African Odyssey: Report 15

After two full months away, on Monday, August 12th, I arrived back in San Antonio, Texas. Complete was a road trip covering seven African nations, over 4,000 miles of road, and 15 African Odyssey emails.

I have loved writing the updates, and I wish I could have written more. But I only included what seemed interesting and somewhat novel. Many more things happened, many more people were a part of the trip and my experiences, and many great stories were left untold.

What have i learned? Who knows. Life is, always has been, and will continue to be. Same as it ever was and will be, I imagine.

One thing I certainly do feel is a deep comfort in seeing that things in the world are not so bad. Africans, at least in these seven countries, have enough to eat, wear clothes, and survive just fine. While they don't have much stuff, that do have what they most need. That reassures me. And, they are quite happy people. Living lives not altogether different from yours and mine.

In 2001, Mexico taught me that being poor is not the same as being sad, just as being rich is not the same as being happy. Ironically, I had to relearn that lesson here in Africa nine years later.

As I often used to tell people post-Mexico: make a list of the five happiest people you know. Now make a list of the the five richest people you know. Compare the lists. Is it the same people? Probably not.

Nations are the same way. Economics have little to do with happiness - just ask the Japanese, who kill themselves more despite being an economic miracle over the past century. Malawi, the poorest country we visited, was also our favorite for its friendly people and beautiful land. Zimbabwe was a close second for those same reasons, despite being two years removed from economic collapse.

Don't be fooled, however: rich people aren't all bad, as we all know. The ampunt of U.S. aid in these places is huge, and really dwarfs the rest of the world. While the Chinese are busy buying up African companies and resources, the U.S. Is busy sending a parade of white SUVs filled with middle class aid workers, NGO organizers, and doctors. I come home more patriotic for all that we do in the world.

And now, in honor of Africa, I say my Africa-inspired multi-denominational prayer/statement, crafted in Kenya, a nation of many religions: Christians, Muslims, and taditional believers:
"Dear God, or lack of God, or unknown being who we may never know; we thank you, or lack of you, for life, food, and shelter, which you may or may not have had a part in giving or creating for us; may we enjoy all that is, was and will be or not be. Thank you."

African Odyssey: Report 14 - The Age of Hype

"Don't worry about it. We live in the age of hype. Everything's about the next big thing, or the new superstar. People just can't be happy with what there is, what is good," I told Chemeli as we sat on the bench overlooking one of the finest beaches in the world.

And with that, began the game, Over-Hyped. Who or what is over-hyped? What better way to pass the time in Diani Beach, the white sand beach, the Cancun of Africa. Who would think that this deserted stretch of beach would attract some of the world's rich and famous? Bill Gates flies his personal jet here. Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie became "Brangelina" during a secret trip to the area. During the World Cup, Jose Maurinho, coach of Real Madrid, vacationed here with his family.

"Lebron James is over-hyped.." I said. "Everyone wants to say he's going to be the best ever, but if he has one knee injury, he might not even make the Hall of Fame."

"Miley Cirus. I mean, she's not even a good singer," Chemeli fired back. Although Chemeli grew up in Kenya, she was more Muzungu than Chris or me. Being the daughter of the Kenyan ambassador to America, going to high school and college in the States, will do that to a girl.

"Global warming." Chris chimed in. "I mean, enough already."

Out of the blue came Chemetai's voice. Chemeli's twin sister, the Nairobi native, was not to be outdone: "The Meet the Fockers trilogy. Twilight. Shoot, all sequels."

"Zanzibar." Chris said. Yes, having been there only days before, i agreed. The name is mythical, but there are simply too many stinky Europeans in sandals with socks walking around for it to seem all that romantic or mystical.

"Twitter!" On this, we were all in agreement.

Soon, we turned to a new category: Under-Hyped.
"The beach" I said.
"The stars" one of the twins chimed in.
"Is being twins overhyped or underhyped?" I asked.
"Definitely underhyped." they answered in unison.
"Samuel!" said Chris.On this, we all agreed. Samuel, our personal chef for the past two days, provided by our beachfront villa, could make seafood like no other.

