tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26868097397983892892024-03-12T19:11:40.857-07:00Teaching in AfricaJessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09842524016656289777noreply@blogger.comBlogger27125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2686809739798389289.post-56439047202332654332010-12-30T19:15:00.000-08:002010-12-30T19:20:30.310-08:00Books Shared PLEASE READ THIS FIRST!!!Hello, two versions of the books are uploaded, both in separate post. The first post is how the book actually appears. But unfortunately the preview does not allow the text to be read. The second post is a PDF which has some display problems but is readable. Please, if you find any mistakes please let me know so that I can correct it before I order a print.<br /><br />JesseJessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09842524016656289777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2686809739798389289.post-24139774898955550012010-12-30T19:14:00.000-08:002010-12-30T19:15:17.009-08:00Book 1<a title="View Malawi Computer Version on Scribd" href="http://www.scribd.com/doc/46091749/Malawi-Computer-Version" style="margin: 12px auto 6px; font: 14px Helvetica,Arial,Sans-serif; display: block; text-decoration: underline;">Malawi Computer Version</a> <object id="doc_851615993185578" name="doc_851615993185578" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://d1.scribdassets.com/ScribdViewer.swf" style="outline: medium none;" width="100%" height="600"> <param name="movie" value="http://d1.scribdassets.com/ScribdViewer.swf"> <param name="wmode" value="opaque"> <param name="bgcolor" value="#ffffff"> <param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"> <param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"> <param name="FlashVars" value="document_id=46091749&access_key=key-10qzvi6c44eha4n54j9u&page=1&viewMode=list"> <embed id="doc_851615993185578" name="doc_851615993185578" src="http://d1.scribdassets.com/ScribdViewer.swf?document_id=46091749&access_key=key-10qzvi6c44eha4n54j9u&page=1&viewMode=list" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" wmode="opaque" bgcolor="#ffffff" width="100%" height="600"></embed> </object>Jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09842524016656289777noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2686809739798389289.post-12229862175905265182010-12-30T14:30:00.001-08:002010-12-30T14:30:54.114-08:00Book<div style="text-align:left; width:450px"><object id="myWidget" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://www.blurb.com/assets/embed.swf?book_id=1893723" width="450" height="300"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"></param><param name="movie" value="http://www.blurb.com/assets/embed.swf?book_id=1893723"></param><a target="_new" href="http://www.blurb.com/books/preview/1893723?ce=blurb_ew&utm_source=widget"><img src="http://bookshow.blurb.com/bookshow/cache/P2617272/md/wcover_2.png"></img></a></object><div style="display:block;"><a href="http://www.blurb.com/bookstore/detail/1893723?ce=blurb_ew&utm_source=widget" target="_blank" style="margin:12px 3px;">Malawi by Jesse Fitzpatrick</a> | <a href="http://www.blurb.com/landing_pages/bookshow?ce=blurb_ew&utm_source=widget" target="_blank" style="margin:12px 3px;">Make Your Own Book</a></div></div>Jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09842524016656289777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2686809739798389289.post-86169293464315311522010-12-19T10:54:00.000-08:002010-12-19T11:00:12.279-08:00Home<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" 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div.WordSection1 {page:WordSection1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman","serif";} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;" lang="EN">“Hey man, how’s it being back?” Or my personal favorite, “how was <st1:place st="on">Africa</st1:place>?” Shit, I don’t know. Not exactly the response most people are expecting, especially not medical school interviewers, so I fabricated answers. As time went on I developed talking points that fit with what people expected; a nifty collection of stories and insights that portrayed a challenging but positive experience…blah, blah, blah. Not exactly prevarication, but not exactly candid. The truth is, I don’t know how to encapsulate the experiences of an entire year in a terse narrative. Ignoring this challenge, a larger obstacle remains: I'm not sure what aspect of my time in Malawi was meaningful. No doubt the experience felt impactful, but the stories I have been telling about power outages, matola rides, and cold showers are superficial. Day to day occurrences of this sort, though novel at first, have a way of fading into the background and becoming normal.<span style=""> </span>Taking cold showers did not define my <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Malawi</st1:place></st1:country-region> experience; it just makes easy conversational fodder. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;" lang="EN"><span style=""> </span>In the five months since my return to the United States I have struggled to untangle the mess of experience and emotion which surrounds Malawi in my mind. I have tried to distill the elements of Malawian life which were meaningfully unique and which transcend the superficial descriptors to which travelers so often digress. It was, and is, a personal question, one which I hope to communicate here with as much clarity as my mind allows.