Malawi is Planting its Future

The problems keep coming, and each new one delays us in getting to the office of the Minister of Forestry for the nation of Malawi. I hate being late to any meeting, but to be late to a meeting with a government official is doubly uncomfortable. Finally we get the problems resolved and head toward the office of the Forestry Department. Upon our arrival we are immediately ushered into the office of the Minister of Forestry, along with his Deputy Secretary of Forestry. Beside them are seated the assistant Director of Forestry, and the District Forestry Officer for the Lilongwe District Office. We take our seats. No one seems to notice, or even care, that we are late arriving. The customary greetings, introductions, and conversation continue for nearly an hour. It is all part of the Malawi custom of getting to know you, and what you are all about, before getting down to the business at hand. Malawians are masters at determining character, and they will size you up in short order. After the time of greeting we all get into a Nissan Patrol 3.0 Di and head out of the driveway.

The sun is climbing high in the sky, and the customary fog on distant mountains is burning its way toward a clear blue sky. The green landscape from the recently ended rainy season still punctuates the landscape as we scoot hastily south through the countryside. Family plots of ripe maize spot the landscape brown, and white clouds drift slowly across the African sky. Cassia Spectabilis trees topped with beautiful blossoms of yellow warn of the coming dry season.

Tearing Long Gashes In The Clouds

Within fifteen minutes the changing landscape begins to roll the road into a slow rollercoaster of curves and hills, and the distant mountains move in to surround us. The farther south we travel, the higher the peaks. They appear as though they are tearing long gashes in the soft underbellies of the low flying clouds. Brown grass huts extend above the tall grass of the savannah. Ox carts filled with young boys, and commerce, move north along the road, while the older boys quickly pass them on bicycles burdened with racks of wood. Women whose backs are bent from age and labor cautiously step off the edge of the broken tarmac in order to avoid the rush of oncoming vehicles. They trudge their way toward a nearby trading center with baskets of vegetables on their heads and babies on their backs. Coke and Panadol signs mark the sides of stores, along with such interesting signs as the Double Vision Boys School, or the No Farming - No Life Grocery Store. Or what woman would not want to go to the Beautiful Woman Salon.

Hills once covered with plush forests now stand naked and ashamed. Peaks stare down in disbelief as village scavengers seek the last stand of trees for enough wood to cook the next meal. One must sympathize with the village woman who has no other means to create a fire with which to feed hungry children. Yet it is this pitiful lot that is robbing the future of the future forests.

A Fat Man Lying On His Back

Fifteen more minutes and the vehicle glides into a valley, across a stream, and over the unmarked boundary between the Lilongwe District, and the Dedza District. Before us in the distance looms Dedza Mountain. It looks like a fat man lying on his back. It seems to grow as we approach it at 70 kilometers an hour. Just when it appears we are going to skirt the mountain on the west side the 4 x 4 slows, and then we turn left toward the mountain, and into Dedza Boma. The route, long since forgotten by the highway department, draws us down an impossible dirt path to the backside of the mountain. More and bigger potholes, and finally we break into the open. The view is breathtaking as we look out over a breathtaking vista. Wild flowers flow down the mountainside, and people with ancient hoes dot the hillside in intense labor. Men with bare feet, hardened and blistered by the rough soil, toil in the mid-day sun to create little clearings around each tiny, fragile seedling. Everywhere there are stump reminders of ancient forests. Passing these workers we round a sharp curve and enter the Dedza Mountain Project. The area of work on the southwest side covers 40 hectors, or about 88 acres. An estimated 20,000 seedlings have already been planted. They are now being carefully weeded. Some of the villagers are observed leaving the staging area with big grins, and boxes of shoes they have received as a reward from the “Shoes For Trees” program. We wave. They wave back.

Appearing To Mock The Naked Valley

Next we stop at the Forestry Office so we can talk with some of the workers. Everyone knows of the Shoe Incentive Program, and everyone agrees it is what is making the tree-planting program so successful this year. After hearing and seeing the results of the incentive program from these men, we get back in the vehicle and head around the mountain to the northwest side. Again we find a road that promises no care has found it in several years. It is an impossible dirt path, and it seems to have been a target range for B-52 carpet-bombing. One has to wonder how so many potholes can cluster together, all in one place, and all at the same time. We pass a giant pine forest of 3,500 hectors that was planted in 2002. The trees reach skyward, as they appear to mock the naked valley nearby. The Nissan crawls around the now famous mountain of ancient rock paintings. We are told the paintings on this mountain were painted hundreds of years ago by the African Bushmen, or pigmies. We can’t see them high in the caves on the mountain as we pass, but that does not take away our marvel at this ancient land of surprises.

