Christmas Vacation Installment #2

It was a rare moment that I didn’t feel I was walking through a national geographic spread. The path was just a foot one that connected village after village along the slope of mountain after mountain that cascaded into in the water. I wondered at how for the people who lived here their only flat space was the waters surface. We asked daily how far to Rawarwe, which the local’s call charlie’s after it’s owner, and everyday it was anywhere from hours to days away. Women dried khonole on rocks, the men mended nets, the little girls fished with long poles from the shore and the boys took the boats out like teenagers do their parents cars back home. We saw monkeys, snakes, chameleons, an array of colorful birds and fish. We would hike ‘til we were exhausted and then hiked a little farther ‘til we found a good bit of sand. After asking permission to stay we’d wash up, cook dinner and watch the night. From time to time people you’d find someone selling a coke.

Did I mention it was beautiful? After 5 days of walking we were skeptical that this rawarwe as going to be any better than what we had been experiencing the last couple of days but it was and by the time we got there we were ready for the sit and enjoy spot that it was. Drinks, swimming, snorkeling, natural waterslide, high scream extracting rock jumping, good company and my tent was on a little cliff that overlooked the bay. After a few days of the main event being the family style dinners where we’d pass about big bowls of food we hiked to a village were the only public passanger boat on lake Malawi, the Ilala, stops. The hike out was a bit more of an exercise in patience as children would grab at your bag and hands wanting to hold them and the cries of ‘Adzungu’ reached volumes and reputations of 15 and 20. We finally got a old lodge that had obviously seen it’s glory days years before. Cushions were fading, termites where eating books away, hammocks were deteriorating, the resident dog was so old it looked like a rat and there was just one caretaker seeing to the grounds. Surreal, perhaps even eerie, but we had run of the place and were soon endeared with it.

The Ilala was actually a really pleasant ride though riding the life boats from the shore to get to the steamer was a bit intense as there was overloaded and loaded poorly.

The itinerary for the return home:

10:00am: Board Illala
2:00pm: Arrive in Nkhata Bay and hunt for food
3:00pm: Catch a matola to Mzuzu
5:00pm: Arrive in Mzuzu and walk to the Mzuzuzoo to stay the night

Next day
8:00am-11:00am run errands with Lyn
11:00am: Catch the AXA bus to Jenda
3:00pm: Arrive in Jenda and walk to Lyn a fellow PCV’s house
3:30pm: Take a load off

Next day
8:00am: Walk to main road
9:00am: Catch a hitch to Kasungu
11:00am: Arrive in Kasungu
11:00am-2:00pm: Run errands
3:00pm: Leave minibus depot
3:30pm: Arrive at Msulira
4:30pm: Arrive at home sweet home!

Did i mention that since it started raining bacteria has been able to grow a bit better and have to laugh as most any cut I get now becomes crazy infected and I walk around with these huge sores like some charity case. But don't worry they are getting better...slowly.

I realize it is a little late to be relating to you the details of my Christmas travels but I figured it was a good enough story you wouldn’t mind waiting for it. So here is my Christmas Eve itinerary as I traveled from Msulira to the place of Peace Corps convergence about 200km away at another volunteers house on the lake shore.

7:00: Start sitting on the side of the M18 waiting for something with wheels to pass.
8:00: Found the wheels
8:10: Arrive in Malomo to find more wheels.
9:00: Wheels that were found finally start rolling toward Nkhotakhota.
11:30: Wheels arrive at Nkhotakhota.
12:00: Big, Fast Bus comes then passes as it is too full to take more passangers.
1:20: Big, Fast Bus #2 comes and goes as the first.
2:00: Gave up on Big, Fast Bus and took as twice before crowded pickup truck beds.
3:30: Arrive in Dawangwa.
4:00: Another matola
5:00: Matola driver pawns me off on to a semi-truck not much slower than the matola.
6:30: Arrive in Tukombo just after nightfall.
6:45: Walked to Melanie’s House.
6:46: Drink in hand!!!

