Around about this time, new Environment volunteers start packing up for their long journeys. Chances are, if you are one of these exalted few, that you're already overcome with sheaves of packing lists, entire encyclopedias of advice. Still, if you want some more...
A more comprehensive packing list is available here.
Also, join the Facebook Malawi Environment 09 group -- a large volunteer-written packing list was posted there, and a few odds-n-ends follow....
Many volunteers suggest that they have been doing far more biking than they expected. This is not particularly the case for education or health volunteers, who should mainly require their bikes to get to town for shopping and food. But environment volunteers often work on projects some distance from their residences. Though you get a fairly complete toolkit and books of bike repair are (variably) available incountry, less-common bike equipment is rare. If you use saddlebags or bike-mounted lights or the like, you might consider bringing them.
Around the house, kitchen shears and lightweight, non-stick pans (but *not* pots, which are very cheap and common here!) are useful. Coleman produces a fold-up oven that one volunteer calls an absolute lifesaver, if you enjoy baking. You should definately add sunglasses to your list, the prescription type if you need them, but the cheap two-dollar type are particularly useful as gifts and as backups for your prescription pairs.
My original packing list recommended that you bring only a limited stock of books. This is no longer the case, as the regional houses and their associated libraries are closing. That means that your only books will come from whatever poor selection we can sneak into the Lilongwe reference library, from trading with other volunteers, whatever you can find in the two used-book stores in country, and from the books your predicessor leaves at your site, if you're replacing someone. In the latter case, you may end up with hundreds of great texts... or two battered copies of 'Conan the Cimmerian.' Point is, if you're a bookworm, you'll probably want to bring an emergency stash of your own. If weight is a concen, you might consider bringing books to study -- something you can read slowly and many times (ever wanted to pick up Hebrew? Or maybe Mandarian? What about taking the MCAT?) On a similar 'note', you might consider bringing a musical instrument. They're great entertainment in the village, and if you don't actually play... well, this is a great opportunity to learn.
Speaking of the closure of the respite and transit houses, you should probably bring a decent supply of cash. Malawi volunteers are among the lowest-paid in Peace Corps -- now you will need to pay for accomodation if you need to get into town (to see the doctors, or visit the office, or find someplace with reliable internet in order to fill out your quarterly reports, for example.) In Lilongwe and Blantyre, the cheapest dorm-room accomodation we've been able to negotiate so far will still cost you between 4 and 8 USD -- that's 4-8% of your monthly stipend, not including meals. (To put that in perspective, if you were making minimum wage stateside, a bunk for a night would effectively cost around 80 to 160 USD.) Point is, having a little money on hand to change into kwacha can get you through some very tight spots. Currency is better than a bank account -- you can keep excess cash in the Lilongwe office safe, and exchange rates are at present much, much better for hard currency. Travelers checks may be worthwhile for peace of mind, but if you have to cash them anywhere in Africa, you'll get 70% or less of their actual value, due to awful government exchange rates.
Without the houses, you may end up camping more than volunteers have needed to previously, so the tent and lightweight sleeping bag recommendtions remain in effect.
Lingne, or long strips of rubber and/or discarded vehicle tire, is widely available... but they do break, typically at inopportune moments. Several volunteers have recommended bringing bungee cords -- the 1 to 3 foot type, with hooks at the ends. They're great for attaching things to your bike rack, and also can be used as isotonic exercise aids.
Several electronics were highlighted as being particularly useful. A laptop is, now that the houses and their computers are gone, highly recommended. You'll spend fortunes on creaking internet cafe computers without one. (Actually, you probably will anyway -- but at least with a computer you can download report forms and the like, fill them out at your leisure, and transfer the information with a flash drive.) Charging a laptop can be tough in some areas, but car batteries are commonly in use, and can be purchased for around USD 60-80. (The kinds that can accept charge from a solar panel are more expensive, alas.) You'll need a converter, too, if your electronics won't take DC current, but those are available here. A portable DVD player eats less power than even a netbook, and can be nice if you're planning to build yourself a way to charge it.
