The year I managed

So amazing to read this after all these years. It was a blog entry I wrote in 2017 just as my life was about to change is such a way as I had no inkling back then. This journey was the first with Madalitso Band - our first show together. I don't think I even mention the band in the gig, as my priority was the stage. Little did I know that 9 years and 400 concerts later we'd still be working together.

It's my first blog of 2017. It comes in the fourth week of December. Perhaps I'm crazy, perhaps I'm lazy, but I'm here at last. If you're reading this then maybe you missed hearing from me, or maybe it's your first time to read about my escapades. Just to mention then that this is not an attempt at literature, nor do I intend for it to be insightful in any way, except perhaps to me. This is a self-indulgent exercise to put the year into perspective and reminisce. It was a different year for me. It was not the year I recorded an album, played a great show, created a child, or moved to a new country. It was the year I managed main stage at Harare International Festival of the Arts, the year I managed my own arts venue in Lilongwe, the year I managed to get a Malawian band on the road to International stages in Zanzibar and Europe. The year I managed to lose two phones, a laptop and a shoe. The year I managed to get mugged on the streets of Johannesburg. The year that people started to refer to me as Mr. Manager much more than Mr. Musician. I don't know if I did well this year. All I know is that I managed.

New Year, New Things

The year began when the clock struck midnight and we welcomed 2017 from our newly opened music venue in CCDC. The rain had been trickling down that night which didn't stop Bernard Kwilimbe from singing, off stage where there is no roof, as taking his wheelchair up on the stage was time wasted which could be spent in the joy of music. I was working behind the bar. Even though we had advertised well in advance, few people turned up to our New Year's Eve Party, which featured the Old is Good Band. This band was one of my favourites. They were a group of veteran musicians and they played in that effortless but powerful way old timers do. The lead singer, Mr. Kwilimbe, had spent his life in music, and whether he was singing Blueberry Hill, or some wild traditional Malawian number, the vibe was always electric.

To me, there was no better way to start the year than this. It had always been my dream. The thought of being in a crowded club, or on the streets with dance music blaring, just never appealed to me. Give me a live band any day of the week, month or year, especially this one. As the fireworks began going off, Mr Kwilimbe knew it was time to bring the people all together, and he started singing a happy new year song. The groove was super Afro with Jazz and Soul all wrapped up in a bundle of love, with a message of unity.

The commotion outside was too much of a draw, and in lawless Malawi, kids fire fireworks in all directions. With our open roof in front of the stage, many were even let off inside. People were ducking and it all got quite mad, but no one was injured. We closed up late but satisfied. We'd managed to make it through to another year.

We had opened Grittah's Camp on September 28^th 2016, so by the night the old calender got put in a drawer, we had been open for three months. We hadn't made any profits, and had in fact lost money, even though we'd had a lot of shows, and had put our name on the map. The reason I was working the bar over December was to know why we hadn't made any money, inspite of actually being quite busy. This was my first time to run a business, and even though I didn't want to think of it like that, it's what it was. I didn't know how the year was going to go for our venue, but we had opened, and that was a start.

I woke up on New Year's Day of 2017 without a hangover and thought back to the terrible hangover I'd had the year before. Inside that terrible hangover was the memory of a conversation with Blessings, who was playing lead guitar in my band by then. It was about putting together a PA system, and in the madness of the night I thought I should make it solar powered. By New Year's Day of 2017, that solar system was operational, which was a great help for the venue, because electricity cuts had gotten more and more frequent since the new president had taken over.

January is a quiet time in Malawi. The rains are on by then, but more importantly, people are broke after Christmas and New Year celebrations. Malawians can drink. And over the Christmas period, the bars can be full every day. Before opening the venue, which is just a bar when we don't have shows, I thought it we be an easy thing to manage. But the reality is that it's really not much fun to get home every night in the morning hours, especially when you have one year old there who likes waking up at 5am. Also you have to crosscheck the books everyday, manage staff, maintain the place, book shows, design posters, figure out what you're going to do when there's been no power or water for days and the drinks aren't cold and there's a show on but your generator is broken. It only takes a sentence to write all that stuff, but when you don't have money and it's you doing it all, it basically takes over your life.

I always thought it was very strange in Malawi when owners of hotels, bars or restaurants would claim that their staff steal from them. It's always said in such a matter of fact way and seems like a racist comment. The fact is though, when you think that if a staff member would sell just one drink a day, whose money doesn't go in the drawer but in their pocket, they will be doubling their monthly salary, you can start to see that it's going to happen unless measures are in place. I didn't see that at first and the fact that I saw it happening really affected my heart, as it was that I was putting into this enterprise.

I was very glad then that February was coming. I had sent proposals to all the major festivals in Southern Africa about my solar powered music system, and Sauti Za Busara in Zanzibar had asked me to come and use it at their festival. I had opened the venue with a friend, so for the time I was away he was going to manage the place. I said I could still book the acts, but he would have to deal with the staff and all those bar related issues, plus the maintanance and actual shows. I was going to Zanzibar.

