Musings on Moto

(Note unrelated to this post: it got dark while I was sitting outside and I was being bitten, so I decided to crawl in bed under my net to write this post...and brought like a hundred ants with me. Ugh! So annoying.)

Why I'm going to be a major cheap skate when I go home

In case anyone was wondering how anyone could possibly survive off of $2 a day, having heard that statistic all over the place, I thought I'd provide a list of some prices that I've found to be fairly consistent here in the village. (Based on the current exchange rate of $1=MK375.)

<$0.03 (10 kwacha)
1Mango
1Banana
1Leaf of lettuce or similar green
7Pumpkin leaves
1Juice aka freeze pop

$0.05 (20 kwacha)
1Mandazi (Fried dough)
1Bag of popcorn
1Samosa (small)

$0.10-0.15 (30-60 kwacha)
1Egg
1Cup common vegetables (onions, tomatoes, potatoes, etc)

$0.20-0.30 (100 kwacha)
1Head of cabbage (small)
~1Cup rice
~2km bike taxi ride

$0.40-0.60 (150-200 kwacha)
10oz soda
1Loaf of bread

$0.75-1.25 (300-500 kwacha)
20km of travel on a minibus
10oz beer
1kg sugar
1Item of used clothing (though there's a large price range based on perceived quality)
1Pair flip-flops
2-tiered woven basket stand

$3.00 (1000-1300 kwacha)
1Chitenje (2m of printed fabric)
1kg peanut butter
1Live chicken
A decent meal out (in a small town)

$5.00 (2000 kwacha)
500g coffee
1L gin/rum/vodka
500MB data on cellular network
1Tailor-made dress (not counting the cost of material)

Basically, I think of spending 1000 kwacha (~$2.50) the way I would think of $10 if I were living in America (which is good, since as a volunteer I make less than $200 a month).

As an aside, 4 months ago right now I was in a plane over the Atlantic. Boy how time flies. Get it?!

Charismatic

On my first Sunday in a Malawian village, I attended church with my abambo for the cultural experience. While there were things I found interesting (e.g. men and women sit in different sections), I spent most of the time waiting for it to be over. I felt awkward about how many times they called people up for the offering when I gave my only bill the first time, and I don't know why I did not foresee that the service would be three hours and all in Chichewa. For the next 15 weeks or so, I decided to avoid a rerun of the experience. 

But last weekend, when my neighbors asked me to join them for church on Sunday, and I really had nothing better to do, I decided to go just to make the day go by. I figured it might be interesting to see how another denomination was different. And boy was it interesting. 

At 9:05 the three of us walk into Charismatic Church. It is a dusty one-room building with two chairs at the end for the preacher and his wife, and tarps on the floor for the congregation. I am amused by the large sign in the back reading, "WELCOME ALL VISITORs." In typical Malawian style, they clearly did not measure out the lettering before hand. I'm glad, however, that they had the foresight to leave as many open windows on the side of this brick and tin building as possible, because its going to be a hot day. There are around ten other people present when we arrive, and I am warmly (but without too much ado) greeted by the couple in the chairs. We remove our shoes and join the women on the floor on the right side of the room. There is only one man besides the pastor and the worship leader, so he sits alone on the other side. Eventually both sides of the room fill up as amayis come and bring their little boys and girls. 

The service begins with a call and response (led by a man wearing gold shoes and jeans that clearly belonged to a tall preteen girl in their previous life). "Alleluia!" "AMEN!" "Alleluia!" "AMEN!" "Up,up Jesus!" "UP, UP JESUS!" "Down, down devil!" "DOWN, DOWN DEVIL!" And so on. Then it is time for dancing. We sing (or hum in my case since I don't know the words) and move the beat of the drum. It is the restrained dancing I have come to expect in Malawi, but as far as the young church ladies are concerned, they are dancing their hearts out. 

