There is no sensation that compares to opening a fresh batch of homemade awakayi (well, a close second is opening a fresh bottle of Sriracha after two years). Awakayi has so much more attached to it than mere deliciousness, nostril-pleasing aroma of spices and pickled mango, and saliva-inducing red chutney drowning in marinating oils.
Beyond the sensual symptoms are the memories of clay pots of pickle, my grandmother preparing large vats of spices for the family, and eating it with everyone on banana leaves. For most, awakayi is just another exotic chutney from Patek’s or a mild achaar. But to my family it’s in our blood, from infant to adult there is not a single meal without a jar of grandmother’s awakayi. When a pot of pickle is finished cooking all of us: cousins, nieces, brothers, sisters, crowd the stove to get first dibs. Once the pickle is transferred to jars, cooked rice is thrown into pot and mixed with the remnants along the walls and bottom. This is the best serving of pickle as it is fresh and mixed with hot rice and the flavor that only comes from eating out of a pot. Our grandmother would hand feed each of us, one by one, and we would fight over who got seconds.
These are the memories that came to mind as I opened my last and only bag of awakayi. Sealed in three air tight containers to ensure freshness and prevent leakage, I surgically removed each bag. I didn’t want even a drop of oil wasted. I patiently poured it into a Blue Band container and put hot rice in the bag. It was no clay pot, but this is Africa, close enough. My mouth watered as the smell filled the kitchen and the white basmati slowly turned a vibrant, deep red. Memories were overrun by a grumbling stomach, but I could not rush. No, this had to be savored. Such treats are few and far between. I scrapped every last bit of pickle and every grain of rice out of the bag and onto a plate and washed my hands at the basin. There it was, my favorite dish, served the only way I like it.
My grandmother always scolded my taste in food, claiming I liked poor people food too much. She accused my mother of the same tastes when she was growing up. What do the impoverished eat in a small Indian village? Rice mixed with raw chili powder, salt and oil. Rice with pickle. On a good day, rice with a curry gravy. Little vegetables and rarely any protein. My second favorite is rice with chili powder, oil and salt. In fact, just writing it is making my mouth water. So what if the poor enjoy these dishes? Doesn’t make them bad. It’s simple, delicious, and as I would realize later, perfect for the bachelor diet. Who needs nutrients? Better an addiction to absurdly spicy, yet simple, food than some other vice.
When my parents came to visit they brought, literally, three giant cardboard boxes of food. Every prized American treat was now in a cardboard cube in my house. Of course, these were non-perishable treats sealed air-tight and bursting with traditional American high-fructose corn syrup. Rows of Cheetohs galore, bags of Snickers, cans of Pringles, boxes of Indian food mixes, enough Maggie to put a desi college sophomore to shame and sachets of instant curries. And the best part: triple-sealed containers of pickles and spiced lentil powder mixes. It was like Christmas morning during the best market year in five decades. Every imaginable treat was at my finger tips.
So, I did what I’m best at: eat. Eat, get dizzy from the spice, rapidly suck air to cool my tongue, pass out, and do it again. My happiest memories in college were picking up a tub of Ben & Jerry’s at Harry’s, going back to her dorm and making the spiciest curry imaginable (usually chana), then eat, suffer in pain, cry, laugh, swear like a sailor, lose sanity, and wash it down with mint-Oreo goodness. You would think we would have learned our lesson, but addiction is an ardent ailment. While almost all other students were experimenting the limits of BALs and any smokable foliage, we sat on a couch and ate food that would induce pain and joy at the same time. It was a high unlike any other.
After eating and sharing it with other volunteers I have managed to level inventories to half of one box, plus a smaller box full of candy and snacks. An impressive feat.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Earth-movers
I woke up this morning to the sound of a large truck pacing forward then backwards with a loud beeping. Today was marked for civilian demonstrations throughout the major cities of Mzuzu, Blantyre and Lilongwe. Demonstrations supposedly organized by a Minister against the government regarding fuel shortages, tobacco and issues of governance. DFID recently pulled out of Malawi. The village was abuzz with excitement; people had been talking about it for days and radio voices echoed throughout the day. We were issued a no-travel notice from the office from the 19th-21st.
