Making the arduous bicycle journey back from Kawaza, after a lovely brunch at Wellesley’s, I noticed water drop marks all over the road. The sky was overcast as it had been for the past two days due to rains in the plateau. Lo and behold, four hours after I descended into the valley to melodious voices of church choirs, the first rains of my service pattered on this barren, parched landscape.
I am unsure as to why I’m so elated by the first rains. I’m no farmer, nor do I gain in any way from the rains. If anything, it makes my transport out of Mwazisi all the more difficult. Perhaps, I too have grown weary of the heat, the dryness that plagues both the body and soul, infected my psyche. One is constantly tired in the heat, unable and unwilling to undertake daily functions, taking up permanent residence on the bed.
No matter the reason, first rains have quenched my body, hydrated my soul, and in this moment I am happy. The sweet smell of rained earth, the overcast skies, the gentle breeze cooled by water, and the varying patter of raindrops on the tin roof.
Once the rains fall there is a sense of calm that blankets the village. In my joy I slipped on my wellies, grabbed an umbrella and explored my backyard. Stepping up on an old beehive to peek into the makeshift water tank, watching water course through the gutters into the tank. Observing the animals; some scurrying for shelter while others remaining indifferent, unmoved.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Quit Malawi!
I began reading Gandhi’s biography by his grandson about three weeks ago. Gandhi, by Rajmohan Gandhi. Since the first business training I conducted at Camp Sky two months ago, I have been preaching the importance of small business. Looking around Malawi one sees vast stretches of beautiful, fertile land where practically anything can grow bountifully. Yet perusing shop shelves one sees only import goods. Malawi is crowded with products from predominantly South Africa, India and China. In addition, all major businesses in Malawi are owned by Indians, and increasingly the Chinese.
The first part of my lectures always highlight this fact: when you buy something, look at the label and understand that money is leaving Malawi. Each time you buy a t-shirt or even a soda, that money goes to make a foreign country richer instead of Malawi.
Malawians have two misconceptions. First that goods made elsewhere are of higher quality than anything made in Malawi. Secondly, they have grown to believe that the Indians and Chinese are inherently smarter or better at business. Both tragic falsehoods that I pursue to eradicate in the course of lecture by example. The most straight forward example being the community income scenario by tracking a loaf of bread and having students explain the flow of money.
Beyond the simple issue of misconceptions, it goes beyond to a matter of national pride, and personal pride. This beautiful, bountiful country; virtually anything can be produced here. Yet the major outputs are maize, tobacco, and minor staples like cassava, sugar, and cotton. The maize is eaten, but produced using harmful fertilizers and hybrid seeds, all from Monsanto and other foreign corporations. Tobacco is bought at an astonishingly low price by major foreign tobacco companies, robbing the rural farmers, exported, processed into cigarettes, imported back and sold in Malawi. There is no reason these products can’t be manufactured in Malawi and no reason all businesses can’t be run by Malawians. The Indians and Chinese spotted opportunities that Malawians weren’t taking advantage of and profited. Unattended treasure will be taken.
Perhaps it was decades of colonial submission, generations of stifled growth with a British boot at the throat, and being told you are inferior, dumber because of what you believe and the color of your skin. Between the missionaries, traders and government officials Malawi didn’t stand a chance.
The nail in the coffin is the geographic placement of Malawi as a land locked country, with virtually no port access to goods. Today it still struggles under the duties and demands of Tanzania, Mozambique and Zambia. Plagued by constant fuel shortages and expensive goods, coupled with inflation, donor funding, and the snowball effect of the aforementioned matters, it’s akin to digging your own grave. A slow, torturous, fatal labor.
So how to unravel this situation? First fold is trying to inject national pride, and cultural pride, into students. Stop being passive, accepting what people say, stop accepting circumstances and believe in your own abilities. Reading Gandhi I was elated by the parallels between the Malawian struggle and Gandhi’s. Be it his fight in South Africa or India, the ideas of non-cooperation, Quit India, and especially the ideas of rejecting foreign cloth, strikes at the heart of the problem.
What the British Empire had accomplished almost a century ago has been emulated by a more subtle and silver-tongued capitalistic empire, under the auspices of globalization. British Reds replaced by the pinstriped uniforms of capital troops. Corporations are the new Empire and the fight for Malawi’s freedom, for personal freedom, is rooted in the ideals of non-cooperation. Quit India is in many ways the ideal template for a Quit Malawi movement. Between Monsanto, Coca Cola and Unilever, these three corporations control virtually every good in Malawi, from maize to water. A David versus Goliath battle, Malawi would have to non-violently cast a stone to be released from the clutches of these giants.