Arriving on the west side of the mountain we enter the Chongoni forest where some 20,000 seedlings have been planted. As with the northwest side, in the Dedza Mountain Project, we are advised the success of the project can again be credited to the “Shoes For Trees” Project instituted by the Malawi Forestry Department, and the Malawi Project Incentive Program Initiatives. Across the hillside workers can be seen with sickles swinging away at the weed-covered earth, and ancient hoes claw out needed firebreaks.

Road Less Traveled

Our vehicle pulls to a stop, and the Forest Department workers walk up to greet us. Our Malawi guide encourages, and admonishes them to continue their good work in order to receive new pairs of shoes from the next shipment. The workers seem happy to know such a reward is coming their way. Smiles reflect their response. It looks like we have reached a remote place at the end of the road, certainly a road less traveled. Yet, in reality, we are in the very center of the action. One hundred and fifty pairs of shoes for every 20,000 seedlings planted and weeded. There is no other payment, no other incentive, only the pair of shoes to help to reforest their land.

At this work site we stop to talk with one of the forest managers. He is a forest service employee with seven years of experience with the department. He is from Lilongwe, and he tells us he wants to attend the Bunda College of Agriculture in order to obtain a degree in Forestry. He cannot go until he finds a sponsor to help him with the cost.

“Will clothes work as well as the shoes have worked, if we give you clothes for trees next year,” our guide asks? The worker responds, “Yes, we want to plant 500,000 seedlings next year. We simply need incentives to get the village people to come out and help us. Of course we also need panga knives, pruning shears, and some fire fighting equipment. If we have these things we can grow our forests back again.”

For The Sake Of All Of Us

As the afternoon begins to leave us behind we make our way back to the tarmac of M-1, and turn north toward Lilongwe and home. The driver pops in a cassette tape and out come the strains of Dolly Parton, as well as an assortment of other country and western singers, compliments of Nashville, Tennessee. Two Malawi Forest Service Officials, in the back of our vehicle, can be heard softly clapping to the beat. It is obvious there is really not much difference between peoples, no matter where you are in the world. And another thing is sure. These people have to be successful in what they are doing. The forests of Malawi must be reestablished … for the sake of all of us.

Note: The Shoes For Trees Program, from the first 40-foot trailer of shoes, was reported to have netted a total of over 400,000 seedlings planted and weeded. A second trailer of shoes has resulted in thousands of more trees planted on the land of the new Dzidalire Community Development Agency, and the site of the new Malawi International Bible Institute north of the Dedza Trading Center.

Adventure of Buying Car Parts

The Adventure of Buying Car Parts

Making even simple purchases in this part of Africa are often a near death experience. What we mean by this is that after going from place to place to place you are dying to find the item, yet it often remains so elusively you will age immeasurably before you find it, if you find it. To ever go into the first store that seems it would have your item and actually find the item is improbable or often impossible. If your list is too long you may actually grow old and die before you find the shop that carries that particular item. Even if you want to buy things that are used all the time by the local people, the experience can still be a harrowing encounter. Take the trip we recently made so we could purchase an oil filer, air filter, some motor oil, and springs for a very popular vehicle in this part of the world. Experience has taught us that these trips usually take much longer than expected, much longer! The stores are often out of the very item you are greatest in need of purchasing. In recent weeks we have found the stores out of prepaid telephone cards, diet coke, diesel fuel, sugar, milk, and various other commodities that a person from the west cannot imagine a major city running out of. One has to wonder who the purchasing person is that is asleep at the wheel so often as to allow this to happen repeatedly.  