After 14 days on the road, after spending a grand total of $150 over 14 nights to camp or stay in the cheapest hotel in many towns, Chris and I had arrived in the lap of luxury. Samuel cooking a daily menu of fish, shrimp, and crab. A warm blue ocean. Nowhere to be except at the table for the next game of scrabble, spades, or gin.


Under-Hyped: the beach in Kenya and its beachfront villas. Following two weeks of heavy driving, immersion in local cultures, and being a Muzungu in the land of no Muzungus, a couple days of lazy comfort on the nicest beach you've never heard of was just right

African Odyssey: Report 13 - Flora and Two Muzungu!

Flora and Two Muzungu!

Flora is a typical young black Malawean. 25 years old, she works at the local cafe, making coffee, serving drinks, and baking cakes for loyal customers. When Chris and I sidled up to the counter, Flora served us homemade cake and a fresh pot of coffee. In the beautiful but rustic port town of Nkata Bay, population 10,000, on the shore of Lake Malawi, this amounts to luxury.

As Chris downloaded his emails over the wireless signal (the only one in town), I starting playing Mastermind at the counter with Flora - after all, there were no other customers. Six hours later, after many a Mastermind game and even a round of Trivial Pursuit, we were now invited to dinner at Flora's house.

After a trip to buy fresh fish (caught on the lake) the feast was on. Fried chumba fish, veggies, and plenty of enzima - an African cream of wheat-like substance that you use in place of cutlery, napkins, and probably also toilet paper. No forks, folks. Let me tell you, your hands smell like fish for days after a meal.

Flora lives in a very humble apartment block, one that appears more like a dormitory that has seen much better days. 17 one-room units were packed together haphazardly yet tightly on the propery. Dinner was cooked in the hallway; no kitchens here. Her neighbors were... well, interesting. They ranged from Flora to a DJ, from a family of 3 living in one room to a very friendly drunken woman who stumbled by about every five minutes. Despite it all, Flora maintains an even keel, giving away her extra enzima to the hungry ones and helping the lush to find her room.

As we ate dinner, however, Flora's story quickly became much more interesting. Married at 17, to a rich husband of 26. The rich fiancée, a Doctor, payed a lubola of many cows (lubola = wedding payment, see Report 8, previously). The happy couple soon had a baby boy. However, after increasing signs of problems and an ever more apparent wandering eye, Flora finally confronted her husband. Violence resulted. The couple soon parted ways.

His violent behavior would have resulted in jail time in the U.S.A. However, in Malawi, Africa, as a husband who had paid a handsome lubolo for his wife to become his property, he was granted full custody and guardianship of the child. Flora's son, now 6, lives 30 miles away with his father, who remarried his lover a month after the divorce was finalized. Flora was forced to start a new life minus her child, husband, and any finances from her former spouse. If she had not agreed to any of the conditions, the ex-husband could have demanded that her family pay him back the lubolo.

After dinner, it was time to see the town with Flora's friends, Malawi style. Before long, Chris and I were debating politics with David, playing pool with Sovier (what a name!) and on the dance floor in an informal Nkata Bay pub crawl. All without seeing another white person. The amazing thing is that Nkata Bay is a town with a large European and foreign communities. The coffee shops, dive shops, and internet cafes, catering to foreign tourists, are owned and frequented by white South Africans, Brits, and Germans. The same shops are staffed entirely by black locals. Economic colonisalism, Soviet called it.

The two groups mix like oil and water. They don't. They seem to interact for work, but not pleasure. When Chris and I walked through the streets in the black areas of town, we were such a novelty that every small child would yell out the word for white person: "Muzungu!"

Thanks to Flora, two Super Muzungu got to see a slice of real Malawi life, from tales of struggling to get by to enjoying a Friday night with friends. Something not all muzungu get a chance to experience.

Matthew-

African Odyssey: Report 12 - NO STUFF!

If there is one thing lacking in Africa, it is... everything. There just isn't enough stuff to go around. And when there isn't enough stuff to go around, the little stuff there is gets really expensive. It's absurd, especially when you think how little money the people who live here make. If I consider it expensive, it must be otherworldly to most of them.