Gandhi adhered passionately with his life to the principle of the chakra. Many ridiculed such a simple idea. How can one fight the Empire with the simple task of spinning their own cloth? And later, how can one fight the Empire with salt? Yet he did. Gandhi was ahead of his time, he developed the art of non-violent warfare, developed the foundations of fighting empires, be it the British or Monsanto. Gandhi understood that the heart of the beast was fueled by money. Without money empires and corporations alike would shrivel and fade away. Ceasing cloth imports not only made Indian citizens more independent, but also reinvigorated an ancient part of the culture and economically withheld the wealth of the nation, at least parts pertaining to cloth, in India.
This is the same principle I try to instill in students, kids and adults alike. Malawi has grown accustomed and dependent on foreign goods, coupled with the effects of foreign aid. There is absolutely no reason these goods cannot be made in Malawi. Malawians are the most resourceful people I have met in my life, able to make the most out of the little they have. In my short time here, I too am learning this art form from the masters. Malawians are also smart, hard-working and incredibly skilled at not only agriculture but also understanding what is available locally and finding practical applications. Nothing goes to waste.
However, change is slow. It took Gandhi an entire lifetime to free the Indian mind, which still hasn’t been wholly achieved. Africa has had a much worse colonial experience than India, and the psyche in Malawi could take decades more to change, but it is happening. While the adults are too old to entertain new ideas, one sees it in students. Ideas of national pride, of taking back their country, experimenting new ideas, making goods locally, making their nation wealthier. Youthful exuberance is in their eyes, with a twinkling of fiery rebellion and fighting for a cause. Students understand these principles and, like the chakra, there is a basic solution to Malawi’s dilemma. One that not only liberates its economy, but also empowers the people and reignites a beautiful culture that is rapidly deteriorating under Western and corporate influence.
Clay pots were an essential part of life in Malawi. The process of making earthen pots was taught by parents to children and the craft was then passed down through generations. Some pots that remain are still beautiful and functioning. These pots when filled with water act as a sort of refrigerator. Today, you no longer find these pots with rare exceptions in the market. Upon further investigation you learn that very few people still know how to make them anymore. In the course of a few generations the craft practically vanished in my region and new generations opted to fully invest in tobacco and learn the ways of Western culture rather than learn “useless” pot making. Most of the earthen pots now in Malawi often come from Tanzania. An unfortunate shift in culture considering these pots sell for a premium in souvenir shops and even home decoration chains in the U.S. An art form lost to foreign tobacco, which has by now almost robbed the farmers barren. Most people finally understand this and regret not learning the skills of their forefathers, the knowledge of eras of survival, like earthen pots.
In light of this, there is hope on many fronts. I have poured all of my hopes not in students but the women’s group we formed with ten women in the community. I taught them basic business concepts and then discussed their ideas for small industries. We settled on two initial projects: oil pressing and jam making. Both were slow to gain momentum, but during the past two weeks were in full swing. I loaned the group money to purchase six tins of ground nuts, with the condition that they pay for two additional tins, and also purchased sugar, 200 ml bottles and fruit for jam. Concurrently, I taught basic accounting concepts to track their cash flow. So far I have been impressed with the initiative of the group, considering that women do so much here that for them to sacrifice time and money for these experimental projects is a major contribution. While I was away, the women shelled and prepped the nuts, which we so far only pressed a liter. This will be divided in to 30 ml sachets after processing and sold at Mkw. 20 each.
More interesting than oil is the jam project. The first day we made tomato jam for taste trials it was enormously popular among all tasters. The second jam day we sold out all seven bottles of tomato jam within the hour. The third jam day we made mango jam, our most delicious product yet, which sold at a premium to tomato, was again very successful. The women were excited and I am ecstatic for them. Jam, unlike oil, sells at a much higher margin because it is marketable in the boma, thus reaching a much larger audience of demand. Simple acts of adding value have produced numerous positive outcomes. Next week I will carry a few bottles to sell in Lilongwe and Mzuzu to get word out, as well as print labels and seek out facilities to refine the taste and increase the jam’s shelf-life. The important result of this, however, is that the women are happy and confident at the promising prospect of this new venture and I pray that is its growth is constant and sustainable. I don’t think I could bear to see the collapse of their hopes.
