Head 'em up and move 'em out

Sitting in the airport, we spot a "Skyband Hotspot" wireless sign and realize we actually have an active skyband card with us, so here I am positing from my last moments in Malawi.

We're pretty ridiculously laid back considering the upcoming week + of travel and transatlantic move. As we always seem to, we planned and stressed way in advance, made to do lists and crossed things off. We must be getting better at this "massive life change" stuff, though, because we were in total ready-to-go, chill-with-friends mode starting at around 1:30 yesterday. The fact that a routing change knocked a ground-stop in Lubumbashi off our itinerary at the last minute was a sweet bonus, and we spent our extra two hours playing Wii bowling and lunching at a cafe. Not sure if the months of stressing over next steps and logistics were worth it, but it sure feels like it right now.

The last week has been somewhat hilarious. There's no opportunity now to post pictures of Nathaniel eating dinner with a giant wooden spoon after we sold all our flatware, or of my students taking their social studies exam under the tree, or of Nathaniel sleeping on a 6 foot beanbag in our three nights at our friends' place, but you can hold your breath in anticipation of in-person stories sometime soon.

Malawi's new flag

Around the time we arrived here, last September, there was a national uproar over the decision by HE (His Excellency; Bingu wa Mutharika) to alter the Malawi flag. Since independence its three bold stripes had been background for the image of a half-risen sun. No longer. Malawi, HE announced, was past those early days and the image of a fully-risen sun would more accurately represent the country's state of development. Hence, the new flag.

Fast forward nine months to today, past the expulsion of the British High Commissioner, the loss of donor budgetary support, the loss of IMF support, depleted foreign exchange reserves and days-long queues for petrol and diesel. The Minister of Natural Resources, Energy, and Environment's response? "Get used to fuel crises." The response on the ground? Maybe it's time for another new flag:

What I can say is that I picked it the same from that one. Are we together?

Every profession has its own jargon and every region its own language or dialect. What happens when you have a room full of nutritionists for whom English (and a quirky descendant of colonial British English at that) is a second language editing a technical document drafted by an American who trained as an engineer, not a nutritionist? Well, all things considered, remarkably little confusion. There may be the occasional question of uptake vs. intake (no, we’re not talking about eating) but on the whole there is a remarkable degree of cohesion. In other words, we’re together.

I may still have only rudimentary Chichewa, but one thing is for certain: listening to myself Tuesday morning as I facilitated discussion of the Strategy for the Prevention and Control of Miconutrient Deficiencies (formerly known by the far less sexy title of “Micronutrient Strategy”) I realized I speak pretty darn good Malawian meetingese. How can I tell? Let’s just say I picked (i.e., grasped) it from that one (the meeting). It would be presumptuous of me to simply declare that as truth, but that’s what I can say. Are we together?

Under the Tree and Teaching

Three weeks ago, I show up to find twenty new students in my Form One class. All bright, to be sure, but without the year of critical thinking, vocabulary and cross-accent comprehension building that I’ve done with the other forty-five kids. The untimely arrival is additionally frustrating because we’ve been waiting for this “second distribution” of students since September, and only now has the government gotten their act together to paste a list of twenty names on the window of the school.

Thus, we’re already struggling along a bit when I show up to school on Monday and find that all of the classrooms have been filled by national exam takers and we’ll be learning under a tree for the last two weeks of school. And taking our end-of-term exams there as well? Unclear, as of yet. There is an extreme shortage of classroom blocks in most of rural Malawi, and many students, the country over, learn under trees year-round – it’s pretty much a running joke / ongoing source of pessimism in Malawi as a whole. And here I am, getting to experience this stereotypical challenge first hand. 

Verdict? Tough but not impossible, thanks to all those years of forced creative adaptation at PBHA. Being heard and understood over the wind, and the unsupervised Form 3 students out in the field playing football has left my voice a little raw each afternoon. And I manage to sunburn my nose. Keeping kids focused the last two weeks of school when they’re outside on the football pitch, certainly not the easiest, but I think we’ve managed to putter along without it being too big a waste of time. We’ll have to see how end-of-term exams go…

Check out my classroom under the sky!

One year later...

…or six and a half, depending on how you slice it. Hard to believe that it’s already been a year since we tied the knot in Santa Fe!

After allowing Christmas, New Year’s, our “since getting together” anniversary, Nathaniel’s birthday and Valentine’s Day to be total non-events, we decide to actually mark the occasion of our first year as a married couple. There are plenty of gorgeous getaways in Malawi, but many are an unfortunate distance away in a country where driving is even more than normally stressful due to petrol shortages and pot-holed, pedestrian clogged roads. And, of course, there’s the fact that we traveled seven of the nine weekends in April and May. Solution? Staycation!

Kumbali Lodge is only about twenty minutes from our house on the outskirts of Lilongwe and, despite the fact that it’s the place where Madonna and Bill Clinton stay when they’re in town, it’s not too ridiculously priced. We arrive and are settled into a lovely room with soft cushioned chairs (we’re so tired of our uncomfortable wicker seating that we’ve already earmarked the dough for a big, cushy couch for our next place) on a private veranda overlooking a gorgeously landscaped garden. A sunset stroll, afternoon sundowners, a custom mini-mexican buffet (amazingly tasty), quiet country sleep, and delicious breakfast later, we’re back home on the khonde feeling totally noodle-like and quite pleased with our celebration-venue.

There’s something great about lodges. They’ve got the same family-run feel of B&Bs, but most are slightly larger and more spread out, combining the best of privacy and comfort. And here in Africa, we haven’t been to a lodge yet that doesn’t have amazing open indoor-outdoor spaces for lounging. Kumbali, for all its high powered guests, is refreshingly unpretentious. The tissue box in our room has a big 600 kwacha price scrawled on top in magic marker, and sits right next to the fancy mirrored tray full of mini-toiletries.

The proprietor, a chain-smoking South African with a huge beer gut wearing shorts and crocs, sits down and shares the story of the lodge’s founding. He bought it as a dairy farm when the government privatized. (I know from prior conversations that the farm was built by Canadians and gifted to the Malawi government who ran it into the ground. The Canadian legacy? A small Malawian village called “Canada” on the road to the lodge.) In any case, the dairy was going under when someone told him they needed a place for three Brazilians to live for five months. He and his wife gave up their own house and camped out in the fields, using overdrafts from the bank (official loans demanded 60% interest at the time) to finance the gradual construction of the current buildings. Is he worried about the current political situation?* Nope – they attract mostly business clientele, he claims, and more problems in the country just means more NGOs spending the big bucks.

