Chigwere Cultural Village and Vwaza Marsh

Aug 8 - 10, 2010
When the hours of waiting for a truck to Vwaza Marsh finally ended late that morning, I was on my way, bumping along the dusty road to the game reserve situated in the Western side of the country, near the Zambian border. Although it was only about 25 km, the ride seemed to take a little over an hour, stopping here and there and slowly weaving our way through the potholes and ridges. We stopped near the gate to the reserve, though I had told the driver that I was actually wanting to stay at the Chigwere Cultural Village, so I grabbed my bags, and they pointed me in the direction of a tiny dirt path running through the dry farmland, saying that it was about 1.5 km from there, with my only instructions being to take a right when the trail forks. I could tell these next few days would be an adventure as I passed through the plotted land, consisting of dry rows of tiny tobacco plants and maize, with a random large tree thrown in here and there. Following my brown dirt trail that was just barely discernible from the yellow grass and dirt all around, I asked a few children along the way for directions, and they, in turn, asked me for sweets or pens. A little while later, I came upon the edge of the tiny village of about 400 or 600, reaching a cleared plot of dusty red land with two circular huts made from bricks cemented by concrete, a tiny window on each side, a wooden door in the front and a thatched roof above. A large group of young children, mostly boys, were playing in the field, though everything stopped when they saw me. Obviously not too many foreigners make it to this area, as I was immediately surrounded by about 40 children mostly from age 5-9, all curious as to what a mazungu (foreigner) would be doing in their tiny village tucked away in these farming plots.

When I asked for the Chigwere village, two of the older children sprinted off towards the main part of the village, a short distance further up the road, bringing back with them one of the directors of the village/program. While I waited, I had a seat on the edge of the hut, staring out at the cute children who all took a seat in a semi-circle around me, all staring back inquisitively, sometimes whispering and giggling to each other, though shying away when I said hello to them. Slowly as they got more comfortable, some of the braver ones came to sit next to me, one of them even poking me and laughing, which turned into a game of him poking my leg and me doing the same back to him, much to all of their delight. Soon, a man about my age appeared and explained this project in fairly good English, apologizing for the hut not being ready for visitors, as I watched two others carry in a tiny mattress and sheet from the village for my stay that evening.

The Chigwere Cultural Village was designed to give visitors a true insight into a Malawian village, living among the locals, away from any hotels or big cities. The days would consist of following alongside them, helping out with duties, playing with the children and just observing the lives of the people. In addition to offering an unobstructed view of the rural life, the village also supports a group of 62 orphans from their own and nearby villages, helping educate and nurture the children that for one reason or another have been left without any parents. The profits from the village stay go towards buying school supplies and a few miscellaneous toys for the children, so it sounded like it would be a wonderful way for me to interact with the Malawians away from the more-touristed areas.

Soon enough I was settled into my tiny little hut, filled with a super thin mattress on top of a small bed frame and a reed mat on the floor. I spent the first part of the day playing around with the children, mostly watching them play a simple little game with tossing bottle caps at a row of them, trying to knock them out of place (sort of like shuffleboard) or just kicking around a makeshift ball made from wrapped up plastic bags. I was also shown around the other adjacent hut which just had a few bags of supplies and toys that had been donated by a generous sponsor from England who had apparently visited the village a few years ago, though gifts like a set of pencil toppers and painting kit didn't seem like the best idea, since the children didn't really have many pencils nor much to paint on, not to mention some instructions about being careful to not get the paint on your clothing or skin. Even so, they spoke adoringly of Sophie, and you could clearly see the impact she was making in this area.

Later in the day, one of the directors took me over to watch a local soccer match between two villages, so we trekked through more of the farms, stopping off at the large brick house of the other director for a drink. Though his English was hard to understand, he had been chatting with me earlier, showing off his toys and games for the children and now gloating about his large house, two wives and eight children that lived there. It's understandable to be proud of his accomplishments and possessions, but I just got a bad impression from this guy, so I tended to stick around the other leader who had a young boy who played and lived with the other children. When we arrived at the field, we found it empty, and I was told that the other team died (which I later translated to mean that the other team couldn't make it). So instead I was just shown around the local primary school which was just a few buildings built with bricks in an open style, allowing light and air to flow through the simple rectangular classrooms. Afterwards we headed down another road towards part of the village, sitting on the benches outside of a few tiny shops as I met and talked with a few other locals about soccer and about America. One inquisitive and well-educated young man about 20 years old walked back to my hut with me, asking a variety of questions about how things work in the US, what crops we grow, where we live and even what side the sun sets on. Back at the camp, there wasn't much to do once the sun went down, so a few of the older men and I sat around the fire, burning some of the dry grass for a few short spurts of heat and fire. I also was given a very simple local meal of nsima (the slightly corn flavored clumps of molded dough), scrambled eggs and some sort of green vegetable like spinach, though it was hard to see in the faint candlelight. It was nothing special, but it wasn't bad, eating on the floor with my hands, spitting out the occasional rock or pebble that somehow got into the nsima and eggs while they were prepared.

