Chancy, the soccer mom, and other anecdotes

With stone plates for goal posts, Lilongwe children scamper after a One World Futbol.

On a playground somewhere, in Lilongwe

''Soccer Mom" Chancy

I wish you could have been there to see it: scampering, jumping, running children, one of them bouncing a One World Futbol off a forehead, as the others, some of them barefoot, leaped to clear a drainage canal or sped up to pass the others, while Chancy -- tall, strong Chancy, wearing Mike Kheriaty's majestic white hat -- stood imposingly, quiet and proud, exuding smiling authority, the ultimate neighborhood soccer mom. This, near a street with no name, in Lilongwe, capital of Malawi, the world's sixth poorest nation.

The street with no name is an undulating dirt road stretching from Youth Drive down to a drainage ravine, made  blue by discarded plastic bags and speckled with white shards of paper.

Along that bumpy path, the street passes an elementary school with a new look, past the barber shack where I got my first (and only) African haircut, and beyond the Klaus Guest House, which recently acquired a new sign above the solid metal gate that provides a degree of security for those who room there.

Mike Kheriaty

That's where I stayed the better part of last July as I prepared to deliver donated clothing and 40 One World Futbols to the Dzaleka Refugee Camp several miles outside Lilongwe, with the help of the charity, There is Hope Malawi. The futbols were donated by many people reading this blog. The clothing was donated last June as part of my 73rd birthday African Hat Dance held at First Class Ballroom in Everett, WA.

I called it a hat dance, because I was told that Malawian's really treasure hats, and I ended up packing a lot of baseball caps which found their way to Dzaleka. But Mike's hat was what I guess you would call a Stetson, and it found its way onto Chancy's head. And there's a story there you women readers  will like. And maybe the men, too.

A pause for some other donors

Before I get into the story, however, there is some thanks in order to some donors:

• Marian Abbott, whom I met 50 years ago when we were University of Washington students living in McMahon Hall. She donated four balls, drawing on her year-end bonus, when I visited her in Maui while vacationing there. 
• Madhuri Hosford and Beverly Rogers, who helped me dispose of some time share credits in a Maui condo I had reserved for my son and his wife for a holiday get-together: 5 balls each. 
•  Frank Saab, who rented me a 2004 Ford Focus for some cheap transportation while I was on the island, and who turned out to be a great conversationalist. He donated one ball just because he found the Spirit of Wilson campaign interesting. 

Altogether, these new members of Team Wilson boosted the remaining Team Wilson inventory to 20 balls, enough to serve 600 children. That's a good start for 2019. Anyone who wants to join them in bringing the power of play to people anywhere that I travel can use the donation link in the upper right portion of the page. As long as you keep donating, I'll keep blogging.

(This is not a request. It's an opportunity for those who want to make a difference.)

OK, you're busy, so I'm gong to try to help you speed-read through the rest of this post: fewer words, more photos, starting with a little more about Chancy and the kids.

How Chancy got her hat

OK, so I'm staying at the Klaus Guest House, telling everyone in sight about these unstoppable unpoppables, and the owner, Patrick Chikoti decides to give two to the neighborhood kids. Chancy shows up and she gets designated as the playground supervisor and they all head off to a nearby school.

Along comes Miracle. He's a neighborhood guy who has taken a shine to the mzungu -- the white guy with the Stetson. (That's me, I'm wearing Mike's hat). Miracle starts giving directions to me  on where the girls and guys are supposed to play. I tell him I'm not the bwana and that Chancy is the bwana. He keeps giving me directions. After a while I realize he has been sipping a little this afternoon, so I take off the Stetson (that I have named "Micah" in honor of its donor) and give it to Chancy. "She's the bwana!" I tell Miracle. The women cheer and Miracle  miraculously walks away. Later on I give Chancy the whistle I always carry when I'm hiking. Her outfit is complete. The females take a One World Futbol and begin playing a game called "net ball." That's what women are expected to do for the time being. That'll change. The boys, many of them barefoot, get into a spirited game at the nearby school.

Patrick introduces the kids to the One World Futbol.

Chancy becomes the neighborhood soccer mom.

Chancy puts Micah on her head and becomes a bwana.

Later Chancy completes her role as soccer mom with the acquisition of my hiking whistle.

Maybe it won't be long before futbol replaces "net ball."

A study in soccer footwear

The Klaus Guest House

I should probably tell you a little about my lodging. I found Klaus Guest House on the Internet. The room was under $20 a night. They provided meals.

