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. 

They're here!

Good morning!  It's early, gauged by the stillness outside. Actually, I now hear the birds. They have this deep vibrating caw, some of them, almost like a frog. They rise from their slumber around 5am. 

Are those hyenas that I'm hearing? My dad asked the waitress last night, as for the first moment all evening the animal underworld fell completely silent, well now of course they stopped. 

You know that face a collective makes when they're all straining to hear a sound? Chins pointed slightly upward, eyebrows bluntly raises. 

I do not think so, the waitress replied. 

My parents arrived in Lilongwe! If I knew how fun it was I would've gone to sleep away camp all those years just for the fun of having family arrive on your turf after being away for so long. I was filled with such giddiness when I got to the hotel that I kept on thinking I heard them; when they finally did arrive the front desk staff peered around with smiling faces to where I was sitting, beckoning me over: they're here!

All the hotels in Malawi (and hostels and lodges and guest houses for that matter) are small and intimate. The one we're staying in right now has nine rooms. It's located in an area of the capital that frankly prior to yesterday I barely knew existed. It's where all the government officials and consulate appointments reside, a gated community. I'm pretty sure the actual hotel used to be a home as well, it has that look. 

It's very modern and boutique-y feeling, the whole setting. The color theme is stone grey and white, even the mosquito nets. They're of the walk-in variety, more like one of those princess canopies I always wanted when I was a little kid. For my solo lunch and reunion dinner last night I still stuck to chicken, but elegantly prepared 3 different ways. There's a TV here. I was provided welcome juice.  

A handful of hours in Africa and my mother already was reflecting on how strange it was that this was the Malawi she was going to see, in contrast to the Malawi I've been experiencing; in contrast to the Malawi the majority of Malawians know. Obviously, my experience in the rural North has barely scraped the surface of the reality and poverty of the developing world, of Malawi. We did visit the city center though yesterday, and saw some of the outdoor markets, the garbage, the bare feet, the children, the colors of a teetering nation. And I will show them more as we go. They'll see it, you can't miss it. 

Have I mentioned the kwacha depreciated by 4 over the last decade? I don't know Econ: what I mean is that in the early 2000s 1 USD was 100 kwacha and now it's worth 400. 

So yes: my parents arrived and I'm thrilled. I miss Emily and Ekwendeni (and you and the USA) but am so excited for what this week has in store. It's going to be fun to come along as my parents observe with fresh eyes all the things I've come to know relatively well. It'll be fun to see new things together as well. 

Will write again later! Today we leave for safari. 

Love,

Rebecca

Extra, extra: read all about it

I did some (Bradt travel guide) reading on Malawi the other night. It's important when you travel to know the history of a place. Malawi is no Europe: the country's artistic and cultural achievements are not housed in museums behind thick glass and beyond red velvet rope. That red velvet rope has a name by the way; I encountered it in the Dan Brown book I read last week but now I can't recall.

Malawi may well be the most laid back nation on earth. That's what the introduction to the travel book said. I like to see myself as a laid back person but I don't know if this is completely accurate.

I'm kind of ditzy and obsessive compulsive at the same time, I told my Dutch housemate the other night.

I can see that, she said.

A side note indicated now is how much I like my Dutch housemate. She's probably going to practice medicine in Africa one day, she's here in part to confirm this is what she wants to do with her life. I think she will, I think she's a natural.

The travel book went on to discuss the slave trade which is frankly so disturbing I'm disappointed in myself for so rarely thinking about that it occurred. I know there are a large amount of horrible things going on in the world even today that I'm for all intents and purposes ignorant of. Maybe not ignorant of, but definitely not as conscious of on a regular basis as I should be. I'll work on it.

Today, now, July 12th: I'm on my way to Lilongwe, the capital city, to meet the parental unit. Can you believe it? I can't. I'm so happy to see then and to see them  here-- I mean, c'mon. I wish my brother could be here too. And my dogs. No just kiddin, just Jacob.

