Settled in for a longish haul

Back in NYC x 2 weeks, I'm feeling pretty at home.

Flashing back to two weeks ago, when I started to write and then got distracted (blame the city that never sleep), I wrote the following:

Aug 21stish, 2014

It was a treat to key into my apartment Tuesday morning; my studio felt warm and bright and there was something about the textures and soft wood finishes that halted me. I don't know why I didn't have as strong of a reaction first arriving at my parent's home in New Jersey; maybe because that's a house house and was so at odds with my living arrangements in Malawi my brain didn't even attempt registration of a comparison. Maybe it's because while in Malawi I frequently made mental and aloud comparisons to my apartment and not to my parent's home. Who knows/cares. The point is that whatever the reason, it shocked me, culturally, to return to the familiar. The familiar being N-Y-C. 

I really do love New York. So much so, I'm flirting with a Back in New York City blog, though perhaps I should stop with these bizarrely specific and temporally- inclined blog names and find a broader address at which to pen my conscious. We'll see. For now I'll stick tight here. 

Because Malawi is still at the tip of the tongue. My friends have impressed me with their curiosity and delighted me with their enthusiasm in my trip.  Their questions have been so top notch I feel like hanging out with them can kind of fall under the category of 'Prepare for residency interviews/life'. They're allowing me to relive my summer and to discover even more about my experience, which I know may be somewhat hard to believe considering I've now shared some 40 insights.

We've had a handful of conversations about the effect my summer in Malawi has had on me; the impression it has made; the changed woman I may or may not have become.  I'm flattering myself by repeating that I'm not that kind of girl- the type that comes home from a summer in the developing world and suddenly shuns creature comforts. For one, I'd like to think I've never been that frivilous but what's more I'd like to think I'm not that naive...

...and then it appears I stopped. The phone must've rang or maybe the doorbell or maybe the sun screeching through my 24th story window won me over and I ditched my MacBook screen and my plush new throw pillows and headed for the streets.  I'll complete the above thought, though, and say that I'm not so naive in the following way: the hardships and poverty I witnessed in Malawi existed before I got there, and exist now that I left.  At this precise moment in time thousands and thousands of miles away children are sleeping under thatched roofs and mosquito nets; women are feeling the first cramps of labor and fearing the distance they must all the sudden travel to the hospital; drug shortages and food shortages and gas shortages are blossoming.  Just because you haven't seen something doesn't mean it doesn't exist and just because you're no longer staring something in the face doesn't mean it isn't still unfolding, right before someone else's eyes.  For these reasons I'm not going to feign transformation but instead am going to hold on tight to the memories and reality of what was my reality for those two unbelievably special months. I feel like what I'm trying to get at is saying I'm changed makes it seem like I all the sudden had some sort of epiphany, which isn't what happened.  Instead I was so lucky to be exposed to a world that up until then had been beyond my fingertips.  And now I've reached this world. I haven't changed, I'm just standing on my tippy toes.

I'll write again and try to make more sense..

Happy Labor Day,

R

One foot in America, one still in Africa

I know my written word has stirred up plenty of images, as if you accompanied me to Malawi and back, right?  But on the fat chance (lol) that in the digital age of over-sharing pictures are still worth near a thousand words, I have put together a digital album. This involved being highly selective- I reduced some two thousand collected photos down to a manageable 180.  

Oh relax- I didn't take all these by myself. I've curated a collection taken by me, my parents, and a friend or 2 in the country. Of note, Emily was useless. She contributed maybe seventeen photos to the mix though I'll admit they're of rather high quality. Literally: a pattern has emerged in that the photos Emily took on my camera are clocking in at double the megapixels that mine are.  It must be that cameras are made for righties. I promise I won't be a surgeon.

It's hard to believe I've been home for almost a week, though harder to believe a week ago at this time I was sound asleep in Lilongwe. Naturally, as healthy as I was for my summer in Africa since home I have juggled some upper respiratory viral shenanigan caught from one of my parents as well as general body pains (a neat little symptom en vogue in Malawi that means a smattering of things- in my case, stomach discomfort). I don't think I have malaria or TB or even a fever but my mother's requesting I see a doctor. When you return home from Africa you're supposed to see a doctor, she instructed. There's absolutely no way I'm going to go to a doctor this week, I responded. End conversation. I'm fine. 

To comment on my general mood: Aside from the occasional moments during which I blatantly and spontaneously and haphazardly forget that I'm now a calmer and more collected person, I've been pretty chill. I'm patient, I think, and have more or less been going with the flow. Easier, of course, when the flow involves sleeping eating reading and watching tv, but they say you have to start somewhere. When the grouchiness surfaces (and I'd say it does maybe 1.5 times/day), I've been trying very hard to redirect myself. I've tried apologizing and neverminding and rephrasing and I truly think it's achieved the desired effect. They still say fake it until you make it: I think just acting relaxed relaxes me, and by that I mean that I've always felt that what we say on the outside affects how we feel on the inside. Three tries and this still is not making sense? Take one for the team and just get on with it. 

Alright: I'm clearly still enjoying writing (doubly more than I'm enjoying my residency application). Is it ok for me to continue on this blog even if I'm not in Malawi? Hashtag denial frown? I guess it's probably fine to write here a little longer because I have an inkling writing will cease when rotations restart anyway, and further I'll probably be commenting on Malawi for at least another handful of months. 

Ok, c'est tout. Deep breaths. 

R

Toto, we're not in Malawi anymore

Hi team: I wrote for a week or so prior to my trip, a sort of warm-up they'd say, so I'm thinking I deserve a cool-down as well. Don't want those well-worked muscles to cramp.

Do you think I use hyphenated words more than your average person? Do you think this means something? Just throwing that out there. I've always been acutely self-aware. 

