What season follows the cold, dreary months when you want to do nothing but hunker down in front of the fireplace with a hot cup of some beverage (coffee for you rebels, green tea for you tree-huggers, cider for you who reminisce of the good old days, and chocolate for the rest)? Spring, right? The season of endless rain, blossoming flowers, and the return of geese and geriatrics from the southern portions of North America. Also, what holidays do you enjoy in those dark and dank days of depression and despondency we call winter? Christmas, New Year's, Groundhog, and Valentine's?
This is where I keep getting confused. I stumbled into Africa over a year ago (as of last week) and the disorientation is getting worse. The season that follows the cold season is the hot and dry season, not spring. The seasons go more like spring, winter, then summer (fall doesn't really exist, it reminds us that it exists elsewhere by having blustery, leaf-filled days occasionally and unpredictably). Even then, our descriptions of seasons don't entirely apply. More than that, July 4th (here, it's July 6th because that's Malawian Independence Day) will probably require a jacket whereas you'd want to meander about in your birthday suit over Veteran's Day. It's not even backwards. The days and months, holidays and seasons, temperatures and calenders just don't match. It's like someone took the year, cut it into cubes, then played Boggle and couldn't find any words in the puzzle.
My first year felt like a course entitled, "Intro to Africa: Welcome to the well-meaning heart of wrong assumptions." Don't think for one femtosecond that I am now the final authority on all things African. I still wonder why Malawians are visibly scared of dogs even though many people have them and want them. I am curious how people adjust to leaving their wife and children for years in order to advance their education and possibilities for their children. More than those, I am astounded at locals' faith in a Being they cannot see when they don't even believe their biology teachers until they look at cells through a microscope (which almost never happens). Not only have I learned of some unexpected ways of things, some of my expectations that have been utterly obliterated. I assumed that donations and foreign aid would be more like a gift than a recurring nightmare because they are intended for the benefit of the people, that the difference between engineer and mechanic and general contractor was obvious, and that I would embrace the local way of life as much as I loathe the Western waste.
After having stumbled through round one, what do I want to do and where do I want to aim? What are my "new year's" resolutions? I want to spend more time in the wards (working as well as socializing), take more walks through the villages and tea fields, and better appreciate the "spring" even if it comes in summer or winter. Maybe this list will get even longer.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Sticking around
Those of you who have followed my adventures thus far are quite aware that I am nomadic. Over the last year, my record for the longest time without packing up and moving stands at 8 weeks. Having said that, packing and moving everything I own takes less than half an hour. In any case, this is a brief account of my latest adventure - Mozambique on a budget, without planning, and only passable communication.
On Wednesday of last week (8/24), I received word that my skills would be needed at the hospital this week (8/29 - 9/2). A sense of importance - super! However, because my visa was scheduled to expire on 9/5, I needed to immediately exit Malawi. Basically, it meant that my passport and its owner had to leave bright and early the next morning. 18 hours later, a stuffed bag and a couple books escorted me to Thyolo and right onto a minibus. Mozambique, here I come! - uh no! The 60 km from Thyolo to the border required three hours of minibus frustration to traverse. At the border, the Malawian immigration hassled me for having 25,000 kwacha ($130) because people are only allowed to take 3,000 kwacha out of the country. After finally clearing that hurdle, a bike taxi argued with me, asserting my need to pay for a ride to the Mozambique immigration office. I refused him the entire 150 meters to said immigration office. Here, they fussed that I didn't have my immunization document and that I hadn't initiated a visa through the consulate. They overcharged for my visa, but that seemed like a fair bargain for breaking so many laws.
Across the border in Milange, it's an entirely different world. Everyone uses the same language (at least the first 10 km), cell phone company, and side of the road, but the differences were astounding. Cleanliness (much worse), population (much more sparse), general layout of the town (spacious) - it was all strange. I hoped to score a bus or matola or something to the major city of Mocuba. Two hours of waiting at the "bus depot" yielded my first opportunity and success - the most luxurious vehicle I have sat inside in a year. After four hours in a tumble freeze dryer (bouncy, cold, and dehydrated), I was happily in Mocuba for the night. The next morning, whilst foraging for a bakery,I stumbled into a bus going to Quelimane, which is where I wanted to go (buses travel in the eastern part of the country frequently, just not to/from Milange). A few more hours of misery accompanied me on my journey, but the quaintness of the town quickly quelled that. Quelimane is like an avocado, papaya, and lemon juice soup for your granola (thank you Chrislyn!). The landscape is like a Caribbean island. The architecture looks Caribbean and Iberian. Business is Middle Eastern and Indian. Yet the majority of people are, by look and character, clearly African. All I know is that an American-style pizza made all the world right, even if just for a few moments. Another beautiful sunset, restful sleep, and morning beckoned me to the beach. And so, after walking 5 km in the wrong direction, sinking up to my knees in mud and frog poo, becoming the village attraction, and getting redirected, I found my way to the back of a flatbed truck. A hour later, I found myself standing in the Indian Ocean, amazed at the size of the beach, amused at the small waves, and longing for some shade. Within a few minutes, I located some trees fairly close to the sand and waves, pulled out my hammock, and plopped down for some reading and a nap. Had hunger not interrupted my nap, I might still be there now. With some hesitation, I reintroduced my feet to the ground and headed home.
