Airtel has been running a 100 Free Texts promotion for the past few weeks. You send a certain amount of texts and you get 100 free ones. I don’t have Airtel, but Flamboyant does. And so, three, four, more times a week I get random texts filtering through Mwazisi’s shoddy network containing critical messages such as “Azungu Bo!” or “Flash SoCo!” Though annoying it is nice to hear from friends; it gets quite lonely some days in the village. More importantly I didn’t stop him because I have TNM, the AirTel promotion does not apply to me, so he gets charged for each text he sends me. Perhaps I’m an awful person, but Flamboyant is a close friend and very frugal. Cheap is a better word. Cheap to a point of frustrating and this is my lesson to him.
I visited him last week, for the first time, to conduct business training in his village. We met in Kusungu BOMA and caught a matola to his village. He made sure to specifically open his backpack and show me a plastic bag from People’s. “See I bought you meat, and not just any meat: sausage,” he said proudly. The pack of economy sausage had ruptured on the corner and ground mush oozed into the bag. “Oh damn it. Whatever.” It was his way of thanking me for doing the training. I laughed thanking him for the gesture, though told him I was ok with anything, even bread and peanut butter. For Flamboyant, this was a great leap in expenditures, even SoCo doesn’t get meat, and I appreciated his sincerity.
The training went well, I hope. His community is wonderful and his Forestry department is probably the only extension office that does any work in all of Malawi. His favorite neighbor, Olive, spent the previous week learning and practicing my name, which she executed perfectly in our first encounter. She was an amazing woman with an adorable crew of children. Flamboyant is virtually fluent in Chichewa and I stood gaping in awe as he conversed gaily with Olive and everyone in his village. After spending the night in his well furnished house, we went to a nearby tea room for breakfast. I was fighting off a three week cold and coughing out a lung, but somehow managed to finish the all day business training. Flamboyant’s counterpart translated and while a majority probably won’t really use these skills, at least four or five of the attendees really got it. They grasped the material and asked thoughtful questions.
That was it actually. Not sure where I was going with this. Nothing very exciting or profound, like Flamboyant's texts.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Sunday, May 29, 2011
On Family
This is a piece written for the 50th Anniversary commemorative book for Peace Corps Malawi.
Family is the bedrock from which we grow, no matter its size or form. For most of my life I only knew of family bound by blood, exploring and coming of age nourished by genetically unconditional love. And that love was more than enough. Years later, a world away, I was welcomed into a new family. Not a family I was born into or a family in the American sense of the word, but a village, a community, that cares for each other.
It was early November and the winds in the valley were restless in anticipation of the rains. A Wednesday, I had been in Mwazisi for seven months. I was caught with a burning fever, accompanied by aching muscles and waves of nausea. The relentless fever soared by the second morning and I could not reach the PCMO as the cell network was down due to fuel shortages and a faulty tower. Unable to reach anyone I waited patiently, taking Ibuprofen and tylenol.
News of my illness spread instantly throughout the village and in minutes I was surrounded by movement. Fathers fetched water to keep me hydrated. Mothers cooked soft foods because I was too weak and nauseous to eat. Brothers and sisters kept vigil by the school waiting for a cell signal. Many came regularly to check on my condition, worried it was malaria, and urging me to see the medical assistant.
By Saturday network was up, the PCMO prescribed antibiotics and I was in recovery. Chief Chimbata and Reverend Kumwenda visited as representatives of the community. My first intervention. The community expressed concern that I was not eating enough and thus got sick. They said I live a lonely life and I shouldn’t be afraid to ask for help. Then Reverend Kumwenda explained that he and Chief Chimbata would keep me company while I recovered. He told stories of his travels in South Africa, Gandhi and how the world has changed.
America is a land of many fenced families and Malawi is a country of one family. I am a stranger, yet my community cares for me like their own child. They worry when I don’t eat or get sick or return late from travelling. They love for no other reason than I am here and part of the village, living, surviving life together. Towards the end of the visit Reverend Kumwenda said “we don’t want you to die Mr. Prashanth.” They departed with a prayer and I remained in a quiet emptiness.
Family is the bedrock from which we grow, no matter its size or form. For most of my life I only knew of family bound by blood, exploring and coming of age nourished by genetically unconditional love. And that love was more than enough. Years later, a world away, I was welcomed into a new family. Not a family I was born into or a family in the American sense of the word, but a village, a community, that cares for each other.
