Malawian President Bingu wa Mutharika on Tuesday told lawmakers from around southern Africa, the epicentre of the AIDS pandemic, that the scourge of HIV was stunting the region's development.
"I am sad to note that statistics indicate that our region has the highest incidences of HIV infections," said the president.
"This is unacceptable and we need to move fast in solidarity to find lasting solutions and to try and fight the HIV pandemic."
Mutharika, opening a two-day parliamentary forum for the 14 member states of the Southern African Development Committee (SADC), said "the HIV and AIDS scourge is seriously retarding development in this part of Africa."
A report by UNAIDS published in 2006 shows that 63 percent of all adults and children with HIV live in sub-saharan Africa and adults and children newly infected with the virus rose to 2.8 million in 2006 from 2.4 million in 2004.
Mutharika said national parliaments have a "crucial role" to provide political leadership to fight AIDS.
"What we need is to agree on a common SADC strategy to collaborate programmes and projects dealing with this disease at all levels."
Mutharika called for a multi-faceted, comprehensive and holistic approach, saying the pandemic had created "huge social and economic implications ... even with access to free AIDS drugs and other medicines, you still need a good diet ... otherwise the medicine does not work."
Malawian parliamentary speaker Louis Chimango, said: "This is really war. We are at war against a pandemic that knows no boundary. Time is not on our side."
He said the disease had "contributed to the deepening levels of poverty in a region with one of the lowest levels of development indicators."
"Fighting HIV and AIDS is also fighting poverty itself," Chimango said.
The UN agency said last year that levels of the disease in the region were showing no sign of diminishing, and blamed a failure of leadership for the lack of progress.
Some 14.9 million in the region have AIDS, 38 percent of the worldwide total of 38.6 million people at the end of 2005.
SADC, which has 2,500 parliamentarians, groups Angola, Botswana, the Democratic Republic of Congo, Lesotho, Madagascar, Malawi, Mauritius, Mozambique, Namibia, South Africa, Swaziland, Tanzania, Zambia and Zimbabwe.
Tuesday, 23 October 2007
Mark is in Malawi, but will come back. Eventually.
A Crowning Achievement in Stupidity
As I’ve mentioned previously, I live pretty close to Karonga town. If I want to stock up on supplies that aren’t available in the village, have some money to spend on internet usage, or just get out of site for a few hours, I can go there. It’s particularly good for buying things in bulk, which I can do in the village with only some items. On one particular day, I went to Karonga to buy a large quantity of rice as well as a few other things. I had my burlap sack and took it to the lady in front of the bakery with buckets overflowing with Karonga rice and had her fill it half full, which should last me until the end of the year. She was very pleased with my massive purchase, and so carried my bag to the bus depot for me, where I hopped on a minibus coming out of the gate. This is where the day started going downhill.
I had foolishly assumed that getting on a minibus that was coming out of the depot meant that we would be immediately departing, even though I was one of only two passengers. This is foolish, because on a minibus the journey only begins when passengers are packed in like sardines. These are small, rickety vehicles deemed no longer road-worthy in Japan or China and intended to seat sixteen passengers. The actual number of passengers is almost always higher, many of which are riding with baggage, children, chickens, or other stuff that makes the ride much more unpleasant. Currently the police are trying to enforce safety regulations that limit the number of passengers to 16, but at the time of this misadventure, this was not the case.
So this bus was under the control of three young guys, all of whom were quite amused that I could explain where I needed to go, what I was doing, and that I’m just learning Chitumbuka, in Chitumbuka. They began driving around the area of the bus depot, asking any and all in the streets wandering close to the minibus if they were going to Chilumba, this minibus’s final destination. I suppose it was better than just sitting at the bus depot and sweltering until there were enough passengers to depart, but not much. Clearly, these men were idiots, and I was left to sigh and fiddle with my phone, attempting to activate my new Telekom SIM card, which didn’t actually need to be activated. The idiocy of the driver and his cohorts, and the fact that I couldn’t get my phone to do what I wanted made me rather irritated. After driving around for almost an hour, the number of passengers was suitable for departure, and we were off.
After a little doze, I was being conveniently dropped off at the well across the M1 from where I stay, and hoisted my bag of rice onto my head for the short walk to my house. I made a little idle chatter with the neighborhood kids following me along the path, very tired and glad to finally arrive home. As I was walking to the door, I reached into my pocket for my phone and found nothing. I reached into the other pocket, and then all my cargo pockets, and still found nothing. I dropped my rice and swore loudly, which is something that I think my neighbors might be getting used to. I don’t do it often, but when I do, nothing is said. Still, they’re all so nice. How can I be so crass?
So it seemed that I had left my phone on the minibus. This was a disaster. How long had it taken me to walk to my house, maybe five minutes? Maybe if I biked fast enough, I could catch the bus. They make frequent stops. yes, I would pedal my ass off and triumphantly happen upon the minibus stuffing more people than necessary into the cabin, and would reclaim my phone. Into the house I went, dropping my backpack and donning my helmet to burst through the front door and hop onto my bike.
“Mark!” called my neighbor, Silipo. He was pointing south, something that I didn’t quite understand. Right now, there was no time to understand.
“Suzgo!” I called back. Problem. “I left my phone on a minibus!”
He just looked down and shook his head, releasing me to my pursuit. I sped down the path leading from our compound to the M1.
Now, my area has this wind. It always blows north, and it blows hard. Some days, I think that the roof is going to blow off of my house, and that nearby trees will be uprooted. This, of course, makes biking south quite a chore. I hadn’t remembered the wind being that strong throughout the day, and as I was barreling towards the tarmac, I was too crazed to notice if the wind was, in fact, a problem. I prayed that it wasn’t as my tires hit the pavement.
A gust hit me almost immediately. I pressed on, shifting into a high gear to get as much distance and speed per pedal as humanly possible, which in such wind was an incredibly stupid thing to do. Within minutes, my thighs burned, and I was panting. Because of that damned wind, my pace was restricted to a moderate jog. I scanned ahead. No minibus. I was imagining the driver’s delight upon discovering the phone that the stupid mzungu had carelessly left behind, to be used by him or sold. With this scene playing out in my head, that awful wind not relenting one bit, and the minibus surely far gone, despair and anger came quickly.
I hopped off my bike, dissolving into a roadside hissy fit complete with loud strings of profanity and a launch of my helmet into some nearby bushes. Shit, man! A new phone would set me back at least 6,000 kwacha. Luckily I still had my Celtel SIM card in my pocket, though their reception is rather awful at my site. How could I have been so negligent? Damn! No, stop this. I could get my phone back. I had to.
