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