And to All a Good Night

The first Christmas spend away from 96 Amigo Lane, away from California, away from America and away from my family and friends.  A new experience, a new corner of the world, a new culture and a new way of celebrating.

ETHIOPIA. 2011/2012.

Details, pictures and stories upon my return to Malawi.  Until then a MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL,  I love you with everything I have.  

I'm Lauren Michelle, I Smile so Well

It’s funny.  I was playing indoor soccer tonight in the gym of African Bible College, a local college with exceptionally nice facilities as compared to other public institutions in town.  The five-man (actually 5-woman) teams were a mingling of Malawians, students, professionals and ex-pats from various corners of the world.  The point of significance was not the hodgepodge of nationalities but more so the age of the players involved.  Girls in high school, age 14, looking spritely and brimming with energy up to the oldest player-Me. Age 30.  Generally, teams are selected based on the color of the t-shirt people wear and as luck would have it all of the ‘veteran’ players (not necessarily experienced but older) were placed on the same team.  Kickoff happened and it seemed to be young vs. old(er).  

There was a moment when I was subbed out and simply observing the game progress from the sideline.  Our team had maintained possession and had better vision on the court, which meant a lopsided score in our favor (Not that anyone was really keeping score because the games are always friendly). One of the young girls of 14, who looked more like 12 with a baby face and an infinite motor, had possession of the ball and was dribbling down the court.  Our defense was slow to retreat so the goal was all but wide open.  She took her shot and made it.  You could see her chest visibly swell with pride.  A small jump, followed by a fist pump and an audible, “Yesss”.  Keep in mind the score was a lot to a little and there had been no ‘touchdown dances’ prior.  Her moment was short lived but the celebration brought a smile to my face.  Her enthusiasm and competitive spirit actually reminded me of me way back when. 

My imagination whisked me out of the gym and into George Deklotz stadium, under the lights of Las Lomas High School.  Back then I was confident with my athletic ability, which might have teetered on arrogant if not for the lightning fast midfielders that kept me humble.  I had an energy and attitude of invincibility that made that time in my life so naively special.  To be perfectly honest, I still feel an air of invincibility however that feeling is fading with the knowledge of the impact an emergency would have on my family and friends.  For this reason, I take myself a little more seriously although I will never allow fear to keep me from pursuing the life I feel destined to lead.  Not going to happen. Sorry Mom and Dad. Base-jumping is still in the cards some day…OK, back to the story. 

As I giggled to myself and watched the young players work I reflected on my years since my own high school days.  In hindsight, I realize that I have grown up.  I have grown up A LOT.  I guess I have not changed, so much as grown to become more of myself.  I believe my journey to this point has been an indescribable adventure chalked full of highs and lows, although I must admit that the positive events have far outweighed the negative ones.  Never ending family support, teaching moments, opportunity, connections with people and places, giving back, love and education.  Experiences that have built me up and broken me down and created the person I am today.  I am not admitting to adulthood here but there is such a vast contrast between myself then and myself now.  That said, I know I don't always make the best decisions (my stubborn pride and that little voice inside my head screaming, "Do it" often muddle my ability to do so) but the most important thing is that I have no regrets.  This little moment in the gym tonight brought all of this awareness to the forefront and continues to make me smile as I write this.

Bits and Pieces

To have a long pinky nail here in Malawi is to have an elevated status.  The nail does not serve a purpose, as many fiends used it in the hay days of the 60s and 70s, but it is more to show others without saying a word that you do not do manual labor.  To do manual labor means you are constantly using your hands and digging in the earth, which would not be possible with an extended fingernail. 

Flame and Frangipani Trees blossoming now in Lilongwe

Garbage collection happens in various neighborhoods throughout Lilongwe but is not a practice happening everywhere.  The solution and general rule of thumb is to dig a large pit in your backyard, burn anything and everything that will disintegrate, melt, dissolve or otherwise send ozone destroying fumes into the atmosphere then throw the rest in the pit to wallow for eternity.