The community has been catching on to the women’s activities. With the sale and success of jam, suddenly everyone wants to jump on the band wagon. Crowd mentality is common, but hopefully the ideas and principles of the group come across: building confidence and national pride. Ideas can spread like bush fires if lit in the right places. Like a line of dominoes, only the first need be pushed and the rest left to forces out of your control. I steadfastly believe there is nothing Malawians can’t produce in Malawi that they currently massively consume from other countries. I also believe it can be done economically at a lower cost, unburdened by transport and tariffs. And most importantly I believe that small industry, like the chakra, is the key to Malawi gaining its financial independence and reigniting its national pride.
The first part of my lectures always highlight this fact: when you buy something, look at the label and understand that money is leaving Malawi. Each time you buy a t-shirt or even a soda, that money goes to make a foreign country richer instead of Malawi.
Malawians have two misconceptions. First that goods made elsewhere are of higher quality than anything made in Malawi. Secondly, they have grown to believe that the Indians and Chinese are inherently smarter or better at business. Both tragic falsehoods that I pursue to eradicate in the course of lecture by example. The most straight forward example being the community income scenario by tracking a loaf of bread and having students explain the flow of money.
Beyond the simple issue of misconceptions, it goes beyond to a matter of national pride, and personal pride. This beautiful, bountiful country; virtually anything can be produced here. Yet the major outputs are maize, tobacco, and minor staples like cassava, sugar, and cotton. The maize is eaten, but produced using harmful fertilizers and hybrid seeds, all from Monsanto and other foreign corporations. Tobacco is bought at an astonishingly low price by major foreign tobacco companies, robbing the rural farmers, exported, processed into cigarettes, imported back and sold in Malawi. There is no reason these products can’t be manufactured in Malawi and no reason all businesses can’t be run by Malawians. The Indians and Chinese spotted opportunities that Malawians weren’t taking advantage of and profited. Unattended treasure will be taken.
Perhaps it was decades of colonial submission, generations of stifled growth with a British boot at the throat, and being told you are inferior, dumber because of what you believe and the color of your skin. Between the missionaries, traders and government officials Malawi didn’t stand a chance.
The nail in the coffin is the geographic placement of Malawi as a land locked country, with virtually no port access to goods. Today it still struggles under the duties and demands of Tanzania, Mozambique and Zambia. Plagued by constant fuel shortages and expensive goods, coupled with inflation, donor funding, and the snowball effect of the aforementioned matters, it’s akin to digging your own grave. A slow, torturous, fatal labor.
So how to unravel this situation? First fold is trying to inject national pride, and cultural pride, into students. Stop being passive, accepting what people say, stop accepting circumstances and believe in your own abilities. Reading Gandhi I was elated by the parallels between the Malawian struggle and Gandhi’s. Be it his fight in South Africa or India, the ideas of non-cooperation, Quit India, and especially the ideas of rejecting foreign cloth, strikes at the heart of the problem.
What the British Empire had accomplished almost a century ago has been emulated by a more subtle and silver-tongued capitalistic empire, under the auspices of globalization. British Reds replaced by the pinstriped uniforms of capital troops. Corporations are the new Empire and the fight for Malawi’s freedom, for personal freedom, is rooted in the ideals of non-cooperation. Quit India is in many ways the ideal template for a Quit Malawi movement. Between Monsanto, Coca Cola and Unilever, these three corporations control virtually every good in Malawi, from maize to water. A David versus Goliath battle, Malawi would have to non-violently cast a stone to be released from the clutches of these giants.
Gandhi adhered passionately with his life to the principle of the chakra. Many ridiculed such a simple idea. How can one fight the Empire with the simple task of spinning their own cloth? And later, how can one fight the Empire with salt? Yet he did. Gandhi was ahead of his time, he developed the art of non-violent warfare, developed the foundations of fighting empires, be it the British or Monsanto. Gandhi understood that the heart of the beast was fueled by money. Without money empires and corporations alike would shrivel and fade away. Ceasing cloth imports not only made Indian citizens more independent, but also reinvigorated an ancient part of the culture and economically withheld the wealth of the nation, at least parts pertaining to cloth, in India.
This is the same principle I try to instill in students, kids and adults alike. Malawi has grown accustomed and dependent on foreign goods, coupled with the effects of foreign aid. There is absolutely no reason these goods cannot be made in Malawi. Malawians are the most resourceful people I have met in my life, able to make the most out of the little they have. In my short time here, I too am learning this art form from the masters. Malawians are also smart, hard-working and incredibly skilled at not only agriculture but also understanding what is available locally and finding practical applications. Nothing goes to waste.
