Learning How to Ride in a White Landcruiser

There was a time in Mauritania when I was the equivalent of a small African child and would greet the arrival of white landcruisers in town with an excitement typically reserved for presents on Christmas morning.

I remember one day in particular, when some Europeans arrived in my dusty desert outpost of Tidjikja. I was walking back from the clinic when a landcruiser glided by, and I caught a flash of white skin in the cool, air-conditioned interior. At that moment, it took everything I had in me not to yell “Nasraniya” and chase after the car with the same awestruck wonder that most Mauritanian children did. Instead, I picked up my jaw, which was hanging somewhere by my feet, adjusted my veil, and hurried home to share the news with the other volunteers.

As if it weren’t already evident from the above story, white landcruisers hold an iconic status in the minds of most Peace Corps Volunteers. While the sentiments attached to these vehicles may shift depending on country of service, the gist is usually the same – white landcruisers represent the outside world and a level of comfort not usually known to Peace Corps volunteers who casually throw around phrases like, “poo hand.”

In Mauritania, I unequivocally greeted their arrival with joy as their presence could only mean one of two things. Either a Peace Corps car had arrived with several months worth of care packages in tow - a regular Santa Claus on wheels - or adventurous tourists had stopped by en route to the ancient city of Tichit. Either way, it was something new to interrupt the daily doldrums of life and work in Tidjikja.

When I began work in Rwanda, my perspective shifted. In the wake of the 1994 genocide, the country was inundated by international development agencies and NGOs, and each of these organizations brought an accompanying fleet of vehicles with their colorful logos emblazoned on the side. Landcruisers were suddenly everywhere, even in my city of Rwamagana, and the urge to chase after them like a small child quickly vanished. Nor was my sponsoring organization – The ACCESS Project – a stranger to this creature comfort as we conducted daily field visits in our equally iconic white Toyoto Helix.

But somehow, the landcruiser retained an air of elitism in my mind despite their uncommon prevalence in Rwamagana. I was a Peace Corps Volunteer after all and that meant living life as part of my community. When the landcruiser and its occupants sped back towards the capital at the end of each day, I remained to eat tasteless ubugali with my family, play with my neighbor’s kids, and dread my icy cold shower in the morning. In the same vein, anytime I had to get anywhere else for non-work reasons, I crammed into the pea-sized, broke down mini-buses with everyone else and their mother (literally).

Given my perspective of the landcruiser culture heretofore, you can imagine my surprise then (mixed with some modicum of shame) when I crossed over that yawning gulf between Peace Corps Volunteer and development worker while working in Malawi this summer. It produced an odd sense of internal dissonance. Now I’m the one who speeds away from the dusty village in the white landcruiser, back to my friends in the capital, creature comfort food, and entertainment. No longer do I worry about scorpions creeping towards my bed in the middle of the night, as in Mauritania.

Of course, this is all to say that you never really leave Peace Corps. You leave the village, but you never surrender that perspective which enveloped you so completely, enabling you to welcome new and different people into your circle of family and friends and prodding you to not just explore, but to live a different culture. This same perspective is what drove me to learn what little Chichewa I could in the two months I am here and to observe what social norms I know of in Malawi. This, in contrast to certain expats who behave as though they live in Las Vegas and not the capital of one of the poorest countries in Africa.

Another hand me down from Peace Corps - I insist on living as frugally as possible. This standard has led me to rely on the local minibuses and my own two legs for transport while in the capital. These two options don’t strike me as the worst possible, especially when fares are as cheap as they are. But there are obviously some expats who would be very reticent to use local transport.

Case in point - at a party two weeks ago, I happened to meet some guys who invited me to go swimming with them at their country club the day after. I jumped at the opportunity, and, when they asked me where and when they should pick me, I replied that I would just catch the minibus which travels from my neighborhood to theirs. The two guys looked at me incredulously, asked if I really took the minibuses, and then broke into laughter. Suffice to say, I decided not to join them for the swim. Beyond my transportation choices, I must give the impression of being a Peace Corps volunteer in other ways as several other expats have assumed that I am a volunteer. Perhaps it’s the eau-de-poor graduate student that I put on each day?

While integration à la Peace Corps is no longer possible for me in my current position, I remain thankful that I at least recognize this shift in my perspective and am unafraid to live a life as part of a community – taking minibuses or walking, chatting with newspaper vendors, bargaining in the market, and sharing meals with Malawian friends in their homes.

My vacation this past weekend to Lake Malawi further demonstrated this new divide. At one of the lodges, I ran into some Peace Corps volunteers. They wore kitenge (wax print), spoke Chichewa with the local staff, and when they ate their cheese pizzas, you could readily observe how much they savored the food compared with their diets in the village. At the end of the day, we all left Cape Maclear. Tellingly, I packed into my friend’s SUV for the ride back to the capital, and they jumped into the flat bed of a truck, wrapped their faces with kitenge, and prepared for the dusty ride back to the village. We smiled at each other and waved goodbye. It was as if I was riding away in a white landcruiser.