I got home from Malawi two days ago. To fully disclose, yesterday's post I wrote in more than one sitting (my brain had quickly tarnished) and it clearly got a little wordy. I'll be swift today, then, to break even. 

Right now, I am at this behemoth of a store called IKEA. You've heard of it? Very good. Writing is a good activity for me in public places because it tends to take others (re: my mom) seventeen times longer than it takes me to survey a store's selection and the jury's confident that I'm one of the least patient shoppers on the continent. 

To remain relevant, I'll contrast IKEA to Malawi in the following way: there is nothing in Malawi like IKEA. I'm literally face to face right now with a wall of maybe 93 wall clocks. And now, advancing, hundreds of different sized and shaped picture frames. I've always marveled IKEA's philosophy and it's  clear to me at the moment how unbelievably at odds it is with Malawi way of life. Do you know IKEA flat-packs all their furniture because this is the most space and thus cost-efficient way to store and ship items and this keeps prices low? Same with why they have limited workers, prefer to not deliver, and don't pre-assemble their goods. 

Flat-packed

In Malawi, on the side of the Tarmac road, carpenters display their wooden beds and chairs and coffins pret-a-porter. Each with clear differences. Each with their own flourishes. Each with their own risks. The coffin shops always startled me the most. So confrontational and run of the mill and existed so in the scheme of things. Again, it's bizarre what became normal. 

Alright: I told you I was going to cut to the chase. Time to check-out.

Maybe I just add hyphens even when they're not required? The Oxford Hyphen?

Love,

R

Home, objectively speaking

Dear America,

Crazy, but I've returned- typing now on my old faithful MacBook Air.

After a 2.5 hour flight to Jo-burg, a 5 hour layover, and a 16 (rounded up) hour flight to JFK, Emily and I returned from Malawi yesterday morning. The last handful of days in Africa were jam-packed, thought-provoking, laughter-inducing, and bittersweet; I had things to say along the way but didn't get around to writing them down until today. Also, I rhyme now.

On our final day with Richard and Alfred (I believe it was last Friday), we went to Alfred's home for some final discussion and to see the stretcher made of trees Alfred had had constructed for us. We had heard a lot about this contraption during our focus groups (as a way people unable to walk are transported to the hospital), and we had hoped to see one in the flesh. Slap on the wrist for not anticipating the spectacle that would surround this request: it obviously warranted a program.* At half twelve we will go see the stretcher made of trees, Alfred told us, I just spoke to the village headman. 

So after lunch, the four of us left Alfred's home and walked along the tarmac road to a nearby village where we were greeted warmly by said VH. We felt badly for showing up empty handed, a regret amplified instantly when we were led to the brick-walled structure where the program would take place and saw four chairs lined up at the ready. We took our seats, and shortly village members of all ages started to arrive. One by one they greeted us, with bent knees and handshakes, shuffling down the row. The village members, probably 20 or so in all, then took seats on a straw mat laid out in front of us on the floor, and the program began: opening prayer, introductions, stretcher presentation/demo, speech, closing prayer, photographs. For the first time more or less ever, I relieved Emily of her speech-giving duty; proof that I had in fact been in Africa for 2 months.

Speech giving

As usual, the villagers were beautiful, gracious, and gave me pause. Their faces showed wonder as my description of our research project was translated for them into Tumbuka, pride when the stretcher was revealed, and happiness as we took photos and shook more hands before we left. The children were shoeless, with tattered clothes and dust-laden legs, but they had spirit and appeared well-fed.

After, we took our final bicycle taxi rides back to Ekwendeni. We had our final chicken and rice Guest House dinner, and the Northern Malawi sky wrapped us up in darkness one final time.

The next day (Saturday), we rose early to catch our bus to the capital, Lilongwe. I had grown fond of one of the cooks at the guest house, Catherine, and as our taxi pulled away she ran after to give me a small gift (a chitenge). With that, we reeled onto the tarmac road and were off to the bus stop.

Once the wheels started rotating the bus ride went smoothly; it's possible we had lost our pre-purchased bus tickets and thus may or may not have been required to re-buy them to re-claim our seats prior to boarding. This potentially led to a pinch of frustration on our part as we were forced to encounter the inefficiency and nonsensical nature of Malawi procedure.  But this is all in the past; we're calm now.

Once in the capital, we spent our final kwacha on food, a magnet, and a red-beaded elephant. Our entire journey came full circle as we spent our final night on Malawi soil in the lodge we had stayed in when we first arrived back in June, and that was that. The next morning we went to the airport.

To end with a bang, on the day of our departure the Malawian president was due in from a trip to the USA so the Lilongwe airport was busting at the seams with excitement*. Red carpets were unrolled on the runway and hundreds of Malawians invited to flank it. We watched from the airport window as the presidential plane landed and the president arrived, and then we watched it again on the local news, projected on the airport's sole TV. If I had the steam to explain this better, you'd appreciate it as all kind of meta.

At the Johannesburg airport, we kept ourselves busy with people watching, window shopping, candy eating, and jumping jacks. And then, in a blink (or seven thousand blinks) of the eye, we boarded the final plane and were home.

I'm borderline jet lagged (re: deliriously tired) so this is a pretty barebones and disappointing last post. I think I'm not totally done writing about my experience; we'll see how I feel after an extended blink. 

Thanks for reading,

R

*I'm sorry: could I be more technically savvy?

*Reminds me I haven't highlighted the clothing we had made towards the end of our trip.

Thoughts from a minibus (in Malawi)

It's sunny today, hot actually. The clouds have basically neglected the sky so the rays are hitting hard. I'm on a minibus at the moment, on our last trip back to Ekwendeni from Mzuzu. There's a woman standing in the aisle to my right with an infant (maybe a 1-year-old) affixed via a blanket to her back. Only his little head and curly hair and legs below the knee hang out. He's precious and wide-eyed. 