Concern Causes Us To Leave Early 

Because of our concern over the possibility of having trouble finding one or more of the items we decide to go to town early, so we can be there the minute the stores open. It is Saturday, and the stores close at noon, so we do not have a minute to waste. We have very little fear about finding the popular oil filter, the air filter, or the oil. It is the rear springs that we have some concern that we might have to check with more than one location before we find them. And so, with some trepidation we gird ourselves for the expedition and head out on another of our travels in the “warm heart of Africa”. In this case we are on the way into the capital city of Lilongwe, population 700,000, so we ca make a few simple car maintenance purchases. What can be so hard with this?

       The dashboard clock indicates it is 8:20 AM. Remember, the purchase list only includes an oil filter, air filter, several quarts of oil, and a set of springs for the rear of a very popular model in this part of the world. Lilongwe is the biggest city of the nation and the capital. If we were home in America this would be about a 20-minute project at a single car parts store, or car dealership.

A Traditional African Trading Center

       By 9 AM we are inching our way through the bumper-to-bumper, person-to-person, traffic in the oldest portion of Lilongwe. Our first stop is “the most reliable shop” in the oldest portion of Old Town. Before we get out of the car let me tell you about Old Town. This is the part of the city that was here before Lilongwe became the capital of Malawi. In fact Old Town was here before Malawi became a country. 

     For many years Lilongwe was Malawi’s second largest city, always trailing the commercial center of Blantyre in the southern part of the nation. But in the past 40 years the population of the capital city has literally “exploded”. In 1977 it was at 98,718, by 1987 it reached 223,318. In 1998 it had nearly doubled to 435,964. In 2008 the figure had nearly doubled again to 866,272, and a year later, in 2009 it was up to 902,388.

Old Town is Really Old

          Today, in Old Town, a sea of street vendors outnumber the stores, and the store fronts are nearly hidden by mop venders, guys carrying car parts (including bumpers) and various other items they are sure you want to buy. All are moving beside and in the street trying to find a buyer (maybe before the owner finds them. There are hub-cap vendors, tomato and carrot vendors, and all other types of commodities including cell phones, cell phone chargers, and a large number hacking cell phone cars that may or may not work when you try to put the time in your unit. Just to be on the safe side I snap the lock on the door and smile back at a guy standing very close to the window smiling in at me. After traveling through the virtual sea of humanity that is milling about the street we reach the most reliable shop, Ngoni Shop # 2. With that name, and since the Ngoni tribe has traditionally been the warrior nation, I wonder if there is a group of warriors inside waiting for the first unsuspecting arrival of the morning. Our mechanic disappears inside to explain our needs; one oil filter, one air filter, several quarts of oil, and the springs for the back of the vehicle. He is gone for some time, and when he exits the store, instead of coming back to the vehicle; he turns to the right and disappears from view toward a second set of shops. It either means he is deserting me, or he has not found what he is looking for in the first shop. I decide in my mind to vote for the later. Probably it is the springs that he cannot find, I decide. In a little while he comes back with success … he has found the air filter. We move our vehicle down the crowded street to a second set of stores. Again, the mechanic disappears inside a dingy looking storefront. I check the lock on the driver side of the vehicle. Secure. Good. We are in the center of the open-air market area, and somehow the crowds have intensified. That is hard to imagine since there were already packed in so tight no one could move faster than the pace of the crowd. Opening the door of a vehicle is now a more pronounced challenge, and to drive through the area will put every door that is opening on both sides of you in serious jeopardy of being torn off in the far too narrow street. 

         While waiting for the driver to return from his scouting trip I scan the crowd. Gaining the eye of a street vendor I extend a request for a copy of “The Nation” newspaper. I carefully hand sixty Kwacha out the slightly cracked window. The exchange is made. Now I can settle in to get a handle on the news. Since I have only looked over three newspapers in the past three months it is strange the way the news still seems so familiar. Politicians are fighting over the budget. The highway department is closing two more roads for road repair. A trial is scheduled of a politician who is being accused of corruption. The local sports team has lost a recent international soccer contest. A water shortage has occurred in two of the trading centers north of us. On the international scene the Middle East is still in turmoil. North Korea is threatened to shoot off more test missiles. Two North African nations are suffering a several famine. The news is the news, is the news. I finish the newspaper from front to back, and then lean back in my seat to watch the various pedestrians moving soundlessly past the front of the car. An occasional horn reminds me of the vast traffic jam that is clambering past the vehicle behind me, while trying to find its way out of the maze called a street.

