The Level Game

Creativity is a luxury, right? Think about the sensations and emotions that anchor you to the moment, those that bind you like gravity and disable you from thinking about anything else. Hunger or thirst or feeling oily because you haven't bathed in four days or itchy because you're freckled with mosquito bites or uncomfortable because your shoes are in shreds and you have to flex your toes to keep them on your feet. Think about anxiety and fear and fatigue and pain. Honestly consider how these feel, and now don't you agree that creativity is a perk? 

Because when you're feeling these things -and there's no food or water or bath or better shoes or perspective to quell your anxiety or NSAIDs to ease your pain- there isn't really any leftover energy to devote to harnessing your imagination. There isn't actually much utility in breaking the mold, tinkering with your future, thinking outside the box. 

I am so lucky. 

Because when I was little there wasn't a career my friends and I didn't sample, nor a game we didn't play, from the comfort of our homes. We were interior designers and chefs and teachers and veterinarians. We built hotels, homes, and entire cities via computer games. We were sports broadcasters during recess, we wrote limericks for fake TV commercials. My cousins and I invented, evolved, and played the "Level Game" in our basement, the sole purpose of which was, quite literally, to create obstacle courses for one another. And then to overcome them.

In school, we went on field trips. To museums and to poetry slams, to the nature center and to historic sites. We wrote short stories, longer stories; essays, longer essays. And we read; we read and we read. Our reading assignments took us along the Oregon Trail and the Silk Road; we went on witch hunts in Salem, sat for tea with Jane Eyre; we went on the Odyssey, learned why the caged bird sings, read Anne Frank's letters, attended Jay Gatsby's parties. We also explored magical lands: Terabithia, Hogwarts, Middle Earth. We solved mysteries. Yes, we spent a lot of time indoors, surrounded by 4 walls. But we saw the world.

So it takes a second to think about how the children of the villages of Northern Malawi, who spend the majority of their days outside, who in some ways have no boundaries or walls, are confined. Are anchored.

Having the time and energy to make believe is one thing, but knowing the boundaries of what exists so that you can tiptoe beyond them is part of it too.

When we would visit villages in the jeep, the children would literally drop everything and run after it: this was the activity. What do the children of the villages do for fun? I asked Wilson, the graduate student who helped us with our surveys. The children were on holiday from school before the new year, so maybe they had more free time than usual, but by the last day I couldn't bring myself to wave out the back window anymore. 

They do lots of things, he told me. They hunt for mice and rodents, they make small models out of the dirt, they fish. 

And the little girls? 

The little girls tie a rope to the tree and jump over it.

I thought back to what Rosa told us at dinner the week before, about her 4-year-old. Lena likes to make believe cook, she makes nsima out of mud.

In the moment I thought this was sweet, just as for a while the site of the children running after the car, after the White people, didn't faze me. But honestly? What if the village children's creativity is stifled by what they can't even imagine? If Lena wants, she should be pretending to be a doctor or a teacher or a lawyer or a fashion designer or a cook or anything she wants. Because pretending comes first.

Next time, I bring books.

Hoping I'm wrong, and aware that the above has a lot of holes,

R

On the menu

From what I can tell, there is approximately 1 actual restaurant in Mzuzu, the nearby large city. By actual, I mean cut from the same cloth as the restaurants that sustain me back home. By actual, I mean it has menus, and prices, and napkins. An LED sign in the window that flashes 'We are Open', and one over the bar that flashes 'Bar'. The inside and outside walls are periwinkle; the Indian owner emigrated from Gujrat twenty years ago. The restaurant is called A-1.

A-1 serves native Malawian cuisine (chicken, fish, nsima, chips, and rice), but also Indian food and brick-oven pizza. Just flip to the next page of the laminated menu and your taste buds can tour the world. Ironic. The majority of Northern Malawians will scarcely travel and taste beyond their own village. Let alone venture to Mzuzu, or step foot in A-1. 

Last time we were in Malawi, we went to A-1 with Alfred and Richard (our Malawian friends), for our goodbye meal. The pair tried pizza for the first time, and this has remained an inside joke and special memory 3 years later. Last Sunday afternoon, we returned with Alfred. The pizza oven was out of commission (potentially because the power was out in the entire region, unclear), but the back-up generator was humming and Alfred tried Indian food for the first time. In New York we have an entire block of Indian restaurant one after another, we tried to paint a picture. A block, I had described the day before, is like a road. There's also something called a block party...

