Culture Shock

As we drive through the massive security gates of Manse 2, Area 12, Lilongwe, I am perplexed by what I see. Rather than the mud huts and thatched roofs I had expected, we are greeted by a lush garden with a variety of fruit trees, countless chickens and roosters, a driveway large enough to accomodate a dozen cars plus a 40-passenger church bus, and an enticing courtyard that welcomes visitors into a sprawling red brick building. Might this be a mistake?

We are led into the manse and greeted by mai (Mrs) Mecina and bambo (mister) Mecina, the full-time caretakers. The introduction affords me my first opportunity to try out the Chichewa that I so diligently rehearsed on the plane: “Muli Bwanji” (How are you?) and “Ndili bwino, kaya inu?” (I am fine, what about you?). I am filled with pride as mai Mecina smiles toothlessly back at me – she is obviously impressed by my efforts to master her native language. I am determined to continue to win her over with my expanding lexicon of Chichewa phrases. On the other hand, I have also been forewarned that mai Mecina will be cooking for us all, and that the kitchen area is strictly her domain, which she will vigorously defend. I have no intention of encroaching, for fear that a random meal becomes mysteriously laced with a deadly Malawian plant extract.

We’re weary from thirty hours of travel so our hosts grant us ‘a few hours’ to rest. Really? I’ll need more than a few hours just to to pass the toxic Addis Ababa meal still fermenting in my gut. I’m shown to a room who’s door is emblazoned with two placards titled “Jim” and “East”. I guess the old guy will not be getting his own private suite. The room is sparsely appointed – two twin ‘child-beds’ with mosquito nets and a bathroom best suited for midgets. This won’t be as much a problem for me as it will be for Jim, who stands 6′ 6″ and weighs in at around 270 lbs. Translated, this is 2 meters and 123 kilograms respectively. Why do I bother you with this trivia? Because all of Malawi uses the metric system: 1 kilogram = 2.2 pounds; 1 meter = 3.28 feet; 1 kilometer = 0.621 miles; to convert from centrigade to fahrenheit, multipy by 1.6 and add 32. There, you’re all prepared for Africa. Now go book your flight.

First order of business is to shower because I smell very much like a camel. Fortunately I brought soap and shampoo – a quick survey reveals that there is absolutely no washroom accoutrement – no soap, no shampoo, no toilet paper, no towels, nada, zip, nothing – and certainly not the monogrammed bathrobe and slippers that Janet is so accustomed to. But there is a small handwritten sign above the sink: “Do not drink the water”. This causes me to wonder exactly how I’m supposed to avoid ingesting water while showering. I need to think carefully about this because – although I brought an anti-diarrheal, I really don’t want to need it. The solution turns out to be that showering for the next two weeks will be extremely short – due to the fact that we have no hot water. However, I will learn to adapt by leaning forward and soaking only my head. I will use KimWipes as a ‘French bath’. I will also learn to deal with the accompanying dizziness when I stand back upright – as the fine print on my Anti-Malarial drug clearly warns of this unpleasant side effect.

It’s time to climb into my ‘child-bed’. I wish there were instructions on the proper use of ‘mosquito netting’ because I seriously underestimate the contraption’s complexity. It sticks to my body like flypaper – I no sooner get one limb free when the other limb becomes entangled. I finally extricate myself but fear that I might have damaged the delicate netting- thus my nap is spent listenting for the imminent ‘buzz’ of a kamikazi mosquito.

I’m awakened by a knock at the door. A voice beckons me to gather in the living room – we are to be escorted to the home of one of our hosts for dinner. I agonize over the appropriate attire because I was told to bring only a minimal amount of clothing. My only option is to wear my Sunday best. Damn, I forgot to bring dress socks! Do white sweat socks go with black dress shoes? I don’t see why not. Clearly the years spent having Janet make all  personal clothing decisions has left me abysmally unprepared to dress myself.

