Well, it's the holidays. A weird time of year in a land where a semisolid mixture of corn flour and water is the idea of a good meal. In Malawi, 'tis the season of dust and sweat.
I can't say that I had a wonderful Thanksgiving with people I love, and that we managed to cook all the traditional foods (with just a few minor substitutions like chicken for turkey). I can't say that I escaped the heat this past weekend to celebrate early in a place where the weather was just as nice as it would be at home in Fresno this time of year, in a house that could easily have belonged to my grandparents. I can't say these things because that would be against Peace Corps policy (both being away from my site and saying so on the Internet), so I won't say them.
I will say, however, that this holiday season, I am most thankful for my fellow Peace Corps Volunteers. They are my support network, my friends, my family, my confidants, my therapists. They get me. As much as I am grateful for the support I get from home, that support is a little battered and weary after traveling ten thousand miles to get to me. The support I get from my PCV friends is, therefore, all the more important. We greet each other with hugs. We make each other laugh with the build up of witty jokes that go untold for the anticipation of all humor being lost in translation. We bitch and moan about our jobs and village life (which of course we also love, but sometimes you gotta vent). We validate each others emotions, remind each other why all the hardships are worth while, and leave each other feeling ready to take on the world, to do a better job, to be a better person.
I have in mind, when I talk of these people, the volunteers that came in my training class and those that live near me, all of which are my good friends. But another great thing about PCVs is that they are all willing to be your friends once introduced--no awkwardness, lots of questions asked. I went to Lilongwe a couple weeks ago (Peace Corps approved travel) and met a handful of volunteers I hadn't known before. They talked with me in the office, walked around town with me, and went to dinner with me; I came alone and nervous about the big city, and I left with new friends.
The brotherhood created by our common experience is currently my favorite thing about Malawi. I know my favorite thing should be something Malawian, but deal with it, it's not. That said, speaking with other PCVs and comparing our experiences always makes me thankful for my situation in ways I didn't know I should be. So, in the spirit of the day, here is a list of 10 things I am thankful for this Thanksgiving:
1. My fellow PCVs!
2. My friends and family at home that make the effort to stay in touch.
3. My iPhone/the Internet that allows me to stay in touch with both of the above.
4. The Tarmac. (Their word for paved roads. British?) I live just a few hundred yards away, unlike some friends who have to walk or bike 2 hours to get out of the village. I can just walk to the road, wave my hand, get in a car or minibus, and skidaddle.
5. Ulongwe market. They sell good food. Not everyone can buy green beans and carrots within walking distance. I can also buy all kinds of supplies that most volunteers could only dream of.
6. My love/knowledge of cooking, inherited from mama mia. It can take a long time to cook when you have to always wash your only two pots and spoons, make a fire, use minimal water (since you have to carry every drop you use), and navigate in candlelight; so if you don't enjoy it, it puts a major damper on your days. Plus, you have to cook good food to eat good food.
7. Electricity! Almost forgot. Due to the provider making things annoyingly complicated to set up, I've only had electricity for a total of 1 week, even though it has been installed for two. Nevertheless, electricity makes life so much easier. An hour of cooking can now be done in just 20 minutes! It's the way of the future for sure.
8. The coming rains. They have already started cooling down the weather so I'm no longer in a constant state of dehydration and misery.
9. My dog, Travis. He's a lot of work, but he's my buddy.
10. The students who try and/or ask questions. It's a small minority for sure, but they are there and they make me happy to teach.
11. (I know, it was supposed to be a list of 10, but whatever. 11.) The teachers at my school. While I don't relate to the teachers as well as I do to other ex-pats, I do spend most of my time with them. They are very supportive of me as a new teacher and they express an interest in my culture. They joke with me and engage me in philosophical debates. And not all, but most of them care about the students. They want to embrace new teaching styles. They want to provide the kids with new opportunities. They take the kids on weekend trips. They come early to school to teach an extra period so the students can get through a ridiculously large syllabus. They show up on time and teach most of their assigned periods. They are by no means the passionate, dedicated teachers I know in America, but for the caliber of school and the norms of their country, they're pretty great.
My site mates are joining me for lunch today, so not to worry, I have company who will appreciate Thanksgiving with me. And soon soon I will be on my way to In-Service Training to spend a few weeks (and Christmas) with some of my favorite people. Time will fly and soon I will be at the six month mark!
Happy Thanksgiving everyone! And to my family, (I can picture you all huddled around a computer in my parents' house) I love and miss you all. I thank you for making me the person I am today and giving me the strength and the love for the world that see me through this adventure. Eat lots of pie for me! <3
Wednesday, November 27, 2013
Monday, November 11, 2013
Happy Veterans' Day!
It's not that I didn't appreciate veterans before, my grandpa was a veteran, and I even volunteered at the VA hospital for a while. But I always held a "well that's nice, but isn't there a better way?" pacifist mentality towards the military in general. I blame my quaker ancestors. Recently however, I was reading a book about a WWII vet (Unbroken, in case you were wondering) and I had this moment where I was like, "Holy Shit. Veterans. I need to appreciate them more. They really have sacrificed and the US and the world really has benefited." To be clear, I still don't condone war, but American veterans and their allies--them I can honor. Thanks to all the men and women out there who have served!
Friday, October 25, 2013
Musings on Moto
Saturday, October 19, 2013
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?!
<$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?!
Wednesday, October 16, 2013
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 15, 2013
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.?!)
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.?!)
Monday, October 14, 2013
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.
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.
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