I saw a truck coming over the hill I had been ascending and flagged them down. A man and a woman were in the cabin, and another man rode in the bed. I explained my predicament to them, and in a very odd act of desperation, informed them that I would pay handsomely if they would turn their truck around and drive fast to help me chase down the bus. They wanted 3,000 kwacha, and while I was desperate, I wasn’t 3,000 kwacha desperate. I offered 1,000 and they balked, but began asking questions about the minibus.
My powers of observation, as we have seen with my gauging of the wind, are not so great. I rifled through my memory for details. It was dark blue. Wasn’t it? Red upholstery. A mass of tangled wires where a radio would normally be. And it was going to Chilumba.
“Was it a Nissan?” One of them asked. Whoa, man. That’s pretty specific. I had no idea. I just wanted a ride home; I didn’t look at the make. I don’t think many of them say, anyway. However, it could have been a Nissan.
“We know it,” the driver said. Holy shit! Really?
“Yes, there was music inside?” I had already explained that there wasn’t, and reiterated this. They still insisted that they knew the guy, and I figured that even if it wasn’t the right one, he might know the right one.
“We have his phone number, call him right now,” another said. Didn’t they remember why I had offered them money to chase the minibus down? No matter, time was wasting. They gave me the name and location in Chilumba of the man they thought I wanted, and after I thanked them profusely, they left and I was back on my bike, speeding back to deposit it at my house and catch a minibus to Chilumba, some 25 kilometers away.
It must be noted that this is highly unusual behavior for me. In America, my response would have been, “Oh well, fuck it. Guess I’ll have to get another one.” But in this place, I felt compelled to chase down my phone. I knew that there could be some kind of confrontation, some bargaining to get it back if the driver had, in fact, confiscated it from his bus. But I’d still have my phone, and along with it around 6,000 kwacha that had not been spent on buying a new one to put towards something else. It was a test of will that I would not allow myself to fail.
Luckily, my neighbor’s son intercepted me where the M1 crosses the path heading to my neighborhood. I instructed him to take my bike to his house for safe keeping and flagged down the first minibus that I saw. At this point it as around five in the afternoon, and the sun was rapidly sinking towards the horizon. At this point in the day, minibus conductors are making a mad dash to pick up as many passengers as possible before they must hang up their keys for the day. The minibus that I boarded was the same one that I had taken into Karonga that morning, and it was beyond jam-packed.
Now would be a good time to explain the minibus phenomenon. A minibus is public transport, but it is privately owned. It is about the size of a minivan, and almost always in a very poor state of repair, having been sold to Malawians only after having been deemed no longer road-worthy in China or Japan. There is seating for sixteen passengers squeezed together. However, there is always room for one more, and so it is not uncommon for over twenty people to be packed into one of these little deathtraps. The minibus in question certainly fit this description, and at one point in the journey people were literally hanging out of the open sliding door. This compounded my stress, but the kicker was the jerry-rigged car stereo blasting awful, awful Malawian music directly into my face. I honestly believe that Malawi’s music industry was born out of a misplaced shipment of shitty Casio keyboards, the kind that have a few sample drum loops over which one can play tinny, monotonous melodies. That is also an accurate description of the music itself. It makes me want to kill myself, even when I’m in a pleasant mood.
So there I was, speeding down Malawi’s main paved thoroughfare in an overstuffed minibus, ears full of the most awful music on the planet, trying to chase my phone with only a vague lead from helpful strangers. My realization of the absurdity of the situation is probably the only thing that kept me from clawing my own eyes out when the driver turned the music up, or picked up another few passengers. Jesus. What the hell was I doing?
I made it to Chilumba, though, and was very happy to be off that minibus. I was not happy, though, to see that the minibus to which I had been guided was not the one I sought. A couple women were staring at me, and were probably frightened when this sweaty, crazed-looking, shaggy-haired mzungu immediately launched into asking them where he could find the driver of this minibus. In Malawi, all must be preceded with the proper greetings. I tend to skip this when I am in a hurry, feeling particularly businesslike, or in this case, flipping out. However, the driver was brought before me, and after some questioning in my lousy Chitumbuka, he revealed to me that perhaps it was another driver from his company that I sought, one who stayed on the road to the Jetty. I don’t know what exactly the Jetty is, so I can’t really explain. But I took down the name he gave and started walking. Daylight was quickly fading. This was getting bad.
As I neared the jetty turnoff, I saw a most remarkable thing-another mzungu. He was about my age and similarly disheveled, walking with a Malawian and a bike like mine. This must have been a fellow Peace Corps volunteer and his counterpart.
He was, in fact, a fellow Peace Corps volunteer. He was Jim, the environment volunteer for Chilumba and a friend of a few of my fellow training classmates. I explained what I was doing and who I was looking for, and of course Jim’s Malawian companion knew where I could find him. Jim volunteered to accompany me and for this he has secured a place on my list of excellent people.
We walked along and chatted about the rigors of adjusting to Peace Corps life, various experiences, permaculture, the like. Jim is from Ohio, and though I only spent a few years there in college, I’m rather fond of the state and am always glad to meet someone who hails from there. His company calmed me some, though I was still quite anxious to get a hold of that damned phone. We asked passers-by for more specific directions until someone took us directly to my target’s house. By now it was nearly dark. A pretty woman greeted us with a smile, and I thought that I recalled her braids in the front seat of the minibus I had left my phone on, perhaps out of hope, and asked, “Do you remember me?” I figure I stand out, judging from the stares I get every day. She looked suddenly perplexed, so Jim and I explained why I had showed up in her yard. She explained that her husband, the minibus driver, had gone to Uliwa. not far, but this chase would be elongated and it was basically dark. I simply could not win.
Suddenly two minibuses materialized out of the dark, coming down the road, and she indicated that one was her husband’s. Jim started saying something, but I was already running towards the buses. This had to be it! I leapt up to the driver’s side of the new bus, and the face peering back at me…was not that of the man who had driven my bus.
“Is this the one?” He asked.
“No…”
The first man I had met was with him, and indicated that they had seen me and followed. They really wanted to help, and despite the fact that my phone was as good as gone, that knowledge was rather comforting.
“I know you,” the new driver said.
“Oh?”
“Yes, I see you running, every day,” he replied. I’ve begun jogging from my house to the secondary school sign and back a few times a week. I instantly felt a little ashamed, because when a minibus passes me with the driver leaning out the window, looking backwards at the silly mzungu, I’m prone to yell things such as, “Watch the road, jackass!” This man, who went out of his way for me, may have been the recipient of such an epithet. I really ought to hold my tongue. Then again, they really ought to watch the fucking road.
I thanked him and the other driver for their kindness, and Jim and I walked back to the M1. I managed to flag down a passing truck, the driver of which agreed to take me home for free. I apologized to Jim about meeting under such circumstances, but it was nice to meet him nonetheless. Onto the truck I went. On the ride back, after having explained what I was doing in Malawi, I simply resigned. I lost my contact with home due to carelessness and would only reclaim it at a hefty price tag. Oh well. Life goes on. Lesson learned.
