we wish our lives were that interesting...

So it seems that the general overarching misconceptions of the 'Dark Continent' will include just about anything...

Not to worry you all, as we are certainly not living large enough over here to be involved in human or money trafficking, motorcycle chases, or evading the military or police. Poking a wee bit of fun at the dangers of Africa has it's limits, it seems... Many apologies if we worried anyone. Our prior update of our motorcycle incident was just as simple as it was - while we did get sideswiped by a minibus driver lacking the simple self awareness to check his mirrors, and Devon's computer did lose out on the deal, we certainly haven't taken to any Indiana Jones-style gallivanting around the streets of Lilongwe.

Just goes to show, it's all relative. We'll endeavour to make any future fiction posts a bit more transparent.

Much love,

Charlotte & Devon

The trials of living in Malawi...

Hey all,

I've been out of the posting loop for quite a few weeks now, but thankfully Charlotte has been updating more regularly.

My absences was for two reasons. One being the work load I've been carrying, what with the rains around the corner and an ever growing team to keep track of, I've been rather well occupied. The second cause was the motorcycle accident of which some tales have already been spun. Charlotte tells people that we were hit by a mini bus making a sudden and un-signaled right hand turn across our lane from the shoulder onto a side road. That we were going slowly and that aside from a few scuffs everything was fine. The truth is much more sobering.

Due to continued fuel and forex shortages in Malawi we've had to resort to dealing with some more, how shall I phrase this? Unsavoury characters? As with any black or grey market dealings it behooves one to know their limits, and to be cautious about just how deep they become involved with said market. The criminal underworld has many a gateway drug.

a rare food item

For me it all started last year with a little side purchasing of fuel during the worst of the shortages. The pumps would be empty for weeks at a time and 20 litres of the liquified dino bones was an even more precious commodity then usual. You'd think I was running my bike on precious gem stones considering the average cost of a black market litre was topping $5USD...

Of course the old saying 'in for a penny in for a pound', comes to mind, as quickly our nefarious dealings moved from just a few odd litres of petrol to moderate volume currency exchanges, the purchase of rare and exotic smuggled foodstuffs, larger amounts fuels for us and our friends, and soon enough the talk of bigger deals to come. Suddenly we were rubbing shoulders with folks illegally importing heavy machinery and who, we began to suspect, were involved with human trafficking...

A few weeks back Charlotte and I headed into 'old town' swaddled in foreign currency and a satchel with my work tools slung over a shoulder as we road the motorcycle. Our plan was to cash in a momentarily favourable exchange rate on a much larger amount of kwacha than usual and rip back to the office to put the money in the safe. We'd been meeting these folks in the daytime so as to avoid putting ourselves into any vulnerable position. Young blond ladies fetch a high price on the international market so I was already being a tad cautious about these meetings, and what with us making such a large exchange on behalf of many of our friends I was even more so. In hind sight perhaps I should have gone alone.

When we met with our usual contact in the Game centre parking lot, something felt a bit odd. The police were near by and while they don't seem to usually pass more than a causal eye over our transactions that day they seemed a bit shifty and surprisingly more attentive. Before I'd even cut the motor, I caught sight of a fellow inside an idling SUV with a semi automatic weapon casually placed across his lap. Immediately our 'guy' started demanding to see the money. While I mumbled something about rates again he grabbed for the bag on Charlotte's shoulder. Sitting on the bike with Charlotte behind me I was not quite in what you would call a maneuverable position. All I could do was sweep his hand away with my arm shove him backwards while trying to keep us and the bike from fall over in the opposite direction. Fortunately he was standing infront of a curb and stumbled slightly as he struggled to stay balanced.

That was enough for me to get the engine fired up and drop the clutch before he could reach forward again. At this point both the dude in the SUV and the police seemed to be moving in on our scene.  Pining the throttle, and shifting into second we rode over the curb and directly into a second fellow attempting to block our escape. I managed to keep the bike upright and moving while his foot passed under the wheels. Let's hear one for dirt bikes!

Thankfully no one was firing at us as we fled. I can only assume this was due to the number of people in the shopping centre.

As I peeled across parking lot, the SUV and police cruiser roared into life and started in pursuit.



