This summer I traveled to Malawi for the second time in two years. Malawi wasn’t on my “Twenty Places I Must See Before I Die” list, but one thing led to another and last year I found myself in this small, poverty stricken country deep in the heart of Africa.

Lots of people have asked me to blog about my experience, so that’s what I’ll be doing retrospectively over the next couple months. I’m going to begin by posting some of my journal entries from last year. I won’t post them all at once. Just one at a time. Hope you enjoy. I’d love to hear your feedback: roberta@creativewhispers.ca


Somewhere over the Atlantic: June 30, 2007:

I’m writing this sitting on a plane as it flies over a vast, endless ocean. I’m on my way to the warm heart of Africa, Malawi. I can’t say that this is a long imagined dream or childhood fantasy. I didn’t know I’d be on this plane until a month ago when my mother lay dying at last. Even four months ago I had not the smallest glimpse of where I’d be now. But that’s the life is, full of surprises and devoid of certainty.

My mother spent the last three months of her life dying under the most horrific conditions. She spent her last three months in pain, fear and confusion. It was only the last day where I sensed any kind of peace – I think she was already gone.

By the time she died I was ready for an adventure, something to focus my scattered mind and calm my anxious spirit. The last few years have been a challenge. I’ve spent two years recovering from depression. There were all sorts of problems (and I won’t get into those here), but one day I looked at my life and wondered how I could have made such a mess of things. I wondered how I could have gone from my young dreams to my middle-aged reality. It wasn’t pretty.

I’ve learned a few things. I used to think that I could control my life – now I know I can’t. I used to think that if I did things right, my life would be predictable – now I know it isn’t. I used to be scared of the unpredictable – now I’m not.

I’ve come to realize that we have very little control over our lives. That’s not to say that we shouldn’t care about our dreams and what happens tomorrow. It just means that we should never become too attached to our dreams - unwilling to make changes as necessary. Nothing is for sure.

The Buddhists have a saying: “The secret of health for both mind and body is not to mourn for the past, worry about the future, or anticipate troubles, but to live in the present moment wisely and earnestly.” I believe this is true. The Christians would tell us to live through faith, and God will take care of the rest. I believe this is also true.

Nothing is for sure. We can only do our best. Sometimes that means putting one foot in front of the next, sometimes it means doing things that are new and uncomfortable. It almost always means taking risks.

Today I’m 42. I’ve never traveled across the ocean, I don’t like flying, and I have an absolute terror of cockroaches and big bugs. This will be a challenge, but I’m not scared.

June 3, 2007: We are staying in Area 25 of the capital city, Lilongwe. Area 25 covers an area of about 100 sq km and is filled with some of the cities’ most unfortunates.

The United Nations recently released a report stating that Malawi is the fastest urbanizing country in the world. Only 16% of Malawi’s population lives in urban areas. The United Nations estimates that this will double by 2030. Cities like Lilongwe are struggling to keep up with the growth. These growing pains are familiar to most developed countries. Think of Charles Dicken’s novels describing life in London’s slums during the industrial revolution and you will glimpse life in Area 25.
We took a walk around the neighborhood this morning. There are children everywhere. They play by the road in ragged little groups in ripped and dusty shirts. They play in the gutters and on the road – the brave ones laughing and running after us. Others wave and smile, dirty fingers in their months. It’s strange to see so many children.

The young ones are always excited to see visitors, and their enthusiasm is genuine and infectious. They come to the road and call out, “Hello, hello.” For some of them this is all the English they know. Others ask, “How are you?” Excited to practice the English they have learned at school and from their older brothers and sisters.

Chichewa and English are the two official languages in Malawi. Children begin learning English in Standard 5 (grade 5) and continue as long as they go to school. There is a wide range of English proficiency in the country, but most people (especially in the cities) know at least a little English.

Most of the roads in Area 25 are unpaved, rutted, dusty things. Except for the main arteries, they carry mostly foot traffic anyway, but because the roads are unpaved there is dust everywhere. It coats the trees, the houses, the people – red clay dirt. I can’t imagine any country on earth having as much dust as Malawi.

The houses are made of brick or mud with corrugated metal roofs weighed down with stones. Most of the houses in this area are small, not more than shacks. Some without windows or doors. In one yard, a woman washes laundry under the trees, she has a little one tied to her back with a chitenji. She looks at us with suspicion as we pass. Her eyes are squinted against the sun. She is very young. Her hands move expertly against the fabric as her eyes follow us down the road. Her house is like the others stained red from the dust. A small window at the front has been boarded over with rough sticks of wood and a rectangle of torn cloth covers part of the doorway. The yard is packed earth with a few scattered trees. Does she have hopes and dreams? I wonder what they are.

Some yards contain small shops. These shops are always pressed up to the edge of the road. They sell things like bread, toilet paper and telephone cards. They are arbitrarily plastered with signs advertising Celtel and other products - arbitrary because these signs may or may not have a correlation to what the store sells. There are tailoring shops and open tables selling vegetables and fruit. Sometimes there is no more than a small stool with a single bag of charcoal waiting for a customer.
After our walk we caught a mini-bus to Old Town. A mini-bus isn’t really a bus at all. It’s more like a van converted to carry passengers, a maximum number of passengers. The first bus we took was a small one with only three rows, plus an extra row of seats behind the driver facing the rear. They are not supposed to carry more than four passengers per row but that doesn’t account for hip width. It also doesn’t account for children, parcels or chickens. On my first mini-bus ride there were 28 people and one chicken.