I hopped off at the junction of the M1 with my neighborhood path, and after fumbling in the dark for a while, my neighbor met me to lead me back to my house. I explained the failure to find my phone, but it was okay. Just a piece of plastic. A couple of his sons were on my porch, and apparently had been there for some time, waiting for me to return. My neighbors are really, truly great. I got into my house and lit a candle, suddenly having this urge to look into my backpack. Only after I had set off on this wild goose chase had the thought occurred to me that maybe I had left my phone in my backpack and forgotten. But if I turned back and it wasn’t the case, I would be totally screwed.
So I found my backpack and hoisted it onto my couch. I first went for the mesh side pockets. My hand alighted upon something hard, and semi-rectangular. It was my phone. It had been in that little mesh pocket the entire time. That little nagging thought had been accurate.
I really need to calm down.
As I’ve mentioned previously, I live pretty close to Karonga town. If I want to stock up on supplies that aren’t available in the village, have some money to spend on internet usage, or just get out of site for a few hours, I can go there. It’s particularly good for buying things in bulk, which I can do in the village with only some items. On one particular day, I went to Karonga to buy a large quantity of rice as well as a few other things. I had my burlap sack and took it to the lady in front of the bakery with buckets overflowing with Karonga rice and had her fill it half full, which should last me until the end of the year. She was very pleased with my massive purchase, and so carried my bag to the bus depot for me, where I hopped on a minibus coming out of the gate. This is where the day started going downhill.
I had foolishly assumed that getting on a minibus that was coming out of the depot meant that we would be immediately departing, even though I was one of only two passengers. This is foolish, because on a minibus the journey only begins when passengers are packed in like sardines. These are small, rickety vehicles deemed no longer road-worthy in Japan or China and intended to seat sixteen passengers. The actual number of passengers is almost always higher, many of which are riding with baggage, children, chickens, or other stuff that makes the ride much more unpleasant. Currently the police are trying to enforce safety regulations that limit the number of passengers to 16, but at the time of this misadventure, this was not the case.
So this bus was under the control of three young guys, all of whom were quite amused that I could explain where I needed to go, what I was doing, and that I’m just learning Chitumbuka, in Chitumbuka. They began driving around the area of the bus depot, asking any and all in the streets wandering close to the minibus if they were going to Chilumba, this minibus’s final destination. I suppose it was better than just sitting at the bus depot and sweltering until there were enough passengers to depart, but not much. Clearly, these men were idiots, and I was left to sigh and fiddle with my phone, attempting to activate my new Telekom SIM card, which didn’t actually need to be activated. The idiocy of the driver and his cohorts, and the fact that I couldn’t get my phone to do what I wanted made me rather irritated. After driving around for almost an hour, the number of passengers was suitable for departure, and we were off.
After a little doze, I was being conveniently dropped off at the well across the M1 from where I stay, and hoisted my bag of rice onto my head for the short walk to my house. I made a little idle chatter with the neighborhood kids following me along the path, very tired and glad to finally arrive home. As I was walking to the door, I reached into my pocket for my phone and found nothing. I reached into the other pocket, and then all my cargo pockets, and still found nothing. I dropped my rice and swore loudly, which is something that I think my neighbors might be getting used to. I don’t do it often, but when I do, nothing is said. Still, they’re all so nice. How can I be so crass?
So it seemed that I had left my phone on the minibus. This was a disaster. How long had it taken me to walk to my house, maybe five minutes? Maybe if I biked fast enough, I could catch the bus. They make frequent stops. yes, I would pedal my ass off and triumphantly happen upon the minibus stuffing more people than necessary into the cabin, and would reclaim my phone. Into the house I went, dropping my backpack and donning my helmet to burst through the front door and hop onto my bike.
“Mark!” called my neighbor, Silipo. He was pointing south, something that I didn’t quite understand. Right now, there was no time to understand.
“Suzgo!” I called back. Problem. “I left my phone on a minibus!”
He just looked down and shook his head, releasing me to my pursuit. I sped down the path leading from our compound to the M1.
Now, my area has this wind. It always blows north, and it blows hard. Some days, I think that the roof is going to blow off of my house, and that nearby trees will be uprooted. This, of course, makes biking south quite a chore. I hadn’t remembered the wind being that strong throughout the day, and as I was barreling towards the tarmac, I was too crazed to notice if the wind was, in fact, a problem. I prayed that it wasn’t as my tires hit the pavement.
A gust hit me almost immediately. I pressed on, shifting into a high gear to get as much distance and speed per pedal as humanly possible, which in such wind was an incredibly stupid thing to do. Within minutes, my thighs burned, and I was panting. Because of that damned wind, my pace was restricted to a moderate jog. I scanned ahead. No minibus. I was imagining the driver’s delight upon discovering the phone that the stupid mzungu had carelessly left behind, to be used by him or sold. With this scene playing out in my head, that awful wind not relenting one bit, and the minibus surely far gone, despair and anger came quickly.
I hopped off my bike, dissolving into a roadside hissy fit complete with loud strings of profanity and a launch of my helmet into some nearby bushes. Shit, man! A new phone would set me back at least 6,000 kwacha. Luckily I still had my Celtel SIM card in my pocket, though their reception is rather awful at my site. How could I have been so negligent? Damn! No, stop this. I could get my phone back. I had to.
I saw a truck coming over the hill I had been ascending and flagged them down. A man and a woman were in the cabin, and another man rode in the bed. I explained my predicament to them, and in a very odd act of desperation, informed them that I would pay handsomely if they would turn their truck around and drive fast to help me chase down the bus. They wanted 3,000 kwacha, and while I was desperate, I wasn’t 3,000 kwacha desperate. I offered 1,000 and they balked, but began asking questions about the minibus.
My powers of observation, as we have seen with my gauging of the wind, are not so great. I rifled through my memory for details. It was dark blue. Wasn’t it? Red upholstery. A mass of tangled wires where a radio would normally be. And it was going to Chilumba.
“Was it a Nissan?” One of them asked. Whoa, man. That’s pretty specific. I had no idea. I just wanted a ride home; I didn’t look at the make. I don’t think many of them say, anyway. However, it could have been a Nissan.
“We know it,” the driver said. Holy shit! Really?
“Yes, there was music inside?” I had already explained that there wasn’t, and reiterated this. They still insisted that they knew the guy, and I figured that even if it wasn’t the right one, he might know the right one.
“We have his phone number, call him right now,” another said. Didn’t they remember why I had offered them money to chase the minibus down? No matter, time was wasting. They gave me the name and location in Chilumba of the man they thought I wanted, and after I thanked them profusely, they left and I was back on my bike, speeding back to deposit it at my house and catch a minibus to Chilumba, some 25 kilometers away.