There's a lot of conversation surrounding me- Tumbuka. I just heard the word vimbuza. Do you know what that is? It's so second nature to me now I forget if I knew what it was prior to coming. It's a local disease/cultural belief that is caused by an evil spirit. It causes people to act bizarrely (people with vimbuza eat leaves, a focus group participant told us) and it is cured via a special dance. It's somewhat unclear but the dance that cures vimbuza is also called vimbuza. 

Did you see the tattoos on the woman with the ascites? Emily just asked, referring to a patient we met this morning in the hospital. Her abdomen was swollen -the size of a watermelon- and she had small black dots and lines on her skin. 

Yes. 

Do you know what tattoos are? When people go to traditional healers to treat disease, they're burned and cut and through these inflicted wounds herbs and medicines are rubbed. We've been told that some fifty percent of the patients seen at the hospital have these tattoos, evidence that traditional medicine practices were employed. 

We took a last-minute trip to Mzuzu this afternoon to meet with A.C.K, bicycle fabricator. We'd been trying to get in touch with him for days and finally did this morning from the hospital. A.C.K is the one who constructed the bicycle ambulance for Emily and Matt in 2010, and we met with him to discuss our upcoming plans for more. The meeting was littered with language barriers but with a combination of numbers and hand motions and photographs and smiles I believe we got the point across. 

Maybe tomorrow or the next day I'll update you on our upcoming bicycle ambulance plans. Tomorrow is our last day in Ekwendeni before we head to the capital very early Saturday morning. Over the last week, we've presented our research findings twice at the hospital (I mentioned that already?) and today had our last day on the wards. Last night was the last bible study which we hosted at the Guest House. I was pretty useless in the preparation, but did preread the bible portion with Em's guidance. It's interesting how much I've learned about Christianity here, right? Old Testament- I'll be back soon.

And USA, likewise. I'm perplexed my time here is coming to an end. I'm sure you know this is TBC....

Rebecca

Easy laughter

I hope, faithful reader, that we're on the same page: my life is not as cheery and giddy and easy as this blog portrays. I'm lucky, no doubt. I've had a pretty solid last two months, for sure. But the world can be dark and dreary at times and I most certainly have had plenty of moments in my life that have been drenched with anxiety and apprehension and insecurity and even full-out sadness. You -well some of you more than others- know this.

I just wanted to begin with that, because this is I believe the only post I've titled prior to writing. 

I know laughter isn't always easy.

But laughter in Malawi does come easy, and loud, and often. This past Sunday in church there was a "fundraiser", which basically involved walking to the front of the church following the offering and donating more money.  The MC screeched into a microphone, music boomed from a dinosaur of a speaker, and people danced down the aisle and danced in their seats. The girls from N. Ireland, Emily, and I were hysterical.* 

Later in the day, we sat on the front porch of the Guest House with R&A (of N. Ireland): eating peanut butter sandwiches, singing Taylor swift, and also having a conversation about religion which wasn't funny but was meaningful. 

Monday, in Mzuzu, the laughter came again (like rain, sometimes you have days that are sprinkled with it; sometimes you have a short-lived but violent burst). The day was spent with Alfred and Richard; it was a classically Malawi day. 

Even though our activities here have gone on mysteriously without a hitch (we still can't believe none of our focus groups got canceled on the spot), there's always the suggestion that something unplanned is about to occur. So by Classic Malawi, I mean the entire day -at every turn- swelled with the potential for ridiculousness.

To begin, the key to the Guest House pantry (my word not theirs) had gone missing overnight and the sugar for my morning coffee was thus beyond reach. At the Guest House, the sugar's batting around a .300. Not too shabby for the major league but disappointing because the coffee grounds and powdered cream and boiling water have always already loaded the bases (are in the mug) by the time I realize the sugar hs gone AWOL.

There was also a communication breakdown (their word not mine) with regard to my egg and toast just never being served.  I keep on messing up ordering because it seems when it pertains to food all my Malawi Speak goes out the window (Me: I'll have that too. Server: You'll have two?). Seriously: can't be bothered (Northern Ireland speak for no big deal).

A few hours later, it was next to impossible to get into a taxi or minibus to take us to Mzuzu. It's Monday, I was told. Because any time anything releated to transportation is difficult I'm told It's Monday, or It's Saturday, or It's Friday, or It's 4 o'clock. 

We eventually made it to our destinations: Mzuzu Central Hospital, Lunch, and a meeting with the District Health Office. The meeting went great, the tour at the hospital didn't quite materialize, and lunch was pizza or (pissa). Over the two pies, the four of us laughed and reflected on our time together and took photos and videos. I requested everyone share their favorite memory from the last two months, a game that was slightly misconstrued and ended up highlighting some of my personally more absurd moments and habits.

We eventually said bye to Richard and Alfred and hopped onto bike taxis to finish our Mzuzu errands. As per usual my cyclist sped ahead, up and down hills, but Emily's eventually made it and her driver graciously said bye to me before we carried on. (Sorry: this is more of an inperson story, or a component of a greater story that I can't articulate now). 

Tuesday, yesterday, presented another Mzuzu excursion- this one just us two. 

And I want to describe it in detail, give a play-by-play, let you know what made us laugh inside the Kodak store and what made us laugh at the Bus Stop. I want you to see the smiles and meet the people we met, who fast became friends. I want you to count all the scraps we scribbled e-mail addresses on, and to be squished in the back seat of our cab with us as Emily showed photos to our anonymous taxi companions. 

I want you to trip in succession behind me on the sidewalk, as I trip sometimes right behind Emily. I want you to have pizza with Alfred and Richard; to try to describe it in words to them before they see it for the first time. 

