Sitting with Precious

I sit on the short porch outside the down house, a tangerine in my hand.  Precious, the three year old son of the family that takes care of the Toche residence, waddles over, always on the look out for activity among the azungus.  He loves the discarded cardboard boxes and getting tossed in the air.

Today, though, we just sit and look out down Kabula Hill, over Chirimba, to Ndirande Moutnain and beyond.  I turn and look at Precious.  He is very black witha head a little too big for his body.  He never says anything.  He takes turns staring at me and staring where I’m staring.  I hand him a couple of slices of the tangerine.  He bites a little piece off one end and uses his teeth to slide out all the juice and seeds, which he spits out on the ground one at a time.  He’s always quiet.  I wonder what he’s thinking, what those big white eyes see.

For me, I’m thinking about what it means to leave here.  Black people everywhere.  Me not understanding 90% of what is said.  Markets, houses made of cheap brick and tin.  Cramped trips in pick-ups across spectacular country at 5:30am.  The smell of Dettol and urine.  Hearing Eleanor, Rosemary, Lydia, and Nesta lead singing and teaching.  HSA breakdown and phone calls: loving the gerund and the hairy circles.  Driving on the left side in Momo, Black, Yellow, and Blussan.  Sunset at Kabula.  Waking at 4:45am and sleeping at 9:30pm.  Mosquito nets and doxy.  Chess with Indi.  Doing a job well.  Learning Chichewa at the factory.  Battles with Sheena and Eliza over food and laundry.  Saturday nights at Bombay Palace: pizza basket, prawns chili fry, chicken murgh kadai, Dave.  World Cup at Maky’s.  Doing it dirty and going to the Ho Zone.  Dairy funk.  Boiled groundnuts.  Church at CI, not understanding a word, and it being perfect.  Horris waving good-bye at the airport.

That all flashes through as I sit there with Precious.  I’m not really excited or sad about the prospect of leaving.  The idea, the implications, are just a little heavy, that’s all.  I look to my right, and Precious is just staring at me.  Then he picks up a small seed fruit from the ground and throws it.  My thought exactly.  We spend the next five minutes picking up seeds and throwing them, not talking, just sitting– and thinking.  When we run out of seeds we are still again, until Precious pushes himself up from the step, leans over, hugs my shoulder, and then waddles off.

Good-bye.

Life in the Raw

I don’t want to say life in Malawi is better.  Or simpler.  Or more appealing.  Though the constant struggle to meet basic needs– food, shelter, water– supercedes all other desires and can give the illusion of simple, life is in fact complicated and messy.  But I don’t want to compare life in Malawi to life in the states.  I don’t want to go on a cynical rant about waste, consumerism, greed, prejudice, or discrimination.  Honestly, Malawi and the states are just different, and comparing life between the two would do injustice to both and get me nowhere.

Instead, I want to try and communicate why life in Malawi captured me, how it stirred within me so many emotions at the same time, why everyday was an adventure, and how I came to love– mmm, maybe appreciate– every second of every day.

Four 50 gallon barrels need to be moved from one location to the next: find two guys to roll them along the street, making it into a game as they go.  Ten tons of sugar need to be moved in an afternoon: hire manual labor from the sidewalk and give in to their pleadings to let them scoop up the sweetness that fell on the floor.  Your car gets stuck in the mud: four guys will help you push it back to firm footing.  Draw up the architectural plans and oversee the laying of the foundation of your own house.  Go to the market and meet the people whose livelihood depends on you buying their produce.  Houses built from home-made brick and thatched roofs with limited electricity and little or no running water.  Dig latrine pits as a necessary form of sanitation.  Learn to repair your own car or bicycle if you want to own/ use one.  Wash your dishes with sand and water.  Your possessions fit in one dark, dirty room.  You have 3 pairs of clothes.  The solution to nearly any problem can be found in the market.  Make a deal by going there and shaking their hand.  Negotiate every price.  Dirt floors swept clean with twig brooms by women bent in half.  Children running around in packs.  Soccer balls made from plastic bags.

