No Coke For You

You know things are desperate when you cannot find a bottle of Coca-Cola anywhere in Lilongwe.  Southern Bottlers of Malawi is used to mass producing the habit-forming, heavenly nectar by the truckload but distribution has stopped.    Apparently we have a Coke shortage because there are not enough bottle caps being made to keep up with drinking demand.  No bottle caps, no Coke.
I thought it was bad enough that people are forced to line up for hours to fill their cars with gasoline but now this...Unbelievable.  Laughable, yes. Funny, NO.  I have been denied my daily afternoon guilty pleasure because Malawi has no bottle caps.

This picture was taken before the 'Great Coke Shortage of 2011' when Coke was available to the masses 

Please send help immediately in the form of tiny tin tops to P.O. Box 31711, Lilongwe 3, Malawi :)

Some Sport and Some Dancing

It was only two days.  Well really only about 24 hours and some change that I spent by myself, cleaning, writing, reading and pondering the last two months while envisioning the next six.  After I had a moment of silence for those lost on 9.11.01 I no longer wanted to be silent.  I had been inside my own head and I wanted to tell someone something, even if it was of no importance at all.  Seeing as NFL football starts today I decided to pump up the football I brought (did you doubt me?) and walk out my door to introduce our guard to a new game called football, American style.  Awkward push passes and a few drops later we ended our game of catch and I got the urge to take a run and become better acquainted with my new neighborhood.

I had been around area 6 before to visit refugees locked up in Maula Prison a short jaunt away from my house.  The fact that prisoners are being detained so close to my new home doesn’t bother me in the least seeing as most of them are wrongfully imprisoned for various reasons from petty theft to not having documents on their person when approached by a policeman.  I traveled down the potholed pavement for about 100 yards until it became a single lane dirt road.  It was there that I stopped to watch a group of young boys kick a plastic bag ball around with forceful precision.  Once I stopped a group of about five girls called me over.  Instead, I waved them over and the small group of five girls swelled to nearly fifteen girls running in my direction.   They surrounded me and in broken English we introduced ourselves.  I couldn’t tell you one of their names after about one minute but we did agreed to play a game of netball once I could retrieve the soccer ball I brought.

I don’t know the first thing about netball but I learned quickly and I figure I had some advantage because I was one of the only people with shoes on.  Seven girls a side and we were ready.  Shooters stay in the offensive zone, defensive players don’t leave the back court and there are a few positions that can roam through two zones but not all three.  Pass the ball, don’t run with it, shoot at the independently standing hoop and score a point.  Got it.  Balls were tossed, passes were caught, winds blew, dust swirled, foot faults occurred, points were scored and high fives were given.  I had to hand it to them, I had never seen a group of 14 players and another ten onlookers come together so quickly for the most sporadic game of netball I have ever seen.  Granted the first game of netball I have ever seen but that is neither here nor there.  On Amigo Lane, where I grew up, there were the Garber’s, the Hoffman’s and the Healy’s.  If we wanted to get a game of that magnitude together it would have taken arranged play dates and a hope and a prayer that we could get past the mean old dog Sasha that separated the top of the street from the bottom in order to invite more kids to play.  Rural village 1, Suburbia 0.

When the game ended they all enthusiastically insisted that we do some dancing.  Of course.  Some sport and some dancing.  It makes perfect sense when you think about it.  No really, keep thinking.  Again, I was surrounded.  ‘When in Rome’... I followed their lead and shook my butt with the rest of them.  Thunderous claps, a song they all sang together and taking turns shaking it in the middle of the circle.  Some of these young girls could shake their hips in ways that would make Shakira look like a slouch.  No kidding.  I am sorry for the Shakira reference, that is so not like me, but there is no better way to describe the hip popping, gyrating, amazing rhythm that seemed to live inside the souls of these girls.  And to think this is a modest country.  I shook my white butt and everyone erupted in laughter and boisterous encouragement for more.

Needless to say I have a date with about 15 or 20 local girls/women ranging in age from 7-25 next Sunday.  Maybe they can teach me more of that dancing.

I Am Back

Just days ago I was looking out onto a beautifully green golf course, tucked away amongst the gnarly old oak trees of the Napa Valley with champagne in my hand.  Today I sit at my familiar old desk in Lilongwe. The same desk I used for six months throughout my internship while completing my Masters degree in social work.  The desk must have originally been an architectural drafting desk because it sits at a sloping angle toward me that leaves deep creases in my wrists from typing along the sharp edges.  The annoyance of the creases is almost a welcomed familiarity, as was the lack of power last night, the ten minute wait for my email to load, the stares on the street at my pale skin and blue eyes, the rust colored dust swirling around the bald tires of mini buses loaded with Malawians and barefooted kids watching, wondering and waving.  I am back.  Back to the reality of life in the developing world.  Back to Malawi.  To say it is a vast difference from the wine country of northern California or the wide beaches of southern California is an understatement, but that is what this is all about. 

When I walked up to the gate of work yesterday morning the ‘Samosa Man’ was waiting outside with a tray of hot samosas, a truly wonderful sight to return to.  Hugs, smiles and kind words from my colleagues greeted me at the door and just like that I felt myself falling back into the routine of life here.  I typed away waiting for the power to return and the Internet to function so I could prepare myself for work on Monday.  The thought of returning to camp on Tuesday causes a swell of happiness to rise in my stomach and make tears fall from my eyes.  The emotion is intense.  Involuntary.  It lets me know unconsciously just how much I care about the people I work with and just how badly I want something better for them.  I am trying to harness this rejuvenated energy and vigor for I know I will need it over the next six months.     

As for now, I am settling into my new place in area 6 of Lilongwe just a hill and a footbridge away from my old place in area 14.   There is no logical explanation to the way the neighborhoods are numbered here but I admit it does leave me guessing and often confused so I guess it does serve some purpose.  Cathy, my new English roommate, has left on a work trip to Ghana and South Africa for the next two weeks giving me the opportunity to leave my bags and materials everywhere around the house without feeling too guilty.  The place is smaller than my last house but feels more like a home with proper couches, drapes that cover the windows, (suppose that is what drapes do by definition but at my last place I McGuivered some drapes that not only let light in but were not long enough to cover the entire window), ceiling fans, a two person dining table and a solar powered Queen Elizabeth that waves her hand side to side throughout the daylight hours when the sun is high in the sky.  Thank you for the six inch waving queen Cathy, now let’s have some tea and crumpets.    

To be writing again feels good.  Thank you to all the supporters and people who encouraged me to continue to do so while I was home.  Hear that Mom, ‘home’-in CaliforniaJ.  I am off to run errands, pick up vegetables at the open-air market, hunt for soymilk, browse Ikea and buy cleaning supplies.  That is all true except the Ikea part.  Did you really think Malawi had an Ikea?  I am in need of a small shelf for the bathroom, something that can hold a few toiletries made from anything from plastic to metal to wicker, I don’t care.  When I asked around for where to get anything that remotely resembled that, people were at a loss.  A shelf? Seriously?  Oh Malawi…