It must be noted that this is highly unusual behavior for me. In America, my response would have been, “Oh well, fuck it. Guess I’ll have to get another one.” But in this place, I felt compelled to chase down my phone. I knew that there could be some kind of confrontation, some bargaining to get it back if the driver had, in fact, confiscated it from his bus. But I’d still have my phone, and along with it around 6,000 kwacha that had not been spent on buying a new one to put towards something else. It was a test of will that I would not allow myself to fail.
Luckily, my neighbor’s son intercepted me where the M1 crosses the path heading to my neighborhood. I instructed him to take my bike to his house for safe keeping and flagged down the first minibus that I saw. At this point it as around five in the afternoon, and the sun was rapidly sinking towards the horizon. At this point in the day, minibus conductors are making a mad dash to pick up as many passengers as possible before they must hang up their keys for the day. The minibus that I boarded was the same one that I had taken into Karonga that morning, and it was beyond jam-packed.
Now would be a good time to explain the minibus phenomenon. A minibus is public transport, but it is privately owned. It is about the size of a minivan, and almost always in a very poor state of repair, having been sold to Malawians only after having been deemed no longer road-worthy in China or Japan. There is seating for sixteen passengers squeezed together. However, there is always room for one more, and so it is not uncommon for over twenty people to be packed into one of these little deathtraps. The minibus in question certainly fit this description, and at one point in the journey people were literally hanging out of the open sliding door. This compounded my stress, but the kicker was the jerry-rigged car stereo blasting awful, awful Malawian music directly into my face. I honestly believe that Malawi’s music industry was born out of a misplaced shipment of shitty Casio keyboards, the kind that have a few sample drum loops over which one can play tinny, monotonous melodies. That is also an accurate description of the music itself. It makes me want to kill myself, even when I’m in a pleasant mood.
So there I was, speeding down Malawi’s main paved thoroughfare in an overstuffed minibus, ears full of the most awful music on the planet, trying to chase my phone with only a vague lead from helpful strangers. My realization of the absurdity of the situation is probably the only thing that kept me from clawing my own eyes out when the driver turned the music up, or picked up another few passengers. Jesus. What the hell was I doing?
I made it to Chilumba, though, and was very happy to be off that minibus. I was not happy, though, to see that the minibus to which I had been guided was not the one I sought. A couple women were staring at me, and were probably frightened when this sweaty, crazed-looking, shaggy-haired mzungu immediately launched into asking them where he could find the driver of this minibus. In Malawi, all must be preceded with the proper greetings. I tend to skip this when I am in a hurry, feeling particularly businesslike, or in this case, flipping out. However, the driver was brought before me, and after some questioning in my lousy Chitumbuka, he revealed to me that perhaps it was another driver from his company that I sought, one who stayed on the road to the Jetty. I don’t know what exactly the Jetty is, so I can’t really explain. But I took down the name he gave and started walking. Daylight was quickly fading. This was getting bad.
As I neared the jetty turnoff, I saw a most remarkable thing-another mzungu. He was about my age and similarly disheveled, walking with a Malawian and a bike like mine. This must have been a fellow Peace Corps volunteer and his counterpart.
He was, in fact, a fellow Peace Corps volunteer. He was Jim, the environment volunteer for Chilumba and a friend of a few of my fellow training classmates. I explained what I was doing and who I was looking for, and of course Jim’s Malawian companion knew where I could find him. Jim volunteered to accompany me and for this he has secured a place on my list of excellent people.
We walked along and chatted about the rigors of adjusting to Peace Corps life, various experiences, permaculture, the like. Jim is from Ohio, and though I only spent a few years there in college, I’m rather fond of the state and am always glad to meet someone who hails from there. His company calmed me some, though I was still quite anxious to get a hold of that damned phone. We asked passers-by for more specific directions until someone took us directly to my target’s house. By now it was nearly dark. A pretty woman greeted us with a smile, and I thought that I recalled her braids in the front seat of the minibus I had left my phone on, perhaps out of hope, and asked, “Do you remember me?” I figure I stand out, judging from the stares I get every day. She looked suddenly perplexed, so Jim and I explained why I had showed up in her yard. She explained that her husband, the minibus driver, had gone to Uliwa. not far, but this chase would be elongated and it was basically dark. I simply could not win.
Suddenly two minibuses materialized out of the dark, coming down the road, and she indicated that one was her husband’s. Jim started saying something, but I was already running towards the buses. This had to be it! I leapt up to the driver’s side of the new bus, and the face peering back at me…was not that of the man who had driven my bus.
“Is this the one?” He asked.
“No…”
The first man I had met was with him, and indicated that they had seen me and followed. They really wanted to help, and despite the fact that my phone was as good as gone, that knowledge was rather comforting.
“I know you,” the new driver said.
“Oh?”
“Yes, I see you running, every day,” he replied. I’ve begun jogging from my house to the secondary school sign and back a few times a week. I instantly felt a little ashamed, because when a minibus passes me with the driver leaning out the window, looking backwards at the silly mzungu, I’m prone to yell things such as, “Watch the road, jackass!” This man, who went out of his way for me, may have been the recipient of such an epithet. I really ought to hold my tongue. Then again, they really ought to watch the fucking road.
I thanked him and the other driver for their kindness, and Jim and I walked back to the M1. I managed to flag down a passing truck, the driver of which agreed to take me home for free. I apologized to Jim about meeting under such circumstances, but it was nice to meet him nonetheless. Onto the truck I went. On the ride back, after having explained what I was doing in Malawi, I simply resigned. I lost my contact with home due to carelessness and would only reclaim it at a hefty price tag. Oh well. Life goes on. Lesson learned.
I hopped off at the junction of the M1 with my neighborhood path, and after fumbling in the dark for a while, my neighbor met me to lead me back to my house. I explained the failure to find my phone, but it was okay. Just a piece of plastic. A couple of his sons were on my porch, and apparently had been there for some time, waiting for me to return. My neighbors are really, truly great. I got into my house and lit a candle, suddenly having this urge to look into my backpack. Only after I had set off on this wild goose chase had the thought occurred to me that maybe I had left my phone in my backpack and forgotten. But if I turned back and it wasn’t the case, I would be totally screwed.
So I found my backpack and hoisted it onto my couch. I first went for the mesh side pockets. My hand alighted upon something hard, and semi-rectangular. It was my phone. It had been in that little mesh pocket the entire time. That little nagging thought had been accurate.
I really need to calm down.
Uganda: Code Evicted, Maureen Devastated
Kampala
UPON his first time to get on the list of possible evictees from the DStv/M-Net reality show, Big Brother Africa2, Malawi's Code did not survive. After evading nominations seven times, he became the eighth housemate to be evicted from the Big Brother house on Sunday.
