There is one main road in Northern Malawi: the Tarmac. It is paved, and it is one lane each way. When we travel to Mzuzu, the largest nearby city, we pay less than 1 USD each for a 30 minute ride. We pack like sardines into a minivan with as many passengers as can squeeze. We've only stalled once. More on that later.
This past Thursday, we took the Tarmac in the opposite direction, to Chilida. Accurately, we took the Tarmac for a third or so of the journey, and then turned off onto unpaved dirt roads for the rest. The dirt roads wind right through the fields and greenery and mountains. They're red-orange and of thin sand consistency; the granules readily rise into the air when driven or walked on, they creep into and line the soles of my sandals and dye the rubber bottoms of my walking shoes. The red-orange roads form an interdigitating network for mostly foot traffic, but bicycles and vehicles as well.
Some of the more accessible villages (like Ekwendeni where we are staying) are right off the Tarmac, while the majority -like Chilida- are much deeper into the land. These are more difficult to reach.
Driving on the unpaved, dirt, hilly roads was an experience. We sat facing sideways in the back of the Mobile Clinic van; hugging the earth, seatbeltless, we felt every bump. The benches we sat on lined the windows, they sat 4 on each side.
At one point during our trip we stopped before a wooden 1-lane bridge, probably around 100 meters across. Gladson, one of our two interpreters, got out to confirm the durability of the wooden panels that comprised the bridge prior to our crossing. He wielded a panel into place, and waved the van onward. He also shooed a herd of cows attempting to cross the bridge in our direction- they'd have to wait their turn. They built this bridge ten years ago, he told us proudly.
We were hitching a ride with the Mobile Clinic to Chilida to conduct our second focus group. Almost every day, the mobile clinic navigates these red dirt roads to the more remote villages and provides services. That day, it was an "Under 5" clinic, and after 45 minutes of driving we turned off the dirt road into a clearing where dozens if not 100 mothers and their Under 5s had gathered. Standing out in the sun, all faded bright skirts and short hair and a gaggle of children. They were waiting.
We conducted our focus group in the back of the van: Emily, me, our two interpreters, six mothers from Chilida, and four infants sitting on laps; knee to knee we sat. We talked to the women for around an hour about their utilization of the hospitals, traditional healers, and how they pay for, choose between, and transport to and from these providers.
When we finished, we ate Obama rolls and drank Fanta with the mothers. Emily is doing a parallel study on the food preferences of the villagers we meet; findings pending.
Back out of the van, we sat crosslegged in the dirt with the mothers while they waited to be seen. They tried to teach us Tumbuka, via charades- symbols were our common ground. For some reason the only word that stuck for me is hamba, which means leaf.
The mothers were there all day; they came with patience and their children's health record booklets; without cell phones or food. They breastfed when their babies cried. They laughed when Emily and I took photos of a peculiar and colorful insect. They got a kick out of my iPhone camera. And sitting in a line on the ground of what felt like an abandoned, doorless, electricity-less brick hut, they helped expose the thighs of eachother's children as vaccines were administered by gloveless hands. They're scared of injections; that's one reason people don't go to hospital, we were told during the focus group.
When they were finished seeing the provider, they scattered from the clearing in different directions, on foot, for home.
Now, I'm sitting in my front "yard" again. Picturing those mothers who seemed to have arisen from the woodwork to provide this care for their children. In the clearing, surrounded by barren land for acres, we gathered that Thursday afternoon. The mothers had this timid pride that I can't quite explain yet. In one month they will return.
This past Thursday, we took the Tarmac in the opposite direction, to Chilida. Accurately, we took the Tarmac for a third or so of the journey, and then turned off onto unpaved dirt roads for the rest. The dirt roads wind right through the fields and greenery and mountains. They're red-orange and of thin sand consistency; the granules readily rise into the air when driven or walked on, they creep into and line the soles of my sandals and dye the rubber bottoms of my walking shoes. The red-orange roads form an interdigitating network for mostly foot traffic, but bicycles and vehicles as well.
Some of the more accessible villages (like Ekwendeni where we are staying) are right off the Tarmac, while the majority -like Chilida- are much deeper into the land. These are more difficult to reach.
Driving on the unpaved, dirt, hilly roads was an experience. We sat facing sideways in the back of the Mobile Clinic van; hugging the earth, seatbeltless, we felt every bump. The benches we sat on lined the windows, they sat 4 on each side.
At one point during our trip we stopped before a wooden 1-lane bridge, probably around 100 meters across. Gladson, one of our two interpreters, got out to confirm the durability of the wooden panels that comprised the bridge prior to our crossing. He wielded a panel into place, and waved the van onward. He also shooed a herd of cows attempting to cross the bridge in our direction- they'd have to wait their turn. They built this bridge ten years ago, he told us proudly.
We were hitching a ride with the Mobile Clinic to Chilida to conduct our second focus group. Almost every day, the mobile clinic navigates these red dirt roads to the more remote villages and provides services. That day, it was an "Under 5" clinic, and after 45 minutes of driving we turned off the dirt road into a clearing where dozens if not 100 mothers and their Under 5s had gathered. Standing out in the sun, all faded bright skirts and short hair and a gaggle of children. They were waiting.
We conducted our focus group in the back of the van: Emily, me, our two interpreters, six mothers from Chilida, and four infants sitting on laps; knee to knee we sat. We talked to the women for around an hour about their utilization of the hospitals, traditional healers, and how they pay for, choose between, and transport to and from these providers.
When we finished, we ate Obama rolls and drank Fanta with the mothers. Emily is doing a parallel study on the food preferences of the villagers we meet; findings pending.
Back out of the van, we sat crosslegged in the dirt with the mothers while they waited to be seen. They tried to teach us Tumbuka, via charades- symbols were our common ground. For some reason the only word that stuck for me is hamba, which means leaf.
The mothers were there all day; they came with patience and their children's health record booklets; without cell phones or food. They breastfed when their babies cried. They laughed when Emily and I took photos of a peculiar and colorful insect. They got a kick out of my iPhone camera. And sitting in a line on the ground of what felt like an abandoned, doorless, electricity-less brick hut, they helped expose the thighs of eachother's children as vaccines were administered by gloveless hands. They're scared of injections; that's one reason people don't go to hospital, we were told during the focus group.
When they were finished seeing the provider, they scattered from the clearing in different directions, on foot, for home.
Now, I'm sitting in my front "yard" again. Picturing those mothers who seemed to have arisen from the woodwork to provide this care for their children. In the clearing, surrounded by barren land for acres, we gathered that Thursday afternoon. The mothers had this timid pride that I can't quite explain yet. In one month they will return.
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