I want you to wave to practically every child you pass by, and to one in particular, back and forth, from the top of small mountain you've climbed. 

I want you to eat breakfast in the Guest House and hear the rap and religious music hum from the radio. I want you to see the night watchman's face and hand gestures as he welcomes you to feel at home. 

And by I want you I'm wagering I mean that I want me to remember these things, these moments, these days. Because I repeat and know and agree and understand that laughter most definitely does not always come loud, often, or easy.  

But when it does come -planned or unexpected- I want to realize it, embrace it, and save it. For a day with real rain. 

Good night, friend. What is your name?

Love,

Rebecca 

*Of note, I'm fully aware that this is not typical fundraiser procedure.

Post scripts and reflections (and dissolving title creativity)

I know I used this idea last week when I reflected on driving to Luhomero 4 times-- that rap about 4 being not too few and not too many, being that sweet spot, the curve on the bat. 

Maybe that's the goal? End up on a path in your life where the trees and curves in the road and the hilly parts and even some of the people you pass look familiar. But on that same path, make sure there are still new things to notice. And notice them. 

Don't go soft or stale. 

Am I making myself clear? No? It's okay. I'm just flirting with the idea of this forum becoming Inspiration Central (C). 

Let's see (drum ring, middle, and pointer). Oh yes. I'm recalling the intent of this florid first stanza. 

Two months in a given place -in mine, Malawi- is an equally interesting amount of time. Arriving here feels like yesterday, and yet the familiarity and comfort of my surroundings is uncanny. Maybe I got ridiculously lucky because Malawi is a crazy unbelievable place, but it wasn't hard to ease into routine here. Though every day we smile and laugh and even at times get cold and serious with regard to the new realities we're observing when it comes to the developing world, this place (this country... this village...) feels like home. 

(It's an amazing thing that happens when you're head isn't so full to the brim with the goings ons that you have time to reflect on things like this. AKA: NYC, I love you, but this break has been refreshing.)

Alright. It's Sunday morning and let's review the line-up: church, tea-time, a second tea-time, and then we're going to climb this nearby small mountain that offers a sweeping view of the surroundings. Emily's worried because I do not have proper climbing shoes, apparently, but I'm anticipating no issues. 

Have a good Sunday,

Rebecca

PS: lots of laughs over the last handful of nights brought to us by The Bachelorette, which was recorded for us and arrived in Malawi with my parents a few weeks back. We've been watching with the girls from Northern Ireland, who are staying in the Guest House too-- the four of us have a conjoined bathroom, if that makes sense. Emily and my door to the mutual bathroom is basically broken (shocking) so every time we open it it makes a sound equivalent to a gunshot. It's pleasant. 

PPS: I forgot how much I love post-scripts. A few nights ago I was attacked by a spider and have a track of red enlargements from my knuckles to my wrist to my elbows. Joint distribution. 

PPPS: At the moment, one of the British girls (do you know people from Northern Ireland go by 'British') is playing guitar (we hear it through the bathroom). It has prompted a conversation between Emily and me about our past musical pursuits. It is 7am. 

Red suspenders

I've been meaning to comment on Malawian style for quite some time. I've mentioned chetengies, I believe, the long stretches of brightly patterned fabric women wear over skirts. They're sahri-esque, and have prooven equally difficult for me to don. Remember at Radhika's wedding when I had to have my sahri reconfigured every 17 minutes? Remix this December. 

But the chetengies are just one feature of the garb here. Malawi is a walking thrift store. On a given day I encounter t-shirts featuring Barack's face, the Yankees, and California state schools. Gladson, our focus group interpreter, habitually rotated between a vest with a left-breasted BudLight monogram and a grey U Mich School of Business Management fleece. 

Today in Ekwendeni, the University of Livigstonia is having a graduation. 160 graduates will receive diplomas; we've seen them miilling around in clusters from beyond the Guest House window all morning. Yesterday afternoon I heard the choir rehearsal from my perch on the Guest House porch. 

Over eggs and toast at breakfast this morning, Emily and I talked with a handful of the university's professors; it became clear quick that my I'm from America would not suffice with this crowd. Instead: We live in New York City, Manhattan, but I grew up in New  Jersey. 

The garden state, smiled the professor in the red suspenders. He was tall with grey curls and twinkling eyes. He had gotten his Masters in Religious Studies from Princeton in 1994; had been to Trenton and Upstate New York. 

Across the table, one of his colleagues wore a lime green dress shirt with a matching citrus tie. Another, a plaid button down. 

Richard, our friend and the health officer we are working closely with on our bicycle ambulance project, has a flaming pink dress shirt that shimmers in the sun.  It has black accents and buttons. He also has eggshell blue and violet varieties; the pink though is our favorite. 

At focus groups, multiple women sitting next to each other will have matching black flats, with the same silver-shaped decoration mounted in the front. In town, at outdoor markets, shoes like this form mounds by the hundred. Ready to be sorted through and sold. In the capital city, I once saw them being washed in the river prior to display. 

Weeks ago at the bank, I stood in line next to a man in a Yellow and Green football jersey, and couldn't help but notice his identification card in his hand; tattered and browned. In the ID photo, the man was wearing the same yellow and green shirt. My initial thought was coincidence. 

In Malawi, the laundry lines hang daily and the clothes are worn on repeat. 

There are plenty of people in dull, ripped clothes. Faded and dusty. But there's also the color, the brightness, the flare. Woman in metallic high-heels ascend the steps to church. Gemstone crusted crosses dangle over men's floral printed dress shirts. Red sneakers. Polcadots. Faded jeans. Bare feet. 

I have to be working on other things now, so I'm out. But just wanted to get this down. I might write more later. 

Love, 

Rebecca

Numbers 11 and 12

Hey, you know what this means: I scribbled enough in a word document entitled Personal_Statement.doc that I decided I deserved to doodle here as well. Let me get you up to speed.

