Back in Lilongwe at Mabuya Camp. We managed to get the hell out of paradise, hitching a ride from the grumbling Madam of the Wheel House. We met her and her... husband or son... the jury is still out the night before. Two craggy old white toads from Blantyre. He captained a boat for the World Food Program and wheezed cigarette smoke. She spilled over into her squeaky yellow chair and mumbled complaints about "the people" here. Chatting, however was pleasant enough and dotted with stories of the seemingly ordinary trouble you encounter doing anything here. They both had some animosity towards the people of Malawi. Their opinions have been formed over years of feelings of superiority over an uneducated and destitute population, still I couldn't help thinking that their may be some credence to their criticisms, and perhaps not just of Malawi. I keep hearing the same things over and over again. Africa, seeming more and more like an upturned hand, demanding money, compensation for a pitiable state. Of course there is no biological deficiency keeping Africa down. Africa's problems are much more complex and much more human than bad breeding. Still, how can a whole continent be so troubled for so long? And it seems to be getting worse. A spike after independence, a ray of hope, some swelling of pride. Everyone believes they know Africa's problems, and everyone believes that they have figured out how to solve them, precisely why there are so many NGO's and so much aid here. Africa is a great frontier for charity. Forgive an off-base analogy from an absolutely ignorant and naive kid from middle America after less than a week in a small part of a small country in a very large continent, but the Madam gave us a ride to the next town over, Salima, where we caught an AXA bus, a real live bus, not a mini, to Lilongwe. The AXA bus, the clean and professional looking bus was an hilarious disaster; people stuffed past absolute max-capacity, Katie and I perched precariously on the engine box, clutching our bags, and holding on for dear life. At one stop some people squeezed their way through and exited the bus, opening up a sizeable hole for people to shift around in. Two guys who had been packed in next to me, absolutely smashed together. One's legs contorted and mashed into a seat corner. The other off-balance and visibly uncomfortable. They both stood there, planted, irritated, and awkward, staring ahead, looking more and more frustrated, each obviously hating the other. Meanwhile this space exists behind them that easily fit two people comfortable standing... There is no problem solving here. No abstract thinking. Only the struggle that is happening right in front of them. The present struggle. Through the whole two hour bus ride, I was the only one concerned or committed to holding up the huge pile of bags that had been thrown haphazardly into a heap at the front of the bus. I re-stacked the heap a number of times, and simply held it in place the rest of the way. I am certain no one cared. There is no fixing of things. Preventative care is not a concept that has taken hold here. It was disheartening to return to Lilongwe after such serenity. Lilongwe is everything I hate about American cities and then some. It's filthy, crowded, dangerous, loud, polluted, smelly, rude, exploitative, uncaring. It's a miserable and desperate place. It does not make me homesick or unhappy to be here; I can stand discomfort, I can stand trouble and hassle, It's just bad. Only bad. It is such a desperate place, and it is dispiriting to return.
FLICKR Photos
No comments:
Post a Comment