Monday, May 11, 2009
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
I love quotes, especially good ones; ones that make you get goosebumps. In Tolkien's epic film there's a point in the second installment that is particularly good. The two main characters are sitting in a city that's been destroyed and they want to give up their quest. One complains that the task is too big, the journey too far, and they are too small to continue on. And Samwise turns to his friend saying "it's like in the great strories, the ones that really matter. Full of darkness and danger they were. And sometimes you didn't want to know the end because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad happened to it? But in the end it is only a passing thing this shadow, even darkness must pass. A new day will come... those are the stories that stayed with you, that meant something, even if you were too small to understand why....Folk in those stories had lots of chances of turning back, only they didn't; they kept going cause they were holding onto sometihng. (What were they holding onto?) That there is some good in this world and it is worth fighting for. "
Today was our final day in Malawi. And I could tell you about the meeting with its minutiae and who said what but that will come in time. I would rather tell you, with the little time I have left me, what has especially struck me about this place in this time: there are two types of people in the world. Those with hope and those without.
Men sitting on porches because there is nothing to do, no job prospects, no reasonable expectations that anything will change because nothing has changed in the past. These people hedge their bets by not reaching out for new ideas, for new relationships, for new hopes that have yet to be realised. They're content with the status quo. (I could be saying this about our city, people we know and see. ) There are elections coming soon to Malawi. The ruling party, DPP, is an urban party. The opposition parties (MCP, UDF) are rural. When we drive to Kamenzi you see the flags for the rural parties everywhere. There are election headquarters and the supporters know which way they will vote, MCP/UDF; they also, however, wear DPP shirts. I assume it's because it's a free shirt. Hedging their bets.
Then there are those who are willing to try something new for the chance of a good reward. They try new techniques; they learn new things; they share. There are bicyclists who go along the roads and sides of highways with huge stacks of charcoal bound for the capital, Lilongwe. There is a problem, however. The police put up checkpoints to check for incoming goods which aren't allowed to be shipped. Charcoal, for some reason, is one of them. They fetch a much higher price in the city. So these bicyclists will bike for kilometres until the appointed time, when they turn off the road and circumvent the police, trying to arrive at the destination. They are doing something to improve their lot. I even saw one wearing a Toronto maple leafs jersey; if that's not hope, I'm not sure what is.
On the way back from the Lake, i could see small fires in the huts sporadically spread out against the mountains. It reminded me of a Bob Goudzwaart speech I heard a couple of years ago and about Tolkien again. Goudzwaard was talking about hope in troubled times had said that even the smallest of lights cuts through the deepest of darkness.
He told a story of an encounter with Archbishop Desmond Tutu during Apartheid. And Desmond Tutu was convinced that he had seen the end of apartheid because the times were so dark for his countrymen. His explanation was that in the darkest point of night, each night, every night, the first star to come out shining is the morningstar; a herald of good things to come. Signifying that the darkness cannot be there forever, that morning and light and warmth are coming very soon.
This is what we have seen, hope in troubled times, lights in the deepest darkness: the women's groups, the literacy groups, the farming groups, the sanitation groups, the orhpanage people, all small fires of hope along the mountainsides.
It may seem like a huge task ahead of us, one that is too big for us to handle, too difficult to complete, too painful to see through, but many have felt the same before us. "It is up to us to decide what to do with the time given us" in this relationship, and with others. As I leave, I would like to leave you with a quote from the Shawshank Redemption:
"Hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things. And a good thing never dies."
Today was our final day in Malawi. And I could tell you about the meeting with its minutiae and who said what but that will come in time. I would rather tell you, with the little time I have left me, what has especially struck me about this place in this time: there are two types of people in the world. Those with hope and those without.
Men sitting on porches because there is nothing to do, no job prospects, no reasonable expectations that anything will change because nothing has changed in the past. These people hedge their bets by not reaching out for new ideas, for new relationships, for new hopes that have yet to be realised. They're content with the status quo. (I could be saying this about our city, people we know and see. ) There are elections coming soon to Malawi. The ruling party, DPP, is an urban party. The opposition parties (MCP, UDF) are rural. When we drive to Kamenzi you see the flags for the rural parties everywhere. There are election headquarters and the supporters know which way they will vote, MCP/UDF; they also, however, wear DPP shirts. I assume it's because it's a free shirt. Hedging their bets.
Then there are those who are willing to try something new for the chance of a good reward. They try new techniques; they learn new things; they share. There are bicyclists who go along the roads and sides of highways with huge stacks of charcoal bound for the capital, Lilongwe. There is a problem, however. The police put up checkpoints to check for incoming goods which aren't allowed to be shipped. Charcoal, for some reason, is one of them. They fetch a much higher price in the city. So these bicyclists will bike for kilometres until the appointed time, when they turn off the road and circumvent the police, trying to arrive at the destination. They are doing something to improve their lot. I even saw one wearing a Toronto maple leafs jersey; if that's not hope, I'm not sure what is.
On the way back from the Lake, i could see small fires in the huts sporadically spread out against the mountains. It reminded me of a Bob Goudzwaart speech I heard a couple of years ago and about Tolkien again. Goudzwaard was talking about hope in troubled times had said that even the smallest of lights cuts through the deepest of darkness.
He told a story of an encounter with Archbishop Desmond Tutu during Apartheid. And Desmond Tutu was convinced that he had seen the end of apartheid because the times were so dark for his countrymen. His explanation was that in the darkest point of night, each night, every night, the first star to come out shining is the morningstar; a herald of good things to come. Signifying that the darkness cannot be there forever, that morning and light and warmth are coming very soon.