Richard, with whom Code was nominated, survived the fifth time after only Uganda, Malawi and Zambia wanted him out. The other nine countries represented in the house and the rest of Africa showed Code the exit.
His eviction turned out a mixture of emotions and surprises. On the emotional side was his in-house love, Uganda's Maureen, who could not believe the guy with whom they had shared a marriage look-alike romance for more than two months, was leaving, probably to no avail thereafter. She started with sobs, saying, "No, this cannot be happening." Suddenly, she did not want to let go. Her eyes drenched in tears. Maureen held the evictee close, passionately kissing him amidst a torrent of tears. Code kept saying: "It is okay, all will be fine," as he tried to excuse himself from her tight grip, almost denying some of the other housemates the chance to hug him goodbye. When Big Brother counted the seconds down from 10, the distraught Ugandan had to let go, probably forever because another twist was to kick in.
Then she started talking to herself: "It's okay girl, you have to let go and fight it. Because if you do not, it will fight you and ultimately hit you hard. Hit it before it hits you," she urged herself on as she prepared to go to bed after an immediate cold shower.
None of the other remaining three; Richard, Tatiana and Ofunneka, seemed to care to comfort her. Our girl was ignored as she went through her grief.
As usual, her fighting spirit kicked in and she had to do it herself. She tucked herself into her bed and kept urging herself on to "sleep and let go." But much as she was the first to go to bed, she was the last to fall asleep way after 1:00am.
Meanwhile, a surprise for Code after answering a few questions from show host, Kabelo, before fans outside the house. Asked whether his romance with Maureen was a fake, the Malawian radio presenter said all that happened was real. But moments later, Code was to wish he had not prophesied his love for Maureen. They played for him a video of his longtime white girlfriend, Juna Verheji, passing on the message that she still loved him. Code's eyes almost popped out as he stood shocked, mouth agape. His shock was aggravated when Juna showed up on stage. He managed a fumble-laden "I love you baby." She comforted him, saying she still loved him and that all was forgiven as they kissed and hugged passionately before joining the crowds who were waiting to have a glimpse of the couple walk away hand-in-hand. And as it turned out, Juna revealed she is 20 weeks pregnant with Code's baby.
So, are you surprised that Code all along did not seem aroused by his relationship with Maureen? Poor girl, falling for a phony, a Kiwani, if I may use the Kampala speak. And to think she promised to visit Code! Someone tell our baby girl she can do better - after all her boyfriend Moses Ogaa's arms are open in waiting for her.
In another twist, Big Brother revealed that he will be sending a fake housemate into the house, and provided seven possible candidates from whom voters will chose who plays the mole. Visit www.mnetafrica.co.za/bigbrother to vote in a new housemate.
UPON his first time to get on the list of possible evictees from the DStv/M-Net reality show, Big Brother Africa2, Malawi's Code did not survive. After evading nominations seven times, he became the eighth housemate to be evicted from the Big Brother house on Sunday.
Richard, with whom Code was nominated, survived the fifth time after only Uganda, Malawi and Zambia wanted him out. The other nine countries represented in the house and the rest of Africa showed Code the exit.
His eviction turned out a mixture of emotions and surprises. On the emotional side was his in-house love, Uganda's Maureen, who could not believe the guy with whom they had shared a marriage look-alike romance for more than two months, was leaving, probably to no avail thereafter. She started with sobs, saying, "No, this cannot be happening." Suddenly, she did not want to let go. Her eyes drenched in tears. Maureen held the evictee close, passionately kissing him amidst a torrent of tears. Code kept saying: "It is okay, all will be fine," as he tried to excuse himself from her tight grip, almost denying some of the other housemates the chance to hug him goodbye. When Big Brother counted the seconds down from 10, the distraught Ugandan had to let go, probably forever because another twist was to kick in.
Then she started talking to herself: "It's okay girl, you have to let go and fight it. Because if you do not, it will fight you and ultimately hit you hard. Hit it before it hits you," she urged herself on as she prepared to go to bed after an immediate cold shower.
None of the other remaining three; Richard, Tatiana and Ofunneka, seemed to care to comfort her. Our girl was ignored as she went through her grief.
As usual, her fighting spirit kicked in and she had to do it herself. She tucked herself into her bed and kept urging herself on to "sleep and let go." But much as she was the first to go to bed, she was the last to fall asleep way after 1:00am.
Meanwhile, a surprise for Code after answering a few questions from show host, Kabelo, before fans outside the house. Asked whether his romance with Maureen was a fake, the Malawian radio presenter said all that happened was real. But moments later, Code was to wish he had not prophesied his love for Maureen. They played for him a video of his longtime white girlfriend, Juna Verheji, passing on the message that she still loved him. Code's eyes almost popped out as he stood shocked, mouth agape. His shock was aggravated when Juna showed up on stage. He managed a fumble-laden "I love you baby." She comforted him, saying she still loved him and that all was forgiven as they kissed and hugged passionately before joining the crowds who were waiting to have a glimpse of the couple walk away hand-in-hand. And as it turned out, Juna revealed she is 20 weeks pregnant with Code's baby.
So, are you surprised that Code all along did not seem aroused by his relationship with Maureen? Poor girl, falling for a phony, a Kiwani, if I may use the Kampala speak. And to think she promised to visit Code! Someone tell our baby girl she can do better - after all her boyfriend Moses Ogaa's arms are open in waiting for her.
In another twist, Big Brother revealed that he will be sending a fake housemate into the house, and provided seven possible candidates from whom voters will chose who plays the mole. Visit www.mnetafrica.co.za/bigbrother to vote in a new housemate.
A mother's gift
Resting in an Edinburgh hospital after the birth of her first son, Sarah Brown met a midwife involved with a charity helping new mothers in Malawi. The Prime Minister's wife now backs this campaign, and wrote a heartfelt foreword to the MUMs Recipe Book 2. Read it exclusively here in SW.
SARAH Brown, the wife of the Prime Minister, has little in common with the patients at Bwaila maternity hospital in Malawi. Women in the dilapidated African hospital give birth without any pain relief, on beds covered in plastic sheets. Premature infants have little chance of survival, and every week one woman dies in childbirth there.
By contrast, Mrs Brown had the very best care, on clean white sheets, for the delivery of her children at the Royal Infirmary in Edinburgh. But as a mother, Mrs Brown knows all too well the pain of losing a child.
In 2002, the Browns lost their first child, Jennifer Jane, after just ten "precious" days together as a family. It is an experience that the Prime Minister said changed him more than any other.
Today the memory is still raw and Mrs Brown seldom talks about her loss in public. However, when she heard - while still recovering from the birth of her second child - about the conditions for women going through childbirth in Malawi it made her think again about the suffering experienced by anyone who loses a child. She decided to help mothers in a similar position by writing a foreword to a new recipe book that raises funds for Bwaila Hospital.