It was early November and the winds in the valley were restless in anticipation of the rains. A Wednesday, I had been in Mwazisi for seven months. I was caught with a burning fever, accompanied by aching muscles and waves of nausea. The relentless fever soared by the second morning and I could not reach the PCMO as the cell network was down due to fuel shortages and a faulty tower. Unable to reach anyone I waited patiently, taking Ibuprofen and tylenol.
News of my illness spread instantly throughout the village and in minutes I was surrounded by movement. Fathers fetched water to keep me hydrated. Mothers cooked soft foods because I was too weak and nauseous to eat. Brothers and sisters kept vigil by the school waiting for a cell signal. Many came regularly to check on my condition, worried it was malaria, and urging me to see the medical assistant.
By Saturday network was up, the PCMO prescribed antibiotics and I was in recovery. Chief Chimbata and Reverend Kumwenda visited as representatives of the community. My first intervention. The community expressed concern that I was not eating enough and thus got sick. They said I live a lonely life and I shouldn’t be afraid to ask for help. Then Reverend Kumwenda explained that he and Chief Chimbata would keep me company while I recovered. He told stories of his travels in South Africa, Gandhi and how the world has changed.
America is a land of many fenced families and Malawi is a country of one family. I am a stranger, yet my community cares for me like their own child. They worry when I don’t eat or get sick or return late from travelling. They love for no other reason than I am here and part of the village, living, surviving life together. Towards the end of the visit Reverend Kumwenda said “we don’t want you to die Mr. Prashanth.” They departed with a prayer and I remained in a quiet emptiness.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Crazy
Hectic couple of months. Seasons changed overnight, Malawi changed overnight, suddenly everything was harsh and sparse. The fields burned and emptied like tanks of fuel and everything stopped.
Work has been endless and I have been traveling for Kamp Kwacha and dealing with administrative works. The EPA is practically completed and remains to be opened. All my closest friends are gone and suddenly the whole country seems empty. My sister is flying to Kigali and then coming to Malawi in August.
I miss home and a little part is eager to experience something new. Looking forward to enjoying the remainder of year, closing projects, finishing camp, seeing my sister and seeing Malawi. Will post more.
Work has been endless and I have been traveling for Kamp Kwacha and dealing with administrative works. The EPA is practically completed and remains to be opened. All my closest friends are gone and suddenly the whole country seems empty. My sister is flying to Kigali and then coming to Malawi in August.
I miss home and a little part is eager to experience something new. Looking forward to enjoying the remainder of year, closing projects, finishing camp, seeing my sister and seeing Malawi. Will post more.
In The Company of Degenerates
This is a short fiction piece written for The Outlet. It was written for some volunteers in Malawi, thus large portions may sound like utter nonsense. Also, it contains explicative language.
There were the indescribable orgies. The countless discussions of foamy butts. The harrowing tales of diarrhea (of the explosive nature). The deafening dance parties with no pants. I had turned off my phone as instructed by the stewardess. There was a nor’easter that winter and the worst hit the area in late February. Runways were iced, turbulence and delays abounded the airlines. As my plane descended into the snowy quiet of Philly, I thought of nothing. My mind was empty. It thought not of the future or the sharp turn my life was taking. It harbored no nostalgia for the life and family I left behind. No fear as I opened the overhead compartment. No excitement as I exited the terminal. It was clear and the static silence inside my mind mirrored a city muffled by snow. I was waiting for a call I didn’t want to answer.
We were the only two left waiting by the luggage carousels. I had seen her on the plane earlier, but said nothing. She had on the strangest combination of clothing, accented by enormous pink headphones that hung around her neck and a wild bush of brown hair on her head, as if she had been electrocuted. She stood with a stark confidence adorned in tattoos of flowers that organically travelled over her pale complexion. After waiting patiently, passing glances, we found our luggage at the counter and adventured into the cold through separate exits. We took separate cabs to the hotel, so humanly unaware that in three months we would be neighbors, site mates. Unaware that she would know and understand me better than most of my friends and that I would know just how to push her buttons or make her giggle uncontrollably.
The low hum of the television filled the hotel room. News filled my eyes and some sound filtered into my ears but my mind was elsewhere, with a girl. The overcast skies outside the window were comforting, as if the day hadn’t really begun. As if a blanket was thrown over the world. I was the first to arrive in the room, and of course taking the better bed I lay there recovering from the journey and an ambushed hug from a Montana girl by the front desk. It’s not that I don’t like hugs, just not from strangers in hotel lobbies. There is a certain cold etiquette and approach to life that living in Boston ingrains in people and warming is an arduous process, not to be taken lightly. Over the months I would lose count at the many more times she would ambush and jump with hugs, even with her missing tooth.