This was no ordinary truck. After I got ready, I walked out to the sandy path leading to the EPA for a beekeeping meeting. In the distance there was a crowd gathered in front of the EPA (strange because there is never anyone there). As I got closer the giant yellow Caterpillar earth-mover came into view. It was plowing a large square area in front of the EPA, shifting dirt to the outer rims, flattening a space. I spotted Mr. Singini – the secondary school night watchman – in the crowd and greeted him.
It seems the machine was sent by the government to clear land for temporary housing. The housing will be for the road builders, expected to begin work shortly. I guess all the gravel workers, other workers, and machines need a place to stay for the duration of the construction. Though it is a short road, Mwazisi is very remote and shuttling workers back and forth is not feasible. That somewhat solves that mystery. It’s strange how these developments kind of just show up. I don’t think anyone knew, perhaps I just didn’t know.
It seems you wake up one morning and there’s a giant earth-mover in your back yard. Just fell out of the sky. While a series of large construction machines may seem normal to most, it is certainly not normal here. To put it in perspective: seeing these machines in Mwazisi is like seeing a herd of elephants roaming about Post Office Square.
Despite the suddenness, I’m excited, as is the community. All these giant machines appearing, new people passing through. Though it is still isolated, the village is developing and changing in many ways: construction of the EPA, initiation of the Kulera Project, installation of electricity, commencement of the tarmac road, and soon the arrival of a second Peace Corps volunteer. The village is moving forward or at least poised to move forward, in many positive directions. Confirmation of my belief that development is best on a small-local scale, provided the presence of large infrastructure projects to support and encourage growth.
The kids are on holiday and crowds mounted the dunes piled up by the yellow giant. Everyone sat and stared, transfixed, as if in a trance, watching the giant move forward-backward- forward-backward. I sat in a trance too; it was calming in its repetition and in a way majestic. It was like a yellow elephant moving dirt about. It had a meditative rhythm that made it hypnotic. And like a child, you wondered what will it do next? Ah! Forward again.
These new developments are a pleasant distraction from the current tobacco problems, which continue to worsen. This is one of the few large-scale demonstrations I have ever heard of Malawi. We’ll have to wait and see how successful its actual execution is, but if it is then I think things will change even more in Malawi.
I remember the second-years when I arrived in country: “welcome to the most politically stable, safe, and boring country in Africa. Nothing ever happens here,” they said, “it’s nice but life can get very boring and monotonous.”
Well, life just got interesting.
This was no ordinary truck. After I got ready, I walked out to the sandy path leading to the EPA for a beekeeping meeting. In the distance there was a crowd gathered in front of the EPA (strange because there is never anyone there). As I got closer the giant yellow Caterpillar earth-mover came into view. It was plowing a large square area in front of the EPA, shifting dirt to the outer rims, flattening a space. I spotted Mr. Singini – the secondary school night watchman – in the crowd and greeted him.
It seems the machine was sent by the government to clear land for temporary housing. The housing will be for the road builders, expected to begin work shortly. I guess all the gravel workers, other workers, and machines need a place to stay for the duration of the construction. Though it is a short road, Mwazisi is very remote and shuttling workers back and forth is not feasible. That somewhat solves that mystery. It’s strange how these developments kind of just show up. I don’t think anyone knew, perhaps I just didn’t know.
It seems you wake up one morning and there’s a giant earth-mover in your back yard. Just fell out of the sky. While a series of large construction machines may seem normal to most, it is certainly not normal here. To put it in perspective: seeing these machines in Mwazisi is like seeing a herd of elephants roaming about Post Office Square.