Mechanic Going from Store to Store

        Behind me and to the left our mechanic is going from store to store looking for the parts. He returns to the car to announce the need for a new location. We are up to 20 stores, and to almost no avail. However, I have caught up with all of the news of the world, and I can also tell anyone where this guy was born, as well as the name of his prospective wife, and a host of other details about him and the part of town we are traveling through.

Try the Expensive Side of Town

          By this time we give up and head back over to the “most expensive” side of town in order to get the parts. Back on the “expensive” side, the place our mechanic avoids like the plague because of its prices we start a systematic search for the parts. No luck. 

          The time is now up to 12:05 and it is too late to attempt to find another store that might have our parts. We have been successful in the purchase of an oil filter. No success on any of the other items. Before leaving this part of town we are able to stop at a Petro station and obtain the oil, but nothing else. 

           We head back. We’ve spent the entire morning and have found just one oil filter and several quarts of oil. All in all though, it has been a rather good time. We did find one of the items we need. We’ll go back on Monday morning and canvass some more of the stores. We’ve said it before, and we will probably say it time and again, “That’s Malawi.”

From the Capital to the Lake

Lilongwe To Senga Bay

It is nearly three in the afternoon as I reach the north edge of Lilongwe on M-1. I want to reach Senga Bay before nightfall, and the blazing African sun is already casting long shadows off to the east. For the first few kilometers I enjoy the broadest portion of tarmac I will encounter during the entire 110 kilometer trip east to the lake. Two lanes include white lines along both sides of the beam-less road, and a white dotted line denoting the center lane, projects itself all the way to the next curve and beyond. M-1 is the best, as well as the most traveled road in the country. I must pick up a package at the airport so I continue on to the airport turn off. A stop for the police checkpoint, and I am quickly waved through. I turn left and continue to the next checkpoint, this one just outside the perimeter of the airport. A quick check and I am on my way. It only takes a minute. and the package is safely in the back of the vehicle. I head back to the M-1 turn off.

Goodbye to the Good Road

Where the airport turn off meets M-1 I steer the Isuzu across the highway and wave goodbye to the ribbon of black tarmac heading south toward the capital. For the next seven kilometers I bounce along a bush road that is only a little wider than a dirt path - a road that will be nearly impassable when the rainy season sweeps in from the east in a few weeks. But for now there is not a rain cloud in site and the road is clear all the way.

Dust Finds Every Crack

Though I slow to 40 kilometers, and close the windows, I still find myself tasting the red, gritty, dust of the sub-Sahara that is spurting into the car through every conceivable crack, and casting a red, dusty glaze over everything in sight. The bone jarring potholes that seem large enough to swallow an ox-cart compounds the discomfort. I maneuver unsuccessfully to both sides of the road in an attempt to avoid the vast expanse of holes that threatens to engulf the road.

From an altitude of 4,100 feet near the airport I will descend some 800 feet to the valley floor, then climb again to cross over the picturesque Dowa Mountains with their panoramic view of the horizon, and the quaint clusters of tiny villages scattered carelessly around the landscape. I will then slowly wind my way down to around 900 feet as I near the lakeshore, east of the dingy, crossroads trading community of Salima. With this change of altitude will come a change of temperature as the fireball hovering above me gains a greater intensity of influence on the heavier air near the lake. Even with the late afternoon sun behind me I find myself shedding the brown jacket that, just a little while earlier at the compound, felt so comfortable.

Magnificent Mountain Range

Off to the left across the valley I can see unhindered for at least 25 kilometers. Almost everything in sight carries various hues of brown. No crops are growing, with their bright green hues of prosperous growth, and the effects of three months without a drop of rain spreads like a brown, suffocating canopy over the entire landscape. A man on a bicycle in a brown suit and white shirt peddles past heading toward the setting sun. As I glance in the rear mirror he disappears in a cloud of red dust that is chasing me along the road. Three small girls in tattered, dingy dresses stand beside the road and wave as I pass. Obviously they have come out from one of the three or four thatched huts nearby. They too disappear behind me in the same cloud that enveloped the man in the brown suit.

