Wheels on the bus

The wheels of our bus sat stubbornly stationary in their resolution to fill every square inch of bus with as many human bodies as tangible space would allow. After a good four hours, two samosas, and a couple of tangerines later, every seat was taken, the aisle properly jam-packed, with chickens smushed under seats, and a couple of roll mattresses stowed above the driver’s head, we finally departed the Lilongwe bus terminal. I was delighted to feel the cool wind on my face; the smells of nappies and fried food, which had stewingly accumulated over the wait, dispersing into the dust we trailed behind. I was less than pleased when this good feeling came to a swerving halt with the breakdown of our bus less than thirty minutes later. With more than half a day already past in waiting, the African’s showed only the slightest ruffle in their feathers, while my hair floofed with irritation. The bus ride was long, the landscape blurring a baked tan, with random villages of straw-roofed huts, bright green banana circles, and a thick grisly Baobab tree every now and again. Hucksters ran up at every stop, selling Mendazi (doughy balls of fried goodness), Chombe (snacky ears of grilled maize), Chips (bags of French fries and coleslaw of sorts… delicious), all which eased what turned out to be an 11 and a half hour ride. We arrived to the Tucka Tucka turnoff well after dark. A dirty, low-riding Toyota short-bed, most likely from the movie Mad Max, was awaiting our arrival. My eyes stung with exhaustion and wind, as we flew wildly up a canyon with headlights flickering on and off. Our final destination, Cape Maclear.

Pierre, whom I ventured this far, rents a house in Cape Maclear so as to be close to his work in Kasanka Bay. The owner of this house is named Shmickey (it says so on a wooden plaque hanging just above the door). Apparently Shmickey has a reputation for being quite large, which we use to our advantage when hustled about by the village locals. Cape Maclear is well known among backpackers and weekenders, as it is right on Lake Malawi and is host to several hostels that are parked right on the beach. Yet, adjacent is the intense flurry of the fishing port that is not often visited. It is heavily shaded black, reeking of racks of drying fish, with men bent over heaped nets or else preparing wooden canoes for the night’s endeavors, and women indulging in lakeshore laundry, children amass. Schmickey’s resides between the two, where on other side of the street is a quaint but lively little village which sinews in and out of straw fence alleyways, with women sweeping sand or else sitting cross-legged in chitenges weaving matts, groups peeping TVs through windows, blaring house music, water buckets at unreliable taps, children yelling ‘mzuuuunguu!!,’ rasta’s hocking braclets, all this and more sponged together. The people are beautiful, the weather dreamy. We lodged in local fashion, with a hot plate, cold showers, and in and out electricity, but did indulge in a canoe rental, lots of lake swimming, and sundowners.

On Monday, I headed into Monkey Bay, a lakeshore town that is only a frightening… I mean exhilarating, motorbike jaunt away. I made my way to the immigration office, where my visa could be ‘properly’ stamped for the ‘right’ price. This included lots of smiling. After, I made my way to see Pierre’s project, in Kasanka Bay. This time I decided to bypass motorized vehicles in lu for a bicycle taxi. The ride was no less gripping, as we were flanked on either side by grass fires. Kasanka Bay is as quiet as an African bush village can be, though there are still children in abundance and women centrally parked selling green leaves, tomatoes, and gossip. The project is focused predominately on permaculture home-gardens as well as the mass production of Moringa trees, hence the name African Moringa and Permaculture Project. These trees are kind of a miracle tree in that they have highly nutritious leaves which contain two times more protein than yogurt, four times more calcium than milk, potassium, vitamin A and vitamin C, and are fast growing and drought resistant. The whole idea has been well received in the village. Inspiration is gray here, as there is little to no influence, or even books, to follow. This simple spark of an idea, of simple home gardens, is as green and appealing as a new pea shoot. Green beans, mustard, pumpkin greens, tomatoes are just a few examples what has been popping up in several backyard plots, as well as smiles and excitement. Diversifying diet, revitalizing the environment, saving money, and even supplementing income are all high hopes for this project. My hopes for them met in small scale tandem with my hopes that my ride back to Lilongwe would be not be terrible. Despite standing, it only took six hours to get back home! Despite a desolate sandpit yard, green is actually growing in Kasanka Bay, with inspiration spreading. 

Landscape

Landscape is a local village located a half a mile down the main road. I mosey down the back path instead, through newly cut maize fields scattered weedy with old stalk and cob, skirting women with massive rolls of straw or else twenty ft. long cane bundles balanced perfectly on their head. The space is open; the sky sweeping honest blue toward Landcape which looms huddled in brown dust in the distance. I enter through a random backyard, rounding corners to the main market center. Most mud-bricked houses have tin roofs and are fenced with bamboo mats or else chitenge cloths, but you can peep gatherings of women and children (or else hear them hollering at you), cook smoke rising, a group of men playing Boa (much like the game Mancala), a drunkard, a Muslim, all the while sidestepping scraggly chickens and uneven ground. I am of course followed by a group of children that thickens the farther I endeavor, as well as a man with a marriage proposal. I’m here to buy candles and cookies. Row-housed vendor stalls measure approximately 8x10 ft. with their teller window guarded with chain link fence. All are typically selling: laundry soap, toothpaste, white bread (labeled Brown… bah!), airtime (strips of 20, all worth 10cents of cellphone time… bah!), pencils, groundnuts, ect. Adjacent are tables selling tomatoes, dirty bananas, sometimes tangerines, small bags of charcoal, eggs that will turn grey when scrambled, and bundles of three piece kindling. There are twenty chiefs in Landscape. There is a water board that measures and charges women by the bucket load. Small gardens are little to nonexistent, and while permaculture is a striving effort here at the center, it is a hard sell to a place where water is limited and the ground is as hard-packed as the people’s resilience.

Most of the Kusamala staff lives in Landscape. So too does the temporarily appointed night-guard Daniel, who was recently caught red-handed rifling through a room, flashlight in hand. He hastily fled into the night with alcohol breath, yet strangely, we found our dirty dishes stolen, one of the couch cushions flung into the path, and Biswick’s pants strewn on the chicken fence. The police were called… yet here in Malawi if you call the police you better be willing to pick them up, or else call a cab!... not kidding. Daniel blamed the children from Landscape. I would probably blame the booze. After being hauled to the police station, I too was summoned to reclaim what they thought was our dishes. The whole police station is probably no larger than our common room. I was ushered into a pantry of a backroom where I sat sandwiched between our large Community Outreach Manager, Eston, and the culprit, Daniel. Three women sat in front yelling Chichewa at us. I sat quiet and thought about the gasoline tank squished under the desk, the plaid suitcase stuffed hastily into the corner, the mattress I was leaning against, and the cellphone that kept blaring ‘Alingo’ by the popular group P Squared. The dishes were not ours, but Daniel will stay in jail until his court date. For a culture where stealing is quite frowned upon, it is odd how often we are missing cassava and groundnuts from our staple-field. Blame though, seems as fruitless as our avocado tree dwarfed by the three bananas alongside; as blotched as the papayas that have recently shown signs of the 'black spot' virus. Circumstance and nature can be cruel, yet can also flourish as freely as our passion fruits whose veins reach high and climb. Passing through Landscape on my way home I spotted five tomato plants nestled against one of the shanty houses. I pondered the kind of spirit it takes to tend, not beat against, that hard-pack resilient earth, to grow and flourish against the odds.