DEB

Before completing The Poisonwood Bible, Barbara Kingsolver referred to her book project as the Damn Africa Book, DAB for short. This project grew bigger and bigger, a cause of much frustration and sleepless nights. One of my projects, out of similar frustrations and sleeplessness, I have decided to name the Damn EPA Building, DEB for short.

DEB is a building construction project that I am now charged with completing. The only project I inherited wholly from my predecessor. Six months ago I was sitting behind a desk, never having touched a bag of cement in life, unless I had unknowingly brushed one in the aisles of Home Depot. Now I find myself in charge of a building project. Probably the deepest end I’ve been thrown in, the hardest I’ve hit the ground running.

Even though about 75-80% of the work is complete, there is still a lot of work to be done. Mainly half the flooring, drains, revealing, doors, windows, landscaping, painting, fisher boards, and compost toilets still remain. Also, with ESCOM bumbling about, we had to add the additional job of wiring the building for electricity, should it ever arrive.

Technically, I don’t have to take on this project. This belonged to the previous volunteer and I don’t have to continue any of the projects I don’t want to. Also, we are not supposed to start or work on any projects the first three months at site, until IST is completed. But, these are unusual circumstances and slowly I’m growing aware of certain personality similarities between the previous volunteer and myself.

DEB was started almost 2 years ago after the community indicated its strong need for an extension office in the area. Between the massive deforestation and tobacco farming, the local environment has been decimated. Mountains barren, dry, soil ruined, trees non-existent. The reason this project took 2 years to get this far is because it faces a two-sided problem. On the one side, the previous volunteer deeply wanted the building to be financed by the Malawian government, as opposed to direct donor money. This was, after all, an extension office for government workers, so it’s only fair that the government finance the construction. On the other hand, the actual construction of the office had to be undertaken by the community, which draws its own set of problems of gathering competent and dedicated workers.

The unfortunate caveat to all this is that although the government will be held accountable for this project the money is still donor sourced. Malawi is financed predominately by donor money, with over 60% coming from the World Bank, USAID, the EU, and other donors. Just walk the streets of any city and you will see almost 3 out of every 5 vehicles with an aid organization banner on its side panel. However, I understand the need to hold the government officers accountable, especially when funds have a tendency to “disappear” in the often empty halls of government offices.

Working with the local Malawian government is, for lack of a better phrase, a pain in the ass. The list of frustrations are endless, the bureaucracy, the pampered egos, the red tape, the fact that on most days people never come into the office, and the most infuriating shoulder shrug whenever I ask them what happen to the money. In addition, they never call back when they say they will, and constantly reneg on verbal agreements of money and supplies (which are common agreements here). Being Indian, I understand where these politics stem from, after all I’m a foreigner in their country, but it is nonetheless utterly frustrating. Having to shuttle back and forth to the city countless times just to meet a department head only to be told “I don’t know, but try again next week, maybe.” And travelling is no easy task, especially coming from remote Mwazisi, and especially considering Peace Corps does not cover that cost of travel, which is quite expensive.

The flip side is dealing with community workers. On one side you have the government pulling with its “lack of funds,” underpayment, and delayed payments. On the other side are the pulling workers: frustrated, tired, and hungry to be compensated for the work they did so they can eat. Sometimes I feel like the two sides will tear me in half. I side with the workers in my community: they are not always good, but they do the work. I understand that they set aside tobacco farming for working on this building project and that this is their primary source of income this season. I understand the frustration when the work is done but they are not paid. However, at the same time, they too can be a pain in the ass to deal with. Getting them organized, pushing them to show up to work on time, everyday, to do a good job, working along-side them, getting up 2 hours before they arrive, working an extra hour after they leave, and occasionally floating them out of my own pocket. It’s a constant battle.

Sometimes the workers are out for legitimate reasons, mainly severe illnesses stemming from lack of proper healthcare and nutrition. But other times they don’t show up because they are working on other projects, which is irritating but understandable as private projects pay much better than public ones. It’s unfortunate that I sometimes have to run the project with an iron fist, but there’s no other way.

I don’t have to complete this building; I have no obligations to it. I could let the government and community figure it out and complete it on their own, even though if it might take years. But I know what it’s like to put two years into something and not see it to fruition. No matter how detached one can become, the building is still sitting there unfinished, incomplete, haunting and nagging as the summation of your work here. Perhaps I’m projecting. Also, this project gives me a chance to prove myself to the community that I can take over from the previous volunteer they so endeared. The project serves as a passed torch, allowing me to take the community into another direction. I’m also thrown in the deep end of the local Malawian government and understanding how to work within it, navigating the often empty offices. But of all this, mainly I hate to see unfinished things, strings untied. It bothers me, to a point where I will do it myself if need be.

