Fugee Football

Over 100 Rwandese, Burundian, Somali and Congolese people lined the soccer pitch last weekend to watch a game between JRS and a team comprised of refugee soccer players.  When I was told I would finally get to play some soccer after months of asking I didn’t realize my first match back would be in front of such a crowd and against such a team of organized and conditioned men.  I was a little intimidated, well maybe a lot intimidated, because as soon as we pulled up a mob of people surrounded the car and all eyes were focused on us.  The chaos was escalated when I pulled the extra large team jersey over my head sparking every man in camp to look my direction and ask curiously where I was going and if I was going to play.  “I am going to the football field and YES, I am going to play.”  In addition to being the visiting team on an unfamiliar field, a colleague and I were the only two female players which gave us a sense of duty and need to represent for women everywhere.  My feet were tired and my head rang from late night escapades on the dance floor just hours earlier but that was no excuse so I put my game face on and trotted out onto the field.    

Not even a few touches on the ball for warm-ups and the whistle blew starting the game.  Typical to Malawian style, we kicked off a hour after our scheduled start time but no one seemed to mind.  Most everyone’s fitness level held up through the first half and while some players had better ball control and passing skills than others our team of pasty white expats held their own.  Whenever the ball came into the vicinity of Clotilde or me the masses of people would hoot and holler with excitement, not familiar with seeing women on the football pitch.  By pitch I mean a large area sloping left to right fraught with ditches and uneven terrain, where in place of any green grass lay a rust colored dirt that was exceptionally good at staining our socks and shoes.  When the whistle blew at half time my mouth felt like the Mojave Desert at midday and my eyes had to squint to block the swirling dust from entering but I felt remarkably great.  Our team formed a huddle on the sideline joined by a large contingent of refugees who filled in around us, shaking hands, nodding heads, cheering, supporting and bonding with all of us.  Kids peered up at us and shoved their way through the pack to get a good spot amongst the players and onlookers.  Adults patted our backs, teammates gave pep talks and I was observing all of it.  Living it. Loving it.  The energy of the circle surrounding us was so positive.  The newly found fans were impressed with the play, entertained by the game and pleasantly surprised that Clotilde and I were heading, clearing, passing and defending alongside the men. 

Our spirits were high going into the second half only down one to zero given that we expected the score to be much more lopsided in favor of the home team.  Watching the game from the sideline at the beginning of the second half allowed me to listen to the comments coming from the crowd and shake hands with many of the kids I work with that showed up to watch the spectacle.  The opposition changed up their plan of attack in the second half with the addition of a new striker.  The striker was the same man that owns a restaurant in camp.  The same man that I sit down with on most afternoons to talk life, soccer and coaching.  Seeing Shabani outside of the restaurant and in his element on the field gave me a good feeling.  I cheered his name, clapped loudly and gawked at the size of his soccer hardened calves.

At about the 70^th minute a ball played in off of a corner kick squirted across the mouth of the goal and one of my teammates managed to put a knee on it sending it past the goalkeeper, who just so happens to be the interpreter I use every week.  Elation from the crowd, hugs, high fives, celebrations and a tie score.  With a few minutes left in the game I was playing left striker and a ball came across the middle and I had my opportunity.  It was as if I could hear the crowd holding their breath waiting for my next move.  I cocked back and struck the ball with solid force.  For a second the ball hung up in the air and was headed toward the left upright of the goal.  Slow motion anticipation. More screams. Even more wide-eyes. Another deflection.  The final whistle.

Ending the friendly match in a tie seemed the perfect way to close the game.  We had worked hard.  Sweat caused the dust to cake on our foreheads, our uniforms were dirty and everyone had a smile on their face.  We met in the center circle to shake hands and congratulate the other team.  Everyone showed great sportsmanship and I noticed a newly found respect in the eyes of many of the opposition, not to mention my coworkers who had been apprehensive about letting me play.  Small children came running up to hug us and get in on the action.  Adults shook our hands and I felt like part of a wonderful and supportive community of people sharing a moment of comradery and oneness.  It made me imagine the pride and unity a player must experience when they are part of a World Cup team uniting countries from all over the world through sport. 

