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…