And, as we take a stroll through the farm’s maize fields this morning, and consider, with awe, how many Malawian farmers it takes to plant all those stalks, it seems somewhat obvious that the unpredictably organic growth of this locally rooted business has probably had a much greater and more positive effect then all the NGOs. But then again, where would he be without donor dollars to pay for business trips and bills? Reading and many conversations have not helped us draw any final conclusions about aid work and money – harmful in some ways, definitely, but the root of all evil as some claim?

As for us, it feel equally tough to predict how this crazy first year of marriage will play out in the long run. How weird will it feel to get home, open the safe deposit box, and switch back to our “real” wedding rings, which we actually only wore for a summer before replacing with the simple silver ones we brought with us? Like stories we’ve heard from so many of the career expats we’ve met here, will the US feel a little (or a lot) stifling and disconnected or will we just appreciate the creature comforts of the developed world that much more? All questions aside, Nathaniel has made me promise this won’t be our last big adventure – it just makes it that much more of a challenge that we have to constantly balance desire for boldness with those type-A, multiple-contingency-planner personalities!

And now for a photo montage…

*A leaked internal email in which the British High Commissioner allegedly said that the President is becoming “increasingly autocratic” resulted in Bingu kicking the British ambassador out of the country. This, in turn, resulted in Britain freezing their direct budget support to Malawi’s government and a domino effect in which many other funders withdrew their money as well. Big deal? Well, direct budget support covered 40% of government expenses in 2010-2011 and the losses for the 2010-2011 fiscal year alone will be more than USD 100 million. 

Pizza for Every Meal (aka Back on the Minibus)

After a delightful weekend up on the Zomba plateau, the big red truck was headed back to Lilongwe... without me. I was headed to Blantyre, Malawi’s commercial center and setting for tomorrow’s National Fortification Alliance meeting. But I’m getting ahead of myself. For breakfast Ben had whipped up scrambled eggs and reheated leftover slices of Melody’s delicious veggie pizza from the night before. 8:30am, pizza number one.

After winding our way down from the foggy heights of the plateau, I parted ways with my erstwhile traveling companions and, after learning the next bus to Blantyre didn’t depart until two, schlepped over to “Tasty Bites” a freshly-painted coffee shop on the edge of town. “Coffee with milk, please.” “Do you want strong?” “Sure.” And sure enough, after a delay long enough that they could’ve been custom roasting the beans, my coffee arrived—strong enough that it took me the rest of the morning sipping to finish it off. Come noon it was time for lunch. The only veggie option on the menu? You guessed it: pizza number two.

With “fuel in the tank” so to speak, I trekked back over to the bus depot and sat down to wait for my departure. Two o’clock came and went, with nary a sign. I didn’t have a ticket (“buy on the bus”) and or any particular customer loyalty, so when a fairly functional-looking minibus with a Blantyre sign in the window started inching forward through the mass of touts, vendors, and assorted hangers-about I buttonholed the driver, learned the price (500 KW or ~$2.75) and hopped in.

In the interest of full disclosure, I should reveal that I’m currently about half way through Paul Theroux’s “Dark Star Safari” a by turns nostalgic and disillusioned recounting of his overland travel from Cairo to Capetown in 2001. Did his waxing rhapsodic over the truth to be found in traveling by chicken bus sway my decision? Perhaps. I will admit that travel in this manner, squeezed four abreast into the bumpy bench seats and hugging my daypack atop hiked-up knees with the open window blowing my hair back, has it’s charms. No meaningful other activity (reading, laptop, etc.) is possible so one’s objective becomes simply to arrive. And without the possibility of effecting the speed (or lack thereof) of travel, gone too is all responsibility for timeliness. We’ll get there when we get there, and that’s all there is to it. And when the bus stops in a totally unrecognizable market town somewhere outside of Blantyre, well, I’ll just get on another one. Having to rely on the kindness of fellow travelers to point me the right way, traveling light, and walking the last stretch to the hotel all took me back to an earlier time, when I wasn’t trying to solve any problems beyond how to get to the next town, where to find some decent food and a warm bed for the night.

But that was then, and this is now. After checking in it was back to reality; working email and the phones, trying to convince people to take the next little step, that their effort and engagement are needed, that nobody else can sort this out for them. Not exactly grueling physical labor, but still work enough to build up an appetite. Lo and behold, what should the hotel food court offer? Veg pizza. I suppose I could’ve ordered a salad, but what fun would that have been? Reading more Theroux and nursing a Fanta Orange I went for the hat trick: pizza number three. All in all it was a delicious day, a welcome departure from the norm.

Life Map

So what have we been doing in the weeks between these gauntlets of travel? Working, cooking, and watching the ever-evolving life-map branch ahead of us -- circling around and around the upcoming forks in the road. Answers are hard to come by through discussion alone, and though frustrated by the fog of decisions-yet-to-be-made-by-others-that-will-impact-us, we’re trying to be patient and let things fall as they will.

The clarity around my own career choices I hoped would come with time and distance has coalesced into one not-so-helpful conclusion: There are structural problems in educational systems the world over, but there are also young people across the globe who need the kind of support and opportunity that comes from close relationships with mentors and teachers. I enjoy both sides of the work and have my own strengths and weaknesses in each area, so which direction to choose? In the end, perhaps it’s the fact that I love working with a team that will make the decision – traditional classroom teaching is a somewhat solitary pursuit and I miss the excitement of brainstorming a really amazing and spot-on training curriculum with other passionate professionals.

And, of course, there are other considerations and constraints. I was determined to move to Athol with Nathaniel next year, try out living in a rural community, elements of which we both miss from our childhoods, and take whatever job I could find in the area. As of now, it seems like the opportunities for compelling work are slim – hopefully some teaching jobs if any open up in the nearby tiny school districts over the summer, maybe some student affairs jobs at local colleges if I’m willing to commute a ways, certainly nanny and tutor jobs if I’m willing to just take anything. An email from a search firm looking for a nonprofit manager in Boston made me realize how much I love that side of the work as well, how much my network in Boston might make it possible to find not just a decent job but a great job, and how much I miss the closeness of community we’ve already built in the city. So, live partially apart for a year and face tough geographic decisions again at the end of farm school? (Boo) Invest in Athol and, if we don’t love it, or the right opportunities aren’t there, start over again in 2013 (exhausting thought!)?

Of course it’s not as bad as all that. From a different perspective it’s a choice between great options and we count ourselves incredibly lucky. Updates as we find answers!

...And More Travel!