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;" lang="EN">At many times throughout these blog post I have commented on the opportunity which Malawi afforded me to think and, in retrospect, this was one of the most meaningful parts of the past year. I didn’t fully appreciate this until I had been back in the United States for several months. Even without the help of a full time job I still managed to fill nearly every second of my day, be it constructively or otherwise. There is always a new book to read, a friend to see, an email to respond to, or some other industry of life. Malawi is a far less stimulating environment than the United States but more importantly it is a different environment. There are different ways to spend ones time and they were not endeavors to which I was accustomed. Given several years I expect that I would have filled my life with commitments analogous to those I have in the United States, but in just eleven month my time remained remarkably unrestrained. Mr. Mtemangombe, a fellow teacher, once commented that I had more time than him because I didn’t have a real life, an astute observation which he intended without judgment. When Mr. Mtemangombe returned home he had a business to run, a family to take care of, a house under construction, and an active role in his community. I had none of these things. For the first few month of college I had noticed a similar phenomena; a plethora of free time arising from the fact that I had not yet chosen where and how to exert myself. Since life in Malawi represented an even larger departure from normality than beginning college, my idle time was even more abundant. Remove, family, friends, Gmail, television, and facebook from your life and you save a prodigious amount of time. Just as the novelty of Malawi was affording me an idleness I had never before experienced, it was also presenting me with a cornucopia of challenging and thought provoking ideas. Although the majority of my time in Malawi quickly became “ordinary,” with uncanny frequency Malawi’s many idiosyncratic quirks would emerge from the mundane and leave me scratching my head. The result was a year of engaging philosophical thought and learning that differed markedly from the type I had experienced during my formal education. Without the accountability of a teacher or an assignment I could take the time to allow questions to appear, rather than forcing them to do so. I could spend an hour entertaining an idea in the hammock; take the time to read several book on a topic; write down my thoughts and ideas without the need for a conclusion or the exigency of a deadline. The blogs provided an outlet for some of what I was thinking, but for every page posted online there are countless pages on my hard drive written without purpose or intent. It was learning for the sake of curiosity with a lack of deliberateness in which I had never before had the pleasure to indulge.<span style=""> </span>It changed my day to day experiences in a way that remained novel, even as the more superficial parts of Malawian life faded into the background. These periods of introspection and contemplation defined my time in Malawi in a way that is personally meaningful up to this day.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;" lang="EN"><span style=""> </span>I left Malawi with grand aspirations to continue this new found intellectual diligence. In most ways, I have failed. It is no coincidence that this blog post comes more than 5 months since my return to the United States and more than 6 months since my previous post. I kept telling myself that I wanted to give my feelings from Malawi time to “sink in” before I put them down on paper. In reality, continuing the introspection and contemplation I valued in Malawi has been much more difficult than I expected. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;" lang="EN">I am realizing how important the novelty in Malawi was to sparking my thinking.<span style=""> </span>Since Malawi, I first felt compelled to write a blog post after I began temping in the seedy world of Chicago construction.<span style=""> </span>Although quite different than Malawi (well, the corruption is a striking parallel), I was once again operating in a foreign environment and interacting with people from entirely different backgrounds. Just as in Malawi, an offhand comment by a coworker would give me something to ponder for the rest of the day. There was nothing inherently stimulating about Malawi; except in the sense that it utterly ravaged my autopilot and forced a clean break from the regimen of routine. This opportunity allowed for a change in perspective that was very stimulating and, I think, enabled the presence of mind I enjoyed in Malawi.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;" lang="EN">Retaining my Malawian mentality was also mired by the manner in which I returned to the United States. For better or worse, I didn’t have time to transition from Malawi to America. Literally days after arriving home I began a marathon of stressful medical school interviews. Nothing fosters genuine reflection less than the combination of severe jet lag, coffee jitters, and a medical school administrator asking you to summarize the most meaningful aspect of an entire year in Africa in one minute or less. Now that the dust has settled, my year in Malawi feels dislocated in my memory. It is as if my brain compartmentalized itself into American life and Malawian life. This made my transition back to the United States almost too effortless, since I essentially left much of my