Christmas morning woke up early to take a swim in Lake Malawi in the light rain which turned to pouring. Beautiful! Walking back to the house I was stricken with mango greed. I’d pick up one only to drop two I was already carrying. Shirt, skirt, chitenge and my friend’s hands all were over flowing and I ate every single one. Melanie the night before had stayed up and painted some black socks her mom had sent her with our names and Christmas symbols and stuffed them with goodies also sent by her mom crystal light, chips, gum, chocolate, Malawian candy, granola bars, complete with a mango in the toe. John brought a santa hat so we all sat on his lap as he gave us our stockings.

The Rest of the day was spent connecting with family from home and cooking delicious food like mac and cheese, boxed stuffing, mashed potatoes, salad, chip dip, cheese, crackers, cranberry sauce, green bean casserole; most of which was curtsey of home. Though the neighbors brought a huge cut of beef and we slaughtered two chickens I don’t think I will soon forget pat’s face as he was frantically sawing at the chicken hanging from the tree who refused to let it’s neck be separated from it’s body. Not to shabby of a way to spend my first Christmas away from family.

The next once again drizzly morning the 8 of us packed up (our parade would turn many heads before it dissipated at the end) and walked out to the bus stop but because we were so many before we even got there a minibus going the other way stopped kicked everybody off, turned around and took us to Mzuzu. Took a while, but around 1:00 we got there had lunch and soft serve ice cream…..oh ice cream. After arguing trying to get a fair price with conductors for about at hour we found a bus at the depot that took us in the pissing down rain down hairpin turns in late afternoon into nightfall. I would be lying if I said it wasn’t scary. To give you an even better of what a motley crew we really were. On the way down the escarpment we began playing that “Do you know where to get off?” “No, I thought you knew!” “Who would know?” “Emily?” “You got her #?” “No.” “Hey lyn you got emily’s #?” And thus we arrived at Chiweta at night in an African monsoon. We took refuge in the local police station of this little unfamiliar village. Upon asking if there was an empty structure we could seek refugee in for the night. The policeman, who by chance was on duty, took our token Chitimbuka speakers to a local priest who opened the doors of his church to us.

The little priest, who was very concerned for our well-fair, led us up the escarpment a little ways to a, by Malawian standards, fairly affluent church that was still contained remnants of the days Christmas mass included three different colors of toilet paper stung from the ceiling and flowers. We kindly turned down offers of food though agreed to some buckets of water and spent the evening watched from our amazing vantage pointed the lightning storm that was pounding the lake.

The next day we made tea and brushed the pegs to an audience (once again the first of many times this would occur) and took off along the dirt path that would lead us south along the lake shore and with hopes to the magical place all PCV must see before going home, Rawarwe.

To be continued......

Dec 4th

Though I didn’t spend thanksgiving with family, I did spend it with friends and spent it cooking insane amounts of food at the ambassador’s house in his industrial sized kitchen. It was very satisfying to be reminded that though I have a hard time, making cassava leaves tasty, I do know how to cream butter and sugar and use a kitchen aide to make an applesauce cake.

We cooked such ridiculous amounts of food we were contemplating the serious options of mashing the potatoes in a washbasin with our feet and all this while the US ambassador tried to get his breakfast out of the toaster amid the chaos. We didn’t have turkey but we did have two roasted pigs complete with the token apple in the mouth. And though the boys were inwardly disappointed that there was no big screen football, the mail worn cans of cranberry sauce, in my mind, more than made up for it.

The ambassador’s house it full of beautiful treasures, each accompanied by a wonderful story; attained from his various placements. (They have priceless antiques from all over the world but I laughed when I saw a small cross stitch that read “home is where the state department posts you.”) Not to mention 4 couch sets that after dinner were filled with sleeping food induced comma volunteers. The rest of us were swimming in the pool. I didn’t know what to expect when I meet my first ambassador but I want you to know that your US ambassador for Malawi is Peter Bodde and he the most down to earth, generous, chill person and does much to renew my respect for those in political positions. He is a gracious host that exudes nothing but the genuine and an up most respect as he seems to be able to spare a piece of his individual attention for all. He was last stationed in Islamabad so Malawi is a seeming vacation for him.

My latest adventure, other than being an unsuspecting foreigner that almost bought tree leaves from some young kids that were just playing at selling real greens; is getting all my stuff stolen and then returned in a week. This may be the fastest thing that has ever happened to me in Malawi, but even so it is a long story.

