When someone says stubborn, what comes to mind? Donkey? Moody children? Someone you truly believe is the epitome of imbecilic levels of recalcitrance? If you asked me what first pops into my head at such a mention, I would tell you that the answer is, quite simply, myself. It probably started after my childhood addiction to various genres of books that very few eight year olds have any desire to peruse. Should you be curious, you should know that my diet of reading material has shifted, partly by choice but primarily by circumstance.
This may have been mentioned in posts of yore, but my project in Rwanda has been transferred to other people. I suspect a reason that the donors wanted to pass the project to some Rwandans was my unwillingness to budge. In a rather frank manner, I told the donors that I wouldn't return to finish the project until they had fully developed their plan and had released the funds. I was needed elsewhere and didn't have time to sit idle. That didn't go over well. It wasn't terribly tactful, but it did remove an oxcart load of stress.
Fast forward to last week.
Twas mere days before Christmas and through the compound,
Few azungus at desks or chairs could be found.
For most had epic plans at places quite far,
But most took the bus in lieu of a car.
That left just a handful to hold down the fort,
But plenty of problems did workers report.
'This printer is causing an absolute scare!
Please fix it before I pull out my hair!'
Accounting software took a brief holiday,
For hour upon hour my nerves did it fray.
"Emergency fixes," too many to count,
The pressure to finish them started to mount.
Without any time, my decisions were made.
Consequences of such with me have they stayed.
Although some were happy by the time I went home,
Others said "Fine!" with a "Hmmph" and a groan.
At the set of the sun there was I in great need
Of encouraging words from across the sea.
"This isn't your fault, you cannot feel bad
It was going to happen, no matter how sad
You did all you knew to the best that you could
It will all work out for the ultimate good."
Despite their kind words which I desired so much,
I felt it was I who had pulled out the crutch,
Wrecking the day by my inability
To admit it's not my responsibility.
As I am learning to deal with my own stubbornness,
Which is something I very much need to address,
It's clearer to me that in order to live,
It is me who I cannot forget to forgive.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Saturday, December 24, 2011
A Holly, Jolly Grinchmas
It's just a tradition, like cinnamon rolls on Sabbath mornings or picture time in the bleak midwinter afternoons. Yet it is more binding than the Kyoto Protocol. No, it's not a fabulously festive and fatty feast, and not always is there a "Hark! the Herald Angels Sing" in the air. Whenever my sisters and I reunite in the little town of Waverly, an increasingly rare occurrence as of late, we try to watch "The Grinch" movie. Most are familiar with the Dr. Suess story, but we three Roddys of Orient, Africa, and America fill the silent night with raucous laughter during such an occasion. I don't know why, perhaps the good recitations make us rejoice with soul and voice.
But this being my second Christmas away in a strange place, some new traditions are being forged. Yet again, I sit here watching lightning overwhelm a midnight clear. Furthermore, I have been saved once again by angels from the realms of gory Christmas present return adventures or endless traffic nightmares. Will I miss it? Oh come on! You will? I think not. This year will be much quieter than last. It will be the dogs (2-3), the cats (2-3), and perhaps some foreigners (1-3). This Christmas may not have the chilly feel or the dreary look of barren trees, and the grouch deep down inside wants to rise up and follow my festive side, marring it's jolly attitude. But the lights of December in the window and the green leaves keep the grinchy side in line. Most of all, I'm excited for the unsurprising present coming my way in just a couple days, and maybe the chance to go chill out on the mountain. More on that and the number of carol references later. Care to make a guess anyway?
But this being my second Christmas away in a strange place, some new traditions are being forged. Yet again, I sit here watching lightning overwhelm a midnight clear. Furthermore, I have been saved once again by angels from the realms of gory Christmas present return adventures or endless traffic nightmares. Will I miss it? Oh come on! You will? I think not. This year will be much quieter than last. It will be the dogs (2-3), the cats (2-3), and perhaps some foreigners (1-3). This Christmas may not have the chilly feel or the dreary look of barren trees, and the grouch deep down inside wants to rise up and follow my festive side, marring it's jolly attitude. But the lights of December in the window and the green leaves keep the grinchy side in line. Most of all, I'm excited for the unsurprising present coming my way in just a couple days, and maybe the chance to go chill out on the mountain. More on that and the number of carol references later. Care to make a guess anyway?