We’ve been dismal bloggers lately, mostly because the “we’re leaving in a really short time” realization has kicked in and we’ve traveled five of the last seven weekends. Our trip to a new part of Lake Malawi, Cape Maclear, with friends Keith and Melody, involved extensive kayaking, drinking and hanging out on the beach. Last weekend we hiked Mulanje Mountain with friends Dave and Hailey, and had various adventures on the drive down and back. Photos really tell the tales best!

Cape Maclear

Mulanje Mountain

And this weekend, off to Zomba plateau for more hiking and hanging out by the fire!

Things I Learned on Safari

Elephants are awesome. Lions and giraffes, also awesome. Zebras have a lot of gas in their stomach (created by symbiotic bacteria), fart often, especially when startled, and look pregnant year round. Hippos have surprisingly small legs, are slightly pink colored, and can trot daintily – suddenly the image of fantasia’s dancing pink hippos makes more sense. I am like a small child when faced with large animals in their natural habitat – way more excited and awe filled than I expected.

The vacation seems ill-fated as we wake up early for the drive to Zambia’s South Luwangwa National Park. There’s no power at the house, meaning no caffeine for Nathaniel. I manage to find an open coffee shop (no small feat on any day in Lilongwe, and especially impressive given it’s Good Friday) however they have apparently just installed a new espresso machine and, after impatiently waiting 30 minutes, we have to bolt down our cappuccinos to get on the road. 

We’re feeling better after a breezy stretch of well maintained highway between Lilongwe and the border. The crossing is also hassily but relatively painless and we’re through in less than an hour. And then…130km of rough dirt road. The RAV takes it like a champ, only scraping bottom once but we’re sweaty, bedraggled and grouchy with each other by the time we finally near the park. We’re literally only a few kilometers away when we encounter a rumpus of vehicles in the road. Really people?! We’ve been on the road for eight hours – can’t you just let us through?! Oh wait. There are GIRAFFES RIGHT THERE!!!

The mood is immediately lifted, and things only get better as we pull into Flatdogs Camp to find an extremely welcoming, professional and efficient staff and a gorgeous setting. Our slowness on the road (we do have to sell the car in a few months, after all) has put us behind other arrivals and we’ve missed out on a tent platform. Luckily, that small disappointment can barely dent our mood after a refreshing swim in the river-side pool, some delicious cocktails and dinner and a gorgeous sunset over the river.

Hippos are pretty ubiquitous in camp – you can hear them snorting, mooing, calling, all day. Sort of like a big man using a tuba like a kazoo to laugh through. And as we’re eating dinner the first night, the waiter comes over to tell us that hippos are grazing on the lawn. (They come out of the river at night to browse until the sun comes up.) There they are - munching away only about twenty feet from us. At night, they come and browse right near the tents – totally ignoring you unless you startle them. I’m barely bothered by the fact that I’m woken by one at 3am. It’s exciting to see them so close! Only downside: neither Nathaniel or I are willing to risk getting out of the tent to pee, which makes it a bit of a long stretch until morning.

The game drives (6am-10am and again from 4pm-8pm) are incredible. Animals everywhere in abundance! By the end of our first game drive, we’re passing some elephants playing in a marsh to the left and our guide doesn’t even pause. Instead he’s whipping off the road to the right to show us a leopard tortoise, which is apparently much tougher to spot. Other exciting events that aren’t possible to capture on film: a fish eagle swooping down and catching a fish, an elephant sniffing at us while we crouch down to avoid angering him on our walking safari (don’t worry – the guides are super professional and armed), and lions roaring to one another across the field. The animals don’t really seem to be bothered by the safari trucks at all. In fact, when we see a leopard, there’s a sad and chaotic jumble of about ten safari trucks all roaring around each other to try to secure better views, and he just ignores us, stalking off into the bush. (Apparently this level of crowding is pretty unusual and is due to the holiday weekend.) Mostly, we appreciate that both of our guides make an effort to get away from the crowds. 

There's still a lot of sitting, but between the amazing service and wider variety of activities at the camp, the cushy seats and mid-drive tea breaks and the amazing sights, it's a whole different ball of wax than our first safari (sorry Malawi). Check out a few of our best photos...

Now back to the grind for the homestretch! 

Zanzibar

Unlike Dar, Zanzibar is a major tourist destination, so there is no way we will escape detection as such. The good news is that means we don’t feel bad about pulling out the camera! A little photo journal of the trip will share some of the highlights. Not pictured:

The Museum of Culture and History in the House of Wonders | The same guide book author has frequently touted museums as “excellent” that are little more than science fair exhibits in molding old buildings. Thus we’re not expecting much when we stroll through the enormous traditional doors into the House of Wonders (so named because it was the first place on the island to have electric lights). The museum is actually great, with extensive information about the Swahili culture, the island’s days as a trading empire, how to build a traditional dhow without using any nails, and the forward thinking Princess Salme (whose autobiography I’m looking forward to tracking down).

Cats | Unlike the turtles, the many cats of Zanzibar are remarkably un-photogenic. We see almost no dogs in all of Stone Town, but there are endless cats – the most well fed street cats either of us have ever seen! Not surprising given the preponderance of fisherman on the island, we suppose, but it definitely makes us miss Cat Watson.

Belgians | We’re accompanied on our day long spice tour by three Belgians and a couple of New Yorkers. As we wait for the home-cooked lunch to be ready mid-day, we engage in an incredibly interesting conversation about the political situations in Zanzibar and Belgium. Our well informed guide helps us understand Zanzibar’s complicated situation as a part of Tanzania (since 1964), yet with its own additional president and parliament. The Belgians scoff at this and launch into an explanation of the endless complications in their own country (which hasn't had a government in over a year).

East Coast Beaches | We are warned not to bring valuables down to the beach, so unfortunately there are no shots of the pretty much endless white sand beach stretching along the east side of the island. A wide coral shelf makes swimming impossible at all but the highest tide, but we take a loooong walk one afternoon during which time we encounter only a handful of other people – a great excursion with a stiff breeze to keep us company and cut the heat.

Rain | Wednesday and Thursday demonstrate the reasons why the coast is so deserted for the rainy season. It’s great timing for us, since we’ve seen most of what we want to see and are glad for the accompanying cool as we make our way back to Dar, do some souvenir shopping and track down a few last delicious meals. Our little point and shoot camera is unfortunately unable to capture the dramatic downpours.

By the end of the trip, homebodies that we are, we’re well fed, well rested and our tans are nicely refreshed, but we’re happy to get back to our own space in Lilongwe. 

The right (left) side of the road...