Despite the suddenness, I’m excited, as is the community. All these giant machines appearing, new people passing through. Though it is still isolated, the village is developing and changing in many ways: construction of the EPA, initiation of the Kulera Project, installation of electricity, commencement of the tarmac road, and soon the arrival of a second Peace Corps volunteer. The village is moving forward or at least poised to move forward, in many positive directions. Confirmation of my belief that development is best on a small-local scale, provided the presence of large infrastructure projects to support and encourage growth.
The kids are on holiday and crowds mounted the dunes piled up by the yellow giant. Everyone sat and stared, transfixed, as if in a trance, watching the giant move forward-backward- forward-backward. I sat in a trance too; it was calming in its repetition and in a way majestic. It was like a yellow elephant moving dirt about. It had a meditative rhythm that made it hypnotic. And like a child, you wondered what will it do next? Ah! Forward again.
These new developments are a pleasant distraction from the current tobacco problems, which continue to worsen. This is one of the few large-scale demonstrations I have ever heard of Malawi. We’ll have to wait and see how successful its actual execution is, but if it is then I think things will change even more in Malawi.
I remember the second-years when I arrived in country: “welcome to the most politically stable, safe, and boring country in Africa. Nothing ever happens here,” they said, “it’s nice but life can get very boring and monotonous.”
Well, life just got interesting.
Friday, July 15, 2011
Mwana Wane
“You are too mobile,” scolded Mrs. Gondwe. For three weeks the primary school had no headmistress, and though she had returned only yesterday, she was already about the yard twisting laundry. Her left leg was still swollen and she limped when she walked. For three weeks she was bedridden at St. John’s, a new hospital built across from the airfield. It was a beautiful addition to the dirt strip off the M1, but not uncommon as Mzuzu was a growing city bustling with new constructions. Afumu was sitting under the vines when he proudly introduced me to their son, my brother, a student at the Malawi College of Accountancy, currently visiting on holiday. Strange we had not met till today. It was Sunday and the dry season heat was rising with the morning sun.
She reluctantly dropped the pair of trousers in the basin and walked slowly to a chair under the vine shade. The severe pneumonia left her but the high blood pressure had to be constantly monitored. She struggled to settle in the blue plastic chair. Afumu Gondwe put the leather chief chair out instructing me to sit on the chieftainship. I sat and inquired on her condition. She said that it had been a terrible three weeks and she was in a lot of pain. “I saw heaven, but God returned me back here,” she said with a sting of despair. Sadness was draped over her face, a sadness that rose from an inability to understand God, to come to terms with his judgment. She didn’t want to be here anymore, life had taken its tolls and she spoke of her return dripping with such disdain.
Mwana Wane. This is our child. That is how Mr. and Mrs. Gondwe always introduce me to others. What can a child do for such sadness? Our time on earth is short, though perhaps for many it’s too long. “No more salt and sugar, take lots of walks,” I prescribed hopelessly. Things have taken a turn for the worse in Malawi. People are desperate for money and hope is being sucked out though a national straw to the very top. The village has changed, despair blows violently in the dry winds leaving a thick air of tension in its wake. Tobacco sales have plummeted after a large buyer moved its operations to Zimbabwe citing lack of cooperation from the government. The UK, Germany and Norway have all pulled aid from the country citing human rights violations and governance issues.
The Global Fund has ceased funding to Malawi. ARVs will soon be cut as the country will not meet testing requirements. A ripple effect of the flight of NGOs and businesses has been triggered. Many Indian businessmen are closing shop, moving back home or to the US to start new businesses. NGOs are following suit or slashing their budgets. There are fuel lines stretching kilometers down roads in Lilongwe. Diesel and petrol are scarce and the national highways are empty. New roadblocks were built to collect more fines and bribes while the new budget, to accommodate for missing aid, has placed new taxes on basic necessities. A loaf of bread jumped from MK 100 to MK 140 overnight.