That’s how I ended up in charge of DEB. The reason I find myself, shovel in hand, mixing proportions of sand and cement to make plaster, varying mixtures for flooring, getting quotes for doors, windows, and ignoring the bubbling sores forming on my hands. I enjoy learning about construction, all things I did not know before, even though the responsibility of completion weighs heavily. That Damn EPA Building.

Oh Sorry Sorry, Is it Malaria?

I haven’t been feeling well for the past couple of weeks. Unfortunately, it coincided with the arrival of cement for DEB. I could opt not to work, as I don’t get paid for it, but it would reflect poorly on my abilities in the community. Plus, I’ve learned that I’m not one to sit and watch someone else do the work. For some reason it makes me feel incredibly uncomfortable, even if I’m paying for the labor. I feel obligated to help in some way, to do something.

So the sickness only worsened due to the building work, face full of cement and dirt all day, and the freezing temperatures of the dry season, all equally contributing. Everything has become twice as hard to do and I find myself without energy. People ask why they haven’t seen me around or if I’m alright, and I tell them I have been very sick. They respond with:”Oh sorry, sorry, is it malaria?”

Malaria is very common here and the most common ailment that people get sick from. The health center, fortunately, gives out Coartem, but not everyone is so lucky. After briefly doubting my own memory of taking my weekly anti-malarial, I was reminded of our extended health sessions on malaria.

Malaria is taken very seriously in Peace Corps. Anyone that contracts it, and is discovered not to have taken their anti-malarials, will be medically separated and sent home. We are required to carry a supply of pills (Meflaquin for me) along with a regiment of Coartem. All of us probably already have malaria, as there were plenty of mosquitoes in Dedza, but the anti-malarials ensure that the virus stays in the liver, containing it. Thus, we have to take the pills regularly, so it can keep containing it for our time here. At the end of service we are given pills that will kill the virus in our system. If at any time the anti-malarials wear off and new doses aren’t ingested, the virus leaves the liver and enters the blood stream.

There are three types of anti-malarials Peace Corps offers, depending on the drug’s side effects for each volunteer. Meflaquin is the most common and lowest cost. It is taken once a week, but lasts in the system for 14 days. So even if you forget to take it for a few days you will still be alright. The only problem with Meflaquin is that it has a lot of mental side effects. It not only causes the sharpening of every emotion, but also severe depression. Regular anger turns to fury; you may become moody, easily irritable. Sometimes these symptoms take time to manifest.

The other two drugs do not have such side effects and generally cost more: Doxy and Malarone. The most common anti-malarial in Malawi is Doxy. The only pain with Doxy is that you have to take it every day. Granted it has none of the mental side effects of Meflaquin, it does cause skin sensitivity to the sun, leading to sun burn. And there is little leeway; if you forget to take the pill for a few days you will probably contract malaria.

Once we do contract malaria, or are very ill and assume we have malaria, Peace Corps has specific procedures to follow. First is to call the medical office from the nearest phone/network you have available. After informing them of your symptoms, if they believe it may be malaria, they will ask you to send a blood sample. This is the fun part. We had an entire session in training dedicated to taking our own blood samples. We spent an hour pricking ourselves and squeezing blood out of our fingers and preparing two slides.

In each of our med kits is a set of slides and a little needle contraption to prick ourselves. Unfortunately, if one does have malaria, this entire operation will prove to be quite tricky. First, we clean the area on our fingers with a sanitizing wipe. Then we prick the area with a needle. After pricking ourselves, ensuring it’s deep enough to get the blood out, we squeeze our fingers until the blood starts to come out. We have to make two slides for the medical office: one thin and one thick. So, we squeeze one or two drops of blood on one slide, spread it thinly using the glass plate as a brush, and cover it with the plate. Then we squeeze a pool of drops on the second slide, a thick layer, and cover it with a plate. We store the two slides in a zip lock bag and put it in a cardboard tube. The tube then, somehow, needs to be sent to the medical office in Lilongwe for analysis.

If you have a health center in your area, sometimes the medical office approves for diagnosis there. If it turns out you have malaria, then you start Coartem. But as always, here transport and communication are difficult to come by, so the process has an added layer of difficulty.

In training it took a while to get a good prick in my finger, surprising how tough the skin layer is. It took several painful tries, but eventually I managed to get enough blood out.