This is what we have seen, hope in troubled times, lights in the deepest darkness: the women's groups, the literacy groups, the farming groups, the sanitation groups, the orhpanage people, all small fires of hope along the mountainsides.
It may seem like a huge task ahead of us, one that is too big for us to handle, too difficult to complete, too painful to see through, but many have felt the same before us. "It is up to us to decide what to do with the time given us" in this relationship, and with others. As I leave, I would like to leave you with a quote from the Shawshank Redemption:
"Hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things. And a good thing never dies."
Monday, May 4, 2009
My dad told me how to pay off cops. The old licenses used to have two parts; the first was the plastic photo, the second a piece of pink paper that would be folded so that it and the photo would slide into a case of some kind. He would say that one would slip a $50 bill inside in case the police pulled one over for speeding. When that person inevitably was, he or she would simply pass the the license to the cop and wait for him to return a few minutes later without a ticket and a 'watch your speed. i won't be so nice next time. have a nice day'. Now, the first thing I'm thinking of now is that $50 was a lot of money back then, and if speeding tickets are expensive today, then how fast must one have been going that a $50 would smooth everything over. It could be the equivalent of paying someone $100, maybe more, for a speeding transaction today. That is, in my experience almost 27 m.p.h. over the speed limit.
The first time I paid off a cop was after a Bob Dylan concert on spring break in 2000. We were in Montana and it was roughly 2 am. There was absolutely no one on the road. So certain am I of this, that I am still convinced that the state trooper was laying in wait in some field and came flying off an embankment of some sort to catch us. I was riding shotgun and my roommate Mike was driving. I woke up my two other roommates who were sitting in the back seat. The cop came to the window told us that we were going 25 mph over, asked for the id and went back to his car for a long time. Finally, my roommate got sick of waiting and went to the cop car. He returned promptly with a question. "Does anyone have $40 or we're going to jail?" Providentially, we did. And that was the end of that.
"Can you buy me some groundnuts?" That was how the cop asked for the 'contribution' today. Macson, the driver was caught off-guard by it so much he laughed; then he opened the change drawer and gave him the 15 kwatcha that Jeff had given him yesterday. It wasn't subtle in the least. At least the woman cop had tried to beat around the bush, and even confiscated Macson's license and made him go to the police station, find her number, call her at home, get new permits, and then asked him again how much money he had. But the wheels had already been greased.
Tradition is more important than education (thanks Hans and Hennie). This is what we've seen. The staple food here is Nsima, which is maize--basically corn-- that has pretty much all of its nutritional value sucked out of it, and made into a bland, thick, sticky blob resembling stiff cream of wheat. They do this because their mothers did this. They have been taught about rotating crops and other foods, but that's not tradition. They have rows in the fields a foot deep so that the soil is piled up into tall spines. Their fathers farmed this way. They use large pots for cooking after the harvest despite going without food for 1/3 of the year. Small or even medium sized pots don't cross their minds; it is not tradition.
There have, however, been positive steps. We saw some today. We went to Gamenzi village, the same village as the Malaria Control village. There they had an orphan's nursery school, staffed by volunteers, from 8-11 am, which had offered free meals to whomever came. The food has been provided for by USAID. They bring other children in as well, so as to not alienate the orphans for being orphans. We were treated to some of the things that they have been taught. They would bring these kids who were maybe 3 or 4 up in front of everyone to show that they were able to say their prayers, or count to 10, or the names of the months in English. All were quite cute doing it. We got some information from the volunteer teacher about what size of class they have (this one was 70 orphans/kids), and how many (4), and where they were located (there's 3 other ones in 3 other villages--no idea which ones, nor where they are). But the non-traditional thing about this was that it started 12 months ago because they saw the need.
The need was that there is (and i've counted) a bazillion kids who would be playing hookey if there was a school; who would be at home if they had (a) parent(s); who would be eating breakfast if they had any food.
This village, I think, is a bit different than the other villages. The mfumu (chief) seems to be very interested in improving the lot of the community; the most proactive. So much so that the men, when we returned to the shade tree and bore hole (water well), were working on bamboo mats and wicker baskets so that they could sell to raise money for some food and for the volunteers that do so much. Jeff and I tried to do some mats and he did fairly well, he says. I would have preferred to know that it is better to slide the bamboo slats onto the knife/needle than to try and push the needle/knife through the slats; that does not work well. Jae and Heather fared better than us, but they were making baskets; that hardly counts. We were sweating after we were finished.
There are some concerns for tomorrow's meeting but nothing that should deter us from the final outcome, the reason why we came. The main one being that we are very persistent in that we want it to be community based in Kamenzi district and not church based. It is a fine line to walk but, as our Ubuntu group has discussed, one which we feel is essential. Specific people on their side want it to be church based, and if not, then to stack the committee and the meeting tomorrow with people who "happen to also be part of the church" here. It's just another form of greasing the wheels.
In other news, Heather tried to carry a bucket on her head with some help from some of the ladies here. If there's a photo of her by herself in front of the church, I want you all to know that I saw someone holding it up for her. Sorry, Heather. You probably thought you did it yourself.
Jae was blessed with many abilities; biking in Malawi is not really one of them.