During Mango season, one can purchase close to 30 mangos for $2.  They are sold by the bucket load so a vehicle is necessary to transport the heavy cargo back to one’s home before they become too ripe.  The proper way to eat a mango is by tearing into it like you would an apple.  Bite through the skin, spit in out and enjoy the juicy orange flesh inside.  Always carry floss on your person because the stringy fibers will no doubt get stuck in your teeth like a stubborn popcorn kernel.

Mango 'stall' on the side of the road out of Senga Bay 

There are precarious footbridges constructed out of medium sized branches and nails that span across the Lilongwe River separating the produce market from the clothing market.  To cross one of these bridges to visit the clothing market there is no tariff but to make the return journey one must first check for bridge trolls, walk with great caution not to fall through the fractured gaps, then pay 20 MK to the toll taker as if the experience couldn’t have cost you some broken bones and a swim in the muddy waters below.

In area 18, by what is known as, ‘the stage’ men jog around with crockpot looking dishes made of plastic.  When cars or mini buses slow down near to them, their jog breaks out into a feverish run so that they may sell the product inside of the dishes.  Sausage.  Ahhh street meat.  All will tell you that the product inside is 100 percent meat however every local knows that soya products are cheaper and often sausage stuffers will concoct a sausage looking thingamajig with part meat, part soya, part parts.  You never know what you are going to get but you can guarantee it will be salty.

Malawians love sugar and salt, “too much.”

In the latter part of November and December everyone anticipates the beginning of the rainy season here in Malawi.  The 85 percent of the country involved in subsistence farming are busy preparing the ground with a spade attached to a short wooden club that acts as a multipurpose tool.  The earth is turned over manually and formed into neat and tidy rows with elevated mounds of dirt for irrigation purposes and to prevent flooding of the seedlings.  Maize feeds the country along with some variations of tobacco and cotton for export as well as beans, tomatoes and cassava.  Women and men are bent over their plots of land working away with sweat and blood to subsidize their diets as well as their incomes.  Tractors are a rare commodity and are reserved for large scale farming operations owned by the government and wealthy land owners.  

A 'teaching moment' on the beach-Yes that is a beer in my hand

Female condoms are distributed in camp however the purpose for which they are intended is never realized.  Instead, the inner ring made of a soft plastic is separated from the overflowing waterfall of latex and then used as a bracelet adorned by men, women, girls and boys alike. Pretty.    

To be fat in the African sense is to be healthy and strong.  It does not in any way have the tainted perspective of the Western World where people would take offense to the pudgy adjective.  -“You look fat!” –“Why, thank you…”

JRS has formed a social football team that plays on Saturdays against various Malawian social teams and NGOs.  We are currently 1-2-1 on the season with premier league aspirations.  Often I am the only female on the pitch trying to give ‘us’ a good name but the foot speed and raw talent out there is hard to match up against.  What is important is that we look really good in our uniforms and have fun doing it.

The JRS team

In the Rwandan and Congolese culture it is considered impolite for women to whistle at any time.  This practice is reserved for men only and I am told that women who do whistle do so because they want to be like men.  I learned this little factoid only after whistling at a colleague from far off in camp.  When we discussed the cultural relevance in class today I was amused to find out that out of the nine women in my class, only one could actually, physically whistle.  All five men could.  It was then that I whistled like an angelic bird and we all had a good laugh.  Note to self-no more whistling outside of the house.

I brought home a small tree/plant and we decorated it with random items from around the house to celebrate the beginning of the holiday season and an upcoming Christmas.  It is imperfect and resembles Charlie Brown's feeble tree but that is why we love it.  For your information that is a chitenje tree skirt.  Our tree will be planted in the front yard upon my return from adventuring in Ethiopia over the holiday break.  Merry, happy times all.    

        

      

Protein Rich

Termite season has officially begun!  For the past two days, while recovering from some kind of stomach illness, I have not eaten anything of substance until this evening when I was riding my bike home through a swarm of termites and I swallowed a few unlucky ones that flew into my mouth when I was forced to breath.  This year’s termite season kicked off yesterday with a bang when, after our first heavy rain, the sun came out and hundreds upon thousands of winged termites came spewing out of their conspicuous earthen chimneys.  The bright pink sunset illuminated the skies and provided a perfect backdrop to admire the spectacle.  People in my neighborhood were outside, as always, being entertained by the gathering display. The termite’s iridescent wings flapped so furiously through the air that they created a euphoric halo around their small, yet substantial buggy bodies.  After flying freely in the warm night air the termites then drop their wings and are forever forced to scuttle around on the ground below. The sheer magnitude of termites flying through the air was impressive (in an ‘Armageddon’ attack of the locusts kind of way) as was the river of wings littering the ground after the metamorphosis. 