I left to meet with one of my groups and to run some errands around 11am. I came back about 3pm to find my bedroom window open. This window had been a problem for sometime not shutting well and as I investigated I found that anything with a cord or that was shiny was gone. Ipod, camera, 10,000mk, my glasses, chargers, phones and the list goes on. I spent the rest of that afternoon sitting on my porch waiting for local chiefs to show up and calling Peace Corps security officers; though even now I’m not sure what I expected them to do. All my neighbors were super supportive saying they couldn’t believe anyone could have such shame and they more or less sat with me all afternoon just so I didn’t have to be alone. Defiantly a cultural difference but I really appreciated it.

Mphezi (recently learned this means thunder in chewa) even accompanied me the next day to the local police which reminded me a bit of group therapy because as you waited outside people would ask why you were there and upon telling your story they would sympathize shaking their heads. A good community forum to discuss common problems perhaps? It was also here that someone suggested that I go to a very powerful witchdoctor (a women) that lived in a village not 4km away. It was explained by my Presbyterian church attending mphezi, in all sincerity, that if I told her my story to her by the time I returned home the person who had stole my things would be dead. I than admitted that I didn’t want this individual dead as much as I just wanted my things back and killing this person would less likely result in the return of my things and more likely result in the making of orphans and a widow. Though I have to admit I can understand the function/usefulness of this belief/tradition in that it really did appeal to my ego. I would never see those things or this thief again and to think that he had received punished for his crimes and would not be benefiting from my stuff was very tempting. I was even just curious in seeing the processes but the last thing I want to do in get caught up in rumors of witchcraft as it is not taken lightly here.

At any rate I hadn’t been sleeping very well at night, feeling discouraged and questioning as to why I was even here. Disgruntled over losing over a $1,000 worth of stuff (I can only imagine how a farmer feels upon getting his life savings stolen from the shoe under his bed from the men who broke in with panga knifes. It doesn’t happen often, but it happens.), worrying it had been one of my neighbors and then I was waking at every bug that walked over a plastic bag. It was 8am two days after all the stuff got stolen and I was laying in bed still rolling over and napping in the soft light of the suns early morning and I heard a noise. Upon looking I see a pair of legs coming up and over my bedroom wall, passing through that foot gap between my wall and roof. All I could think to myself is “You have got…to be shitting me!” I decided I was going to catch this guy. I had actually spent a lot of time thinking of how this would go down and now was my chance. But he heard me and started to scramble down and I took off after him. This is when I need you to start using your imagination. It is awful hot at night so here I am in a red pair of underwear and a scandalous tank top with no bra chasing this kid through my compound laying on my peace corps issued bullhorn screaming profanities such as “GET BACK HERE YOU FUCKER!!!!!!”

As you could imagine there was no way I was going to catch him with no shoes. I let him go kicking myself for missing my chance. I didn’t even get so far as to see his face. I ran, got dressed and found mphezi’s wife frantic in explaining. At her call the hired hands came running. I gave a brief description and a directional indication and they were off. I didn’t follow, I’m not sure why, supposed I didn’t think I would be of much help. Not a minute had gone by and I heard shouts of “PANI, PANI, PANI” meaning “HERE, HERE, HERE!!!!” He was in the tall grass putting his shoes back on and the chase ensued! I could here their voices getting futher away. My surrogate mother yelled "Thief!" as she ran and the people they passed in the fields would drop their hoe and take up chase even if they had a baby on their backs. This guy had a trail of some 15 people after him.
And you know what…they caught him. I still can’t believe it. It turned out to be a 16 year old kid that had worked for Mphezi herding cattle a couple months before and instead of going home he moved a little ways away and with no family around. He had also at night been stealing milk from the cows and selling it at a market not to far away. When they caught him he was wearing my watch, had my camera in hand and far too much money in his pockets. It was a bit hard to watch as they brought him into the compound. Mphezi’s wife was having to pulling mphezi off the boy yelling at him to stop hitting him. They tied him up and all the men came one by one and hit him either once good or a couple of times and chewed him out. He eventually ended up on the ground but I think it was mostly becuase he had lost his will to stand out of depression. The women were gathered to one the side jeering saying things like ‘he is just a little boy or he’d be married by now’, ‘he’ll never be able to get a job after this’ It almost seemed the men were the bringers of ‘justice’ (It’s not the right word but it is the first that comes to mind.) for the women. I’m sure they were surprised at my calm reaction of just looking at him.