Accelerating Up a Ridge

After several more waving children, and a couple of dozen more brown huts, I accelerate up a ridge, and intersect suddenly with the main road to Salima. It is not as wide as M-1, but it does offer a reprieve from the dust cloud that has traveled the seven-kilometer road through the valley. I can now leave it happily behind me, and push on the window electrics and fresh cool air rushes in from the outside to create a second dust storm. This one comes from the glaze of dust that had settled over everything in the car. I lick my lips and wipe at my glasses in a vain attempt to rid myself of the valley.

Night is an Unknown Thing

The road from Lilongwe city to Salima is blacktop all the way, and relative few potholes, and I find I have just cut away nearly 20 kilometers from the trip with the 7 k cut across down the valley road. The traffic is a bit heavy for a late afternoon trip, as it seems the whole countryside is trying to get home before night settles in to take control of the villages. Night in the sub-Sahara is an unknown thing, and evil things happen in the darkness where only the distant, cold glare of the moon stands witness. I pass a few groups of school children lingering along the way home from the primary schools that dot the landscape of this impoverished country. Some are in blue and white uniforms, indicating their parochial affiliations, while others wear only the hand me down dresses, and stained jeans, that have been long forgotten by the children in the benevolent nations of the west. Along the way I witness the village children as well. They are in tattered clothes, and have no school fees. There are many of them, and they stand near the edge of their mud-hut villages and watch the other children pass near the tarmac on their way homes from the big brick buildings of learning. Each cluster of laughing, jumping children drop out of sight past the dusty windows only to be captured for another slit second in one or both of the rear mirrors. I can’t help but wonder what will become of them, those vagabonds from the village farms. With unemployment in the cities in excess of 50% what hope will their education give them? And what hope is there for those who are given no education. The future of the village seems bleak in its sameness. I sigh as I pass them.

Tree Branches in the Road

As I round a curve I slow at the telltale sign of freshly cut tree branches lying directly in my lane. Up ahead, unseen from this distance, but sure to appear is an object directly in the road. Lorry, or galamoto, or accident. I am unsure but I know it is there. I crest the hill with my foot precautious near the brake pedal. There I see the giant lorry, loading with tobacco bales, lying helplessly and lonely directly in my path. I carefully swing to the right into the oncoming lane, but just as I do I realize another dead truck is sitting just near in the oncoming lane. It too is helpless to move, the driver sitting near a tree eating his meal of nsima. I thank the tree branches for warning me, as I quickly maneuver between the giant lorries and back into the eastbound lane. I then accelerate to a safe speed that should insure my arrival before dark.

Babies on their Backs

Four women pas heading into the sun, each with a bucket on her head and two with babies fastened securely to their backs with brightly colored chitinjis. A girl in a red dress flashes a smile, and a partial wave before the Isuzu disappears around another curve. Although I am now climbing higher into the Dowa Mountains the parade of humanity continues to pass on both sides of the road. They are seemingly going in every direction. By all appearances I am far out in the country away from the cities, but in reality tiny villages and trading centers dot the brown, drab vegetation that disguises their presence with a sense of emptiness.

Bluffing the Goats

As I scan the vista around me I nearly fail to see the goats that have crested from the depression near the road, and now are claiming the right-of-way directly in my path. Only the incessant sound of the horn convinces the lead goat, an old grey with a long beard that denotes his dominance, to exit my path. My threat works, and the other three choose not to call my hand. The lead goat is reflected in the mirror looking my way as to say, “beat you didn’t I?” For a moment I consider honking a reply but I think better of it as I realize he probably does not understand Isuzu. Before I can consider the goats challenge to my manliness a rooster that has apparently watched the retreat of the goats half runs - half flies across both lanes in a successful show of his prowess for all of the goats to see. I slow to see who else is worthy to take up the challenge. None seem ready to come forward. My trek continues.

Unannounced Trading Center

A few kilometers east of the “goat crossing” I round another curve and sweep into a tiny trading center that has failed to announce its presence for the unexpected traveler who crests the hill. A bus sits partially across my lane, and street vendors, true to their name, encircle it with their commodities held high for all within to see, or for those wish to make a purchase to take home to the wife or children. Bananas, apples, live chickens, bread, biscuits, ground nuts, and hard boiled eggs with little packets of salts, as well as drinks appear to anyone on board with a few Kwacha they wish to submit. Baskets are also for sale to anyone with too big a load to take home. The Isuzu inches past them, and it seems that traffic is brushing dangerously close. This fact seems to have no influence on those who seem desperate to make a final sale before the setting of the sun drives them back to their villages to count the few Kwacha or Tambala they have been able to roust from the weary travelers.The car accelerates again as the open road appeals. Over the next hill and three gullies, each in their traditional, tribal dress, run along the highway in single file in near military procession. One would wonder if they are racing to some mysterious, sacred place of meeting. They eye the vehicle as I race by. I fail to look back. The Isuzu continues on course.

