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