The magical thing about Malawi is the intimate contact that each person has with life.  There is no distance, no separation, no detachment from the challenges, struggles, successes, joys, despairs, and hope of life.  You encounter it all.  You witness, you experience, life in the raw.  Life before it has been processed.  Life before every task has been broken down into specialized components.  Life that gets to the source of issues.  It is an engaging experience but also a difficult one, because it multiplies all of your emotional responses.  Life in the raw is not something you can easily escape.  As soon as you arrive and drive through the streets of Blantyre, you are bombarded with the sights, sounds, and smells of life happening.  Maybe there is something comparable in a city like New York (or New Orleans), but certainly not the quiet suburbs of St. Louis.  Everything is so visible and accessible, so exposed, so public.  Life in Malawi is raw because mass production and development have yet to arrive.  Nearly everything has a personalized stamp on it– for better or for worse.  You walk around and see individuals, not cookie-cutter images of machines doing their job with scary efficiency.  There is character and personality.  There is creativity and desperation.

Life in the raw, life in Malawi, is such a vague idea that I am having difficulty putting it to words.  Images can only help so much.  Broad strokes often muddy more than they clarify.  I guess what I am trying to communicate is simply my image of life.  It can come in different sizes and different designs as different places try it on and stretch it here or tear it there.  But what ultimately captures me is struggle, community, creativity, sincerity, and truth (both beautiful and ugly).  This what I discovered in the warm heart of Africa and what I have taken home with me.

What is your image of life?

8 thousand words

Administering amoxycillin, cefdinir, or placebo. Most mothers had never seen a syringe before. Fortunately, all medications were very sweet, so the children readily took them.

Men who were station on the descent during the Porter's Race. They passed out cups of water and lemonade to racers as they hurtled past.

A primary school class at Ntonya.

Douglas, the senior HSA at Ntonya, looks down at a mother and child receiving treatment. He is responsible for informing the mothers about the chiponde clinic and referring sick children.

Eleanor talks to the mothers about the different types of study food and how to prepare food to prevent malnutrition.

Children receive porridge during lunch at Ntonya. Our clinic was right next to the school, so we frequently had curious observers.

A small pool on the Lichenya plains on top of Mulanje.

930,000 Malawian adults live with HIV in a population of 14.3 million. An 11.9% prevalence rate. When resources were available, we sent 3-4 children for HIV testing a day, half coming back positive.

Porter’s Race

It was one of those silences that is impossible not to notice.  A quiet and stillness that demands cooperation; only whispers are permitted.  It’s still dark, before dawn on the mountain top that rises abruptly from the surrounding landscape.  With no light pollution, the stars are vast, though dimming slightly with the approaching sun.  Clouds drift over the sharply rolling plains atop the massif, fog rising from the crags, hiding and then revealing exposed rock faces.  It was almost as if there were a dragon lurking nearby; except for the quiet.  The stillness was profound, even the wind temporarily submissive.

As the sun rises, its rays trying to penetrate the dense clouds, the path comes in to view.  At first only the track that crosses the Lichenya plains is visible, rising and falling with the folds, cutting between boulders, snaking around low dense brush, tip-toeing across streams.  The clouds hover just above it, the light is still dim, but now the wind is waking, stirring the long grass.  A few burned trees dot the landscape.

Eventually the entire path will lay exposed, the eastern end falling over damp boulders under a canopy of thick tropical vegetation with an occassional view of the Likhubula Valley which it follows.  The western end is a spectacular descent along an exposed ridge: Chambe.  Stairs have been carved in the rock at some places and hands and feet would both be necessary to conquor the incline.  The complete circuit travels 25 km with 3000 feet of ascending and then descending.  It is known as the Porter’s Race, and today about 100 pairs of feet will interrupt the stillness.

The low-vibration rumble began at 7:30am.  It was strong and thick, a pulse clumped together sending a wave of anticipation to the top at Lichenya.  At either end of the upper plains four men paced back and forth, restless with the built-up energy, ready to mark the racers with first a blue splotch of paint and then a white.  The path could feel it.  It was ready.  It welcomed the pounding feet.