We went to a market in Old Town. If we hadn’t been with Henry, I don’t know how we would have found it. The market has grown up in the spaces between buildings. In places there is room for no more than one person to pass between the stalls. At other times the alleys of shops open into little courtyards crowded with bags of beans and vendors. Walking between the lanes of shops is like stepping into another world. Small makeshift stalls crowd together. Sandals are piled high under an awning of scavenged wood. They are a blend of infinite colours – pumpkin orange, lemon yellow, neon pink, sky blue. Strung by rope, they bounce at eye level. Looking through the curtain of colour, I see multi-coloured stacks piled high on a length of makeshift tables extending back into the darkness. A man holds up a pair in bright purple, and when I shake my head, “No,” he quickly reaches for another. I turn away.

Further down, the lane opens into a small courtyard. Here women sit on the packed, dry earth surrounded by baskets of potatoes, bags of beans and piles of small wrinkled onions. The beans are white, red and black. The women call out. A man steps in front of me. He carries a cardboard box heaped with bananas. He holds up a large, spotted bunch, “70 kwacha,” he says, nodding and smiling.

I shake my head, “No, thank you.”

“70 kwacha,” he insists.

I smile and shake my head again.

The market is a maze of alleys and courtyards. There is a man selling something that looks a bit like a large gourd. I ask him what it is. “Baobab. 20 kwacha.” And he hands me one. A baobab feels warm to the touch. It is covered in soft fur and rattles when you shake it. Henry says to choose the one that rattles the most. Pregnant women suck the seeds to relieve morning sickness. I decide to buy one for Memory. Really I’m buying it for myself. I want to see what’s inside. I remember reading a story about a monkey who washed clothes under a baobab tree – a book I owned when I was very young. I think there was something about an elephant whose special coat shrank. I’ll have to see if I can find it when I get home. It’s probably packed in the garage with about four or five thousand other books.

We turn down another alley. This one has rows of open tables. Men and women are selling papayas, garlic, potatoe. I see a man selling pineapples. They are divided into three neat piles. He sees me looking and points to the smaller pineapples, “50 kwacha,” he says. He points to another pile, “75 kwacha.” And finally to the third, “100 kwacha.”

I choose one of the largest pineapples, “100 kwacha?” I say. He nods. It looks ripe and fresh. I’m curious to find out if it tastes any different than the ones we get at home. There are about 130 kwacha to every Canadian dollar, so I round down thinking 100 kwacha is around 80 cents. That seems good to me. I gave him the money and we moved on.

We found a big shop selling chitenjis – thousands of chitenjis. The shop was open along the front but still dark inside. Women stood next to tables covered with multi-coloured chitenjis displayed for sale. A chitenji is a 2 meter length of cloth. They are used for everything from carrying babies to wrapping around the waist like a second skirt. I’ve also seen the used like a shawl or wrapped on the head like a turban. The fabrics are imported from Zambia and come in wonderful, magical patterns. Giant orange flowers in full bloom, forests filled with birds, maps of Malawi, abstract patterns all come in rich blues, vibrant yellows and my favorite – greens of all shades.

I bought two chitenjis for 250 kwacha each (that’s a good price). One a forest scene in green, the other stylized birds and flowers on cobalt blue.

Since Christie and I lost our luggage, there are still a few things we need. Henry asks if we’d like to go to the market by the river. I’m excited. I read about this market in a Malawi guidebook. Henry says it can be dangerous. Stay together and watch out. It’s not difficult to loose your purse in a place like this with crowds of people bumping into each other. Sometimes people get knifed. So be polite - no matter what.

We walk a short way and there’s Lilongwe River. Not as much water as in the rainy season but much more than a couple months from now when it will slow to just a trickle. In years of drought the river bed nearly dries out, but right now it spans a lazy six or seven meters.

There are stalls of all shapes and sizes pushed maybe 80 metres back from the riverbank. Henry said there were stalls right up to the water’s edge until the police cleared them out in an effort to cut back on crime. I buy a pair of used socks. Henry barters for a watch for Jacob. I see my first whites since we landed - two young women buying shoes. They look the part of the well-tanned hikers. They look out of place. I must stick out at least as much as they do.
After walking the length of the market we’ve had enough and decide to cross the river. The river is crosshatched with a jumble of rough-hewn footbridges. We picked one. It swayed as we crossed. It looks like something out of an Indiana Jones movie. I see the water rushing, crashing into the rocks far below… That’s a lie. We’re not high at all and the water isn’t rushing anywhere. The bridge is cool though. There is space between the boards, and I can see the tall grasses and the slow moving water beneath my feet. The bridge does look like it could collapse at any minute, but I think the worst that could happen is a scratched leg or a sprained ankle. So much for drama.

We’re almost to the other side when we stop. Henry is arguing with some men. I have to wait till we’re across the bridge to find out what happened.

Crossing the bridge is not free. The bridges are built by local men who charge a toll - 10 kwacha to cross the bridge. Henry was arguing with the men because they wanted to charge 20 kwacha for each of the foreigners. Henry wouldn’t pay it, so they backed off and let us cross - nodding their heads and smiling big, white, artificial smiles. I’m reminded of the troll in the story of “The Three Billy Goats Gruff.”

That ends my first experience of shopping in downtown Lilongwe.