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.

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.

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)

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?

Backseat drivers

This week, I have spent a fair amount of time behind the wheel. Tuesday, I blasted through town on errands for the Water Board, Mbalanguzi Renovation Project, Beit Housing Project, overdue accounts, etc. all while trying to keep track of 3 other people and where they needed to go. Wednesday, I bounced all the way to Mbalanguzi clinic (it's 25 km into the bush) and to the airport. Today, I was just a chauffeur. On Tuesday, Ed complimented me by saying I appeared to know my way around town quite well. However, Cristy asked me to take her some places in town today, very few of which I knew. I turned to her and asked, "Would you like to drive?" (this came out a bit brash even though it was supposed to be jest, pepani amai). She joked that she was content to be a backseat driver and we left it at that.

Why do we have backseat drivers? Some, such as myself, are control freaks. We can't risk our fate to the hands of others, even if our skills are inferior. A few people earnestly believe they are better at driving than whoever is actually driving. A generous dose of criticism occasionally follows, the constructive-ness can be debated. I like to think of a third group as lab rat technicians. They will happily provide helpful suggestions (turn right, change lanes, etc.) even if it's a little bit late. Otherwise, they are content to sit back, watch what happens, and come to conclusions. Occasionally, these are then proclaimed for all to hear. Finally, there are the people who are simply accustomed to driving a different way (slower/faster, aggressive/defensive, granny style/videogame tutored, male college dropout with a street racer and a sound system worth more than his house-style) and comment. But does backseat driving still qualify as such if the driver never hears it?

This week has been exceptionally frustrating, for a menagerie of reasons. There were many times when I wanted to turn to someone and say, "Since you think you can do a better job, here you go!" I see technical shortcomings around the hospital, although more often than not the problems find me. Beyond what is officially given to me are more general issues. Typically and thankfully, I'm not directly involved, but rarely do I lack an opinion. I may think "Yes, he's right", "No, that's not wasteful", "Uh oh, she is showing her knees (here, women showing their knees is considered indecent)", or "That pear bread is delicious." But is it helpful to have an opinion? Should I stick my nose where people haven't requested it be stuck? Is an outside viewpoint going to be helpful? Does playing the devil's advocate make one a heathen, a heretic, or a criminal? My goal for the week is to be less condescending (whether verbally or mentally) to people's faces and less of a flibbertigibbet behind them.

Habits

I love Nutella! Plain and simple. Absolutely anything goes with Nutella. Somethings mesh a little better than other. For instance, mangoes, bananas, and bread are better with a dab (read: glob) than tomatoes. Strangely enough, I hadn't eaten Nutella before coming to Africa, a massive mistake (and perhaps a healthier one). It has become part of my diet, a taste from home or, in this case, a reminder of it. It's things like Nutella, GPS, and driving that remind me of what I was once a member.

Another thing I have noticed is how I speak. To prevent confusion, I use some words such as chips and petrol instead of french fries and gas. The words are of much less importance than the way they are said. In order to be sure someone understands, I try to speak as clearly as possible. This often means spending more time enunciating at the expense of speed. A couple days ago, while sitting in her kitchen, Cristy offered me a hot drink. I replied, "Oh thanks, I will get it myself so I can do a little something something to it" (meaning "make it the way I like it"). In America, "little something something" is pronounced "lil' sum'n sum'n" and more mumbled than spoken. However, I had unintentionally enunciated each syllable. Cristy, being American and familiar with such phrases, turned towards me, gave me this look of "I can't believe you just said that", and laughed.

It's odd the things we bring with us, what is left at home, and what is acquired along the way. I brought clothes from home, clothes familiar to me. They were comfortable because they fit my body, my budget, and my image of myself. Those clothes are still with me although they have suffered long and have aged considerably. Likewise, I brought the "I know, therefore I do. Now I'm done, good-bye" mentality. Western society was like a house key: you don't think about it until you need to get into your own quiet place that feels secure. Many things stayed at home: grilled veggie burgers, well-paved roads to wherever I needed to go, reliable internet, and a scolding hot shower. Occasionally, life teases me and reminds me of America. But what I like the most is what's been acquired along the way (excluding some viruses and the such): appreciation of labor that doesn't require paperwork or a desk, a new-found respect for the simple act of communion, an amalgamation of what I liked about my culture with what I like about this one, just to name a few. Although I, in the somewhat distant future, may ingest copious quantities of Nutella from the comfort of the parents' sofa, I don't want to forget the things gained, the things which don't require a suitcase.

The words you don't want to hear

"This is your captain speaking. We will have a slight delay." Not some words you want to hear when sitting on the tarmac.

I have been doing my best to proceed with the water system at Mugonero Hospital. In doing so, I am torn between working towards the goal of reliable water, and working to please the donors. Too often, I must choose to listen to the donors' requests or listen to logic and reason because doing both is impossible. After hearing this and that from the donors for months, my time ran out. Patience fizzled. I couldn't take it anymore and neither could my superiors. With so much need elsewhere, I packed my bags and headed out, full of gratitude and frustration. Frustration because the people who claim to help are one of the biggest hindrances. Frustration that none of the people I had tried to help even cared. Frustration that I had spent 6 months trying to improve a hospital while accomplishing nothing more than acquiring a stack of messy papers, organizing a pile of rocks, and buying some buckets (ok, so it was a pile of quotations, a 125 cubic-meter stone foundation, and a couple 10,000 liter water tanks) because someone else thought I was incompetent. Gratitude that soon, I would be able to go to work, have more to do than I can accomplish, and go home knowing there is more to do tomorrow. Gratitude that I could soon lay in bed and be satisfied. Gratitude because of the endlessly open arms of my Malamulo family.

Would you like to know what the rest of the captain's announcement was? "We are having a problem with a valve in engine number one. Our flight engineer is going to get out and start it by hand." As I nervously looked out the window at engine number one, all that came to mind were the smiling faces waiting for me in Blantyre, Malawi, less than an hour flight away.

Now, as I blaze through a day with no end to work in sight, there are more words that I don't want to hear. "Can you fix my printer and connect me to the internet?" "You're an engineer! Here, do this!" "We need more money for this project. Is there more funding available?" "Today, we are saying farewell to (insert missionary's name)." But the words I fear most? "It's time to go back to Rwanda." Have I become too complacent and content here in Malamulo, the Loma Linda of Central Africa? Aren't we supposed to always be pushing ourselves? Am I fulfilling the command to "Go into all the world"?