A young girl I estimated to be about nine or ten approached me afterward hiding her eyes from mine.  She smiled timidly and reached out to shake my hand.  She had been watching the match and saw me walk off of the pitch.  Pride swelled up in my chest.  If I came to the field that day for no other reason I would have come for that handshake from that young girl that seemed to say, “Girls can play too.”  We challenged a lot of stereotypes and gender roles that day and had a good time doing it.  I believe that playing in the ‘fugee football’ game made us all part of a team much larger than the 22 that walked out onto the pitch.

Later in the evening I got to watch team USA dominate a sloppy looking Columbia team in the first round of the women’s World Cup soccer tournament in Germany.  I’m feeling that sports fever rushing through my veins again and it brings back glorious memories of teams past.  A few sore muscles and numerous dirty boogers the next day were oddly pleasant reminders from the game.      

    

Inspiration From All Directions

Yesterday after the birthday crew had all gone back to Lilongwe I decided to stay behind by myself at the lake to do some reflection.  I have always enjoyed time on my own to listen and address some of the thoughts that run around my head at Olympic speeds.  The free time plus freshly cut papaya fruit at an arm’s reach, Lake Malawi next to me, bougainvillea blossoms surrounding me and local kids running through the water in what’s left of their faded underwear in front of me is a great creative bubble in which to write.  Inspiration comes from all directions here. Even the beer rushing down my throat seems to send warm incentives to my stomach.  Firing on all cylinders I say.   

Twenty years from now when my memory has shoved all of these wonderful moments deep into the back of my brain matter I want to be able to read these entries in hopes they will send the memories hurling forward into recall inciting a satisfying and joyful state of nostalgia. Dear future self, you’re welcome.   Justice would not be served if these brilliant memories were simply stored away in the cabinet that is my brain without first sharing them with all of you.  I hope my words can embody the spirit and life of this place so that you can be here with me to experience this.  Right here.  Right now. 

I want to tell you about ten things all at the same time.  I want to tell you about how just last week I was sitting in front of a support group graduation with all of the adolescents from my group.  They all walked in wearing clothes you know were saved for a special occasion, finely pressed with charcoal heated irons.  I addressed the group and sat down to listen to a young man give a speech we had practiced together the day before.  Nervous beads of sweat were forming on his forehead and although he struggled to get some words across he did a great job.  He delivered the speech standing in front of a bright window with sunshine flooding in around him.  When he moved from that place I could still see the outline of his body, like when you stare at the sun too long and dark spots appear on the inside of your eyelids that you can’t get rid of.  Not only did the celebratory moment leave marks on my eyes but I knew it would leave lasting marks on my memory.    

I want to tell you about the full moon eclipse I saw last week as our volleyball team lost yet another game under the lights at The Shack Bar.  I want to tell you about the traditional, provocative dance I was taught, the same one village girls are taught before they become married women.  I want to tell you about how much mental energy is required to design a community training.  Before you can even begin to put pen to paper you have to consider the language: Kirundi, Kiswahili, French, Kirwanda or English, the culture, the gender roles, the age appropriateness, the existing tribal conflicts, whether or not the audience is literate, the power and influence of religion not to mention the 70 different churches and mosques in camp and then, and only then, you can start.  I want to tell you how for my birthday one of my colleagues from Rwanda made me a necklace out of beads only to show me three days later the cuts it left on her fingers.   “You are worth it,” she said.  I want to tell you about the government induced fuel crisis that has people angry and cars lined up for days to fill their cars up with petrol.  I want to tell you how gratifying the feeling was when I saw the expressions on the faces of the refugees when I told them I would be staying for six more months and how big and crooked my smile was when they started to joke around and call me professor.  I wouldn’t dwell on it but I would want to tell you how I feel the need to do 107 different things all before I leave with work and living and future stuff and to keep it all straight I have created an intimidating and stress inducing to-do list.  If I had even more time I would tell you in great detail about how, for the next six months, I will be teaching a course with the ‘Higher Education at the Margins’ or HEM program about psychosocial counseling and case-management to various stakeholders and refugees in Dzaleka while at the same time counseling and facilitating trauma trainings.  I would take the time to tell you that every year on June 20 the UNHCR celebrates World Refugee Day and how I told myself that World Refugee Day and my 30^th birthday falling on the same day is more that just a coincidence but designed by fate.  I would tell you that a fellow ginger and friend of mine that I find to strangely akin to me has asked me to move into her quaint apartment and I have a great feeling it will work out so well.   I would tell you all of these things so you could get a small glimpse into my world and I could express to you just how much your support means to me and the work I am doing and will have the fortune to continue to do. 