In the villages, once our program (see prior post) is complete, the women usually prepare a meal for us. Led into a home, the room we settle in is cooled by the brick walls, and is dark except for shy rays of sunlight that creep through the door frame and maybe through a small window. 

It's usually just us visitors who sit for the meal, though even our driver, Sam, is included. Maybe one member of the village joins, but not always. It begins with a woman from the village, making herself small with bent knees and bare feet, circles the group with a bowl and pitcher of hot water. She pours the water over my hands, I watch it evolve from clear to brown as it drips off my sandy fingers into the bowl. A prayer follows and then the food is dished out. 

The meal is essentially identical in each village. Today in the car I grilled (pun) Wilson, the graduate student who helps conduct our surveys, on what the meal entails. 

There's nsima, made from corn flour. Nsima is our staple food, we've heard time and time again, does America have a staple? To prepare nsima, water is boiled and corn flour is added until a porridge is produced. This mixture is allowed to boil, and then more corn flour is added until the desired stiffness is achieved. Ultimately, a lukhenzo (large spoon) is used to shape the dough into bean-bag sized squares. The consistency is that of dense play-dough. 

To cook the vegetable dish, a soup of tomatoes, onions, and cooking oil is heated. Then, chopped pumpkin leaf or mustard leaf or Mpiru is added, and this is allowed to boil for a while. Optionally, chopped ground nuts (peanuts) are added. You prepare the ground nuts in a thuli (large wooden mortar and pestle) until they are very fine. 

We're also served fried local eggs, sometimes with the tomato relish described above. Or local chicken. Though after we politely refused the meat at the first few villages, it notably disappeared from the menu. 

We eat with our hands, ripping off pieces of the nsima and using it to scoop the vegetables and eggs. At the conclusion of the meal we again wash our hands, with the pitcher and the large bowl. 

And to answer the question about our staple back home? Tomorrow, I say, remind me to tell you about the bagel.  

The program

Everything in Malawi revolves around the setting of the Program.

When we first arrived up North the first thing we did was sit down with the Malawians who oversee our project on the ground, to plan a program that would allow us to visit the 21 villages in which our Bicycle Ambulances have been installed during our two week allotted time. Then each day there is a program which involves setting the time and location we will all meet each morning (half seven, at the guest house... or eight o'clock at the filling station), and what time we'd likely arrive in the 2 villages planned for that day. Then, at each village, a program in and of itself ensues, which usually takes the form of: opening prayers, very formal introductions of everyone in attendance, opening remarks, viewings of the bicycles, pigs and logbooks, closing remarks, closing prayers, and then usually a small meal prepared for us by the villagers of nsima, greens, and usually chicken or fried eggs. We then pile into the car, travel to the next village, and start all over again. 

I guess what's interesting about this program concept is another local and commonly laughed about phenomenon, called Malawi Time. And the Malawians laugh the loudest. Contrasted to English Time, everything in the Warm Heart of Africa runs on its own timetable, and the table is chronically tilted towards 'late'.  A for effort, but the juxtaposition of such thoughtful planning and such difficulty sticking to a schedule makes each day.. an adventure. 

In other news, we've been very busy but spending time in the villages and with the villagers has been extraordinary. Look forward to (trying) to write more about it soon...it's in the program for later this week.  

R

Skies and birthdays

Let me just say, the sky is so big that I think if I sat all day on the front porch of the guest house I could witness the entire arc of the sun - rising from my right in the east and settling to my left in the west. That means I'm facing north. Do you ever entertain (re: frustrate) yourself with that mental exercise in which you try to figure out which direction remote objects face relative to which way you are at that moment facing? I typed out an example but deleted it because you either know what I'm talking about or you don't and if you don't then it's just safer if we keep this thought at bay. 

But that sky. I'm pretty sure the sky was the first (of many things) that gave me pause when I first visited Malawi in 2014. I'm pretty sure I wrote about it. Malawi's infrastructure is so close to the ground that the sky is huge and unobstructed and stretches out like a mural with no frame. It cannot be contained. The Malawi sky is my benchmark compared to which I rank all other skies. It's ironic that at home we appreciate Manhattanhenge once or twice a year; by definition we are celebrating our metropolises' ability to pigeonhole the sun.

Here, the sun and moon and stars have free rein. Aside from the guest house where we eat dinner almost every night, practically the only other restaurant within Ekwendeni is at the Theology school. A few nights ago, we met a Malawian friend, Rosa, there for dinner - the last time we were in Malawi Rosa worked at the guest house mentioned more than once above. To dinner, she brought her beautiful daughter. 