The vibration that first started as a single mass began to lengthen, feet pattering along the ground, sliding along the scree, hopping over streams, bounding from boulder to boulder.  About half the pairs of feet were bare, making intimate contact with each step, leaving behind sweat and blood.  Ankles and knees would also leave a little behind from the less sure-footed.  Most were black, though some brave—or naïve—ones were white.  The path came alive with the energy, directing the courage, pain, and determination, demanding yet fair in its extremes.  The clouds added a feeling of drama while the surrounding peaks looked on from above, stone-faced, unimpressed.  For the path, though, this was the pinnacle of fulfillment.

The first feet finished in 2 hours 8 minutes, a monumental effort.  The first woman in 2 hours 25 minutes.  The first azungu placed about 65^th—Malawians be proud.  Most limped to the end within 4-6 hours, a true accomplishment. Hands and knees joined the feet as bodies collapsed with fatigue, relief, and fulfillment.  Stragglers would continue until dark, the path now encouraging those who needed help or revealing its splendor to the patient plodder who didn’t quite have the motivation to race.

At last the vibrations cease, the last foot steps off the path, and once again the silence settles down.  The mist floats ghostly along, the wind’s whispers occassionally disrupting the quiet.  The sun dips below the horizon and the stars emerge again.  The day is done.  The flurry of energy expelled.  Bruised and battered but satisfied.  A truly epic experience, the path the only one witness to it all.

Seen from Above

It’s only 8am, but the sky is already a brilliant bright blue, encouraging early morning activity.  The passing puffs of clouds offer brief shade from a sun that is sure to grow in intensity throughout the day.  The air is dry and brisk—it’s winter in Malawi.

From this vantage point, Blantyre sprawls below, bordered by Mount Soche to the west and Ndirande Mountain to the north.  The tin roofs climb all along the folds in the foothills, forming distinct neighborhoods within the city limits: Chirimba, Nancholi, Campala, Manja, Namiwawa, Kabula, Michiru, Chiliomba.

The lens zooms in a little, drawing closer to one of the neighborhoods.  Minibuses can be seen crawling through the streets, barely slowing down as people jump in and out of the sliding side door.  People are walking to the market, lounging on doorsteps, tearing and chewing sugarcane.  The picture centers on a football pitch that is next to a primary school.  The pitch is simply bare dirt, mostly flat, with the gravel swept away.  Children are running around, a ball darting between their naked black feet.  The view is about to change when a new player enters the scene, jerking the picture back.

The other heads gleamed black in the sun, shiny with perspiration, but this one, the newcomer, jumping over the street gutter and jogging down the hill to the pitch, was white.  The game stops momentarily, the black dots clumped together opposite the white dot.  A pause, and then the white dot joins the meleé, easily followed as he drifts around, chasing the white ball.

After a short while the white head goes to the sideline, bends down, and tosses his shoes to the side, discarding them.  Perhaps he felt isolated being the only one wearing shoes.  His movment is a little slower now as he rejoins the game which hadn’t stopped.  There seems to be a new energy among the black dots as the ball moves up and down along the 100 foot pitch.  And then the white dot moves to the sideline again, searching for those precious shoes he so airily dismissed: not enogh callouses.

The picture remains for a few hours, a laugh floating up every once in a while.  Then the lens pulls back, widening again.  First the dots are lost, and then the pitch, melting in to the neighborhood.  The city sprawl floods back in to view, protected by the surrounding moutains.  Clouds wander by as the sun intensifies, as promised earlier.  Life goes on below, a world set-apart yet part of something bigger at the same time.

saving and SPENDING

Malawi is a cash based society, and at 175 kwacha to the dollar, you need a lot of it.  Unfortunatley, the largest bill is 500MK.  Thus, money is exchanged in bricks.  Wallets form large lumps that are uncomfortable to sit on.  Backpacks are necessary for large purchases.  The large faces become recognizable on the bills, the colors flash between hands: a pale orange 500, a dark blue 200, a pink 100, a light blue 50, and a purple 20.  The history of each bill is one to wonder at, the damp, crinkled, oily ones having survived the village (usually relegated to the 20s), the crisp ones newly born from the bank—often their only stay there—with a lifetime ahead.