Having exhausted most of the sightseeing in this not-so-tourist-oriented town, I’m in the midst of a movie-watching marathon at the hotel while Nathaniel attends the conference and an after hours meeting with his colleague. A man hops into a motorcycle and takes off down the road – the wrong (right) side of the road! [Like how word-play-tacular this can get?] No, wait. It’s an American movie. Readjust paradigms.

I’ve been pleased, in general, by how much living and traveling abroad this past year has contributed to my ability to navigate around Dar the last few days. The private mini-bus system is just like the ones in Lilongwe and the Caribbean. No need to take a taxi when the bus costs TSH 300 (20 cents). I don’t get smushed in the hectic traffic because I’ve finally internalized which way to look first before crossing the street. Bargaining with taxi drivers and curio salesmen, brushing off curious passers-by in a friendly but firm way and estimating distances in kilometers are all a bit more second-nature than they were when we set out for our honeymoon a year ago. 

Of course that doesn’t prevent me from getting on the wrong bus Thursday morning. I’m trying to get to the “big shopping mall” to see what there is to see in terms of commercial shopping and I know the neighborhood where it’s located. I think I’ve asked the conductor if this bus goes to the mall, but it becomes clear, as we reach the end of the line without passing anything remotely resembling a big, new strip mall, that our communication may have been a bit less complete than I hoped. No problem – another 300 shillings and a lasso motion with my hand and the driver and conductor laugh good-naturedly at the crazy mzungu and let me ride all the way back to city center.

It’s not a wasted trip, by any means, if I were getting oriented to the city to settle in. Along the way we pass the textiles street (which I was surprised not to see near the main market) and the area (like Lilongwe’s coffin road) where furniture is built and sold from sheds. I also note a few local colleges, a big park, and the location of the big Shoprite grocery store. I've already visited the spice / dry goods / vegetable market and we've been loving the greater variety and higher quality of restaurant food and other services available. Final verdict on Dar? Maybe not an amazing place to visit, but it could be a really nice place to live.

Dar es Salaam

As I’ve mentioned before, I try to avoid taking pictures in the city where it just makes me more conspicuous. It makes a big difference to wear a modest skirt and sandals (rather than the shorts / cargo capris and “built for comfort” shoe uniform of the backpacker) in terms of the amount of hassling by street vendors and taxi drivers trying to make a sale. No reason to ruin the “local mzungu” mirage, so I’ll just have to paint you a word picture of my first few days in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania.

Air Malawi (which we’ve heard horror stories about in terms of timeliness) is prompt and efficient and we arrive in Dar with a minimum of fuss. After helping an older woman at the ATM machine (she isn’t doing the 1500 shillings: 1 dollar conversion right and is befuddled when it won’t let her take out 500 shillings) and rounding up the other Malawians here to attend the flour fortification conference with Nathaniel, we’re off to the hotel.

Dar is definitely bigger and more developed than Lilongwe (no surprise). Two lane roads with traffic lights and plenty of street lighting and neon all give a sense of hustle and bustle. I’m thus surprised when I hit the national museum today to find that one of the items on display is the first ATM in the country, which arrived in…1997.

Determined to take advantage of “big city” amenities while Nathaniel is at the conference, I don’t venture out of the swanky Oyster Bay suburb where the conference hotel is located on the first day. Browsing air-conditioned bookstore, check. First haircut since August, check. Viewing of many souvenirs, all of which I want, check. I manage to restrain myself from buying except for two lengths of chitenje cloth – “congrats Obama” in bright yellow, and “remember Michael Jackson” in orange and blue – prepare to fight over these when we bring them home. :)

Oyster Bay is a contradiction: glitzy hotels and fancy gated compounds with entrances onto an extremely rutted and pot holed dirt road; an upscale ocean-front restaurant overlooking a giant tire (when the tide has gone out) that has clearly been there for years; huge construction projects with DIY scaffolding made out of local logs. Infrastructure struggling to keep up with developer dollars? Local image and customs competing with international demands? I’m sure it would take much longer than we have to understand the dynamics.

Today, I settle in a little. I find Nathaniel a local sim card for his phone (mine is apparently too cheap to function outside Malawi), take my first bus ride and check out downtown Dar. The guidebook promises a “love it or hate it” reaction and, while I wouldn’t go that far in either direction, I can definitely give it a strong “like.” People are friendly, distances are walkable, cleanliness and infrastructure are decent and there are a lot of trees. Otherwise it just seems like a mid-size city. A final verdict can probably be given once I’ve visited the main market tomorrow or Thursday. 

Invigilator

In the Malawi secondary school system, no marks are given apart from the end of term exam. Last term, only 14% (6/40) Form One students passed. This is not surprising given that such a system means there is zero accountability for attendance or homework completion, and teachers don’t bother with unit exams. The result? Students have no need to actually learn the material prior to the last possible minute. Anyone who has ever crammed knows that this type of learning leads to surface knowledge that is unreliable in the exam room and rarely retained past the weekend. Compounding matters even further, pass rates don’t have any bearing on grade level promotion, so no one really takes them seriously. (The teachers claim there would be no room for all of the students who would fail, so they don’t bother to hold anyone back.) It’s no wonder, then, that pass rates for the Junior Certificate Exam (between Forms 2 and 3 grades) and the Malawi Senior Certificate Exam are dismally low. How can the students perform well under high pressure (the state exams are monitored by police officers) when they have never been asked to perform at all before?

I learn first-hand just how relaxed the attitude is when I show up to invigilate (yes, this amazing word is real – a great British term for administering tests) my assigned term two exams Tuesday. Morning exams supposedly begin at 8:00am. However, when I arrive just prior, students are still scattered all over the grounds and teachers are sitting around the lounge. Someone rings the bell at 8:10 or so and it is completely ignored by the students. Teachers are still trying to sort out the masses of photocopies that have arrived from our contracted typist.

I finally have my assigned papers in hand (Form 4 Maths) and go to get things started. A five minute warning and request that the students in the class go to gather their peers garners basically no response. It’s only when I start handing out exams to the few young people sitting in desks and announce the start of the clock that a stream of students loudly and disrespectfully enter the classroom. It takes ten minutes and me losing my cool a bit to get them settled and quiet.

If empty spaces on answer sheets are any indication, they proceed to bomb the exam.

Afternoon exams for electives (Home Economics, Bible Knowledge, Social and Development Studies) go slightly better, both because I’m able to set expectations at the end of Maths, and because they actually seem able to write something. Nonetheless, I come home bummed out by the lack of caring on the part of students and teachers alike. At this point, I’m pedagogically somewhat opposed to this type of testing to demonstrate knowledge, but if that’s the basis of the whole system, one might as well attempt to prepare students to succeed. Here’s hoping some of my Form 1 efforts have bourn fruits!