Another useful device is a cheap digital thermometer -- the kind that run months on a single AAA battery. It's interesting to find out just how hot your site is... and if you end up erecting mushroom houses in one of your projects, having a couple spare thermometers will be very useful.
Good luck with your packing; you're going to love it in Malawi!
----
Caution: Blog is fragile. Do not drop. This blog is a personal journal, and does not necessarily represent the viewpoints or stances of either the Peace Corps or the United States Government.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
How to buy nails in Malawi
As well as the beehive project is going, it sends me into town on a rather frequent basis. It seems the hive project always needs a tool fixed, or another roll of plastic sheeting, always at more inconvenient moments than expected. “Hey, George!” I might say, finding my carpenter wandering the village. “You not coming to work almost now four days. Are you alright?”
“Oh yes, Madam. But there are no more three-inch nails. Here, you see? I need them to work.”
“What! Why not you for to telling me!”
The closest place for hardware is the Mulanje boma, and a trip there additionally presents the opportunity to charge electronics and maybe get a cold drink, so it’s not too much of a sacrifice to head into town. Taking a minibus, though fast, is well outside my budget -- it's a dollar each way -- and the ride is a pretty one, so I end up doing a lot more biking than I'd imagined I would. The journey does have its hazards, however.
A pretty ride into town...
There are two possible bikepaths out of my village, and upon both, a gauntlet of children must be run. Last week’s trip found me in the center of a dozen kids who had somehow found and were playing with a Barbie. They’d ripped one leg and both arms off, and the doll was quite naked. Its hair was so dirty it all stood straight out in crazed tangles, as if Miss Barbie had somehow inserted her last remaining foot in an electrical socket. “Look, look! It is Teenlee! The same as Teenlee! The same, the same! But Teenlee is fat like two of this one. No, fifteen! No, a hundred!” Then they danced around me with the doll. One of them was sucking on an arm, the rest of the limbs were not in evidence.
Ah, Malawi. I took the other path, which passes the minibus stage. Nearly there, I found a young girl I vaguely recognize. I'm not terribly fond of the kids near the asphalt road; they're not as nice as my eways, and I thought this particular girl had begged from me before. This time, though, she ran up to the road. "Hello! Hello! You should buy a mandazi from me!" she called.
I like to support kids' projects, especially when it involves them working, not begging. "Sure!" I said, stopping. "How much they are?"
"Twenty kwacha," (13 cents) she said, and I eyed her seriously. Mandazi are not twenty kwacha. "Or, uh, ten," she admitted.
"Okay, I'll buy one," I said, handing over a twenty kwacha note. The little girl took it, and smiled, and stood there. Erm. "Do you have change?" She looked surprised and oddly off put, but dug slowly through her pickets and hiding places, and eventually produced a ten kwacha coin. Then she continued to stand there.
Double 'erm.' "You have cooked the mandazi?" I asked, not sure how best to prompt the exchange. The girl nodded firmly and made an affirmative noise, but went nowhere. By this time, we were beginning to collect a crowd of onlookers. "You will bring the mandazi?" The girl nodded again. A long pause, perhaps a minute. "When?" I asked. She shrugged.
It was only then that I realized the girl had no little basket of mandazi anywhere nearby. She was near her house, but... I parsed over our conversation in my mind, trying to figure out what was going on. My Chichewa is getting somewhat better, but I do have a little trouble with some of the word modifiers, which come near the end of verbs. Hearing the difference between mundiguleni (you should buy from me) and mundigulererni (you should buy for me) is tough.
"Did you say, 'mundiguleni' or 'mundigulererni?'" I asked. The girl nodded helpfully. I sighed, held out my hand. "I thought you said mundiguleni. I did not think that you were begging. Please give me my kwacha."
The little girl looked furious. She spoke rapidly, and stomped away, leaving me dumbfounded. "Was she that girl begging, or was she selling mandazi?" I asked a woman who had watched the whole exchange. She shrugged and tried to edge away -- bystanders, in my experience, love to watch interchanges but hate being drawn into any kind of an argument.
Unsure whether I'd just put a down deposit on a little fried donut or whether I'd been scammed for seven cents, and more than a little embarrassed -- hadn't other volunteers warned me never to buy something I couldn't see? Hadn't I been taught ad nauseum not to ask leading questions? -- I left. Still haven't seen that mandazi, though.