I'm on the bus heading to Lilongwe right now- in an actual seat. I opted for my solo travel to take the executive coach (which we meant to take a month ago when we headed North, but instead ended up having a very different experience, recall). This Axa Delux(a) bus has worn but plump seats, it left on time at 7am, and there's African music playing with accompanying music videos projected on a single TV screen in the front. So far, every music video has consisted of a handful of people in coordinated outfits line dancing in front of various outdoor landscapes. Every 4-5 seconds, the video transitions and a different handful of dancers in different matching outfits and doing slightly modified dance moves takes over the screen. Really, this is a party.

I bought the Weekend Nation prior to getting on the bus, because it's also important when one travels to stay abreast of current events. The article titles and articles alike are littered with absurd acronyms and I'm straining to recall if this a phenom at home as well. Case in point, a headline from Page 7: MIRTDC Critical For SMES Industrialization. Page 6: Kasambara Free to Call JB- DPP. Page 2: ACB Clears Goodall. Page 3: Teachers Protest Over Delayed MEC Honoraria. 

Is that necessary? It's making it all a little hard to get through. Didn't the staff get the memo that you only introduce an acronym if you're going to refer to it again? Okay Rebecca. Relax.

Here are some further observations and things I learned from my reading. A crisis called Cashgate is unfolding in Malawi, it appears a branch of the government has been rather corrupt in their management of foreign aid. Another article concerns itself with the Department of Aviation's current rating of SSC (Significant Safety Concern). Literally, the DoA is concerned.  There's an advice column on page 5 alerting readers to be mindful of drug-drug interactions with their anti-retrovirals: Tell your doctor or pharmacist what additional drugs you are taking, including traditional and recreational.  Lastly, an article deeper into the fold entitled Should Men Be Present During Childbirth? makes frequent reference to the likelihood that husbands will faint during the process, rather counterproductive. "Martin Mchetechete-Phiri thinks it is a waste of time for men to be present during child birth. 'Men devote time to other important issues when their wives are in maternity,' he says, 'they do repairing of children's room and buy all important things for the baby.'" In his defense, he gets a little deeper/more shallow in the next paragraph when he admits that he fears feeling helpless during labor, and what's more, thinks the "unpleasant picture of childbirth" would completely detach him from his wife. Oh geez. GWTP, MMP.

I think enough reading (and hence the writing) for today. Though this bus is comfortable, I don't want you to be getting the wrong idea- I'm still scrunched enough into my seat that turning the pages of the paper is a challenge.  Typing on my phone right now is a much more space-efficient activity.

I'm cataloging my mind to see if there's anything else to add right now. The sun's beating down outside my window and the sky is as usual unrolling into the infinite distance. The clouds are light and fluffy today, casting big shadows on the surrounding mountains and valleys. At first glance, the shadows look like patches of darker hued trees, but I know better.

So okay, ending this for now. I'll hopefully be in Lilongwe in a few hours. So excited for this coming week, stay tuned.

Have a good Sunday,

Rebecca

Full skies, minivans, and markets

I've never seen anything like it. The minivans that shuttle us to and fro Mzuzu fill to double the capacity. Without exception. Every time. And this doesn't even include the children, spread across mothers' laps'. I was sitting in one such minivan this morning, on a makeshift seat extending into the aisle. I was right up against the left lateral window of the sliding minivan door, with a huge view of the sky. It was congested today (the sky), with bloated grey rain clouds that hung low and overlapped. Edging each other out. I was cold all day; it wasn't until late afternoon that the blue sky staged a breakthrough. And even that was short lived.

En route to Mzuzu we pass an outdoor market. I mean that rather literally: these are markets outdoors. (We also pass them in Mzuzu, Ekwendeni, everywhere, really.) Women sit in the red dirt earth with their offerings spread out in front of them, bright extensions of their faded but colorful skirts: pyramids of tomatoes, mounds of dried rice, large plates of green beans and peanuts; clusters of small purple onions, bananas, sugarcane, heads of lettuce. Potatoes, bloated avocados. There are none-food items too, sometimes, but this is what catches the eye.

I've been curious my whole time here about the supply and demand, when it comes to these outdoor markets: unlike the minivan seats, the quantity of fruits and vegetables and grains laid out on flattened plastic bags seems to dramatically outnumber the sales being made. I wonder where the leftovers go. I wonder how the money is made, the sales are puny too. For the equivalent of 1 USD (400 kwacha), 40 small bananas. See how carefully they're counted.  Emily bought a distended mango-like fruit this week for 150 kwacha. It's at least 2 times the size of the American variety.

