Hucksters and Angels, Part I

Integrity and Taxi Fares for Greenhorns

In my recent trek throughout Zambia, Malawi, and Tanzania I was reminded that traveling invariably spawns more frequent and memorable encounters with the nefarious and the noble than we usually experience in the humdrum of everyday life. Guess what? The occasional shameless New York cabbie that has refined the duping of unsuspecting out-of-towners into an art form has distant cousins in Zambia and Malawi.

I rode with one such relative in Chipata, Zambia, on a short taxi trip to the Malawian border. Cabs here are shared, so as to optimize fuel efficiency and maximize revenue. However, in Chipata I sniffed another revenue maximization scheme, charging inflated muzungu (white person) rates. I asked two passengers already sitting in the cab what fare they were paying. They had just spoken with the driver – uh, in Nyanja, not my strong suit. They casually responded with a fare twice what I’d just been quoted ten minutes before by another cabbie whose car I refused to enter because it was grossly overloaded. I took the ride aware that I might be getting hosed. Upon arriving at the border, the driver bounded out of the car and approached me to pay him before and quite a distance from any of the other passengers. After I paid him my mind involuntarily went to work trying to reason why what occurred felt so wrong, in principle. “What just happened?” I said to myself.

While walking across the border I asked a Malawian immigration officer what the fare should be for the next leg, to the bus station. “Three hundred fifty Malawian kwacha,” she said. When I got to the taxi rank a gaggle of cabbies was hanging out between the first two cars in line. “Three hundred fifty kwacha to the bus station,” I confidently said to the apparent driver of the head car. Shaking his head no, he countered with, “Five hundred kwacha.” I said, “No, not the “muzungu fare,” the fare you would pay for this trip.” The crowd smiled, and with all the sincerity they could muster protested on behalf of their buddy that I’d been quoted the correct fare. The “muzungu fare” they said, would be seven hundred or a thousand kwacha! Later I wished I’d come back with, “Ah, so we HAVE established that there IS a ‘muzungu fare,’ and it’s higher!” I laughed with them and decided I’d let them in on my little conversation with the immigration officer, about the legit fare being three fifty. It was as if I’d caught them with their pants down (when they were really on fire!). They were stunned! Addressing the most vocal guy with all the sincerity I could muster, I challenged the whole gang to help me confront the immigration officer for lying to me. Oops, they hadn’t planned on that response! What followed were snickers with sheepish grins and eyes averting my gaze, but no takers. I decided to have some fun with this and take the ride, literally and figuratively. As in the previous cab, I was shown the single bucket seat in front. We departed for the station once the driver found enough riders to give everyone in the car claustrophobia. Along the way a would-be rider waved us down. There was only room for him to squeeze up front with me. I turned to my friends in back and asked what fare they were paying. Deafening silence. I asked whether they were paying five hundred kwacha. Again, the only response I got was smiles and nervous laughter. They were on to the driver’s ruse but remained loyal to their countryman. I leaned over and quipped to the driver that now that I was sharing my seat, the fare should go down to three fifty. At the bus station the driver again zipped over to me first, for payment, again apart from the others riders. This time however, I refused to pay first, telling him I wanted to allow my fellow passengers to pay, so they could be on their way. I would wait patiently until he was done with them. That driver looked more like a “deer-in-the-headlights” than I thought humanly possible! That expression was priceless, well worth the cost of getting taken for a ride previously. If he wasn’t sure before, he now knew I was on to him. What would he do? Surely he suspected I would watch and listen as others paid. He slinked over to collect the fares from the others, knowing full well that there was no way on earth they would pay 143% of the going rate, even if they could afford it, which they probably couldn’t. I couldn’t tell from the hushed tones what was being said or how much they were paying. Finally, the driver came to me, and needing to save face said, “Since I had to put someone in the front seat with you, I’ll only charge you three fifty.”

Pricing for travelers can be more of a game or a dance than it is in everyday life, akin perhaps to buying a car in the States (which clearly is not an everyday purchase). Often enough, the game denies equality among buyers and discounts integrity among sellers. In Zambia and Malawi at least, on the sell side the game is based on the seller’s perception of a buyer’s economic status vis a vis the seller and thus the buyer’s ability to pay (and the seller feeling entitled to a price hike). On the buy side the game hinges on the buyer’s awareness of the fair price, alternative products, services, or sellers, and the perceived value of the good or service purchased. As I discovered, at some point the game may also involve the seller saving face. Ignorance and underestimating the other can cost either player. Caveat emptor yes, but integrity should not be for sale. That spirals into certain bankruptcy.

Christmas in Mzuzu

Prior to reading Hemingway’s Green Hills of Africa, my vision of Africa featured parched deserts, dense jungles, grassy savannahs, and muddy watering holes. Absent were hills, at least not green ones. That perception changed with my recent travels to and through the verdant hills and sprawling mountains of Zambia, Malawi, and Tanzania.

Unlike Hemingway’s dull book, the green hills of Africa bowl you over, shimmering emerald that stands in bold relief to russet-hued clay. Now I at least appreciate his choice of title.

The green hills and mountains of Mzuzu, Malawi – that’s where I spent Christmas. Mzuzu is situated in northern Malawi, thirty miles from the western shores of Lake Malawi. My friends Paul and Darlene Heller hosted me. They oversee the Ministry of Hope's crisis nursery for babies orphaned by the HIV/AIDS epidemic (www.ministryofhope.org; http://suffer-the-little-children.blogspot.com/). They care for about a dozen and a half infants. On a visit to the nursery, before I knew it, Darlene had hoisted a chunky little tike named Frank, into my arms. At Mzuzu’s hospital, babies and children share large open rooms, occupying hospital beds with no rails. Anxious mothers curl up next to their little ones. We had come to see baby Hilda, who on Christmas Eve had been struggling mightily to elude the icy grip of death.  Thankfully,  Hilda prevailed in her first bout with malaria.

We walked Mzuzu’s hills, farms, and footpaths, and hiked one of its mile-high green mountains. Mzuzu’s crisp, clean air is discernibly thin. Our treks around Mzuzu left me winded, but piqued my curiosity. Never before have I seen insects that resemble origami made from pieces of straw, or waist-high heavy-laden banana trees.


My respect for African women mounts; they may well be the backbone of Malawian (and Zambian, and perhaps even African) society. We pass several of them carrying twelve-foot-long bundles of firewood – on their heads of course! Will this ever cease to amaze me? It saddens me when they seemingly instinctively step aside for us muzungus to squeeze by the narrow path we’re following. As they ascend one of Mzuzu’s lush mountains, three women pilgrims stop, kneel, and pray, aloud.

Atop the mountain, groups of other pilgrims unabashedly raise their voices to sing God’s praises. Children at the local church Christmas pageant recite their lines flawlessly, and confidently belt out “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” How had I never realized how fitting those lyrics are for Christmas? For the dramatic rendering of the Christmas story that is to be his Christmas morning sermon – from the vantage point of Mary’s husband-to-be Joseph – (Rev.) Paul Heller dons a long, curly white wig (Paul's sermon was the first of two in that service!). Back at the Hellers, we have devotions around the Christmas wreath, then dive into Darlene’s homemade Christmas cookies. Delish! We sip some South African red wine, watch movies, and indulge in other treats Darlene has hoarded for Christmas. Christmas with the Hellers in the green hills of Africa, sans Western commercialism, is the next best thing to being home.