Lilongwe:Capital City

Last Thursday we piled into the Landrover just after dawn, and headed south to Lilongwe. We had a meeting later that day with UNICEF, to discuss a future programme for the prevention of transmission of HIV from mothers to children. We had all been looking forward to the trip, as a visit to the capital city means being able to get certain things done – renew visas, do photocopying, buy things you can’t get in Nkhotakota (oats and lentils, a whisk) and, for me at least, a break from the routine of clinics, and the end of the rather intensive work shaping the programme proposal. Plus I wanted to get the satellite box in the guesthouse working, so as to resume my television habit.

It was strange to head back down the road that brought me to Nkhotakota a month ago, when I could barely keep my eyes open. The bumpy the road to Salima brought gradual changes in the landscape as we headed south along the lakeshore: it became hillier, and baobab trees started to appear. They are wonderful to look at; massive, tall, sparse, with smooth grey bark like an elephant’s skin, and usually standing on their own. They are often scarred at the six feet nearest the ground – none of my companions knew why, but it looked as though squares had been periodically removed, perhaps to repair canoes with. The scars were all well healed, so whatever it was, people seem to have stopped doing it. The air grew cooler as we climbed away from the lake towards Lilongwe, passing over-laden flatbed articulated lorries belching out black exhaust as they crept up the long curves. Having climbed we came out onto an escarpment, looking over a large plateau dotted with jagged mountains, and what must be the largest building in Malawi – a set of huge silos that looked very incongruous against the leafy green of the plain, which marked the business and industrial zones of the capital, invisible amongst the trees. Lilongwe is an odd city, because at first you don’t really see much evidence of urban development: it feels like a park. Only after driving down endless avenues, with the odd gated low-rise compound set back from the road, will you encounter a sudden roundabout and a modern building of black glass selling Toyota Landcruisers, while each of the turnings will take you down yet another leafy avenue, indistinguishable from the last. The disorientating effect of this was added to by the throngs of other white Landrovers filling the roads, combining house of mirrors with maze. Mr Dezi pointed out one large empty plot, and told me that in 1995 there was a war there. Not knowing of any conflict in Malawi, I asked him what had happened. Apparently, after Life President Banda’s term was brought to an end, members of his ‘Young Pioneer’ organization had armed and barricaded themselves in the Party headquarters. The siege had not lasted long, being ended quickly by the army, but many lives were lost. I was shocked by this, because I had not heard of such things in Malawi. Though quietly oppressed, Malawi did in a way benefit from its dictatorship and lack of mineral wealth by not spending the second half of the 20th century being torn apart in the interests of ideology or money, as in the case of its neighbour Mozambique (it still goes on: Rwanda, the DRC, the CAR, Chad, Sudan…). It also made me realize something else – how unknowingly I had grown up in a dictatorship, where expressing political opinion could readily see a person disappeared, tortured, killed. It even had an armed fanatical youth wing, the innocent-sounding ‘Young Pioneers’ who in reality were often not young, and were a quasi-military organization with powers greater than those of the police. Apparently Kamuzu Banda had set up the organization as a training initiative to boost Malawi’s agricultural productivity. As his style of rule became more autocratic, and his Life term instigated, the YP became the eyes and ears of the only legal party – his Malawi Congress Party – and ultimately its political Inquisition. Malawi is such a beautiful and peaceful place, and my memories of childhood being one of freedom to roam and play, it seemed so odd that a Waco-style showdown marked the end of the Banda era. I said as much to Mr Dezi, who said that it was true, that many people didn’t even realize they were under dictatorship back then. Perhaps the control of the media and education was so easily achieved in such a small, poor and uneducated country that few realized what was happening. Even though it is twelve years since democracy came to Malawi, people will often point out the freedoms they now have that were denied to them then. People seem to relish talking about politics, and the newspapers reveal a media obsessed with the ins and outs of government, from the interpretation of the Constitution to individual politician’s actions (or lack thereof). The other day, when heading back from clinic, the team started discussing something enthusiastically. I asked why everyone had started shouting loudly all at once. Mr Chawinga explained they were debating the controversial Section 65, which threatened to remove some MPs from parliament, as after the last general election, they had left the parties they’d been elected to, and took their seats across the floor to form a new party, thus taking power! The high court had ruled to enforce Section 65 which outlaws such electoral fraud, and much uproar swept across the land (some of it at sixty miles an hour, in our Landrover). With a wide smile Mr Dezi pointed out that in Banda’s time you could be denounced and thrown to the crocodiles for such liberal talk.