DF:  Every morning I wake up, get ready for work and walk out the door shortly after 7 a.m. to take the 20-minute walk to the office over a footbridge, along a dirt path and out of area 14, beside the main road and into area 47, Sector 3 across from a string of bars known as Bwandillo.  During my first days of travel to work many months ago I did not know the most direct path so I attempted various routes to find the quickest way.  Days went by and I began to recognize the same group of young local woman passing by me.  After a few weeks they became familiar faces and we began to wave to each other in passing.  As more time wore on we began to vocalize a Chechewa good morning plus a wave.  Last week as I walked alone down the paved road passed the Jehovah’s Witness compound I made a breakthrough with the group…High fives.  That was nice.  Today, on this sun shiny morning I saw my girls from afar.  With the light in my eyes I could only make out the brilliantly white teeth on their grinning faces.  I too found myself smiling.  As we approached one another they spread their arms wide and we had our first good morning hug.  Imagine hugging strangers in the States for no good reason at all other than to wish them well on their individual journey’s to work.  Once they started to raffle off a conversation in Chechewa and I had this dumbfounded look on my face we realized that we could not communicate with one another beyond the general greeting but who needs verbal language when you have hugs?  Honestly. 

30 for 30

It’s Monday, June 20^th, 2011.  Today is the 60^th anniversary of International Refugee Day and my 30^th birthday (I believe this is more than just a coincidence).  The United Nations High Commission for Refugees has recognized June 20^th as the day to commemorate the courageous people across the world that have been forced to flee their country in fear of persecution for reasons of race, nationality, religion or political affiliation.  Today I will have the opportunity and fortune to celebrate with the refugees and support the ongoing commitment to help them realize their rights.  It should be a birthday unlike any other.   

Just two days ago someone asked me where I thought I would be at 30.  I opened my mouth to say something but realized I didn’t have an exact answer.  In reflection, my mind started to quantify my life and take stock of what I have done, where I have been, lessons I have learned and most importantly relationships I have built.  Even now, I can’t answer the question entirely but I can say that I am so very happy with my life’s journey thus far.  Happy with what I have achieved, people who I have surround myself with, places I have gone, experiences I have had, decisions I have made, risks I have taken and work I have dedicated myself to.  I realize more and more that it’s not so much about where I thought I would be at 30 but the incredible path I have taken to get here.

Over my 30 years on this globe I have come to understand some facts of life, been given some pearls of wisdom, had some epiphanies and discovered some lessons to live by…  

1.     

1.   When you tell someone you forgive them, mean it.  Holding grudges can only lead to more pain.
2.     Grampy Healy holds the title for best Mickey Mouse pancake maker
3.     Being a ‘pretty girl helper’ is the best job to have as a kid
4.     Getting told you throw like a girl is a compliment
5.     Coming in second place in an invention convention two years in a row motivates you to work harder
6.     Making kids run the mile on Friday is not a horrible thing, no matter how much they tell you it is
7.     Being a part of team sports is one of the greatest gifts you can give to a kid
8.     Only the Sheriff can make house calls to Amigo Lane
9.     Don’t buy your 16 year old a Volkswagen
10.  Being able to say your best friends are the same friends you had in grade school is something to be proud of
11.  Karma says you should pay the bridge toll for the stranger in the car behind you every once in a while (Fastrak is not an excuse) 
12.  Always celebrate the little things in life
13.  In a diehard’s book, a fair weather fan is not a fan at all
14.  Work hard, play hard
15.  Send kids to summer camp
16.  Jiff Extra Chunky Peanut Butter.  Enough said.
17.  Learning to ride a bike for the first time without training wheels is one of the single best feelings
18.  Taking five years to graduate from college is not only okay but a wonderful idea
19.  Live by the ocean at least once in your life
20.  Live outside of your native country at least once in your life to see how others do it
21.  Learn a foreign language
22.  Sunscreen not baby oil
23.  Guinness tastes better in Ireland
24.  Spending time alone is good for you
25.  Exercise and floss your teeth every day
26.  No book can teach you more than experience can
27.  Underwear is often overrated  
28.  Everyone loves Betty Cookies. Everyone!
29.  There are few views better than that from the top of Mount Kilimanjaro
30.  Keep a secret.