I had arrived in Malawi at the end of 2012 so by then I had been there just over four years. In all that time I had just left the country twice, both times for the UK, the first time for a month and the second for two months. This trip to Zanzibar was going to be my first time to leave Malawi for another country in Africa, and I was super excited. As I was running one of the stages I had to be there three days before the festival, and was going to stay on three days after it finished. I was going to have to take my portable PA (21kgs), my solar battery (65kgs), a 1,000W inverter, three 80W solar panels, three guitars (acoustic, electric and bass), a hand drum, a trolley for the battery, and a case with some clothes.

Months before the trip I had put out an ad to ask if anyone would like to come with me in my car. It was an 8 seater car so with all the equipment I could still fit four passengers. If we all split the petrol it would be just twice the cost of the bus, which I could still afford. With all that gear, flying was out of the question, and way beyond budget anyway. I had received interest from Laura, a nice sounding lady from Brazil whose mother would be visiting that week and was planning to go to Zanzibar. Also two friends were going to Dar El Salaam the same week to pick up a car so it seemed like it was going to work. Of course it didn't. The mother-daughter duo decided to take the train, the friends decided they couldn't go on that day and my car developed a suspension problem. That was a week before departure. A thirty pound, thirty-six hour bus journey it would be then. And how much extra for 100kgs of equipment? Thirty Pounds again. At least it was cheap.

It was going to be the first time to leave my young family behind and go on a trip. I was going to miss them. And a week before leaving my mum was coming to stay. She had just retired after 50 years of working always and the first thing she wanted to do was spend time with her first grandson, and me too of course. It was hard for her this time coming to Malawi. It was going to be for three months and the other times she had just come for three weeks at the most. I live in the township part of Lilongwe. It's cheap, there's street life, very few foreigners living here, and it's near the music school that I first came to work for all those years before. They call such areas high density areas because about ten families here, live in an area that one family would occupy in a low density area. The roads are mud and dust and many houses don't have fences. There's less to steal I guess. The low density areas, aka, the suburbs, usually have brick walls, electricity, and tarmac roads.

I don't know why, but the houses in my area are usually very simple. They are brick structures covered in clay with simple square rooms and a kitchen which is also just a square room. My mum had offered to pay half the rent if I moved into a better place for when she arrived and we had scoured the area and eventually found a place which was the equivalent of a hundred gbp per month. A beautiful big house with wood panelled ceilings in the living room, three bedrooms and a fitted kitchen. It was the very best place we could find and any of my local friends who visited would feel they were in a palace. I knew my mum would have complaints but I didn't realise how much. By the time I was to go to Zanzibar we'd had to go house hunting again, but hadn't found anything in the area, only a two bedroom place in one of the high density areas for three times the price. With a little encouragement from a friend, we had decided to rennovate. While I was away the house would be repainted and the floors would be polished. My mum has spent her life in finance, but when it comes to interior decorating there is no one better than her. So as I went off on my mission, I left her with one of her own. At least she would be busy. A good transition from working life? I'd put it out of my mind for now. I had to get to Zanzibar.

Journey to Zanzibar

It was one of those rickety old busses you often find here and would be travelling from Lilongwe, up to the northen border of Malawi and across Tanzania to Dar El Salaam. It was supposed to arrive at 4am, which would leave me some hours to get to the ferry terminal, where someone from the festival would be meeting me, as the festival were offering transport to the island from the port at Dar. I was worried about my solar panels and had them wrapped up in cloth with bubble wrap and put in the undercarriage with the battery and cases. I kept the guitars in the overhead compartments on the bus. As I waved goodbye to my girlfriend, son and mum, my heart skipped a beat. A new adventure was on.

Every pit stop on the way I would get out the bus to check on my stuff. In spite of being a free spirit, I'm a worrier. The contradicting personalites of my parents personified in me. The roads in Malawi are full of potholes and the driver was going top speed. Every pot hole sent a shudder through the bus that made you think it would fall apart. But they're strong old things. The shudder through my heart was worse though when I thought of my panels and battery down below. And come to think of I, was my inverter even the right way up. I'd have to wait till the end to check properly and hope it gets there in one piece. Imagine I arrive without the stage. What happens then?

We made it to the Malawi-Tanzania border around 4am. As I got out of the bus I was hit by the feeling of sweat mixed with dust and exhaust fumes. It sticks to your body and fills your mind with crazy thoughts. Add the buzzing of mosquitos to the mix and you you are craving for a white tiled bathroom with hot water and a clean towel. It didn't seem like I would find anything like that at this border post. We were told not to go far as the bus would be crossing any time. As the minutes turned into hours, the sun came up and I felt brave enough to venture in search of a bathroom. There weren't any white tiles, but it was clean. I got into trouble as I had said I was just going to use the toilet. When they heard splashing they knew I was bathing and there came a racket for me to get out. I dried up and went out refreshed. I had to pay a little extra for the water I had used but it was worth it.

