Thursday, October 21, 1993

Had another good day. Just finished supper - swan 40 laps at the pool with Cathy, one of the new Peace Corps girls stationed in Lilongwe.It turns out she's from Malone [New York] and used to be a lifeguard at Meacham Lake [where I used to go camping] - I couldn't believe it.

I had my first drinking night out with the boys Tuesday. Hanik and Mike, as I got to know them, came over to Eva's for a couple of beers. She invited me over and after drinks we went to the bottle store and drank some more. Eva was getting tired so we drove her back and returned for more beers. I got to practice my Chichewa with the guys at the bar - I had a really good time.

The fun wasn't over yet, though: we got in Mike's car and made our way down to the university's bar. Along the way, I told Mike how much fun driving is and sure enough, he let me steer. Whoah, was that ever fun! Driving where the passenger seat normally is and on the other side of the road! We drank yet some more and finally I made it home by 11, had supper and a shower and popped a mefloquine.

The weekend turned out to be pretty good, too, and I would have enjoyed it more had I not had the bends. Gary and I left his place by 4:30 but couldn't manage to get a hitch so we stayed at his place that night. Saturday rolled around and we took the bus to Lilongwe (4 hours), then one to Salima (1 1/2 hr wait and a 2 hr ride), then finally jump-started a minivan with two tourists from Holland and we made our way to the campsite. The last ride was all right until the last stop when 25 people shoved themselves in along with the hundreds of chambo [fish] and just as many flies. Goddammit I almost jumped out the window at my stop.

The campsite by the lake was great and the water was gorgeous. The second day we went to a fishing village nearby and saw two fish eagles dive for chambo right next to us. The locals wanted money to take us out on a boat to see hippos so everyone went except Dominique and I who went into a hut and drank warm Cokes with the locals. They asked us if we wanted some "gold" (marijuana), but we politely declined.

That afternoon some of us went to a restaurant for lunch. We all ordered chicken, and since it took nearly two hours to get it, we assumed they had to kill the chicken, which was as rubbery as those Super Balls we used to play with when we were kids.

Postscript 2010: Rereading this entry I realize how absurd life could be in what once was and remains one of the poorest nations on the planet. Having arrived almost a month before, I had still not taught a single class but was living a life that most Malawians would find inconceivable. My salary was a "monthly living allowance," or MLA, and it was by Canadian standards pathetic at just over two hundred dollars a month, but nonetheless about double what other teachers were making (and I was without any dependents). Take the first paragraph: swimming laps. The pool in question was the one maintained by Mr. Banda and part of the Sir Harry Johnston Primary School (Johnston was the first commissioner of Nyasaland in 1891, the country that became Malawi in 1964), a school for rich Malawians and expats. My annual membership, as best I can recall, was around forty dollars. I had been paying Mr. Ntambo about twenty dollars a month to cook, clean, feed the dog, take care of the house, buy food, wash and iron all my clothes, five days a week from 6 until 6. Even with a modest MLA I was living large and rapidly steering away from the life I had expected to lead before leaving Canada. Cheap beer, marijuana on demand (if I wanted it), swimming in the afternoon. However, I was sick for the first three months after my arrival, shed at least ten kilos. And the food, like that rubbery chicken, was hard to get used to.


What I had begun to notice, but regrettably not pay enough attention to, was the kindness afforded to me by gentle souls such as my worker Mr. Ntambo. A man of few words other than "Thank you, Sir" or "Good morning, Sir," Mr. Ntambo went about his work with a diligence I found simply remarkable for a man his age (I'd guessed he was 80, he was in fact almost 73). Before leaving for Salima that weekend, he called out to me as I left my house and told me to wear my hat because the sun was hot. I'd forgotten it and went back in the house to put it on. I left my house with a feeling I hadn't experienced in weeks: someone who cared for me, someone who looked out for me. It would be one of the last times I would see Mr. Ntambo.