Friday, November 25, 2011
Friday, November 18, 2011
It's rainy season again, and I forgot my umbrella
We're at the St. Francis Outreach clinic, the whole hospital staff, in the village known as Kayeleka. We're just waiting, or more simply as we say here, we're just staying until the food is prepared and the car returns.
We left for the clinic in a downpour. We ran the clinic in a downpour. And now we wait, it only makes sense that the rain would stop now. My shoes, a new pair of loafers are soaked through. My toes and heels feel clammy and cold. My linen pants, carefully concealed under my chitenje, damply cling to my calves.
At times like this I despise the rain. I despise the clammy morbid touch of my face, pliant and moist. I hate the squish of my shoes. A squishy sandwich as my heel digs in to the sponged leather and then further digging into the mollified sandy dirt. I hate how my cardigan dampens and becomes a stringy cloth sutured to my arms. Hate how my umbrella must become a permanent appendage. I hate that I have hardly any task today. In anticipating of the car being late on account of the rain, the volunteers went ahead and did my part of the clinic. Now, I'm walking aimlessly through the clinic, outdoors of course. With a few of the various parts housed in school blocks, dozens and dozens of people shoved in open air rooms. I wander form block to block looking for a task to entertain me and keep me from pondering my soaked galoshes and overall wet-dog appearance. Finally, Bright asks me to help with the feeding program for the underweight children. I entered the weights, jotted down their village and traditional authority, and measured the MUAC (mid upper arm circumference). I breezed through the recording, as I always tend to do with data entry. The numbers jump from my hand, pulsing through the pen, onto the paper in a motion so fluid you would think my arm was mechanized. As quickly as I entered the date, I was again through, just to sit again. To sit again in this rain, wet clothes plastered to me, only to wait until lunch is prepared and I can climb back into the ambulance to go back to Mhalaunda.
We left for the clinic in a downpour. We ran the clinic in a downpour. And now we wait, it only makes sense that the rain would stop now. My shoes, a new pair of loafers are soaked through. My toes and heels feel clammy and cold. My linen pants, carefully concealed under my chitenje, damply cling to my calves.
At times like this I despise the rain. I despise the clammy morbid touch of my face, pliant and moist. I hate the squish of my shoes. A squishy sandwich as my heel digs in to the sponged leather and then further digging into the mollified sandy dirt. I hate how my cardigan dampens and becomes a stringy cloth sutured to my arms. Hate how my umbrella must become a permanent appendage. I hate that I have hardly any task today. In anticipating of the car being late on account of the rain, the volunteers went ahead and did my part of the clinic. Now, I'm walking aimlessly through the clinic, outdoors of course. With a few of the various parts housed in school blocks, dozens and dozens of people shoved in open air rooms. I wander form block to block looking for a task to entertain me and keep me from pondering my soaked galoshes and overall wet-dog appearance. Finally, Bright asks me to help with the feeding program for the underweight children. I entered the weights, jotted down their village and traditional authority, and measured the MUAC (mid upper arm circumference). I breezed through the recording, as I always tend to do with data entry. The numbers jump from my hand, pulsing through the pen, onto the paper in a motion so fluid you would think my arm was mechanized. As quickly as I entered the date, I was again through, just to sit again. To sit again in this rain, wet clothes plastered to me, only to wait until lunch is prepared and I can climb back into the ambulance to go back to Mhalaunda.
To the Very North
A journey to Chitipa
In my more recent journeys, I traveled to Chitipa, the northernmost district in Malawi. A place so remote that it's jokingly referred to as the Wild West of Malawi, ironic right, considering the dearth of paved roads and the dismal rates of rural electrification. Chitipa is the one district that has yet to receive paved roads of any kind (but they are on the way, courtesy of the Chinese who are paving the way, literally). In this remote corner of the country, nestled between Zambia and Tanzania, lays the district so unlike any other place I've been in Malawi. There's such a confluence of tongues here, 27 are said to be spoken in the area, many of them found nowhere else in Malawi. It's a place set aside from the rest of the country, demarcated by forests, the escarpment, and the nature reserve. It folds in upon itself, perpetuating a unique, innate culture known for their dances, Red Gold (hot sauce of the gods!) and their chips mayeye.
I went there on Wednesday, October 26, traveling up with a fellow volunteer, Brian. We came up to visit another mutual friend and volunteer, to see her site and be around for Halloween. Chitipa Halloween is a volunteer party staple on the social calendar. Well, we traveled up, north from Mzuzu, and oh my it was miserable. Hot season is upon Malawi and traveling north means traveling along the lake shore, through the thick of it. The air is stagnant, and heavy with latent heat and smells of fish, drying on racks stretching for miles and miles all along the shore. Sitting in the bus, my cotton, cargo pants were drenched and trying to re-situate myself called for a peeling away of flesh from pliant plastic. It was disgusting. The sun is so strong here that within a half hour, my skin reddens, even with SPF60 sunscreen. Yuck.