At this point Charlotte was screaming in my ear about polices stations and the consulates but all I could focus on was blind escape. Besides that, the police were right behind us and the consulates are about 4km away from old town with who knows what to offer in terms of help.

With Charlotte on the back, our 200cc honda, while a great little bike, doesn't handle as well as it does with a single rider. The thought flashed into my mind as I blew through the intersection on the edge of the shopping complex, that the best way to get some distance between us and our pursuers, was the market. Roads are too small, disjointed and cluttered with venders as well as onlookers to allow a speedy passage for any four wheeled vehicle. The maze of side alleys and low roofs might too provide some cover.

I wove my way aggressively around a turning lorry and dropped the bike into fourth gear as we screamed onto coffin row. An ominous name considering our situation. Coffin row links old town to the centre of the city and passes Kamuzu Central Hospital before looping back into area 7, the main shopping district. It's also the neighbourhood to get bed frames, tables, shelve and other house hold sundry carpentry items made. They also make a lot of coffins....

As we flew jarringly over the second massive speed bump on coffin row I looked back to check the distance between us and the shady characters with firearms. I needed to slow down before we made a turn onto the dirt pack road connecting the market stalls to coffin row. As a single rider I could have let the rear end swing out while oversteering the front but as a pair I would risk dumping Charlotte and myself into a mango seller's soft pile of goods and we'd be done in for sure. I broke hard locking the rear tire and dropping two gears to get the bike under 50km/h for the turn.

When we hit the gravel I felt the front tire shudder and, blessedly, grip. Charlotte's arms willing the same traction through her rib crushing embrace. Thanks fully, after a few months of riding she's learned to lean with the bike and move in unison with me. This was certainly testing our synchronicity.

I heard but couldn't see the first truck come off the road and crash into the fruit stands on the corner. I can only envision the spray of mango pulp and buckets over the hood of the vehicle.

Our rear tire spun in the red gravel as I climbed the gears back to fourth and pelted through the market. Horn blasting there was just enough room for us to pass between people and market goods. We were already passed each shocked face before an "IWE!" or a "CHIFUKWA!" could be uttered or yelled.

The bigger vehicles could be heard growing more and more distant behind us as we continued. My breath and attention calming slightly with the thought of escape I looked for an pedestrian path that might offer us a less likely market exit for our potential captors to predict, and seeing the Lilongwe river approaching to our right I saw our opportunity.

Again dropping gears and breaking we shot onto a dirt ramp leading down towards the river bank. Makeshift bridges are erected here each year following the rains. For a fee of 10 kwacha any brave sole can use the makeshift scaffolding, nailed and lashed together, as a crossing. Often two bridges will be constructed side by side to allow easy passage for directional traffic.

Honking and hurtling towards the nearest bridge, I was too late to note that at the far end a young woman, baby held to her back with a chitenge, had just committed to the bridge along with two companions. Instantly we were a third of the way across the tenuous structure. With the young woman frozen in terror I had no choice but to angle the bike towards the second bridge and hope for the best. Hand rails not offering the least resistance, and the incredible fortune that the second bridge had been build less than a foot away and nearly as much lower than our initial path, we landed fair and to the sound of snapping boards and clattering debris.

In less than three seconds we were up the opposite bank, bewildered toll collecter, shocked pedestrians and trucks all in the distance and only a clear path to the tarmac ahead. Deep plunging breaths heaved my into my chest as I pictured our seemingly easy route back through city and on to our office sanctuary.

This was my folly. Focusing completely on the market obstacles and not daring to look back at the following danger, I should have taken a moment to assess before counting our unhatched chickens. As I took the bike, Charlotte and myself back onto the road, I angled toward the roundabout and our route home. Entering the circle, banked and revving high in third I was prepared for a fast exit out the right side of the traffic circle. any slower and this would have been our demise. Only as I was aimed at the long straight path ahead did I register the silvery gold range rover coming the wrong way round and just missing our back wheel, tires squealing as its rubber strained to hold traction of such an agressive turn in chase.

We were the rabbit, it the ravenous snarling greyhound. 

