Bad for Your Health but Good for Malawi

Take the main road north from Lilongwe and you will pass the indomitable township of Kanengo. Traditional, unrefined, industrial, this place is a hive of activity during the hot, dry African winter.

Botswana has diamonds, Zambia has copper and South Africa has the World Cup. Malawi is the poor neighbour in this part of the world for the small country can boast only of its tobacco. Still, Malawi does produce an awful lot of tobacco. Around 270 million kilos of the weed is expected to be exported this year alone, that’s one quarter of all global production.

The main road leading north from Lilongwe is lined with the offices of multinational tobacco corporations while the road itself is often congested between the months of May and October with huge over-laden trucks on their way to the auction floors of Kanengo, arguably the tobacco capital of the world. The dried leaves account for 60% of Malawi’s export earnings and Kanengo is where the sellers and buyers meet. On my visit to the auctions in early September, a small blackboard at the back of a huge warehouse stated that today, 12,578 bales were on offer. Though you rarely see anyone smoking in Malawi, make no mistake about it, tobacco is big business here.

The auction floors are dark, dusty, dangerous places. The smell of tobacco, somewhat different to the smell of cigarettes, hangs thick in the warm air. Like worker ants in a busy colony, small men spend their days pushing large bales around with sturdy metal trolleys. Get in the way and you’ll surely be run down. Men in blue overalls walk amongst the bales which are arranged in long, immaculate rows, opening them ready for inspection. Smartly-dressed gentlemen with clipboards follow, examining the leaves for quality, texture, signs of mould. Another group of men follow them writing up their comments on little cards and attaching them to the bales as they pass. More men in blue overalls follow to re-sew the huge burlap sacks. Finally, another group of workers arrive with their trolleys to move the bales to another part of the warehouse.

In the general melee of things there are stock-checkers too, labourers, cleaners, drivers, police offers and security guards. Given the high population density in this country, it is common to see so many people in such a small place. What is more unusual, however, is to see so many people busy. Every once in a while, a stray tourist like myself finds their way to the auction floors. We are easy to spot, unsure of where to go or what to do, we just try not to get in the way; the activity is intense, dramatic and confusing.

But it is September now—after a few more weeks or so all of the over-laden trucks parked sporadically along the local roads will have disappeared. The men with their trolleys, clipboards and sewing needles will have gone too. The farmers will have collected their modest earnings and will have returned to their villages. The Government officials who set the minimum prices and the buyers who ignored them will have moved on, leaving the arguments and acrimony behind them. Across the globe, people will continue sucking on cigarettes either filled or flavoured with Malawian tobacco. But here in the north of Lilongwe, another tobacco season will be over and the old township of Kanengo will become quiet and still once more.

A Cinderella Story

Once-upon-a-time, in a land far, far away, there lived two poor young travellers known as Misja and Stuartee, and their evil night-guard who went by the rather absurd name of Benedicto...

And so might begin a very Malawian fairytale. I was away when most of the events unfolded, so provided here are the basic details of the story as I remember them in the beginning, and as told to me by my housemate, Misja. The story is not yet complete, however—we’re still waiting for the happy ending.

Richard, our old guard of whom I have written previously, had travelled north to attend the funeral of a family member. After several weeks he had still not returned, so, assuming he had decided to stay up north with his kin, we asked the landlord if he could hire a replacement. One fine evening, Benedicto arrived. He came bearing a letter of recommendation from the landlord and a list of items he required to perform his guardly duties. I was reluctant to provide a machete, especially as there were chickens to think of, so Benedicto made do with a slingshot and a handful of stones to protect himself and our property.

I remember him as being a man of few words, English or otherwise. Whereas Richard had been a bit of a clown, Benedicto had an intense seriousness about him. His otherworldly quality put me ill at ease and so I never complained about his occasional unexplained absence, being instead grateful for the relaxing solitude. After I left, Misja informs me that one of the chickens went missing. No remains were discovered, he says, and no feathers. Given the slim probability that the chicken was in the process of migrating and following me to Europe, I immediately thought of Benedicto.