The return trip was more of the same story, sans an amazing hitch. Frigid, frustrating, and forgettable (I wish I could forget the transportation, not the trip). The return trip also gave me time to ponder many things such as "why didn't I bring a coat?", "are we there yet?", "will the border authorities hassle me on the way back as well?", and "do I want to do this again in three months?". Of course, the last question required the most (but still hardly any) thought. Three months in one community feels like no time at all. However, I can barely remember what life was like in Rwanda. A wise woman once told me that we all go through the seasons of life. Most of my life's "seasons" are coincidentally three months long but Malawi is one summer I don't want to end soon.
(a few pictures of my trip are on facebook)
On Wednesday of last week (8/24), I received word that my skills would be needed at the hospital this week (8/29 - 9/2). A sense of importance - super! However, because my visa was scheduled to expire on 9/5, I needed to immediately exit Malawi. Basically, it meant that my passport and its owner had to leave bright and early the next morning. 18 hours later, a stuffed bag and a couple books escorted me to Thyolo and right onto a minibus. Mozambique, here I come! - uh no! The 60 km from Thyolo to the border required three hours of minibus frustration to traverse. At the border, the Malawian immigration hassled me for having 25,000 kwacha ($130) because people are only allowed to take 3,000 kwacha out of the country. After finally clearing that hurdle, a bike taxi argued with me, asserting my need to pay for a ride to the Mozambique immigration office. I refused him the entire 150 meters to said immigration office. Here, they fussed that I didn't have my immunization document and that I hadn't initiated a visa through the consulate. They overcharged for my visa, but that seemed like a fair bargain for breaking so many laws.
Across the border in Milange, it's an entirely different world. Everyone uses the same language (at least the first 10 km), cell phone company, and side of the road, but the differences were astounding. Cleanliness (much worse), population (much more sparse), general layout of the town (spacious) - it was all strange. I hoped to score a bus or matola or something to the major city of Mocuba. Two hours of waiting at the "bus depot" yielded my first opportunity and success - the most luxurious vehicle I have sat inside in a year. After four hours in a tumble freeze dryer (bouncy, cold, and dehydrated), I was happily in Mocuba for the night. The next morning, whilst foraging for a bakery,I stumbled into a bus going to Quelimane, which is where I wanted to go (buses travel in the eastern part of the country frequently, just not to/from Milange). A few more hours of misery accompanied me on my journey, but the quaintness of the town quickly quelled that. Quelimane is like an avocado, papaya, and lemon juice soup for your granola (thank you Chrislyn!). The landscape is like a Caribbean island. The architecture looks Caribbean and Iberian. Business is Middle Eastern and Indian. Yet the majority of people are, by look and character, clearly African. All I know is that an American-style pizza made all the world right, even if just for a few moments. Another beautiful sunset, restful sleep, and morning beckoned me to the beach. And so, after walking 5 km in the wrong direction, sinking up to my knees in mud and frog poo, becoming the village attraction, and getting redirected, I found my way to the back of a flatbed truck. A hour later, I found myself standing in the Indian Ocean, amazed at the size of the beach, amused at the small waves, and longing for some shade. Within a few minutes, I located some trees fairly close to the sand and waves, pulled out my hammock, and plopped down for some reading and a nap. Had hunger not interrupted my nap, I might still be there now. With some hesitation, I reintroduced my feet to the ground and headed home.
The return trip was more of the same story, sans an amazing hitch. Frigid, frustrating, and forgettable (I wish I could forget the transportation, not the trip). The return trip also gave me time to ponder many things such as "why didn't I bring a coat?", "are we there yet?", "will the border authorities hassle me on the way back as well?", and "do I want to do this again in three months?". Of course, the last question required the most (but still hardly any) thought. Three months in one community feels like no time at all. However, I can barely remember what life was like in Rwanda. A wise woman once told me that we all go through the seasons of life. Most of my life's "seasons" are coincidentally three months long but Malawi is one summer I don't want to end soon.