However, change is slow. It took Gandhi an entire lifetime to free the Indian mind, which still hasn’t been wholly achieved. Africa has had a much worse colonial experience than India, and the psyche in Malawi could take decades more to change, but it is happening. While the adults are too old to entertain new ideas, one sees it in students. Ideas of national pride, of taking back their country, experimenting new ideas, making goods locally, making their nation wealthier. Youthful exuberance is in their eyes, with a twinkling of fiery rebellion and fighting for a cause. Students understand these principles and, like the chakra, there is a basic solution to Malawi’s dilemma. One that not only liberates its economy, but also empowers the people and reignites a beautiful culture that is rapidly deteriorating under Western and corporate influence.
Clay pots were an essential part of life in Malawi. The process of making earthen pots was taught by parents to children and the craft was then passed down through generations. Some pots that remain are still beautiful and functioning. These pots when filled with water act as a sort of refrigerator. Today, you no longer find these pots with rare exceptions in the market. Upon further investigation you learn that very few people still know how to make them anymore. In the course of a few generations the craft practically vanished in my region and new generations opted to fully invest in tobacco and learn the ways of Western culture rather than learn “useless” pot making. Most of the earthen pots now in Malawi often come from Tanzania. An unfortunate shift in culture considering these pots sell for a premium in souvenir shops and even home decoration chains in the U.S. An art form lost to foreign tobacco, which has by now almost robbed the farmers barren. Most people finally understand this and regret not learning the skills of their forefathers, the knowledge of eras of survival, like earthen pots.
In light of this, there is hope on many fronts. I have poured all of my hopes not in students but the women’s group we formed with ten women in the community. I taught them basic business concepts and then discussed their ideas for small industries. We settled on two initial projects: oil pressing and jam making. Both were slow to gain momentum, but during the past two weeks were in full swing. I loaned the group money to purchase six tins of ground nuts, with the condition that they pay for two additional tins, and also purchased sugar, 200 ml bottles and fruit for jam. Concurrently, I taught basic accounting concepts to track their cash flow. So far I have been impressed with the initiative of the group, considering that women do so much here that for them to sacrifice time and money for these experimental projects is a major contribution. While I was away, the women shelled and prepped the nuts, which we so far only pressed a liter. This will be divided in to 30 ml sachets after processing and sold at Mkw. 20 each.
More interesting than oil is the jam project. The first day we made tomato jam for taste trials it was enormously popular among all tasters. The second jam day we sold out all seven bottles of tomato jam within the hour. The third jam day we made mango jam, our most delicious product yet, which sold at a premium to tomato, was again very successful. The women were excited and I am ecstatic for them. Jam, unlike oil, sells at a much higher margin because it is marketable in the boma, thus reaching a much larger audience of demand. Simple acts of adding value have produced numerous positive outcomes. Next week I will carry a few bottles to sell in Lilongwe and Mzuzu to get word out, as well as print labels and seek out facilities to refine the taste and increase the jam’s shelf-life. The important result of this, however, is that the women are happy and confident at the promising prospect of this new venture and I pray that is its growth is constant and sustainable. I don’t think I could bear to see the collapse of their hopes.
The community has been catching on to the women’s activities. With the sale and success of jam, suddenly everyone wants to jump on the band wagon. Crowd mentality is common, but hopefully the ideas and principles of the group come across: building confidence and national pride. Ideas can spread like bush fires if lit in the right places. Like a line of dominoes, only the first need be pushed and the rest left to forces out of your control. I steadfastly believe there is nothing Malawians can’t produce in Malawi that they currently massively consume from other countries. I also believe it can be done economically at a lower cost, unburdened by transport and tariffs. And most importantly I believe that small industry, like the chakra, is the key to Malawi gaining its financial independence and reigniting its national pride.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
The Godfather Principle
It’s amusing to sit here in my house and meditate on how drastically my daily habits and circumstances have changed in Malawi. And how rapidly. From the routine of brushing my teeth, daily upkeep and getting around, it has all changed. For example, I can’t simply turn on a faucet and brush, I need to fetch water from the borehole, pour in a cup and brush. It’s as if some invisible hand tore down the curtains and moved all the set pieces off stage, leaving just me; the actor in my own life, to mime the remaining acts.