Unaccustomed Earth

Just finished reading Jhumpa Lahiri’s Unaccustomed Earth, half hour before I have to see my Tumbuka tutor. A great collection of stories I could not put down, quiet, intricate only in regards to the human condition it describes, and yet in many ways, more moving than many books I have read. Perhaps it is the connection to the stories, the sharing of common experience; my own family, and like the many we knew in the places we lived, struck their roots in new lands. And as a result, I too share some of the common emotions, impulses, like Kaushik’s need for perpetual movement, unable to stay put. For whatever the reason for the connection, it is strong and difficult to ignore.

It is also very difficult to ignore the setting of all of Lahiri’s tales. They travel from India to the Northeast, and many times specifically to the state and city I called home for the past decade of my life. She describes the city and surrounding areas with such nostalgic care, a tenderness that recalls my own memories in all of those places. Times that seem sweet only in hindsight, accentuated by being so far away from them. Eating ice cream at Herrell’s, strolling from Beacon Hill to Copley through the commons, Harvard Square, Pho’s, complaining about the cold while eating Ben & Jerry’s sitting under a blanket, and countless other memories. A majority of my conscious memory has been dedicated to Massachusetts, from my first conscious kiss to my first job.

The relationships I have formed in a lifetime do not amount to much. I look around sometimes with envy, seeing people that have lived in one place, raised among people they know their whole lives. Barely a handful of people outside my direct family I consider close, but never close enough. I have known no one for more than a few years and even those that have don’t really know me, nor I them. The contrary nature; the inability to forget and forgive, yet able to impulsively in a moment. The tendency for me to get in my own way. There are so many versions of myself that I can’t keep them straight, a new me for each new place.

Here is a new version that I know will change once I leave. I don’t want to go back to that previous life, I’ve reached an end there. America was a life I enjoyed, but not one that worked easily, it was a constant battle. There are so many things I don’t know about my friends in America, and so many things they don’t know about me, nor understand. A mutual lack of interest, stemming from the fact that we could never understand each other, our lives. We don’t share that common bond of coming from the same place, physically and thereby mentally, which is more powerful than I give it credit for.

Even though America is a place to start anew, the place to erase an old life, abandon its skin and begin again, it doesn’t work so easily. The past lingers in corners of the mind, only to abruptly resurface at random moments as fleeting memories. A reminder that it will forever be with you, no matter how much your consciousness dictates that those memories are long forgotten. More often here, than back home, these memories recur in dreams. I dream more here than anywhere I have lived. Vivid dreams of memories flooding back from a past I thought I had forgotten. And like many of Lahiri’s characters, I’m learning that the past can never truly be forgotten, and that the human condition, it seems, is suffering.

Even now as I ramble hastily before my class, I’m aware that I’m writing this with intent and purpose I will never disclose. As with anything I write, I will never risk the chance of someone reading my thoughts, settling instead for only allusions and derivatives of an idea. The things I say, the things I do, are guarded and always will be for reasons I can’t describe, other than perhaps that to get close is to be vulnerable. I wear different masks for different people and sometimes secretly find amusement in fooling people that think they’ve figured me out, pegged me to a definition. I’m in no way speaking highly of myself as a complex person, but it is some explanation of my occasional need for solitude, to get away.

The Slaughtered Pig

The list of differences, of describing everyday life, is too long to comprehend, much less write about. All I can say is that it’s the inverse of my life a few months ago. I sent away Sam, the Malawian hose boy who lived with Hercules for 2 years, for many reasons. Mostly, I don’t trust him, and his actions over the past few weeks have not even the slightest alleviated the concern. I felt hesitation in asking, after all he was told to leave on his own accord before I moved in, but he did not. He has family down the road a job in the city come December.

To contain community reaction to my ousting of Sam, I lied. A pure lie; my stepping stone as I tread cautiously through a culture very interconnected, where the destruction of one relationship can mean you lose a whole village from your trust. It’s a delicate balance, never tipped in your favor as a foreigner. While my projects keep me busy during the week, I’m learning that progress takes time. People are busy living, as life takes up a great portion of the day, where fetching some water to wash clothes can sometimes take up to an hour and the washing itself taking another 2. The hours in between are divided between working in the fields and my projects. So things are a slower pace.

I spend a lot time reading, as what else can one do with ample sunlight and shelves of books gnawing at my curiosity, and fixing up this mess of a house into a home. There is a lot to do at the house outside of daily chores, but it’s coming along. I have been poring through volumes of poetry, beautiful works of fiction, and dense non-fiction. This whole world of books and information I had no time for before. I’ve written verses of poetry on the white-washed walls of the house with chalk; Yeats, Mackay, Hughes. I’ve taped up the few pictures and maps I have to the wall, rearranged things in the house, feeling much freer without a stranger hovering about watching my every move.