The police came and walked the boy to his house where they recovered most of my stuff; camera, ipod, ect. The stuff they couldn’t find; glasses, money, ect, will be replaced by peace corps. The police had to take all the evidence to there office and it was a bit heart braking to get it all back only to have to turn it back over for an undetermined amount of time.

Next the boy pleaded not guilty so I had to go to court. ~Melissa rolls her eyes~ Of course the first time I ever have to testify in court it had to be in a foreign country. It was pretty wild, the court room was a crazy run down hole. Huge cracks in the walls, bare lights and wires, water stains, caving in roof; very much a closet like feel. There was a judge, translator, police officer, witness, the accused and myself. At one point the boy and I were left in the room by ourselves…awkward, uncomfortable, creepy, pick an adjective. The judge let me sign the register and take my stuff and the boy will either be sent to a juvenile detention center or sent home on a heavy probation.

While this was all happening I called my mom and talked to her for some 2 hours and, even before we'd caught the boy, I came to terms with all that I was feeling. As such I’m actually really glad that I had to go through this whole processes as I learned a lot and have to say I am pretty proud of my resolve and rather happy that I got all my shit back.

Nov. 15th

Time passes in an odd way in a place that lacks the advent of watches or calendars and you learn to tell time in other ways. According to the one and a quarter tubes of toothpaste, 3 packages of pre-malaria meds, and 4 bars of bath soap (yes only 4) that I’ve gone through since arriving here, it is time for yet another update from this pair of rambling pants.

The most notable event is that the rains have finally arrived. It was just as exciting and wonderful of an event as you would imagine this opening of the heavens first time in 5 months to be. It had a contagious festivity that was complete with impromptu singing, dancing and mad scrambling to get stuff under cover. I motivated people to rethatch my roof the day before this affair began, which rather remind me of a cow peeing on a flat rock. The debris and dust this process deposited in my house was nothing short of a pain in my taco.

The best part about the rains, other than finally all my plants (you know how I love my plants) are starting to not look so sad, are the mangos. Mango season is just starting to set in here and they are .08$ a piece. I daily have been eating enough to make my face feel a little puffy. But the day before the rains came was a rather surreal day for me. I was sitting on the step of one of the groceries on market day, which in my village is a big deal though it is still nonsensically small. It was the first day I can remember having been let alone. I don’t mean this in a negative way...ok maybe a little….but I sat down and other than a few waves, I was allowed to just sit and not engage in social interaction, funny how not being talked to is evidence confirming that everybody knows you. I watched these people as they function in what is their reality and recognized that for the time being it is mine too. Before I had the tendency to think of my time here as more like a video game I could turn off and walk away from any time if it got too hard.

It was also this day that I decided that though I am enjoying myself here I never want to be this far from my family, friends (who are as good as family) and overall a world in which I understand how everything works, for this long ever again. A reaffirming discovery as to why my underlying priorities been always been what they are. Though I’m told at point when I return to the world that little bit of Africa rolling around inside of me will even make the world I know unfamiliar. The day before the rains was also the day I saw my first African rainbow, they look a lot like the ones in Utah.

I am in the processes of weaving a chicken coop so I can get some egg chickens, got three avocado trees to plant and I’ve been continuing to volunteer a lot of time with the International Award at Kamuzu Academe. The latest was a trip to the dam that supplies water. A rather small save haven for diversity. Compete with turtles, chameleons, stag lilies and a variety of the rare in this overly cultivated landscape. In the evening the flocks of sparrows rode in the windy sky, skewing the scale of the place to make them seem like swarming mosquitoes. The students were a pleasure to work with as I helped teach ecology and expedition skills. I don’t do this just so I can take advantage of the Academe’s hot showers and up the number of bars of soap I’ve used since arriving here to 5 because if I hadn’t joined Peace Corps I would have opted for an environment education position so it appears I have gotten my pineapple upside-down cake and eaten it too. I’ve also spent a couple of days laying on the late-afternoon warmed beach listening to the waves call to the stars, which would the next day carry sunshine to the shore, with my sitemate Audra from Wisconsin and all we could think of to say to each other is how we missed the snow. We giggled at what sick puppies we are.