Eventually we arrived amongst the city streets, with shops, banks and other city-like things. Relieved to air my damp trouser-seat and stretch my cramped legs, I was set down, and walked into Shoprite, the rich people’s supermarket. Delight of delights, they have a bakery, which does not only sell white bread, but brown bread, and cakes, and chocolate brownies, and flapjacks. I put lots of things in my basket, then, realizing it would be impossible to eat all these treats before they went stale, dolefully put them back on the shelves again. An hour later, heavily laden with yellow plastic bags of dry goods, I was stood outside in the car park reading ‘The Nation’ as waited to meet the others. A man sidled up to me and muttered “Hallo sah, ‘ave you got it? ‘ave you got it? Banana?” I looked at him, uncomprehending. “What?” I demanded loudly. He leaned in close “ ‘Ave you got it? Banana? Pineapple? Fresh!” he hissed. The penny dropped.“ Oh… Avocado!” I roared, delighted to finally understand that he was trying to sell me fruit. He shrank back looking furtively about, into the shadow of a mango tree, and beckoned me to follow. Not understanding the apparent need for secrecy, but otherwise tempted by bananas (an oddly rare thing in Nkhotakota), I stood my ground and enquired (at the top of my voice naturally) as to the price, at which point he broke cover and made a dash for the main exit. A man in uniform had wandered over, and politely told me that it was an imprisonable offence for vendors to operate in the car park. Slightly taken aback, I apologised and hid under my hat. A little later, I noticed a figure standing on the railings that run around the car park, waving and shouting in my direction. I waved back. He then held up an enourmous fan of green bananas. Glad still have the opportunity, I went over and bought them, legally, on the pavement of the main road. They were delicious.

A little while after that, having repeatedly made the error of smiling and waving enthusiastically at each white Landrover that pulled into the car park, in the mistaken belief it would contain my friends, only then to have to hide behind ‘The Nation’, I was startled by a loud honk on a car horn close by. I lowered my newspaper and scowled at the white Landrover pulling noisily up in front of me. “Dr Adams, get in, we are going to Multichoice” (the Home of satellite TV). The busy street disappeared behind us, and we were swallowed up again by the long intestines of Lilonwe’s avenues. Eventually, after asking every person we could, and driving around in circles for what seemed an age, we found the un-signposted Multichoice building, glinting quietly behind a high brick wall. Clutching my satellite box chip card, I pushed back the glass door and stepped into a realm of cool air and marble floors. Television screens flashed smiling advertisements in tempting bright colours, and attendants sat at desks busying away, while satisfied-looking customers strolled about. I presented myself to a desk, removing my sweat-ringed hat and holding out the card. As the attendant took the card and tapped at their computer keyboard, I was soothed by the air conditioning and seduced by the musack, almost hypnotised by the imminent prospect of having at my disposal a satellite extravanganza, a televisual smorgasbord, and the reasonable chance of watching a Bond film on Christmas day. The immediate pleasantness of my surroundings extended into this fantasy, so that not only would there be television, but also air conditioning, a big sofa, and quite possibly a cocktail with a miniature umbrella in it. The attendant asked me if I had the box. Mmh? I asked, smiling widely so as to prevent any break in my developing fantasy. The box? The card was already in the machine. No, not the box for the card, the machine. Why do you need the box for the machine I wondered out loud, smile beginning to freeze. He said, you need to bring in the machine. Otherwise you could be using a stolen one. You can’t open an account without it. I thought of the machine, three hours away in Nkhotakota. No 007 for Christmas then. Fortunately I still have a number of books to get through. Television is bad for you, anyway.