It is Economics 101, supply and demand, but on a very personal level. As a great writer, Jared Diamond, said: people in third world countries are always asking him "Why do white people have so much cargo?" I.e. why do they always have so much stuff with them when they arrive?

Our first experience with the lack of stuff was in Zimbabwe. We arrived to the gas station, with about a quarter of a tank of gas left, happy to spot the lighted sign on dark, distant horizon. However, as we arrived in the well-built, large gas station, we realized a fatal flaw: it had no gas to sell. A gas station with no gas. They did have Coke, however, or a few bags of chips, if you are interested. But really, what is a gas station with no gas?

I suppose the answer is that a gas station with no gas is an African gas station. Because, days later, in Tanzania, we had what was somewhere between a tragic and comedic experience. With our gas tank dropping below half full, we proceeded to pull into four straight empty gas stations, all about 100 miles apart on the semi-deserted road. The largest road in Tanzania, mind you, connecting the Indian Ocean ports with all of central Africa. We ended our day finding gas at the last station, 32 miles on reserve, 372 miles traveled on the Honda's twelve gallon tank.

But wait, it gets better. Literally the day before, we had cruised into the gas station, 365 miles into our tank, hours without having seen a gas station. Cruised, in that the motor was dead, we were out of gas, and we were on a downhill, with a head of steam, coasting into the only gas station in town. Luckily this one did have gas.

Gas is not the only scarcity, however. Ravenous one day In the middle of rural Tanzania, we stopped in the largest town for miles around - a small roadside community of perhaps 2,000 with scores of tiny stores and market stalls. However, there was only one restaurant, a tiny room with a woman cooking and her three brothers serving as waiters. However, this restaurant's menu consisted of rice and beans. With no sauce, salt, or other options. So, making lemonade out of lemos, I went to the store next door and bought a big bottle of hot sauce. Suddenly we were eating dirty rice and beans. At the end of the meal, we gave the burgoning eatery our large leftover bottle of hot sauce. One of the brothers excitedly grabbed his crotch, put his other hand in the air, and shuffling in circles, dancing and singing "Chili Sauce! Chili Sauce! I am so happy! I am so happy!" Never have I seen one so happy with so little.

Other stuff is also hard to come by - like t-shirts. If you ever want to come back home to the USA with a massive amount of handicrafts, carvings, and memorabilia, simply pack a bag with old t-shirts and come to Malawi. In the rural areas, every craftsman you meet is willing to either sell or barter - do you have $10 or perhaps an old t-shirt? When I couldn't find the change to make a deal happen ($5 was not enough for what I was buying), the carver asked me if I could give him anything. I went back to the car, emerged with a USA stars and stripes pen, and the deal was struck.

Wear a soccer jersey for a day in Africa, and you will have multiple people offer to buy it off you. Literally the shirt off your back. Unfortunately, for me, soccer jerseys are keepsakes, otherwise I would be coming home with a mother lode of priceless carvings.

They don't even have enough money. Printed money, or coins. Try to pay, and they don't have change to give you, so they offer you a little sweet or make you buy more. At the office to buy boat tickets, where a ticket across a body of water costs $35, the woman couldn't make change for me to buy in dollars. Umm, why do you quote your price in dollars when you don't have change for a $50? Shouldn't you at least have change for your customers so they can buy a ticket?

Money, food, gas, clothes. I didn't even mention the lack of asphalt to pave roads, or cars to drive on them, or even bicycles to ride around. Stuff is hard to come by here. Want to get rich? Just get lots of stuff to Africa, where there is lots of stuff they can trade you for it. Make it affordable stuff, and you could sell as much as there is money here. How odd to think that actual things could be more valuable than money...

Afican Odyssey: Report 11 - Wembe United

Wembe United


William Kamkwamba is not your average high school graduating senior. In his hometown of Wembe, young William is a mogul: his home has the only electricity, he owns the local soccer team, and he will soon open a maize mill. He just graduated from the African Leadership Academy, my friend Chris's school in Johannesburg, South Africa, and will soon head to Dartmouth on a full scholarship to study Mechanical Engineering.