Passing by the minibus stage, I was treated to the sight of our very own Blue Panther. I'm not sure what his name actually is, mind, but he hangs out at the Mimosa minibus stage, and he's usually at least a little drunk. He also, almost always, wears blue sateen running shorts and a black 'Lady Panthers' jersey. (I don't know where the Lady Panthers play, or even what sport, but whoever used to wear number 27? Well, I found your shirt.) That day, he was standing a little away from the main part of the stage but still in full view of the approaching road, urinating -- but not by pushing the waist of the shorts down. Rather, he had hiked up one of the legs, and was peeing out that. He waved to me with his free hand.
I'm still not sure of the etiquette there. Is one meant to wave back?
I settled for ducking my head and peddling past, pretending as if I had not noticed. I veered onto the main road and narrowly missed running over Polka Man. I've only seen him a handful of times, and unfortunately never when I had a camera to hand. He's very old and very wizened, and very well-dressed -- for a dandy from the twenties. He always wears immaculate spats, and one of several perfectly-creased polka dot shirts, under a contrasting mustard-orange suit with massive flaring lapels.
"Sorry, sorry!" I called back, waving even as I swerved madly, trying not to hit the goats being herded across the road by two gape-mouthed little boys. Polka Man ducked his head, and pretended as if he had not noticed.
The way to the boma abounds with... strange sights and oddities. Manclothes foundation?
Along the way, I came across a scene that brightened the day - a little girl employed a battered, rusting watering can nearly as large as herself to dispense a careful measure of water to each and every stalk of tall, healthy corn that edged the walkway to her house. She was wearing a fluffy white lace and taffeta dress, but the bow at her back had come undone, and she trailed the ends through the mud betwixt the corn. She left small bare footprints along the embankment. To top off her outfit, someone had painstakingly bunched and tied her hair into some two dozen discrete, geometrical knots all over her head. She looked like a very surprised soccer ball in a doll’s dress.
I smiled, waved as I biked past.
The little girl’s eyes widened, and without thinking, she lifted a hand to wave back. Then she realized what she was looking at.
The watering can fell to the ground with a thump and a splash, the girl turned her hand over, palm up. “Give me!” she screamed, little heels flashing as she threw herself into a dead run, streaking for the road hand extended, howling the first two words of the only English phrase most children know: ‘give me my money.’ “Give me give me give me give! Give! Give me!”
It was like watching a zombie movie -- adorable little girl seated quietly in nursery reveals herself to be bloodthirsty ravaging beast, now in theatres!
I’m just glad I had a bicycle. At least I could outrun her.
...especially in wet weather...
I have come to believe that, in truth, most children who beg in or near the village merely want attention. American children, I imagine, might respond in a similar manner if, say, a space alien were to stroll down the street - an azungu outside the main cities is equally as rare, and as fascinating. One child must have learned that if you scream a certain phrase, a passing white person will stop and talk to you, and perhaps even give you an object of immense value in village contexts, such as a fancy pen or a packet of expensive biscuits. Helpfully, that child passed along the information, and now every little eway knows the phrase, though not necessarily what it means.
In cities, of course, child begging is much more of an industry. In certain areas, a passing azungu is virtually guaranteed to attract several grubby urchins trotting alongside. They have a more complex vocabulary - ‘hungry mum-mee, hungry mum-mee, give me just twenty kwacha’ (amusingly, they will use this soundtrack even if they have food in their mouths) -- but respond to neither English nor Chichewa attempts at conversation, save with a repeat of their plea. They are also more persistent, and will run alongside or in front of you for as much as a city block. Finally, and most annoyingly, if you fail to pony up some object, the city eways will occasionally toss pebbles at the back of your head. At least the kids haven't picked up the Nairobi nappy trick -- beggar children there sometimes wield small paper bags of garbage or feces, just incase their verbal requests for money do not carry enough weight.