After a few songs, my friend tells me it is time for confession. This makes me a little nervous, as I have no idea what it entails. The next thing I know, everyone is speaking their prayers aloud, individually, and simultaneously. The result is a cacophony of voices, all feeling the Holy Spirit, which I personally find very unnerving. In the following three hours, this ritual will repeat itself three times, separated by the offering, more singing and dancing, some charming musical performances by a group of 5 women, and a very lively sermon (which I could only vaguely follow because my friends brought English bibles). The final prayer session directly follows the sermon, and the preacher is still walking the aisle. He yells over the drone of voices the way I imagine only a black preacher can. It's the same key phrases, alternating between English and Chichewa, "FIRE, FIRE, FIRE! FEEL THE HOLY SPIRIT! FEEL THE HOLY SPIRIT! SUBMIT TO JESUS! FIRE!" I am standing, like everyone else with my hands outstretched, trying not to call attention to myself, but he is standing facing our row and yelling so loud it physically hurts my ears. I feel sorry for the woman immediately in front of him, but figure Malawians listen to their music that loud, so hopefully she is okay with it. Then he puts his hand on her head and starts shaking it. Shouting the whole while, he makes his way around the room, shaking heads. As the women grow more intense in their murmuring, my shock gives way to a very real threat: hysterics. I think, "This is hilarious! I can't believe this is really happening. Oh my God, if he comes over here I am going to loose it. Good thing Mom and Kat aren't here; they would be crying with the power of the Holy Spirit, or something of that nature. Oh no, he's coming my way!" Fortunately, he only momentarily touches my head and does so from behind me, so no one observes my expression. After a few more minutes of chaos, everything calms down, and the drum calls the congregation back into unison with a hymn. 

When we leave at noon, the service is still going, but we are hungry and tired. We head to the market so I can buy a chicken and an afternoon's entertainment of watching my friend kill, pluck, dismember, and cook said chicken. We end the day with the first shared meal I've had at home in a long time.

Happy Mothers' Day!

Today is Malawian Mothers' Day, so here's to you, Mom!

15 Reasons My Mom is Like Totally My BFF:
1. She gets me.
2. She makes me laugh.
3. She has supported or participated in every travel whim I have ever had.
4. Everything that I love about myself was fostered by her.
5. Any time I read a good book, she has read it and is happy to talk about it with me.
6. She knows when to leave me alone.
7. She knows when to make me talk.
8. She does not worry about me too much. She doesn't keep tabs on me, but wants to know what I'm up to because she is genuinely interested. She even let me move to Africa when I couldn't think of anything better to do with my life.
9. She makes the garden pretty.
10. She helps me find cute clothes.
11. We rarely fight, but when we do, it's nbd.
12. We have (mostly) the same values.
13. She sends me mail.
14. When I was home last year and I could've been really sad and lonely because all my friends were either busy or living across the country, she was always willing to go into town with me to see a movie or drive long distances to take a hike somewhere new.
15. She is going to let me move back home when I'm 25 and still haven't gone to grad school or started a career (oopsie)...right, Mom?

For those of you who know the great Mrs. Karen Hale, can I get an amen? (For those of you who don't, sorry if this post was lame. I just really love my mom, O.K.?!)

The president came to town today, but that's not what this post is about.

A very small child was standing alone on the porch of his house, and when I passed he said, "Amayi, azungu," (Mom, white person). The mother came out and greeted me and we both laughed. Babies are always staring at me, and it is funny and kind of cute because I may well be the only azungu they have ever laid eyes on. Who doesnt like being the subject of a baby's attention, anyways? But often, the attention I get for being white, though rarely sinister, is aggressive and not so funny.* Especially when it comes from adult males.

Because of such encounters, I sometimes get the feeling,walking through town, that I am an animal on display at the zoo. So for times when my celebrity starts to get under my skin, here are

5 Things that remind me I'm a person:
1. A conversation with a student that was something like, "when we are learning biology, we are proud," an other similar conversations.
2. My fellow teachers when they debate in English, just to include me. They want to know my input. They accept my vastly different world view, not always as correct, but at the very least, as important to consider.
3. My fellow volunteers, who assure me that their experience is just the same.
4. Reading books.
5. My neighbors, four self-boarding girls, who have embraced me as an opportunity to enhance their education, and who have become some of my favorite Malawian friends. They come to my yard to teach me Malawian games, or chat about our cultures. They ask me over for help during study sessions when they can't figure out a problem. They laugh when I am trying to be funny, and only sometimes when I'm not. They laugh at themselves too.

I ran into two of them on campus the other day, and in the open room where they were doing math problems on the chalkboard, they had found a dead bat. We examined it together. I showed them how it has four fingers and a thumb, and explained how it is blind and uses echolocation instead of sight. They played with it, examining it from every angle.
"You know, some people eat these."
"Eww, no, seriously?"
Laughter.
"It looks like a mouse and a bird."
"Feet like a chicken."
"Nose like a pig."
"Ears like a dog."
"God is wonderful."
"God is wonderful."
I don't know any American teenagers that would come to the conclusion, "God is wonderful," by examining a dead bat (or many girls that would touch a dead bat for that matter), but it was quite sweet. I did, however, tell them to wash their hands before eating.

*Note: as an American, it is hard not to see this as racism, but I want to emphasize that their remarks are not derogatory; however, it is racial discrimination, and even within Malawian culture, the educated will tell you that it's very rude.