Yet William did not start out going to top schools, he did not grow up reading every book in the library. His hometown doesn't even have a library. And before William's non-profit foundation paid for the materials for a school building last year, his elementary school met in an open field, under the shade of trees, in a circle around their teacher.

William grew up in his extended family's small compound of tiny earthen-brick buildings with no electricity. Today, there is not even a fence, as no fence needed when there is tall African grass and no neighbors for thousands of feet. At the age of 13, William decided he wanted electricity. William's town is located 7 kilometers down a dirt road, far away from the nearest city. Unfortunately, electricity in Malawi only runs along the major roads (both of them).

So William went to the small collection of books known as the village library, looked up electricity, and set about building a windmill. Because, as he says, "There is much wind in Malawi." Soon, he had installed hand-built electrical boxes, amplifiers, and circuit breakers in his entire house, powering light bulbs (to study with) and a radio and television.

Within a couple of years, when word of the crazy invention spread, William's windmill brought international reporters and visitors to his small town in Malawi. A best-selling book and international fame followed. When we asked to see the original circuit breaker, William replied matter of factly "Oh, I'm sorry, that is in the museum in Chicago." By that, he meant the Museum of Science and Technology in Chicago, Illinois, as part of an exhibit on WIlliam's windmill.

Amazingly, as much as he has traveled the world, William is still a young man from the village. Or, as he would say, his "virrage." You see, in the spoken Malawian language, "R" and "L" are interchangeable. Meaning that village becomes virrage, Malawi becomes Marawi, and Malaria (no laughing matter) becomes "Be carefur not to catch mararia." William listens to "rocal Marawian leggae music." Decipher that, if you can.

To the townspeople, William is somewhat of an oddity - clearly nobody comprehends the good William has done for his hometown. The new school, materials paid by the Moving Windmills Foundation. He started the soccer team because the youths in town didn't have enough to keep them occupied, and he saw them getting involved in crime. Mind you, most of the "youths" on Wembe United are older than William.

The young children of the village know William not for his international success, but rather as the one who brings the "Azungu!" ("White People!") As we walk the dusty roads through town, towards the unpaved central road, a crowd of young kids appears and starts chanting "Azungu, Azungu!" like we are some sort of famous sports team coming out for kickoff.

The contrast between international fame and village boy remains stark in his home - a crisp photo of William shaking hands with the President of Malawi hangs in a small frame on the grubby living room wall, above worn out couches and a dirt floor. On the opposite wall, another photo of William on a panel of honor at an international meeting of the minds hangs next to a wall calendar, open to June 2008.

After his mother, who speaks no English, prepares us a traditional meal, which we eat with our hands, she brings out the guest book for us to sign. This year alone, hundreds of visitors have visited the tiny home at the end of a dirt. We sign on the same page as the American Ambassador to Malawi, who was there only days before.

After a small contribution to the Moving Windmills Foundation on behalf of the Oil Barons Society of South Texas, we are off, yet another azungo to have come to Marawi to visit the the famous windmirs.

William's Best-Selling Book:
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Boy-Who-Harnessed-Wind-Electricity/dp/0061884987
William's Wikipedia Page:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Kamkwamba
William on the Daily Show (my personal favorite):
http://www.thedailyshow.com/watch/wed-october-7-2009/william-kamkwamba

Matthew-

African Odyssey: Report 10 - Big Roma

"Goooooooal!" the crowd screamed with delight, crammed three deep to the chicken wire retaining fence surrounding the dirt field. I had to stand up and scurry quickly from my crouching position in front of the fence, as it appeared the leaning support pole might snap at its base. I didn't want to become another statistic in the hundreds of fans who are killed by a collapsing stadium fence each year around the world. Zambian second division football simply wasn't worth risking my life.

Driving by the large crowd only moments earlier, Chris and I simply had to stop and watch some of the spectacle. As outsiders, with pale skin, a camera and a vuvuzela, we were immediately escorted to one corner of the field. A six foot tire was laboiously rolled to the side, the chicken wire detached, and suddenly we could walk through to the field.

