September 10, 2023
After getting the stamp, I stepped out of the building, into the sunshine. A few guys sat astride their bicycles in the distance. Thoughtfully I took the bottle from my backpack, unscrewed the cap and sipped the water. At Malawi side the ATM did not worked. As I strolled down the road, money changers had not emerged from the locals. A money exchange counter was shuttered, a notice pined. Someone spoke to me. “Today is not business hours.” I found I had quite forgotten today was Sunday, and this was a different country now.
There were a few small shops—where the inhabitants near the border bought their grocery—nothing but snacks and drinks in no refrigerator. I plodded along, sweating now. Ahead of me, beside the road, the smell of smoke was in air. I watched it from a distance and then moved closer. In front of the dingy brick walls a low fire burned, and a woman sat on a plastic stool cooking grits. The smell of the fish was strong and fine.
The two guy stood beside her. And the woman loaded one plate with Nsima (Ugali), and with a big smoked fish. When she passed the steaming plate up to one guy, I stood stiffly and looked at a dish. Would it be good? I was being ignored completely. Then turning, I walked away. In the shade I took off my backpacks and leaned down. And I worked my whole body comfortably until I finished eating the remaining biscuits. After drinking water, at last I moved up the road, watching the low mountain range.
I could see the empty road ahead curving into the distance. One motorcycle slowed and pulled to a stop beside the road. A young guy turned. “You go to Karonga?” “Yes, how much?” “3000.” “1500 !” “No, it takes about 1 hour.” “1500.” “No, no,” he shook his head. “Well, know where money changers are?” I asked. “Near the border. Go back the way,” he pointed to the border, and then roared away.
I retraced my steps under the sun. On the road, a few guys and bicycles passed by. And from the border the trucks moved in and parked near the border. I stopped a middle-aged man and asked. “Do you know where I can exchange the money?” “You want to meet the men?” “Who is the men?” he pointed to the house on my left under which I could see some stone steps commencing an ascent. I hesitated for a moment. The man, however, had already been upon the steps. “Where are you going?”I asked. “No need to worry. Follow me,” he said. As I came up to him, I saw the three men beneath the eaves playing cards, noticing me. “Welcome. Join us! Join us!”one of them beckoned with his one hand. I stepped slowly backward. A flighty randy man rose to his feet and came close to me. He wore black pants and a yellow checkered shirt.
“Let’s play porker, my friend.” “Sorry, I just want kwacha, then I’m going to Karonga.” “Okay,” he took quickly a bundle of bills from his worn black leather bag, flipping them. “Play porker anyway.” “I don’t know the rule at all.” “I teach you. Relax and enjoy yourself for a little while.” “My English is poor, so I would bother you.” “Where are you from?” “China.” “Welcome, Malawi,” his face had little expression.
From my pocket I took 20,000 shillings for his eyes. “Sorry, small money though.” “Okay, okay,” the randy man used his calculator and showed me the figures. I was a little surprised to find that it was good rate. “Yes, okay, no problem.” At the moment, however, I was more cautious. “I wonder if you could let me see the bills?” “All right,” he said and handed them to me ; I did pinch my shillings between my fingers. Then I counted kwacha awkwardly, comparing the genuine bills on my phone. “You doubt me,” the randy man laughed. “Not fake. Look closely,” he pointed at the display on it. “Yes, yes,”I said embarrassedly.
The two men on the porch stopped playing cards, eating something : maybe curry with Nsima. I supposed at a distance. Apparently this house was restaurant. The randy man seemed to see me. “You want to something to eat?” Of course I had wanted to eat. More than that I never wanted to eat in such a black market. “Sorry, I’m not hungry. I have to go to Karonga. Please tell me. How can I get there?” “Taxi,” turning, he pointed down to parallel parked cars that were the ordinary vehicles : there were no sign of the taxies at all. “Thank you, I’ll go right there,” I said. “Well, brother. Good luck.”
I went down and crossed the road. “I’d like to go to Karonga,”I said to somebody. “Ride on.” A lean man in ragged black T-shirts gestured for me to get into the vehicle that was empty. The seat was hard as expected. I sat waiting for ten minutes or so, alone in the car.
I had never taken a shared taxi before, but in Tanzania, I had watched so many people get into minibuses, their postures and expressions, how they sat in no seat, that there was nothing that came as a surprise to me as the vehicle was crammed with people. When the lean man was behind the wheel, I handed him 5,000 kwacha out of the back seat.
It seemed to happen in Malawi as well as the other countries. The lean man moved casually around the car—I was squashed now, so I lost sight of him, but I created no delay. “Hey, please give me the change,” I said out of the windows, turning my head restlessly from side to side. It is so tiresome—tedious—to demand, that I really hate taxi driver. It also make me feel I was stingy…exposed.
The lean man had disappeared from my view—I suspected he was not a taxi driver. The locals, I could see, did not mind at all how many people were in the vehicle—children gazing at my face and a woman holding her baby, an elderly woman with a big bucket of vegetables and a young woman with a Chanel bag, and a ragged man in overalls. I was uneasy, looking away from the passengers. The lean man moseyed along, exchanging smirks with his fellows. When he came near the windshield, I saw him bring the bills. “Give me the change,”I said loudly, writhing in discomfort. The fellows outside mimicked my voice in a mock-hurt tone : “Give me the change.” The passenger laughed a little in harmony. Before long the lean man opened the door and sat on the driver’s seat. His face seemed steadily. He turned back holding out 2,000 kwacha. The engine started and the vehicle lumbered away.