Mrs. Gondwe was right. I have been too mobile the past two months. Though my community is still somehow managing to get by, I have been away with a heavy dose of guilt. I miss home, but camp preparations and VAC duties have kept me in Lilongwe. To supplement it are a long list of little things that just need to be done. I’m afraid I will be away again until September for camp and my sister and Henry are visiting. My futile efforts will not change Malawi, nor will they alleviate the burdens of a tightening government in the grand theatre of global economic turmoil. But I keep telling myself: I’m doing what I can with what I have. It’s not enough, but it’s something. As long as I stay away from uninformed psycho Canadian women, I cannot give up.
It seems that throughout history the multitudes always suffer at the hands of few.
She reluctantly dropped the pair of trousers in the basin and walked slowly to a chair under the vine shade. The severe pneumonia left her but the high blood pressure had to be constantly monitored. She struggled to settle in the blue plastic chair. Afumu Gondwe put the leather chief chair out instructing me to sit on the chieftainship. I sat and inquired on her condition. She said that it had been a terrible three weeks and she was in a lot of pain. “I saw heaven, but God returned me back here,” she said with a sting of despair. Sadness was draped over her face, a sadness that rose from an inability to understand God, to come to terms with his judgment. She didn’t want to be here anymore, life had taken its tolls and she spoke of her return dripping with such disdain.
Mwana Wane. This is our child. That is how Mr. and Mrs. Gondwe always introduce me to others. What can a child do for such sadness? Our time on earth is short, though perhaps for many it’s too long. “No more salt and sugar, take lots of walks,” I prescribed hopelessly. Things have taken a turn for the worse in Malawi. People are desperate for money and hope is being sucked out though a national straw to the very top. The village has changed, despair blows violently in the dry winds leaving a thick air of tension in its wake. Tobacco sales have plummeted after a large buyer moved its operations to Zimbabwe citing lack of cooperation from the government. The UK, Germany and Norway have all pulled aid from the country citing human rights violations and governance issues.
The Global Fund has ceased funding to Malawi. ARVs will soon be cut as the country will not meet testing requirements. A ripple effect of the flight of NGOs and businesses has been triggered. Many Indian businessmen are closing shop, moving back home or to the US to start new businesses. NGOs are following suit or slashing their budgets. There are fuel lines stretching kilometers down roads in Lilongwe. Diesel and petrol are scarce and the national highways are empty. New roadblocks were built to collect more fines and bribes while the new budget, to accommodate for missing aid, has placed new taxes on basic necessities. A loaf of bread jumped from MK 100 to MK 140 overnight.
Mrs. Gondwe was right. I have been too mobile the past two months. Though my community is still somehow managing to get by, I have been away with a heavy dose of guilt. I miss home, but camp preparations and VAC duties have kept me in Lilongwe. To supplement it are a long list of little things that just need to be done. I’m afraid I will be away again until September for camp and my sister and Henry are visiting. My futile efforts will not change Malawi, nor will they alleviate the burdens of a tightening government in the grand theatre of global economic turmoil. But I keep telling myself: I’m doing what I can with what I have. It’s not enough, but it’s something. As long as I stay away from uninformed psycho Canadian women, I cannot give up.
It seems that throughout history the multitudes always suffer at the hands of few.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
The Centaur & The Specter
Centaurus has returned to the night sky, for some time now. He humbly guards over the Southern Cross, his sword ever ready to strike the glowing heart Antares should Scorpio lay siege. The scorpion waits patiently, his tail wound around the center of the galaxy, drifting across the celestial sphere, with his red heart exposed to the universe. To lose the Cross is to lose our bearing, our sense of time and place, and the heavens will fall to the Earth. Without a South, there is no North. Is he aware of the utter chaos that would ensue from his folly? His heart glows red, a star so far away that burns with such intensity, does it overpower his mind? Perhaps he has no mind. Perhaps he only attacks because the centaur defends.
On the Earth, among mortals, the Specter has returned. You cannot see her except for in times of darkness, when sadness engulfs the world. Until then she drifts under the opera of the heavens. She seems to be endeared by this season of death, though it only comes once a year, for she leaves her world far across the seas to merely pass through our world. She likes to watch the green life wither from grass and the fields burn to charred remains. One can never understand her fascination with Death, though it was Death that untimely took her without reason. Some say she is in love with Death and comes once a year to secretly witness his life. But I disagree; I think she comes to watch the world die.