Yesterday Emily and I completed our final two focus groups in a village called Kapondero. It's right past Luhomero, we told our taxi driver, Phillip, when we bumped into him the day prior and haggled for a ride. 

You told me it was right beyond, he told us en route, as the rain slashed down hard and Justin Bieber serenaded, but then I looked into it after you left and I realized it was much farther. Good thing I got extra fuel. 

Oh, Phillip. You know what's cool about Malawi? You actually see your taxi drivers again. Like, daily. Randomly. They become pals. Sometimes they call to check in. 

The day, in great part due to the company, was epic. The roads (which are a barrier to healthcare access, btw) were extra rundown and 45-minutes or so into our ride we came to a stop in front of a small pond/river interrupting our path. Phillip and Gladson (our interpreter supreme) got out to survey the situation, and I took photos. 

It fast became clear that we would not be crossing the water body in the car, and it was time to start footing it. In the rain, with a crate of 18 glass bottles of Soda and backpacks busting with 20 Obama Rolls, with long skirts and wet hair and 1 small striped umbrella and 1 smaller leopard-printed umbrella and with a laugh track self-supplied, we began our trek. 

The water was the only real obstacle; it involved holding onto outstretched arms and deeply rooted water shrubs and   balancing on wobbly stones. 

I'm a little concerned about your balance issues, Emily's caught telling me on one of many videos. 

Let's restart the 6-week praziquantel post-exposure prophylaxis count. 

Well needless to say, over the river and 30 or so minutes later we ultimately made it to our destination. Even taxi driver Phillip ditched his car and came along for the walk, which at the time didn't even strike me as unusual it was so typically Malawi. 

We then proceeded to conduct two focus groups in a row, me leading the first (with Emily typing) and the opposite configuration for the second. 

I don't know if it was the weather or the journey there or the people or on our last day us finally getting the hang of this focus group thing; I have a feeling it was probably a recipe of all of the above. But the focus groups were some of our best yet. 

They say you're done gathering qualitative data when responses start repeating themselves (they become saturated) but the other seemingly cool way of confirming you've conducted your fair share is immersion begins. 

While conducting, sitting in a circle with this group of selfless strangers, you're no longer distracted by the situation and the peoples faces and the tape recorder and what question you're going to ask next-- you're suddenly and beautifully totally and defiantly emersed and enjoying it and listening. That's what yesterday was about, more than any groups prior, and it was really cool. 

The walk and ride home were really memorable too. We spent the first have chatting and laughing and recounting stories and jumping out of the car once or twice to take videos and photos. And then Emily and I, I think, spent the second half of the ride just sitting quietly in the backseat. Thinking and watching the clouds and landscape creep by. 

It was the fourth time we had taken this particular off-road route, the one that snaked off the main road and to Luhomero and beyond. Four is a funny number because it's not too-many-to-count but it's not too-few-to-not take notice. We've traversed it on foot, in cars, while pushing stalled cars, and in the back of flagged down pickup trucks. It's a route I want to remember. It's a route I don't think I'll forget. 

Remind me to tell you about the rock on the mountain.

See you,

Rebecca 

Embracing disorder

Alright, all: this is the last time I sit down to write something that isn't my personal statement. I must start it, or at least create a word document for it, before I blog again. I'm already hyperventilating about this (not the lack of free writing, more the requirement of formal writing) so I think starting tomorrow I'll just force myself still for 15 minutes per day in front of the to-be-created word doc and see what happens. 

All the best plans start tomorrow; you know that, right?

Tomorrow Emily and I have our last two focus groups, which will bring the total to a chilling twelve. Then it's time to tie up loose ends, prepare for (re: start) a presentation we're giving later this week on our findings, work on our paper, and, arguably most important: continue exploring the Pandora's box that is our bicycle ambulance initiative (which I recognize I've yet to outwardly describe; bear with me). 

Today, the Fishers, Alfred, Richard, and I went to Mzuzu and met with a member of the District Heakth Office to share with them our thoughts and plans regarding bicycle ambulances (again, I'll return to this, you can count on it). 

Organization-wise, it was a day that wouldn't jive with my life in NYC, a day that had it occurred 2 months ago may have given me a headache. 

But it's a funny thing that happens when you stop expecting things to go as planned. It's a peculiar shift in mindset that takes place when you've spent the last two months in a vortex of meetings starting late, stores remaining closed, ATMs running out or money, check out lines coming to abrupt and arbitrary halts, cars breaking down, restaurants running out of food. 

What is it that happens? 

You chill. I've chilled. And though I'm still a rose with a stem of prickly flaws, the unexpected, the annoying, and the delays-- I'm trying to embrace. 

I should note here, before I fall asleep, that I don't have a personality dysmorphic disorder. I'm not as crazy as I'm making my Non-Africa self seem- I know I'm not and I know you know I'm not. Rivers go with the flow and so do I. Most of the time. But rivers are shallow and sometimes deeper down I need to remind myself to just breath. 

In Malawi, beyond the stagnant lines and the moneyless ATMs and the broken clocks and the watchless wrists is a society gritting it's teeth and stomping it's feet to the tune of what's actually important. Days and life and agendas going according to plan are not.  I hope I remember this when I'm home. 

Good night,

Rebecca 

Back up North

Good morning, team,

Emily and I had a conversation two days ago about our reluctance to over-share, but I'm now thinking that my blog writing and photo posting might defy this. Neither here nor there, really. I hope I'm not becoming annoying. 

I'm live, at the moment, from the Ekwendeni guest house. I moved in here on Friday and had a restful first two nights. Have I articulated, dear reader, how ridiculous my circadian rhythm is these days? I'm regularly asleep in the 9 o'clock hour and ready to rise in the 5 o'clock hour. I'm sure this schedule will sustain for precicely 1 day once I'm back in the States before I'm clapping down hard on my alarm clock's snooze button. 