Soy Harvest

Most of our crops have thus far been of the “store on the vine, pick ‘em when you need ‘em” variety. Not so with the soy. At first we think it is turning yellow due to soy blight. Once Nathaniel finally gets the chance to do his soy research, it turns out that yellow just means they’re done growing and “slightly past peak for use as fresh beans.” Considering that we’re heading to Tanzania next Sunday, we decided to go for it and harvest the whole crop.

You can see pictures of the entire harvest. Imagine everything going smoothly aside from: 1) a hive of bees living on the inside of the seldom used side door to the garage – Nathaniel boldly fends them off with a broom, 2) mid-day threatening thunder, causing a wild hustle to pick the last yellow soy for drying prior to the storm, 3) frustrating minutes of shelling prior to Nathaniel’s interwebs discovery that 30 seconds of blanching goes a long way…

A little more shelling tonight and we’ll leave the rest for our planned edamame and homemade sushi night later this week. 

Rainy Season Green

We've been remiss in posting photos of our gorgeous yard now that it's in full rainy season bloom. A few days ago, I finally manage to get my act together to have the camera charged up the day after the lawn is mowed (it gets totally wild in a matter of days). Enjoy the photos!


In other tropical paradise news, our recent cooking exploits include green papaya salad, guava custard and guava butter, baba ghanoush (our eggplant bush has been very productive), pickled jalapeños, and refrigerator dill pickles (you wouldn't believe the size dill and cilantro plants get here). Looking forward to fresh picked edamame, peanuts and sweet corn in the next round of veggies!

Chambos… so close to a perfect season

It’s official: final make-up games have been played, league results are in, and the mighty Chambos have finished dead last (223 points and 21 sets behind the first-place UN Spikers). What blemished our perfect season? A freak victory over the very same UN Spikers. Maybe it was the lessened pressure of knowing that, no matter what we did, we were headed back to B league, maybe it was just that the Spikers came out flat-footed, thinking they had nothing to fear from the lowest-ranked team in the league but finally, when it couldn’t possibly matter, the Chambos brought our A game. The first set was close and we were neck-and-neck in the second when a disputed call (the Spikers captain was in the net) handed the serve back. It was just enough and we pulled out a win, 26-24. Of course, they rallied and beat us in the third set but still… no longer a perfect losing streak. Watch out B league – here we come!

Just Another Day In Paradise

Sometimes a day like yesterday comes along and reminds me how good I have things. Nothing out of the ordinary, just a good day from start to finish.

7:30am: (This is sleeping in for Malawi) wake up, read in bed and listen to the soft rain on the roof.

8:00am: Cook coconut-honey pancakes while sipping a mocha and reading Annie Proulx.

8:30am: Eat a leisurely breakfast with Ariel and Christin (housemate): pancakes slathered in homemade guava jam with a perfect fried egg

9:30am: Lounge on the khonde, finish a second mocha while watching the tail end of the rain

11:00am: Hitch a ride to town with Christin, skip going to the movie rental place when we run into the owner in the grocery store and give the movie to her there. On impulse, stop for nachos at the newest restaurant in town (Papaya’s). Fresh-fried flour tortilla chips: A for effort, but not the real deal. Someone could make a fortune here with a tortilla chip franchise.

1:30pm: Munch slices of fresh avocado and tomato for “real lunch”

2:00pm: Enjoy the warm afternoon breeze while again lounging on the khonde, noodling on the guitar.

4:00pm: Putter in the garden, transplanting marigolds and napier grass, starting a new compost pile and mulching.

6:00pm: Power yoga with Rodney Yee. Two upward bows in a row? You bet.

7:00pm: Eat the delicious dinner Ariel has put together: steamed garden broccoli, mashed potatoes and chili.

8:00pm: A hard-fought round of scrabble. Victory!

9:30pm: Tucked safely into our mosquito net canopy, it’s time for bed.

HIV / AIDS Management

Our housekeeper, Phinious, is a highly motivated and thoughtful individual. When he approaches us about loaning / granting him the money to earn the Malawian equivalent of an associate’s degree in HIV / AIDS Management, we readily agree. Little do I know at the time that helping Phinious with his course homework will be one of the most interesting and enjoyable ways I spend my time here in Malawi.

In general, I’m impressed by the types of questions asked: define the “charity paradox” and talk about why grassroots development is important; discuss how the Millennium Development Goals relate to HIV / AIDS in Malawi; list and explain barriers to communication. Coaching Phinious through crafting his responses to these questions gets me my mentorin fix and my social justice conversation fix all in one. And I get an “on the ground” perspective on Malawian culture, tradition and what it might take to stop the AIDS epidemic here.

Our most profound conversation by far starts when Phinious knocks at the back door one afternoon. “One of my teachers told me that AIDS is a punishment from God,” he tells me, “and one of my teachers told me that AIDS came from gay people in New York. Which is true?” I’m surprised by this mis-information, as the teachers have seemed generally well informed and liberal-minded up until now, but probably should not be given the general religious fundamentalism that abounds. 

We embark on a two hour online investigation of the origins of the AIDS virus, exploring evolution, the biology of viruses and an amazing New Yorker article on “virus hunters” along the way. At the end, Phinious is fully convinced by the scientific evidence, although a bit concerned about how he will navigate the treacherous waters of moralism with his teachers and classmates. Here’s to passing on the information torch! Hearing Phinious' views and goals, I can't wait to see what impact he has...

Mock Bridal Shower

My life at school is, of necessity, one long “go-with-the-flow” because 1) I never know what is going on until I ask / someone thinks to translate to English for me and those translations are usually partial and 2) there are many hours when I’m not at school and everyone else is (they all teach classes in the afternoon for extra money) when I miss a lot of intrigue. My attendance at the Mock Bridal Shower follows a similar pattern.


Our school is right outside the presidential compound and serves the children of the army of housekeepers, gardeners and other low-ranking staff members who live and work inside. Thus, I’m not that surprised when the teachers are gushing one day about a bridal shower inside the compound that will be attended by the first lady – they insist I should attend. Sure, I’m game.

Next, I’m told that I need to give money for chitenje so I can have a dress made in the official colors – maroon and gold. Chitenje appears, I fork over the cash and my friend Mrs. Ann Ndege hooks me up with her tailor to have said fabric turned into a dress (which I later have to model for people in the teacher’s lounge).  