When the fruits and vegetables aren't squatting on the earth, in front of the women, they're paraded around atop heads. It's true: there's no limit to what an African woman can carry on her head; a vertical extension of the cranium. Earlier this week I saw a young woman balance rods of sugar cane, six feet long. A human seesaw.

Okay, I think that's all I'll say for now. I have 2 more nights in Ekwendeni before I leave for Lilongwe. Did you hear? My parents are coming. There's so much for them to see.

Love,

Rebecca

PS: we saw some incredible things at the hospital this morning, will recap that soon. 

Bookworms

Though an urge to write just came over me, I feared no content. Emily is on the phone in the other room (in the dark: the power is out), and I just heard her begin a sentence as follows:

In the book I read about the Brooklyn Bridge...

Context? When I met Emily at Kennedy for our flight to Africa, she was sitting at the gate with a book entitled The Great Bridge. The coverart featured an illustration of a bridge with a big sky above it and sailboats below it.

I assumed it was a novel. How wrong I was.

When Emily went to use the airport bathroom, I snuck a better look at her literary selection, which is when I encountered the subtitle:

The Epic Story of the Building of the Brooklyn Bridge. 

She's not going to believe me (she tends to think I make things up sometimes: another story), but I genuinely Right now at This moment can reconnect with the surprise I felt when I realized that this was the book she was traveling with. She won't believe me (specifically, in this situation) because I've taken it upon myself since then to revolve most of my mocking of my travel companion around the fact that this is not only what she read, but loved reading and loves to talk about.

You'd be shocked (impressed, almost) by the ease with which Emily ties the building of the Brooklyn Bridge into ordinary conversation. You'd be doubly shocked by how much I --as an innocent bystander-- know about the building of the Brooklyn Bridge and triply shocked by how much our Dutch housemate --who stands nowhere near-- knows about it. She's never even been to America.

So there you have it. References to The Great Bridge and the great bridge have become such a constant in our day to day Malawi life that it's hard to believe mention has yet to be made in this blog. I think I've given it the attention it deserves now, though; I guess I was just waiting for the right time. Oh those Roeblings.

Happy reading,

Rebecca

PS: The book was published in 1972. Information about special discounts for bulk purchases can be obtained from Simon and Schuster.  

For the Home Team

Back to the grind, and by that I mean back from Nkhata Bay. I'm pretty predictable, so though it may have been the most easy-going 48 hours of my life, I obviously highlighted in my prior post the far out moments of our weekend getaway: they call that gross misrepresentation. In actuality, Nkhata Bay is described as resembling the Caribbean, both in attitude and appearance. It is with a whole heart that I concur.

So yes, now back in Ekwendeni, sitting in the living room. If I misrepresented my living accommodations (strike two), the garage is attached to a rather substantial house. Who do I think I am? Who do you think I am? Living in a free-standing garage? Not quite. Plus, I've plentifully eluded to my housemates, who are not make-believe.

This'll all soon be a moot point, though: a distant memory. As this is our final week in the house. Next week, the real doctor moves in and we head to the village guest house, of our tri-weekly chicken dinners.

It is crazy that we've been in Africa for as long as we have, that the aisles of the ShopRite are becoming rote, that I don't pause and react each time I encounter a rooster or chicken (or chick) in my path. It's also unbelievable that we've conducted as many focus groups as we have. During our second night dinner at Nkhata Bay, the four of us spontaneously combusted I mean had dinner with an American pediatrician and her photographer husband. The couple has spent the better part of the last two decades in the developing world (Laos, namely, but many places in Africa too), and shared with us their experiences and stories. They were receptive to Emily and my research experience as well, and it was cool to have definitive anecdotes and conclusions to spread out across the wooden table. It was obviously significantly more cool to listen to what they dished back, him with his white ribbed tank top and Santa Claus hairstyle, her with her Tanzanian bug spray.

