Monday, June 22, 2009

June 22nd

I am relieved and glad to be able to say that I finally won’t day after day wake up with a sinking dread in my chest as I have at long last crested that invisible but no less tangible obstruction that is omni present at first exposure to something new. Things are getting better here everyday and I can identify the exact moment when things started looking up. I had started out the day with a particularly Cinderella moment as I sat by myself, in my empty house, scouring my cold, newly finished cement floor (yet another example of how ‘stuff don’t bring happiness’) to remove construction debris. You can imagine the path my thoughts wandered as my faster than it was emptying from my scrubbing. But in only the time in took to cook some breakfast to bring over, three of my neighbors flooded in with chigumu (African cake) and strong elbow grease, which turned kneeling pain into songs and laughter. Though this wasn’t even the turning point, it happened later that day, but first I must give a little back-story to explain.

I was stressing over how much I had paid the man who laid my cement floor, 3000K ($20) total at 500K ($3.50) a day. When I told him this he shook in head slightly and said his wife would pray for me, after which I more carefully calculated and realized that I had paid him almost double what an educated Malawian in the city would make. Many people had been helping with the floor as well as with other small things and I was worried that this would make them feel as though I had taken advantage of their kindness. I am well aware at how good I am at blowing things out of proportion with assumption, but this was one of the times I couldn’t help myself and all I wanted to do was throw money at people, because it was easier than excepting that in order to repay people here it meant I was going to have to succeed at my job.

That night chief Mphezi, a close neighbor, and the one who as been the primary one to oversee my care since coming here, called me into his house and as I walked towards the door I crossed myself; I’m not even catholic. This, I was sure, was the moment he was going to call me out. A short, confused, frantic exchanged in chewa ensued. I finally gave up in saying “I’m sorry, I don’t understand” to which Mphezi said in english, “I just wanted to know how your day was?” I walked out of the house dazed only to be called over by Chisomu, once again fearful and reluctant, because her husband had spent an entire day hauling sand with an ox draw cart, but she only wanted to offer me a sit by the fire on that somewhat chilly night, roasted nuts and the most genuine conversation I’ve had since I’ve gotten here. It was in those moments that things changed.

It took me a while to figure out exactly what happened, but that evening I finally relinquished all the inhibitions I had been holding up to keep the people here out of my heart. I had already been told by Mphezi that I am one of his daughters the same as Chisomu and Manasi and he would not accept money from me, but I couldn’t believe him or others that they weren’t actually without a hidden agenda. But once I gave up the reluctance and believed in the sincerity of their kindness, I realized I have friends and family here and in knowing that I could then begin to differentiate between work and home. I can go to work and it can be a good day or bad one, but afterwards I can always come ‘home’.

That and my neighbors got a puppy! Heaven help me! I promised myself I wouldn’t get a dog here. Damn if I can’t keep those pesky surrogate dogs out of my life. I even got to name it, though this too requires a back-story. When a women has a child here she is then called Muckha (insert firstborn child’s name here), so my mom would be Muckha Melissa, which is short for ‘Amayi Muckha Melissa’ or ‘mother specifically of Melissa’. So I had earlier called the puppy mwana wanga (my child), so when I said we should call it Mwiyo (mweeyo), Chisomu said if that was the case then they would have to start calling me Muckha Mwiyo. You can imagine how all of us sitting on the bambo mat nearly choked on our zimbe (sugar cane). Then even more impressive then getting to name the dog, Chisomu asked me to name her twin girls which she gave birth to early in the morning a few days ago. The night before she brought me some firewood, and the next day I hear babies crying. Midwifery is well and alive here as the hospitals (if you can call them that) provide little or no benefit over bearing your children at home.
People here typically have an English name and a Malawian name and to say I felt honored to be offered the opportunity to present an English name would be an understatement; so I poured over names. I considered every female name in the family; Diane or Labretta lose their ring when spoken in the Bantu language. Some Chewa names were just similar to English ones for example Tammy and Tandy or Sara and Sella. Other just have too many consonants or an R and an L which are pronounce no differently here, so names like Janiel, Hanna, Carol or Charlene are difficult for people to pronounce. Ultimately I decided on Amy and Erica (they pronounce as El-Leak-kha). Chisomu graced me with her huge, beautiful smile at the choices. Amy has already been accidentally changed to Emily and Erica has been shorted to Ella. I’m sure this will not be the first time I will be asked to do this so I’m just putting it out their that bribes can be delivered to my mother. But in all honesty I choose theses names firstly because they are two of my very good friends (sorry Melissa couldn’t give them my own name) and secondly bestowing a complicated or uncommon English name would defeat the purpose of people here having to give their children an english name in addition to traditional ones in the first place.


