The Township of Dowa

Before arriving here in Malawi my naïve belief about Africa was that it would be delightfully warm throughout the entire year and not get very cold.  Now that the wet season has ended and the land is preparing for six months with absolutely no rain, the long, hot days are giving way to extended nights and cooler temperatures.  Although the days are still warm and sunny the evenings are relatively cold so the locals have begun to purchase winter jackets in the clothing market.  The open-air market consists of stand after wooden stand of piles of second-hand clothes and locals bickering over prices.  If you need a slingshot, a handful of cat food, a machete, a pair of plaid red pants, a six-shooter belt buckle, a piece of Obama gum, a rice pot, an 80’s prom dress, a plastic bag of water, a boom box, miscellaneous scraps of fabric or spare car parts then the market is for you.  With a thrifty eye one can find everything and anything under the sun, complete with the strong stench of body odor.  It’s never the same and always good. 

Moving now from the markets of Lilongwe to the cooking huts of the village…

If you were to walk into a room that burned your eyes and bled your lungs of all their oxygen you would probably walk out.  Except if this room was your kitchen and you had the responsibility to cook for your family every night on an open fire.  I forced myself to sit in the small cooking hut enclosure breathing only the air coming in through the inadequate ventilation door but my will to stay long was fleeting.  The proud woman inside was cooking up a pot of nsima, to pair with the fresh chicken we had brought home from camp.  When I say fresh I mean just hours earlier we traveled in the matola truck with two live chickens resting on the dashboard and then carried them home by their scaly little legs.  As these chickens were losing their battle to a panga knife three of us were winding our way up the mountain that creates the backdrop for the township of Dowa.  Dowa is a quaint village complete with courthouse, barbershop, water tower and open-air market. 

The sun was setting quickly over the thatched roofs, cornfields and drying tobacco huts so we hurried up the uneven terrain.  I was feeling motivated to run despite having slept for very few hours the night before.   It had been one of those nights where the conversation was intense yet liberating, complicated yet comfortable and the time was sped up into the wee hours of the morning.  Now the warm pink hue of the setting sun was casting a peaceful light over the valley.  We listened to the echoes of children playing, dogs wailing, roosters crowing, old brakes chirping and engines revving.  From the top I looked out across Dowa, took the fresh air into my lungs and was paralyzed in a momentary trance of peace and harmony. 

Just hours earlier we had left Dzaleka and the curious faces seeing us off.   Jessi, the only mzungu (white person) to drive a matola truck over the rough roads to Dowa, captured more than a fair share of stares.  My hair blowing in the wind out of the top of the flat bed truck and the smell of the country bringing back nostalgia from Lake Tulich made me smile a silent, no one knows how happy I am right now, smile.  A cold shower, a home cooked meal and a visit with Mama Phiri, Papa Phiri and the family made for a wonderful night.  The earthy, chocolaty smells of drying tobacco leaves in the next room were welcomed, as was the stretching by candlelight and spontaneous laughter before bed.

The heavy eyelids I carried around the next morning were worth it.  Spending the night in the village below a sea of stars unaffected by the lights of the city and getting a glimpse of life in Dowa was perfect.  These are the moments that make me feel connected.  Connected to Malawi, to the people and to this place.  Every moment is a chance to experience something new and something genuine.  I feel so very fortunate to be here.    

Dome’s Favorites:  During ‘truck talk’ (the sometimes brief, sometimes profound dialogues we have in the Land Cruiser truck to and from camp every day) I found out that years ago it was an official policy for children entering the first grade to be given an ‘arm to ear’ test whereby they were asked to place their right bicep against their right ear and reach their hand over their head.   If they were not able to touch their left ear, they were not able to enter into the first grade.  This policy was initially enacted because parents had no official record of age so arm growth was the precise means by which students were admitted.  When he was a boy a colleague of mine was held out of the first grade for two years and forced to stay at home.  He confessed to crying many days because he had to watch his long-armed friends go off to learn.  Classic Malawi, organized and official.