What? The last paragraph was a little glossy? When the pediatrician was in medical school, she sent letters to hospitals in Asia and Africa until she ended up in 1970s Phuket, where her and two other USA med students essentially ran the lone hospital for three months. Fast forwarding her life, she spent twelve years revamping the curriculum for training pediatricians in Laos. In her tenure, the country went from having three to eighty practicing kid doctors (cool, dad, right?). Mr. Christmas showed us his photos, which were stunning. We all raved about the pizza, and traded traditional healer tales. This couple was quirky to the highest quintile, and though the little month-ago-mini-me inside my head whispered they had a smidgen of pretension on board, I genuinely enjoyed this meal with these strangers. And that's a big step.

So alright: that's the status quo. I don't want to record an out, so the last thing I'll mention is that there's one small upcoming event I neglected to catalog above. Put it in the lineup, back up the outfield, let it pinch hit between me leaving the Garage and moving into the Guest House. Can you guess?

Six days!

Rebecca 

Restoration: a holiday weekend

Hi from Mayoka Village, in Nkhata Bay, on Lake Malawi! The hostel(?) we're staying in is literally built into the mountain overhanging the lake. Not like I said Ekwendeni (our home base) is built into the mountain-- we are now actually in the mountain as in we reach our personal bungalow via a series of outdoor twisting and sharply-turning stairwells carved and chiseled out of the cliff. The lodge(?) is built on multiple multiple levels, no two segments of it are on the same plane. I'm lying in my four-post bed right now, under a holey yet luxurious looking white mosquito net, but I can hear the beat of the African music drifting up from the bar, multiple levels below.

When you make it to the bottom of the mountain/stairs/levels, you arrive at the Lake, which we've swam and canoed and floated in daily. They should call it a Sea, our taxi driver told us on our way here, also joking --moments prior to when the water eclipsed into view-- you can't see the Lake yet? Someone must have stolen it. 

And then, just like that, in a second split open like a cracked egg, Lake Malawi was everywhere.

We've had fun here at Nkhata; two medical students from Northern Ireland (they always specify the Northern) came along with us and have been great company. We like to talk to them about life in Ireland (Ire-lind), and the foods they eat there. They're pretty low key and go with the flow, which, by the way, I'm learning how to be as well*. We basically spent the the weekend eating chips (thick French fries), drinking smoothies (banana peanut butter, with chocolate syrup added please), and reading and chatting, all in exceedingly close proximity to the water. Emily and I also spent a fair amount of time today preparing for various upcoming getting to know you games-- you just try me, Two-Truths-And-A-Lie.

One snap shot from yesterday and one from today, perhaps, before I sail to bed?

Yesterday: A European man hobbled into the bar as we sat waiting for lunch, stating he had just been bitten by a snake and revealing a bloody pinky toe (not hemorrhaging, just bleeding). (Relatively) quickly, a car was called and arrangements were made to bring Pinky to the market I mean private hospital. While waiting for the car...

We're medical students, Emily told the hobbler, how long ago did this happen?

Five minutes ago, he stammered, I feel alright so far.

After I encountered a snake last week I did some serious reading about snake bites, Emily could have told him.

I think you'll be alright, Emily actually said. Adding, in my direction, the first thing to do is to keep the patient calm. 

After Bloody Toe had left, Emily divulged the real deal:

I don't actually think it matters if the snake was small, she said, but he'll get his anti-venom and probably be alright. Now, let me tell you how they make anti-venom...

The patient was spotted Saturday night watching football. He was not paralyzed or bleeding out. He had apparently been given a tetanus shot and an antibiotic prescription, so that all seems about right. Don't freak out, Mom, maybe it was just a scrape.

Today: Emily and I took part in the Mayoka Boat Challenge, which obviously involved navigating a scooped out wooden boat around a docked raft some 100 meters out from shore without tipping over. The reward: one free night accommodation. Emily had prepared me, mentally, for this challenge, having apparently failed rather miserably last time she was here (sorry, Matt- I'm being a little dramatic to build up to the next paragraph).

It took us a while to get into the boat, not to mention the struggle we faced discerning the front of the boat from the back, but then... get this: We did it!! Like, seriously, to the cheers of the drinking Peace Corps volunteers on the docked raft, to the encouragement of the old women on their adorable girls trip on the shore, and to our gigantic surprise, we made it around the raft and back again! 

Unfortunately, upon completion it became apparent that we had not used the official Challenge Boat, so we may be deprived of the free room. We're rather unfettered though- the whole thing was pretty awesome. 