Throughout this time of year locals wait patiently with hand-woven nets to catch the insects flying in mass droves out of their colonies.  They fry them up and eat them with a dash of salt for a protein rich, nutty snack.  During my ride home tonight I attempted to dodge the darkened clouds of termites with little success, getting pelted in the face and across my body.  As gross as this may sound I was really trying to fight back a smile from my face.  Why was I smiling you ask (or perhaps you weren’t asking because you already know I’m crazy)?  Well, I realized at that moment I had arrived in Malawi at the end of the termite season last year.  This time around I didn’t have 101 questions to ask about the wild phenomenon because I already knew the answers.  I was in no less a state of awe this second go round but I had the knowledge and that warm, cozy feeling of familiarity slapping me in the face with their wings.  Perhaps I should get myself a net…

The Rainy Season Begins yet the Country Runs Dry

A Malawian National Newspaper Press Release dated 11/15/11:

"Periodic shutdowns and rationalization of production for the bottling plant and the brewery.  Carlsburg Malawi would like to inform all valued costumers and consumers that our factories in Lilongwe, Blantyre and Mzuzu will experience periodic shutdown of production occasioned by unavailability of imported raw materials like concentrates, Carbon Dioxide, crowns, malt for beer and glass bottles due to erratic availability of foreign exchange.

As a result, it has now become necessary for Carlsburg Malawi Ltd. to rationalize its production program.  The management of Carlsburg appreciates the efforts and support rendered by Commercial Banks, the Monetary Authority, Carlsburg A/S and Press Corporation Limited to manage the challenges posed by foreign exchange shortages.  However, despite all these efforts, if the situation does not improve, including normalization of fuel supplies to ensure availability of diesel for our delivery and distribution trucks, supply of product will become more problematic during the festive season.

The management of Carlsburg wishes to apologize for any inconvenience caused."

-Abel T. Chanje.

Translation= Shortages of beer and gin are eminent.

We work hard with the expectation to play hard.  This 'inconvenience' looks to pose a problem of grand proportion for the masses.  Who is it that I speak to about turning water into wine? 

Palibe Petrol

Sometimes when you look back on hardship, the situation, at one point dire and difficult now seems manageable and relatively painless.  It is as if the passing of time has cast a warm rosy picture on your memory easing up the seriousness of the circumstances.  I have heard many times that those with the heart of a champion, particularly adventurers who summit extreme mountains, maintain that their last climb was challenging but not the ultimate test of will.  This mentality gives them the motivation and resolve to climb the next great peak even when their previous experience was gut wrenchingly grueling and physically demanding beyond what they thought humanly possible.    

So that I remember the vivid reality of the current hardship occurring in Malawi I want to reflect upon the situation here and now and document the gritty details.  In short, the industry of Malawi does not produce enough goods for export, minimizing the amount of foreign currency they receive.  With a shortage of foreign currency Malawi has limited buying power outside of their borders restricting the government’s ability to purchase everything from fuel to various necessities from overseas.  This has caused a crisis of growing proportion.  At the gas station cars line up bumper-to-bumper in haphazard rows, colorful jerry cans of assorted sizes hold the place of men waiting to fill them, crowds swell in hopes to get their hands on fuel to either fill their empty tanks or sell the surplus on the black market where prices are grossly inflated.  Gas guzzling trucks, motorcycles, even the occasional ambulance wait for hours on end without proceeding through the line.  The period of waiting and hoping begins long before the fuel tankers have even filled the underground reservoirs of the station.  A rumor or hot tip has led masses of cars to different station locations and there the games begin.  Wait, hope, wonder, sweat, become aggravated, infuriated, get lucky or go home empty handed.   