The drive from Karonga, the district along the lake shore rampant with scorching temperatures and odorous fish, goes up and over the escarpment into Chitipa. The escarpment is really just the mountainous region that limns the lake shore area, setting it aside from inland. It runs the length of Malawi and it's a constant vision from anywhere along the shore. The road winds its way, switch-backing to and fro, through scrubby, indigenous forests. The matola, a lorry truck with dozens and dozens of people seated in the back, moved along at a good clip. It was attempting to cover the 100km distance in the short amount of time before dusk descended on Malawi, which happens at around 6pm. Between Karonga and Chitipa there are few diversions, few roads that branch off, and there is hardly a trading centre (small town), let alone a filling station anywhere along the dirt road stretch. At one point, we come across a particularly sparsely populated stretch, and pull off. The driver's helpers dismount and start to root through the grass, pushing aside the bush, obviously looking for something. I was a bit bewildered, wondering what could they possibly be in search for in the grass, a rock? Someone's katundu (a Chitimbuka catchall word meaning luggage, or more generally stuff)? No sooner than I tease out these possibilities, then one of the men pulls a jerry can of fuel out of the ditch. And behind, five other guys pull out identical jerry cans of fuel, all in a line in this particular ditch, in the middle of nowhere. I can barely contain myself; I find it hysterical that they've managed to hide fuel in the wild ditches along this road. Malawi is in the midst of an ongoing and nearly crippling fuel crisis. It's not that it's overpriced as so often happens in America when there's hitch in the supply, there's just no fuel to be had. People park outside fuel stations, lining up for days and days because a rumor circulates that a fuel truck will be arriving. There is never a guarantee that you'll find fuel, it's always a gamble, and I've been on my fair share of vehicles that run out of gas. And in the absence of a filling station, the middle of nowhere seems like a perfect place for fuel cans. Of course, as we always say here in times like this: TIA, this is Africa. I found it hilarious and wildly clever to boot.
So even with all the urging Brian and I did, to persuade the driver to move along faster, we still did not arrive in Chitipa until 7:30pm. And as we're speeding along the wash-boarded gravel, the headlights cast a dark glare on the rugged curves of dirt just ahead. We bend around one curve, moving along hastily, when the headlights take an oxcart into their line of sight. Directly in our path, it's only a split second that the driver has to react. He pulls hard left, the wheels begin to skid, and the back fishtails. I let out a scream, a brief burst of fear; my front seat companions are stone cold silent, and only merely acknowledge my reaction. We skid to a halt, barely missing the oxcart; I'm sure the shepherd was relieved, even if covered in dust particulate. The helpers dismount again, casing the car and noting any damage. We line up alongside, it's already fully nighttime, the moon overhead our only source of light. The helpers poke and prod the underbelly of the lorry, their source of light a camping headlamp kindly donated by Brian to the cause. It seems we've busted a spring, or more accurately a strut, but they call it a spring nonetheless, lost in translation. They continue to hoist and fumble with the undercarriage until they settle on a way to jimmy-rig it, using rope and leverage to hold it in place until a mechanic can be found. It's impressive the ingenuity with which Malawians problem solve. Especially in these sorts of situations, in the real world, with something tangible, where they know if they don't fix it they'll be stranded. They will find a solution. I like to call their ingenuity MacGyver ability, the ability to jimmy-rig or solve any sticky situation with little more that what's in your pockets.
The next day, after a good sleep to melt away all the built up tension, we went for a walk. Our friend Kara speaks endlessly of the river near her, for swimming, for swinging off vines into the water, and crossing a true monkey bridge. Her counterpart, Watchi, wants to take us to the Songwe River, the river that limns the border between Tanzania and Malawi. We began, striking out from Ifumbo (Kara's village), ambling along and greeting everyone in our path: Maona / Maona mwemwe / Ena / Panandi / Ndagadaga. The ubiquitous greeting in this area, simply banter on how your day is going. We hike on, reaching the river in less than 20 minutes. We first come upon the rope bridge Kara goes on about. And it is the veritable monkey bridge that reminds me of such cheesy, adventure flicks as Romancing the Stone or Indiana Jones: The Temple of Doom. The bottom of the bridge is but one incredibly thick vine, the sides, many many vines wrapped and stretched along the breadth of the river. We hiked across, treading lightly on the wrapped vines and looking over only occasionally to see the distance down to the water's lapping, frothy surface. That was my you-know-you're-in-Africa moment. Life wouldn't be as enjoyable if I didn't have at least one of those a week.