When I got back to the bus the engine was on but we were told not to board but rather to walk across the border so they could process our passports. Several people had been hanging around us asking if we needed to change money. I hate such moments and so had avoided them. While walking over to the passport control a man that seemed to have some Indian decent was walking with me. I didn't really know where to go so the man showed me and when he asked if I'd like to change money it seemed like a good idea. He had been nice and was just saying that he could do with some business. I only wanted to change $20 but at least he'd get something out of it. He said he had to change the money on the other side of the border. After going through immigration we walked to where the bus was and there was a customs check. The money man wanted to wait for that too. By then the bus was leaving so I went him to change the money. We moved just a little out of the way. Perhaps it was illegal to change money like this, and since I was just trying to help this guy with a little business I just went with him a few metres behind a bus. I gave him the money and he ponted to his friend who was going to give me the Tanzanian Shillings. “How much did you agree he asked?” “You should know,” I replied. Just then I saw the 'nice' man moving away fast, and before I know it he was gone into Tanzania proper and I realised I'd been robbed. I went back to the bus feeling like a fool. I told a lady what happened and she just told me what I now knew. There are thieves all around these areas. Don't trust people. The fact that he'd lured me all the way to the only point he could make an easy gettaway was what annoyed me most. I hadn't seen it coming.

I love crossing borders by bus. You notice all the subtle differences. The road signs are in a new language and the design of the buildings is a little different. The actual roads in Tanzania seemed much beter in Malawi, but what struck me the most was the school children. We were driving through rural areas, but all over were kids dressed in school uniform. They were carrying satchels under their arm and strolling along joyfully. I would later learn that Tanzania prides itself on free education for all. Malawi was apparently like that once upon a time. I didn't make any friends along the way, but I did meet people on their various journeys. When one of the boys told me he was still going to be travelling for another two days to get to Uganda, the eighteen remaining hours of my journey seemed short. Long journeys are a great time to be with your thoughts. I really can't remember now all that was swimming in my mind, but it was mostly worry, as the Tanzanian roads turned gradually more and more potholed, and excitement at going to take part at a major African festival, and one that I'd tried in vain to get into as an artists for the last three years.

We arrived at the bus depot in Dar on schedule at 4am. I was advised against hanging around outside till sunrise and got a taxi to a nearby hotel. The same driver would pick me up at 7am to go to the ferry port. It was one of the best showers in my life and I got to put my phone on charge. I can't explain exactly how hectic it was to get on that ferry, but going with 100kgs of equipment and no phone number of the person you're supposed to meet, and pinching your pennies that you struggle to get connected to the local internet service are not a good start. The place was crazy crowded. No one knew about me as the list of people they had for Sauti Za Busara didn't have my name on it. The point of contact I was supposed to meet wasn't there. I was tired and worry set in. Thankfully the porters I had found to bring my stuff on their trolly were A1 dudes and said they would stay with me and my stuff until everything was sorted. The two taxis, hotel and porter service were unexpected costs, but I'd had just enough to see it through. Once in Zanzibar all would be taken care of. My person arrived. An email had been sent to say that I was booked on the later ferry. Thirty six hours on a bus with no power to charge my phone and no time to organise a sim card had left me out of the loop. Before boarding there was one last challenge. The letter that said I was coming to bring equipment for use at the festival hadn't come through, so customs had a thing or two to say about that. By then my phone was online. A quick phonecall to the festival and it was all paid for and I was ready. Now just the paranoia of how they load my equipment. So I stayed with it until the last minute. More negotions with new porters who tried to charge crazy prices and I was aboard. The cabin was packed and freezing because of super powerful aircon. I bought a coffee and went up to the deck.

“Neil!” came a voice from the deck. It was Laura and her mum visiting from Brazil. There's nothing like seeing familiar faces after a crazy journey. It was great catching up, though we'd only met once before then, at Grittah's Camp in fact, when she'd come to see about the driving plan. It turned out that their train journey was much worse than mine. The train took more than forty eight hours just to cross the width of the country. We were on our way now. They were not planning to go to the festival, but to spend some days on the beach in the north part of the island away from it all. Perhaps we'd meet though. We would see.

I Arrive in Zanzibar. More customs and more porters to pay. Then I meet the man who introduces the moment when the hard travel is so close to over you can smell it. As we drive the thing I notice most is the posters for the festival. They're absolutely everywhere. The place is quite built up but we soon come to the quaint old town which is right by a gorgeous seafront. There's going to be a meeting at the old fort in the afternoon and my driver tells me that it's opposite my hotel. As I walk in the hotel I feel like it's a paradise. The white tiles are there but mixed with blue and mosaic in an extraordinary modern Arabic style. I'm told my room is on the second floor and I point to my 100kgs. “Let's see if we can get you a place on the ground floor” the concierge tells me. “This room is free,” he says just gesturing to his right. The guys help me drop all the stuff in the room. There's a triple bed with mosquito curtains and lushious linen. The bathroom is mosaic and equsquisite. Epic shower, view of the old fort from my window where the festi1val will take place. Check my equipment. Nothing broken, plug it in and it all works. I take a few pics of my luxury abode and send them on whatsapp to my family at home. “I've arrived.”