Malawi

It's a shame I had leave Tanzania on a sour note, having been scammed out of $20 ... then again, it was a small tuition to pay for a valuable lesson in "trust your gut" logic.

Here's how it went down:

Arriving at dusk in the quaint, hilly town of Mbeya in south-west Tanzania, I slipped passed the throng of taxi-hustlers into the almost-empty office of the bus company to gather my wits and get oriented. After sitting for 13 hours, I was hoping to walk to the hotel recommended to me by some other travelers. So I asked the man behind the counter where the hotel was and he pointed me in the right direction. Noticing it was getting dark, he offered to walk with me. His English was clear and he seemed harmless, so I accepted. Walking up the hill to the center of town he introduced himself as Patrick and told me he was from Malawi. It just so happened that I was trying to get to Malawi the next day, so I asked him how I might get to Malawi, which is when I let my guard down.

Long-story-short, he ended up selling me a bus ticket for a bus that didn't exist on the Malawian side of the border. All along I didn't feel right about the paying up front, but he said he was going as well, and the hotel manager at Hotel Sombrero (yes, like the Mexican hat) vouched for him: "This is your man," he said, when I told him Patrick was helping me get to Malawi. But half way to the border, Patrick slipped out of the mini-bus when I wasn't watching.

As I crossed the bridge over the Songwe River into Malawi, I was still hopeful. But learning that there hadn't been a bus in days pretty much confirmed my suspicion, so I decided not to wait or ask around for "my" bus. Again, it was an important refresher course for the over-confident traveler: never let your guard down, especially in port towns (Mbeya was the main junction for all rail and land transit coming to and from Zambia and Malawi, connecting both countries to the Indian Ocean).

If nothing else, the experience made arriving in Malawi all the more rewarding. Crossing the border, the difference was almost instantaneous: people were more relaxed, more friendly and everything was less expensive. Even the domesticated animals (goats, pigs, chickens, cows and dogs) were more at ease around people (often a little too much at ease near the highway, I later experienced). Making my way south, I admired the many farms among the green hills and fishing villages along the giant Lake Malawi. Sure there were the usual annoyances, like the smell of rotting fish juice dripping on my shoes in a minibus, or the horrid squeal of the goat shoved under the back seat. But Malawi was different. Besides, I had a new language to fail at learning: Chichewa.

After a little rest and recreation in the Caribbean-esque oasis of Nkhata Bay, I made my way towards Malawi's charmless capital. In Lilongwe I was to meet Tim and Scott, two brothers from Arizona, both good friends of mine since childhood. In fact, the impetus of this whole journey to Africa was to visit Tim, who is now in his third year of the Peace Corps.

Scott and I had been discussing a visit before Tim even departed in 2006, but we kept putting it off. Fortunately for us, Tim signed up for another year after completing the required two, but time was running out, again.

Now the three of us were converging in Lilongwe on a given day: Scott flying from South Africa, myself via Tanzania and Tim (probably hitch-hiking) from some remote village. After a brief but cordial reunion, we set off on our much-anticipated African adventure, which began in the least expected way: playing a friendly game of softball with a group of other Americans (mostly USAID workers) at a country club. It had been several years since I last swung a bat or put on a baseball glove, but the experience, however surreal, was good, reminding me to let go of my expectations and sense of reality.

The next day we sat on the edge of the main road to Blantyre on the outskirts of Lilongwe, waiting for a lift (AKA hitch-hiking). For over an hour we watched the vehicles passing us with no regard; semi-trucks and buses spewing diesel exhaust; cars and 4x4s racing down the road. Trying not to show my impatience, I sat. Scott asked how long he typically waits: "Sometimes five minutes. Sometimes five hours," Tim replied, gesturing inquisitively at the next vehicle to zip passed us.

As a volunteer living on a couple dollars a day, he was required to live like most Malawians do: simply and frugally. Hitch-hiking helped save money, which was limited, but not necessarily time, which was somewhat unlimited. The previous night I felt a bit guilty that a USAID worker bought us beer for the softball game, another ex-pat gave us a ride across town to another USAID worker's house where dinner was prepared for us; guest rooms and showers with hot water were also part of the deal. When I asked if all this was OK, Tim's nonchalant response was difficult to argue with: "Take what you can. Don't ask questions."

