The Somalian Pirate

Me and Wellesley left the Zoo a little after breakfast. I was hoping to go to the Chapatti Lady, but it just wasn’t in the cards that morning as we were still full from dinner and it started to rain. Once it slowed, Mick and Max woke up and had their morning dose of Carlsberg with breakfast. Impressive. They encouraged us to partake but we could not drink anymore, especially so early in the morning. Two education volunteers also came by, on their way to site, and we chatted for a bit. So we said goodbye leaving enough time to go to an internet café, grocery shop, and catch a mini-bus back in time for the last matola out of Rumphi.

On the way to Mzuzu’s shops, Wellesley wasn’t sure where Chipiku was, so I walked her to the corner where it was and went on my way to Tutla’s. I found Max and Mick at Tutla’s too, they were buying groceries for their businesses. I was waiting outside, eating a cream filled donut from Tutla’s (delicious, fyi), when Wellesley walked up and told me what happen at Chipiku: after I left, two plain clothes police men approached her and questioned her about me. They asked her how long she has known me and what I have been telling her. She told them I was American and that I was a Peace Corps Volunteer. They didn’t believe her, thought I gave her a fabricated story. She didn’t believe them, so they showed their badges. They told her to be careful, because they thought I was a Somalian criminal and I was up to no good conversing with an azungu. She started laughing, telling them that I wasn’t even remotely Somalian and I was definitely not a criminal and that she was a volunteer too. They were still skeptical, said they would keep an eye on me and went on their way.

Since I got here, my exposed skin has been getting darker and darker, while my covered skin remains relatively lighter: a prominent farmers tan. I have been mistaken for Ethiopian, Somalian, Obama’s son, Obama’s brother, Dutch, have been called azungu, Black American, and yet no one has said Indian. The South Asian people I have met were, however, able to recognize that I was Indian, but otherwise I guess I am anything in between. Azungu’s get a certain stare walking down the street here: the surprised “look it’s a white person,” as if a rare animal was spotted, which is understandable. But I get a different stare, a combination of surprise and confusion, in need of a second assessment. You can see the progression in the stare, first they think I’m Malawian (or Ethiopian/Somalian), then in a flash they realize something is off and look again confused. They stare as if I’m a new creature, an alien hybrid, a centaur trotting through town, half Malawian, half azungu. Jaws drop when I open my mouth and English streams out in an American accent. Whenever kids yell “azungu!” I love replying “azungu yayi!” and they’re even more confused. I find the whole ordeal quite amusing, unless of course I get falsely arrested.

So, if you do not hear from me for some time, it’s probably because I’m in Malawian jail, falsely accused of being a Somalian pirate. If that’s the case, please come get me.