Our destination is located near the presidential palace. Yes, the presidential palace. The entrance reminds me of the great Land Of Oz. More guards, larger security gates, and a driveway that feels like a stadium parking lot. The only thing missing are those hideous spear-carrying ‘Oz-monkeys’.

Introductions are awkwardly and formal, so I choose not to attempt my newly-acquired Chichewa. The pronunciation of names sounds totally foreign to my ears and I fear I will remember not a single one. The male hosts are dressed in their finest, and the hostesses are absolutely gorgeous – brilliantly colored wraps, glowing skin, and intoxicating fragrances. I find it difficult not to stare, or for that matter sniff. We are seated in massively-oversized lounge chairs in a room that is so large that it produces echoes when we speak. And thus begins the process of getting to know one another.

During this ceremonial gathering I find myself obsessively worrying that I might somehow behave innapropriately. Do I only speak when I am spoken to? Should I attempt to tell a joke? Should I ask for opinions on Donald Trump? Janet, where are you, I need you.

English is spoken by most Malawians, but it sounds rather unintelligible. I find myself mentally translating from ‘Malawi-English’ to ‘Eastman-English’: what sounds like “ahb-eh-nue” turns out to mean ‘urban youth’; “eh-yawh” means ‘yes’; “ah-go” means ‘ago’; “straw-teh-jeek” means ‘strategic’. It’s going to be a long night.

There will be many new and strange customs to be learned on this trip, one of them being that you always wash your hands before eating. A wash basin and vase of hot water is passed between each guest just for this purpose. And just as with the mosquito net, I have not been apprised in the proper usage of a ‘Malawi wash basin’. I of course ceremoniously dip my hands into the wash basin and begin my scrubbing. How was I to know that I was to have the water poured over my hands – and that the bowl was for the dirty waste water. I may need that Cipro after all.

It is time for dinner and I assume that, in Malawi as in America, ‘ladies first’. But I am proven wrong. It appears that there is a distinct separation of men and women, perhaps an unwritten hierarchy. I observe that all the women sit together and that all the men sit together – a respectable distance separating the two groups. If Janet had joined me on this trip, would we be allowed to sit together? I think not. But it certainly would be entertaining to watch our hosts attempt to translate from Janet’s New-Jersey-English: “I come from New Joy-zee, it’s neah Bahh-stunn”.

I choose to wait until most everyone has served themselves before I hungrily dive in. It is a smorgasbord of gastronomical delights. A quarter of the way through the line my plate is full, and I resolve to come back to sample what I missed on prior passes. And what a pleasant surprise it is. There are beef tenderloins prepared with a peanut butter mole sauce, grilled free-yard chicken seasoned to perfection, whole local fish (pronounced “chambo”) with their bugged-out eyes staring up at me, exotic vegetables (including sauteed pumpkin leaves), glue-like maize dumplings (pronounced ‘nSima’) that you pick up in your fingers and use to transport other food items to your mouth; a local drink (pronounced ‘toba’) made from flour, millet and who knows what else; and various fruits. I finish my meal with the realization that I very much look forward to discovering what other foods Malawi has to offer.

After dinner we retire back to the grand living room for conversation. Each of our team members introduce themselves and provide a brief description of why they are on this mission trip. One by one I listen to their impressive credentials, beginning with m’busa Paul (‘Pastor’ Paul). But this is worrisome  – exactly what are my credentials? Panic sets in as I mentally recite: ok, I surf, I don’t have a job, I’m not really a ‘church member’ but a mere ‘attendee’, I love wine and good scotch, and I play a little piano. Ahhh yes, very impressive. I suck it up and pray that the Lord will allow our hosts to see that my intentions are good.

The evening ends with prayers from m’busa Bizwick (pastor of Lingadzi church). I don’t remember much of the drive back to the manse – only the blinding headlights approacing our car from the right side of the roadway. And the many pedestrians and bicyclists that somehow manage to maintain a safe 6 inches between themselves and our speeding caravan. And don’t forget the goats and dogs that are running wild.