It’s not until I’m asked to pay for my ticket that I see the “Mock Bridal Shower” title at the top. Wait, what?! Mock bridal shower? Turns out that bridal showers, in Malawi, are basically fundraisers. Guests pay for a ticket to the event and the program involves various women giving advice to the bride and multiple rounds of dancing while throwing small bills at the bride, bride’s mother, speakers, groom, etc. to help them get a start in married life. (I haven’t been to a wedding yet, but apparently they involve many of the same customs.) One of my colleagues had the idea that, by throwing a fake bridal shower, the customs could be used as a fundraiser for charity. There’s no real bride. Which of course everyone else has known all along.

Ann says she’ll pick me up at 11:15 Sunday morning, so I’m all washed up and ready to go. Unlike the rest of us, Ann is speaking at the event (she’s in charge of the section on hygiene and clothing etiquette) so we have to arrive early even though the event doesn’t start until 1:30. The event is scheduled to go until 5:00, but the First Lady is late, and then the Master of Ceremonies gets too caught up in calling people up by social group (Army Wives! Public Servants! Ministers of Parliament!) to throw kwachas and we end up still barreling along at 7:00pm. Thank goodness for the loss of the First Lady’s patience, or we would have been there all night!

I won’t make you read a play-by-play of the full eight hour ordeal. Highlights included Nathaniel’s quasi boss, Permanent Secretary Dr. Mary Showa pledging 200,000 kwachas to sit next to the first lady during the event, MPs wearing incredible headdresses dancing and throwing kwachas, a dramatic power outage just after the First Lady gets up to speak about etiquette and my friend Ann referring to the fact that you need to be careful about the sweat that collects between your butt cheeks (in front of the first lady, multiple MPs, etc., of course).

I should note that I had zero idea what a big deal the event was prior to showing up and, as the only white person in a crowd of 200+, dressed in the uniform of the organizers who were acting as ushers and waiters, but seated at one of the head tables with the speakers (Ann wanted me for moral support), it was an awkward cultural experience to say the least. Of course, pictures say it best…

Me and Ann waiting for the event to start.

The event tent at the presidential palace.

Throwing kwachas at the first lady (in lime green).

Three of my colleagues, happy after the event.

Bingu's 77th

Monday morning, my new teaching assignment, Form 4 (12^th Grade) Life Skills, gets me worried about how little time there is left in the term. This particular subject only receives two, forty minute periods of attention per week, which means I’m down to ten periods before exams…or so I think. I’m confirming with my friend Ann, who casually mentions that next week is a mid-term holiday. Instead of just Thursday (Martyr’s Day), as I’ve anticipated, we have the entire week off. What?! That reduces my class time by one fifth! Sometimes Form 4, which is gearing up for the all important Malawi Secondary Certificate of Education tests in July, comes Saturdays and during holidays, I’m told. Wait and see…

Tuesday, I’m preparing to make the best of the week before the holiday when a buzz starts in the teachers lounge. My Form 1 (9^th Grade) students have been summoned by the president’s event crew – he needs more performers for the public birthday celebration Saturday. As the school attended by the children of the gardeners, housekeepers and guards at his estate, we are an obvious choice. The students are understandably excited and riled up. They charge out to the parking lot to wait for the bus. And wait. And wait some more. One of my periods has evaporated by this point. I go and call them in, telling them we’ll wait in class. It would be unfair, at this point, to give the Social Studies exam they prepared for, so instead we try to push forward with English for the week. One period is all I manage to squeeze before their distraction takes over and they boil back out of the classroom. I arrive the next day to find that, in fact, the students waited three hours beyond the end of school, missing all of their later periods, and the bus never came.

We’re clicking along in the morning and just before my class, a huge, open-sided army transport truck pulls into the car park. There's a rumor that the president’s organizers think that we’ve blown them off in a deliberate attempt to snub the country’s leader (actual story: there was no diesel for transport). The head teacher decides that the entire school had better attend in order to show our commitment.

The kids in the back of the truck are a photo opportunity missed. Packed in like sardines, but smiling, waving and having a great time, they’re fun to watch as a few other teachers and I pile into my car to follow our students to the stadium. We arrive in time to see the army, police and prison guards practice their elaborate marching routine, accompanied by a combined police / army band. But even their thirty minute routine barely cuts into our new wait time.

Hours pass and we still have no instructions. Across the stadium, the primary school students are well organized and sounding good with their songs, synchronized clapping and spelling out of “Happy Birthday” with their bodies. They’ve been here an entire week already. Teachers are called out to the parking lot and we think we’re getting directions, but no. They’re just passing out the commemorative Bingu’s 77^th Birthday chitenje. (The other teachers are angry that we’re only given two meters – not enough for a full traditional top and skirt.) Then comes lunch: a bottle of soda and enormous bread roll for each of the 800 or 1000 students who have been recruited for the event. Passing this out would be a logistical nightmare in the states, but Malawian order and  respect for elders prevails and we accomplish it with relative grace. Just at the end of lunch, an organizer comes by: “You have three minutes! Three minutes!”

Our students, it turns out, will be doing a marching and scatter-formation routine to form a redundant “Happy Birthday Bingu 77” on the field. Their final position? Kneeling prostrate on the grass/mud.

By this point, about 3:30 in the afternoon, I’m feeling completely heat exhausted and sun burnt. It’s good to be part of the teacher crew and participate in the adventure with the rest of the school but at the same time wearing to constantly ask what’s going on and fry in the sun, all the time feeling frustrated about the learning time being missed. At least the kids are having a blast! I use my volunteer teacher status, as well as the fact that, not understanding Chichewa, I’m not much use as an organizer, to beg off and head home. After another three hours of chaperoning this morning, I’m playing it by ear on the rest of the rehearsals and attendance at the event itself on Saturday… 

Weekend Getaway

After a month and a half of relative downtime and routine, I’m going stir-crazy in Lilongwe by the time Nathaniel gets back from a week of meetings in Blantyre. Although he’s exhausted from nights spent in the not-so-comfortable confines of the Hotel Victoria’s twin beds with foam mattresses, Nathaniel manages to rally for a weekend out of town. (After all, we have to somehow make up for the fact that Nathaniel’s Valentine’s Day is spent in said hotel which, to add insult to injury, refuses to serve him dinner on the holiday unless he wants to pay for the expensive, “romantic” prix fix.)