LOVE ALWAYS!!!!

L

Set the World on Fire

“Hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things and no good things ever dies.”                                                                                                                                    -SR

Hope.  Ask many, dare I say most, refugees and they will admit that they have all but lost hope for their future.  I have sat down with many people to have heart to heart conversations about the topic of hope.  It can be so simple, yet in the context of a refugee camp it can be so very complex.  How can one have hope for the future if there are no job opportunities or prospects for higher education?  Civil war, gender based violence, political unrest, persecution and the most ferocious brutality that makes you question the very soul of humanity has driven these people away from their homes and into refugee camps.  They have fled their respective countries hoping for a brighter future complete with freedom and safety.  

Parents hope to raise families where opportunity lies, where children can grow up to be doctors and lawyers and men and women are not reliant on handouts from others but instead on their own conviction and hard work.  If there is no foreseeable future beyond surviving today where does the hope lie?  As an internal optimist I have always encouraged hope and positive energy but my message often falls on deaf ears here in Dzaleka.  This is understandable when I consider the troubling truth staring me in the face.  Very few refugees are resettled and an even smaller number are given higher education scholarships to universities inside as well as outside of the country.  During one of these intimate conversations one man spoke up with certainty in his voice, “Africa holds my destiny, I don’t.”  From the time I spent with him I came to the conclusion that what he meant was that resource poor Africa has already decided his fate.  It has been engulfed in war, raised corrupt dictators, forced people to leave their homeland, denied democracy, complicated investment, thwarted infrastructure and business and hindered education for all.  Africa has set him up to fail.    

Without touching on the consequences of colonialism, the cost of Africa’s and the international community’s actions has prolonged the vicious cycle of helplessness, reliance, poverty and suffering.  The hardest pill for me to swallow is that many youth in camp are not able to hold on to the idea of hope.  Nothing breaks my heart more than looking into a child’s eyes knowing they have given up on themselves and their future.  I know that every child harbors that flame of curiosity and imagination that if given oxygen can set the world on fire.  When I dig deep I believe the source of my love for working alongside youth is their ability to hope and dream despite the challenges of their reality. 

With the odds stacked against us we persevere.  I for one refuse to give up hope for a brighter future.  I want to help supply the oxygen and not deplete it for I believe that no good thing ever dies.  I believe that is why so many people in camp are religious.  If faith in their god is the only place they find solace and answers to their problems then let there be that belief in a higher being that can provide comfort, consolation and dare I say it…Hope!

Futbol at sunset in Dzaleka Camp

DF:  Doggy Dip Days in Lilongwe.  What is doggy dip you ask?  Doggy dip is a designated day every week when all of the dogs in the city are rounded up and taken to a central location where they are bathed by their owners/hired help in a pool of flea treated water.  Dogs of all shapes and sizes are marched down to the dip, some willing, some not, some hostile, some not and then plunged into the pool.  You know it’s doggy dip day when all the leashed dogs are violently shaking water from their coats and are wet to the bone revealing their wiry frames.  Clean, tick and flea free doggies, thanks to the Lilongwe laws mandating doggies to dip.   