Picture: Me and the members of my current project in Chinthembwe, Malawi - right before leaving to return to the capital

Malawi: The "Warm Heart of Africa"

3:57AM: The roosters crow way too early here. Momentarily roused, I drift back to sleep thinking, “that damn bird’s broken again” and dreaming of roosters strutting around with giant snooze buttons on their head. But then he crows again, and I’m forced to peak one eye open and blindly search for my phone. The room is still dark, but the moon is bright and casts a silver light through the gauzy white mosquito netting. My phone blinks neon blue in the dark, and I see that, indeed, it’s just as early as I thought it was.

That bird has been broken ever since I arrived in country. He crows at the ungodly hour between 3:30 and 4:00AM and then again 12 hours later in the afternoon. I’m pretty sure he and the rest of his compatriots need to be reset, if there were a way to do so, but I also know that this is the standard reveille for most Malawians. It’s something I learned my first day in country when my counterpart, in depositing me at my guesthouse, said “Okay, see you tomorrow at 7:30!” I thought it might be a one-time affair to arrive at work so early, but going on day 15, it seems to be the norm. The day begins and ends early, with most Malawians going to bed by 8:30 or 9:00. As Malawi, located in the Southern Hemisphere, is now entering its winter, I don’t know if this is just a seasonal quirk. Regardless, it’s a schedule, along with the roosters, which I must adjust to for the next few months.

Malawi – the little I’ve seen of it thus far - is a beautiful country. It has vegetation similar to that of Rwanda – friendly waving banana leaves, spiked palms, dense avocado trees and other trees which resemble some variation of an oak. It is hilly though not in any readily observable manner; the curves of the land are hidden by the dense vegetation. On the outskirts of the capital, the land immediately converts to farmland with wave after wave of maize and red-tipped long grass stretching out before you. I have yet to visit the famed Lake Malawi, but I know its waters will only compound the beauty of the country. Indeed, most of what I have observed outside the capital of Lilongwe has been on trips to my eventual site in Ntchisi. The district features a similar topography to the capital though it is, obviously, much more rural.

One thing available in my district which I have yet to find in the capital are field mice - grilled on sticks and ready to eat. Bon appétit! I really thought my friend, Malcolm, was joking when he mentioned this local delicacy. Even when my driver motioned to a small boy holding a stick by the roadside and said “mice,” I didn’t put two and two together. I looked to the ground and said, “No, that was a boy,” convinced he was confusing English words. He shook his head at the naïve American and smiled. It was only upon seeing another small boy by the road that I finally noticed the mice dangling from the stick he carried. We’ll see if I get up the gumption to try mice before I leave the country… me thinks not.

What I have seen of the capital, I have explored mostly on the weekends, as I don’t have much time during the actual week. Some friends and I ventured to a land dedication ceremony on Sunday and were treated to a local dance exhibition that reminded me of they way boys treat girls in elementary school. It was pretty fantastic, featuring giant papier-mâché animal replicas with male actors underneath who would occasionally break ranks to chase the female singers. A giant red, white, and black snapping turtle and what appeared to be an antelope would pursue the women after which the females would cautiously creep back towards the animals, whispering things behind cupped hands. Twenty-four hours after the fact, I’m still not quite sure what I actually witnessed. I’ve also made it out to a few dance clubs in town, which allowed me to watch men stalk women in a different way. Err, awkward…

In addition to my weekend explorations, I have also resumed my role of “the odd white girl who runs.” Waking at 5:30 each day, I’m able to log a few miles before I have to report to work and, in turn, provide countless Malawians with some early morning giggles and/or heart attacks. I have yet to hear anyone say to me, “What the hell is that?” as they routinely did in Mauritania, but there is one older gentleman who every day without fail will take a few wary steps back as he sees me approach and then scamper across the road to walk on the other side. I really want to smile and greet him with something akin to “I come in peace,” but instead we usually meet at the point in my run when I’m snotty, red-faced, and barreling towards the proverbial finish line. Perhaps this forthcoming week…

Though I’ve highlighted those rarified moments above when my “otherness” was readily apparent, in general, Malawians have been wonderfully cordial and welcoming. They have a slow, sarcastic wit that isn’t showy, but always makes you chuckle in retrospect. And the Malawians with whom I work seem genuinely honest and motivated to change their own circumstances and that of their compatriots. Having travelled throughout West and Central Africa, I wonder if perhaps I really have found “the warm heart of Africa.”