Fortunatley, the kwacha has become reasonably stable the past 2 years.  President Bingu has steadied a ship that was quickly sinking during the previous president’s campaign.  At that time the value of the kwacha was fluctuating tremendously, almost on a daily basis.  In this situation, the money itself was useless.  One would put money in the bank saving for a car or to build a house, and suddenly it would be worth half of when it was initially put in the bank.  It was like a crashing stock market, with investments disappearing, then re-appearing, then disappearing again.  And so people spent the money.  Before the value could change, they bought food, or a TV, or pots and pans, or alcohol.  Some were prudent and bought tangible items that could retain value.  Others were simply consumers, living from payment to payment with no security.  Families found it difficult to pay for education, many superfulous items were bought, planning for the future was lost.  Unfortunatley, this pattern has proven difficult to break and unrestricted consumption marks most aspects of Malawian life.  This is not immediatley apparent since there is not much money to spend, but it is true nonetheless.

Friday night drunks are found regularly in the street—or even Monday afternoon drunks if there is an early paycheck.  Lights stay on whenever there is electricity, because no one ever knows when it will go off again.  A cake that should last a week disappears in a day because they want to optimize the opportunity when it presents itself—no matter if it makes you sick or not.

By doing this it seems they have artificially perpetuated the extreme ups and downs.  One night they are so full they can’t move, and at the end of the week there is not enough food for dinner three nights in a row.  The kwacha has steadied, but the experience of life is slow to follow.  How do you convince someone to save for the future in an environment where even the idea of opening a bank account seems incomprehensible?

Kiboko Safaris, South Luangwa National Park, Zambia

Crocodile

Elephants

Giraffes

Hippo

Impala

Lion

Monitor Lizard

Zebra

The Pharmacist

I held the graduated cylinder up to my eyes, watching the rich pink liquid climb slowly up the sides.  The little blue lunch box cooler was next to my left foot, full of placebo bottles, cefdinir, and ice packs.  I replaced the amoxicillin bottle when I was finished.  62mL of water to reconstitute 100mL of cefdinir, 125mg/5mL.  102 mL of water to reconstitute 150mL of amoxicillin, 250mg/5mL.  Mango grenadine juice for placebo.

On the hood of the car were five Ziploc bags: 3mL, 5mL, and 10mL plastic syringes, small baggies, and bottle inserts.  Four graduated cylinders were clumped together, tilted on the slight incline: 50mL, 50mL, 100mL, 100mL.  A plastic box the size of a novel but 4 inches deep held 10 pencils broken in half to yield 20 sharpened points.  Paper sticker labels were scattered between.  A plastic bag to my right contained a few dozen dark brown plastic bottles with white lids.

I reached for one of the bottles, unscrewed the cap, and emptied the sweet smelling pink liquid from the cylinder.  Bottle insert added.  Label added with name and study number.  Syringe marked with a black line to the dose size.  Pencil to indicate when the antibiotics were taken.  All put in the little baggie and delivered to the mother.  She had never seen a syringe in her life.

Cultural Immersion and Operation

We were seated in the third pew on the left hand side.  Seen from behind, the scale went up and down.  Some were short, others tall.  Some had long dark hair, others curly and blonde.  They were in stark contrast to the short, dark skinned, dark haired Hondurans around them.

It was January 2009, and the International Service Team from the Catholic Student Center at Washington University in St. Louis was attending their second mass that day and the fifth that week.  Some masses featured a turtle shell drum in a room that fit 70 people like a clown car.  Others had dogs walking up and down the aisle, even laying on the steps to the altar.  Even one was in a different community, with different styles of celebration, and all vastly different than our experience in the United States.

We had come to do service and we were ready to work.  Worn jeans, bandanas, paint brushes—we looked the part.  When we arrived though, we found that our presence there meant something completely different.  Nueva Palestina didn’t want our help.  They didn’t want us to pretend like we knew how to paint a gym, or dig holes, or make bricks.  The community could do that just fine.  What they wanted us to do was share in their life.  They wanted to show us how they lived and why they lived.  They wanted to be our hosts.  They wanted us to know them, and tell others about them.  And we did.  It was a very humbling experience.  It was very difficult to accept.  But by letting go of what we were clutching so desperately, we were able to learn about ourselves and the world we had discovered.