Reasons & Seasons

Top 10 Reasons Why You Don’t Show Up to Appointments in Dzaleka Refugee Camp:

10)  You are waiting at home for the camp police to show up to file a report about a break in or another crime committed against you

9)  You are suffering from Malaria

8)  It is food distribution day and you need to be present with your ration card in order to receive food  

7)  You must attend a funeral and spend all day mourning with the family

6)  It is Tuesday (market day) and you are going to buy and sell produce, second-hand clothing and various items to earn an income

5)  You are called by UNHCR to conduct an initial resettlement interview

4)  You have to travel to the big city in order to be seen by a specialist not available in the camp clinic

3)  You have to go to the clinic/hospital in camp (this could be a reason to miss consecutive days because the wait can be more than 24 hours)

2)  A friend or relative is sick and needs your assistance (watching their child, repairing a roof, fetching water or otherwise)  

1)  The idea of time and day is a business minded orientation to the world.  Crop cycles, sunsets and weather patterns are better indicators of time and day.  What are scheduled appointments anyway?  

Seasonal Crops of Malawi

January:  Mango and Pineapple

February:  Avocado, Irish Potato, Peas and Tomato

March: Onion, Maize, Okra, Termite and Tomato

April: Carrot, Ground Nut, Tangerine, Apple and Tomato

May: Sweet Potato, Pumpkin, Gourds and Mice

June: Papaya and Plum

*The rest I will find out soon enough…

DF’s:  A family in my neighborhood has a small shop in front of their house stocked with various household items and other food stuffs.  People go there on occasion to pick up bread, eggs or rice instead of having to go into town to the larger groceries.  The shop owner purchases bread from a local market called ‘Peoples Cash and Carry’ aka PCC and sells it to us at a slightly higher cost for convenience sake.  For the past three weeks we have picked up loaves of bread, as always pre sliced by a machine.  You may have all heard of the saying, “That is the best thing since sliced bread,” well the slices of bread from the PCC more resemble chunks or slabs of bread.  There will be uniform slices amongst double or triple wide slices in the loaf.  It seems that for weeks the blades in the slicing machine have been missing or broken and they continue to produce oblong pieces of bread.  Perhaps they can’t afford to replace the blades, maybe the parts are being imported from another country and have not arrived yet or quite possibly no one cares enough to fix it.  Either way the next time you go to use the saying, “That is the best thing since sliced bread,” think of Malawi and understand that sometimes sliced bread isn’t that great and it surely isn’t perfect.  Perhaps this is a blessing in disguise because oober fat hunks of bread require more peanut butter and more PB is always welcomed.

A Golden Ticket

I snuck into the ceremony late and took a seat in the front on a bench with just enough room for both of my cheeks to squeeze onto.  To my left, sitting in front of parents, relatives, friends and supporters were all of the World University Services Canada (WUSC) graduates.  These individuals earned the highest marks in secondary school, went through a competitive interview process, passed intensive English courses and were lucky enough to receive acceptance into the WUSC program.  The students being honored have been granted full ride scholarships to Canadian universities plus a golden ticket-Canadian citizenship.  The student’s faces all exuded an eager happiness not often found on refugee faces that can otherwise be prematurely aged by the difficulties of camp life.  Dressed in their best attire they were prepared to accept certificates representing months of hard work and an opportunity to begin a new life in a developed country.  We were entertained with traditional and modern dances, poems, songs and speeches from various guests of honor.  The moment everyone anxiously awaited was the announcement of the university and location where each student would be placed.  When the first student was called an eruption of excitement filled the room.  Mothers and fathers rushed forward along with other students to surround the graduate and celebrate this defining moment in their lives.  Film cameras flashed, people were picked up off the ground and small children flailed about in delight not exactly understanding what the commotion was all about.  Student after student was called and the overwhelming emotion in the air brought tears to my eyes.  Knowing the change that awaits them in a few short weeks was hard for me to fathom. 

