Azungus and Matolas

I am certainly not Malawian. People treat me like a temporary donor ; I am not here to be their friend, only to do business. A few times I have been duped. I meet young friendly girls who invite me to their homes only to be asked to give them some money. I am a walking cash machine. Every where I go kids shout at me : "Azungu ! Azungu ! Give me money !"

But I do not feel like I am an Azungu either. While I am usually open-minded to many people, I have taken to avoiding to travel with those with whom I live in the hospital dorm. I used to go with them on weekends except it got to be too embarrassing for me. I fundamentally disagreed with their logic : because we are a large group, we therefore deserve to pay less than fair price. If not, then out of the principle of equality, we deserve to pay local price.

So, out of principle, we would stand there in defiance until we succeeded in bargaining (exploiting ?) the cheapest labour and saving ourselves less than one American dollar. Then we would pile into overcrowded minibus’ and tell them to drop us off at various tourist attractions or opulent american resorts. I am vocal about my opposition and sentiment. And naturally, I have no visible allies so I am more or less a lone complainer.

I guess I just don’t fit in - I am neither African nor Azungu.

So to get what I have come to Africa for, I decided to accept an offer made to me from a peace-corp volunteer to rent his spare bedroom on the Chief’s compound of a small and friendly village called Chowe. After discussing this opportunity with my coordinator to make sure that I would be safe and secure, I moved 25km into the Namizimu forest reserve.

However I do not get to spend much time in the village. Aside from the weekends I am always going back to Mangochi for work. From Monday to Thursday I commute by catching a ride on a Matola which is basically a small sized pick-up truck that smells like a mix of gas, sweat and urine and crammed, really crammed, with products and people. It is not a little dangerous. On average there are around 20 people, 3 chickens, 5 bikes and 7 baskets on a quarter ton truck. The cab is so heavy the back scrapes the road. On more than one occasion we have had to rock with the turns to avoid rolling over. Once we ran out of gas and had to disembark quickly to avoid rolling down the hill. Many drive at ridiculous speeds and do not have working speedometers.

So to secure the front seat and seatbelt I embark on a stationed Matola and wait for hours until they convince enough people to get rolling. This also gives me a chance assess if the driver is drunk. In the mornings I ask to go very slowly before I climb into the back. If he is rude I will not get on but if he is considerate then I know he recognizes the weight of his responsibility. I’ve let pass numerous Matolas. Recently it has started to get easier and they some are starting to know me. Still, I am always, always prepared to jump out if I have to.

And I know many people will read this and think that I am being irresponsible for putting myself in precarious situations but then, why would I have come to Malawi if I wanted to avoid precarious situations ? I am tired of feeling bubble wrapped all the time and I certainly did not come here to sit in a hospital dorm and eat in exclusive resorts. Plus, I commute daily with the same Malawians and we have had many interesting conversations while we watch impeccable views and sunsets without the complimentary need for cappuccinos or cocktails. When all is said and done, these Matola experiences are becoming the most memorable part of Africa for me.