"How old are you," we cooed, as they entered the room. We were essentially the only guests there. We had made a special trip to the restaurant the day before to indicate we'd be coming the next day for both lunch (another story) and dinner. And during said lunch, we had pre-chosen what we'd have for dinner. The chicken requires four hours to prepare (also another story, but this one you can probably figure out). 

"Today, she is four. Today, is Lena's birthday," Rosa said, with pride but if I'm being true and honest and raw, with the smallest hint of self-consciousness too. Lena hugged us shyly.  

Emily and I felt it, poignantly and instantly, and "it" in this case is what it meant that this was this little girl's birthday celebration. We added on to our pre-ordered meal an additional plate of chicken and chips (thick Irish French fries), and an Orange Fanta. 

"Lena has been looking forward to this, she told all her friends she was going to have chicken." Rosa told us. I cut Lena's meat into manageably sized pieces and then fretted for the rest of the meal that they weren't small enough. 

At the end of dinner, we played the only somewhat fun song I currently have on my iPhone, and we all danced nearby the table. Our waitress danced too. We paid 200 Kwarcha extra for a take-away container and wrapped up Lena's left over chicken for her to have the next day.

Clearly, there were no gifts and there was no cake; there were no balloons and there were no other 4-year-olds skipping around. Rosa had given us some updates on her life during dinner that also struck a cord - her home was currently without electricity, hence further birthday celebrations for Lena were less likely, and her marriage wasn't what it once was. 

Yet when the 4 of us left the restaurant and were back outside we found that the sun had set and we found that sky. That sky was a midnight blue although it was only seven and the stars seemed to multiply the more we strained our necks and stared. Rosa hoisted Lena onto her back, wrapped a chitenge cloth around her, and knotted it across her chest. Like all mother's in Malawi, Rosa did this so fluidly. 

So then it was the three of us, walking in the darkness and making small talk; full of chicken and chips. And that sky, that big bold sky above us, teeming with stars, led the way. It made us feel big and small and hopeful and helpless all at the same time. At some point our paths diverged, as Emily and I veered off towards the guest house. And with Lena snug and cradled against her back, and that sky above, Rosa could not have looked more strong. 

Ok next time I write I'm going to try to be less serious, 

Rebecca 

Scenes I replay during closing prayer

I don't pray. 

But something crosses my mind during the opening and closing prayers. Sometimes it's the feel of the breeze. It hits the thin skin of my softly closed eyelids, my forehead and my cheeks. Sometimes I focus on the Tumbuka prayer being spoken aloud, or strain to hear the children deep in the distance. But often, as I sit with my fingers clasped gently in my lap, what spreads across my mind is what I've just witnessed. 

Today, we visited 2 villages: Bwabwa and Timalala, both of which have had their bicycle ambulances for over 2 years. A quick one-liner, maybe? For those just joining us on rounds?

We started the Malawi Bicycle Ambulance Project 3 years ago, after spending time in Malawi and identifying transportation as a major barrier to healthcare access. We've aimed to provide bicycles with attached trailers on which patients can be carried, as a means of getting those who are ill from remote villages to the hospital. To keep this initiative sustainable, each village that gets a bicycle ambulance also gets supplies to breed pigs. Raise and sell pigs, replace broken bicycles. 21 villages down; we've returned to check in on the progress. 

Hands settled in my lap, neck cradled and flexed, I let the Tumbuka closing prayer wash over me; I process what I just saw. 

In Bwabwa we were led to a clearing where at least 100 village members gathered. We're seated in front on throne-like chairs, under a canopy made of sticks and plastic. A thin man in a too-big suit MCs through a microphone; I don't know where they came from but two large speakers enlarge his words over a hiss of static. It's some juxtaposition: when the wind gusts I remember I'm outdoors and not in the 1990s; the microphone cord rattles and a layer of orange sand settles on our plush seats. 

The village headmen sit closest to us, off to the left, their eyes are so deep and have seen so much, and now they lay on us. The younger men and boys sit farther off to the left, on benches. I can't take my eyes off five 3 to 4 year-olds, scrunched on a small bench just inches from the ground. Knee to knee and woozy with wonder they whisper and giggle, their little bodies larger than life. I snap a picture of them with my iPhone and shortly thereafter one of them holds a brick to his eye, aims towards me and taps with his finger- he's created a make believe camera and they giggle some more. The women sit the farthest out, on straw mats spread against the ground. There's an albino girl, with white pink skin. She wears a hat to protect her from the sun, she carries a toddler on her back and helps another with her chitenge. 