To be blunt, PCVs live like, for lack of a better phrase, hobos. Dirty, grungy, welcoming free food and a free place to stay, and hitching the only mode of transport. No wonder most of these volunteers dutifully own a copy of Jack Kerouac. While we don’t come close to Gandhinian sacrifices, and a caveat that we can leave anytime, we do live quite menially. Little income, about $200 a month (which would not suffice if we had families), no transport, lack of proper telecommunication, etc. It’s the life we signed for, took our oath for as volunteers. I was chatting with an Indian shop owner in Mzuzu and mentioned my monthly salary and he threw a fit, and then offered me a cold beverage and some food.
Contrasted to this my life back home was the polar opposite. Trading a penthouse overlooking Boston for a humble brick house currently level with a dry, dead landscape. A shiny Audi for hitching and usually boarding an unreliable, unsafe, dirty bed of a 2-ton truck for transport. A giant television with all the trimmings for a book by candlelight. Those things at home I never really took for granted, though I was fearfully beginning to. I do miss comforts afforded by America; the conveniences for the most part.
While the case for missing is valid in a material sense, perhaps wrongly reinforcing that money buys happiness, the missing is nonexistent in a human sense. And I would trade a material world for a more humane world any day. The people here are more wonderful and unconditionally caring towards strangers than anyone back home. A visitor is a blessing, for example when a friend visits from afar, a huge celebration takes place with music and dancing all day.
The give and take of relationships; be it favors, a cup of sugar, or a meal when you’re sick, is unconditional here. Wellesley and I were discussing how American relationships are a very zero-sum affair: debits credited, credits debited. If I give you a cup of sugar, culturally you feel obligated to someday return the favor with one of equal magnitude. Let’s call this the Godfather Principle. This principle is so ingrained in us that Wellesley and I can’t seem to shed its effects. When people in our villages do something for us, help us, we get restless and anxious, worrying about how we can pay them back or return the favor. Forever self-burdened unless we find a solution.
In Malawi, people do favors with no expectations for it to be returned in any way. They believe that if the circumstances were reversed, you would do the same in the situation. In many ways it’s like you are family by simply being in the community, where everyone cares for everyone.
Reading through this I should clarify that I’m not implying one culture is better or that one nation is better, which is never the case. Nor am I aggrandizing myself for leaving a life of comfort for the village, for that means nothing if I still long for material comforts and if large families in my village live on less than I make here a month. I’m simply pointing out the stark differences on the other side of the pond, entertaining my thoughts because it’s dark and there’s nothing else to do. This provokes a greater question: how did so many starkly different, intricate, beautiful cultures come in being?
Pardon, I have a candle-lit rendezvous with Jared Diamond…where is that book?
To be blunt, PCVs live like, for lack of a better phrase, hobos. Dirty, grungy, welcoming free food and a free place to stay, and hitching the only mode of transport. No wonder most of these volunteers dutifully own a copy of Jack Kerouac. While we don’t come close to Gandhinian sacrifices, and a caveat that we can leave anytime, we do live quite menially. Little income, about $200 a month (which would not suffice if we had families), no transport, lack of proper telecommunication, etc. It’s the life we signed for, took our oath for as volunteers. I was chatting with an Indian shop owner in Mzuzu and mentioned my monthly salary and he threw a fit, and then offered me a cold beverage and some food.
Contrasted to this my life back home was the polar opposite. Trading a penthouse overlooking Boston for a humble brick house currently level with a dry, dead landscape. A shiny Audi for hitching and usually boarding an unreliable, unsafe, dirty bed of a 2-ton truck for transport. A giant television with all the trimmings for a book by candlelight. Those things at home I never really took for granted, though I was fearfully beginning to. I do miss comforts afforded by America; the conveniences for the most part.
While the case for missing is valid in a material sense, perhaps wrongly reinforcing that money buys happiness, the missing is nonexistent in a human sense. And I would trade a material world for a more humane world any day. The people here are more wonderful and unconditionally caring towards strangers than anyone back home. A visitor is a blessing, for example when a friend visits from afar, a huge celebration takes place with music and dancing all day.
The give and take of relationships; be it favors, a cup of sugar, or a meal when you’re sick, is unconditional here. Wellesley and I were discussing how American relationships are a very zero-sum affair: debits credited, credits debited. If I give you a cup of sugar, culturally you feel obligated to someday return the favor with one of equal magnitude. Let’s call this the Godfather Principle. This principle is so ingrained in us that Wellesley and I can’t seem to shed its effects. When people in our villages do something for us, help us, we get restless and anxious, worrying about how we can pay them back or return the favor. Forever self-burdened unless we find a solution.
