Birds and bougainvillea.

I wake to the sound of birds chattering in the garden. It is first light and 5.30a.m. in our house in Blantyre Street, Lilongwe. It is an early start because we are still adjusting to African time.  The birds are almost sotto voce compared to the chatter of the guards at the gate below our window. The bed, cocooned in a mosquito net I bought before leaving Australia, is a tented haven.

The room is large and bright when the curtains are pulled back. There are French Doors and a wall of windows which overlook a honeysuckle and bougainvillea covered patio.  The flowers on this spiked, intrepid climber are a luscious pink!  The honeysuckle is not yet in bloom but will smell divine when it is. On the other side is a dressing area with lots of cupboard space. Off this is the bathroom; spacious in blue and white. The shower is light but effective enough and warm water is always welcome. As African showers go, taking into account water pressure and shower heads, it is not half bad.

Limited  Namondwe will be here at seven. It’s an odd Christian name but no doubt had meaning for his mother. Apparently it is Limited in the sense of Pty. Limited, not Limited in the sense of ‘lack.’ He is a hard-working young man and seems bright and enthusiastic.

Limited looks after the company guest house where we are staying until our goods arrive and we can set up our house. Andrew Mbewe looks after what will be our house and is older than Limited but also hard-working.  There is a good-natured air to the Malawians ... it’s different to the ‘feel’ of people in Angola or South Africa.  The driver who took us to the airport in Joburg said Malawians are more humble than other Africans. I think he may be right. The Angolans were feisty and sensitive; the Zambians reserved and religious and the South Africans, good-natured but ‘on the make.’

It is a reminder of how being African is the same as being European; that there may be a shared racial aspect but cultures vary greatly through the 53 countries which have been created on the African continent over the centuries ; mostly since the Europeans arrived with guns and pens and  arrogance.

Mbwe prefers to be called by his last name Greg says. I am told Mbwe and Limited like ironing together which is good because we have unpacked dozens of seriously creased clothes from the three suitcases we brought into Lilongwe. It is good to be at this end of the journey having hauled the seriously heavy cases from Adelaide along with two cabin bags; two computer bags and a soft carry bag filled with food which we bought in Johannesburg – supplies for the first night.

It is familiar and yet different. The guest house is comfortable and the morning passes quickly. I have been to our house which is opposite and begun to think about where furniture might go ... when our goods arrive. The empty house seems a little sad but welcoming all the same. I was last here when dear friends lived in it. Carla and Nev, originally from South Africa, spent two and a half years here after surviving a home invasion in Johannesburg where Neville was shot a number of times. Their 30 months in relatively peaceful, tranquil Malawi was a time of healing.  They are now setting up home and life in Australia.

The house is being re-painted and looks fresh and bright although there seems to be more scatterings of paint drops on floors and stairs than one would like. I shall have to find some mineral turps and see if they can be cleaned off. I will need turps for my painting anyway.

One thing I do know is that my desk will not be set up in the downstairs alcove as it is in the guest-house. The morning light glares peevishly across this area until nearly midday. Without a curtain on the top window – the area rises through two floors - there is no way to rein in such exuberance.

The smell of something like heavy tobacco drifts in through the open doors; the sound of scrubbing and moving buckets echoes from upstairs; the sun is warm and the morning mellow.

This is the fourth African country in which we have lived and probably the safest if not one of the cleanest. We were in Angola for four years during the civil war; then to South Africa and then in Zambia.  It is our fifth city following Luanda, Cape Town, Johannesburg, Lusaka. Everywhere is safer than either Johannesburg or Cape Town and that included Luanda during the Angolan civil war. But all things are relative. We still have guards at the gate; two during the day and one at night and razor wire around the red-brick wall.

But Malawi, by African standards is safe. So was Zambia for that matter and so, no doubt, is Angola today although we have not returned since leaving in 1991.

After lunch which is the last of our bread and some ham we bought at Joburg airport, it is time to go shopping. Africa is not a place of credit cards in the main and we have organised debit cards in Australia which supposedly will access our savings account as opposed to withdrawing money on credit cards where you are charged exorbitant interest for two months from the moment you take the money, even if you pay it back within a day.