The first time I paid off a cop was after a Bob Dylan concert on spring break in 2000. We were in Montana and it was roughly 2 am. There was absolutely no one on the road. So certain am I of this, that I am still convinced that the state trooper was laying in wait in some field and came flying off an embankment of some sort to catch us. I was riding shotgun and my roommate Mike was driving. I woke up my two other roommates who were sitting in the back seat. The cop came to the window told us that we were going 25 mph over, asked for the id and went back to his car for a long time. Finally, my roommate got sick of waiting and went to the cop car. He returned promptly with a question. "Does anyone have $40 or we're going to jail?" Providentially, we did. And that was the end of that.
"Can you buy me some groundnuts?" That was how the cop asked for the 'contribution' today. Macson, the driver was caught off-guard by it so much he laughed; then he opened the change drawer and gave him the 15 kwatcha that Jeff had given him yesterday. It wasn't subtle in the least. At least the woman cop had tried to beat around the bush, and even confiscated Macson's license and made him go to the police station, find her number, call her at home, get new permits, and then asked him again how much money he had. But the wheels had already been greased.
Tradition is more important than education (thanks Hans and Hennie). This is what we've seen. The staple food here is Nsima, which is maize--basically corn-- that has pretty much all of its nutritional value sucked out of it, and made into a bland, thick, sticky blob resembling stiff cream of wheat. They do this because their mothers did this. They have been taught about rotating crops and other foods, but that's not tradition. They have rows in the fields a foot deep so that the soil is piled up into tall spines. Their fathers farmed this way. They use large pots for cooking after the harvest despite going without food for 1/3 of the year. Small or even medium sized pots don't cross their minds; it is not tradition.
There have, however, been positive steps. We saw some today. We went to Gamenzi village, the same village as the Malaria Control village. There they had an orphan's nursery school, staffed by volunteers, from 8-11 am, which had offered free meals to whomever came. The food has been provided for by USAID. They bring other children in as well, so as to not alienate the orphans for being orphans. We were treated to some of the things that they have been taught. They would bring these kids who were maybe 3 or 4 up in front of everyone to show that they were able to say their prayers, or count to 10, or the names of the months in English. All were quite cute doing it. We got some information from the volunteer teacher about what size of class they have (this one was 70 orphans/kids), and how many (4), and where they were located (there's 3 other ones in 3 other villages--no idea which ones, nor where they are). But the non-traditional thing about this was that it started 12 months ago because they saw the need.
The need was that there is (and i've counted) a bazillion kids who would be playing hookey if there was a school; who would be at home if they had (a) parent(s); who would be eating breakfast if they had any food.
This village, I think, is a bit different than the other villages. The mfumu (chief) seems to be very interested in improving the lot of the community; the most proactive. So much so that the men, when we returned to the shade tree and bore hole (water well), were working on bamboo mats and wicker baskets so that they could sell to raise money for some food and for the volunteers that do so much. Jeff and I tried to do some mats and he did fairly well, he says. I would have preferred to know that it is better to slide the bamboo slats onto the knife/needle than to try and push the needle/knife through the slats; that does not work well. Jae and Heather fared better than us, but they were making baskets; that hardly counts. We were sweating after we were finished.
There are some concerns for tomorrow's meeting but nothing that should deter us from the final outcome, the reason why we came. The main one being that we are very persistent in that we want it to be community based in Kamenzi district and not church based. It is a fine line to walk but, as our Ubuntu group has discussed, one which we feel is essential. Specific people on their side want it to be church based, and if not, then to stack the committee and the meeting tomorrow with people who "happen to also be part of the church" here. It's just another form of greasing the wheels.
In other news, Heather tried to carry a bucket on her head with some help from some of the ladies here. If there's a photo of her by herself in front of the church, I want you all to know that I saw someone holding it up for her. Sorry, Heather. You probably thought you did it yourself.
Jae was blessed with many abilities; biking in Malawi is not really one of them.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
When I was in my intro to Philosophy class my professor would always put up on the blackboard the scores for each exam. I remember one especially vividly. The highest mark was 94 and the lowest was a 32; there were a bunch of numbers in between. Anyway, I knew that the 94 wasn't mine. And so I hoped for the 32. I figured that if I got 32 and I had been hoping for the 32, then all would be square in my mind. If I thought I made get a 71, and ended up getting a 53, then i might be a little upset. So, when I did receive a 64 I was pretty happy. Not only had I exceeded my expectations, I had doubled them. It was a bit like that at Kamenzi church today.
Service was supposed to start at 10, which means 10:10 or 10:20; a bit like New Hope that way. We were also told that the intercessary (sp?) prayer meeting would be at 2, and that we would have lunch. I figured then that the longest we would be in church would be 6 hours for the service; i had heard stories. 6 hours because we would have to leave by 4pm to make it home before dark. And if one were to include lunch, well then we could knock off at least one more hour. 5 hour service, is what I had prepared myself. Since I didn't have a watch, and thought that I might be off in a corner I loaded up my shirt pocket with anything and everything I could or might want to snack on; peanuts; halls; fisherman friends; another halls; pepto bismal; I had debated on putting a melted cheese stick in its packaging but thought it might be too obvious; the ipod i took out in case someone got offended.
We had been told that there were 1200 people who attended the church. The church is not big enough to house that many and so I thought we would be packed in like sardines with a tin roof over our heads. But first, the drama. After morning drinks the hammer came down. Rev. K said that after lunch we were to participate in the intercessary prayer meeting. My eyebrow shot up. I turned my head slowly to He-tho (the first three times they try to pronounce Heather's name, it comes out Hello). She, I swear, gave me the same look that I was giving her: #$&@! You've got to be kidding. She didn't expect it; we didn't expect it. Personally, I didn't want to stay and that was later confirmed by her. We had to find our way out and we did, Macson, the driver. He was promised the afternoon off. But onto the service.