What proceeds are speeches, a choir, and a drama - all to celebrate the bicycle ambulance and our visit. I should've mentioned it sooner, but we're accompanied by Richard and Alfred, the two local Malawians who have been instrumental in carrying out our project on the ground. Also Bentry, the veterinarian who has taught the villagers to care for pigs, and Wilson, a recent graduate student interested in epidemiology who is helping with our surveys. Morris, Richard's older brother and our driver for the day, is with us too. The spectacle in Bwabwa is humbling and overwhelming and sensational and evidently impossible to put into words, but it's an experience to see a community like this celebrate something, anything.

The prayer concludes. I slowly open my eyes and let back in the sun. 

In a different way, I have a lot to say about Timalala too. TBC....

Rebecca 

The village

My mom asked how to access my newest blog post without flipping through all the old entries first. typing... typing... "I just can't figure it out," she typed. I sent her a hyperlink and she was grateful. It's the little things, right?

It seemed arbitrary why we pulled off the Tarmac where we did. I didn't appreciate a sign or anything terribly descriptive, but soon we were rattling along a dirt road so bumpy and unpaved and hugging the earth so closely I had to tuck my feet beneath the seat in front of me to keep still. 

We were heading for the villages. Set deep into the land, rising from the sandy earth with such subtlety- even the man-made structures, mostly huts with thatched roofs and red brick walls, felt like a natural extension from the ground below. No: electricity or second stories or cushions or walkways or glass. Mostly: door frames without doors and chairs without pillows and rooms with no furniture. Mostly: trees and chickens and chicks, and stray dogs and piles of bricks and piles of dried corn husks and piles of dirt so much dirt. No bright colors of fresh oranges or crisp denim. There was one small flaming magenta flowering tree. There was that. There was life that unfolded under the sun and moon. 

The villagers, too, almost feel as if they are born from the earth, not their young mothers. If the ground is a canvas it makes a 90 degree angle at the lower limbs and the painting extends vertically onto the human form. A layer of dirt, of orange sand, seeps under the toenails of barefoot children and cakes the creases around the eyes of the elder village headmen. The clothes, worn loosely on small shoulders and thin frames, lost their brightness owners ago. Stained with generations worth of sand and dust. Buttonless and laceless. Is there an Instagram filter for "worn in?" 

The faces. The hair is short. The eyes are warm, bright, they're strong and tell stories. The nostrils of the children often run with small beads of mucus and the babies sometimes have these throaty coughs. There are absolutely no earrings in ears or rings on ring fingers or glasses on eyes. But the smiles; the smiles are wide and honest and convey pride, hope. And taken together, together it really is something beautiful. They really are something beautiful. I feel so lucky to get to visit this world. 

Through the window

The sun blazed a confident neon orange beyond the bus windows, inspiring a pink glow across the sky. And then it set. And then once it set I had this strange sensation that I still had on my sunglasses, because everything around me felt dim. 

News flash: Not only does the City never sleep, it never gets all that dark either. 

But Malawi does. Malawi relies on that bloated sun to bookend the day and when it sets well then that's a wrap. Then it's time to pack it in at the outdoor market, time to trek on home, time to take stock of the chapters in between. 

The bus ride up North yesterday was easy. The bus came an hour late but we made up time on the straightaways (and maybe on the mountain hugging winding parts, too). I sat next to a Malawian woman in lime green fabric stenciled with this interlocking heart pattern but also fixed into the pattern at regular intervals was print about Jesus. She had a small and scrunched face and a toothy smile that made her age nebulous. To compromise I'd say she was 40. She didn't speak English and my Tumbuka game is weak but we communicated through nods and smiles, and by following each others' gazes so as to narrow in on the same site. In the window seat, she took her role of opening and closing the thin sliding window pane seriously; and each time* she made an adjustment, and the power of the inward gushing wind changed, she'd look at me for confirmation. Perfect, I'd smile, it had become a little stuffy. 

Twice, the bus pulled off the Tarmac (see prior post entitled, Tarmac**), onto the sandy red earth. When it did, men selling food would flank the sides and towards the thin sliding windows they'd raise their trays of goods above their heads: lollipops and chips and oranges and onions. Onions still with the roots attached. That's what the Malawian woman in lime green bought. She opened the window wide -there was no wind as the bus was still- and dangled her hand out and down and then through the opening she exchanged her 200 Kwacha for two bunches of red rooted onions. And a lollipop. She bought one of those too.  

Tomorrow, we visit the first of the villages. We're here with a purpose, after all...

Thanks for reading,

Rebecca

*and there was at least a dozen times 

**i think I recall there being a prior post entitled tarmac