What they say is true...

There is nothing like a home cooked meal. Without stating the obvious, that’s not exactly possible out here in Bwanje, Malawi. So what to do on those days where you don’t want rice with ndiwo (“relish” or side dish) or soya pieces with noodles? Today was one of those days where even having peanut butter on bread with banana’s for breakfast didn’t hit the spot. What to do…

My 11am “time to get ready to cook lunch” internal timer went off and I ignored it. It helped that I was busy hand sewing some new curtains for one of the windows in my living room. (P.S. I had the awful rat infested couch removed yesterday, so it seems a little empty in here but the vacant space simply awaits my new table and chairs that should be finished this week). After hanging my new curtains and meeting and chatting with my neighbors’ family, I decided it was time to do something about feeding my grumbling belly. But just anything would not suffice today.

Peter (my new doberman-mix puppy) is always up for a walk. So with my chitenje bag over my shoulder and dusty flip flops on my feet, I locked the door to my mud hut and off we went on the 8 minute walk to the tuk shops. Simple scrambled eggs and toast (read: bread, because I obviously do not have a toaster nor an outlet to plug it into) was my mission.

I pass by adults walking or riding bikes, and children staring at me and my fluff-ball in tow or entertaining themselves with imaginary games. I greet as many people as possible with a simple smile on my face while looking around to ensure Peter has not wandered too far behind sniffing and eating cow pies (yep, I have a poop eater on my hands).

As I pass by the carpenters’ house I turn to see if there has been any visible progress on my table and chairs but it nothing is obvious. More children yell out “bo! Jennifer!” the PCV whom I replaced. I say “zabo!” back and, for what seems like the hundredth time, tell them my name is Mary (or here pronounced “Melly”). We pass by two dogs that are not fond of Peter and fortunately sleeping at this point. Further, there is a nice young man at a tobacco scale who, without fail, greets me every time I pass on foot or my njinga (bike), helping to make me feel like people here enjoy my presence.

About half way from the tobacco scale and the railroad tracks I see the woman who has become fond of me and we do our best to chat when I pass by. She, along with everyone else, thinks it is funny I have a dog that follows me AND has a name. Anything else to make me look more like an alien, I suppose! To the right of her house we pass the sewing shop that houses the rolls and rolls of glorious fabric I only wish I was rich enough to snatch up. I turn back and Peter is, you guessed it, eating poop. I whistle a few times and grab his attention and he comes bounding up to my feet, looking awkward in that stage between puppy and canine toddler. We walk over the railroad tracks, which are used once a week for their intended purpose by a train from somewhere north, Salima maybe, going south towards Blantyre. I think of the movie “Into the Wild” where Alexander Supertramp throws himself and belongings on to a moving train unsure of where it is going. That would be a trip…

The tuck shops are in view now, and I chuckle as we walk by children intrigued by Peter but too scared to come too close. Children are told that if they are bitten by a dog they will get rabies and die. I’m content with that as their gentleness towards animals in general does not readily exist, I’d like to keep my Peter a friendly dog.

We head straight to the usipa (dried fish) stands because my stash is gone and this growing pup needs to eat! I step up the discombobulated bricks and a sea of piled fish on both sides awaits my choice. Really, I could care less what kind of usipa I buy for Peter. Those are the times I wish he could speak to tell me if he likes the big fish (half of my palm) or the small fish (finger size) but I take the initiative and buy two piles at 50 kwacha a piece from two vendors. I’m still doing my best to work my way into the community therefore not always buying everything from one vendor. (However, shhhh, this does not always hold true because there is one tuk shop owner I enjoy very much whom I buy eggs and bread from :)).

Men and women under covered wooden structures sell beans, tomatoes, onions, bananas, baobob fruit, peanuts, oranges (although green and look like limes), lettuce, and the occasional green peas. I haven’t had peanuts in some time, and I decide those are a fine idea today. “Ndalama zingati?” (money how much? direct translation) is 20 kwacha and it sounds a little expensive for the amount I’m getting but they look delicious. Bagged and in with the usipa, I head to my favorite tuk shop man.

Kids stare in wonder along with adults as I ask for three madzira (eggs) and half a loaf of buledi (bread). I’d been thinking for a few days of buying a package of cookies, and today I couldn’t resist. Sure, sure, add it to the bill. 225 kwacha is the total, and I’m all finished with this shop. A last minute decision for an anyezi (onion) to throw in the mix of scrambled eggs from an older woman, always pleasant and with a big smile, makes my shopping trip officially complete.

With my inherited “spoiled” “love” “princess” bag (yes, my brothers are sure to say this would have fit me perfectly in my younger years) full of goodies, I’m hungry for the first time in a while to cook some food. I pick up Peter because he’s dragging behind and I’m anxious to get going. I stop briefly in the fabric shop to see if it is possible to buy scraps left over from completed garments to begin a personal quilting project, but my explanation in Chich-English does not translate so I leave and keep the idea for another day.

I let Peter down as we leave the shop and he bounds ahead to try and beat me to the next cow pie, as if we’re in some sort of competition. Two donkeys grazing after some hard work throw Peter for a loop as he is befuddled and does not know what to make of the new creatures. Next we encounter some goats that look like they’re going to charge the bouncing black and tan fuzz ball. I never I imagined I might have to defend my dog from an animal other than his own kind. Therefore it still holds true...you never know what to expect in Africa!

On our way home we pass by two of the young girls who come to my house to color with me during the week. They greet the two of us with big smiles and hop on the one-size-fits-all bikes to follow down the road. I’m in my own bubble and thrilled :) so excited for this meal I am about to prepare. I’m thrilled because I know what it will taste like, it won’t be a surprise. Some days the unknown meals can be fun and exciting, but I’m yearning familiar today.

It’s a “cold” day here (I would wager to say about 70F) and it’s beginning to drizzle as I begin to light my mbaula to cook. Let’s just cut to the chase… All cooked and still steaming, I pile the three scrambled eggs (salt, pepper, paprika) with sautéed onions onto a plate and spread “butter” (uhm, margarine? not sure what to call it, but as close to butter as I’m going to get here) on a slice of bread while I have another one just plain. I hunker down on a stool under my World Map, sit back, and savor the first spoonful of eggs with a bite of bread mashed together in my mouth. The only thing that would have made it complete would be a huge pile of ketchup. Even without, it was all my taste buds could have imagined! Although my mothers secret ingredient was absent (love, of course), they were awesome and much needed. Peter looked up at me with begging eyes, as any dog in his right mind would do. Not this time, it’s all mine :)

Hitching, and not making himself useful...

He's grown so fast he doesn't fit anymore!

 

Me and the little rascal, Peter!