Our first ‘hole in the wall’ at a local bank is closed but the bigger Standard Bank near Greg’s office is fully operational. The rate is 150 Kwacha to an Australian dollar and the machine will only allow 20,000 Kwacha to be withdrawn at a time. There is more than relief when the debit card works and soon I have a wad of freshly minted notes in my hand. Two more withdrawals later we have 60,000 Kwacha ($400) which we hope will be enough to get some basic supplies. Angola and Zambia were hugely expensive and until we hit the till we don’t really know where Malawi stands.

There is a Cash and Carry nearby and we decide it should be the first stop. By African standards it isn’t bad. Most of the goods are sold in bulk but there is a good, albeit dusty range. Packets of sugar, flour and bicarbonate of soda spew powdery welcomes as I pick them up. There is a concerted hunt for secure packets which ends largely in failure. Non-essentials are left to be purchased later from a more sophisticated supermarket should one be found.

Whether it was the smell of the meat at the butchery counter... which was immediately discounted as an option ... or the general experience of supermarket shopping in Africa  I do not know, but suddenly I needed a loo. I knew from past experience that they were generally happy to let shoppers use staff toilets if needed but, given the ‘state’ of such facilities, one had to be desperate. I was. Down the corridor, up the grimy stairs, along a walkway and third door on the left I was told. Four toilets and two with notices saying they were not working; one without a toilet seat and the last, with a toilet seat but with the cistern’s insides displayed for all to see. I didn’t have much choice and only hoped the thing would flush.

And of course the door would not shut because the lock did not work. Hold one foot against door during the process as well as trying to keep my handbag looped over the latch which did not work.

It was later not sooner that I realised what I should have known .... no toilet paper. Bugger! I don’t carry tissues normally but could see my own stupidity quite clearly to not have done so in Africa ... or anywhere in the Third World for that matter. I had a notebook in my bag and tore out a page. Small, square, hard and slippery; useless.  There was nothing to do but sacrifice one of my handkerchiefs.

Cursing myself for not having the sense to carry tissues I was delighted beyond measure to find that not only did the tap on the sink work but there was a huge block of soap sitting on the side.  The lack of toilet paper was not a surprise but the existence of so much soap was. I rinsed out the handkerchief well and left it on the floor.  Note to self; carry tissues or wipes at all times.

Back downstairs our goods were put through the till..... slowly.... and I paid the 28,500 Kwacha and then meekly followed the young man who pushed our trolley out to the car. We had soap, toothbrush, canned tomatoes, canned marmalade ... haven’t seen that for a long time.... Malawi rice, onions, bread (still warm from the bakery) and a goodly supply of grocery basics.

And then it was off to Mama Mia’s where Greg had been on a previous visit. It was a circuitous route along  crowded streets which, by African standards were relatively clean. It is one of the few places I have seen where the massively deep stormwater drains along the side of the road were pretty much empty of rubbish. In Luanda they were stuffed to the gunnels with plastic bags in the main.  Lilongwe’s drains really would work in a storm.

We turned into a hedged courtyard off a busy road. It was surprisingly pretty. There was a restaurant to one side called Mamma Mia’s and along a covered courtyard, a series of shops including  an Italian restaurant, with supplies of balsamic vinegar and what looked like fresh pasta; two or three art galleries and a little Italian ‘supermarket’ with all sorts of ‘treats.’ Good extra-virgin olive oil ... the stuff in the supermarket looked foul and orange ... fresh cream, yogurt and soft cheeses, along with vinegars, dried and canned beans, couscous, raisins, dessicated coconut and all sorts of foods which in my new circumstances fall into the ‘exotic’ category.

I had picked up a small cake tin at Cash and Carry and a ‘metal’ rolling pin so baking was on the agenda. The guesthouse was, not surprisingly, limited in what it had to offer in terms of cooking utensils. When people from the company came to Lilongwe they usually ate out. But they were visiting and working and we were living and given that the latest news had our goods somewhere ‘south’ of Durban and yet to reach Biera.... so, in short, weeks away ... I had to be prepared.