It has been a very long two days and I stagger to my bedroom. Brushing my teeth I suddenly realize that I have used tap water to rinse my mouth. Krap, I’m doomed. Rather than fret all night over this oversight, I again avail myself of sedatives. As the drug begins to take effect, I make a futile effort  to disentagle myself from the mosquito net and climb into my ‘child-bed’. The last thing I remember was the incessant howling of wild dogs. Zzzzzzzz…..

It’s A Long Way to Lilongwe

I couldn’t sleep last night thinking about what lies ahead. I’m heading off with seven complete strangers to a place 11,000 miles on the other side of the world. I’ve packed only the bare personal essentials,  allowing space for a myriad of music equipment: metronome, drum sticks, kalimbas, cabassa, guiro, claves, cowbell, batteries, solar panel, soldering iron, solar cookers, and a prized piano that Janet gave me last Christmas – gifts which are my very reason for being on this mission trip, and it’s finally time to embark.

I pull into the church garage, park next to a van that will take us to LAX for our flight, and unload over a hundred pounds of luggage from my car. When I find the conference room I see another 20 oversized bags and wonder how one van will carry nine occupants and all these bags. But more importantly, how will our plane possibly become airborne?

The bags are ingeniously crammed into the van. I, the newcomer, offer to ride in the back – a regretful decision. Facing a three hour drive to LAX, I’m informed that the the air conditioner doesn’t work. So this is how the trip is going to go down? Thirty more hours of surprises like this?

Driving up the interstate, there’s a lot of enthusiastic chatter. But I opt to remain silent, at least until I get a take on the various personalities – I figure that ‘first impressions’ are important and I’d hate to establish myself as a jerk right out of the gate.

Two members of the group have been to Malawi before, and they’re being bombarded with questions, so I listen attentively. Alex and Taylor are in their early twenties, energetic, and eager for the unexpected – while I’ve got fifty years on these two, I’m full of trepidation, and I don’t like surprises.

Dropped off curbside at LAX  we form a caravan of baggage carts and merge with a multitude of international travellers. I’m loaded down like a pack mule, taking up the rear, and breathing hard while struggling to keep pace. I’m already tired from the drive and there’s still 27 hours to go.

I’ve never heard of ‘Ethiopia Airlines’ and find myself wondering if they are legitimate. Where were their pilots and mechanics trained – in a rural African village? Prudence tells me that I should have Googled them beforehand – but then again, what if I were to discover that Ethiopia is  a third world country – what would that say about their pilots and mechanics? I suppress further thoughts on the subject.

Check-in is a chaotic tribulation with much shuffling of bags, weights, sizes, visas, destinations, boarding passes, tags, … I’m just glad that I have my cherished Walt Disney Mickey Mouse fannypack to keep me organized and sane. We finally have our boarding passes and can relax at the boarding gate while awaiting our plane.

It’s time to board and I can hardly contain my excitement. This is it, it’s really going to happen. I’m pleased to see that our plane is a beautiful, sleak and glistening white missile. I am also comforted to see a familiar ‘General Electric’ logo on the massive engines – manufactured in the great U S of A.

It’s takeoff time. After an interminable effort to gain runway speed, our lumbering Boeing 787 defies the laws of physics to make it’s way into the air – and we’re off.  Some ten hours away we will have a layover in Dublin. This leg should be tolerable as I’m carrying enough sedatives to put down a horse. It occurs to me that I might have a difficult time explaining to customs that this amount is for ‘personal use’. My solution, perhaps not the wisest, is that if I can consume enough of it before we hit Malawi customs, I stand a chance of avoiding prison time. The downside of this logic is that I will have little recollection of the flight to Dublin.