Before the service we met in the vestry where there was the usual meet and greet. Rev K asked if anyone wanted to pray, and since Jeff was already doing a greeting, and Jae's voice conveniently gave out, it was up to me to refuse straight out and make it awkward for a couple of moments before it was suggested that Heather pray; it was dutifully accepted to be so.
They sounded a million times better than New Hope, sorry. First the children would sing some songs accompanied by drums and three of them dancing in front of the others. Then the youths behind us, using their feet marching/scrapping the mat beneath them for the background rhythm, and then the women singing songs. I hope you have the opportunity to check them out. Jae took some good videos of it. Their songs were all in Chichewa, which was great, all extremely unique and while, according to my translation were at times somewhat surprising that their lyrics would be such, on the whole absolutely great. And as with everything here there was something that just didn't quite fit. And that was the organist.
First, Jeff pointed out that he was the first person with glasses he had seen in the villages. Second, they have no organ...or electricity. What they do have is a battery and a synthesizer. So the man with the glass was rocking out on a synthesizer, complete with drum beat in the background, to translated English hymns. Something is definately lost in the translation, and in the story telling.
After the women were singing, I leaned over to my translator and asked him if the men would be singing next. He laughed at me. "Men don't sing". Oh.
It is an odd thing to be sitting in church and see a dog walk through and force the children to lean/run/move towards their mothers out of fear. It's also another thing to hear the sounds of chickens being chased by children who seem to do whatever they want during the service. But I hope never to be scared again by a goat bleating while sticking his head in the door on the nave.
Lunch again was served in Rev K's house, and was quite good. Chicken, goat, nsima, pumpkin leaves (which are quite tasty). And then it was time for the prayer meeting.
We negotiated our exit to 2:45. And since the meeting started late it was going to be interesting to see how things would end. There were benches spread out in a half circle, some chairs, and a mat. Basically, they took down prayer requests, sang some of the Anglican priest songs (not sure of their title) that are beck and call, read a Bible verse and divided us up into groups to take a certain amount of the prayer requests. It was quite evident from what the Rev was saying that he shortened up the meeting quite a bit. For example, the chichewa translation of 1 Thessalonians 5:17 has two words in it. And the grouping of the prayer requests, we thought would normally be taken one at a time.
I will say that the service was the shortest 3 hr service I've been to; I ate one peanut and one fisherman's friend. The prayer meeting wasn't as bad as I had anticipated; I do think that had we not said we needed to leave at such and such a time, that it would have lasted a very long time. Everyone was in agreement about that.
I felt good about saying no to the prayer because I didn't have to be put on the spot in front of people I didn't really know and because when I walked into the church nave there were men sitting on chairs and benches to the left, children on the floor beside them, the longer part of the nave floor was reserved for women and young children, which brings me to what I wanted this post to be about: a Winston Churchill quote (or in so far as I read it in a biography of his)
"What happens when an unstoppable force meets an immoveable object?"
This is the african riddle. The women here do so much. More than what we could ever see in our short time here. They cook. They clean. They get the water. They farm. They do the shoppping and the cooking. They walk long distances with ladened baskets, porting babies, and carrying bags. They get AIDS from cheating husbands. They are the ones taking the literacy classes, the nutrition classes, the farming classes. They are the support networks. They have kids and more kids and more kids. They sell wares. they greet visitors with songs and dance. This and so much more. And they sit on the floor.
The men sit in the shade.
Perhaps a generalisation, but I don't think it's too far removed from the truth and one of the issues that will shape this country, maybe this continent. At what point will the women take a look around, see things, and decide on a different course of action. We've already heard it in the songs, "we don't need our husbands anymore, we've learned enough from the women's group". At some point, it will be they who will be the catalyst for change; it will become more than words in a song set to a dance. The inequalities that are present in their personal relationship are also the inequalities that one can see in the society at large.
Service was supposed to start at 10, which means 10:10 or 10:20; a bit like New Hope that way. We were also told that the intercessary (sp?) prayer meeting would be at 2, and that we would have lunch. I figured then that the longest we would be in church would be 6 hours for the service; i had heard stories. 6 hours because we would have to leave by 4pm to make it home before dark. And if one were to include lunch, well then we could knock off at least one more hour. 5 hour service, is what I had prepared myself. Since I didn't have a watch, and thought that I might be off in a corner I loaded up my shirt pocket with anything and everything I could or might want to snack on; peanuts; halls; fisherman friends; another halls; pepto bismal; I had debated on putting a melted cheese stick in its packaging but thought it might be too obvious; the ipod i took out in case someone got offended.
We had been told that there were 1200 people who attended the church. The church is not big enough to house that many and so I thought we would be packed in like sardines with a tin roof over our heads. But first, the drama. After morning drinks the hammer came down. Rev. K said that after lunch we were to participate in the intercessary prayer meeting. My eyebrow shot up. I turned my head slowly to He-tho (the first three times they try to pronounce Heather's name, it comes out Hello). She, I swear, gave me the same look that I was giving her: #$&@! You've got to be kidding. She didn't expect it; we didn't expect it. Personally, I didn't want to stay and that was later confirmed by her. We had to find our way out and we did, Macson, the driver. He was promised the afternoon off. But onto the service.