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Hurrying for no reason
It's been a long day. It started off with a shower not working, but breakfast distracted me enough to prevent any dissatifaction. Next, we (myself, Dr. Lawson, Julia, and Chris) patiently (some moreso than others) waited for a car to take us to town. After leaving only an hour late, we finally got into town. I knew the car would be going to the airport (in the end, it didn't) but hoped it could at least get me to the other side of town. No luck. With a thousand things to do, I opted to use the slowest means of transport - feet. With 4 stops in Limbe alone, the calories started flying. Quotes, phone calls, "Do you have ____?", and all sorts of other things comprised of my stops. Then a big stroll to Blantyre with stops at the bank, the vet, 3 computer stores, and an office supply shop. By the time 12:30 rolled around, it was game over. Essentially all business completed. Lunch, grocery shopping, and hiking filled the next 3 hours, at which point I discovered something. Even though I had covered nearly 20 km on foot, it was one of the most productive days I've had in Blantyre.
Here's my theory. First of all, I walked alone. When others walk with me, it's a compromised pace, destinations that don't pertain to me, a less efficient route, and a significant dose of whining. Second of all, in this case, walking is better than driving. When driving, there are always lots of people, and I am typically in charge of transporting all of them where they need to go. Since selfishness isn't a virtue and because I don't rule the world, it decreases my personal productivity. Finally, walking ensured that I only went where I needed to go and had time to think about what I needed before arriving.
All worked out well. I finished my shopping, crushed some calories (a pizza in this case), and trudged back to catch hospital transport just 15 minutes before it left. So, today's lesson is that if you want to get something done quickly, do it in the slowest manner possible.
Here's my theory. First of all, I walked alone. When others walk with me, it's a compromised pace, destinations that don't pertain to me, a less efficient route, and a significant dose of whining. Second of all, in this case, walking is better than driving. When driving, there are always lots of people, and I am typically in charge of transporting all of them where they need to go. Since selfishness isn't a virtue and because I don't rule the world, it decreases my personal productivity. Finally, walking ensured that I only went where I needed to go and had time to think about what I needed before arriving.
All worked out well. I finished my shopping, crushed some calories (a pizza in this case), and trudged back to catch hospital transport just 15 minutes before it left. So, today's lesson is that if you want to get something done quickly, do it in the slowest manner possible.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Mosquito nets
Do you remember going camping in the summer and spritzing enough mosquito repellent on your arms/face/neck/legs/eyes to exterminate all life forms from 10 feet away? I do and always remember liking the smell even if it was 100% DEET, 100% toxic, and 100% guaranteed to repulse attractive women. Surprisingly, I can't envelop myself in such cheap diluted non-fragrant chemicals of asphyxiation. I have no mosquito repellent, and, quite honestly, no interest in obtaining any. Here in Malawi (did I tell you I am back in Malawi? I came back about 10 days ago), there are critters. This morning, I found a cockroach in my back pack, a large spider on the ceiling, a grasshopper on the indoor stairs, and gnats in the shower. Finding only 4 species was a bit odd, usually there are more. Last night, I distinctly remember slapping myself in the face for some buzzing vermin that I could hear but not see. If there were 3 dozen cockroaches in my bed or 13 divisions of army ants in my food or the fleas of a thousand camels infesting my armpits, I might complain. However, unlike at home, it is bearable to live with a small collection of these.
One topic on everyone's (ok, "everyone" is a relative term) mind is mosquitos, which means the upcoming malaria season. Mosquitos don't care much for me, but trying to sleep with one buzzing is more impossible than perpetual motion. The most common defense is a net, which seems like the most flimsy defense system ever devised. Since arriving in Africa, I have used a mosquito net about 10% of the time and haven't contracted malaria, which makes me the most fortunate person I know. Yes, there are drugs like mefloquine and doxycycline, but my personal preference is to avoid insomnia, liver damage, sun sensitivity, or whatever other side effects might befall me. But this mosquito net is not a perfect defense. For instance, gnats can breach them, which is annoying. My German friend Julian got tangled in his, which provided a good laugh. Mosquito nets aren't practical for most daytime activities either, particularly anything else that requires movement or physical contact such as fixing medical suction pumps. Mosquito nets have a purpose. However, you must leave the safety and security of your net in order to do the work given to you.