            

Moving from the boreholes, dirt floors and pit toilets of Dzaleka Refugee Camp to a place where snow falls, good health care is universal and elevators take people to the top of skyscrapers.  No longer will they be faced with waiting for food distribution days, weathering tribal animosity and asking UNHCR for permission to leave the camp premises.  Instead they will receive some of the best education the world has to offer in a democratic country where their potential can be realized.  Unfortunately, they will embark on this journey without their families or relatives and be forced to adapt to a foreign culture while all the while keeping up with the demands of academia.  It will be one of the most challenging experiences of their lives where they will undoubtedly feel the weight of responsibility for the family members they left behind.  Despite the long preparation process, which included cultural and life courses, they have no idea what truly awaits them.  To be in the presence of such a celebration and to witness the life altering change taking place for these students is a memory I will carry with me for a long time to come.

DF: It’s food distribution day at camp which means families will be eating well tonight.  Most have already sold off a portion of their food items in order to purchase soap for washing clothes and other nonperishables to sustain the household.  For some this means a few extra Kwacha in their pockets, perhaps enough to purchase winter jackets, socks or closed toes shoes.  For another small number of people today means enough disposable income to buy beers and/or barbequed meat.  The men who have this luxury are all drinking beers standing outside of my regular lunching spot opposite the butcher’s window and boiling potato pot.  I pull back the lace curtain from the doorway and walk in.  No electricity again today.  I sit next to a woman drinking a beer.  This may not seem like anything out of the ordinary to my readers but to see a woman drinking a beer in public at camp is a BIG deal.  Seeing as it is food distribution day she is indulging in a drink and a lunch out.  A rare and, I’m sure, well deserved treat.  When I offer her one of two goat meat skewers I am eating she declines.  I figured she might like to wash down some meat with her beer but I figured wrong.  What I didn’t know was that she had already ordered six skewers of meet the size of half of a goat and was going to eat like a queen.  When I see the mass quantity of meat placed in front of her and the small smile of satisfaction growing on her face I couldn’t help but feel like I insulted her in some way with my offer.  We make eye contact, I shrug my shoulders, we both laugh.  Touché.  I think I am growing to like food distribution day just as much as everyone else.        

           

The Place That Cannot Be Found

Having slept for only three hours the night before I was feeling surprisingly strong and ready to attempt the assault up Mount Mulanje and Sapitwa Peak.  Standing at 3,004 meters (9,849 ft.) Sapitwa Peak is the highest point in Malawi and the highest in sub-Saharan Africa.  We met our guide just outside Chiradzulu in what I thought was a very small town consisting of one main road.  I wasn’t convinced that the man standing in front of us was our guide because he had on a collared button down shirt, pleated slacks and a pair of dress shoes.  Indeed he was.  He said that because he was to meet us in the ‘city’ he felt the need to get dressed up and present himself well downtown.  So humble are the people born and raised in the villages.  We climbed into the mini-bus destined for the base of the mountain with our sleeping bags, food, cold weather gear and water in tow.  Sleeping 'in', travelling to the meeting point, gathering last minute items and being at the mercy of public transportation meant that we started off late at around 2:30 p.m.  Even with a cloudy head and despicable math skills I was able to deduce that we would be hiking in the dark in order to reach base camp five hours up the mountain.  No regrets.  Dancing the night away was well worth having to hike in darkness.  

At the beginning of our trek we walked past small villages where children came rushing out to wave, dance and yell out the all too familiar chant of ‘Mzungu’.  During the climb we marched into densely wooded forests, over granite boulders, under canopies of trees, through tall overhead grasses and up trickling waterfalls.  Daylight ran out and we hiked on by the light of the full moon and the small torches we had with us.  By torches, I mean flashlights (it seems that English English has inundated my vocabulary).  Hour after hour of demanding exercise drenched my hair with sweat and sent a wave of exhaustion through my body challenging my physical and mental toughness (as all worthwhile climbs do).  After all, no great accomplishment is ever painless.  I forced my brain to stop pondering the two Malawian job offers I received earlier in the week and concentrate solely on my breathing.   

Steve, Melvin and Me

After the steepest accent was over we arrived at a flatter section of trail.  The moonlight reflecting off of the white granite rocks surrounding us made the final portion of our walk quite peaceful.  My legs were trembling and it was a struggle just to put one leg in front of the other but by the time we reached the hut and the smell of cedar and campfire filled my lungs I was smiling and reveling at the day’s accomplishment.  We were spoiled with a basin of hot water to wash up and a huge heap of spaghetti before being sent to sleep with fresh cold air sweeping through the one room hut. 