I have also been make really good friends with the British teachers here and when interacting I can’t help but get the feeling I’m getting to know some long lost relative. In some slanted way this is true seeing as I am of Irish, Welch, Scottish, and German decent but I can’t stop imagining them in little red hats and wonder how the hell a bunch of farmers with guns beat them? At first blush you think; English, America how different can they be? But a lot of the British people here (they call them Expats) do nothing to deter any stereotypes I may have had of the English. That said they are some of the most genuine people I have ever meet. They are also teaching me all kinds of great English slang like; “Good on ya, minga, sod off, tickity boo, glassier, and quid.” And I am proud to say I sat through my first full football (soccer) game, or for matter sporting event period, from start to finish.

I’m having to start to put more and more thought into what to write as I’ve covered most day to day activities and believe it or not most things are losing their surprising novelty. A cultural tid-bit a lot of the older women have what I would describe as 3 short tick marks to the sides of their eyes and sometimes 3 low on their forehead. It is very subtle and not much done any more but done to beautify. Young girls who dance at the weddings will draw dots and their cheeks for similar reasons. Then both men and women will sometimes sport a rectangular scar on over their breast bones, said to keep poisons from passing into the body. I am unsure as to when, where or how these are actually received.

Working on starting a small library in the local primary school. But I’m hard time convincing they should actually let people use them or the paperback textbooks they already have many of which are still in plastic. I do understand their dilemma for once a long time ago I had Barbie, my only one as I was more draw to ninja turtles (I will never let my mother live down the fact that she threw them out, they will be worth a fortune someday) but it had hair gel which I never used because if I had I wouldn’t of had it anymore. It is frustrating beyond reason how the people here sell themselves short in the same way someone passing would say ‘how are you’. They are always saying please ‘help us, you must help us for we are a very poor.’ People in the states would take three jobs, and live out of a storage shed before admitting or begging such and thing. The people here are so smart and capable and they need to believe that. Perhaps some exercises in positive visualization but at any rate free shoes for Africa is over.

Oct. 15th

I had no idea today was a malawian holiday so all offices are closed and I have some spare time at the computer. I just this week got back from accompanying a group of high school age students from Kamuzu Academe on a 4 day backpack trip to Mulanje mountain. We rode 12 hours on a bus that could have been driving around that partridge family (get happy) just yesterrday. It went at between 40 and 80 km the whole way and 30 km from the mountain, just when it’s dark shadow was materializing from the distance dusky light there was a pop and hiss and that was the end of it. After pouring 3 gallons in the radiator, inspecting the oil splattered on the inside of the engine compartment, and nearly dislocating my arm trying to kick start it we gave up and sat into the night until other transport arrive.
The mountain itself was spectacular!!! Not only are you constantly surround by the layers and shades of greys and greens caused by the various distances of huge mountains on top of the plateau but there are really nice huts where you either tent of book a bed. You can sit inside by the fire and cook or get the porters/guides to boil bath water. No big animals other than some spectacular birds, but there tons of unique vegetation. It also rained. So light at first you couldn't tell it from the sweat already literally dripping off of your face, but the mist turned to sprinkles, which made way for thick, fatty, cold, stinging drops of rain that dazed me rather than spurred my pace. I can only say it was as dramatic as you would imagine the first rains after 5 months of dry to be.
There is defiantly alot to be done there by way of management and my mind was going nuts the whole time with ideas proving to me I hadn’t forgotten everything I went to school for. Their biggest problems are encroachment of the village on the park boundary and super eye sore fire breaks mostly constructed to try and deal with poaching. In addition Mexican pine was originally planted in plantations on top of the mountain for sale and is now being removed but revegetation of the plantation and burned areas is non-existent. They also are encouraging the purchase of Mulanje cedar products as a type sustainable harvest but they really don’t have the management or outplanting program to support it. I’m also pretty suspicious of the miles of homogonous fern covered hilltops. I could stand being hired as their conservation restoration ecologist for a couple of years.
My sitemate gave me a pair of pants that were too big for her but they were too small for me. The people in my village will tell you this is because I am very fat. It is meant as a sincere compliment, as I am rich enough to buy food that would make me fat or to eat enough to put on weight, but never fails to give me a bit of a complex every time. Over dinner that night I asked Manasi if she had ever even tried on a pair of pants. She said that she hadn’t so I offered to let her try on this small pair. She was in my house giggling the whole time and after I finally convinced her to come and let me see in the candle light and she was slightly bend at the knees and waist as she crossed her arms over her crotch with a hand on either thigh. You could tell that she was terribly embarrassed to show off the space between her legs even though she was fully dressed. I then convinced her to got show her parents and as we walked to the house I wondered if I shouldn’t have asked if she could put them on first, but it all ended well with lots of laughing. I let her keep them. Could have been the most important thing i did all week.