In Malawi, people do favors with no expectations for it to be returned in any way. They believe that if the circumstances were reversed, you would do the same in the situation. In many ways it’s like you are family by simply being in the community, where everyone cares for everyone.
Reading through this I should clarify that I’m not implying one culture is better or that one nation is better, which is never the case. Nor am I aggrandizing myself for leaving a life of comfort for the village, for that means nothing if I still long for material comforts and if large families in my village live on less than I make here a month. I’m simply pointing out the stark differences on the other side of the pond, entertaining my thoughts because it’s dark and there’s nothing else to do. This provokes a greater question: how did so many starkly different, intricate, beautiful cultures come in being?
Pardon, I have a candle-lit rendezvous with Jared Diamond…where is that book?
Saturday, November 13, 2010
When You’re a Stranger
The skies are turning darker, clouds rolling through after shedding rain in the plateau. The sly winds are restless, howling in anticipation of the rains. The creatures from the tiniest ant to the fattest pig scurry about as if some great deluge is destined on this small village. The landscape is turning green again, trees spreading their leaves as if to shield the earth from a down pour. The days are still scorching hot, but the rains are coming. One can feel it in the air, in the earth, a tingling anticipation, parched lips and parched soil look earnestly to the skies and wait.
Those wily winds blowing through must have been unknowingly carrying a foreign agent that day. For the day after my birthday I was caught with a burning fever, aching muscles, and waves of nausea. My skin seared to the touch and the persistent fever jumped by the second morning. What an unrelenting illness this was.
Lack of network due to a “diesel shortage” and an inability to power the already faulty TNM tower proved to be problematic. I could not reach the PC doctors and we were strictly instructed in training to never go to a local health center. So I waited patiently, popping pain killers.
In this patient waiting a series of events in my community awed and gripped my heart. I was still practically a stranger, a boy really, a foreigner in a new place. The instant they learned of my illness they procured water and inquired about the medications I was on. Three families prepared soft foods for me when they discovered I was not eating because I was too frail to cook and nauseous to eat. They worried I had malaria, recommended I go see the medical assistant. Meanwhile, my counterpart kept a vigilant eye on network and immediately flashed PC medical when it was back up.
I have been bedridden for the past three days. The first being one of the worst I have had in Malawi; compounded by five PCVs crashing at my house en route to Nyika and three village kick-off meetings for new projects. Also, I hadn’t eaten anything all day and had been on my feet from dawn till dusk, the illness chipping away at me, I felt like fainting.
The guests departed the next morning, Friday. I called PC and again poor networks caused a miscommunication on prescriptions. What I heard as six Tylenols three times a day was supposed to be two three times a day. That’s 18 pills a day. I repeated the prescription and the doctor misheard. Accepting his expertise I began the regiment of 18 pills a day. The mishap was cleared up this morning when the doctor exclaimed at my concern over taking 18 pills a day. He asked me to cease the pills, start antibiotics, and drink lots of water to flush out the pain meds.
This whole event took a toll on me, but the attention and caring people in the community have shown amazes me. If I was sick in America, I would have been dead and rotting before someone complained of a foul stench and found me. I’m a stranger, yet they care for me like their own child. They worry when I don’t eat or get sick, and for no other reason than I am here and part of the community.
Later in the day Chief Chimbata and Reverend Kumwenda came by to chat about something. They started with a general topic of the bee group and detailed the itinerary for the Chilenda trip on Tuesday. In addition, the two outlined the negotiation strategy for purchase of planks for the group.
Then they diverted to another topic: my health. They were worried that I was not eating enough and that I starve myself (untrue). They said I live a very lonely life and I shouldn’t be afraid to ask for help or have someone cook for me. They proceeded to scrutinize the details of my daily diet. Reverend Kumwenda repeated that I live a lonely life and that he and Chimbata wanted to sit, chat and keep me company for a while during my illness. He told stories of his time in South Africa, how things have changed. We discussed Gandhi and other politics.
The conversation ended with them expressing their genuine concern for my health, stating: “we don’t want you to die Mr. Prashanth.” They departed with a prayer from the Reverend for my swift recovery.
Those wily winds blowing through must have been unknowingly carrying a foreign agent that day. For the day after my birthday I was caught with a burning fever, aching muscles, and waves of nausea. My skin seared to the touch and the persistent fever jumped by the second morning. What an unrelenting illness this was.
