The power of Chicken Parts

For as much as she makes me cry, Africa makes me laugh more. (If you can forgive the generalization) I've rarely met a normal African who didn't have a good sense of humor. (I say "normal African" because, in thinking it through, I suddenly recalled Robert Mugabe, a Zimbabwean independence hero cum dictator and proven party pooper.)

Not fun.

This sense of fun manifests in all sorts of ways, the clearest for me being in how coworkers relate to each other. Conditions may be dreary but that doesn't stop them from joshing around, the familiar, good-natured teasing of folks who see each other daily. Malawians are quiet people, but when they joke, they can be LOUD, prone to swatting at each other, then doubling over in laughter. 

In the hospital I once counted eight labor staff huddled around the same bland plate of nsima and beans, standing in the dark because there was no electricity that day, the doctors, nurses, and cleaners alike dipping their hands into a common plate, everyone aware of how much they were taking, everyone chatting and joking, demonstrating an everyday egalitarianism I've never seen equalled in any American hospital. 

People know when they're being funny. They just don't take themselves too seriously, which I love. They can be totally professional, but will almost always jump at the chance to be silly or gently tease. Plans so often go south - why not enjoy the ride? I love seeing that glint in my coworkers' eyes, our mutual recognition of the absurd, the big grins we share.

Sue, making me take a picture of her pretending to pump at a village borehole (which is akin to randomly posing next to an office water cooler in America, say), and then making me pose by it too.

Africa also makes me chuckle in little ways, many of them simply a function of living cross-culturally, the kinds of ironic details that make life silly in any new place: The shop near our house called Chicken Parts, or the one called Demonstrating the Power of Calvary Fashion Shop. The guys who wear hardhats no matter what kind of work they're doing, e.g., harvesting sweet potatoes from a field with head protection on. This horrifying logo on our ironing board. The way these chickens shortcut through our house anytime they like. 

It definitely goes both ways: The way Harrison's mouth twitches when I ask him something ridiculous and he's trying to form a diplomatic response. (Harrison is our gardener. A man of few words, but we often hear him singing falsetto as he works, in that way you sing when you have earbuds in and don't realize you're being louder than you ought.) The unfortunate interaction I had with an administrator at the district hospital, just after blowing my nose, when I didn't realize a large booger had shot past my tissue and was now on my chest. The way her smile abruptly disappeared as she peered down at it, asking, "What's that?"

Sometimes it's gallows humor, for sure. I wrote about that back in 2008, Blessed to be a Witness, and it is still true here. I'll never forget a failed vacuum delivery when, after way too much time, the midwife simply stopped doing anything and started joking about how bad everything was going; and instead of being stunned, everyone around her just started laughing. It left a bad taste in my mouth, for sure, but I understand this is the kind of thing that develops after years of bad outcomes, a coping mechanism. There's a fine but important line between healthy and unhealthy coping, but as purely an outsider, I'm not really qualified to judge.

Frequently, the black humor in Africa comes at your own expense: Like when Matthew had to pull a tick out of my left buttock a few nights ago. He was watching the season finale of The Wire (I quit it long ago), but I made him pause it to examine something I could feel but not see. "What is it, a skin tag?" I questioned him urgently. "Hmm..." he murmured, bent over studying it, then after a pregnant pause, replied meaningfully: "No."

(It definitely made us laugh because I'm always bemoaning his interruptions right at the climactic kiss of whatever movie I'm watching - ruining the emotional investment of the past two hours - and now I was doing the same, interrupting him just as main character Frank Sabatka was getting bumped off, to pull a tick off of my bum. ("Not Frank!" he moaned.)

My favorite example of gallows humor, of course, will always be the title photo of this blog. I was traveling for work many years ago, creeping over rutted roads in rural northern Mozambique, when we stopped for the night at a humble pensão and noticed this unexpected mural on its wall. Whoever was inspired to paint this... now that was a person with a strong sense of the absurd. 

My kids find it mildly frightening. I find it silly, sort of morbidly delightful; indeed, I love it so much that I just commissioned a local artist here, Vincent, to recreate it for me. He did an amazing job. 

And interestingly, he never once asked me why I wanted this particular odd picture. He seemed to just understand. He thought it was very funny.  

You & me both, Vincent. You and me both.

P.S. - If you're feeling the need for more silliness in your life, I definitely recommend the mixture of small goats and elementary-aged children with dubious critical-thinking skills.