Journal Entries - January 2011

January 21, 2011 Mhalaunda
I learned to bake scones today. I followed the recipe that Mr. Zalimbe uses, the ones he sells to sponsor the People Living with HIV and AIDS (PLWHA) group. He taught both Gabriel and me. They go through a rather tedious process – a very specific way of rolling the dough so it makes a perfect ball for equal expansion. I haven’t made too many rolls in my lifetime, but I’ve never seen anyone be so particular with the rolling process. Folding each flap of dough around and squeezing it between your thumb and forefinger, so a perfect ball emerges. We made 115 scones in just this manner. In the absence of an oven, you preheat a large brick oven, plastered in cement. You build a big fire in the structure, until the bricks trap so much energy they radiate heat. You then remove the wood and charcoal once it’s thoroughly heated. Then you pop in the scones for exactly 7 minutes. Then voila, fresh baked rolls. Pretty nifty. It was an affair that took the whole afternoon though. But the end product, the fresh rolls are absolutely delicious, light and fluffy with just the right amount of sweetness, with a pat of butter they’re to die for.
While we were “preheating” the oven, I noticed a wild fig tree just close by. In Timbuka it’s known as a kachele, a tree whose identity is uniquely tied to the independence of Malawi. It was under a kachele tree that Kamuzu Banda, Malawi’s first president dreamed of education and an independent future for Malawi. On the banks of the Shire River his kachele grew and on that spot he built the Kamuzu Academy, the premier school in Malawi.
So I picked the small figs, a huge bowl full. They’re roughly the size of a cranberry. I had the brilliant idea of making a crisp out of them. It turned out great! I made it just like an apple crisp with a crumb topping; luckily I have cinnamon and nutmeg. So delicious.

January 18, 2011 Mhalaunda
Well I’ve been had. I blame my naiveté on my lack of knowledge of eggs. It’s a new experience for me, eggs that is, not being had. It’s been almost 3 years since I’ve eaten eggs and I just started eating them again. I’m trying to expand my protein input, it’s rather limited in the village to soya pieces and beans, so eggs really extends my food options. And well Mwazi, my next door neighbor’s daughter came by around lunch with a bowl of four eggs. She told me her mother send her over to sell me eggs. I’d just been with her mother at the clinic the day before and I was looking to buy eggs then, but couldn’t find any at a decent price. So, it seemed only natural that she should assist me in my time of need. I bought all 4 at 20 kwacha per egg, roughly 75 cents.
When I sat down to cook them for dinner I couldn’t crack them, I only made a small dent in it. And the one I could crack started to ooze blood. I was quite alarmed, not knowing what the hell was happening. I had just started cooking eggs again and finding bloody eggs was just not in my repertoire. I mean this just wouldn’t happen with store bought eggs in the states. So, I walked out to Mphatso, the girl staying with my other neighbor, and asked her what the problem was. And as I expected they were bad and not just bad, but ready to hatch. New chicks were to hatch in another couple days. Mr. Qoto rode by just as I was explaining the problem. Oh how he laughed at me, “but Chelsea you bought bad eggs, you must know these are bad.” He thought it a good joke until I mentioned it was his daughter who sold me the eggs. Then he perked up, clearly a bit ashamed that his daughter would be the one to cheat me.
We went to confront the girl. She stood in the doorway like an insolent child. She refused to make eye contact with me, standing just enough inside the door so she wouldn’t have to look directly at me. Mr. Qoto asked what she’d done, where she’d taken the eggs from, what she did with the money she got for them. She provided no answers. As it turns out, she’d taken the eggs from Mama Chavula’s roosting hen, when she was supposed to be in school no less. And then over to me she came trying to peddle hot eggs (both literally hot, straight from the chicken’s breast and figuratively hot, stolen eggs).
I swear if that was my child I would have slapped her something good. And I don’t even believe in hitting children, oh but I was beyond pissed. Since she’s not my child I suppose it’s inappropriate for me to hit her. In defense of my urge to strike, the girl has a history of stealing and being dishonest. I was just coming around to her again after the incident where she was caught stealing money from Mama Chavula’s house. On a frequent basis she skips school and is just around the village. That one is not on a good path and now she’s on my shit list for sure. I guess I’ll just have to give her the silent treatment and hope that suffices. And if she ever tries to sell me eggs again I won’t think twice about slapping her.

