; but this billboard seemed to contradict all those Economist articles I'd read. I was later to understand that the AIDS situation in Malawi was much more complicated than I had thought from my Western perch.

There is one strip mall in Malawi, and it happened to be my first local sight. We had pizza and beer for lunch at Ali Baba's Pizzeria, and then we went grocery shopping at the adjacent Shop-Rite, Malawi's only grocery chain. The grocery store was cool, organized, and offered impressive variety. The cans on the shelves were stacked impeccably straight. When I took one down, a man ran up behind me to reshuffle the rest back into a perfectly smooth facade. Next lesson: Malawians like things to be neat.

Thus far, Malawi didn't seem so unfamiliar. In fact, if I had left that day, I would have returned home thinking that Blantyre was a lot like a Western suburb. As it turns out, Blantyre is unique. Malawi has other cities, of course, like Lilongwe and Mzuzu; but no other area in the country is as commercially developed. Most grocery shopping is done at roadside markets; most food is cooked over open fires; pizza is altogether absent from the local diet. My first impression of Malawi was, looking back, highly abnormal. But it did give me enough confidence to be hopeful. A lot is possible there, even though much of the country struggles to get by.

Goats With Death Wishes

Driving in Malawi comes with a unique set of challenges and yummy fried chippies.

"Distances between [Malawi's] major centers are short and the roads are good."
--Lonely Planet's Getting Around

'Short' and 'good' are relative terms, as places can be physically close together but feel far away in reality. Roads can be paved, but that doesn't mean you can drive on them with ease. The stress of driving is one factor that makes Malawian car journeys feel much longer for a visitor. Driving four hours between Lilongwe and Mzuzu, for example, can feel more like eight hours. There are several variables that make driving in Malawi a nail-biting experience for the uninitiated.

Your ASPCA Don't Work Here

Animals are a big part of the driving experience. Goats and chickens are constant nuisances, but they are also an important source of food here so you need to watch out for them. Goats -- those ornery four legged fiends! -- have a bizarre death wish and almost always dart into the road right in front of an approaching car. Miraculously, many goats manage to escape; but often that's because Malawian drivers make extraordinary efforts to avoid hitting them because they know how important these creatures are to their owners. Local drivers are as in tune with the sudden movements of a roadside goat as a New York driver is with a jay-walking pedestrian: the local driver can better gauge the likelihood that the goat or pedestrian is going to step into their path than the visitor.


It doesn't sound too politically correct, but you should keep on driving if you hit one of these animals. Remember, accidents happen. If you stop your vehicle to explain or offer remuneration, there is great chance that you will be the target of severe verbal abuse or worse. If you are in a populated area, crowds will quickly form and things will escalate rapidly due to the spectacle of it all. Remember what you may look like to others: i.e. a callous foreigner with plenty of money who has little regard for other people's property. Keep driving. The goat or chicken will still get eaten, just sooner than planned.

The Road Walkers

Road walking is the act of traveling by foot or by bicycle on the nicely paved road, as opposed to using the dirt footpaths that run beside the tarmac. This is a common practice in Malawi and can give visitors stomachaches as they drive, narrowly missing the pedestrians walking on the road. It is a normal occurrence to see men riding bicycles piled high, sometimes over five feet, with chopped firewood, or women carrying large cloth-wrapped bundles on their heads. The number of road walkers exponentially increases as you near the outskirts of a city, town, or trading center. Some paved roads are as crowded as a city sidewalk at rush hour, and the average driver may cry out in frustration about having to drive through such a thick sea of people when roads are supposed to be for cars in the first place.

To accommodate road walkers, it is a good idea to choose your path, use your horn sparingly -- and most importantly, to slow way down. The bike or pedestrian will adjust their path to make way for the vehicle. Usually when the driver attempts to choose a new path at the last second, the bike or pedestrian moves in the same direction. (You know that feeling.) This will inevitably lead to another massive over-correction by the driver to narrowly avoid a tragedy.