Good night from the Beautiful Lake,

Rebecca

*this is something I will return to. Stay tuned for a post entitled, "Rebecca, 2.0"

Happy Independence Day, but This Post Doesn't Give the Depicted Justice

Both America's and Malawi's Independence Days are here! People's, the local small nearby market, has an Independence Day Deal on Colgate toothpaste.  275 kwacha: a steal. Relevant, the following has entertained me: In Mzuzu, the nearby large city (loyal reader, you know that by now?) there is a billboard for Colgate. It features a boy, grinning big, holding out a large rod of sugar cane with a bite taken out of it. Get it? It's funny because the tooth care brand is featuring sugar. Dentists! Rach! Weigh in.

As promised, words on this past Wednesday are owed.  To Luhomero (pronounced Ruhomero; I don't know; I now roll the second r) we traveled, and it is now that I must provide some serious background. Four years ago, when Emily and her husband were in Malawi, they donated a bicycle ambulance to Luhomero. What is a bicycle ambulance? It is a bicycle with an attached metal cart, of sorts, in which a person can lie and be taken to the hospital. Though the community wanted to name the bicycle after Emily and Matt, they insisted the community take ownership and responsibility for the bicycle; that they sustain it. And so, the Safe Motherhood was born, and has only evolved since. Now, there is a Safe Motherhood Committee, a bicycle ambulance usage log book, and a Safe Motherhood garden, where crops are cultivated to raise money for bike repairs. Is that, like, amazing or what?  It gets better. 

Spearheading the initiative are Richard and Alfred, two local health surveillance assistants (local health workers) who have insurmountable pride and respect for the bicycle and its benefactors. They also have unbelievable insight and skill, and have truly turned the program into something hard to believe.

On Wednesday, Richard and Alfred had us come to Luhomero for a program, a day to honor what was accomplished. It should've been Matt there and not me, but I took enough AV footage to I think make the day at least come to some sort of life. Attending the program were 6 local village headmen, the Safe Motherhood committee, at least 10 women who had used the bicycle ambulance, and a handful of dramatists (just wait). There was a Master of Ceremonies, who stood up every short while to update the crowd on the order of events, namely what had just transpired and what was upcoming.  Richard, Alfred, Emily, and I sat on plastic chairs in the front of this outdoor but covered patio, the headmen also sat in the front, off to the side, and a lot of the additional guests sat on the floor facing us, with children and infants in tow.

Incredibly, Emily and I had the opportunity to conduct two focus groups with the women who had used the BA. Approximately an hour and a half each, the women shared heartfelt stories of how the bicycle ambulance changed and saved their lives. I can't do a lot of the quotes justice, so at some time soon I'll share them more verbatim. Let's just say that their appreciation showed no bounds; their pride in their community low-key but palpable; their experiences, though some of them years ago, evoking feelings as if yesterday. 

As an intermission to the two focus groups, we saw the drama, basically a play that told the story of a pregnant woman who required medical care and who first went to the local traditional healer but then took the bicycle ambulance to the hospital where she delivered a healthy baby girl.  The drama was complete with dancing, singing, bright costumes, and props. I can't do it justice in words; I have video footage. 

So to conclude: by all of this I am grounded. The women who told their bicycle ambulance stories brought me to the verge of tears: the good kind. We're still thinking it out, but we're trying to understand the best way to potentially expand what currently exists in Luhomero. Richard, whose contribution I've detrimentally understated, is dreaming (I'm pretty sure quite literally) of more bicycle ambulances in more villages.  We're going to see what happens.

Happy July 4th,

Rebecca

P.S. For completeness, I just want to say that our taxi car battery died when we were about to leave Luhomero. The car had to be pushed up a rather substantial grassy hill to reach the red dirt road, and I may or may not have sat in the drivers seat and rotated the wheel while a large handful of others pushed. There is a video of me directing the car over one of those wooden plank bridges I mentioned in the past. If it didn't show off my driving skills, it showed off just how serious the transportation barrier is for pregnant women and other sick individuals living in these remote villages.

TY for reading

Sometimes in the morning, before the fog lifts, the mountains look like silhouettes. Without the tree-lined details, they are stencils carved out of the sky. I don't know why I'm so obsessed with the sky here, though I'd venture to guess you'd be too. I think, T.B.H, I'm kind of like this at home as well, so maybe I shouldn't be so surprised.