"I have my own experience of losing my first child, who was born prematurely, and I understand all too well what that means as a mother," she writes. "I certainly wish my experience on no-one else and hope ardently that we can all find ways to prevent future losses for other expectant mothers."
She writes that she was at her most vulnerable when she first heard about Bwaila Hospital from an Edinburgh midwife, Linda McDonald.
"I first heard about Bwaila Maternity Hospital in Malawi while I was myself recovering after the birth of my eldest son in Edinburgh.
"Linda McDonald was one of the midwives patiently teaching me how to feed my son, in the middle of the night, as I sat in my lovely, clean bed in the wonderful new Simpsons maternity unit at the Royal Infirmary Hospital, not long opened in 2003.
"Linda spoke of the suffering of all too many pregnant mothers encountering complications in Malawi, and of her hope of saving the lives of babies and mothers in high-risk pregnancies there."
McDonald had already raised £100,000 for Bwaila with a recipe book compiled by Scottish mothers in 2005, MUMs Recipes - MUMs stands for "Malawi Underprivileged Mothers".
However, more still needs to be done for Bwaila Hospital and its patients. When The Scotsman visited the hospital in August, we saw mothers forced to sleep on mattresses on the floor because of a lack of beds. There were only two gynaecologists, compared with four in 2005, to attend up to 40 births every day.
Brown was immediately interested in helping the mothers of Malawi by writing a foreword for MUMs Recipes 2.
"The funds raised go to support a maternity hospital near Lilongwe, with which the Simpson had twinned itself as part of Scotland's growing relationship with Malawi and its people," she writes.
"At that time Bwaila Hospital was called Bottom Hospital (the one that was absolutely not the Top Hospital, you see) and was coping with 12,000 deliveries per year with only two qualified obstetricians on hand. Its inadequate facilities meant insufficient staffing, poor infection control and little access to necessary antiretrovirals and other drugs. A mother died every six days. Stillbirths and neonatal deaths were heartbreakingly high. Small wonder it was referred to as being 'born into a hospital from hell'."
Things are slowly improving at Bwaila. The Tom Hunter Foundation and money raised by the Scottish public is building and equipping a new £750,000 hospital, though staffing is still a problem.
The money raised from the sale of MUMs Recipes 2 is going towards a Wellness Centre in Lilongwe, Malawi's capital, which will provide an educational and caring environment for overburdened nurses and health workers, encouraging them to remain in Malawi's health sector rather than seek work in another industry or abroad.
"The fabulous MUMs recipes are helping to improve nurses' working conditions, to keep midwives working in Malawi and to encourage more midwives and doctors to work in Bwaila Hospital," Brown writes. "Infection control will improve, and so will pregnancy outcomes change for the better. The donations made via the MUMs recipe book will undoubtedly contribute to keeping Bwaila Hospital sustainable for the long term."
Linda McDonald recalls chatting to the nervous young mum in a dressing gown with her baby.
Despite her position as the wife of the then Chancellor of the Exchequer, and her obvious exhaustion, Brown was immediately interested in the plight of other mothers.
"When you have just had a baby you are very vulnerable ... no matter who you are, it links you as mothers," says McDonald.
Since her marriage, former PR woman Sarah Brown has been involved in the Jennifer Jane Brown Research Trust looking into neonatal deaths, and supports research into cystic fybrosis - the Browns' younger son, James Fraser, has been diagnosed with the condition. She is also president of the UK children's charity PiggyBankKids, which supports opportunities for vulnerable babies, children and young people.
"She is just a mummy who wants the best for her children, and he [Gordon Brown] is just a daddy who is very warm and affectionate with them," says McDonald.
Jack McConnell, the former first minister, visited Bwaila Hospital in 2005 and was so shocked by the conditions he pledged to make turning the hospital around his number one priority.
"Linda McDonald's amazing efforts to support the people of Malawi are mirrored across Scotland, from school links to building much needed modern hospitals," McConnell said.
"By buying this book, you too are now part of the national effort by the people of Scotland to contribute to the development of Malawi. You are helping to change and save lives."
• To order MUMs Recipes Two (£5 per book, plus £2.50 P&P for the first book and £1 each thereafter), visit: www.smartdesignandprint.com or make cheques payable to Mums Recipes and send to: Smart Design & Print, Unit 11. West Gorgie Park, Hutchison Road, Edinburgh EH14 1UT. For more details, log on to: www.mumsrecipes.org
SARAH Brown, the wife of the Prime Minister, has little in common with the patients at Bwaila maternity hospital in Malawi. Women in the dilapidated African hospital give birth without any pain relief, on beds covered in plastic sheets. Premature infants have little chance of survival, and every week one woman dies in childbirth there.
By contrast, Mrs Brown had the very best care, on clean white sheets, for the delivery of her children at the Royal Infirmary in Edinburgh. But as a mother, Mrs Brown knows all too well the pain of losing a child.
In 2002, the Browns lost their first child, Jennifer Jane, after just ten "precious" days together as a family. It is an experience that the Prime Minister said changed him more than any other.
Today the memory is still raw and Mrs Brown seldom talks about her loss in public. However, when she heard - while still recovering from the birth of her second child - about the conditions for women going through childbirth in Malawi it made her think again about the suffering experienced by anyone who loses a child. She decided to help mothers in a similar position by writing a foreword to a new recipe book that raises funds for Bwaila Hospital.
"I have my own experience of losing my first child, who was born prematurely, and I understand all too well what that means as a mother," she writes. "I certainly wish my experience on no-one else and hope ardently that we can all find ways to prevent future losses for other expectant mothers."
She writes that she was at her most vulnerable when she first heard about Bwaila Hospital from an Edinburgh midwife, Linda McDonald.
"I first heard about Bwaila Maternity Hospital in Malawi while I was myself recovering after the birth of my eldest son in Edinburgh.
"Linda McDonald was one of the midwives patiently teaching me how to feed my son, in the middle of the night, as I sat in my lovely, clean bed in the wonderful new Simpsons maternity unit at the Royal Infirmary Hospital, not long opened in 2003.
"Linda spoke of the suffering of all too many pregnant mothers encountering complications in Malawi, and of her hope of saving the lives of babies and mothers in high-risk pregnancies there."
McDonald had already raised £100,000 for Bwaila with a recipe book compiled by Scottish mothers in 2005, MUMs Recipes - MUMs stands for "Malawi Underprivileged Mothers".
However, more still needs to be done for Bwaila Hospital and its patients. When The Scotsman visited the hospital in August, we saw mothers forced to sleep on mattresses on the floor because of a lack of beds. There were only two gynaecologists, compared with four in 2005, to attend up to 40 births every day.