His absences became ever more common. So too did the occurrences of his arrival inebriated. Getting drunk is easy in Malawi for there are beers to suit all income levels. Chibuku, the cheap local brew made from maize porridge, is served warm in cartons and continues to ferment long after it is packaged. Eventually, Misja lost patience and informed Benedicto that his services were no longer required. I cannot complain at the decision—I’d have taken vengeance for the missing chicken far sooner. Yet without a guard—competent, sober or otherwise—our home was more at risk to burglary.

And indeed within two weeks the house had been broken into on two different occasions, all of my clothes stolen, Misja’s camera, a pair of dessert spoons and a host of other random household items. More troubling, however, was the loss of a second chicken. Both break-ins occurred on Saturday when Misja, according to habit, was away from home. The coincidences were accumulating.

My housemate spoke with the landlord and soon our home was protected by metal gates across each door and a new night-guard on patrol, the ever-vigilant Aaron Phiri. The following Saturday, Aaron sensed movement in the storm drains out front, and from the small gap beneath the brick wall where the water drains away in the rainy season, he saw a head emerge. The details of the events that followed are vague and confusing. A chase ensued and some shoes were recovered. Aaron declared that the shoes belonged to the would-be thief and our new cleaning lady, Mrs Aida, identified them as being Benedicto’s. She claimed also to know in which village he lived.

And so, a few weeks after my return, I sat in the great pumpkin that is the Toyota Hilux, accompanied by Mrs Aida, our new cleaning lady and fairy godmother, and several soldierly police officers, and took the magical slippers on tour around the local villages of the kingdom looking for a princess with just the right sized feet.

I wish I could provide a happy ending to this story and say that we found that particular princess, but alas, life isn’t really a fairytale—there are no happy endings, just missing dessert spoons and empty chicken coups.

A New Pandemic Engulfs Africa

The World Health Organisation yesterday issued a warning to foreign nationals travelling to Malawi, advising them to avoid contact with all civil servants and government officials after reports that Verbal Diarrhoea (VD) had reached epidemic levels in the small central African country.

The latest outbreak occurred at the Ministry of Education headquarters in Lilongwe during a meeting of the working group on crosscutting issues in education. One delegate spoke for 25 minutes on the importance of urinals while another reportedly told participants that worms were not a popular parasite amongst the nation’s rural poor.

The meeting, originally scheduled to last three hours, was halted after more than five hours of nonsensical talk and PowerPoint presentations on the advice of doctors.

Representatives of development partners, including the Department for International Development and Voluntary Service Overseas, had been in attendance but many left after Ministry officials began exhibiting symptoms of acute VD.

One delegate, VSO’s Stuart Burrows, told reporters that VD was now widespread in the world of education. “Teachers, Primary Education Advisors, Ministry officials—they’re all affected,” he said. “I once witnessed a lengthy discourse from the Deputy Minster herself, in which she seemed to effortlessly switch between English and Chichewa without any regard for her audience. Things have got really bad. I am dreading the forthcoming training on the implementation of the new Primary Curriculum and Assessment Reform for standards 4 and 8,” continued Burrows before doctors moved in to sedate him.

It is still unclear how VD is transmitted from one sufferer to the next. The World Health Organisation states that short-term exposure does not usually cause any lasting effects but is warning caution nonetheless.

Some observers fear that the disease may spread from Africa to other parts of the world following Libyan leader, Colonel Moammar Gaddafi’s 94-minute tirade at the United Nations in New York last month. His interpreter collapsed after 90 minutes stating: “I just can’t take it anymore!” He was replaced by another interpreter and was taken to a local hospital for observation.

Symptoms of VD include excessive verbosity and repetitiveness, temporary deafness, and the complete inability to judge just when to shut the heck up. There is no known cure for Verbal Diarrhoea but most people affected eventually recover with either retirement or death.

Zimbabwe’s President, Robert Mugabe, is Africa’s longest-suffering VD casualty.

-Reuters

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