Driving out of the courtyard we were suddenly surrounded.  Large trays of strawberries were thrust at the window. All I could see were hands and strawberries. The gaggle amounted to four, all pressing forward asking for 500 Kwacha. Behind was a man holding up hands of bananas. What to do? Choose one strawberry seller? We had strawberries when I stayed here last November and they were superb. The trays were the equal of about four punnets back in Oz for the price of $3.50 each. I could make jam I told myself? So I took them all and two hands of bananas for another 500 Kwacha. Everyone was happy ; the smiles were wide and I was up to my fetlocks, literally, in strawberries.

We made up bags of strawberries and bananas to give to the day guard on the gate and Mbwe and Limited.  Given that supplies had been so meagre I had not been able to offer them much for lunch ... the routine being to give food where one could ... the fruit would be some compensation.

My kitchen smells of strawberries. I am going to marinate some in sugar and balsamic vinegar; leave some fresh and make a little jam. All I have to do is get a recipe off the net when I am connected at last and find a jar to put the jam in.  I have still to get storage containers and cling-wrap and the like but may be able to put the last of the peanut butter into a cup and use that jar for my jam. I might get two jars at the most. Note to self: find another jar.  

I have just met Fred the gardener. He speaks English but does not understand me. A little English I am sure.  The roses are in bloom and they are beautiful. Mbwe and Limited had put a vase in the house when we arrived and I have cut more and used up our meagre supply of drinking glasses and jugs to decorate the house.

The balconies are threaded with rich pink bougainvillea and a huge bottlebrush drapes languorously over our railing. This is the land of bougainvillea I am sure. It grows like a weed; in large, small and medium gushes of pink along the roadside. The frangipanis also love the climate and I look forward to seeing them in blossom. I also spotted some Bouhinnias which grew beautifully in Brisbane.

It is the trees which suffer most in Africa even though in Malawi it is illegal to cut trees for wood. But it happens all the same and stunted trees are more common than not; their branches hacked off to as low as one can go without actually killing the tree.

It is the burning season in Africa and the smell of burned dry grass wafts through the open door. The grass is burned to encourage new, green growth. It seems to work but no doubt the grass would grow whether it were burned or not. I will never forget the smell of burned grass since our accident in Zambia. Hit by a big yellow bus on the road to Kitwe our Prado landed upside down on the black-ash expanse of burned grass.

 LEFT: Guard at the gate.

We woke at 4.30 but fell asleep again and returned to consciousness at a more civilized seven. In bed at nine it would have been more than enough sleep to be up at dawn but the extra hours were appreciated as catchup. We have had virtually no jetlag, taking a positive ‘frame of mind’ to the cause and refusing to believe in it; keeping to a relatively ordinary time-frame of getting up and going to bed and having a nap in the afternoon for the first two days. It seems to work and I suspect the ‘refusing to believe in it’ has more impact than anything.

Limited had the terrace doors open when I came down this morning and the place was full of mosquitos. I closed them, did a spray and told him that lunch-time is a better door and window opening opportunity. Early morning and late evening is mosquito time and in malaria zones it is best not to have the house open or to sit outside.

Panadee, pronounced Powee, my Thai neighbour came to say hello about ten o’clock this morning and invited me over for coffee.  She had made cake which was a nice treat given the paucity of my pantry supplies. She and her husband are here working for Unicef. The house next to us has Henning, whom we met on arrival and Brigitte, whom we have not met, from Denmark. They also work for an aid agency. Aid is the real business of Africa.

Panadee has just spent five years in Lusaka; where we lived for a short time. They, like the Danes, are new to this little four-home complex so we are all in the same boat. We sat on the floor, either side of her coffee table and talked. It was the Thai way to sit, said Panadee, hoping I did not mind and I didn’t so I joined her. I think it was easier for me than her because she said she had a sore knee and maybe it was time to start sitting on couches. She is in her early fifties, a nurse by training . Her three children are all studying in London. She likes to sew and do craft work and it made me think how pleased I will be to get my easel and paints here. I shall just have to find mineral turps for cleaning brushes. I doubt that paint thinner will be available but shall settle for the circumstance and paint thick!