There was a sound at the door and after a moment of fiddling a stout man with a scruffy demeanor strut into the room. Long, disheveled hair, an unkempt beard, glasses, all bundled in a large coat topped off with a baseball cap, it spoke.
“Great, of course they put the ethnic kids in the same room.”
“Hi. Prashanth.”
“Sol. Nice to meet you. Are you Indian?”
“Yeah, are you?”
“Half. Great, so they put the Indian kids together.”
“Go figure.”
“This is pretty nice. Did you see that Connecticut douche bag downstairs?”
“No, what happen?”
“Had his fuckin’ little blue Brooks Bothers polo on and shit.”
After the rest of the group had abandoned us for dinner, opting for fine Philadelphian sushi, we gathered a big burly Texan in the lobby and sauntered out in the cold. Passing by a Connecticut douche and emptying our allowance accounts we ended up in Chinatown. While warming a Bostonian may take time, warming a half-Sikh, half-Jew, Philadelphian takes about four cold beers and an order of roasted duck and pork belly. Wild cowboy stories of hunts and fighting bears filled the table which was already spilling over with food and beer. Bottles clinked to clank of cutlery on plates and everything was finished. It was one of the best meals I had ever had and the best meal to leave a life behind in the company of two strangers.
Time can pass so quickly that it fools the mind. It was only yesterday that I was on a plane with one of the Backstreet Boys, bound for Jo’berg and then Lilongwe. Or was that a year ago? I can’t remember. Faces and events exist in my memory but they wander aimlessly without an anchor in time. It was only yesterday that a douche bag from Connecticut cornered me on the dance floor with his gyrating groin. It was only yesterday I lay content on an empty Nyungwe beach under the resplendent cover of Passover stars. It was only yesterday I set aside my ego and mustered the courage to call her and say goodbye. It was only yesterday my sister was four and shattering my gifts of constructed Legos. It was only yesterday I walked out of a conference room and never went back. It was only yesterday I turned twenty-four.
I had never had the privilege of real friendship until a few years ago, with a tax accountant and consultant, no less. Years of always moving yet leaving nothing in my wake. Nothing to anchor my memories. And like time can fool the mind, it can sometimes stretch, contract and contort the capacity of the heart. This is what I was thinking about that April night, sandwiched between a grinding Colombian with no pants or shirt and a similarly attired Portland lesbian attempting to remove my shirt. The small wooden dance floor barely accommodated the ten of us so two had mounted the bar top. Trace Top 40 blasted from the television and a girl with bright red hair strut down the streets of New York City. What was her name? Movement surrounded me, and though it was dark the shifting television light illuminated the drunken faces glistening with sweat as they danced merrily into a tired bliss.
Panning across the steamy dance floor, past the moon-lit windows, past the half-naked bodies, it occurred to me that I was happy. These were my friends. Shirtless, pantless, shoeless. Dancing the world away in an aroma of sweat and vanilla abs, without a care. Most are dirty, few don’t shower, some never shave, and a minority shave in the wrong the place, resulting in a disturbing fu manchu. Their glow bracelets whirred in the darkness to shrills of laughter that filled the night. And under that same night, far, far in the North, a girl meditated on her next choice of extensions to tame her electric hair, while painting in her mind over paper cutouts of birds in trees of peace and angels of sustainable justice. Down the hall, on the top bunk of the left bed in Dorm 3 a Montana girl slipped into a slumber while watching True Blood, still waiting for her missing tooth. She would get hungry for Lebanese the next day and ask for homos. On a dance floor, a stout, no-longer-so-scruffy, man replicated the box-man shuffle to the cheers of his peers. Shirtless, shoeless, degenerated off his mind, with a smile of sincere happiness.
A year has shuffled by so quickly that it’s fooled my mind. Like time can fool the mind it has also contorted the capacity of my heart, accommodating a surfeit of people. She sits in her new flat in Boston, a cat owner now, yet still unsure of a great many things in her life. There was another nor’easter this year, though it’s May and the weather is probably warming, it’s been months since I last called. I wonder what she would say of my company of degenerates. The toothless, the tattooed, the unkempt, the boisterous, the sexually confused, the wonderful, from whom I’ve learned the universality of kindness and the unconditionality of friendship. A year of unanchored memories that float aimlessly through the canals of my mind only to reappear years later, in another life.