Sept 23rd 2009

Malawi has a rainy season a dry season but right now it is the wedding season. Families come days early to help prepare. I went one of day to help with food prep which is done all done by hand in the traditional style. There were some 150 women there from all over the village and there were stations for each of the process for turning corn into flour. Taking the corn of the cob, pounding, winnowing the hauls off, soaking, pounding again, spreading flour on mats to dry. The most interesting step was the pounding of the corn with mortar and pestle to get the haul off. There were some 15 mortars and the popcorn effect of the pestles had the same popcorn effect as that kids fishing game where the mouths of the fish would open and snap shut. With some of the bigger mortars (3 gallons perhaps) people went at it double like the pistons in a V-shaped engine. If they had filled it too full they would wrap a piece of bright cloth (I don’t think you could fine dull color cloth here if you tried) around the top to keep it from spilling. I tried and I just couldn’t get enough power behind my stroke and when came close corn flew everywhere. I can’t accurately convey how physically strong these women are, they can dead lift a 10 gallon basin of water onto their heads and not slosh it a bit.

(Myself, I got tired long ago of paying for rice that I had to haul by bike and hour so I asked my chief to give me some corn. I was not allowed to buy corn because people would think that mphezi’s family is going hungry and there is no greater insult, due to the laziness or selfishness this implies. So now I take my corn to the maize mill just like everybody else. It is such a basic part of lives people here that doing this simple act has on some underlying level given me great insight or at least I feel more real to them.)

The whole day we drank something called Tobwa, it’s one step away from beer and is made from corn, I’m still not clear on the whole of the process, but it is thick like Metamucil and a bit sour and if made well you can obligingly drink a cup or so. At the end of the day the women circled up and started to dance and sing. There were three circles and of course they put my in the middle one. Everyone was delighted the same I’m I would be if they came to America and tried contra dancing. The singing was a kind of call and answer and because this was the older women’s circle the steps were small, simple and conservative. After a bit I went over to the dance circle where all the young mothers (these are the people my age) were. The circle was packed so tight and the dust being thrown up was so thick you couldn’t see the people in the center. You know how much I love African dance, I was flipping my shit. As soon as I went over they parted the crowd and put me in the center. I did my best, busting out every dance move I had and shaking my money for all I was worth. By the time I had gotten around to the ‘running in place butt shake’ we were laughing so hard that we couldn’t dance let alone sing. This may have been my best day in Africa yet.

I was able to track down a Mormon church here in Malawi. Turns out there are actually two, one in Lilongwe that has been there for two years and one in Blantyre which has been there for 5 years. I was deathly curious so I worked some magic and got a ride with some members, actually the only members with a car. They are working here as NGO doctors and are from Bountiful. The branch consists of some 15-30 people given the day; 6 are missionaries who are always there and then there are some 5 people from America the rest are Malawian. It’s an absolutely, endearingly, shocking contrast to the mormon epicenter, which everyone one was excited to hear that I am from.

They literally are building everything from the ground up; from the baptismal-font being a fenced frame lined with a trap so it will hold water to eliminating the awkwardness in coordinating the hand positions when ordaining because they have only done it a handful of times. As you can imagine new members are given what I traditionally consider to be really big callings, but in a smaller setting they seem more manageable. For example Dawn of the Relief Society Mafia seems less threatening when you only have 4 sisters that stay for after sacrament meeting. They are fervent for any insight or help they can get.

I have to admit that was really good to be there and I have made a point to go whenever I am in town on Sundays. It is something familiar when most everything else around me is not. To know how and when things happen, being able to put the brain on a form of auto-pilot, is a rare treat. I miss the sense of community, but more than anything I miss the songs. There is a keyboard but are you kidding me nobody here know how to play that thing, so songs are sung without it with varying levels of success as few know the songs.