During the morning, I was ready to set off, so the villagers gathered around the hut and gave a demonstration of some of the local dances and songs, pounding away on three drums made from hollowed out trees covered with a tightly stretched goat skin. The first dance was a child dressed up in some baby clothes wrapped around his legs and a huge hood on the top, making it appear to be a miniature person with some sort of huge hat on, jumping back and forth to the beat of the drums. The children all sat around me, anxious to see the dances and, moreso, what I thought of them. I found out that there are only about 6 or 7 visitors a year, so these performances weren't all that frequent. The second dance was more of what I expected, with the women singing and chanting as they danced and marched around in a circle, joined by one drunk man who kept popping into the circle and then being ushered away. (This was about 9 in the morning, but I had already seen him down a few packets of whiskey, sold in a plastic bag that looked like a large packet of soy sauce back home.) The local schoolmaster, an older man in his 50s also showed off the accomplishments of his pupils, lining up an adorable row of about 15 children, instructing them in English to raise their hands, lower them, sit down, stand up and answer a few basic questions in his form of slightly broken English. "Rosie, are you a girl?" "Yes, I am a girl," said the adorable young girl, barefoot in tattered clothing. "Can you say your alphabet letters?" "Yes, I can say my alphabet letters." "Ok, do it." "A B C ....." Though it was just reciting a few phrases over and over, it was designed to help them in English when they did go off to the primary school, reinforced by a little stick held by the teacher who would give them a soft little hit if they refused to answer the questions or couldn't remember the right combination of words.

After the demonstration, I took a few pictures with the leaders, paid for my stay along with a small donation to their cause, and then I said my goodbyes, with everyone waving and saying goodbye as four of the men accompanied me back to the main road and the game reserve. Once I got to the gates about 30 minutes later, I found that the only place to stay in the park was quite expensive, so after some discussion, we actually ended up walking back to the village for another night in the hut. From there, one of the men served as a guide, bringing along with him the mandatory rifle to protect us during the walking safari that afternoon. Winding along the lakeside and into the dry bush, we found another large group of hippos, some antelope, groups of monkeys and even a large herd of water buffalo, staring at us through the trees. Though we saw huge prints, we couldn't find the elephants, and the tsetse flies that cause a few disease were pretty persistent in buzzing around us, so we headed out after a few hours of exploring the scenic park, getting back to the village near dusk. I had another quiet night and local meal prepared for me before heading off again in the morning, waking out to the main road near the school where I chatted with more of the locals and found a spot in a truck heading back to Rumphi that left in only about 45 minutes (pretty good for such a small town). In Rumphi, I was able to pile into a shared little taxi along with five others, plus the driver, as compact cars are not considered full until you have seven people inside (the driver, two in the front seat and four in the back). The good news is that once you're full, you go along pretty quickly, getting down to the hectic bus station of Mzuzu in good time and then finding a bus connection down to Kasungu, just a few hours from the capital, Lilongwe.

(Trekking down a tiny dirt road, I reached Chigwere Cultural Village, a tiny village that allows infrequent visitors to stay in the town and see how daily life works in the area.)

(As I was certainly unexpected (they had only six visitors this year), two children ran off to find the guy who runs the facility while the rest of the 40 or so children all just sat around and stared at me, mumbling the word "mazungu" here and there. That's the local word for foreigner/Englishman/whitey.)

(My hut was the one on the left, with just a small bed and mat in the room. The hut on the right held some of the toys and materials for the children. In addition to providing insight into a local village, the homestay also supports a group of 62 orphan children from villages in the area, caring for and teaching the children.)

(Here are a few of the guys banging on drums and posing for pictures. During the day, after they got over the shock of me being there, they played a few simple games with bottle caps and a soccer ball made from wrapping a bunch of plastic bags together into the shape of a ball. They also had a bag of donations from an English supporter, so I spent one afternoon showing them how to bowl, as they had received a small plastic bowling set, though no one had any idea how to use it. They also had a similar conundrum with a set of ping pong paddles, though they didn't actually have a ping pong ball, so the paddles weren't very effective.)

(Here some of the younger students practice English commands. This one was "hands up." Others included reciting: "My name is Rosie. I am a girl. I can say the alphabet letters. A B C D ...." Pretty cute.)

(Here a few more students attempt to answer questions to the head master. The program leader was an interesting guy who proudly told me about his two wives and eight children living in his large house nearby, interested to try the new games of bowling and painting that I explained to them in their bags of donations hidden in hut #2.)

(With the traditional drums, the children marched/danced around the lone tree in the small courtyard.)

(At the end of my stay, some women from the adjacent village came over to show off some local dances for me and the kids.)

(See if you can spot me among the cute kids of Chigwere Cultural Village. Many of these kids warmed up to me, a few hugging my leg or grabbing my hands as I tried to walk by, though a few still did seem a little scared of me.)

(For about $20 a day, I stayed in the village, learned about their culture, played with the kids and had three simple meals a day. (Plus I gave a little extra donation at the end.) This is the ubiquitous nsima (bland corn meal) with some beans and eggs for protein. Not great but not bad.)

(One afternoon I took a guided safari walk to the neighboring Vwaza Marsh reserve, finding another large group of hippos, some monkeys, impala, warthogs (pronounced war-thogs in this country), and even some water buffalo, though we didn't find any elephants.)

(Given the potential of elephant, hippo, lion, leopard or buffalo attacks, it is mandatory to have an armed guide for ANY sort of walking in the park. Fortunately, he didn't have to use the weapon.)