My Solution 

On many levels this process is sad.  I use the word sad because it seems appropriate.  For one, Malawians have come to accept this crisis without murmurs of civil demonstration or marches on the capital.  The government, in early July, quelled any plans for future protest by shooting live rounds into demonstrating crowds and killing 12 people in Mzuzu, four in Lilongwe and three in Blantyre.  The second reason for my use of the word sad is because while thousands of citizens wait in long lines hoping for fuel, the economy of Malawi is unable to progress and slows down to a crawl.  Trucks cannot make their deliveries, construction workers cannot get to their job sights, the business and industry sector, though only a small fraction of the economy, cannot support entrepreneurs and new business, ambulances cannot travel to emergency situations, mini bus drivers lose time and money, farmers cannot produce and the ripple affect causes increased prices for everything from bananas to baskets distressing even the most remote villager and malnourished child. 

The situation here is bound to get worse before it gets better.  As a relatively wealthy and able ex-patriot living here I have the economic means to keep the crisis at a comfortable distance from my own life but I am unable to shoulder the burden for my fellow brothers and sisters.  It is not a proud time nor is it a pleasant time to realize all of these things after reflecting on them.  I often ask myself if Malawi has the means to ameliorate their situation.  I am hopeful that they can and will but am often uninspired by the corrupted efforts of some of their complacent politicians taking away the voice of the people.  News from the ‘Occupy’ Movement happening simultaneously in the US has made headlines here in Africa.  Images of protesters voicing their concern and demanding change on Wall Street and in corporate America has made me look at both situations and compare both versions of democracy.  In one picture on the web an American man holds up a sign in front of a corporate building, “Sorry for the inconvenience, we are trying to change the world here.”  If only Malawians could raise those signs, speak up and be the impetus for their own change.  I somehow doubt that news of the crisis here in Malawi has made headlines across the ocean but it does not mean people here are not suffering.  I can only hope that the solution looms somewhere on the near horizon.  I also hope I don’t get expelled from the country for writing this.  Others have...       

A Piece of Land Surrounded by Water

We headed north even with the knowledge that there was no fuel at the pumps and we would have to hunt down jerry cans of gas on the black market to get back home.  During the 5+  hour journey from Lilongwe to Nkhata Bay the 20-liter jerry can in the back of our car had been heating up to a low simmer.  Once we arrived and went to manually fill up the empty tank I discovered all too late that the fuel had expanded and was waiting to send a forceful spray of gasoline all over my face once the lid was opened.  My first toxic fuel shower!  Campisi thoughtfully wiped my face with 1 ply toilet paper we had laying around in the back of the car and we moved on.  We had survived the poorly paved roads with various hazards including oblivious goats, car chasing dogs, overloaded bicycles, drunk villagers, matola trucks full of locals and cows pulling wide and cumbersome carts of maize so a little fuel to the face seemed a piece of cake.

To no surprise our booking was ‘lost’ but that only meant a free upgrade to a cozy little cottage overlooking the lake with en suite shower and toilet.  Perfect.  Karen, Campisi and I settled in and let the waters of Lake Malawi wash off the sweat, dirt, diesel and stress that had been accumulating on our skin and in our chests.  The next day we were off to Likoma Island, a 6-hour boat journey away on the infamous Ilala Ferry that maneuvers around Lake Malawi between Mozambiquen and Malawian ports.  The ferry ride itself was to be one of the highlights of our adventure, more specifically the loading and unloading of all its passengers and contents.  Picture a nice and orderly procession of people moving politely on and off a dilapidated three-story ferry to a smaller taxiing boat in a highly organized fashion with pleases and thank yous being exchanged.  Now forget all that because this process was absolute chaos and savage madness. 

We had the luxury of staying on the top deck of the boat with enough space for walking but once we had to unload we were met by bags of cement being floated over the top of our heads, women with babies carrying boxes of chickens too wide to pass through the narrow hallways, coolers full of who knows what, backpacks jabbing you in the chin clattering your jaw and various people forcing their way through the mob with sour body odor and bony elbows.   The crowd’s steadfast and confident attitude pushing its way forward was surprising to me seeing as half of the people on board could not swim and despite the rising waters around them they continued to take risks and throw themselves and their belongings on board.  We arrived safely on the beach by some small miracle and the help from random strangers.

