For today, I thought it would be an interesting tease to share with anyone who reads this, a section of the collected stories I have been writing in addition to the Nthano posts. These include the more minute details of my time here; the conversations, encounters, and moments that don't tell you a whole lot about my daily activity, but are worth sharing nonetheless. Today's entry was from a few weeks back, after a particular long, and arduous day in the field, and what happened when we went to grab a bite to eat.
Hope you enjoy.
After the passport office, I decided I needed to treat Julius and my two data collectors to a little lunch. After all, they had not only performed their duties, both driving and collecting the necessary information at the schools, but had now come to Blantyre, well out of the way, in order to secure my continued legality with the Malawian border patrol. “Any suggestions on where to go?” I asked the two female data collectors in the back seat, knowing at least one of them is from Blantyre. “Let’s go to Ali Baba” she offered, pointing in a general direction that perhaps made sense only to Julius “they have the best ice cream.” Priorities were clearly on display.
We each ordered. I had my standard of chicken and chips, which Julius dutifully copied. Jeannette studied the menu intently before asking meekly what was allowed on our budget. Her face shined when I told her she could have anything she wanted, no matter the price. They had earned it. She thanked me profusely, smiling and nodding, looking back over the menu with a newfound sense of purpose, before proceeding to order the absolute cheapest item on the menu, a grilled cheese sandwich.
Esther was the last of our group to order and, since Ali Baba was her suggestion, I was curious as to what her favorite item was. She perused the menu for a long time, glancing at every page and flipping back and forth before settling on a cheeseburger and chips. She handed the menu to the waiter and looked at me, presumably for some response to her selection. “Sounds good,” I stammered, unsure of what else to say “very American.” “It is, isn’t it!” Esther said enthusiastically. “I want to come to America and try one. I suspect they are very good.” “You’d be surprised,” I offered back “they aren’t always very good, but we do have a lot of places that sell them, that’s for sure. Cheeseburgers and coffee. It’s the American marketing staples.”
All three gave confused glances at one another and in a low voice, Esther said something in Chichewa to Jeanette, all the while still looking at me. I leaned over and asked Julius if they were confused and if there was something I could answer to help clear up the misunderstanding. “They just were making sure you said coffee,” Julius said, clearing his throat “that surprised them both.” Sensing a teachable moment, I explained to the table how popular coffee was in the US, the prevalence of Starbucks, and its meteoric rise in price and as both a status symbol. “For the price of a cheap cup of coffee, you could buy several meals here in Malawi” muttered Esther, clearly disgusted at the thought. “For shame.
Our food arrived shortly after and, due to the much later hour we were taking lunch compared to our normal schedule, I was more than ready to dig in. I looked around the table and everyone having their food in front of them, and looking pleased, I told everyone to enjoy their meal, and began to eat. Not a moment later, Esther, having just taken the first bite of her cheeseburger, suddenly raised up out of her seat, crying out in shock and throwing the sandwich back down on the plate. She quickly spit out the bite that was in her mouth, and I forced back my own wretch as I watched her squirm, closing her eyes tightly and raising her hands to her mouth in a feeble attempt to rid herself of the taste.
As I dropped my fork, I imagined the horrors of the bite she just took. Was it uncooked? Spoiled? Riddled with unspeakable buggy horrors? I fought the urge to wretch again, and slowly walked around the table to comfort the still standing Esther. Food practices at any restaurant, everywhere in the world, can be a bit unnerving and often requires a turning of a blind eye. Ghastly stories of unclean kitchens and inedible food preparation ratchet up the shock value of nightly news stories and much like a passing car accident, our desire for ignorance is often outweighed by our curious sense of the macabre. All these thoughts were floating through my mind as I circled the edge of the table, afraid of what I was about to see peeking out from the bite of the scream-worthy cheeseburger.
Much to my surprise, it looked perfect. The bun was a golden yellow, the lettuce, tomato and onion all fresh and crisp and the burger itself was cooked to a perfect, brown, medium hue. I put my hand on Esther’s shoulder, which was slightly shaking, her hands still clasped firmly around her mouth. I was confused. “What’s wrong Esther? Did it taste bad?” offering what was my only remaining guess. She shook her head no, slowly. The waiter, sensing the commotion our table had caused, had now made his way back to our table, and was standing at attention, arms tucked behind his back, awaiting what was sure to be some form of verbal abuse. Esther, seeing the waiter, began to yell, in Chichewa, pointing quickly at the burger, her mouth, and the waiter, seemingly in a circular pattern, repeating both her words and gestures. The waiter nodded, and coolly asked a serious of questions, to which Esther responded to each with quick, one-word answers. He nodded once more, apologized to me in English and then snatched up the plate with the once-bitten cheeseburger, turned on his heels and walked away.
After comforting Esther a bit more, we all sat back down. Silence and chewing resumed, everyone seemingly unsure of what conversation could follow such a traumatic event. At first, I was content to let it go, chalking the whole moment up to simple displeasure with the food preparation, but it seemed like something more, so, against better judgment, I decided to ask.
“I don’t eat meat,” said Esther plainly, “and that was most assuredly beef in that cheeseburger.” I blinked and looked at Julius, and then back at Esther. “Were you not expecting beef?” I asked, slowly. “No! If I had wanted beef, I would have ordered a beef burger, not a cheeseburger!” Esther emphatically exclaimed, complete with circular, frantic hand gestures. “I see,” I responded, mostly un-sarcastically “so you just wanted cheese, and vegetables on a bun, yes?” “Yes” Said Esther, clearly exhausted by the whole process “that is what I ordered.”
Again, at this moment, I should have let it go, but not only was my curiosity heightened by the explanation, but my sense of comic righteousness as well. “So,” I began to ask, against my better judgment “what would you expect if you ordered a hamburger?”
“A sandwich with pork,” Esther said, matter-of-factly “of course.”
Of course.
And we never did get the ice cream.