To summarize, for the books, I had a wonderful time with my parents. We went from Majete National Park down south to Lake Malawi, then up to Lilongwe (in central Malawi, the capital). We concluded our time together in Mzuzu and Ekwendeni, where I have been stationed. A highlight: on our last full day together my parents accompanied Emily and me (and our interpreters Gladson and Elaina) to a focus group discussion. And an underline: Matt(hews) (as he goes by in Malawi), Emily's husband, was and is here as well.

It was really special to have everyone with us, particularly because this specific focus group took place at a school, where upwards of a hundred children were basking in their last full day prior to a 6-week holiday. Last days are universal. On top of that, there was also a mobile/outreach clinic being conducted at this site on this morning. Wrapped in a neat but Malawiesque bow (bright and loud and with infinite light), our guests got to see a little bit of everything.* 

I'll note: my dear father, with a valiant and successful effort, drove us to this remote site. We crossed rivers and deep, deep pot holes that made more traditional off-road driving look crisp. Naturally, upon arriving at our location our Malawian interpreters got word of an alternative, unpaved but significantly less tumultuous path which we returned on.  

After the focus group, we showed my parents the hospital (Emily gave a noteworthy tour), and then we all headed to Mzuzu to wander and read and ultimately have dinner (at A1, of pizza dough fame).

I have a lot of wonderful photos of my travels with my parents so I'll look forward to sharing those at a later time. Monkeys and sunsets and a startling vast array of out-the-window-driving-80-km-per-hour photos courtesy of my mom. Forewarn me when we're approaching an ox cart, she'd request. Finis. 

This past Friday: Matt, Emily, our Malawian friend Alfred, and I trekked on foot to Luhomero. Recall: this is the village where Emily and Matt donated an ambulance (see previous post written around July 4th). I should have looked at a watch, but I believe the walk took us approximately two hours. Time flew, because Emily was educating me on Truman (her most recent read; see previous post entitled Bookworms), but it was not lost on us that this is a distance many residents of Luhomero and other remote villages are required to travel any time they have to get to the hospital. Pregnant. With diarrhea. Febrile. Dehydrated. Often, out of necessity, on foot. 

We went to Luhomero to discuss with Alfred and Richard (the local health officer in the area of Luhomero) bicycle ambulances. More on that later, but it was productive, informative, thoughtful, and thought-provoking. I chose those four adjectives with care.

Alright. C'est tout. Now, I most definitely have to get reading done for our project. I'm skipping Sunday morning services, it's time to be productive.  

Have a good day, thanks for reading,

Rebecca

*btw: no one extra sat in on actual discussion; we were separate. This is serious. 

Counted: a conversation on Lake Malawi

He just got to me, my mom said, nodding her head gently, I don't know why. 

A lot of the people have that effect, I countered, bordering on snappily. 

But not like that, she offered, when he talked about losing his father, his strength, I don't know. 

What do you think, mom, we conduct focus groups with these people; all we do is talk about deep, personal things. I was defensive and insistent that our conversation with Black, the hotel employee who had taken us out on the speed boat to go snorkeling, wasn't as out of the ordinary as she was interpreting it to be. 

Sometimes we make remarks to try them on for size, listen to how they sound, see how they make us feel. We say things aloud to see if we can work with them; see if we can agree with them, even if we're not sure, when we let the thoughts fly, if they're even true. 

Because the truth --and I knew this as soon as the words left my mouth-- was that Black had gotten to me too. 

----

We were drinking hard cider and Black was drinking orange Fanta, the speed boat was anchored off a small island in Lake Malawi and we were sitting on its cream faux-leather built-in couches. We were eating vegetable samosas from a silver tin container. The samosas were warm, soft. Cooked and heated earlier in the day, but they tasted just right. 

Black was wearing an aqua and blue uniform shirt with a patterned Island print. We were in bathing suits and striped towels, having just reloaded the boat after a brief bout in the water. 

I don't recall how the conversation started but I'm sure it was in the usual way. We probably asked Black where he was from. Fast to the surface was that his village was nearby, on the lake. It was a fisherman's village, and he had lived there all his life.

Black had these eyes that focused on you but at the same time seemed to look farther. Especially when he steered the boat, he stared deeper into the distance than one would expect. He seemed to be seeing more. 

Black has two brothers and a sister and together they take care of their mother. Their father died when Black was ten and when his siblings were ten, give of take a few years. His father had been sick.  

(Black was one of many strong, young men who had spoken to my family and me about losing their fathers too young.)

Black has three children, 5 and 1/2 year old fraternal twins and a three year old as well. They're all healthy and were all born at the government hospital in Mangochi, a 2 hour walk from Black's village. The hospital is too far, he shared, completely unprovoked. 

(I had breathed a sigh of relief to hear about the twins- now over five and thriving. Twins are more likely than single gestations to be born before their due date, and most hospitals in Malawi frankly don't have the resources to care for premature babies. I've seen this firsthand.)

For minutes, Black spoke and we listened. I fell silent about my project here: our focus groups, our goal to understand barriers to hospital access. Black told us he used his vacation days to be at the hospital with his wife while she was in labor. He was so proud to tell us this. Even though the hospital is far it is where we must go for care. 

Black's home is a 45-minute walk from the hotel, where we stayed and where he worked. He does not have a bicycle but planned to buy one when he saves enough money, 40,000 kwacha, or 100 USD. Footing it for now is not a problem, he told us. He also had such pride in this job he had: he had started as a gardner and worked himself up in the ranks at the hotel, now he is responsible for the speed boat and a sail boat as well. Doing what he has to do to support his family. 