Termite Take Over

A tiny village comes into view, along with a broken church building, and a giant termite mound. It seems such a strange combination to punctuate the roadside scene. I cannot help buy wonder if the pastor next Sunday will speak of the rich who ride by in their red galamotos and look the other way as the poor suffer silently in the tiny villages lost in time. A herd of cattle break my concentration as a small boy loses control and allows the bull to move out and straddle the centerline, and look threateningly toward the oncoming, red intruder. I slow, and chose to pass on the berm of the road, as the giant animal closes the gap by crossing directly into my lane. Apparently he has not read the animal signs that indicate cars and trucks have the privilege of right-of-way. He stops suddenly and I sweep past, thankful it is not two hours later and pitch black as we reach this moment of near contact. A little farther along a giant impaca (cat) lies dead near a tree, apparently victim of some careless hit and run away driver.Ninety-eight kilometers in and I unexpectedly pass the sign that reads, “Salima City Limits”, although the roadside images remain the same for another three or four kilometers. Apparently some political entity has sought to increase the tax base for Salima by annexing an additional half dozen huts into the corporate empire.

Coffin Makers Signal AIDS

The road to Nkhotakota points its tarmac ribbon to the north as it signals my approach to the real outskirts of the trading center, and its sparkling new Total petrol station, and its smartly dressed attendants, reminds me that change is coming ever so slowly to this forgotten land. The intersection for the Balaka turn off holds its rest houses, and coffin makers. Strange bedfellows it would seem until I am reminded of the seriousness of the HIV/AIDS problem in this part of the world. What should be a center for commerce and trade is, in fact a magnet for the trade in alcohol, drugs, sex and death. This region is a virtual deathtrap for the loose morale, unsuspecting visitor to its charms.I cross near the main business district, a loud crowded mix of old world and new music, and cross over the set of rail lines that reminds one of an earlier day. Nearly sits the rail station and a group of abandoned rail cars. A tobacco lorry indicates some rail usage still exits, but there is little order evidence that an engine knows of this stretch of track. The road narrows as I curve more into a northerly direction and recognize that soon the road will abruptly end near the edge of the lake. Bamboo stands line the road on each side as carvers and basket makers wait for the next Azungu who seeks to part with more than his share of western currency. Another goat starts to challenge the right of the Isuzu, then at the last minute thinks better of his action. He makes a wise decision to live another day.

A Car Gives Way

A narrow bridge comes up suddenly, and an oncoming car chooses to cede the right-of-way to the much bigger cousin. I wave and smile, and from within the tiny car the black faces and white teeth behind the “Malawi” tinted windows flash back a warm greeting and we are past. A big yellow concrete pillar indicates just seven more kilometers, and success will be reached. Smoke rises from a distant field where an unknowing farmer is burning much of the future nutrients from the soil in an attempt to clear the stubble from last seasons harvest.

One more kilometer and I slow for a number of people walking in the road near the upcoming village. A man staggers along the road near the centerline. Where he awakens tomorrow morning, with a terrible headache, he will probably not remember the car that passed him with just inches to spare.

Cool Runnings By Dark 

A turn to the right, and a winding dirt road through another run-down village. A gate. A signal from the horn, and a smiling watchman rushes to open the lock and trip the latch. “Hello, abambo. It is good to see you again.” “It is good to see you as well Henry.” I pull into the car park between two trees, and let the diesel idle for a couple of minutes. It has been 107 kilometers of excitement, intrigue and suspense. A few seconds more and I cut the engine, and exit the vehicle from the right side. I can hear the waves crashing against the sand beach of Senga Bay, and I can already feel the coolness of the wind coming in off of the big lake. It will be cold tonight in the sub-Sahara, and the sun has no intention of remaining behind.