As we descended the bridge and attempted to scout a good sand bar from which we could swim, a friend of Watchi approached us. After the customary introductions, he told us about a nearby celebration, a malipenga. As soon as he mentioned it, my ears perked at the sounds of drums floating over to us from the nearby Misuku hills, the pounding still several kilometers off. I was intrigued. We followed the echoes of the drumbeats, coming upon a large throng of people, encircling dancers. They moved in tandem, thrusting one way, arms outstretched above them, doubling back into a crouch, and then swinging their arms around. Their movements matched both the intensity and force of the drumbeats. Accompanying the drums were what I can only describe as kazoos. They produced a high-pitched, duck call of sorts. A trio of kazooists played the instrument, looking similar to a nose trumpet, but made of rawhide. The nasally cadence gave a certain alacrity to the dance. At the forefront of dancers, of the 30 or so, one's attention was drawn to three. These lead dancers wore white shirts, with bright cerulean-hued pants. Around their necks hung a necklace, made of many various colors of yarn, tied together by a leather strap, each side looking like a shaving cream lather brush. A similar yarn head band rested on their forehead and their faces had many smears of white paint. They thrusted and parried to the beat, telling a story with their mock spears and shields. I was transfixed by one dancer in particular, he looked no older than 12. He speared his way thought the crowd. At a particularly past-paced meter, he doubled over backwards, popping his shoulders to and fro, dipping into a low limbo and hopping forward. And they went on like that, dancing for nigh on an hour, before taking a break to allow for a skit.
As we arrived, we were escorted to the front, being the only white people, the azungus, we were honored guests. We sat next to the chief, crouching to greet him. He invited us to sit, to surrender to the drum beats and enjoy.
In my more recent journeys, I traveled to Chitipa, the northernmost district in Malawi. A place so remote that it's jokingly referred to as the Wild West of Malawi, ironic right, considering the dearth of paved roads and the dismal rates of rural electrification. Chitipa is the one district that has yet to receive paved roads of any kind (but they are on the way, courtesy of the Chinese who are paving the way, literally). In this remote corner of the country, nestled between Zambia and Tanzania, lays the district so unlike any other place I've been in Malawi. There's such a confluence of tongues here, 27 are said to be spoken in the area, many of them found nowhere else in Malawi. It's a place set aside from the rest of the country, demarcated by forests, the escarpment, and the nature reserve. It folds in upon itself, perpetuating a unique, innate culture known for their dances, Red Gold (hot sauce of the gods!) and their chips mayeye.
I went there on Wednesday, October 26, traveling up with a fellow volunteer, Brian. We came up to visit another mutual friend and volunteer, to see her site and be around for Halloween. Chitipa Halloween is a volunteer party staple on the social calendar. Well, we traveled up, north from Mzuzu, and oh my it was miserable. Hot season is upon Malawi and traveling north means traveling along the lake shore, through the thick of it. The air is stagnant, and heavy with latent heat and smells of fish, drying on racks stretching for miles and miles all along the shore. Sitting in the bus, my cotton, cargo pants were drenched and trying to re-situate myself called for a peeling away of flesh from pliant plastic. It was disgusting. The sun is so strong here that within a half hour, my skin reddens, even with SPF60 sunscreen. Yuck.
The drive from Karonga, the district along the lake shore rampant with scorching temperatures and odorous fish, goes up and over the escarpment into Chitipa. The escarpment is really just the mountainous region that limns the lake shore area, setting it aside from inland. It runs the length of Malawi and it's a constant vision from anywhere along the shore. The road winds its way, switch-backing to and fro, through scrubby, indigenous forests. The matola, a lorry truck with dozens and dozens of people seated in the back, moved along at a good clip. It was attempting to cover the 100km distance in the short amount of time before dusk descended on Malawi, which happens at around 6pm. Between Karonga and Chitipa there are few diversions, few roads that branch off, and there is hardly a trading centre (small town), let alone a filling station anywhere along the dirt road stretch. At one point, we come across a particularly sparsely populated stretch, and pull off. The driver's helpers dismount and start to root through the grass, pushing aside the bush, obviously looking for something. I was a bit bewildered, wondering what could they possibly be in search for in the grass, a rock? Someone's katundu (a Chitimbuka catchall word meaning luggage, or more generally stuff)? No sooner than I tease out these possibilities, then one of the men pulls a jerry can of fuel out of the ditch. And behind, five other guys pull out identical jerry cans of fuel, all in a line in this particular ditch, in the middle of nowhere. I can barely contain myself; I find it hysterical that they've managed to hide fuel in the wild ditches along this road. Malawi is in the midst of an ongoing and nearly crippling fuel crisis. It's not that it's overpriced as so often happens in America when there's hitch in the supply, there's just no fuel to be had. People park outside fuel stations, lining up for days and days because a rumor circulates that a fuel truck will be arriving. There is never a guarantee that you'll find fuel, it's always a gamble, and I've been on my fair share of vehicles that run out of gas. And in the absence of a filling station, the middle of nowhere seems like a perfect place for fuel cans. Of course, as we always say here in times like this: TIA, this is Africa. I found it hilarious and wildly clever to boot.