Some friends have raved about the new Bua River Lodge, about 200km away in the Nkhotankhota wildlife reserve, and we decide to give it a try. In all, we can’t ask for a better weekend: gorgeous weather, diesel shortage keeping big trucks off the roads, friendly lodge staff, amazing value for money.  I won’t rub it in too badly, for those of you still suffering through winter, but check out a few pictures of our trip!

“Petrol Shortage Hits Crisis Levels”

On Monday, I stalk a petrol tanker truck. We’re down to 1/3 of a tank. Back home, I’d be planning another dozen trips across town, driving Nathaniel crazy with my tendency to let the gauge drop below empty before hitting a gas station. Here in Malawi, with the newspapers reporting a complete outage in major cities the previous weekend and an ongoing dry spell to come, this is a major concern. I drive past the Total at Bisnowaty Center on my way to the grocery store and notice that they’ve blocked off a bunch of parking spaces – a hint, someone once told me, that the petrol truck will be coming soon. A quick stop past the attendant confirms that fuel will be coming “any time from now.” I hit the Shoprite and return, agonizing over whether I should join the 30 car queue – short, really, for a petrol queue – at the Petroda. I decide I’ll take my chances and continue on. There’s still no truck at the Total. I drive past, hoping there will be petrol on the outskirts of town where I need to go to pay our mechanic. A block down the street, I pass the tanker! I whip round the rotary and back into the station, managing to weasel into a spot one car from the pump. A forty minute wait while the tanker unloads (at least I'm parked rather than constantly inching forward) and I’m the proud owner of MK 10,000 worth of petrol. Thank goodness for being second in line! They’re limiting most people to MK 5,000 (about four gallons worth at $7/gallon) but don’t quite have their act together yet when I pull in. Safe from strand-ation for another week!

The petrol crisis in Malawi is less a crisis and more an ongoing reality, like power and water outages, of living here. Things will seem fine for a few days and suddenly, one day, there are queues stretching a hundred cars around the block. Intimately intertwined with Malawi’s perpetual forex shortage, the petrol crisis only serves to highlight the country’s economic situation.

Over breakfast, Nathaniel and I question why we feel so much more aware of the economy here than in the US. Is it the tiny size of the country and the economy (fifteen million people living in a country the size of Pennsylvania)? The fact that we live about a mile from the presidential palace on one side and parliament and capital hill on the other? Is it that we pay for everything with cash, making us hyper-aware of every dollar spent? Maybe it’s the fact that the newspaper is still the primary means of communication here, and we read it cover to cover rather than picking and choosing articles from NYT.com. Or perhaps it's because when we were last in the US we were both gainfully employed in an industry that, given grant cycle delays, had not yet been hit as fully by the economic crisis. Whatever the reason, it has been fascinating to learn about the flow of money and goods here.

The Malawi kwacha has been kept at an artificially low level (150 vs. 200 to the dollar) to attempt to curb inflation – an average inflation rate of 7.4% for 2010 was cause for celebration. Unfortunately, this means that no one wants to buy the undervalued kwacha and there is never enough foreign currency in the bank to pay for imports. Adding to the forex problems, Malawi has only a few export crops – burley tobacco, tea, coffee, sugar and sometimes maize – and none of the lucrative fossil fuels and precious metals / gems found in other African nations. (Of course the ongoing peace in the country may owe a lot to the lack of blood diamonds…)

“BRUTAL TRUTH: Malawi has no means to replace tobacco soon” In 2012, new policies outlined by the WHO’s Framework on Tobacco Control will go into effect, making the burley tobacco grown here (the type currently used in 50% of the world’s cigarettes) much less valuable, and perhaps totally unsellable. Given that burley tobacco accounts for 60% of Malawi’s export earnings and that the industry employs two of Malawi’s fifteen million people, this will be a major blow to the economy. Virginia tobacco, which isn’t banned by the new regs, apparently requires much more land and huge investments in infrastructure for industrial curing.

This just highlights how much Malawi is constantly buffeted by the demands of the UN, other, more powerful governments, and international development partners. If the WHO tried to screw with a major cash crop of the US, you can be sure they would somehow magically change their tune, but somehow Virginia tobacco survived the new regs despite (according to one article) blatant admissions by the WHO that it is equally harmful to people's health. 

In 2005, then newly elected president, Bingu wa Mutharika, ignored the demands of the IMF, World Bank and others (who wanted to force Malawi to participate in the global free market economy as a net importer of food) and introduced fertilizer and seed subsidies, ending a deep famine that had taken hundreds of lives. The subsidy program worked – Malawi has actually been a net exporter of maize for the last few years – but raises ongoing questions about sustainability. 

This week, the country is in an uproar over Germany’s 50% cut in aid over human rights issues and threats that the US won’t sign the Millennium Challenge Corporation grant, which promises $350 million to strengthen the nation’s electricity infrastructure. The Minister of Justice’s (fair, in my opinion) response: “We are not ready to change the laws to satisfy donors. We have to understand that as a country you need to have certain principles.” Of course I would prefer that Malawi have gay rights, but it’s not like our own country has figured this out. Why should we, or others, be able to demand such hypocritical acquiescence by a sovereign nation?  

Vignettes II

Chitenje Pants!

African fabrics – called “chitenje” in the local vernacular – are gorgeous and diverse. I love the bright colors, and the way many of the nicer wax prints integrate metallic gold. My friend Haley thinks the “nature” colored fabrics in tones of brown and green are simply stunning. Nathaniel neglected to bring any lounge pants on our journey and, considering that we spend a fair amount of time in the evenings reading, playing scrabble or otherwise puttering around, this was something of a miss. Inspired by our friend Finn’s brightly colored, tailor made, version, Nathaniel commissioned me to sew him up some pajamas. After weeks of waiting for Nathaniel to venture into the fabric isle at the market with me, Haley and I take matters into our own hands. 

I copy my Old Navy standbys, with a few adjustments for the guy’s size.

Of course the fabric I picked for myself is a little more wild…

An Embarrassment of Avocados

Nathaniel purchases six softball sized avocados from an affable gentleman near his office for the incredible price of $2.90. With Nathaniel in Blantyre for a few days, I am left with almost too many of these gorgeous fruits. I cut one open to make some guacamole topping for my rice and beans and can just stare in wonderment at the most perfect avocado I’ve ever seen. Inch thick flesh, a perfect pea green color, extends from the pit to the skin on all sides. Unlike avocados earlier in the season, which had a strange, liquid texture (like guacamole you buy ready made from BJ’s or Trader Joe’s) this one has just the right mixture of firmness and creaminess. I use only a quarter and have more than ample quantities to garnish my one-woman meal.