The news on our goods is still a little disappointing; somewhere off Durban we are told, eventually heading this way. The good thing is the guest-house is very comfortable although short on cooking utensils. The kitchen has two colanders ... god knows why ... four or five saucepans, two frying pans, a limited assortment of spoons and knives and that is about it. There are no storage containers and I have yet to buy cling-wrap so saucepans and crockery are doubling as storage for the moment.

I forgot, there are two casserole dishes. I have shortcrust pastry in the fridge; heaps of eggs and bacon and will make a quiche for dinner.  I made my pastry in the biggest saucepan and will get to try out my strange metal rolling pin when it is time to line my casserole dish. A banana cake is in the oven in my little loaf pan which I found yesterday at the dusty supermarket so we get to ‘eat cake’.

But the phone went back on today so we can at least make local calls and there are high hopes for the television service. And the net works now I have a local ‘dongle’ which is a ridiculous name for anything and particularly something so useful.

But, now I am ‘dongled’ the world is once more available to me and I have to say, so far, the net service is not too bad. It’s as good as we had living in South Africa and better than I recall when we were in Zambia. Lilongwe is a bustling place these days and progress is everywhere to be seen. The power does go out regularly but we have some backup in the house and a list of restaurants which have generators and the ability to ride out the downtime.

 LEFT: Our house.

The power went out last night. It is a common event in Malawi. It was 6p.m. and the quiche and apple pie had been in the oven for half an hour. We have an inverter so we had some lights but no oven. I hoped there might be enough heat in the oven to finish the cooking but decided, when I saw the ‘set’ but not ‘browned’ quiche that it and the pie could sit in the fridge and be re-invigorated by a second bake another night.

I had made a salad with finely sliced brussel sprouts... having spotted no lettuce while shopping... and capsicum, onion and cucumber and dressed it with some good olive oil we picked up in Joburg and Balsamic vinegar from the Italian deli here in Lilongwe.  We had some small pieces of fried chicken breast and two cold chops so I sliced it all up and served it with a pot of mustard. No chutney as yet. Something else to make.

Sitting at the table in candlelight I could not help but think of Jane Austen and 18^th century dinners of cold mutton. We had an excellent South African red as opposed to sweet port but the feeling was pretty much the same I imagine. Well, I don’t think they would have had the distant hum of generators in the 18^th century!

Given the frequency of power cuts a generator has now been added to our list of ‘must acquire.’ Although I have to say, quiet nights by candle light should happen more often whether there is power or not.

The roses in my vases have begun to drop so I have decided to make pot-pourri with the petals; in that ‘waste not; want not’ way of life here. I have never done it before and I am not sure how well it will work in the oven but the perfume of the roses is so sublime it is worth a try. Not that I have a bowl to put the pot-pourri in... I am still working out how to get a couple of jars for my strawberry jam.

Good news on the goods front! Well, hopefully. The agent wrote: ‘Apparently there has been some strike action at wharves in various parts of Africa and this has led to backlogs in clearing containers from the transhipment ports. Your container is now due to reach Beira on 23rd September and will then be sent via rail to Lilongwe.’

With any luck we will be able to set up home within 2-3 weeks! If nothing else I shall be pleased to have some cooking equipment. The banana cake mixed in the saucepan turned out well and I have yet to taste the pastry to see if that ‘survived’ the odd-shaped dish and the sudden loss of power.

It is another lovely sunny day here; mild and bright although the hot weather is on its way. Hot and humid is my least favourite climate but, like jetlag, a lot of it is a state of mind. What you believe creates your reality.

Limited has come to tell me that a woman is at the gate selling tomatoes. They looked horrible in the supermarket so I did not buy any. So, 200 Kwacha later I have twelve very red and very reasonable tomatoes. They almost look like they have ‘normal’ skin as opposed to the ‘plastic-fantastic’ texture of skin on tomatoes in the developed world.

One can only hope they have some taste. Tomatoes designed to be thrown across a room without splitting taste like leather if they taste of anything at all. Genetic interference to make tomatoes (and other fruits and vegetables) more resilient has completely failed the taste test. The message is: ‘grow your own tomatoes’. Although here, that may not be necessary.