Before the service we met in the vestry where there was the usual meet and greet. Rev K asked if anyone wanted to pray, and since Jeff was already doing a greeting, and Jae's voice conveniently gave out, it was up to me to refuse straight out and make it awkward for a couple of moments before it was suggested that Heather pray; it was dutifully accepted to be so.
They sounded a million times better than New Hope, sorry. First the children would sing some songs accompanied by drums and three of them dancing in front of the others. Then the youths behind us, using their feet marching/scrapping the mat beneath them for the background rhythm, and then the women singing songs. I hope you have the opportunity to check them out. Jae took some good videos of it. Their songs were all in Chichewa, which was great, all extremely unique and while, according to my translation were at times somewhat surprising that their lyrics would be such, on the whole absolutely great. And as with everything here there was something that just didn't quite fit. And that was the organist.
First, Jeff pointed out that he was the first person with glasses he had seen in the villages. Second, they have no organ...or electricity. What they do have is a battery and a synthesizer. So the man with the glass was rocking out on a synthesizer, complete with drum beat in the background, to translated English hymns. Something is definately lost in the translation, and in the story telling.
After the women were singing, I leaned over to my translator and asked him if the men would be singing next. He laughed at me. "Men don't sing". Oh.
It is an odd thing to be sitting in church and see a dog walk through and force the children to lean/run/move towards their mothers out of fear. It's also another thing to hear the sounds of chickens being chased by children who seem to do whatever they want during the service. But I hope never to be scared again by a goat bleating while sticking his head in the door on the nave.
Lunch again was served in Rev K's house, and was quite good. Chicken, goat, nsima, pumpkin leaves (which are quite tasty). And then it was time for the prayer meeting.
We negotiated our exit to 2:45. And since the meeting started late it was going to be interesting to see how things would end. There were benches spread out in a half circle, some chairs, and a mat. Basically, they took down prayer requests, sang some of the Anglican priest songs (not sure of their title) that are beck and call, read a Bible verse and divided us up into groups to take a certain amount of the prayer requests. It was quite evident from what the Rev was saying that he shortened up the meeting quite a bit. For example, the chichewa translation of 1 Thessalonians 5:17 has two words in it. And the grouping of the prayer requests, we thought would normally be taken one at a time.
I will say that the service was the shortest 3 hr service I've been to; I ate one peanut and one fisherman's friend. The prayer meeting wasn't as bad as I had anticipated; I do think that had we not said we needed to leave at such and such a time, that it would have lasted a very long time. Everyone was in agreement about that.
I felt good about saying no to the prayer because I didn't have to be put on the spot in front of people I didn't really know and because when I walked into the church nave there were men sitting on chairs and benches to the left, children on the floor beside them, the longer part of the nave floor was reserved for women and young children, which brings me to what I wanted this post to be about: a Winston Churchill quote (or in so far as I read it in a biography of his)
"What happens when an unstoppable force meets an immoveable object?"
This is the african riddle. The women here do so much. More than what we could ever see in our short time here. They cook. They clean. They get the water. They farm. They do the shoppping and the cooking. They walk long distances with ladened baskets, porting babies, and carrying bags. They get AIDS from cheating husbands. They are the ones taking the literacy classes, the nutrition classes, the farming classes. They are the support networks. They have kids and more kids and more kids. They sell wares. they greet visitors with songs and dance. This and so much more. And they sit on the floor.
The men sit in the shade.
Perhaps a generalisation, but I don't think it's too far removed from the truth and one of the issues that will shape this country, maybe this continent. At what point will the women take a look around, see things, and decide on a different course of action. We've already heard it in the songs, "we don't need our husbands anymore, we've learned enough from the women's group". At some point, it will be they who will be the catalyst for change; it will become more than words in a song set to a dance. The inequalities that are present in their personal relationship are also the inequalities that one can see in the society at large.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
No matter how well I thought I was prepared for Africa, I find that there is always something that surprises me. Granted, I have only been here for a week.
I think the one thing that makes me think of home the most often is the housing in the villages in the bush and along the sides of the highway. It is not that far of a stretch to say that they may have easily come from the Wild West, 100 years ago. There are the dusty main streets, uniformed only in there randomness; the store walls are painted, some bright blue, others white; posts hold up an overhang against which one could imagine some sort of wannabe cowboy leaning against it. One could take the Man without a Name from the Sergio Leone movies and place him in these streets and it would not seem out of place. That is one thing that surprised me.
Another thing would be flying all the way to Malawi to stay in the Korea Garden Lodge. I know what you're thinking, and we have already discussed it. We figure that since there was a relationship between the North Korea and Tanzania and Angola, and part of the quid pro quo was an infiltration into free market economies.
The power going out during dinner. Not a surprise. Being told 20 minutes later that our meal couldn't be cooked because of the power wasn't much of a surprise. Watching Jae ordering multiple entrees, being denied each time until he asked 'what can i have?'...'No. 15 or 16.' was the reply. That, I wasn't expecting.
Driving to the beachside resort today, we stopped in Salima, a market town about 2/3s of the way to the lake. While looking for a picture frame, I came across about the only place I would go to get my haircut: "Jesus is the answer Barbershop". You can't make these things up.
The wood market right before the lake wasn't a surprise, however. Rows of thatched 'huts' with goods inside, sellers on the outside saying anything to get you inside. "my friend....", "come and see...", "i give you good price....", "I'm broke, I need money." Not surprising.
