Dwangwa

Pecuniary concerns drove me north on Saturday, to a village called Dwangwa, which Mr Dezi had informed me had a bank that changed money and an ATM, but that I must get there by 10am before it closed. Dwangwa lies a mere 56km north of Nkhotakota, which I guessed would take about 30 minutes by car. Uncertain of the public transport however, I got up early and headed down to the middle of town. Sure enough, a bus sat by the side of the road, completely empty, while a fellow washed its headlights with a bucket and rag. A bit of wood with ‘Dwangwa Mzuzu’ scratched on it sat on the dashboard. I asked him what time the bus was due to go. Seven he said. Then he asked me the time. Seven thirty I said. He assured me we would go soon. I got on the bus, while he wandered over to the marketplace and disappeared. A fellow with shifty eyes followed me on and tried to convince me to go on the pickup parked just in front ‘because it won’t break down like bus’, and wouldn’t accept when I tried to inform him that the pickup was going to Thyolo and Mulanje (I had espied a bit of wood on its dashboard telling as such), and after standing in silence next to me for a while he also wandered off. I sat there for a bit longer. I wondered whether the pickup was really going to Thyolo. There being no sign of the first fellow (and therefore no imminent threat of the bus actually leaving) I got out and asked where the pickup was going. Dwangwa, a third fellow said, and only two hundred kwacha. I pointed to the sign saying Thyolo and it was removed hastily by the driver to hoots of laughter from the various people gathered about. How long would it take? About half an hour. I got in (the front seat, and aware of the privilege), and took in the appalling state of my transport. There were holes everywhere, the door wouldn’t shut and anyway there was no handle inside to open it with. I could barely see through the windscreen riven with cracks and clouded by a sticky-looking smear of beige I could not identify. By the time (it was some time, and still no sign of bus driver or indeed any passengers) we were receiving our push start and the engine coughed into life, I was planning my method of escape should our carriage drift uncontrollably towards a gulley or suddenly burst into flames. However our driver seemed fully aware of the vehicle’s shortcomings and drove not much faster than a gentle trot, slowing to walk at the start of any slope. This will take a long time, I thought. It took even longer than that, and after 80 minutes of holding the door shut, when I was beginning to wonder whether Dwangwa was a concept rather than an actual place, we entered some forest. Brachystegia is woodland of open canopy which used to dominate much of Malawi but has since much diminished due to a process a match factory owner in Blantyre once (rather impoliticly) called ‘natural thinning’ (sadly for many Malawians firewood is the only affordable fuel), but here in the Nkhotakota Reserve is in full glory. The dry season has brought many shades of brown and red into the treetops, making for beautiful views of the forest as we rounded hills. I dreamed we might see an elephant, and saw three baboons. A little later we passed a sign saying DWANGWA, which didn’t seem to demarcate any change in the consistency of the forest. The engine stopped and we drifted to a halt. Dwangwa, my seat-buddy stated, as we retrieved our personages from the intimacy of the last two hours, and unbent ourselves out of the cabin. No buildings. I walked for a bit and passed a bus stop, then some houses. A shout of ‘asungu’ went up amongst the children playing, which I took as a poor indicator of finding my metropolis with bustling financial centre. I passed a tractor, and came to a junction at a break in the trees, with a sign saying Bank pointing down a road. I looked down that road, which undulated straight over a wide plain of green sugarcane, all the way to the horizon, with no hint of a bank-like silhouette to comfort me. I wiped my forehead. I looked at my watch: 930 - nearly out of time. I looked at the road, and wondered whether running would make any difference. A white truck appeared, and stopped beside me. With a gentle hiss the door opened and a mist of cool air spilled gently out into the road. ‘Get in’ a voice intoned. I did. A few minutes later I was outside a large sugar refinery and the bank, which was in fact not one bank but two banks. One was quite empty, with a large dot-matrix sign flashing the latest exchange rates down into my money-minded eyes, and the other was full of long queues. I chose the empty bank. The young lady behind the counter politely informed me that they didn’t change money, and that I should go next door. She explained, when I protested, that the exchange rates were displayed because the bank hoped to offer that service ‘in the near future’. I hung my head and went to queue. Some time later, when the clerk had spent some minutes jiggling a wire in the back of his computer in order to ‘get the rates’, I walked outside, waist thickened by a wadge of kwachas. A boy on a bicycle offered to take me back to Dwangwa. I perched on cushion attached for the purpose and we wobbled off across the plain, through the thick air sweetened by the smell of the sugar cane and my relief at having the job done. After about 10 minutes of having my kidneys rattled on the pillion, we crossed the river Dwangwa bridge, passed the sign saying 'Beware Crocodiles' and came to rest at the side of the road. Dwangwa it turns out, despite my skepticism, is indeed an actual place, with a bustling high street and busy shops and stalls. The ‘God Is Able Shop’ and the Primary School whose motto was ‘Ignorance with Education' stood out, alongside long rows of cabbage and the bucket-maker.

The pickup home was newer and faster but no more comfortable, even though I had somehow been granted a front seat to share again, this time with a young woman. She asked me if I spoke Chichewa, and I had to say I do not. She told me with a note of reproach in her voice that Malawians do not speak English, they speak Chichewa. She is a single mother to a ten year old boy, and was going to Lilongwe (some 200km away from Dwangwa) to sell fish. She asked me jokingly if I wanted to adopt her son. I asked her how long she was going to be in Lilongwe. Back this evening she said, by six. I did wonder how realistic that assertion was, but did not express my doubts. Making a rather feeble attempt to carry the conversation further, I asked where her fish were, peering quizzically at her small blue handbag, and then reaching out to pat it as she gazed evenly back at me. In the back, she said.