The next two months will border the fringes of insanity. Getting things ready for Kamp Kwacha in July, then a VAC meeting, my sister and Henry are visiting in August, and camp begins as soon as they leave. September is the island in the distance and the seas are growing rough. I am ready to come home and reclaim the semblance of a life I have left. There are many things that have changed in me. I have learned to be realistic and not a daydreaming fool. I have learned that one cannot evade Death, he comes when he desires at no one’s convenience. And with Death around any corner, I think every day of what’s important.
My family. My friends back home. My memories.
I have also discovered that we never really fall from innocence; it simply secludes itself into protection. People never really grow up. In better words, there is no growing up; there is a layering of defenses to protect that child inside. The mischievous one that can love and hurt unconditionally. That needs attention, caring and love yet yearns to be free and explore a world of senses. I get satisfaction from thinking of myself as mature and grown up, but I too am only protecting a jealous child who is afraid of being alone and the dark. That sometimes wants to destroy life without thought but loves intensely because he knows of no other way. Impulsive and desires to explore the world without straying too far from home. This is the child I fear, love and protect.
I miss her more than ever, I don’t know why. It seems that in times of sadness my mind drifts to a happier time in a happier place. I don’t think of what happen anymore; no longer try to decipher a female mind. It does not matter and even if I do try I cannot remember anymore. But the happy memories are enough. They are a shining light in the darkest of days and without them I would be lost. So no matter the pain, the tears, the utter hopelessness that ensued, it was the gift of these memories I am grateful for. Wherever I am, whoever I am, I can love, I have loved and even a small memory of that can radiate a relentless hope. Thank you for these memories, especially in these months.
On the Earth, among mortals, the Specter has returned. You cannot see her except for in times of darkness, when sadness engulfs the world. Until then she drifts under the opera of the heavens. She seems to be endeared by this season of death, though it only comes once a year, for she leaves her world far across the seas to merely pass through our world. She likes to watch the green life wither from grass and the fields burn to charred remains. One can never understand her fascination with Death, though it was Death that untimely took her without reason. Some say she is in love with Death and comes once a year to secretly witness his life. But I disagree; I think she comes to watch the world die.
The next two months will border the fringes of insanity. Getting things ready for Kamp Kwacha in July, then a VAC meeting, my sister and Henry are visiting in August, and camp begins as soon as they leave. September is the island in the distance and the seas are growing rough. I am ready to come home and reclaim the semblance of a life I have left. There are many things that have changed in me. I have learned to be realistic and not a daydreaming fool. I have learned that one cannot evade Death, he comes when he desires at no one’s convenience. And with Death around any corner, I think every day of what’s important.
My family. My friends back home. My memories.
I have also discovered that we never really fall from innocence; it simply secludes itself into protection. People never really grow up. In better words, there is no growing up; there is a layering of defenses to protect that child inside. The mischievous one that can love and hurt unconditionally. That needs attention, caring and love yet yearns to be free and explore a world of senses. I get satisfaction from thinking of myself as mature and grown up, but I too am only protecting a jealous child who is afraid of being alone and the dark. That sometimes wants to destroy life without thought but loves intensely because he knows of no other way. Impulsive and desires to explore the world without straying too far from home. This is the child I fear, love and protect.
I miss her more than ever, I don’t know why. It seems that in times of sadness my mind drifts to a happier time in a happier place. I don’t think of what happen anymore; no longer try to decipher a female mind. It does not matter and even if I do try I cannot remember anymore. But the happy memories are enough. They are a shining light in the darkest of days and without them I would be lost. So no matter the pain, the tears, the utter hopelessness that ensued, it was the gift of these memories I am grateful for. Wherever I am, whoever I am, I can love, I have loved and even a small memory of that can radiate a relentless hope. Thank you for these memories, especially in these months.
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