I awoke the next morning with chilled bones and tight hips but I was ready to eat the hard-boiled eggs and peanut butter toast waiting for me.  To see the mountain’s peak in the morning light brought about a new sense of purpose and excitement to the hike.  We filled our water bottles straight from the cascading stream alongside the trail and were on our way.  Before my second wind kicked in my breathing was heavy, my heart pounded and I fought to keep pace with our guide.  My calves yearned for a flat surface but there was no reprieve from the steep granite slabs until we hit the rocky trail.  We traversed through caves and over large rocks until we reached the tippy top.  At that elevation there was a noticeable climate change sending a brisk chill through the air.  In the clearing beyond the rocks was a 360-degree view of the vast valley below us.  The contrast of the blue sky and the white billowing clouds made for a perfect scene from which to view the summit.  We had reached the top of Sapitwa Peak, translation the place that cannot be found.  Locals believe the peak is haunted by spirits that prohibit climbers from reaching the summit.  Not only did we reach the top but we also returned in one piece.  That is after we rejuvenated with a high carb lunch and a nap nestled amongst the green grasses.    

A wise businessman had lugged a crate of beers up to base camp and when we returned from our strenuous hike the sight of cold beer delighted my eyes.  A 33 percent price markup was a small price to pay for enjoying happy hour on the deck of a cedar wood cabin while staring at the view of the villages and valley below at sunset.  After dinner the weight of my eyelids sent me crawling into my sleeping bag beside the firelight.  Never mind that it was only 7:30 p.m.  On the mountain rules of time don’t apply, you sleep when you are tired and you eat when you are hungry.  Come 5:02 a.m. we were up, stretching our sore muscles and saying farewell to the watchman and his son who stay on the mountain full time.  Another five hours of knee torturing descent down the mountain and we returned successful and triumphant.  We celebrated the conquering of Mount Mulanje with the sacrifice of a local chicken served boiled with slabs of nsima.  We hitched a ride in the bed of a pick up truck and meandered back to town alongside tidy rows of tea plants flourishing on the base of the mountain. 

Mulanje Tea Plantation

As wonderful as the climb and the views were it could not compare to the news I received on the bus ride home.  As the sun was setting and the full moon was already looming on the horizon my phone rang.  “Pig?” “Pig!”  Cody McBride Swine Amason Flores on the other end of the line, on the other side of the world gave me the news that she is pregnant with their second child!  My heart lifted up in my chest and I could not deny the perma-grin that took over my face.  Thomas is to be a brother!  I love you Pig, can’t wait to cuddle with that belly of yours.

Dome’s Favorites:  Packed away in my suitcase from the States were small ‘grow capsules’ that resembled large medicine pills but were something magically different.  Once placed in warm water these capsules transform into small sponges in the shape of 16 various farm animals.  A good friend gave me these unique gifts so I could pass them along to children in camp.  What she or I did not expect was the amazement these capsules would provide to all the adults in camp.  After using them with the children word spread that I was in possession of ‘growing animals’ so everyone demanded a demonstration.  Before our staff meeting this past Friday we gathered around a small Tupperware of hot water and I took bets as to what animal might possibly emerge from the compressed capsule.  Fingers pointed, stakes were claimed and everyone was overly enthusiastic to get in on the action.  I made a selection and dropped the enlarged pill into the water as15 pairs of eyes looked on in awe as the gel began to dissolve.  Slowly the spongy innards began to push against the walls of the pill until animal parts began to take shape.  “It’s a horse”, “I think it’s the sheep”, “What is it?” “Wait, wait…”  The smiles turned to laughs, the hoots became hollers and the cheering grew more and more boisterous.   I looked around and saw every adult in the office engulfed in a euphoric sense of childish play.  And finally…“It’s a DUCK!”  (Queue applause).  Note to self: Grow capsules=AMAZING fun for ALL ages!