Even without those... persuasive implements, the dedication of Blantyre beggar children makes their business a rather profitable one. While sitting in an internet café in the late afternoon, I once overheard a pair of street eways counting up their loot for the day. Together, they’d collected two hundred and sixty kwacha; a little less than two dollars, and they seemed to feel that this was a substandard return for their work that day. While this does not sound like a great deal, it is roughly the wage for a semi-skilled adult laborer, such as the foreman on a village construction site. It is nearly twice the wages of an unskilled tea-picker.
But I digress.
There are two hills, on the way to the boma, steep enough that I typically climb off my bike and walk, especially when carrying other objects on my bike -- that time, I was hauling a package bound for a friend, plus my ancient laptop and paperwork for our upcoming girls' camp. On the second such slope, a little girl waits hopefully almost every day with her tobwa -- chunky homebrew beer -- for sale. The bottles are arrayed like a bouquet in a bucket of water, in order to keep them cool, or at least, not as hot. That day, we exchanged nods of greeting, neither of us having the energy in the heat for more, and the girl quietly watched me go by. I was not three paces past her when the semi-trailer horn blared from behind.
...usually, the ride is much hotter and dustier, though.
Vehicles often honk to let bikers know they should move over, but I was already entirely off the road, as was the girl. Even if the truck had a wide load, there was plenty of room; nobody was coming in the other direction. Vehicles also sometimes honk just because there's an azungu (white person) on the road. So I took little notice of the truck, even when its deafening horn blast was repeated.
The tanker thundered by, disturbingly close, and at first I truly thought that one of the truck's passengers was, ah, engaged in relieving himself out the window, since this seamed to be the season for urinating in inappropriate locations. But the liquid that splatted upon me, my bike, and my packages was oddly cool, and far too copious, and the smell.... I was too stunned to even curse at the retreating truck, could only watched as it continued on, slopping glugs of diesel continuously from an unscrewed port four inches wide in the side. The deluge had gotten the little girl, too -- both her and her bottles of beer, which she'd not been able to get out of the way in time.
"What that!" I yelled to a man who was strolling along the opposite side of the road, so incensed that my Chichewa emerged even more fragmented than normal. My finger trembled as I stabbed it at the vanishing truck. "What that! What, what that!"
"What... what?" asked the gentleman, looking nervous.
"What the oil of fire dog to spill why!" I sputtered.
"Trucks always do that. You mean, they don't in your country?" the man asked, eyes wide with surprise.
I thought about that, thought about tanker trucks careening around the suburbs, splashing biking businessmen on their way to work and little kids' lemonade stands with diesel. I abandoned all attempts at Chichewa. "Like hell they do!"
Of course, if I had only known, I would have treasured the rare treat of having more diesel than I wanted -- several months later, there is little of the stuff in the country. Trucks and aid vehicles line up for hours or days waiting for the little fuel that arrives, and purchases are strictly rationed. The government blamed unscrupulous currency traders for a long time; everyone else blames the government's unrealistic China-like pegging of the kwacha to the dollar, minus China's economic puissance. The crisis cannot really be as bad as it looks, however, for though Malawi does not presently have enough foreign exchange to purchase sufficient fuel, the president was able to acquire a new jet. So that's reassuring.
Later, I heard two plausible explanations from varying sources. It is possible that the truck was filled in expectation of a cool day. Since the weather was hot, even for the season, perhaps the fuel expanded and pressure had to be reduced -- though I'm surprised no vents or valves for this purpose are installed on tankers. Also, it could be that drivers are paid by speed (and this one was loath to stop to find a lost fuelcap) or by weight of fuel picked up (rather than delivered.) In any case, the wastage was far from inconsequential; the amount splashed over me probably equaled a cup or two, and the trail of spilled fuel continued unbroken for the next six kilometers, all the way to the boma. No telling how far the trail stretched behind.
I rinsed off what I could with my water bottle, but then there was nothing to do but to climb up onto my smelly saddle (you don't want to get volatile hydrocarbons there. Ever. Trust me) and bike onwards, fuel fumes clinging to me in an oily cloud. It wasn't long before my skin and scalp started to tingle, then to burn, as the diesel soaked in. And I soon discovered for myself the meaning of the word 'hotseat.'
