Latest haps...

June 1st already... where does the time go? Life in Malawi has been a little hectic since starting work and unfortunately it means I don't blog as much as I'd like. 9 hours a day of 'refugeeing' plus an hour commute each way doesn't leave much energy for writing. Alas, it's the weekend, and here i am sitting by the pool, enjoying the sun and blue sky with a laptop and wifi, and a plan to make up for my writing lapse.

Last weekend was one to remember. After a month in the country Les still hadn't seen the lake, the country's greatest attraction according to the Mike travel guide. So Friday after work she and I teamed up with one of our new coworkers and headed down to what is by far the best strip of beach I've seen in Malawi. Martina, our Texan lawyer friend who is completing a quasi-internship here, is a lot of fun and we three have in common a love of beaches, drinking into the wee hours, and hangin with the locals. We had no trouble getting along.

One of the upsides of living in a hostel is that you can pick up and leave literally any time you want. Some people find the lack of a home base disconcerting. Others embrace impermanence and find that kind of freedom liberating in a way that I don't believe most people ever find. Take our British friend Aoife (E-fa), for example, who is sitting across the pool from me. She realized yesterday that she doesn't own a pair of shoes in the entire world (only sandals), and she feels great about it. I've had mini bouts of unease when thinking about my lack of an anchor, but for the most part I just bask in the freedom.

I'm not quite sure whether this is fact or I stole it from Jack Kerouac's 'On The Road', but apparently, there is a significant population of people in North America who spend their entire life just traveling the continent in railroad box cars and hitching rides with bored truck drivers. Statements like "today I want to go to St. Louis" embody their creed. I think the politically incorrect anacrhonism for these people is 'hobos'. Rumour has is they choose the lifestyle because they crave that liberty. I'm not quite ready to throw my lot in with those folk just yet (although I DO tend to shower less than I should so I'm halfway there), but I relate to the philosophy.

In the spirit of hoboism we packed up our gear, checked out of Mabuya Camp and Friday afternoon (it's always a half day) piled into Martina's car and started driving East to the lake. Now when I say car what I actually mean is tin-can-on-wheels. No disrepect to Martina's car is intended whatsoever, especially since that beast got us back and forth safely (awww... I killed the suspense.) That's not to say we didn't lose a few hubcaps along the way. About 30 minutes into the drive, we came up behind a flatbed truck with two guys hanging onto back of the cab. Incredibly unsafe and stupid transportation safety standards are the norm in Malawi. It's not uncommon to see 50 guys piled into the back of a pickup truck. In fact, on a daily basis we hear or see what I only guess are highschool kids going to school past our hostel, all sitting around the edge of these flatbed trucks. While they do this, they sing like a professional choir. Every second movie about Africa played in the west features a group of average people singing these beautiful songs. Only when I got to Malawi did I realize that it's true, every African has a singing voice. Stereotype vindicated!

Anyway we came up to this flatbed truck and the guys on the back started waving and hollering at us. At first I was convinced that it was simply because two white women were sitting in the front of the car and they were getting excited. So we passed them, but they quickly caught up with us and passed us again, intensifying their waving and making cryptic gestures and pointing at the car. Living in Africa as a Mzungu, it's only wise to keep a certain level of guard up in these situations. If we pulled over, which I assumed was what they wanted, were we going to be robbed on a desolate stretch of road? It's a shame to think the worst of people, but better safe than sorry.

Martina floored it and we again blew past these guys, which was about the time I decided to poke my head out the window. The hubcap was hanging on by a thread. So it turns out these guys were just genuinely concerned for both our car and the lives of the random walkers on the side of the road. Although the car didn't have a functioning speedometer, I figured we were getting up to around 120 kph at times, and a flying hubcap at this speed could easily take someone out. So we made a quick stop while I jumped out and kicked the cover back into place.

After and hour and a half of East, we turned sharply North. Around this time the sun set, which kind of sucked since we knew parts of the road were riddled with severe potholes, and there is not a streetlight in all of Malawi. Strangely enough, this was the first time I had really traveled in rural African at night. It was strange being consumed by complete darkness save the light of a full moon. Yep, pretty foreboding. For the first little while we traveled through village after village. It was unbelievable how happening these places can be on a Friday night. People were walking everywhere, although I have no clue how they could see where they were going. Once in a while we passed by random bush fires, started deliberately I think just to clear away brush. I will never forget one scene I caught a glimpse of as we sped past. A lady was standing outside the door of her hut, while a ring of fire encircled her house. It was like something out of the videogame Diablo. My imagination pictured her as a witch cackling maniacally as she summoned demons from beyond.

At one point I decided to check the hubcap, which again was ready to fling itself into the night. So we made an emergency stop. I jumped out and noted that it was hanging on only with a plastic tie, the kind police use as handcuffs when arresting 18 year old hippie protesters outside of WTO conventions. Immediately some locals came over to check out the action and practice their English. I'm not sure what they thought of a car full of Mzungus appearing out of the darkness, me hacking away at a tire with a swiss army knife, leaving as quickly as we appeared, but I'm sure I was the talk of town for at least a little while.