Every time I learn to cook something using this local produce that seems so decadent to me (avocado soup, pineapple cream, mango rum crumble) there is some corner of my brain occupied with the concern that I may develop addictions that will prove dangerously expensive upon our return to the states. Our friends Dave and Haley, normally from San Diego have two words for me, “Southern California.”

Learning Patience

Have you ever waited six minutes (literally…this is not “Typical Harms Exaggeration” here people) for your gmail to load and then merely been happy to get through at all? You’ve read the descriptions of hours long waits in bureaucratic queues and weeks long waits for mail to arrive (if it gets here at all), but it goes beyond that too. Mostly, I’ve lead a crazy, hectic life for the past…10 years? 15 years? Just finding ways to entertain myself with the much slower pace of life here is increasing my attention span more than I would have expected.

Given the general lack of free time in our Boston life, Nathaniel and I had gotten to the point of having mostly joint hobbies to ensure any QT at all. Here, with evenings and weekends stretching out long, Nathaniel’s attending permaculture classes, teaching himself to play the guitar and, of course keeping up his extensive reading practices. Luckily, my need to demand attention is decreasing apace. In fact, I’m so absorbed in The Hunger Games trilogy (highly recommended) over the weekend that Nathaniel is the one who keeps wandering in, lonely and demanding assistance cooking up his sixth batch of molasses cookies…

Torn From the Headlines

This just in: small, landlocked East African nation embarks on bizarre campaign to garner international recognition by generating negative press….

In case you haven’t been raptly following the Malawian news, I’m not talking about Madonna reneging on her pledge to build a girls academy near the capitol (yeah, the villagers of Chinkhota who were kicked off their land are pissed) I’m talking about the controversial Local Courts Bill of 2010, the one which the Minister of Justice claimed would make farting a criminal offense.

Of course there was an immense media flap (even the BBC picked up the story) but it appears the air has been cleared, so to speak: Dr. Chaponda has withdrawn his claim that the law (the actual text of which reads “any person who vitiates the atmosphere…”) should be interpreted to include the maligned yet familiar “trouser cough.”

Looks like we can all breathe a sigh of relief… just not through the nose.

What’s black and heavy and (mostly) round?

That’s right, the 28” wheels on my new commuter. In retrospect, the entire trip to purchase a bike was ill-conceived. We set out on a Sunday in a light drizzle and promptly had to turn around when we realized neither of us had brought the kwacha. Traffic was light (so far so good) but the reason became apparent once we got across the river in old town: only a handful of places were open. Still, we’d come this far….

After trudging up and down for a while and rejecting likely bike because the owner wanted us to purchase it then pay extra to have the tires inflated we stop into what we decide will be our final shop. At this point we’re still harboring the vague dream that we’ll be able to find something that both of us can ride. Ha! Of course all of the tires are flat on these bikes as well (this, we now realize, is how all new bikes are sold) so we can’t actually try them out per se. We waffle. The portly old Indian proprietor gives us the hard sell, and when he throws in the headlamp for free we crumble. Of course, now we have to find a mechanic to actually pump up the tires, etc., etc.

Finding a mechanic turns out to be fairly easy, and it’s a good thing we looked – the bike doesn’t even have grease in the bearings. We wait as he does far more tuning than one would think necessary on a new bike. Finally I get to take a test ride and realize immediately that the seat is too low. But, it turns out, that’s as high as it goes because the seat post is all of four inches long. Great. We try to load the bike into the car and continue on our way – no dice, too big. It might fit if we took a wheel off, but then (sans tools) how am I to get the wheel back on? So… I’ll be bicycling home. Annoying, but not the end of the world.

Roughly a kilometer into my ride, having just coasted down a nice long hill, there’s a whumph and my back tire blows out. Fuming I pull off to the shoulder and call Ariel. She’s already back across the river and has just discovered that our time spent waiting at the mechanic means the supermarket is now closed. Great. I volunteer to just go back to the mechanic and get it dealt with and start trudging back up the hill. I then fail to hear my phone ring when Ariel has a change of heart and comes to rescue me, and we both end up back at the mechanic. “Ah,” he says when I explain “tubes no good – not strong.” We open up the tire and, sure enough, it isn’t a pinch flat or a puncture – there’s simply an inch-long split along the seam.

Sending Ariel home, I stalk off to the market in search of a replacement, cursing the man who sold us the crappy bike and my own stupidity in caving to the hard sell. After some wandering about I find a stall with four guys selling strips of tire. Close enough. I ask about tubes and eventually, after some gesticulating at a bike that is fortuitously wheeled by, we understand each other. No, there are no tubes here – I need to go to Senga market, five blocks away.

After resisting the allure of piles of flip-flops and vinyl loafers, mismatched slacks and polyester blazers and every conceivable type of unnecessary car accessory (Steering wheel cover? How about fuzzy dice? Jesus is Lord window decal?) I locate the stall selling tubes. Fortunately I’d gotten the price from the mechanic and am able to bypass the 2,000 kw “made for Africa” (read: made for azungu) option and get the 850 Chinese versions. Ten blocks later and I’m back at the mechanic’s patch of sidewalk (he’s a low-overhead operation) with the new tubes… just in time for it to start raining.

Finally, new tubes in place, rain subsided to a drizzly I gingerly set out again. The front wheel’s lack of roundness gradually becomes more and more apparent, but apart from that and the persistent danger of whacking my knees on the handlebars (damn it – who makes a four inch seatpost?!) things are going relatively well… until it really starts to rain again. At this point I’m soaking wet, fuming at the bike, myself, and the world in general as I furiously pedal towards home. And suddenly, up drives Ariel in our housemate’s car. Apparently she’d gotten worried at my delayed absence and, when I again failed to hear my phone, come to rescue me should I be lying mangled somewhere in a ditch. Thoughtful? Yes. Caring? Absolutely? Well-received given my state of mind? Well…. let’s just say I snarled something less-than-grateful about getting the car muddy and pedaled the rest of the way home as penance for my stupidity.

And that, my friends, is how I came to own the splendid piece of shit. Gears? Who needs ‘em? Cables, housing and functional brakes? First-world frippery. What matters is style, and this baby’s got it from the painted fenders and chain guard right to the spring-loaded plastic seat.

[Edit: I wrote this post a week ago but was waiting to publish until I had the chance to take a suitably hilarious picture of me on the thing, tie flapping in the breeze and laptop case in tow. Sadly (?) it was not to be. When I got in to the office last Wednesday it was gone from its home in the building's back stairwell. Apparently the motorcycle cable lock was not deterrent enough. It looked pretty much exactly like the picture below.]