I made the brave attempt to buy meat yesterday in the market, it was pork. Protein in hard to come by, especially rare in the dry season, we almost never see meat for sale because livestock are considered long-term assets here (for numerous reasons). A chief down the road from the market had to sell his pig, so they slaughtered it in the morning and hung a leg in the verandah as a signal, with a bucket full of the remainder in the back room, covered with banana leaves and flies.

Is it safe? Is it sanitary? Kwali. Who knows. Marlboro told me that when there is meat available, you buy. I took their word that it was fresh and bought a ½ kg. I’ve never cooked pork before. This was no clean, plastic-wrapped, grocery pork. They hacked a chunk off at the slab with an axe, hung it on a tobacco scale and plopped it in my hand.

I walked home with it as Marlboro explained how to cook it. I looked at it curiously in my hand and noticed some of its hair still clung to its skin above a slimy white layer of fat. Once I got home I began the daunting task of chopping. There are no sharp knives in the house, just a rusty old blunt knife left here by my predecessor. I washed the fleshy mess, occasionally pulling out hairs, and then cut it into pieces with difficulty, accidently slicing my finger at one point. I left the skin and surrounding fat for Lucy.

Abandoning wood for the occasional fire, I threw some charcoal on and warmed it up. I pan fried the cut pork with salt, pepper, and the oregano that was left here. Then I cooked a chopped onion and tomato in the remaining grease and boiled some rice. It was delicious; with each bite my mind wondering if I would get tape worms or some worse digestive ailment. But the hunger for protein was greater. I threw on some water on the remaining coals for tea the next morning and to bathe.

Today I had a pack of biscuits and rice left over from yesterday. It’s cold enough now that food lasts a little longer than previous months, when the rice would have spoiled. Every conversation I have with other volunteers inadvertently and inevitably turns to food and dishes we used to eat in the states. This is worsened by the fact that my nearest volunteer is from Framingham. Dim Sum at China Pearl, taro cakes, tofu rolls with shrimp paste, molten chocolate lava cake, cheese cake, sushi, hell even a bag of chips or some chocolates or easy mac or instant oatmeal, and even Skittles (which I hated in the states, have now found their way into my affections). Onions are usually on sale here, if lucky tomatoes too, but that’s it.

Rumphi Ruckus

The 3 environment volunteers in Chitipa collectively refer to themselves as the Chitipa Wrecking Crew. Chitipa is just North of Rumphi and is probably the most remote site placement in Peace Corps (one of them is Filipo from a previous entry). Thus, the 3 placed up there are always interesting individuals, quite independent, quirky, and competent in outdoor survival. Halloween is held in Chitipa every year and PCVs from all over Malawi make the costumed pilgrimage north for the annual pig roast. Luckily I’m only a 5 hour matola ride from Chitipa; a rough road but the travel time is cut significantly by using the back road through Nyika.

When I was in Livingstonia, Rumphi East, 2 Kwacha stated that Rumphi should have its own group name. After all, we reside in the region with both Nyika National Park and Vwaza Game Reserve, very remote and equally roughing it. And so he founded the Nyika Klan, symbolized by NTK, the T for Tumbuka: the language of the region. He also concocted a finger snap as our gang sign, along with various gang traits that would inevitably make us feared and renowned such as: carrying a bag filled with rocks wherever we travelled, telling far-fetched tales of our adventures in Nyika, and other such feats of grandeur.

“Why is your bag so heavy?”
“It’s filled with rocks. That’s how we travel in the Nyika Klan!”

On my way home, I stayed the night at Wellesley’s. I told her about the name we decided on for our region and she agreed we needed a name, but was disappointed with Nyika Klan. After contemplating many names into the night over Gold Brand, she suggested Rumphi Ruckus. It sounded fine to me, equally valiant. They next day, once I was home, I received the following message rap from Wellesley, who took a hip-hop elective at Wellesley (hence the name).

Spoken in the voice of Snoop Dogg:
Rollin into Rumphi,
Dust up on my teeth,
Wondering if I’m ever goin’ like corned beef,
Some people are azungu,
Other are black,
But all heads turn when baby’s got back.
Chill at Wene na Wene,
Chuggin coke and capitalism down,
But never any doubt that Rumphi Rukus holds the crown.
Say what?!?!?