It's a good thing the rest of my beekeeping project is going so well, because honestly, a girl could get discouraged. Acquiring nails in Malawi is a pain in the ass.
-----
This blog is a personal journal, and does not necessarily represent the viewpoints or stances of either the Peace Corps or the United States Government. After purchase, this blog should be stored in the cold section of your refrigerator.
“Oh yes, Madam. But there are no more three-inch nails. Here, you see? I need them to work.”
“What! Why not you for to telling me!”
The closest place for hardware is the Mulanje boma, and a trip there additionally presents the opportunity to charge electronics and maybe get a cold drink, so it’s not too much of a sacrifice to head into town. Taking a minibus, though fast, is well outside my budget -- it's a dollar each way -- and the ride is a pretty one, so I end up doing a lot more biking than I'd imagined I would. The journey does have its hazards, however.
A pretty ride into town...
There are two possible bikepaths out of my village, and upon both, a gauntlet of children must be run. Last week’s trip found me in the center of a dozen kids who had somehow found and were playing with a Barbie. They’d ripped one leg and both arms off, and the doll was quite naked. Its hair was so dirty it all stood straight out in crazed tangles, as if Miss Barbie had somehow inserted her last remaining foot in an electrical socket. “Look, look! It is Teenlee! The same as Teenlee! The same, the same! But Teenlee is fat like two of this one. No, fifteen! No, a hundred!” Then they danced around me with the doll. One of them was sucking on an arm, the rest of the limbs were not in evidence.
Ah, Malawi. I took the other path, which passes the minibus stage. Nearly there, I found a young girl I vaguely recognize. I'm not terribly fond of the kids near the asphalt road; they're not as nice as my eways, and I thought this particular girl had begged from me before. This time, though, she ran up to the road. "Hello! Hello! You should buy a mandazi from me!" she called.
I like to support kids' projects, especially when it involves them working, not begging. "Sure!" I said, stopping. "How much they are?"
"Twenty kwacha," (13 cents) she said, and I eyed her seriously. Mandazi are not twenty kwacha. "Or, uh, ten," she admitted.
"Okay, I'll buy one," I said, handing over a twenty kwacha note. The little girl took it, and smiled, and stood there. Erm. "Do you have change?" She looked surprised and oddly off put, but dug slowly through her pickets and hiding places, and eventually produced a ten kwacha coin. Then she continued to stand there.
Double 'erm.' "You have cooked the mandazi?" I asked, not sure how best to prompt the exchange. The girl nodded firmly and made an affirmative noise, but went nowhere. By this time, we were beginning to collect a crowd of onlookers. "You will bring the mandazi?" The girl nodded again. A long pause, perhaps a minute. "When?" I asked. She shrugged.
It was only then that I realized the girl had no little basket of mandazi anywhere nearby. She was near her house, but... I parsed over our conversation in my mind, trying to figure out what was going on. My Chichewa is getting somewhat better, but I do have a little trouble with some of the word modifiers, which come near the end of verbs. Hearing the difference between mundiguleni (you should buy from me) and mundigulererni (you should buy for me) is tough.
"Did you say, 'mundiguleni' or 'mundigulererni?'" I asked. The girl nodded helpfully. I sighed, held out my hand. "I thought you said mundiguleni. I did not think that you were begging. Please give me my kwacha."
The little girl looked furious. She spoke rapidly, and stomped away, leaving me dumbfounded. "Was she that girl begging, or was she selling mandazi?" I asked a woman who had watched the whole exchange. She shrugged and tried to edge away -- bystanders, in my experience, love to watch interchanges but hate being drawn into any kind of an argument.
Unsure whether I'd just put a down deposit on a little fried donut or whether I'd been scammed for seven cents, and more than a little embarrassed -- hadn't other volunteers warned me never to buy something I couldn't see? Hadn't I been taught ad nauseum not to ask leading questions? -- I left. Still haven't seen that mandazi, though.