I went into one and was looking at a wooden statue. The man came up to me, telling me that it was ebony, which he got and carved himself. Now. I was a little hesitant on a couple of things. One, that he carved it himself since all the statues look alike; two, that he went to get the wood himself (only because his story changed two or three times in the 30 seconds he was telling me it). What I wasn't sure of was the ebony. First off, the only thing I know about ebony is that it used to be the black on pianos and it was Michael's half of the duet. It didn't look like ebony. So, I bought the gifts, not because I wanted ivory. What I didn't expect was that when I turned around there was a man rubbing black shoe polish onto the carvings with a toothbrush. Ebony, eh.
At the resort on the beach, we were watching the boats go by, with the fishermen selling their wares; paddleboats going by; swimmers in the lake. Jae noticed one particular boat, which had escaped my attention. 3 strokes then bail. 3 strokes then bail. I wasn't sure what he was talking about until i saw a group of 5 fishermen coming in. Two were manning the oars, one had the task of bailing out the water from within the boat. I'm sure there's a metaphor in there somewhere.
Our impressions of Africa aren't always the way things actually are. It's easy to see things from our side, saying that this is how things happen or that it's ebony. Sometimes you need to be up close to notice that while the ship still seems to be working properly that there are some major structural issues that need to be addressed.
I think the one thing that makes me think of home the most often is the housing in the villages in the bush and along the sides of the highway. It is not that far of a stretch to say that they may have easily come from the Wild West, 100 years ago. There are the dusty main streets, uniformed only in there randomness; the store walls are painted, some bright blue, others white; posts hold up an overhang against which one could imagine some sort of wannabe cowboy leaning against it. One could take the Man without a Name from the Sergio Leone movies and place him in these streets and it would not seem out of place. That is one thing that surprised me.
Another thing would be flying all the way to Malawi to stay in the Korea Garden Lodge. I know what you're thinking, and we have already discussed it. We figure that since there was a relationship between the North Korea and Tanzania and Angola, and part of the quid pro quo was an infiltration into free market economies.
The power going out during dinner. Not a surprise. Being told 20 minutes later that our meal couldn't be cooked because of the power wasn't much of a surprise. Watching Jae ordering multiple entrees, being denied each time until he asked 'what can i have?'...'No. 15 or 16.' was the reply. That, I wasn't expecting.
Driving to the beachside resort today, we stopped in Salima, a market town about 2/3s of the way to the lake. While looking for a picture frame, I came across about the only place I would go to get my haircut: "Jesus is the answer Barbershop". You can't make these things up.
The wood market right before the lake wasn't a surprise, however. Rows of thatched 'huts' with goods inside, sellers on the outside saying anything to get you inside. "my friend....", "come and see...", "i give you good price....", "I'm broke, I need money." Not surprising.
I went into one and was looking at a wooden statue. The man came up to me, telling me that it was ebony, which he got and carved himself. Now. I was a little hesitant on a couple of things. One, that he carved it himself since all the statues look alike; two, that he went to get the wood himself (only because his story changed two or three times in the 30 seconds he was telling me it). What I wasn't sure of was the ebony. First off, the only thing I know about ebony is that it used to be the black on pianos and it was Michael's half of the duet. It didn't look like ebony. So, I bought the gifts, not because I wanted ivory. What I didn't expect was that when I turned around there was a man rubbing black shoe polish onto the carvings with a toothbrush. Ebony, eh.
At the resort on the beach, we were watching the boats go by, with the fishermen selling their wares; paddleboats going by; swimmers in the lake. Jae noticed one particular boat, which had escaped my attention. 3 strokes then bail. 3 strokes then bail. I wasn't sure what he was talking about until i saw a group of 5 fishermen coming in. Two were manning the oars, one had the task of bailing out the water from within the boat. I'm sure there's a metaphor in there somewhere.
Our impressions of Africa aren't always the way things actually are. It's easy to see things from our side, saying that this is how things happen or that it's ebony. Sometimes you need to be up close to notice that while the ship still seems to be working properly that there are some major structural issues that need to be addressed.
Friday, May 1, 2009
limited time left ladies!!
i received my first marriage proposal, or quasi-proposal today. I started thinking that maybe it wouldn't come, but it did. Sure as the sun rises. It was at the very end of the day; after the dancing and the celebration as the van pulled onto the soccer pitch, we slowly made our way to the van. An elder of the community grabbed my hand and said, 'so, you are not married. You should have a wife. You should choose a wife from the community and bring her to Canada.' My mind was racing for something to say. And what I mustered was "I don't think my mom will be happy if I do that; she will need to approve." Thinking that would stop the questions, I relaxed. It didn't do as designed. "Oh! Is that how you do things in Canada?" he said, not really pejoratively, but with enough paternal gumph that I knew what he meant. I said, "No, not really. But I have to live with my mom, and if she doesn't approve of my wife it is going to be a very, very long life." That effectively stopped the Spanish Inquisition.
This is a country of contrasts, of paradox. The green of the bushes and trees spotting the landscape; the red dirt lining the roads. Bright yellow flowers blooming along the highways, while diesel trucks spew their fumes. Beside the highway there are more pedestrians than cars on the highway, more oxen and goats than cyclists. At one glance, one would be forgiven to see a wasteland, void of hope; and yet, hope survives in the smallest of places, in the unlikeliest of ways.