A V.I.P. Entrance! We were close enough to touch the players, and immediately next to the Big Roma Fan Band, i.e. a guy with a drum. It seems being a foreigner is enough to get you field-side access in Zambia.

After the goal, the scoresheet would read: Big Roma 1 : Casco 0, goal scored by Victor, number 9 on Big Roma, in the 5th minute of play. However, nobody in the crowd of around 2,000 was shouting Victor. As he ran to the corner of the field for a full squad choreagraphed celebratory dance, the crowd shouted "Go USA!".

I scratched my head and asked: "Huh? Why USA?". One of the Big Roma fan club/entourage/former players section turned to me and said: "We call him USA because he plays like Landon Donovan: he is fast, runs hard, and scores many goals."

This is a change up there with global warming and the Mayan prophecy of 2012. Being called "USA" used to mean being the worst player on the field, the one who couldn't trap the ball or shoot. In 2010, after World Cup in South Africa, people in rural Zambia now think of the USA as label of soccer brilliance. US soccer has surely never received higher praise. "Go USA!"

Matthew-

African Odyssey: Report 9

Arriving to Victoria Falls, the biggest tourist mecca in Southern Africa, felt like making a landing on an alien planet. The hip hostel bar, full of white patrons who sat transfixed watching a rugby match on tv, appeared to be a mass of zombies. How could they know our shock: in the last 48 hours, we had seen only one other white person, in a passing car? Masvingo, Zimbabwae, population, 112,374, was very different than this little corner of backpacker "heaven" (hell?).

It all began two days before, with our arrival in Great Zimbabwe National Park. The $15 entrance fee seemed steep, even if it was a UNESCO World Heritage Site and the greatest in Southern Africa, according to sources. The $3 for the tour guide, however, was the greatest value in all of Africa.

We were told we'd get the best tour guide, Tino. He proceeded to wow us with his great knowledge of history and culture, as well as his friendliness. Who knew that the king had hundreds of wives and concubines, to whom he could call out by number from the top of his hilltop palace complex. "Number 20, come here now!" Or that in Zimbabwe, if you want to marry a woman, you must first pay her family a dowry or "lubalo" of anywhere from $5,000 to $100,000 (U.S. dollars!). Tino is still paying off his wife's $8,000 lubolo six years after the wedding. This in a country where starvation was not uncommon as recently as 2008.

After our tour of the Great Zimbabwe Ruins, we were so impressed by Tino that we asked him to go have lunch before we left town. Little did we know that the invitation would end over an empty bottle of rum at 6 am with Tino, his cousin, and his uncle. From grocery store to bar, dance hall to outdoor bbq, we experienced a day with the common Zimbabwaen.

First, it was happy hour at the local bar, near the bus depot. It was payday for teachers, so far too much of their monthly pay draw of $160 disappeared over suds as they hollered with friends at leopards chasing after poor antelopes on the National Geographic channel. It is a strange sense of irony watching footage of African animals via an American channel via a satellite in space, all back to a tv in a bar in Africa.

Next was my personal favorite, Bar Eden. They sells Cokes and beer out of the main shop, while a outdoor area next door lets patrons bring their own meat to cook, all while blasting Congolese music videos over a projector screen. Our personal chef, Thomas, made a fire, cooked our chicken and veggies, and cleaned up. When Chris handed him a $5 tip for over 3 hours of service, he clapped his hands in appreciation.

Finally, at the Liquids bar, I turned to Chris and realized: I had never been in such a foreign place in my entire life. Chris and I were the only foreigners in the bar, and the only white people. I had never heard a single song being played before. I didn't recognize people's dance moves. I had never drank the beer we were drinking. I didn't recognize the videos playing on the tv. The locals talked with a different accent and intonation. I was out of my element, but thanks to the company of Chris and the hospitality of Tino, I was completely at ease and enjoying the nightlife of Masvingo, Zimbabwae. Population, 112,374, plus 2 very out of place yet at home Americans.

Matthew-