January 15, 2011 Mhalaunda
So I sprained my ankle. I have a swollen, protruding, bruised mound where my ankle should be. I thought it would be a stellar idea to go on a run this afternoon. And as I started off toward the football ground, the one place I feel comfortable enough to wear running shorts and leggings, I ran across a troop of neighborhood kids. They were just starting a pickup soccer match. Oh hey, I play football and I’m just itching for a chance to prove myself with the area youth. Voila. I’m in and made a team captain. I choose my players, going for the smaller, runtier looking players; they generally tend to be the scrappier ones. We have enough to play full scale, 11-v-11. Off we start, my team can really push the ball up field and I’m part of the push, playing a forward. I get off a shot on goal a few minutes in, SCORE! We’re up 1-0. I make several other good moves around defenders, several great passes. Then, a particularly hard ball comes from a defender aiming to get the ball out of his territory and to the other side of the field. I stick out my left foot, determined to stop its powerful velocity. And snap! The ball drops to a halt directly in front of me and my foot explodes in excruciating pain. I pass the ball off and try to hobble after it, trying to resume my position. I do my best to shake it off, just like my dad would advise. The pain grows worse though, any sort of turn makes a new pain twinge. I finally hobble off the field, trying my best to call in a sub with a few mutterings of jumbled Timbuka.
I hobble my way back home. Now, I’m a loss for what to do. I don’t have ice, so I can’t exactly ice it. Mama Chavula though, she came to the rescue. She brings me one of those ice packs that you bust the inner core and shake it about. She lays me down in bed, propping up my foot. She makes sure I have enough food, nsima patties, a carafe of tea, all the dende (side dishes) I need. She made convalescing that much more enjoyable.

January 14, 2011 Mhalaunda
One thing I’m investing the most time with is helping the People Living with HIV and AIDS group to undertake and continue several projects. I wrote up an action plan to help some of their activities and before I could even deliver the speech I prepared (prepared in Chitimbuka with the help of Gabriel, a friendly neighbor and my language trainer), Mr. Zalimbe approached me with an action plan that the group decided on and drafted. I was so impressed. They brought me the action plan and asked for my help. It’s sort of a role reversal; I’m supposed to bring the plan of action to them. But no matter. Their objectives are obtaining a loan to help with their income-generating activities, namely sewing, knitting, and baking bread, holding trainings for their members on how to live positively, operating a community garden to assist their nutritional needs, etc. It was truly moving. And it was just as powerful even with the few misspellings, say “legislation” for “registration” (Malawians have a funny way of interchanging Ls and Rs). It made me respect them that much more. I’m really looking forward to working with them.

January 13, 2011 Mhalaunda
I was asked to do a new task at the clinic this week. At the St. Francis clinic I sat in on the voluntary counseling and testing sessions with my counterpart, Mr. Makwakwa. I watched and helped him operate the rapid test kit. The clinic is one held monthly for all pregnant women and for children under 5 years. The women attend the clinic monthly throughout their pregnancy. As part of the process, all pregnant women have to be tested for HIV in order to get those women testing positive on the proper medication to prevent mother to child transmission.
At the clinic, we tested 14 women and one came back positive. It was hard to watch as Mr. Makwakwa counseled her. Just looking in on the session, you could tell that she had no idea about her status, no recollection of where she might have been exposed. She is on her third marriage and has never slept with a man outside of marriage. And she looked so healthy and virile, I know that’s a misnomer for a woman’s strength but you get what I mean. By the look of her, you would never guess her HIV status.
As she progressed through the other stages of the antenatal clinic, I snuck glances at her demeanor. She maintained a strong sense of self the whole way through. It filled me with such strength to watch her take on this burden; she developed a sort of stone cold strength. She went through the rest of the clinic just like that, focused on making it through, not giving away a thing. She went through her nursing consultation, through her immunization regime, etc. with inner power and control. I admire her for her strength.

January 11, 2011 Mhalaunda
I’m amazed at the sort of things I’ve become accustomed to, that no longer seem out of the ordinary. I just watched a 13-year-old boy ride by on his bicycle with a large tea kettle strapped to the back, nothing else. The question I want to ask him is where are you going with that tea kettle? Is there anything in the tea kettle? Is it hot? Is the distance you’re traveling far enough to necessitate you carrying it on a bicycle? So many questions, alas I did not ask any of them. I just accepted the sight as part of my daily occurrences. Boy on a ride with a tea kettle. No big deal.
January 9, 2011 Mhalaunda
It’s interesting the things you miss at random when you’ve been out of your natural setting at length. What I miss after six months in Malawi. SMELLS! I wish I have more fine smelling things. Malawi has just a drab, uninviting scent to it. I hate to generalize, I mean there are some nice smelling things, like the groves of citrus fruit or the flowers in my flower bed. But overall, smelling is such an underrated sensuous experience here. The most ubiquitous scent, after traveling up and down the country, is the smell of burning trash. People sweep the streets, collecting all the dust and debris into small piles and then they set it afire. It’s really not so pleasant.
I relish the simple olfactory treasures, like incense, which I burn just about every other day for my “offerings.” I’m also quite thankful that I brought my Miss Dior Cherie perfume with me. On occasion I give it a generous pump, dusting my bed sheets. Inhaling, it’s a beautiful escape. I adore snuggling into my bed after that.