Sunset over the island plus a few beers gave us a pleasant head change and sunk us quickly into relaxation mode and into bed.  The next morning we awoke to bright sunshine and clear blue waters with nothing to do but swim and play.  I took my ‘zero responsibilities’ seriously by swimming, eating, napping, eating, drinking and moving at a pace likened to that of a sleepy sloth- A nice reprieve from the constant flow of work, never ending ideas for new initiatives I want to tackle, workshop presentations, support groups, assignments and clients.  The biggest problem we had during our time on the island was when the electricity would fail and we were forced to drink partially cold beers and shower in the dark. 

On a day when we were particularly motivated we took a small wooden boat to an island the size of the Walnut Heights Elementary School Auditorium, a stones throw away from the shores of Mozambique.  The group went snorkeling while I took my first opportunity to scuba dive in the deep waters around the island.  Hundreds of different varieties of fish, sheer rock drop-offs into the blue abyss below and a rock carving that looked vaguely like a hamburger estimated to have been carved 2,000 years earlier by natives asking for protection from the Lake Gods.  My first weight free, freshwater dive was great despite the absence of corals and plant life of any kind.  Being in the silent depths of the water with silvery iridescent bubbles rising up around me and floating to the surface is so peaceful.    

That night we treated ourselves to dinner at one of Malawi’s high-end destination lodges: Kaya Mawa.  Starting off with a basil and mozzarella fritatta, followed by a peanut and coconut curried pork accompanied by snap peas and basmati rice and to finish a vanilla, lemon custard served warm from the oven with a sprig of mint.  It is possible that only two or three of the words I used to describe our dinner exist in the Chechewa language and it is also possible that there are only two to three chefs in this whole country that can prepare it.  The meal, on the sandy beach of Lake Malawi, under the stars in the light of glowing lanterns and candles was wonderful.  It was a celebratory last meal on the island and the wine served in oversized wine glasses gave us a happy high that continued on until morning as we prepared to leave.  In the reality of ‘Malawi Time’ it was not until late that night that the Ilala arrived into the Bay of Likoma.  Pants rolled up and bags in hand we moved steadily down the beach until it was time to make a mad dash for one of the small ferrying boats in the shallow waters.

People from every direction swarmed the boat like twenty-one-year-old drinkers raiding a bar for the first legal time.  The pushing and shoving created a feverish atmosphere.  People hurled themselves over the sides overcrowding the boat and prohibiting the 15 horse powered engine from moving outside of the shell shaped cove.  I tried to tell people that bricks don’t float but no one bothered to listen because their bags of fish were going to make it on the Ilala come hell or high water.  Sticking together tightly our group of mazungus formed a united front and stormed the small wooden boat as one.  Granted there was no electricity in the town to literally shine a light on this scene but it will remain in my memory a brightly colored comedy.  A story of teamwork and struggle that included fish scales cutting my bare feet and grease from hot blaring engines smearing my legs.  What a moment. 

On the top deck of the ferry we slept like babies up until the time our sleeping pills wore off and the blazing hot sun stripped away the darkness and left us sweating in the midday sun.  The boat trip was only the first leg of our arduous travel back to Lilongwe.   Afterward we had to hunt for fuel on the black market with a price inflated to four times its value at the pump.  I didn’t have gas splash up my nose and onto my face so paying the high prices for the essentials seemed like a good idea.  On Likoma Campisi got her first glimpse of the beauty of Malawi and the very next week she would have the opportunity to see the beauty of the people I work with in the Dzaleka Refugee Camp.