Again our poor little 200cc bike was underpowered for the demands I was putting upon it, and this time the range rover had better position. Hitting us from the side in an attempt to bring us down, the front corner of the truck connected with my arm and thigh. The hounds teeth tore at my cloths. Desperately I steadied the bike, Charlotte's arms rose reflexively in defence, and as we passed for what I thought was a relative safely around the truck it was hit head on by minibus.

As I mentally celebrated our upright status, and our freedom from the entangled metals immediately to our left, I felt Charlotte's body break free of the bike. Unmoored and unbalanced she'd not been able to maintain contact with the bike through my wild and buffeted chicane. In horror I looked back to see her in full forward summersault down the pavement. Before thinking I'd dropped the bike stalling it on its side. I ran back to Charlotte. Bewildered and shaken she struggled to smooth her skirts. Bleeding from the upper thigh somewhere not visible under her dress, and missing a flip flop she looked at the crashed Rover and mini-bus and pushed me back towards the motorcycle. Having pulled off my helmet I held it like a bowling ball ready for battle though one look at the Rover proved that they would not offer any more immediate threat.

Collecting a taillight and the now separated license plate as we ran, Charlotte stuffed them into the satchel along with all the money we still carried while I lifted the bike upright in one smooth motion. Once again it started, first kick, like a dream.

Clutching Charlotte's hand briefly before tarring away again, I could feel her shuddering sobs into my shoulders. She wasn't the only one in emotional turmoil. Five minutes later and shaking in the absence of all that spent adrenaline we pulled up to the gate of our little house and slipped inside. The office had seemed to risky, too close to town. After stripping Charlotte to check for wounds, a cleansing scrub to loose the sand from her road rash in the shower and a ransacking of the medical kit for bandages, we made love; holding each other as if we'd never again have the chance to connect to such a pure and danger free place.

Desperate love...

It wasn't until a few hours later, when I went to move our cash did I realize my laptop had been along for the whole journey. It evidently had suffered almost as badly as Charlotte in the crash. Fragmented shards dripped out from where the screen had once been and the case produced a unnerving rattling sound which clearly spoke of many tiny bits set free from what once was whole.

So after all that I've been without a laptop for the last few weeks until a replacement can come from the UK. Needless to say I have and will be a little less in touch than normal until I have re-provisioned, and thus blog updates and check out the latest Youtube sensations are a little limited.

It's my personal theory that if you're going to be late you should at least have an entertaining story as to why...

Tonnes of love.
Devon and Charlotte, in one piece and still occasionally astride a motorcycle...



***Disclaimer*** If you haven't already gathered, this story is heavily embellished. While Devon may be able to negotiate some tight corners both on his bike and metaphorically, we have a much healthier respect for government and policy while living in a foreign land than to have been involved in a heist of this nature. Don't worry - while we may have had a wee altercation with a minibus last month, that's as far as it went - although Devon's laptop did get hurt and is out of commission, so he does apologize for being a tad out of touch.***

four-wheeled freedom

Since our last post, we've been irrigating, mango-ing, aquaculture-ing, and finally, in the midst of all that chaos, we succumbed to the joys of petrochemical transportation and purchased a vehicle.  Although, it might be one of the smallest four-wheeled hunks of metal on the road, so we'll try not to feel too bad.

Nikky the Nissan may be just barely large enough for Devon's height (and no, the seat is not adjustable, we tried), but it's cute, fuel efficient (even more highly desirable in a country with a recurring fuel shortage, not to even mention the carbon cost), and it happens to be one of the more common cars around town. So we finally fit in!

Well, perhaps not quite, but at least we have a readily available market for spare parts (useful considering the amount of work she needs). In actuality, two azungus driving a very local vehicle is even stranger than the alternative (i.e. a huge ostentatious gas guzzling Hilux. At least that's predictable). The looks and even outright questioning we get while perched on her little bench are analogous to those we are prey to when we bike around town. White people! Biking! It cannot be.

Don't worry, we (well, Devon more so than me) are still enamoured with the motorcycle, but we finally decided to invest in something that can carry us, along with our gear. Although I was looking forward to the giggling that would come from trying to pack the bouldering mat & tent on the back of the bike... Aerodynamic is not a word that comes to mind.