Lack of network due to a “diesel shortage” and an inability to power the already faulty TNM tower proved to be problematic. I could not reach the PC doctors and we were strictly instructed in training to never go to a local health center. So I waited patiently, popping pain killers.
In this patient waiting a series of events in my community awed and gripped my heart. I was still practically a stranger, a boy really, a foreigner in a new place. The instant they learned of my illness they procured water and inquired about the medications I was on. Three families prepared soft foods for me when they discovered I was not eating because I was too frail to cook and nauseous to eat. They worried I had malaria, recommended I go see the medical assistant. Meanwhile, my counterpart kept a vigilant eye on network and immediately flashed PC medical when it was back up.
I have been bedridden for the past three days. The first being one of the worst I have had in Malawi; compounded by five PCVs crashing at my house en route to Nyika and three village kick-off meetings for new projects. Also, I hadn’t eaten anything all day and had been on my feet from dawn till dusk, the illness chipping away at me, I felt like fainting.
The guests departed the next morning, Friday. I called PC and again poor networks caused a miscommunication on prescriptions. What I heard as six Tylenols three times a day was supposed to be two three times a day. That’s 18 pills a day. I repeated the prescription and the doctor misheard. Accepting his expertise I began the regiment of 18 pills a day. The mishap was cleared up this morning when the doctor exclaimed at my concern over taking 18 pills a day. He asked me to cease the pills, start antibiotics, and drink lots of water to flush out the pain meds.
This whole event took a toll on me, but the attention and caring people in the community have shown amazes me. If I was sick in America, I would have been dead and rotting before someone complained of a foul stench and found me. I’m a stranger, yet they care for me like their own child. They worry when I don’t eat or get sick, and for no other reason than I am here and part of the community.
Later in the day Chief Chimbata and Reverend Kumwenda came by to chat about something. They started with a general topic of the bee group and detailed the itinerary for the Chilenda trip on Tuesday. In addition, the two outlined the negotiation strategy for purchase of planks for the group.
Then they diverted to another topic: my health. They were worried that I was not eating enough and that I starve myself (untrue). They said I live a very lonely life and I shouldn’t be afraid to ask for help or have someone cook for me. They proceeded to scrutinize the details of my daily diet. Reverend Kumwenda repeated that I live a lonely life and that he and Chimbata wanted to sit, chat and keep me company for a while during my illness. He told stories of his time in South Africa, how things have changed. We discussed Gandhi and other politics.
The conversation ended with them expressing their genuine concern for my health, stating: “we don’t want you to die Mr. Prashanth.” They departed with a prayer from the Reverend for my swift recovery.
Monday, November 1, 2010
In The Land of Milk & Honey
Beyond the Nyika Plateau, west of Karonga, through a treacherous dirt road, past the Chinese road builders, is the northern most region in Malawi. Chitipa “the land of milk and honey” as Peaches endearingly named it. Chitipa is far and the travel tiresome. The three hour matola from Karonga boma to Chitipa was the dirtiest and bumpiest ride I have been on in Malawi. It instilled a newfound awe of the Chitipa Wrecking Crew, the aptly named group of PCVs up there, here in referred to as CWC.
Every year, according to PC tradition, the CWC hosts an annual Halloween gathering. Volunteers from all over Malawi make the costumed pilgrimage north for adventure, candy, Carlsberg and pig roast. As my first venture to Chitipa and my first Chitipa Halloween, the event was worth the trek. The CWC put a lot of work into organizing and hosting the group of about 15 volunteers that attended. The site was beautiful, Chitipa still green and lush, while the rest of the country was mourning the dry season.
It was unfortunate that more people did not attend, especially those in my own group. The CWC consists of Peaches, Franklin, and Filipo from our group and this was the event they hosted for us. I’m saddened to say I belong to a group of people in the central and southern regions that felt Chitipa was “too far” to attend. Instead they opted to celebrate, as they always do, amongst their Chewa-selves at the astoundingly original Lake Shore.
It only bothers me because the CWC put a lot of work into this weekend. The costumes were great; CWC had one of the best costumes as the Captain Planet team. Yotem was Captain Planet in a blue/white ski suit. Filipo was Earth in really tight (very very very tight) women’s pants that left little, if anything, to the imagination. I dressed up as Wellesley, who took the effort to draw an amazing rendition of her tattoos on my arm. I wore a lovely dress from Banana Republic with leggings and two head bands.