***

I was standing in front of a barred hardware store on Haille Selassie road in downtown Blantyre.  It was one o’clock in the afternoon.  The sky was clear and the sun was bright, causing me to squint as I walked along the sidewalk, dodging street vendors and looking up at store-fronts.  Many of the signs painted on the buildings were no longer accurate; new business owners had moved in and decided it was not worth changing the advertisement.

I was looking for metal hooks and a fly catcher.  Each store that I passed denied my inquiries, black metals bars turning me away.  It was lunch hour—actually, lunch hour and a half.  From twelve until one thirty, all the businesses were closed.  All I wanted were metal hooks and a fly catcher.

The week had proven frustrating.  It was the middle of April and I had just recently arrived in Malawi.  There was no room in the cars for me to go to the field, so I was sent to the factory where the most useful part of me was that I owned a driver’s license.  And so my days were spent doing odd tasks, often driving from one stop to another.  And at the end of the day, exhausted after having spent half of it in the car, stuck in traffic under the glaring sun, I thought back at what I had accomplished, and I was dissatisfied.

It was my type A personality that was dissatisfied.   I was interrupted by tea break at 9:30am.  Lunch prevented me from being productive at midday, often ending projects at inconvenient times to accommodate the schedule.  And since the day ended at 4:30pm, no one really wanted to accelerate too fast after lunch ended at 1:30pm.  Better to coast through the afternoon.

The western business model that I held in my heading was clashing with what I encountered daily.  Where were the meetings?  Who was in charge?  Accountability?  Responsibility?  We needed to be productive.  UNICEF is picking up 600 boxes of chiponde at the end of the week.  Why isn’t there more urgency?  This wasn’t go to Africa to learn about people and have a good time.  We needed to get something done.

My how culture changes with perspective.

Job Security

I only wanted to help. Clinic was slow and there were not many mothers in line. The two HSAs were lounging about the scales, chatting and half-way keeping an eye out for any mothers who might be wandering in. The noise of crying babies and jostling mothers had dimmed, with just a few families seated next to the nurses, the children in laps, chiponde running down their chins. A breeze ran through the clearing, suggesting that clinic was coming to an end.

But there were still a few moms waiting. As Lacey was checking for edema, I began filling out the data card. The child was a transfer—she had developed edema while receiving treatment for moderate malnutrition and was no diagnosed with kwashiorkor. The new card was pink—which all the mothers recognize as the good stuff—and I was coping the birth date and name from one card to the other as Lacey finished her assessment.

“You’re going to make an HAS angry, you know,” she said other her shoulder, head half turned, a little chidingly.

“What?” I looked up, confused. I was just filling in the card. It was mindless work, something to kill the time. Lacey sat down next to me and reached for the next child.

“I know you are only trying to help,” she said in her patient teaching voice. I had heard that many times over the past two months. “But what you have to understand is that here in Malawi, jobs are hard to come by. Even if you do have a job, it’s never guaranteed for any length of time. So though you were tying to help, you were actually making the job of the HSA, and the HSA herself, unnecessary. You were threatening her job.”

I held the child’s head and whispered osa lira stop crying osa opa don’t be afraid. It didn’t help.

“If you have a job here, you don’t want help, you don’t want anyone else to know what you do, because then you can be replaced. It’s all about possessing a skill that is valued, and having a monopoly on that.”

My two hands held that back of the child’s head and I raised him to a sitting position. Tchotsani amay you can take the child. Then I sat there on the end of the bench with my elbows on my knees and thought about it. Everyone here has a certain role to play, and whenever you step out of that role, it is perceived as an infringement, a threat, not help. My generosity had backfired. My good intentions were not good at all. It had happened in the field, it had happened in the factory. It was a strange balance to maintain, the line between trying and trying too much.

So I reached for the next child and kept doing my job: measuring heights and squeezing feet.