Brown was immediately interested in helping the mothers of Malawi by writing a foreword for MUMs Recipes 2.
"The funds raised go to support a maternity hospital near Lilongwe, with which the Simpson had twinned itself as part of Scotland's growing relationship with Malawi and its people," she writes.
"At that time Bwaila Hospital was called Bottom Hospital (the one that was absolutely not the Top Hospital, you see) and was coping with 12,000 deliveries per year with only two qualified obstetricians on hand. Its inadequate facilities meant insufficient staffing, poor infection control and little access to necessary antiretrovirals and other drugs. A mother died every six days. Stillbirths and neonatal deaths were heartbreakingly high. Small wonder it was referred to as being 'born into a hospital from hell'."
Things are slowly improving at Bwaila. The Tom Hunter Foundation and money raised by the Scottish public is building and equipping a new £750,000 hospital, though staffing is still a problem.
The money raised from the sale of MUMs Recipes 2 is going towards a Wellness Centre in Lilongwe, Malawi's capital, which will provide an educational and caring environment for overburdened nurses and health workers, encouraging them to remain in Malawi's health sector rather than seek work in another industry or abroad.
"The fabulous MUMs recipes are helping to improve nurses' working conditions, to keep midwives working in Malawi and to encourage more midwives and doctors to work in Bwaila Hospital," Brown writes. "Infection control will improve, and so will pregnancy outcomes change for the better. The donations made via the MUMs recipe book will undoubtedly contribute to keeping Bwaila Hospital sustainable for the long term."
Linda McDonald recalls chatting to the nervous young mum in a dressing gown with her baby.
Despite her position as the wife of the then Chancellor of the Exchequer, and her obvious exhaustion, Brown was immediately interested in the plight of other mothers.
"When you have just had a baby you are very vulnerable ... no matter who you are, it links you as mothers," says McDonald.
Since her marriage, former PR woman Sarah Brown has been involved in the Jennifer Jane Brown Research Trust looking into neonatal deaths, and supports research into cystic fybrosis - the Browns' younger son, James Fraser, has been diagnosed with the condition. She is also president of the UK children's charity PiggyBankKids, which supports opportunities for vulnerable babies, children and young people.
"She is just a mummy who wants the best for her children, and he [Gordon Brown] is just a daddy who is very warm and affectionate with them," says McDonald.
Jack McConnell, the former first minister, visited Bwaila Hospital in 2005 and was so shocked by the conditions he pledged to make turning the hospital around his number one priority.
"Linda McDonald's amazing efforts to support the people of Malawi are mirrored across Scotland, from school links to building much needed modern hospitals," McConnell said.
"By buying this book, you too are now part of the national effort by the people of Scotland to contribute to the development of Malawi. You are helping to change and save lives."
• To order MUMs Recipes Two (£5 per book, plus £2.50 P&P for the first book and £1 each thereafter), visit: www.smartdesignandprint.com or make cheques payable to Mums Recipes and send to: Smart Design & Print, Unit 11. West Gorgie Park, Hutchison Road, Edinburgh EH14 1UT. For more details, log on to: www.mumsrecipes.org
Support of PM's wife is a recipe for success
THE Prime Minister's wife has personally endorsed a book of recipes which will be sold to generate funds for a Malawian children's hospital championed by Jack McConnell, the former first minister.
In the foreword to MUMs (Malawi Underprivileged Mothers) Recipes, Sarah Brown tells of her and husband Gordon's personal experience of losing a child - their firstborn, Jennifer Jane, who died after being born prematurely.
Her contribution to a cause which has been at the forefront of the Scottish political agenda, predominantly through the work of Mr McConnell, was last night welcomed by campaigners.
The book was put together by Linda McDonald, an Edinburgh midwife who worked at the city's Royal Infirmary when Mrs Brown gave birth to her two sons.
Mrs McDonald told her patient about the suffering of women and infants at Bwalia, formerly known as Bottom hospital, in Malawai.
There, Mrs Brown learned, mothers give birth without painkillers and one woman dies every week. Premature children are strapped to their mother's body in a desperate bid to save them without incubators.
Mrs McDonald told Mrs Brown that she planned to raise funds to improve care with her own recipe book. Her first publication raised more than £100,000 and her second, which is endorsed by Mrs Brown, is due to be released this weekend.
In a moving introduction, the Prime Minister's wife, whose youngest son, James Fraser, was diagnosed with cystic fibrosis a year ago, writes: "I have my own experience in losing my first child, who was born prematurely, and I understand what that means as a mother.
"I hope we can all find ways to prevent future losses for other expectant mothers. That is why I am such a champion of Linda's persistent and uplifting endeavours to bring about a better way of giving birth where it is desperately needed."
In the book, she tells of the horrific conditions women had to endure at a hospital coping with 12,000 deliveries a year with only two qualified obstetricians, poor infection control and no drugs.
Mrs Brown writes that the "fabulous" MUMs Recipes will help improve nurses' working conditions, retain midwives and attract other health professionals, adding: "MUMs Recipes is a real success story and I am very proud to be associated with the two recipe books."
Last night, Mrs McDonald, who runs the Linda McDonald Charitable Trust, a registered charity, said her former patient was "delighted" to support the project, having already written a message of support for her first book.
She added: "It was just great because she was doing it as a mum rather than the Prime Minister's wife."
Magnus MacFarlane-Barrow, chief executive of charity Scottish International Relief, said:
"Bottom hospital certainly needs more resources and help. It's great Mrs Brown is involved."
And Leo Williams of the Scotland Malawi Partnership added: "The more political support for these kind of things, the better. MUMs is a full member of the partnership and we are very pleased when our members get such support."
IN LIMELIGHT FOR THE RIGHT REASONS
THE new First Lady of No10 has so far avoided any of the public faux pas for which her predecessor became notorious.
The day after Tony Blair's landslide election victory in 1997, his wife, Cherie, opened the door to their Islington home, bleary-eyed and in her dressing-gown to a waiting bank of photographers. The leading lawyer continued to attract the attention of the press throughout her husband's premiership, with often outspoken views on the state of the nation and its key players.
Sarah Brown, on the other hand, has so far been notable by her absence from the public gaze. She and her husband dealt with the devastating loss of their first child, and their youngest son's cystic fibrosis diagnosis, with dignity.
A patron and supporter of numerous charities, she has opted to avoid public appearances. When her husband was Chancellor, she went as far as not attending some of his Budget speeches.
That is not to say she is not committed to him or her public position as it relates to him.
Previously a public relations chief, with clients including the Victoria and Albert Museum and The New Statesman, she gave it all up to be Mrs Brown full time.