In the backdrop of all the festivities was Chitipa. Friday night we spent at Franklin’s, she hosted all of us in her really well-decorated home surrounded by the beauty of the region. The boma itself was like a ghost town, not many shops or goods available but it was enough to live on. The entire time there you are aware of the remoteness of the locale, far removed from the happenings of Malawi. In fact, I never even noticed a Malawian flag there.
Chitipa is a major boma and a large district in the North with a large diversity of tribes and languages (over 25 are spoken in the region). Even now there is no tarmac in the district, dirt roads only. However, the Chinese government has begun construction of the road, already underway it’s a massive effort. There are Chinese workers and flags all along the road. Some were sleeping under bridges, others smoking and driving big trucks. The entire ride you wonder what it takes to move so far from home, spend years building a road in another country. Money, certainly, but what else?
On Saturday we spent the day in the boma, eating chips mayaye, playing volleyball against the Chitipa Police squad, and the costume party. Thanks to Malawisaurus and Red, who were both competitive volleyball players, we beat the police for the first time in the match’s history. However, due to cheating on the police’s part, they won due to “rule changes.” After a somber technical defeat, and Malawisaurus almost assaulting an officer, we returned to Yotem’s Handymans Paradise for Carlsberg and dancing the night away in our costumes.
Sunday morning we left Chitipa on the same transport that brought us there. All of us loaded in, tired, thirsty, we drove through the winding dirt roads, through the majestic green mountains, and past the Chinese road builders, back to what seemed another world. The sole bumper sticker on the matola read: “to work like a slave is to live like a king.” Words to live by Chitipa.
Every year, according to PC tradition, the CWC hosts an annual Halloween gathering. Volunteers from all over Malawi make the costumed pilgrimage north for adventure, candy, Carlsberg and pig roast. As my first venture to Chitipa and my first Chitipa Halloween, the event was worth the trek. The CWC put a lot of work into organizing and hosting the group of about 15 volunteers that attended. The site was beautiful, Chitipa still green and lush, while the rest of the country was mourning the dry season.
It was unfortunate that more people did not attend, especially those in my own group. The CWC consists of Peaches, Franklin, and Filipo from our group and this was the event they hosted for us. I’m saddened to say I belong to a group of people in the central and southern regions that felt Chitipa was “too far” to attend. Instead they opted to celebrate, as they always do, amongst their Chewa-selves at the astoundingly original Lake Shore.
It only bothers me because the CWC put a lot of work into this weekend. The costumes were great; CWC had one of the best costumes as the Captain Planet team. Yotem was Captain Planet in a blue/white ski suit. Filipo was Earth in really tight (very very very tight) women’s pants that left little, if anything, to the imagination. I dressed up as Wellesley, who took the effort to draw an amazing rendition of her tattoos on my arm. I wore a lovely dress from Banana Republic with leggings and two head bands.
In the backdrop of all the festivities was Chitipa. Friday night we spent at Franklin’s, she hosted all of us in her really well-decorated home surrounded by the beauty of the region. The boma itself was like a ghost town, not many shops or goods available but it was enough to live on. The entire time there you are aware of the remoteness of the locale, far removed from the happenings of Malawi. In fact, I never even noticed a Malawian flag there.
Chitipa is a major boma and a large district in the North with a large diversity of tribes and languages (over 25 are spoken in the region). Even now there is no tarmac in the district, dirt roads only. However, the Chinese government has begun construction of the road, already underway it’s a massive effort. There are Chinese workers and flags all along the road. Some were sleeping under bridges, others smoking and driving big trucks. The entire ride you wonder what it takes to move so far from home, spend years building a road in another country. Money, certainly, but what else?
On Saturday we spent the day in the boma, eating chips mayaye, playing volleyball against the Chitipa Police squad, and the costume party. Thanks to Malawisaurus and Red, who were both competitive volleyball players, we beat the police for the first time in the match’s history. However, due to cheating on the police’s part, they won due to “rule changes.” After a somber technical defeat, and Malawisaurus almost assaulting an officer, we returned to Yotem’s Handymans Paradise for Carlsberg and dancing the night away in our costumes.
Sunday morning we left Chitipa on the same transport that brought us there. All of us loaded in, tired, thirsty, we drove through the winding dirt roads, through the majestic green mountains, and past the Chinese road builders, back to what seemed another world. The sole bumper sticker on the matola read: “to work like a slave is to live like a king.” Words to live by Chitipa.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)