If tragedy occurs and you hit a person, you should NOT get out of your car if you pick up an angry vibe from bystanders. It seems horrible, but if a visitor senses growing anger, s/he should drive to the next police station and return with a police officer. Reason: an angry mob is always a bad thing. Malawians are, in general, a peaceful bunch. One thing that ticks them off, though, is foreigners who drive too fast on their roads. If you are driving carefully and slowly, and a crazy person jumps in front of your car, the crowds may come to the consensus that you aren't at fault. (This is rare, even for volunteers who are fluent in the local language.) If you are speeding and hit someone, especially a child, you may be in danger if you get out to help. Keep driving to the next town and ask where a police station is.

Roads of Licorice... or Swiss Cheese

The roads in Malawi range from shiny, licorice black tarmac to axle-busting, Swiss cheese-like mudholes. Roads in many nations are set up to transport large items and the military to all parts of the country. To maintain roads takes money, usually from taxes. Malawi is not very wealthy and does not have a large military; but it does
get help from international donor agencies that allows it to maintain the roads. However, if an agency leaves or the money is spent on something else, the roads do decline in certain areas. The deterioration is further caused by overloading semi trucks, especially during the tobacco season, so that they exceed the weight limits of the roads. Naturally, the pavement splits from such stress. The cracks are not repaired often so the flux of heat and cold causes larger cracks, leading to treacherous potholes that are famous for eating car tires. Ask around before you go speeding on any Malawian roads, as it is better to go slow and not break your axle. Also, bridges are treacherous in low-lying areas where rivers flash flood. Unfortunately, many of the bridges are rebuilt in the same spot over and over again instead of in a better position.

Bribery and Hard Boiled Eggs

A final obstacle, literally, is the roadblock. This is a way for police or military to stop vehicles and check them out. At the more serious stops, there is an actual gate manned by a contingent of military personnel. At smaller roadblocks, a long wooden pole is supported up by two oil barrels. These are staffed by a three or four man contingent. Some roadblock guards have guns which can make visitors nervous. Don't be intimidated, as many of these guards are friendly. Of course, some are not, so just play it by ear but err on the side of politeness.

The vast majority of Malawian roadblocks are safe and corruption is minor...not absent, however. There is a reason that traffic policemen positions are sought after: because of the bribes that are paid to speed things up or smooth things over. But for the most part, if you are respectful and avoid expressing frustration or nervousness, the roadblock should be a painless experience. There is a chance that the police will ask to look in the back of your car, under the hood, or at your ID. Cooperate and things will be fine. Don't get angry if some vehicles sail through while you wait; these are usually aid organizations, government workers, or someone else with official clearance. The more irritable you become, the longer you will wait.

Roadblocks are rarely set up in unpopulated areas, by the way. The larger the roadblock, the more people are set up to sell their wares. In Malawi, these range from old hard-boiled eggs (avoid!) to fried potato chippies with roasted tomatoes (yum!). You can also do a bit of grocery shopping at some roadblocks, as many of them have vendors that sell cheap vegetables, bread rolls, nuts, cookies, drinks, matchbooks, and cigarettes. A roadblock can actually be a welcome stress release after tough driving conditions.

Notes on Arriving

One Experience Packing, Flying, and Touching Down in a Tiny African Country

Once the developing world gets in your blood, I'm told, it is likely to remain.

Arranging and Rearranging

I planned my first trip to southern Africa with an irrational amount of care. I knew continental weather patterns. I bought batteries. I printed out map after map. I bought my ticket 10 months in advance. I packed for a month long trip in one little black rolling suitcase that I could pick up and carry if I had to, and a small backpack. Hours were spent rearranging. Items were tossed aside when priorities changed, often due to burgeoning knowledge of weather patterns: my flashlight was replaced by a bottle of sunscreen. A sweater took the place of three T-shirts. Socks were mostly abandoned. Film became a priority, and thus the Tylenol supply was reduced. I was vaccinated completely, and when a power outage compromised my refrigerated oral typhoid vaccine, I repeated the entire course just in case. My medicine chest was a triumph: prophylactics, antibiotics, pain killers, sleep aids, large tubes of steroid creams, gauze, medical tape, the works.