It seems I could spend the rest of my time here going from house to house smoozing and getting to know people. I have identified a few households I think will be receptive to trying some agroforestry practices. I’ve been collecting seeds of local hardwoods to hopefully redistribute. I’m working with a local NGO that builds wells and I have been put in charge of the implementation and the follow-through of one in a nearby village as well as identifying new sites as funding is limited. (Reminds me of Utah in that there’s a lot of farming, but not a lot of water.) I am also in the processes of trying to get in touch with an organization that helps farmers with small loans as well as finding markets for their produce. I’m delving deeper into figuring out the mushroom and bee farming. Just the other day I went and hung out with a man who was working on building a hive. I’m glad he was doing it but can’t claim a hand in the accomplishment of motivating him. Just a good reminder that it’s a mental game more than it’s a physical one.

I also tried my hand and teaching a few days at the local school and that lasted a week before I realized I could stay way to busy without it. Though I promised the kids I would teach them to play baseball, which will actually be modified as kickball. (The kids here are so damned athletic! I taught a girl to pitch underhand (my papa would be soooo proud) and after a few hours she was already frighteningly good.) A quick note about the schools. Poverty is not overly obvious in all aspects of life here. “Where do I buy that?” I’ll ask only to be told “You don’t buy it you just have it.” At which point they will show me were to find it or how to make it, but poverty is blaring present in the public school system. With one book for 40 students, with curriculum that jumps from states of matter and forms of pollution to how to rig up an ox-cart or wash laundry. Seriously I you want to, you next time you are in a library, to have a very good look around you.


As far as new animals go, birds are the primary fauna entertainment. Orange yellow birds with black wings, herons, new birds of prey, crows with white breasts, song birds with grey heads and blue wings or ones with black and white pinstripes. Early in the dambo one morning I caught sight of a skittish bushbuck of some sort that would remind you more of a goat with it’s short horns close on the top of its head and small size. I’ve also seen mice; not in my house but rather on a plate. I shit you not. With hair and rigamortis you realize you can’t imagine a fried mouse looking any other way. I made them eat the head and I tried the neck as I figured it had the least number of organs in it. Tasty but…

This last week I’ve taken to teaching myself yoga with a book my mom sent. I also got the idea that I wanted to start trying to bake as the people here don’t do much of it past loaves of white bread. I’m sure cinnamon rolls would blow their minds and as such I worked on building a stove. I took a bucket and khasu (shovel/hoe) to the dambo (closest comparison would be a wetland) to dig up clay which I then carried back on my head to my thatched roof house. I’m waiting right now for it to dry, we’ll see how well it works. Other adventures include fireballs as I let a pot of oil get too hot over the fire, at which amama (the chief’s wife) called me a dangerous child. Funny, but not untrue as I could have set my roof on fire. Another memorable story which happened a while back before I broke out my fancy bike, but as it goes I started back from the market late and realized I was going to be walking part way in the dark only to be offered a ride on the back of a man’s bike, who rode a ways past his house to drop me off. The random, senseless, kindness of people is enough to break your heart sometimes.

The last story I’ll leave you with takes place as I impatiently waited at a chief’s house for his wife to cook me nsima so I can go about my day, not that I had anything particularly pressing given, but walls become very interesting when you lack vocabulary. He had a TV but I had already tuned out the preacher, then suddenly on this black an white 12-inch screen with the static as loud as the volume, ran off a car battery they bike half hour away to charge. In a tin roofed house with food from our meal swept to the floor; calendars, family photos and scare, cheap, dusty garland flowers covering the walls, with a functional breast flying on my left and sitting on a couch whose springs where digging into my thighs there came Barack Obama. I can say with a surety I have never felt patriotism until this moment in my life. I have no idea how old the broadcast was but I was glued as he talked of nuclear disarmament and women’s education, interrupting only to try to explain that the building in some of the background shots was the president’s house (they gawked at it’s shape) and to smile at how the chief was herding his entire household, hire hands to neighbors to come see America’s president. I’ve decided a leader is great partially because they get others to lead themselves.

Love you, miss you and until next time your mission is to stuff yourselves silly over the 4th with whatever good ol’ American food item you think I would have enjoyed best!

PS. oooowwwWWWOOOOOoooooo (A big ol' loon (or was it Dupa) call to you Toolik folks starting to migrate out there!!! I have to admit after three summers, it feels a little funny not joining you as suggested i'll slap a mustache on one of these days as a tribute! Tight Wizzy Wizzy Wizards, LAB 1 rock that Core-sauraus)