And when they reappear, perhaps in the fall, or the winter, I will be reminded of a time I was happy and wonder: was it only yesterday? I can’t remember.
There were the indescribable orgies. The countless discussions of foamy butts. The harrowing tales of diarrhea (of the explosive nature). The deafening dance parties with no pants. I had turned off my phone as instructed by the stewardess. There was a nor’easter that winter and the worst hit the area in late February. Runways were iced, turbulence and delays abounded the airlines. As my plane descended into the snowy quiet of Philly, I thought of nothing. My mind was empty. It thought not of the future or the sharp turn my life was taking. It harbored no nostalgia for the life and family I left behind. No fear as I opened the overhead compartment. No excitement as I exited the terminal. It was clear and the static silence inside my mind mirrored a city muffled by snow. I was waiting for a call I didn’t want to answer.
We were the only two left waiting by the luggage carousels. I had seen her on the plane earlier, but said nothing. She had on the strangest combination of clothing, accented by enormous pink headphones that hung around her neck and a wild bush of brown hair on her head, as if she had been electrocuted. She stood with a stark confidence adorned in tattoos of flowers that organically travelled over her pale complexion. After waiting patiently, passing glances, we found our luggage at the counter and adventured into the cold through separate exits. We took separate cabs to the hotel, so humanly unaware that in three months we would be neighbors, site mates. Unaware that she would know and understand me better than most of my friends and that I would know just how to push her buttons or make her giggle uncontrollably.
The low hum of the television filled the hotel room. News filled my eyes and some sound filtered into my ears but my mind was elsewhere, with a girl. The overcast skies outside the window were comforting, as if the day hadn’t really begun. As if a blanket was thrown over the world. I was the first to arrive in the room, and of course taking the better bed I lay there recovering from the journey and an ambushed hug from a Montana girl by the front desk. It’s not that I don’t like hugs, just not from strangers in hotel lobbies. There is a certain cold etiquette and approach to life that living in Boston ingrains in people and warming is an arduous process, not to be taken lightly. Over the months I would lose count at the many more times she would ambush and jump with hugs, even with her missing tooth.
There was a sound at the door and after a moment of fiddling a stout man with a scruffy demeanor strut into the room. Long, disheveled hair, an unkempt beard, glasses, all bundled in a large coat topped off with a baseball cap, it spoke.
“Great, of course they put the ethnic kids in the same room.”
“Hi. Prashanth.”
“Sol. Nice to meet you. Are you Indian?”
“Yeah, are you?”
“Half. Great, so they put the Indian kids together.”
“Go figure.”
“This is pretty nice. Did you see that Connecticut douche bag downstairs?”
“No, what happen?”
“Had his fuckin’ little blue Brooks Bothers polo on and shit.”
After the rest of the group had abandoned us for dinner, opting for fine Philadelphian sushi, we gathered a big burly Texan in the lobby and sauntered out in the cold. Passing by a Connecticut douche and emptying our allowance accounts we ended up in Chinatown. While warming a Bostonian may take time, warming a half-Sikh, half-Jew, Philadelphian takes about four cold beers and an order of roasted duck and pork belly. Wild cowboy stories of hunts and fighting bears filled the table which was already spilling over with food and beer. Bottles clinked to clank of cutlery on plates and everything was finished. It was one of the best meals I had ever had and the best meal to leave a life behind in the company of two strangers.
Time can pass so quickly that it fools the mind. It was only yesterday that I was on a plane with one of the Backstreet Boys, bound for Jo’berg and then Lilongwe. Or was that a year ago? I can’t remember. Faces and events exist in my memory but they wander aimlessly without an anchor in time. It was only yesterday that a douche bag from Connecticut cornered me on the dance floor with his gyrating groin. It was only yesterday I lay content on an empty Nyungwe beach under the resplendent cover of Passover stars. It was only yesterday I set aside my ego and mustered the courage to call her and say goodbye. It was only yesterday my sister was four and shattering my gifts of constructed Legos. It was only yesterday I walked out of a conference room and never went back. It was only yesterday I turned twenty-four.
I had never had the privilege of real friendship until a few years ago, with a tax accountant and consultant, no less. Years of always moving yet leaving nothing in my wake. Nothing to anchor my memories. And like time can fool the mind, it can sometimes stretch, contract and contort the capacity of the heart. This is what I was thinking about that April night, sandwiched between a grinding Colombian with no pants or shirt and a similarly attired Portland lesbian attempting to remove my shirt. The small wooden dance floor barely accommodated the ten of us so two had mounted the bar top. Trace Top 40 blasted from the television and a girl with bright red hair strut down the streets of New York City. What was her name? Movement surrounded me, and though it was dark the shifting television light illuminated the drunken faces glistening with sweat as they danced merrily into a tired bliss.