The friend whom I was visiting, a Peace Corps volunteer stationed at a mission in Malawi, emailed me the day before I left. I paused between re-rolling pairs of underwear to read the short message: BRING CHOCOLATE AND A BOTTLE OF NICE SCOTCH. I ran to the drug store, bought three boxes of Hershey bars and a box of Ziploc freezer bags to pack them in. At the closest liquor store, I discovered that their bottles of nice scotch only came in large portions. No problem. I'd just have to make room. Back home, two skirts, three notebooks, a fistful of pens, a small photo album, my jar of Aveda pomade, and a swimsuit were all removed to make room for the new booty. It was zipper-pop tight, so I reduced the size of the towel I was told to bring from bath to dish. Finally everything fit comfortably, and I could carry it all at once without groaning.

My flight left JFK at a comfortable 10:00 AM. I was at the airport by 7:30, so I checked in, got an emergency row window seat, had both bags swabbed for plastic explosives, and still had 2 hours to kill. I called my mother, my brother, a cousin, and three friends to say goodbye. I was starting to get nervous and also slightly weepy. What if this was to be the final time I set foot on my home soil? What would I remember? Who would remember me? Fifteen minutes of similarly paranoid thoughts. I watched airport CNN and stared at my fellow passengers. Who were they? Why were they going to Africa? One man was dressed as though his safari vehicle would be meeting the plane: khaki cargo shorts, khaki vest with numerous pockets, belt with some kind of teeth on it, Crocodile Dundee hat, accent. I was intrigued. Do all white people dress like that in Africa? How did the English ever manage down there? More silly thoughts, then the first boarding call.

I wish I could tell you more about what it feels like to fly 20 hours straight, but I don't remember much of it. I had great hopes of beginning my first novel. Instead, I read the fifth Harry Potter book for several hours and then slept the rest of the time, thanks to my superior planning and advanced medicine supply. It was better that way. If I had had more time to form preconceived notions about what the world would look like when I finally deplaned, I might have turned around in Johannesburg and flown right back home.

Sometimes 'Customs' is Just a Doorway

Blantyre was a three-hour flight from Joburg, and the entire trip was very sunny. I think it was a morning flight, but I can't be sure. After 28 hours of traveling, I had no idea what day it was, much less an accurate sense of time. When the flight attendant told us to prepare for landing, I glued myself to the window for my first glimpses of Malawian soil. I had an image in my mind from online photos: tall, golden grasses, elephants moving in herds, rivers filled with hippos, huts.

It's not that I didn't see any of that. I did, after a week or two. But my first impression of Blantyre was that it looked just like the suburbs of Atlanta, Georgia. Red clay as far as the eye could see, scrubby brush, paved roads, stores.

The plane parked parallel to the terminal. I didn't get a clear view of the airport until I stepped outside and climbed down the wobbly stairs to solid ground. The building was white stucco, paint peeling. Grass in the cracks on the runway. I saw motion and looked up. On the roof of the airport, hundreds of people (Africans!) were waving to us. A row of little girls in front all had on pink dresses. I did a quick calculation. Maybe...fifty people on the plane? And they were mostly white people, which in my struggling, weary mind made family connections seem illogical. What were all those people doing up there? OK, I was definitely not in Georgia.

I went through customs, which turned out to be a doorway with a sign saying "Customs" hanging over it, and went over to the baggage claim area. There were ten thousand bags everywhere, of every color, shape, size, and brand. We had to climb over and pick our way around them. I will never know why they were all there, because immediately a man was directing us to another doorway. "Go get your bags," he said, pointing out to the doorway. We crossed through and found ourselves back on the runway beside the plane. We trudged over to its open belly and waited for the men unloading it to drop our bags out onto the concrete below. Good thing I bubble-wrapped that scotch.