(a few pictures of my trip are on facebook)
Thursday, September 1, 2011
A little warmth
A couple weeks ago, I got shuffled around the mission. My house was temporarily repurposed as an "executive guest house" of sorts. I went from having two housemates in a fairly spacious casa to sharing a single room with those two people. Our new room was smaller than my old room but I was thankful for amenities. First of all, carpet lined the floor. Let me tell you, when your house lacks heating and it's 60 when you wake up, a concrete floor torments more than nails on a chalkboard. A pressurized water heater was also a welcomed addition to my life. Our old house had a water heater, but it had 2 feet of head (a way to measure water pressure. For reference, most of you would complain if you had less than 30 feet of head). The old shower was like having a mouse weep on your shoulder. Since being granted such a lovely luxury, I feel like my personal hygiene has somewhat improved. After my recent trip to Mozambique, a quality bath was in order. You know how you sometimes have a day where you just feel dirty. Your face may be a little gritty and your hair a magnet for all manner of nature, but you feel that waiting a second longer to bathe would be a crime against humanity? I felt like that, and got the satisfaction of a brownish-blackish-gross pool of water in the shower. Without my new-found hot pressurized shower, my hair would still be funky, gross, and a breeding ground for bugs great and small.
The people who displaced me from my house were evangelists from the Quiet Hour. I have nothing against the ministry, but their needs and wants strained my patience (derogatory names such as "days of ruckus," "days of thunder," and "happy hour" abounded). The phrase "high-maintenance" certainly applies here. Apparently, they expected to have 4-star hotels in the African bush. Sorry to disappoint! The amount of bending we did to make their stay comfortable greatly exceeded the benefit they provided to the hospital. They journeyed here to conduct an evangelistic series in several villages around the area, like a sort of revival. At the end of their couple weeks here, they had a baptism. Total number submersed and resurrected - 1050. I don't know the demographics, previous religious exposure, or sincerity of those involved. However, you understand my skepticism if you have ever witnessed a week of prayer in an Adventist institution. About 5 days later, I sat under a spreading eucalyptus tree. A lady who had seen me crossing the border started up a chat. While waiting (somewhat patiently, slightly annoyed, and quite desperate), this lady started up a chat. Her name was Bishop Yami, a Pentecostal from Blantyre. I noticed that she wasn't always completely engaged in the conversation. About half an hour later, I saw why.
(the picture won't upload here. It's the third picture in my Mozambique album on facebook)
To give you a little background, this man had seen me (I was quite conspicuous). He introduced himself, which exhausted his knowledge of English, tried to assert my need for his assistance in finding a vehicle, and wanted money in return. I had brushed him aside despite sensing that something wasn't there. Not long after it happened, I wondered if the same thing would have happened if I had taken an interest. Was this one any different from the 1,000+ who had come to hear a white person? Which was more meaningful - the words or the act?
The people who displaced me from my house were evangelists from the Quiet Hour. I have nothing against the ministry, but their needs and wants strained my patience (derogatory names such as "days of ruckus," "days of thunder," and "happy hour" abounded). The phrase "high-maintenance" certainly applies here. Apparently, they expected to have 4-star hotels in the African bush. Sorry to disappoint! The amount of bending we did to make their stay comfortable greatly exceeded the benefit they provided to the hospital. They journeyed here to conduct an evangelistic series in several villages around the area, like a sort of revival. At the end of their couple weeks here, they had a baptism. Total number submersed and resurrected - 1050. I don't know the demographics, previous religious exposure, or sincerity of those involved. However, you understand my skepticism if you have ever witnessed a week of prayer in an Adventist institution. About 5 days later, I sat under a spreading eucalyptus tree. A lady who had seen me crossing the border started up a chat. While waiting (somewhat patiently, slightly annoyed, and quite desperate), this lady started up a chat. Her name was Bishop Yami, a Pentecostal from Blantyre. I noticed that she wasn't always completely engaged in the conversation. About half an hour later, I saw why.
(the picture won't upload here. It's the third picture in my Mozambique album on facebook)
To give you a little background, this man had seen me (I was quite conspicuous). He introduced himself, which exhausted his knowledge of English, tried to assert my need for his assistance in finding a vehicle, and wanted money in return. I had brushed him aside despite sensing that something wasn't there. Not long after it happened, I wondered if the same thing would have happened if I had taken an interest. Was this one any different from the 1,000+ who had come to hear a white person? Which was more meaningful - the words or the act?
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