I must assume that the flight went well, because we arrive safely in Dublin. A two hour layover is uneventful, as we never leave the plane. Now it’s another eight hours to Addis Ababa and I have no other choice than to load up on a second dose of sedative, but not until I’ve had a meal. My apologies, but I have no recollection of this flight either.

I wake up on arrival at the Addis Ababa airport, which will become a story in itself. Why on earth would they provide an airport ‘smoking trailer’. Perhaps they believe that the smell of stale cigarrette smoke might mask the stench of a thousand weary and perspiring travelers who appear to have set up camp in the terminal. A trip to the urinals finds me forced to forego washing of the hands due to the unnavailablility of sinks –  they are being utilized by men washing their feet. As I make my way back through the terminal, my senses are assaulted by an amalgam of sweat, urine and cigarrette smoke.  I’m definitely not in Kansas.

Our group decides to while away our time with some airport food, thus commencing my first bout of African diarrhea. The flight from Addis Ababa to Lilongwe is spent sans sedative because I need to be alert and ready for frequent sprints to the restroom. This proves to be a forgettable leg of the journey.

Finally we reach our destination – Lilongwe, Malawi.  I know that it is daytime but I have no clue as to the hour because my watch is still on San Diego time.  My phone’s clock is also useless because we will have no cellular coverage for the next fourteen days. Deboarding the plane I hear some excited voices and some finger pointing. High up on a terminal balcony I see a sizeable group of Malawians smiling broadly and waving their hands excitedly. I look around to see who the intended recipients might be, only to find that we are the target of this exuberant welcome. After making our way thorough the terminal we are greeted with heartfelt hugs and handshakes – ‘The Warm Heart Of Africa’.  Our hosts appear to be just as excited at our arrival as we are.

Introductions are made and I soon wish that I was taking notes. Twelve African names that I can barely pronounce will certainly prove difficult to remember. Our group is split into quarters and loaded into SUVs for our drive to Lingadzi, Area 12, Manse 2 – our home for the next two weeks. The sights and sounds of Lilongwe flood my senses – thousands of pedestrians, bicycles, scooters, buses, and animals crowd the two-lane roads. The air is smokey, a condition that will persist for the entire trip.

As we arrive at Manse 2, I notice that it is a gated compound with 12 foot high walls, concertina wire, and a mammoth steel gate entry with a guard standing just inside. A horn honks and the massive doors open. The expansive grounds are filled with dozens of chickens, roosters and birds – but no dogs. Thus begins a mission trip that I will never forget.

Where is Malawi?

It’s early Sunday morning and I’m drinking strong coffee while getting dressed for church. At my age I need the caffeine – not due to a lack of interest but rather due to my annoying habit of drifting off at inappropriate times – like in the presence of the Holy Spirit.

As service gets under way, the first order of business is to peruse the church bulletin. This habit is not for reasons of edification but because I have a morbid curiosity to see if I recognize the names of  any recent ‘dearly departed’,  and It’s turning out to be a good day because we haven’t lost anyone… yet.  But as I’m reading,  a blurb catches my attention: “Mission trip to Malawi Africa”. Really? Where the heck is Malawi? Apparently it is somewhere deep in Africa. I get anxious dining at Mexican restaurants – why would someone willingly travel to a third world country?

But as curiosity tempts me to read further, I stumble upon the word ‘music’.  And I’m thinking, that’s  curious:  ‘Malawi’, ‘Sister Church’, ‘Orphanage for the blind’, ‘sponsored children’, and  ‘music’. I find myself  completely sidetracked, and it becomes difficult to concentrate on the sermon.  When service ends, I sneak the bulletin into my pocket as if it were some illicit contraband, thinking that it will probably just end up in the trash at home.

As time passes, I’m repeatedly pricked by the absurd thought of a mission trip to Africa. I’ve given up doing anything remotely impulsive, because something as trivial as switching toothpaste brands makes me anxious. But why oh why did they have to mention music?  What could possibly be the connection?  It’s like I’ve stumbled onto Pandora’s box. Two more Sundays pass, and two more bulletins – each with the same exhortation: “Malawi Mission trip…  requests help with music“.  Am I being nudged from above?