One topic on everyone's (ok, "everyone" is a relative term) mind is mosquitos, which means the upcoming malaria season. Mosquitos don't care much for me, but trying to sleep with one buzzing is more impossible than perpetual motion. The most common defense is a net, which seems like the most flimsy defense system ever devised. Since arriving in Africa, I have used a mosquito net about 10% of the time and haven't contracted malaria, which makes me the most fortunate person I know. Yes, there are drugs like mefloquine and doxycycline, but my personal preference is to avoid insomnia, liver damage, sun sensitivity, or whatever other side effects might befall me. But this mosquito net is not a perfect defense. For instance, gnats can breach them, which is annoying. My German friend Julian got tangled in his, which provided a good laugh. Mosquito nets aren't practical for most daytime activities either, particularly anything else that requires movement or physical contact such as fixing medical suction pumps. Mosquito nets have a purpose. However, you must leave the safety and security of your net in order to do the work given to you.
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Star Wars
"A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away..." just about sums things up, don't you think? Ok, perhaps galaxy is not the correct word but it certainly comes close to it. Some of us think that a long time ago refers to yesterday, and the gap between then and now qualifies as an eternity. I don't claim to disagree. Likewise, "far, far away" seriously depends upon your budget and available forms of transport. But what about the actual story? Perhaps it will read a little like this:
"The land of Nyassa, once under control of the Empire, has gained independence. But a new threat looms on the horizon. The Death Star, designed for protection, has grown in power, wreaking havoc on the federation that these fragile worlds desperately need to survive. On the verge of collapse, a few brave and faithful ones have returned to stem the tide. If they succeed, a new generation will carry on the work. If they fail, nobody will take their place. The fate of all hangs in the balance...."
Maybe our vehicles use overdrive instead of hyperdrive, and we avoid potholes rather than asteroids. Local names such as Mubuga and Nyirangongo are as alien as Naboo or Tatooine. But consider the essence of it all. What is actually happening? The just cause (not just here, but for the sake of argument) appears lovely but unattainable because of the desire by some to rule with an iron (or at least lead, heavy but malleable) fist. The masters get a sense of foreshadowing because history often repeats itself. Padawans, such as myself, still have much to learn from those who have seen how the Force can corrupt or enrich. It may not all culminate in an epic showdown next week, but to what end is this all headed? The return of the Jedi, whether or not they have yet left, is much needed if there is to be peace and order.
In lieu of my situation, does anyone want to guess what I actually said? If you didn't understand all of it, don't worry, very few, if any at all, will comprehend it.
"The land of Nyassa, once under control of the Empire, has gained independence. But a new threat looms on the horizon. The Death Star, designed for protection, has grown in power, wreaking havoc on the federation that these fragile worlds desperately need to survive. On the verge of collapse, a few brave and faithful ones have returned to stem the tide. If they succeed, a new generation will carry on the work. If they fail, nobody will take their place. The fate of all hangs in the balance...."
Maybe our vehicles use overdrive instead of hyperdrive, and we avoid potholes rather than asteroids. Local names such as Mubuga and Nyirangongo are as alien as Naboo or Tatooine. But consider the essence of it all. What is actually happening? The just cause (not just here, but for the sake of argument) appears lovely but unattainable because of the desire by some to rule with an iron (or at least lead, heavy but malleable) fist. The masters get a sense of foreshadowing because history often repeats itself. Padawans, such as myself, still have much to learn from those who have seen how the Force can corrupt or enrich. It may not all culminate in an epic showdown next week, but to what end is this all headed? The return of the Jedi, whether or not they have yet left, is much needed if there is to be peace and order.
In lieu of my situation, does anyone want to guess what I actually said? If you didn't understand all of it, don't worry, very few, if any at all, will comprehend it.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Confusion
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.
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 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)
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