I'm not remembering this all verbatim (poetic license, they say). But it was a beautiful thing to listen to Black tell us about his family. The anecdotes about the hospital just go to show you (to show me) that this is a universal problem that surfaces without much prodding. We didn't feel rushed but were conscious about returning on the speed boat at a reasonable time, so that Black could begin his on-foot commute to his village, his children, his wife, and his mother. I'm probably not don't Black, his character, or this experience justice, but it was one of those days that touched my parents and me; one of those days we won't forget. 

Counting to ten

Over dinner this past spring, in my NYC apartment/shoe-box, a friend recounted for me an activity she had partook in earlier that day, as part of her Palliative care elective. It involved sitting face to face (or so I pictured it) with someone she did not know that well, and taking turns talking for sixty seconds about something meaningful. The listener had to refrain for an entire minute from verbal feedback, from providing any form of response; the listener wasn't allowed to speak. 

This lesson, second-hand but instantly, served me well. I've always thought of myself a good listener, (a little pat on the back), but overnight I implemented an abridged version of this concept, I made an amend to the well-worn way I listened. 

When lulls arose in conversation, when people paused in recounting and sharing and story telling, when the phone line went limp and static resumed.... with patients, family, and friends... I consciously made the decision to keep my mouth shut. 

I started, quite literally, counting to ten. 

And something -don't wait- kind of, instantly, amazing happened: there was a lull in the lull, a pause in the pause, an end to the static. People resumed talking. 

I'm obviously romanticizing this a little bit. Don't rewind to conversations (friends and family and foes)- this wasn't as calculated a maneuver as the retrospect makes it seem. And the test wasn't 100% sensitive (specific? Shoot.) But it was a conscious implementation, and the more I did it the more valuable it became. 

See, dear reader; see, friends and family and foes: it took me almost two months before I started to sermonize. 

The point of this post, obviously, is that in Malawi this lesson has taken on another form. Inherently, the focus groups Emily and I conduct are loyal to this philosophy. We talk minimally, embrace the silence, and quietly celebrate when a more reserved participant chimes in. 

Further though, this idea has held true with all the people I've met along the way. It's crazy, but in those ten seconds, you can hear the other person forming their next thought. Like claymation. Or maybe in the silence the previously stated sentence echoes. Either way it works. 

I have a story to share but I'm going to save it until I have the gusto to tell it well. Think of me as counting to ten, ironing out the details, unbending the kinks. 

Have a good day,

Rebecca 

Last night, with the telescope, I saw Saturn

Deja Vu: good morning from the lake. I'm at the southern tip, now, instead of up north where I wrote from 2-3 weeks ago. Have you seen a map, perchance, to appreciate this land-locked sliver of a nation?: bordered by Tanzania, Mozambique and Zambia; monopolized by Lake Malawi, which takes up around a third of the country. Third largest lake on the continent, I believe they say. 

It's a small country, but there are tinier. Remember in 9th grade when we picked out of a hat the African nation we were to do a report on, and my fate was São Tomé and Principe? Excluded from most artists renderings of the continent and the majority of history texts: it was a challenge. I remember photo-copying page after page at a local library; the internet search still hovering low under the radar. 

I've been pensive, lately, if you hadn't noticed. Relatively inside my own head and alarmingly conscious of my own thoughts. It's protective sometimes to not be like this, to let thoughts baste unbothered. And imperative other times to let them be served, even if their insides are still doughy, like the buttered croissant(sss) I had for breakfast. 

I'm talking about "thoughts", kid, in case that got lost in the mumbo-jumbo.

I've put a lot off over the last 6 weeks, which I'll very well regret in three. There's a personal statement to prepare and an exam to acknowledge and other things out of my working brain's reach at the moment. I thought I'd proven to myself how glorious it is to get things done ahead of time, to not procrastinate, but some habits die hard. 

Today (and not three weeks from now), I'm slated to go snorkeling. I know a lot of people boast discoordinate, but I'm a special case. Swimming, real swimming, has always been a challenge. When I tried to do laps yesterday in the pool I closed my eyes (chlorine, to induce better imagination) and tried to emulate Michael Phelps. You know what they say about reaching for the stars.

What else can I say? Let's see. I'm with my parents for another handful of days and then the galavanting will cease. Then, there are three more focus groups to conduct, and work to be done with regard to our bicycle ambulance initiative. In the interim: I'll enjoy my time with my family. They've been entertaining, but not in a terribly reproducible way. My mother is constantly pointing out animals to me, which is only funny/complicated because 99.9% of the time she tells me to direct my attention at twelve o'clock. Well if I see them they're obviously right in front of me. 

Aside from that, my parents have been incredible in their appreciation and pure enjoyment of Malawi. They're falling for the people, the landscape, the relaxation, and the food. I believe in that order. 

I'm happy here, as I think is clear, but'll be happy to be back home as well. I think it has something to do with the fact that I know I'll be back here, one day. There's security in knowing I'm not leaving for good. Maybe it's a little premature to reflect on this. Now I'm going to get back to Oscar Wao.

Thanks for reading,

Rebecca 

PS: I could even see its rings. 

Right of way

Third row of the land cruiser, speeding along a semi-paved road from Majete National Park to our next destination on the lake. The window is horizontal, sliding, and for a moment I opened it up wide and let the air gush in. It slapped me in the face, and it was hard to breath steadily for a moment. It doesn't feel terribly polluted around here, but the thick air holds more than the invisible elements. It holds dust. 

The conversation in the first two rows is churning around Malawian politics. For a moment, the focus is inside the vehicle and not the world that surrounds. I catch snippets: Banda. Corruption. Fines as salaries. 