For the fall equinox I went to The Lake (meaning Lake Malawi, said in the same way that people from New York say The City and mean New York City). A girl in our group has her site there along the lakeshore and the minute you stepped off the bus you could even smell that this place was nothing short of a tropical freaking paradise. A 2 minute walk from her bungalow is a beach with clean white sand accented by black wave lines. She has a pair of snorkels left there by the previous volunteer and you can only imagine the sunburn my back sustained when I discovered that at the climbing boulders a little ways off shore there were endemic ciclydes to be found. Swimming in that water gave you the sensation of being in an aquarium the same way that standing next to castle, if it had a plug coming out of it, or and giant cigarette would make you feel as though you had shrunk. Piles of smooth amber and white stones amongst the occasional half buried slick black boulder where overflowed with glacier blue water that glittered with eroded fleck stone and granite. I couldn’t help but giggling for the joy of it and like my grandma fill my pockets to budging with stones that caught my eye; though I have no idea what I’ll do with them or how long it will take for those rocks to grow back.

In the evening I would swim to where the lake filled my vision and the liquid mercury and the cotton sky could only be told apart by a thin line. It was campfires, good folk, and undiluted stars. It was evening breezes of perfect temperatures and a sudo-far shore consisting of the lamp that swung from the bows and sterns of the dug out canoes of local fishermen. In the morning the intense orange red, but still heatless sun, would turned the so many unrealized pastel shades of blue, that the water the water and sky were, to so many unrealized pastel shades of pink and purple. I discovered that Malawi means flames in Chichewa and with the rising sun’s reflection pointing at me along the waters surface, the same way the eyes of some portraits do, always following, I would have to say the name is well chosen.

I came and went to ‘In Service Training’ at the end of August. I learned to make soap, jam, oil, peanut butter, graft fruit trees, ect. On arriving back home I was literally welcomed with open arms. These were first hugs I have received while being here though I think it is more because they see people do it in movies or me with my friends than meaning anything to them, but it meant a lot to me. And ever since I got back from that I have hit the ground running. In fact there is so much going on now I’m really only around my village about 4 days out of the week. This is partially due to the fact that things have to be done the long way around, but has none the less resulted in the sliding of other parts of my life such as warm bucket baths have turned into refreshingly cold ones and the way clothes smell rather than look are what qualifies them for laundry. I’ve been holding village meets to better explain what I’m there to do, now that I feel I can explain it well, and I’ve been really pleased with there effect. I’m working on the logistical and material details of teaching to make soap, putting a peanut sheller in the local mill, getting some textbook for the local school, and I have also been to a number of meeting with the Land ‘O Lakes people about the possibility of doing some kind of milk goat project in the village. There is a lot of framework that would need to be set up for this. So myself and another girl, who is stationed on the west side of Kasungu and received her masters degree in goats, would be undertaking this pilot as we are the closest environment volunteers to Lilongwe. I have to wear nice clothes to these meetings and I tell you nylons make my leg hair look funny.

Other last tibits include that I finally asked my chief for some land to farm. He gave me a half acre and I’ve made a point to go dig in it for at least 1.5 hours every morning. I wouldn’t call what I’m doing making ridges so much education appreciation or taking a bit ol’ bite of pride pie as I realize that something as basic as honestly growing your own food is something that I have no idea how to do and am physically too soft to do. My hands are really blistered and because I’ve not seen a pair of gloves to be bought anywhere I’ve taken to wrapping my hands in handkerchiefs. I’ve plateaued with my language so am taking lessons from a family whose company I really enjoy. Had to half my Malaria meds, the dose was messing with my head. I put my neighbors month old on my back for the first time and she peed on me. I've started playing netball (which is actually a professional sport) with the women every saturday. I paid my neighbor girl to water my garden while I was away and I asked her what she was going to do with the 100K or .75$ I gave her. I’m thinking candy, but no she wanted to buy pens for school…I’m so freaking rich. I made myself a hammock which has exponentially improved lounging in Africa pleasure. I’ve found that early morning cook fires remind me of campfires back home, perhaps some day campfire with remind me of Africa.

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)