Passing by the minibus stage, I was treated to the sight of our very own Blue Panther. I'm not sure what his name actually is, mind, but he hangs out at the Mimosa minibus stage, and he's usually at least a little drunk. He also, almost always, wears blue sateen running shorts and a black 'Lady Panthers' jersey. (I don't know where the Lady Panthers play, or even what sport, but whoever used to wear number 27? Well, I found your shirt.) That day, he was standing a little away from the main part of the stage but still in full view of the approaching road, urinating -- but not by pushing the waist of the shorts down. Rather, he had hiked up one of the legs, and was peeing out that. He waved to me with his free hand.
I'm still not sure of the etiquette there. Is one meant to wave back?
I settled for ducking my head and peddling past, pretending as if I had not noticed. I veered onto the main road and narrowly missed running over Polka Man. I've only seen him a handful of times, and unfortunately never when I had a camera to hand. He's very old and very wizened, and very well-dressed -- for a dandy from the twenties. He always wears immaculate spats, and one of several perfectly-creased polka dot shirts, under a contrasting mustard-orange suit with massive flaring lapels.
"Sorry, sorry!" I called back, waving even as I swerved madly, trying not to hit the goats being herded across the road by two gape-mouthed little boys. Polka Man ducked his head, and pretended as if he had not noticed.
The way to the boma abounds with... strange sights and oddities. Manclothes foundation?
Along the way, I came across a scene that brightened the day - a little girl employed a battered, rusting watering can nearly as large as herself to dispense a careful measure of water to each and every stalk of tall, healthy corn that edged the walkway to her house. She was wearing a fluffy white lace and taffeta dress, but the bow at her back had come undone, and she trailed the ends through the mud betwixt the corn. She left small bare footprints along the embankment. To top off her outfit, someone had painstakingly bunched and tied her hair into some two dozen discrete, geometrical knots all over her head. She looked like a very surprised soccer ball in a doll’s dress.
I smiled, waved as I biked past.
The little girl’s eyes widened, and without thinking, she lifted a hand to wave back. Then she realized what she was looking at.
The watering can fell to the ground with a thump and a splash, the girl turned her hand over, palm up. “Give me!” she screamed, little heels flashing as she threw herself into a dead run, streaking for the road hand extended, howling the first two words of the only English phrase most children know: ‘give me my money.’ “Give me give me give me give! Give! Give me!”
It was like watching a zombie movie -- adorable little girl seated quietly in nursery reveals herself to be bloodthirsty ravaging beast, now in theatres!
I’m just glad I had a bicycle. At least I could outrun her.
...especially in wet weather...
I have come to believe that, in truth, most children who beg in or near the village merely want attention. American children, I imagine, might respond in a similar manner if, say, a space alien were to stroll down the street - an azungu outside the main cities is equally as rare, and as fascinating. One child must have learned that if you scream a certain phrase, a passing white person will stop and talk to you, and perhaps even give you an object of immense value in village contexts, such as a fancy pen or a packet of expensive biscuits. Helpfully, that child passed along the information, and now every little eway knows the phrase, though not necessarily what it means.
In cities, of course, child begging is much more of an industry. In certain areas, a passing azungu is virtually guaranteed to attract several grubby urchins trotting alongside. They have a more complex vocabulary - ‘hungry mum-mee, hungry mum-mee, give me just twenty kwacha’ (amusingly, they will use this soundtrack even if they have food in their mouths) -- but respond to neither English nor Chichewa attempts at conversation, save with a repeat of their plea. They are also more persistent, and will run alongside or in front of you for as much as a city block. Finally, and most annoyingly, if you fail to pony up some object, the city eways will occasionally toss pebbles at the back of your head. At least the kids haven't picked up the Nairobi nappy trick -- beggar children there sometimes wield small paper bags of garbage or feces, just incase their verbal requests for money do not carry enough weight.
Even without those... persuasive implements, the dedication of Blantyre beggar children makes their business a rather profitable one. While sitting in an internet café in the late afternoon, I once overheard a pair of street eways counting up their loot for the day. Together, they’d collected two hundred and sixty kwacha; a little less than two dollars, and they seemed to feel that this was a substandard return for their work that day. While this does not sound like a great deal, it is roughly the wage for a semi-skilled adult laborer, such as the foreman on a village construction site. It is nearly twice the wages of an unskilled tea-picker.