Southern Africa: Celtel Varsity Challenge Goes to Region
Kampala
Pan African telecom's firm, Celtel is extending the second season of the Celtel Africa Challenge to universities in Malawi and Zambia.
More than 50 universities from the region are expected to compete to qualify for the competition.
The inaugural competition that was broadcast from February to June this year featured 16 teams of students from universities in Kenya, Tanzania and Uganda in a fast-paced quiz programme created by the award-winning creators of University Challenge, which is broadcast in the United Kingdom.
The team from Kenya's Egerton University won the first season of the Celtel Africa Challenge. It walked away with a grant of US$50,000 (Ush 87.5million) while each of the team members won grants of $ 5,000 (Ush8.75million) .
The show was televised simultaneously across Kenya, Tanzania and Uganda on Nation Television, ITV and Uganda Broadcasting Corporation.
Kenya, Tanzania and Uganda will be represented by four universities each while Malawi and Zambia, which are competing for the first time, will have two teams each in the challenge which will be broadcast as a 15-week knock-out tournament, resulting in a final champion.
The Inter-University Council for East Africa (IUCEA) and the respective education ministries are key educational partners in the programme.
Pan African telecom's firm, Celtel is extending the second season of the Celtel Africa Challenge to universities in Malawi and Zambia.
More than 50 universities from the region are expected to compete to qualify for the competition.
The inaugural competition that was broadcast from February to June this year featured 16 teams of students from universities in Kenya, Tanzania and Uganda in a fast-paced quiz programme created by the award-winning creators of University Challenge, which is broadcast in the United Kingdom.
The team from Kenya's Egerton University won the first season of the Celtel Africa Challenge. It walked away with a grant of US$50,000 (Ush 87.5million) while each of the team members won grants of $ 5,000 (Ush8.75million) .
The show was televised simultaneously across Kenya, Tanzania and Uganda on Nation Television, ITV and Uganda Broadcasting Corporation.
Kenya, Tanzania and Uganda will be represented by four universities each while Malawi and Zambia, which are competing for the first time, will have two teams each in the challenge which will be broadcast as a 15-week knock-out tournament, resulting in a final champion.
The Inter-University Council for East Africa (IUCEA) and the respective education ministries are key educational partners in the programme.
Malawi President hits back at Transparency International
Malawi President Bingu wa Mutharika has trashed global corruption watchdog, Transparency International (TI), perception on Malawi differing with British High Commission to Malawi, Richard Wildash who backed the organisation.
Wildash backed TI’s latest Corruption Perception Index (CPI) that Malawi had dropped 28 places from 90 in 2004 to 118 this year, a three-year time-frame discrediting Mutharika’s much-touted zero-tolerance to corruption.
The British High Commissioner described TI as a “credible” global corruption watchdog and he attached weight to its ranking.
But speaking on arrival at KamuzuInternationalAirport in Lilongwe from Portugal, President Mutharika said the rating by TI were wrong and went on to challenge the head of the organisation to visit the country.
"My government is challenging the TI president to come and discuss the issue with us. Otherwise Malawi will not take up their findings seriously," anger-filled Mutharika said.
The British envoy accepted the ratings as objective: “TI look at a range of indicators in order to calculate their ratings. It is a respected international NGO and we ought to take its views seriously.
“TI has this year covered more countries than previously and some of these have improved in their rating, resulting in Malawi having a lower ranking but Malawi’s rate as such has remained static,” Wildash told The Nation tabloid.
The President claimed his zero-tolerance on graft was on course disclosing that under his administration, government had successfully prosecuted 12 cases out of over 900 cases in the last two years.
Mutharika retaliated that he will continue his crusade against corruption.
"My government would continue to investigate high profile cases and make sure that they are brought to book," said the President.
People’s Progressive Movement (PPM) president Aleke Banda is on record saying that Malawi’s corruption ranking is disappointing and that government is paying lip service to the fight against corruption.
"It is very disappointing that we are not making any improvements in our corruption index, which means that our efforts are not having any impact. The problem is that there is more talk than action in combating corruption and as a country this is very sad.
"Corruption is rampant in public institutions, government departments and parastatals. Obviously, it also exists in the private sector, but it is worse in the public sector because people who are caught with corrupt practices in the private sector are dealt with more quickly than in the public sector," Banda said.
United Democratic Front (UDF) secretary general, Kennedy Makwangwala said: "The perception of Anti Corruption Bureau (ACB) today is that of an organisation that is used by the incumbent leadership to fight and silence those in the opposition whilst those in the Executive are busy amassing as much wealth because for them the ACB works just on historical information."
The British envoy also said it became evident that those interviewed perceive that Malawi needs to do more to address corruption.
Wildash backed TI’s latest Corruption Perception Index (CPI) that Malawi had dropped 28 places from 90 in 2004 to 118 this year, a three-year time-frame discrediting Mutharika’s much-touted zero-tolerance to corruption.
The British High Commissioner described TI as a “credible” global corruption watchdog and he attached weight to its ranking.
But speaking on arrival at KamuzuInternationalAirport in Lilongwe from Portugal, President Mutharika said the rating by TI were wrong and went on to challenge the head of the organisation to visit the country.
"My government is challenging the TI president to come and discuss the issue with us. Otherwise Malawi will not take up their findings seriously," anger-filled Mutharika said.
The British envoy accepted the ratings as objective: “TI look at a range of indicators in order to calculate their ratings. It is a respected international NGO and we ought to take its views seriously.
“TI has this year covered more countries than previously and some of these have improved in their rating, resulting in Malawi having a lower ranking but Malawi’s rate as such has remained static,” Wildash told The Nation tabloid.
The President claimed his zero-tolerance on graft was on course disclosing that under his administration, government had successfully prosecuted 12 cases out of over 900 cases in the last two years.
Mutharika retaliated that he will continue his crusade against corruption.
"My government would continue to investigate high profile cases and make sure that they are brought to book," said the President.
People’s Progressive Movement (PPM) president Aleke Banda is on record saying that Malawi’s corruption ranking is disappointing and that government is paying lip service to the fight against corruption.
"It is very disappointing that we are not making any improvements in our corruption index, which means that our efforts are not having any impact. The problem is that there is more talk than action in combating corruption and as a country this is very sad.
"Corruption is rampant in public institutions, government departments and parastatals. Obviously, it also exists in the private sector, but it is worse in the public sector because people who are caught with corrupt practices in the private sector are dealt with more quickly than in the public sector," Banda said.
United Democratic Front (UDF) secretary general, Kennedy Makwangwala said: "The perception of Anti Corruption Bureau (ACB) today is that of an organisation that is used by the incumbent leadership to fight and silence those in the opposition whilst those in the Executive are busy amassing as much wealth because for them the ACB works just on historical information."
The British envoy also said it became evident that those interviewed perceive that Malawi needs to do more to address corruption.
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