Panning across the steamy dance floor, past the moon-lit windows, past the half-naked bodies, it occurred to me that I was happy. These were my friends. Shirtless, pantless, shoeless. Dancing the world away in an aroma of sweat and vanilla abs, without a care. Most are dirty, few don’t shower, some never shave, and a minority shave in the wrong the place, resulting in a disturbing fu manchu. Their glow bracelets whirred in the darkness to shrills of laughter that filled the night. And under that same night, far, far in the North, a girl meditated on her next choice of extensions to tame her electric hair, while painting in her mind over paper cutouts of birds in trees of peace and angels of sustainable justice. Down the hall, on the top bunk of the left bed in Dorm 3 a Montana girl slipped into a slumber while watching True Blood, still waiting for her missing tooth. She would get hungry for Lebanese the next day and ask for homos. On a dance floor, a stout, no-longer-so-scruffy, man replicated the box-man shuffle to the cheers of his peers. Shirtless, shoeless, degenerated off his mind, with a smile of sincere happiness.
A year has shuffled by so quickly that it’s fooled my mind. Like time can fool the mind it has also contorted the capacity of my heart, accommodating a surfeit of people. She sits in her new flat in Boston, a cat owner now, yet still unsure of a great many things in her life. There was another nor’easter this year, though it’s May and the weather is probably warming, it’s been months since I last called. I wonder what she would say of my company of degenerates. The toothless, the tattooed, the unkempt, the boisterous, the sexually confused, the wonderful, from whom I’ve learned the universality of kindness and the unconditionality of friendship. A year of unanchored memories that float aimlessly through the canals of my mind only to reappear years later, in another life.
And when they reappear, perhaps in the fall, or the winter, I will be reminded of a time I was happy and wonder: was it only yesterday? I can’t remember.
Friday, April 1, 2011
On Mail
With the help of several staff members (thank you Betty and Elaton) and five grueling, miserable days of fighting, Henry's package is finally in my hands. The incident is so corrupted and convoluted that I care not to bring it up anymore. However, I am so very thankful for Betty and Elaton, for many reasons, especially getting the package. For all future packages that may be sent from the bright place known as America, please, please, mark the value of the box as equal to or less than $100.
And thank you to Henry, Erin and my family for the awesome package. Mostly Henry. I could not ask for a more wonderful set of gifts.
And thank you to Henry, Erin and my family for the awesome package. Mostly Henry. I could not ask for a more wonderful set of gifts.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
POW-WOW!
Wellesley's PCPP grant is up online, it is for an awesome project building a women's center in her village Kawaza. The center will strive for both women's empowerment and protection of the local forests. Anyone that can help, please see the following Peace Corps page and donate. Thanks.
https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=donate.contribute.projDetail&projdesc=614-227
https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=donate.contribute.projDetail&projdesc=614-227
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Charcoal Drawn Skies
Strange dreams woke me at 4 am this morning. I found myself recovering from another world in the corner bed of Dorm 1. It was still dark out, the streets were quiet and the halls of Mufasas breathed a silent breeze after another late night. A Japanese tourist and Wellesley were snoring lightly. I got up discreetly, grabbing my toothbrush, toothpaste and iPod, trying not to wake anyone else. The hallways were pitch black, faint rays of light filtered from the bathrooms. A large rat scurried from the kitchen cross the hallway into the bathroom, returning to its cardboard shelter in the middle stall. I took my time brushing my teeth and spent over a half hour just standing under the warm waterfall shower. My muscles melted in the hot water, my bones were warming and a sense of morning peace grew over me. Pulling on a shirt and a pair of jeans, I grabbed my bag, plugged my ears to Vampire Weekend and walked into the dawn lit street.
It was chilly outside, the sort of chill that in Malawi translates into a scorching afternoon. A couple of mini-buses drove by on their morning routes, but the streets were empty. There was not a sound otherwise. Not a spray of dust, clouds of exhaust nor aggressive street vendors. You spend so much time looking down in Lilongwe, or in any city for that matter, that you forget all else. This seems translate into all aspects of city life, a stressful faith in the microscopic in front of you, everyone under a lens. Surviving this bustle, battling traffic and life with the same aggression and coming out the other end appearing unscathed is a cause for admiration. In that same sense, time also becomes microscopic and hours become minutes, minutes become seconds. But while the cosmopolitan citizens slumber a recovery from another long night of fulfilling social obligations in pursuit of once innocent dreams, the city breathes. Its roads cool, the trees gently shed a day’s pollution into the winds and the birds reclaim their branches.
