A Meeting in Malawi
The sign in the Agricultural Ministry of Malawi reads:
Attention all customers. We will begin collecting returns for all loans distributed between the dates of September, 2008 and December, 2008 in the months of July and August, 2009. We apologize for any convenience this may cause.
It takes every ounce of my will not to burst out laughing when I see the error in the last sentence. The people waiting at the ministry are already paying vigorous attention to my every move while also pretending, out of an equally vigorous sense of politeness, that they are not paying attention. I feel their glances–something tells me that they would have been less surprised had a Martian, rather than a white girl from Ohio, walked in and asked about the government’s new agricultural support programs.
After what feels like an eternity, a clerk appears. He says that there is an engineer who would be happy to talk about the new Malawian Green Belt programs to support local agriculture. I know that most of the other people waiting here have been at the ministry longer than I have, hours perhaps. My status as a guest in Malawi allows me to jump the line. I have never been more aware of my skin color than I am as I get up and cross the room.
We go down a narrow hallway and into a courtyard. The clerk points proudly to four rows of corn, explaining that they are testing which corn varieties grow best in Malawi’s climate. The clerk also notes that the Agricultural Ministry works out of several temporary structures. “We are in the process of moving to new buildings,” he says. I wonder how long ago construction began on that project. He locates the irrigation engineer’s office and directs me inside. There is a round of handshaking and then I explain:
“I’m a researcher,” I say for what feels like the millionth time. “Examining the use of modern, specifically drip irrigation in Africa. I need information on the use of drip irrigation by Malawian farmers. Do you have any information about that?”
“Of course,” my new friend Daniel says.
I am skeptical. I’ve heard too much yes on this trip that has turned out to be no. “Can I have it?” I ask.
The clerk disappears back down the warren of hallways.
The clerk disappears back down the warren of hallways.
As it turns out, Daniel–most Malawians have simple English given names and complicated tribal surnames–has no problem finding the information I need on his computer and putting it on my flash drive. The whole process takes about two minutes. We now have at least 18 minutes to chat so that this meeting will be productive by Malawian standards.
After nearly two weeks in Malawi, I’ve learned how this works, and proceed, “Are you originally from Lilongwe?”
Daniel laughs. “No, no. I am from a very small village about five hours to the south, by bus.”
“But you have family here then, no?” Malawian families tend to stick together.
“No, I am the only one who lives in the city. I send about half of my pay each month to my family in the village so that they can buy food.” He pauses. “But I am more curious about you. Why are you here in Africa?”
“Well,” I think for a second. “I’m doing a masters degree in Israel.” As if that explains why I’m conducting research in sub-Saharan Africa.
“But you are American, no?”
“Yes.”
“I love Obama-land! Why did you leave?”
I think about all of my reasons for leaving. How I felt unprepared to begin my career. How my parents began divorce proceedings just as I graduated university. Daniel is waiting for his answer.
“I had family problems,” I hear myself saying. I feel so “First World” and I hate it.
“What sort of family problems?”
“It’s a long story.”
“I have time now.” It’s true. We have at least another ten minutes of chatting to go.
“Well…” I settle on, “Part of it was that my parents weren’t getting along.”
“That’s very sad. If it brought you to Malawi, perhaps it was for the best.”
After a few minutes more, I thanked him again and we said our goodbyes. As I was leaving, he remarked,
“When my family does not get along, I am glad I live in the city.”
I will never understand why Malawians who speak no English insist on greeting everyone they meet with “Hello, how are you?” I will never understand why every meeting must be at least 20 minutes long. Every day in Africa, I tried and often failed to abide by cultural norms whose origins I could not comprehend. But as I left the Ministry, I was glad Daniel understood where I was coming from, even if it seemed like a long way away.