It's as if we're driving through the countryside, until we stumble upon a pocket of settled earth. Like an aneurysm, small villages and neighborhoods peel off the main road and swell into the distance. There are one-room homes, brick-walled, with roofs of thicket or tin panels. Laundry lines hang low and still, weighed down half way across. 

We pass bicycles and over-stuffed minivans and clusters of people traveling the semi-paved roads as well. The people: carrying rods of sugar cane or a basket or a bundle of twigs or knapsacks. 

For sale, you name it, on the side of the road: potatoes and rice and timber and coal and bricks and tomatoes and raw meat and fried dough and on occasion, on skewers usually held out by children's outstretched hands, roasted mice. 

We pass goats and chickens and little black pigs. A fair trade, I guess, for yesterday's wildlife. 

Have I said enough about the safari? The game drives? Is there that much more to say? Sometimes it takes me a few days to put into words an experience, so maybe I'll say more this coming week. I had resolved to start writing longer posts (a challenge) but I've yet to follow through. A work in progress, on the road again. 

Rebecca 

Beating heart: an overdue comment

Sorry for the stall. I've been busy, you see, in the middle of nowhere. Not only has internet connection been seldom but my time has been cluttered with eating, learning about kudu and sable, and finishing a novel I recommend. It's called The Corrections. The author can write. 

The travel literature is filled with references to Malawi as "the warm heart of Africa"; the country has been pegged Africa for beginners which could be because all the other catchphrases were taken by the brighter and bolder, or because it's true. 

I'm compulsively skeptical, of people, primarily, often of their intentions. And I'd be lying if I said I've rung that component out of me completely, like the suds of hand washed laundry.  I've actually proven pretty dismal at hand washing laundry. Probably not the best metaphor. But what I'm slowly narrowing in on is the fact that the people I've met here, the Malawians, may be some of the kindest, most honestly genuine, truly interested and invested, and relentlessly caring people I've ever gotten to know. 

It's a case in point that I honestly have gotten to know the people I've interacted with, even those I've only spent time with minimally: the taxi drivers, the waitresses, the men who led us to our villa/cabin by torch after dark. The nursing students, the village headmen. Lillian, the HIV/AIDS advocate I sat next to on the bus to Lilongwe and Gordon, the pastor I sat next to on the minivan to Mzuzu. (I had two missed calls from Lillian when I delayed in notifying her I had arrived at my final destination.) The local village health officers (Oscar, Alfred, Rirchard, and the one in Chilida) and their wives, that student we met crossing the street in Lilongwe our first full day in Malawi. The exchange of e-mail addresses and phone numbers with the majority of these people is standard. Cos, our first cab driver in the capital, called to say hello a week after our last ride together.

The smiles in Malawi come fast and big. Like the effect of barbs and benzos, the lips and eyes and teeth are perpetually ready to curve and squint and rupture into a laugh. 

As I've eluded to prior, life here is not easy. I remain that the living in the moment lifestyle could be multifactorial in origin. But in the moment, at this moment, I think Malawians have it figured out. Just wanted to get this down. 

On the way out of Majete; will write soon. 

Love,

Rebecca

The game

Hi! I don't want anyone to freak out, but for all intents and purposes I'm off the grid. These are the expressions I use too often that I've had to define for Malawians over the last 5 weeks: freak out, that's crazy, this is ridiculous. 

I use them a lot. 

So back, though, to the matter at hand. My parents and I are deep in Majete National Park, a recent inductee into the Big5. This means that the potential to see five of the greatest bush animals exists here. In other news, watch my command of the English language collapse as I proceed to fail with speed and brilliancy in describing the wildlife. Some things are hard to describe; and there's more than one species of monkey, deer, and bird, by the way. 

The lodge we are staying at is one with the outdoors. One wall of our personal villa is completely open to the outside, as in no walls. It's hard to imagine but the villa is situated in such a way that the river (the Shire river) appears to greet that wide open non-wall. There's a large patio you can sit on. Or you can sit in bed. Regardless, the sounds of the flowing water, laughing hippos, and calling birds surround; it's just all there right in front of you. 

We're basically the only visitors at the lodge, give or take a few. The only other person here when we arrived was a man who has been all around the world and back and is currently riding his motorcycle across Africa and in the process producing a documentary. My parents and I looked pretty legit with our dIgicams as he loaded the jeep yesterday with his camera drone. Seriously. Twice while out, on our first ever safari drive, the jeep was stopped and the drone was released into the sky: 100... 200... 300 meters up and away. It captured us crossing a river in the jeep, and also captured a spectacular sunset. 

So far, the typical daily schedule has been as follows: wake up, light breakfast, safari, large breakfast, rest, large lunch, tea and coffee, safari, dinner. Repeat. I try to run from one place to the other to keep my figure. In addition, during each safari ride, coffee or cocktails (depending on time of day) are packed and served in the wilderness. We have a wonderful guide, Liwonde, who is pretty gung-ho about us seeing all the Park has to offer. Every so often he kills the engine and points enthusiastically at paw prints (spoors, snootily) in the sand. 

See that, he whispers, wide eyed, The lion was here. Yesterday. 

Malawi isn't necessarily known for their safari but when you have zilch to compare it to (minus a childhood stint at Bronx Zoo camp) and when you're as easily amused as me and my parents, this doesn't really matter. I'm particularly fond of the warthogs, of course, who remind me of prancing ottomans. This morning we also saw zebras and if I hadn't already pledged allegiance to the pig the stripes would have my one and only heart. We've seen hippos and baboons and elephants and impala as well. It's been a good time. 

Alright. Am I bragging? I don't mean to. I just feel like at this point you've been with me through thick and thin, through spiders and power outages, so it wouldn't be fair to ditch you for this. 

Have a good day,

Rebecca

PS: I'm serious: except for select spots our phones are registering No Service, and the lodge regrettably/probably for the better has no wifi. Someone check in on my brother.