Turning the corner, passing under the trees rooted in cement circles, light filtered over the streets. The skies brightened as I made my way up the steps and a formation of birds flying overhead caught my eye. I looked up and was instead caught by a beautiful sunrise. The clouds were drawn on to the grand sky with a colored charcoal, glowing a light gold and some still pink. There was a wide diversity of clouds all drawn with the granular strokes of charcoal on paper with smudges of grays and blues. Signs of an artist’s hand were evident everywhere. The sun was hidden behind a large blue PTC and Standard Bank, but once passed the entire sky opened up. By the time I reached the barren tree in the parking lot of the new mall, the view was mesmerizing. I slowed my pace, a taboo in any city, and let the morning Lilongwe soak into my skin. My general loathing for this city seemed to have temporarily vanished and I felt transported to another time when Lilongwe was a much different place. A time before large shopping centers, before roads, going back, back in time to fields of villages and animals. Forests of trees covered the land and the names of chiefs were reserved for villages and not two-story buildings. A quiet time.
It was such a brief moment, as if in a flash of dawn light everything vanished. A brief, microscopic moment in this city, which could be lifetime anywhere else.
Transient places in a transient place, I leave for Dedza tomorrow. The new group arrived last month and their PST is underway. I am assigned to Week 3 and will be teaching village economics and small-business development to the trainees. I’m looking forward to returning to Dedza and enjoying the comforts of home stay for a week. Having a host family, three square meals a day (and a packed snack for class), hot water baths and the beautiful serenity of a Dedza village. I will return on Thursday for a VAC meeting and hopefully return to the Mwazisi by the end of the month.
It was chilly outside, the sort of chill that in Malawi translates into a scorching afternoon. A couple of mini-buses drove by on their morning routes, but the streets were empty. There was not a sound otherwise. Not a spray of dust, clouds of exhaust nor aggressive street vendors. You spend so much time looking down in Lilongwe, or in any city for that matter, that you forget all else. This seems translate into all aspects of city life, a stressful faith in the microscopic in front of you, everyone under a lens. Surviving this bustle, battling traffic and life with the same aggression and coming out the other end appearing unscathed is a cause for admiration. In that same sense, time also becomes microscopic and hours become minutes, minutes become seconds. But while the cosmopolitan citizens slumber a recovery from another long night of fulfilling social obligations in pursuit of once innocent dreams, the city breathes. Its roads cool, the trees gently shed a day’s pollution into the winds and the birds reclaim their branches.
Turning the corner, passing under the trees rooted in cement circles, light filtered over the streets. The skies brightened as I made my way up the steps and a formation of birds flying overhead caught my eye. I looked up and was instead caught by a beautiful sunrise. The clouds were drawn on to the grand sky with a colored charcoal, glowing a light gold and some still pink. There was a wide diversity of clouds all drawn with the granular strokes of charcoal on paper with smudges of grays and blues. Signs of an artist’s hand were evident everywhere. The sun was hidden behind a large blue PTC and Standard Bank, but once passed the entire sky opened up. By the time I reached the barren tree in the parking lot of the new mall, the view was mesmerizing. I slowed my pace, a taboo in any city, and let the morning Lilongwe soak into my skin. My general loathing for this city seemed to have temporarily vanished and I felt transported to another time when Lilongwe was a much different place. A time before large shopping centers, before roads, going back, back in time to fields of villages and animals. Forests of trees covered the land and the names of chiefs were reserved for villages and not two-story buildings. A quiet time.
It was such a brief moment, as if in a flash of dawn light everything vanished. A brief, microscopic moment in this city, which could be lifetime anywhere else.
Transient places in a transient place, I leave for Dedza tomorrow. The new group arrived last month and their PST is underway. I am assigned to Week 3 and will be teaching village economics and small-business development to the trainees. I’m looking forward to returning to Dedza and enjoying the comforts of home stay for a week. Having a host family, three square meals a day (and a packed snack for class), hot water baths and the beautiful serenity of a Dedza village. I will return on Thursday for a VAC meeting and hopefully return to the Mwazisi by the end of the month.
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