Back on the side of the road, we were soon picked up by a Malawian driving a new LandCruiser. Enjoying the luxury of seatbelts and air-conditioning, the driver cruised passed all the trucks, cars and buses that previously ignored us, arriving in Blantyre in what must have been record time. But upon disembarking I made a mistake, breaking the poor-man's vow of silence, and asked the driver if he'd like 500 Kwacha ($4.00) for gas. "So little?" he responded ... I'm a slow learner.

Two weeks later, sitting beside the same road, now hoping to find a ride in the opposite direction, we waited more than two hours before a semi-truck grunted to a halt, fitting 5 people in the cab and taking us only half way. The second half, we found ourselves tensely braced in the back of a pickup traveling 140km/hour. The pickup driver, from Portugal (not a good sign for those who know of their driving reputation in Europe), said he drove the road several times a month and assured us he knew it well. He also knew where to stop, made evident by insisting we stop for "a drink at a nice little place I know just outside of Lilongwe ... There are three sisters there ... They are very nice!" It was kind of awkward to be drinking lukewarm beers in a dingy whorehouse, but he was paying ("Take what you can...") We soon insisted we be on our way after the second round because a friend of Tim's was expecting us for dinner ("... Don't ask questions.").

After 2.5 years of living in (in my view) extremely humble conditions as a Peace Corps Volunteer, I was surprised to find that Tim hadn't changed much at all, physically. Granted, he could walk barefoot with ease on very rough surfaces, but I was expecting dreadlocks and a shaggy beard, maybe even some traditional native garb ... or even children! But Tim was still Tim. However, over the two weeks we meandered around Mozambique and Malawi, I noticed significant (admirable) changes in his person; changes which I assume to be the result of all the cold splash-baths and Black Momba encounters.

Though I didn't stick around long enough to see Tim's current project: managing food for the World Food Programme at a refuge camp north of Lilongwe. I did have a chance to see the village where Tim was based for two years, in the dusty, neglected, southern tip of Malawi called the Nsanje district. I'll limit my description, so as not to overly misrepresent his experience, but considering he had to walk 3km to get water and never had electricity, I think it's safe to say he had it tough. Adding to the challenge, Tim's original project, working with the local wildlife preserve, fell through early on (due to flaky local counterparts). So instead of insisting Peace Corps officials bail him out, he managed to get a lot done with very little. Among the accomplishments he mentioned were establishing a tree nursery, managing a village jam-jarring project, pig farming, bee farming, guinea-fowl farming, teaching, working with HIV/AIDS sufferers, constructing classroom benches and ultimately coordinating the construction of a couple sturdy new classrooms (doubling the size of the village's school).

The reactions of community members upon Tim's return to the village explained very clearly that he was a valued member of the community; perhaps a symbol of hope, or perhaps just an interesting "mzungu" (white man). We were received as special guests of the school's headmaster, enjoying a traditional meal. This was after a special encore dance and song was performed for us on the dirt "stage" of the mud-brick church. While the paint was still fresh on the recently completed classrooms, most of Tim's other accomplishments were slowly coming undone. But it was most sad to see Tim's frustration upon returning to the hut he called home: finding many of the trees he planted dead and repairs to the structure undone. But I suppose that's the point of the experience: not to change things, but to change minds (and I don't mean just the locals' "minds").

I've often heard people say that volunteering for the Peace Corps is a "cop out" for the "real world." In fact, notions like this have even discouraged me from pursuing such an experience. Exceptions there surely are, such nay-sayers couldn't be more wrong. From what I can tell, these volunteers believe the goodwill of humankind is greater than themselves, transcending borders. These volunteers are not out there to save the world; they're saving America, one village at a time. It's a shame our country cannot afford to recruit and fund more efforts such as these. Then again, "peace" is not as easy to sell as "terror."