To provide a little background, the previous day, hungry for protein, we bought a can of corned beef, which neither of us has ever had before. It was disgusting, even protein-starved, we could not eat it. The initial taste was palatable but the pungent, processed after taste would not abandon our mouths. So, as is tradition whenever we are in Bolero, we went to Wene na Wene for Cokes (or Fantas) and mandazis. Wene na Wene is run by Wellesley’s neighbor Mapesi and it’s a nice shop with good mandazis. We usually stop in to eat and drink in the shade, out of the scorching sun. Also, Bolero, being a trading center, has electricity, which means cold sodas. However, recently, Wellesley reinstated her boycott of corporate America and refused to drink Coca Cola or Fanta or Sprite, opting instead for Malawian Sobo brand soda.

I have no such hesitation and drink my delicious Coke and Fanta (which taste much better in a glass bottle) and eat my mandazi. Capitalism never tasted so good, especially here because it is flavored with sugar as opposed to corn syrup, as in the states.

The other references to explain are azungu and the dust. Azungu is a white person. The dust refers to the face full of dust one accumulates travelling in Rumphi West. The only transport is a matola, which is just a flat bed truck and people sit/stand in the bed. The roads are dirt and rocks, and when vehicles move they create a cloud of dust in their trail, where the bed happens to be. So we generally have a nice coat of dust once we arrive at our destination.

Say what?!?!?

Honey is Money

Destroyer gave me the skinny on the reputation of Peace Corps in Malawi. Apparently, of all the aid organizations, and there are many many in Malawi, PC is considered the most extreme because our site placements are the most remote locations. In addition, within PC itself, the Environment group is considered most hardcore because, of the three groups, Environment volunteers are placed in the most remote locations. Perspective noted with a grain of salt.

So here I am 3 hours from the nearest town and half a day’s journey to the nearest city. My main project here is to organize the beekeepers in the area, formalize an association, and start producing quality honey on a scale significant enough to warrant bottling and retail sales. This was a project I chose because it showed the most potential. At the moment the beekeepers vary greatly in location, training, experience keeping bees and processing honey. They are somewhat in disarray.

Villages and homes are spread out for miles in these hills between Vwaza Marsh Game Reserve and Nyikha National Park. The citizens are all tobacco farmers and some (including women) keep bees on the side, either as supplementary income or just to eat. However, hives are very expensive, as are the necessary equipment needed such as bee suits and smokers. The start-up cost is very high and most cannot procure the initial capital required to keep bees. There are alternative, low-cost solutions to these problems, such as local hives and local bee suits made from local sustainable materials (mud, palm tree branches, maize sacks, etc.) at a fraction of the cost. We need to educate and implement these alternatives to give the group an initial push, a jump-start. Once a hive is well positioned the maintenance and labor required is minimal. The fixed costs are almost nothing and variable costs are also minimal and only occur at the processing stage.

The tobacco plantations are also an issue because tobacco causes a bitter taste in the honey. Thus, hive placement needs to be far from the plantations, in the hills. Hives require many trees to hang them on, and unfortunately the hills are rapidly becoming void of trees; deforestation due to trees being cut down to make charcoal, firewood, and tobacco drying shelters. Tobacco is good money here, but it is terrible for the land. Honey, on the other hand, is a sustainable business and the market prospects are very attractive with current demand far outpacing supply. More hives also means more trees as they will need to be preserved for hanging.
There is a lot of work to do and a long road to achieve the goals set out. I know nothing (well, a little now) about honey, about business in Malawi, and lack the confidence of an experienced entrepreneur. I have only a modest business schooling and a banker’s bravado, which I clutch fiercely in these waters I have never navigated for there is more at stake than my own failure: the livelihoods of the people. There are other projects in the works, and they too have potential, but not as much promise and scale as the honey business. Honey is money.

So far I have been able to get the community excited and have already sold some honey here and there. Some make excellent honey here, the best I have ever tasted and customers agree with that point. But the fear that this project will fall apart, that two unaccomplished years will pass, that it will not sustain, sits heavily on my shoulders. This weight only grows heavier knowing that my predecessor was so admired and remembered as an incredibly successful volunteer by the community and by Peace Corps.

The community has doubts, although they have been very supportive and active, I sense my age is a concern. A sensible reluctance, considering the previous volunteer was 28. What could a 23 year-old offer to people that have made a life here for centuries? Some laugh when I tell them my age, some stare in disbelief (“boza!”), and some just flat out call me a liar. Pretty amusing. I find comfort in my schooling, confidence in the American spirit that anything is possible with hard work, and a quiet faith that I’m here for a reason. I will forever fear failure. This is a phobia I seemed to have acquired late after adolescence that I now see as a quintessential fallacy of manhood: that to fail is to be forgotten.