But I digress.
There are two hills, on the way to the boma, steep enough that I typically climb off my bike and walk, especially when carrying other objects on my bike -- that time, I was hauling a package bound for a friend, plus my ancient laptop and paperwork for our upcoming girls' camp. On the second such slope, a little girl waits hopefully almost every day with her tobwa -- chunky homebrew beer -- for sale. The bottles are arrayed like a bouquet in a bucket of water, in order to keep them cool, or at least, not as hot. That day, we exchanged nods of greeting, neither of us having the energy in the heat for more, and the girl quietly watched me go by. I was not three paces past her when the semi-trailer horn blared from behind.
...usually, the ride is much hotter and dustier, though.
Vehicles often honk to let bikers know they should move over, but I was already entirely off the road, as was the girl. Even if the truck had a wide load, there was plenty of room; nobody was coming in the other direction. Vehicles also sometimes honk just because there's an azungu (white person) on the road. So I took little notice of the truck, even when its deafening horn blast was repeated.
The tanker thundered by, disturbingly close, and at first I truly thought that one of the truck's passengers was, ah, engaged in relieving himself out the window, since this seamed to be the season for urinating in inappropriate locations. But the liquid that splatted upon me, my bike, and my packages was oddly cool, and far too copious, and the smell.... I was too stunned to even curse at the retreating truck, could only watched as it continued on, slopping glugs of diesel continuously from an unscrewed port four inches wide in the side. The deluge had gotten the little girl, too -- both her and her bottles of beer, which she'd not been able to get out of the way in time.
"What that!" I yelled to a man who was strolling along the opposite side of the road, so incensed that my Chichewa emerged even more fragmented than normal. My finger trembled as I stabbed it at the vanishing truck. "What that! What, what that!"
"What... what?" asked the gentleman, looking nervous.
"What the oil of fire dog to spill why!" I sputtered.
"Trucks always do that. You mean, they don't in your country?" the man asked, eyes wide with surprise.
I thought about that, thought about tanker trucks careening around the suburbs, splashing biking businessmen on their way to work and little kids' lemonade stands with diesel. I abandoned all attempts at Chichewa. "Like hell they do!"
Of course, if I had only known, I would have treasured the rare treat of having more diesel than I wanted -- several months later, there is little of the stuff in the country. Trucks and aid vehicles line up for hours or days waiting for the little fuel that arrives, and purchases are strictly rationed. The government blamed unscrupulous currency traders for a long time; everyone else blames the government's unrealistic China-like pegging of the kwacha to the dollar, minus China's economic puissance. The crisis cannot really be as bad as it looks, however, for though Malawi does not presently have enough foreign exchange to purchase sufficient fuel, the president was able to acquire a new jet. So that's reassuring.
Later, I heard two plausible explanations from varying sources. It is possible that the truck was filled in expectation of a cool day. Since the weather was hot, even for the season, perhaps the fuel expanded and pressure had to be reduced -- though I'm surprised no vents or valves for this purpose are installed on tankers. Also, it could be that drivers are paid by speed (and this one was loath to stop to find a lost fuelcap) or by weight of fuel picked up (rather than delivered.) In any case, the wastage was far from inconsequential; the amount splashed over me probably equaled a cup or two, and the trail of spilled fuel continued unbroken for the next six kilometers, all the way to the boma. No telling how far the trail stretched behind.
I rinsed off what I could with my water bottle, but then there was nothing to do but to climb up onto my smelly saddle (you don't want to get volatile hydrocarbons there. Ever. Trust me) and bike onwards, fuel fumes clinging to me in an oily cloud. It wasn't long before my skin and scalp started to tingle, then to burn, as the diesel soaked in. And I soon discovered for myself the meaning of the word 'hotseat.'
It's a good thing the rest of my beekeeping project is going so well, because honestly, a girl could get discouraged. Acquiring nails in Malawi is a pain in the ass.
-----
This blog is a personal journal, and does not necessarily represent the viewpoints or stances of either the Peace Corps or the United States Government. After purchase, this blog should be stored in the cold section of your refrigerator.
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