After service,  we go for our regular Sunday brunch, where I can no longer contain myself. So I drop the Malawi bomb, fully expecting Janet’s eyes to bug out as she chokes on her food. But to my consternation she simply replies: “I think you should go”.  Really? That’s your answer?  That’s all you have to say? That is so deja vu, like the time I hinted at riding a bicycle across America, to which she simply responds: “I think you should do it”. Now might be a good time to tell her that I also want to  become an astronaut.

Janet has now set the ball in motion and I’m powerless to stop it. I still have the original bulletin, and it clearly has a phone number to call. But every time I’m tempted to make the call, I panic and turn to playing piano until  my heart rate subsides. I repeat this sequence for days, and each evening Janet asks the same question: “Well, did you make the call?”.  When I realize the futility of procrastination,  I cave and make an appointment to meet the mission leader and head pastor of our church. It’s like I’m sinking in quicksand – the more I struggle the deeper I sink.

I soon find myself inundated with preparations for the appointment. After rummaging through my closet for suitable apparel, clothes that haven’t seen daylight in years, a sense of superficiality cripples me: why can’t I just wear my comfy jeans, t-shirt and flip-flops? But as usual,  Janet has the final sayso in all matters of my attire.  Janet also sees my argument for not needing  a haircut utterly laughable – so I soon find myself with an uncharacteristic ‘sporty crewcut’, which is in odd juxtaposition to my white beard – which Janet will soon attempt to have me remove.

Then there is the ‘short bio’ that I’m supposed to conjure up. Hmmm, let’s see… “I love to surf and drink wine, I don’t have a job but I love to walk our dog on the beach, I despise travelling, I don’t have a passport, I’ve never been on a mission trip but I do tithe – but not every Sunday.  And oh yes, I’m a newbie to Christ”. That should go over well.

The day of reckoning arrives and I’m a nervous wreck. I’m sitting in Pastor Paul’s private office and wondering if I have sweat rings. Why am I dressed for a funeral while Paul is in his jaunty casuals?  And why is my mouth so parched?  I secretly wipe the corners of my mouth just in case there is that nervouse white stuff there. Then comes the Q&A session. I tell you honestly that I remember absolutely nothing of what I said – it’s all a fuzzy blur. I leave the meeting feeling like I’d just left the principal’s office.  Of course Janet will be eagerly awaiting details, but she will be sadly disappointed.

Surprise of surprises, a few days later I receive email implying that I might very likely be joining the Mission trip. Holy Mother Of God,  what have I gotten myself into?  It soon becomes apparent that much  preparation lies ahead. I begin priotitizing on a small notepad, which is soon replaced by a thick college-ruled notebook. I spend the next three months practicing hyms on the piano – till my hands ache and my ears are ringing. I’ve refinanced our house to pay for the airfare, the Visa application is complete, my arm feels like a pincushion from all the vaccinations, I’ve waived all rights to have the church negotionate with kidnappers in the ‘unlikely event’ that I am kidnapped, and I’ve undergone a background check so that I can visit an orphanage for the blind. My bags are packed with Solar Cookers, hand tools, batteries and musical equipment – and the little room remaining contains a pair of pants, two shirts, and a toothbrush.

It is wednesday, May 10, 8:30 am. Janet has left for work and I am sitting in my chair, feeling a bit lonely while nervously waiting for the time to head to LAX to begin a two day journey to Malawi. I find myself staring at my bag, piano, and Disneyland fannypack – eerily scanty for two weeks on the other side of the world. I consider leaving my phone behind because there will be no cell coverage. No laptop because there may not be electricity. Should I spend the final hours refreshing my Nyanja/Chewa phrases – like ‘muli bwanji’, and ‘Ndili bwino’?  Hmmmm….