The morning started out with a mix up of sorts. Instead of seeing the modern family, the village changed plans and asked if we could see the patients first and the 'modern' (their words) family last. I had been in a lowered anxious state, not having met anyone with AIDS before. I didn't know what to expect, honestly. I'm glad that the plans changed before allowing me anytime to think through it and over it.
Her name is Joyce Chimbecrezo; she cannot be more than 20 years old. Her eyes are swollen in a way I haven't seen before; her family is around her; her mother; her grandmother; her children who don't have AIDS, but who are very malnurished even for village standards. She tells us her story.
She was married to a man for a bit. A man who had a first wife two villages over. After a while she suspected that she was sick (the euphemism they use for AIDS/HIV in the village). She asked him about it and he denied it. After a while, she no longer believed him and went to the hospital herself where it was confirmed that she tested postive. Needless to say, the husband skipped town. He returns every so often, but realistically he has been gone for a while. The family is poor. She isn't sick enough to get the free Anti-retroviral drugs from the government, so she needs to buy another drug to deal with the pain. One lady from the NRD Women in Development group helps out as much as she can but it isn't enough. Joyce needs to walk to the hospital anytime she has to go there.
We ask a lot of questions, each with their own interpreter but the reality of the situation is that about half of the people treat her differently because of her AIDS. She farms when she can, she relies on her family; she can't hire a taxi for the ride to the clinic so sometimes she doesn't go. It was sad. It is sad.
The second lady was Mrs. Gideon (I do not have her first name at the moment). She got sick about 2 years ago. After feeling ill for a couple of weeks she went to the clinic to get tested. She was the fourth wife. All married at the same time. She is 'fortunate' enough to be on ARV, mostly because she was anemic when she fell ill. I don't remember much of the questions for her. Her two daughters are helping, as much as they can, whether that is by walking/taking her to the hospital, cooking, cleaning, etc. There was, or rather, there is always the issue of the distance to the clinic, of the mobile clinics not giving out ARVs, or many other things. But what I can't quite shake is that this woman was almost devoid of any hope. There was almost nothing but pain. One could see it in the wrinkles on her forehead, in the way that her mouth never once even intimated that it would like to smile, in the utter sadness of her eyes. there was/is a vacuousness in them that ought to haunt people. it may be the closest thing that I have ever seen to despair, something of which I could go my entire life without seeing more. sadness in the way that she would slowly move her head to whomever was talking. I remember how her eyes had almost entirely lost that 'life' quality that eyes have, that reflective 'being' that shines; babies have it in abundance. Mrs. Gideon's left eye had none of it. I want to believe that I saw a tiny bit of it in her right eye, at about my two o'clock on her iris. There was something there, but I do not know what. And at the point when you think that this is as dark as it gets, some hope; some very, very small morcel of hope. In our piecemeal way, we offered gifts that seemed insignificant but necessary; absolutely quixotic. White bread. sugar. powdered milk. very basic stuff for us. and from her, a half joke: please come again.
And there it is, contrasts. Where there is despair, may there be humour. Where there is the air of death, moments of life.
At the modern house, the women were singing, "Now, I'm going to show you a clean woman". Our translators emphasized, 'this is a clean woman's house'. She was (and I quote) " a model wife" because she kept the house clean. Heather let Jae and I know that this should be on the top of our lists for women. I forgot to ask the elder about it later. Harold and Josephine lived there. She was one of the women in the Women in Development group, learning knowledgeable techniques; keeping clothes off the ground, using bed nets, learning about good cooking. and he, he was a lucky man everyone acknowledged.
at the goodbye ceremony some of the best lines were found in songs from the Women's group: "Get your own goat. I'm not going to give you one of mine. You need to join the women's group to get one." and another: "if your baby's unhealthy don't complain to me. In our group we have healthy babies, we teach our women well." In the elders' speech they made it known, that since we have come, a return is wanted, almost needed. A second part to the equation. And to not forget them. It will be impossible to forget this place.
There is a mountain that rises out of the plains to the south of Kamenzi. it is a beautiful mountain, if for no other reason that it is unique. It is as if God mistakenly put a volcano that would easily fit in Hawaii or Indonesia in the middle of Malawi. The horizon is mostly flat, except for a couple of smaller bumps towards the west, making it seem like there are rumple strips along the western plateau. But this mountain stands by itself, not more than 20 or 30 kms from Kamenzi. I stare often at it. On the way to lunch at the modern couple's house, I asked one of the interpreters the name of this mountian. Kamphambe. It translates as God's Hill.
Looking at the mountain that is actually a hill, which I will still call a mountain made me think of seeing things from two sides. How often do we think we know what the answers are without knowing the landscape, the people, the issues. There are so many layers here to what we are seeing, it is hard to know where to begin. or where to end for that matter. I think though, that it is of upmost importance to see things for what they actually are, whether that is specific problems, or mountains; perspective is important. This trip has done and continues to do that.
i received my first marriage proposal, or quasi-proposal today. I started thinking that maybe it wouldn't come, but it did. Sure as the sun rises. It was at the very end of the day; after the dancing and the celebration as the van pulled onto the soccer pitch, we slowly made our way to the van. An elder of the community grabbed my hand and said, 'so, you are not married. You should have a wife. You should choose a wife from the community and bring her to Canada.' My mind was racing for something to say. And what I mustered was "I don't think my mom will be happy if I do that; she will need to approve." Thinking that would stop the questions, I relaxed. It didn't do as designed. "Oh! Is that how you do things in Canada?" he said, not really pejoratively, but with enough paternal gumph that I knew what he meant. I said, "No, not really. But I have to live with my mom, and if she doesn't approve of my wife it is going to be a very, very long life." That effectively stopped the Spanish Inquisition.