The Definition of Dedication

I stood humbly in front of my students, fellow counselors and life long learners and all of my apprehension and nervous energy was replaced by a feeling that there was no other place for me to be.  Being back in the classroom and teaching again was like putting on a pair of cozy sweat pants after a long cold day in your work clothes. It felt right like it was what I had been waiting for.  One of my students, a thirty five year old woman from Congo, came into the room and sat down quietly.  My eyes opened wide.  I was not expecting to see her face for at least another few weeks.  She had given birth to a healthy baby girl not 6 days earlier and here she was, sitting at the table, pen in her right hand and infant baby in her left hand.  WOW! Nothing was going to stand in the way of her attending our first day of class together.  Her eagerness and dedication to learn was so inspiring.  My eyes couldn’t hide my happiness.  Illumine had given me a brand new definition of dedication.  If I work to the best of my ability, I can only hope to be in the same ballpark of her devotion and enthusiasm.  I am determined to do so.  My motivation is in front of me every day, asking questions, learning new concepts and thanking me graciously after each lesson.  My students are so proud and even more amazing!

There has been various times during my return to Malawi that I have begun to notice changes in the way locals perceive the world around them.  They are very small changes, but changes non-the-less.  A while back I was speaking to a dear friend about the movement of an inchworm and despite their slow pace they still inch along, their progress undeniable.  The same can be said about the transformation happening in Malawi.  Painfully and sometimes torturously slow, but steady.

Just this morning I was riding my bike to work.  Having a woman, much less a white woman, behind the handlebars of a bike is a rare and unusual sight here in Lilongwe.  On the opposite side of the street a father was walking with his young daughter of about six years.  At his side was their leashed dog and on his back, in a Western styled baby carrier, was his child.  For visualization purposes I should mention that this family is white.  I took notice of three Malawian men in front of me pointing at the family, laughing and shaking their heads in good spirits.  I deduced from the scenario that they were 1: intrigued to see a white family walking down the street, not driving a car, and 2: perplexed to see a man carrying a baby on his back (A means of carrying babies only used by African woman).  They saw me quickly approaching on my bike and we met each other’s gaze.  I pointed to the family, whose foreign practices were being mocked then pointed to myself in a joking way and the bizarre sight I must have been.  I threw my hands up in the air, “Crazy isn’t it?”  They pointed back at me and then again at the family while shaking their heads and smiling.  We all shared a good laugh about it.  What is this crazy Malawian world coming to when white men are carrying babies on their backs and white woman are riding bikes to work.  We inch forward.

The other day I was sitting in the back of a mini bus trying to protect the bag of a dozen or so tomatoes on my lap from getting smashed into a saucy oblivion.  I was people watching and eying a particular old woman in the front of the mini bus.  She was staring down a young man who had entered into the van wearing a professional style of headphone on his ears.  She looked at him with an expression on her face that seemed to say, “Ahh, kids these days.  What will they be up to next?”  She shook her head while smiling at the same time almost in awe of the younger generation in Malawi.  The youth now days are buying up mp3 players, checking facebook on their Smart Phones and joining the 21^st century in technology.  The older generation is taking notice.

This week in our community counseling course we have begun a module in computer learning.  As an adult (well, at least according to my age) I have taken for granted the fact that I grew up in an age of computers where power point presentations, finding prized items on eBay and using the Internet has been second nature.  With adult learners who have never had any exposure to computers I have quickly come to realize that it is not only a challenge to use a keyboard but also to locate the fine motor coordination to operate a mouse and double click on a link.  According to our current level we may as well be painting Mandarin Chinese characters.  Yesterday we attempted to open the World Wide Web and conduct our first Google search.  That all began after I explained what the Internet was, what an address bar does, what a search engine is used for, what a website gives us and every other technical term that have been a part of my vocabulary since my childhood discovery of our first Apple II GS.  Patience and a grip on the mouse that is not as stiff and rigid as a corpse makes things easier for us and in the mean time we laugh out loud often and inch along.

It is a revolution my friends and the revolution will not be televised.  I am a part of something larger than myself.  Something truly great. 

Dome's Favorites:  After exploring every possible way to watch my 49ers play football I discovered that 107.7 the Bone, my new all-time favorite radio station, based in the Bay Area streams live broadcast of all the 49er games.  Without power cuts and the entire neighborhood online slowing down our connection speed I can listen to the games.  When I heard the live feed come through and my roommate saw the look on my face she began to realize just how important American Football is to my life.  I can't describe it enough but by seeing my face and hearing me yell at a computer she is catching on quickly.  Thank you Cathy for faining interest in my, ahem, our team.  Your support has been dually noted. 

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…     

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