My bedroom with mosquito net overhead, and our dining area.

I met some interesting people there -- soccer players, academicians, a heart surgeon/educator,

Patrick Chikoti

business people, travelers -- it was a cosmopolitan crossroads. It took me a couple days before I realized that the maintenance guy was actually the owner. Patrick Chikoti has an Master's degree in business administration and had actually lived in Oregon for a while and visited Seattle. The house's German-sounding name was due to the fact that a European architect had stayed at another of Patrick's properties. His name was Klaus and he had so many visitors they started referring to Patrick's property as the Klaus House. Patrick took the name with him to a new location, which is where I stayed.

You know me -- I'm always promoting the One World Futbol. One day Patrick played soccer behind the guest house with a male employee while two women housekeepers sat together pondering their cell phones. Sarah was wearing ordinary clothes, but Chikondi was wearing fancier garb and flats. The moment I said "girls can play too, you know," they were on their feet. Later I got movies of both of them bouncing a futbol from their heads while they played kazoos at the same time. It was the first time they had ever seen a kazoo, so now I can claim that I have introduced the kazoo to Vietnam, Cambodia and Malawi. That's got to be a record. (There was an Argentine couple at the guest house who travel the world while working online as translators, and I showed them their first kazoos, as well. I don't know why American's don't do more of this; the kazoo is a great ice-breaker.)

Chikondi and Sarah harmonize--with feeling.

Chikondi, one morning, preparing breakfast.

My first (and only) African haircut

There was a barbershop in the neighborhood (photo above) and the more I thought about it, the more I thought, "why not?" As it turns out, the barber had never cut a mzungu's hair before. Mine was long and soft, and it kept clogging his razor, so it took him 45 minutes to give me what is essentially a buzz cut. (I think I've spelled mzungu right, but my Google translator doesn't recognize it.)

Before . . .

. . . and after 

At the right is the model he worked from and me, when he was done. It was a bit of a shock, but like my father used to say, the difference betwen a good and bad haircut is about three days. Well, maybe a bit longer. But fortunately, the girls of the Klaus House gathered around to help me celebrate my new found, uh, -- what should I call this?

Me with Sarah, Elizabeth and Chikondi, who tried in vain to cover my bare pate with her dreads.

The neighborhood

Now you get to see photos of the neighborhood and some of the sweet kids I got to meet there.

In the distance a woman sweeps her porch.

Kids gather for a group photo.

What can I say? They are just soooo sweet.

She's putting the mzungu on notice.

Everyone wants to squeeze into the selfie.

On  Young Drive two men move reeds, perhaps for fencing.

Forty 2,000 kwacha (dawn) bills = $108.

About the team

The African team

When I first wrote about Malawi, I signed off with photos of me and Jean Baptiste, Carlita,  Micah and Shu. Well, most of them are all gone now. Carlita, the coachroach, abandoned me. Micah is being worn by Chancy. Jean Baptiste was swapped for a rag ball at a refugee camp. Shu is a homebody that stays under the futon in my condo. So I will be signing off with the photo of me and Wilson that Sue Butkus took of us at Poo Poo point a few years ago. I like it the best.

Introducing Brownie

But before I sign off, I am enjoying toast and tea with Blue, and with Brownie. Some followers of this series may remember that Blue became my significant other after Wilson settled in on top of Mount Adams. It was just too difficult to maintain the relationship. As it turns out, Blue and I are just friends now -- it happens with rebound relationships. But we still see each other (platonically, of course)  and we were joined by Brownie, the ball made of cheap plastic bags by the refugee children in the Dzaleka Refugee Camp in Malawi, just outside Lilongwe.

In the photo below, taken on a snow shoeing vacation near Mount Baker, Brownie is reading Yahoo news while Blue looks on. I prefer The Guardian over Yahoo news, which includes a lot of trash talk. But I thought Brownie would finally want to see what the Kardashians looked like. Being made of trashy old plastic grocery bags, Brownie felt right at home, but being a sphere Brownie is having trouble grasping the concept of T&A.

Blue, Brownie, toast and tea, and Yahoo news

Now that you've met Brownie, I guess I have one more post to produce about Malawi -- about my  brief visit to the Dzaleka refugee camp where I met Brownie last summer. This will put a ribbon on the Malawi chapter of the Wilson Chronicles, before I figure out my next destination.

At this point, 2019 is just an empty slate. Any suggestions?

Thanks for coming along.
Love,
Robert

Left: a barefoot boy lacking a belt races to join the soccer play.