This is a country of contrasts, of paradox. The green of the bushes and trees spotting the landscape; the red dirt lining the roads. Bright yellow flowers blooming along the highways, while diesel trucks spew their fumes. Beside the highway there are more pedestrians than cars on the highway, more oxen and goats than cyclists. At one glance, one would be forgiven to see a wasteland, void of hope; and yet, hope survives in the smallest of places, in the unlikeliest of ways.
The morning started out with a mix up of sorts. Instead of seeing the modern family, the village changed plans and asked if we could see the patients first and the 'modern' (their words) family last. I had been in a lowered anxious state, not having met anyone with AIDS before. I didn't know what to expect, honestly. I'm glad that the plans changed before allowing me anytime to think through it and over it.
Her name is Joyce Chimbecrezo; she cannot be more than 20 years old. Her eyes are swollen in a way I haven't seen before; her family is around her; her mother; her grandmother; her children who don't have AIDS, but who are very malnurished even for village standards. She tells us her story.
She was married to a man for a bit. A man who had a first wife two villages over. After a while she suspected that she was sick (the euphemism they use for AIDS/HIV in the village). She asked him about it and he denied it. After a while, she no longer believed him and went to the hospital herself where it was confirmed that she tested postive. Needless to say, the husband skipped town. He returns every so often, but realistically he has been gone for a while. The family is poor. She isn't sick enough to get the free Anti-retroviral drugs from the government, so she needs to buy another drug to deal with the pain. One lady from the NRD Women in Development group helps out as much as she can but it isn't enough. Joyce needs to walk to the hospital anytime she has to go there.
We ask a lot of questions, each with their own interpreter but the reality of the situation is that about half of the people treat her differently because of her AIDS. She farms when she can, she relies on her family; she can't hire a taxi for the ride to the clinic so sometimes she doesn't go. It was sad. It is sad.
The second lady was Mrs. Gideon (I do not have her first name at the moment). She got sick about 2 years ago. After feeling ill for a couple of weeks she went to the clinic to get tested. She was the fourth wife. All married at the same time. She is 'fortunate' enough to be on ARV, mostly because she was anemic when she fell ill. I don't remember much of the questions for her. Her two daughters are helping, as much as they can, whether that is by walking/taking her to the hospital, cooking, cleaning, etc. There was, or rather, there is always the issue of the distance to the clinic, of the mobile clinics not giving out ARVs, or many other things. But what I can't quite shake is that this woman was almost devoid of any hope. There was almost nothing but pain. One could see it in the wrinkles on her forehead, in the way that her mouth never once even intimated that it would like to smile, in the utter sadness of her eyes. there was/is a vacuousness in them that ought to haunt people. it may be the closest thing that I have ever seen to despair, something of which I could go my entire life without seeing more. sadness in the way that she would slowly move her head to whomever was talking. I remember how her eyes had almost entirely lost that 'life' quality that eyes have, that reflective 'being' that shines; babies have it in abundance. Mrs. Gideon's left eye had none of it. I want to believe that I saw a tiny bit of it in her right eye, at about my two o'clock on her iris. There was something there, but I do not know what. And at the point when you think that this is as dark as it gets, some hope; some very, very small morcel of hope. In our piecemeal way, we offered gifts that seemed insignificant but necessary; absolutely quixotic. White bread. sugar. powdered milk. very basic stuff for us. and from her, a half joke: please come again.
And there it is, contrasts. Where there is despair, may there be humour. Where there is the air of death, moments of life.
At the modern house, the women were singing, "Now, I'm going to show you a clean woman". Our translators emphasized, 'this is a clean woman's house'. She was (and I quote) " a model wife" because she kept the house clean. Heather let Jae and I know that this should be on the top of our lists for women. I forgot to ask the elder about it later. Harold and Josephine lived there. She was one of the women in the Women in Development group, learning knowledgeable techniques; keeping clothes off the ground, using bed nets, learning about good cooking. and he, he was a lucky man everyone acknowledged.
at the goodbye ceremony some of the best lines were found in songs from the Women's group: "Get your own goat. I'm not going to give you one of mine. You need to join the women's group to get one." and another: "if your baby's unhealthy don't complain to me. In our group we have healthy babies, we teach our women well." In the elders' speech they made it known, that since we have come, a return is wanted, almost needed. A second part to the equation. And to not forget them. It will be impossible to forget this place.
There is a mountain that rises out of the plains to the south of Kamenzi. it is a beautiful mountain, if for no other reason that it is unique. It is as if God mistakenly put a volcano that would easily fit in Hawaii or Indonesia in the middle of Malawi. The horizon is mostly flat, except for a couple of smaller bumps towards the west, making it seem like there are rumple strips along the western plateau. But this mountain stands by itself, not more than 20 or 30 kms from Kamenzi. I stare often at it. On the way to lunch at the modern couple's house, I asked one of the interpreters the name of this mountian. Kamphambe. It translates as God's Hill.
Looking at the mountain that is actually a hill, which I will still call a mountain made me think of seeing things from two sides. How often do we think we know what the answers are without knowing the landscape, the people, the issues. There are so many layers here to what we are seeing, it is hard to know where to begin. or where to end for that matter. I think though, that it is of upmost importance to see things for what they actually are, whether that is specific problems, or mountains; perspective is important. This trip has done and continues to do that.
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