So even with all the urging Brian and I did, to persuade the driver to move along faster, we still did not arrive in Chitipa until 7:30pm. And as we're speeding along the wash-boarded gravel, the headlights cast a dark glare on the rugged curves of dirt just ahead. We bend around one curve, moving along hastily, when the headlights take an oxcart into their line of sight. Directly in our path, it's only a split second that the driver has to react. He pulls hard left, the wheels begin to skid, and the back fishtails. I let out a scream, a brief burst of fear; my front seat companions are stone cold silent, and only merely acknowledge my reaction. We skid to a halt, barely missing the oxcart; I'm sure the shepherd was relieved, even if covered in dust particulate. The helpers dismount again, casing the car and noting any damage. We line up alongside, it's already fully nighttime, the moon overhead our only source of light. The helpers poke and prod the underbelly of the lorry, their source of light a camping headlamp kindly donated by Brian to the cause. It seems we've busted a spring, or more accurately a strut, but they call it a spring nonetheless, lost in translation. They continue to hoist and fumble with the undercarriage until they settle on a way to jimmy-rig it, using rope and leverage to hold it in place until a mechanic can be found. It's impressive the ingenuity with which Malawians problem solve. Especially in these sorts of situations, in the real world, with something tangible, where they know if they don't fix it they'll be stranded. They will find a solution. I like to call their ingenuity MacGyver ability, the ability to jimmy-rig or solve any sticky situation with little more that what's in your pockets.
The next day, after a good sleep to melt away all the built up tension, we went for a walk. Our friend Kara speaks endlessly of the river near her, for swimming, for swinging off vines into the water, and crossing a true monkey bridge. Her counterpart, Watchi, wants to take us to the Songwe River, the river that limns the border between Tanzania and Malawi. We began, striking out from Ifumbo (Kara's village), ambling along and greeting everyone in our path: Maona / Maona mwemwe / Ena / Panandi / Ndagadaga. The ubiquitous greeting in this area, simply banter on how your day is going. We hike on, reaching the river in less than 20 minutes. We first come upon the rope bridge Kara goes on about. And it is the veritable monkey bridge that reminds me of such cheesy, adventure flicks as Romancing the Stone or Indiana Jones: The Temple of Doom. The bottom of the bridge is but one incredibly thick vine, the sides, many many vines wrapped and stretched along the breadth of the river. We hiked across, treading lightly on the wrapped vines and looking over only occasionally to see the distance down to the water's lapping, frothy surface. That was my you-know-you're-in-Africa moment. Life wouldn't be as enjoyable if I didn't have at least one of those a week.
As we descended the bridge and attempted to scout a good sand bar from which we could swim, a friend of Watchi approached us. After the customary introductions, he told us about a nearby celebration, a malipenga. As soon as he mentioned it, my ears perked at the sounds of drums floating over to us from the nearby Misuku hills, the pounding still several kilometers off. I was intrigued. We followed the echoes of the drumbeats, coming upon a large throng of people, encircling dancers. They moved in tandem, thrusting one way, arms outstretched above them, doubling back into a crouch, and then swinging their arms around. Their movements matched both the intensity and force of the drumbeats. Accompanying the drums were what I can only describe as kazoos. They produced a high-pitched, duck call of sorts. A trio of kazooists played the instrument, looking similar to a nose trumpet, but made of rawhide. The nasally cadence gave a certain alacrity to the dance. At the forefront of dancers, of the 30 or so, one's attention was drawn to three. These lead dancers wore white shirts, with bright cerulean-hued pants. Around their necks hung a necklace, made of many various colors of yarn, tied together by a leather strap, each side looking like a shaving cream lather brush. A similar yarn head band rested on their forehead and their faces had many smears of white paint. They thrusted and parried to the beat, telling a story with their mock spears and shields. I was transfixed by one dancer in particular, he looked no older than 12. He speared his way thought the crowd. At a particularly past-paced meter, he doubled over backwards, popping his shoulders to and fro, dipping into a low limbo and hopping forward. And they went on like that, dancing for nigh on an hour, before taking a break to allow for a skit.
As we arrived, we were escorted to the front, being the only white people, the azungus, we were honored guests. We sat next to the chief, crouching to greet him. He invited us to sit, to surrender to the drum beats and enjoy.
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