As we drove on the distance between towns became greater and the potholes deeper. To her credit, Martina is a phenomenal driver. But no matter what the driver's skill level, a gaping scar in the tarmac doesn't announce itself very well when traveling at 90 kph in the dark, and we were bounced around a bit.

The 5 hour trip was worth it. Kande Beach and the camp there turned out to be paradise. The resorts I stayed at in Cuba and the Dominican didn't compare. And we payed 10 bucks a night each for the room. Because we arrived around 9:30 the restaurant was closed so we had a dinner of peanuts and chocolate. We stayed up until 4 in the morning talking about whatever and having shots of springboks (Creme de Menthe and Amarula - delicious). The next day in the sunlight we got to appreciate just how amazing and laid back this place was. The first stop was the beach for some tanning and swimming. The next order of business was to call our boss and get permission to take Monday morning off. In the afternoon Les and I walked into Kande village. We were immediately adopted by the local 'tour guides' hanging out right outside the camp gate, 17 year olds looking to make a living in the off season. As a rule I hate this kind of attention, because the relationship is premised on them trying to get money out of us. It's unfortunate. But after 5 months of Rastafarians trying to sell you wood carvings of elephants every place you go, you tend to develop a shield.

That shield was broken down somewhat because truly, the guys were immensely friendly. Malawians as a group are the most friendly people I've met since traveling, along with Botswanans. But as in any country, rural folk are more hospitable than city dwellers and these guys didn't push too hard for us to empty our pockets. After scoping out the bars we made a plan to return later with Martina. Every Malawian has a ridiculous name that they're given in childhood and keep pretty much forever. Our guard at work, for example, is called something like McDonalds with Cheese. The guys in Kande were Georgie-Porgie, Winston Churchill, Mr. Smooth (aka Julius Caesar) and others I've forgotten.

After dinner we met them on the beach for a bonfire and a drumming lesson. Then they took us the 30 min walk in the dark through the cassava, maize and sugarcane fields into the village, which was absolutely packed with people in the daytime, but was now a ghost town. Our group didn't see a single person. WEIRD. The bar selected was a single roomed brick structure with a doorway I had to duck to get through and a single lightbulb. Seemingly out of place, it had a pool table and a speaker system that could project Malawian reggae into the upper earth's atmosphere. I made the mistake of leaving an empty beer bottle on top of one of the speakers which was promptly vibrated across the room and shattered. We had to leave the room on several occasions to save what little hearing we had left. So the night was spent playing pool and keeping an eye on Martina to make sure none of her dozens of prospective suitors got too friendly. I've never seen anyone look so uncomfortable. The pictures are priceless. I was supremely proud of Les who kicked some major ass on the pool table. The guy who lost twice in a row was mortified to be beaten by a girl. Unfortunately, while white women are exempt, mphipa (black) women are not allowed to go to bars without being considered prostitutes, and they certainly don't play pool. Sadly, it's a man's world here. So I'm proud of Les for taking them out of their comfort zone, and later arguing with them that just because it's tradition, that's not a good enough reason to put up with institutionalized sexism.

All in all it was a fun night. The next day Les and I went for a 2 hour horse ride. I'm really starting to enjoy it. The animals we got to ride, unlike those in Swaziland and South Africa, were not just tourist-conveyors. They were ex-race horses from Zimbabwe. As soon as I went up to mine she started rubbing her face on my body, a great sign that we were going to get along just fine. This beast had some power, and yet was extremely well behaved. Our guide was awesome and had no problems letting Les and I trot, canter and even gallop even though it's against company policy. I'm not a very experienced rider like Les, so I was in a lot of pain the next day from bouncing up and down and using kung fu grip on the saddle, but shit was it worth it. After the first hour we came upon these dry floodplains perfect for really turning on the speed. The horse and I started at a good clip, faster than I was used to, with me hanging on for dear life. But when I got into a rhythm and was no longer smacking the saddle, which hinders the horse, she really started to give'er and I started to appreciate the raw power and the wind rushing past us. Great day.

Ready to head back to the city on Monday, we noticed one of our tires had gone flat. The spare was in the same condition. Thankfully it turns out that scuba tanks attach perfectly to tires, so we were on our way to a 'service station' pretty quick. I've never seen anyone fix a leak with a hammer, but by god it worked. I've also never seen a guy pick up a car by himself, but apparently it's possible when you have tree trunk arms. I've also never seen anyone use a grinder without protective goggles before, and still don't believe it's a good idea to shoot sparks at your coworker, your radio and a gas can.

Anyway, we got home safe and had a pretty uneventful week at work. We didn't make it to the camp because as interns, we were given a lot of filing which we almost have out of the way. Another post coming soon, hopefully. Talk soon.