Last night we had our ex-pat dinner. Recall: it was Emily and my turn to plan the weekly meal for the out-of-town YAs. Did I leave it at that, last time I wrote? Well, the menu was: D.I.Y Pizza! Emily came up with the concept, and then I, being the kitchen aficionado I've proven to be, knew -from experience- that the only way to make homemade pizza is to obviously procure the dough from a favorite, local pizzeria.

What's that? I'm in Malawi you say? Not N.Y.C where pizzerias speckle the grid like polka dots? Well, it's no problem! Because Mzuzu, the large nearby city, is home to A1 Restaurant (front of the phonebook, much?) and A1's menu features not one, not two, but three cuisines: it serves Indian Food, Malawian Food, and....Pizza!  So alas, status-post palak aloo and chicken ticka masala on Saturday, Emily and I requested dough, please, if that wouldn't be too much to ask.

We can speak to the owner if this is a confusing request, we told the waiter.

Well, needless to say we got our dough, and we also received rave reviews last night. The Irish and Dutch seemed to enjoy not only this twist on a classic, but the process of creating their personal pies as well.

Alright. That was so yesterday, and today is today. I have a fair amount to say about today. And by fair I mean that, gosh, I.D.K, I can barely type out entire expressions so maybe it's not the time to share. Even the Malawians acknowledge Malawi time, with a laugh, so maybe it's okay that most of the time I write in the Substantial Retrospect.

T.B.C...

Rebecca

Veering

You can gauge how far you've traveled off the main road by the extent to which the people you pass react to the car. One to two kms, and the children react. Their eyes get wide and they point; sometimes they call out mazoongoo --white person-- and then they follow the vehicle with their eyes; their hips and skinny legs and feet rotating as necessary. When you get a little farther, you catch the stare of the adults as well. They stop what they're doing --perched on roofs laying brick, hacking at maize, carrying baskets on their heads-- and eye you and the car; swiveling their necks as the car approaches, passes, and disappears past them down the road.

To be honest, I've had moments of regret: we only make it to the hospital 1-2 mornings per week, the rest of the time we've devoted to our project. The flip side, of course, is how unique and unbelievable this experience has been. Going deep into rural Northern Malawi, meeting the people and talking to them about their medical care offers a unique glimpse of the patient experience that I haven't really seen, and probably won't again. The Malawians bring up issues and limitations to receiving medical care that could come straight from the mouths on 1st Avenue: long queues, for example, no definitive diagnosis. But then they'll rattle off problems so unique and unheard of I'm pressed to recall just how different this world is.

Speaking of pressed, I've noted I figured out the coffee? This thought seems familiar so I believe I have. Another update, though, that I'm sure I haven't shared: either our watchman didn't actually end it's life or there is More Than One Spider in Malawi, but creamed between the roll of toilet paper and it's plastic receptacle was another spider yesterday. I alerted the masses (Emily and my other housemate, M), and after carrying on for what must've been long enough M made her way into the bathroom.

I live on a farm back at home, she shared (obviously), I will catch the spider. And catch she did. She used a plastic bag as a mit and though I think her initial plan was to free him outside, it appears upon contact that she heard a scrunch and instead proclaimed him dead. If you're biting your nails in distress, know that at press time, the photo of One Of The Two Spiders in Malawi was shown to a handful of additional Malawians, who denied its poisonous bite.

So you see: I'm right at home! And you can tell as tangential as ever. Our focus group this morning was so bursting with energy and life it left a mark (minus the slowness with which this post began). It was our second Men's group, by the way. Did I mention how upon returning home from the first All Men group last week we reviewed the self-reported demographic data to find that 4 of the 6 participants were Village Headmen? And that a fifth wrote: Assistant to the Village Headman? Very diverse. This morning we had a good chortle with our two interpreters about this, before realizing that it hadn't been even remotely communicated to the person recruiting today's group that VH was not a requirent and in fact was sort of not ideal. I haven't reviewed today's demographics yet, but I believe we didn't have a repeat.

Alright. This is a little disjointed but I think that's ok. I will write again soon.

Tiwahnana (see you later),

Rebecca