Malawian persona behind and slipped back into the person I was a year before. I became involved with friends and family, and also the daily distracters such as email, computer games, television, and facebook. <span style=""> </span>With the benefit of hindsight, I now recognize that when I left Malawi I also left behind a part of myself, a part that I hope to, with time and due diligence, incorporate back into my life. <o:p></o:p></span></p> Jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09842524016656289777noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2686809739798389289.post-82504946668986383412009-11-21T09:03:00.000-08:002009-11-21T09:15:43.984-08:00Sickness<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><div style="text-align: left;"></div><meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CLouise%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="City"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="place"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="country-region"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="PlaceName"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="PlaceType"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="State"></o:smarttagtype><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal">I made a personal promise to myself at the beginning of the year that I would not let these blogs digress into a commentary on my gastrointestinal tract. If you have appreciated this goal then read no further. For those of you who are still with me, welcome to my level. During my first few months in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Malawi</st1:place></st1:country-region> being prepared meant carrying toilet paper in my back pocket. I never had serious intestinal problems, but I never knew where or when <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Malawi</st1:place></st1:country-region>’s microscopic populace would hold a party in my gut. As time went on one of two things happened. Either my body dominated the locals or, as is more likely, the locals setup shop inside my intestines and decided to exist in a continual state of asymptomatic parasitism. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">The problems which marked my first few months in <st1:country-region st="on">Malawi</st1:country-region> had nearly faded as I entered the home stretch of my time in <st1:place st="on">Africa</st1:place>. Aside from the heat, which drenched my shirt everyday by 8am, things were going well. I had discovered that my neighbor Ayub had the best fan in a 20km radius and had consequently taken to absconding to his house in the afternoon. On one such afternoon I was basking in the afterglow of a huge afghani meal when I began to feel a dull ache in the gut. I initially passed off the pain as the result of overstuffing my shrunken stomach, but later that night the pain returned. After dinner I laid down on the bed and began massaging my abdomen and complaining to Jes who was taking her customary pre-bed shower. “When did it start?” She yelled over the shower water. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">“This afternoon at Ayub’s… I think its just gas though,” There was a pause in the conversation as Jes rinsed her hair.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">“Where does it hurt?” I moved to the left side of the bed so that I was visible through the open bathroom door. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">“Right here,” I said, jabbing a finger in my lower right abdomen. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">“Huh, weird,” said Jes as she turned off the water and began toweling off. I went back to massaging my abdomen for several minutes until Jes walked by on her way to the kitchen and said in an offhand way, “isn’t that where your appendix is?” My heart did one of those sudden big lub-dubs that is followed by near normal heart beats and a feeling of anxiety flowing from your heart to your extremities. I had actually already noticed that the pain coincided with my appendix but somehow having another person make the same observation added to the credibility. The pain was pretty minor though and I convinced myself that it would probably subside by morning. It didn’t. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">The dull ache in my abdomen continued throughout the next week in both a very reassuring and disturbing way. The pain didn’t get any worse, a fact that I used to rationalize to myself that I was okay. The pain also didn’t get any better, a most unsettling detail that provoked worst-case-scenario dramas to play out in my head as I tried to sleep. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">My medical options were slim; I could try to get the problem looked at locally or I could go to one of the private hospitals in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Blantyre</st1:place></st1:city>. When Jes had gone to Koche, the local clinic up the road, the young man examining her had proudly announced that he was going to be taking his MSCEs soon. The MSCEs are high school performance exams so Koche was obviously not a good option. The Mangochi District hospital was a little bigger and a little farther away but also did not have much to recommend it. <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Mangochi</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">District</st1:placetype> <st1:placetype st="on">Hospital</st1:placetype></st1:place> serves 50,000 people and has three doctors. An American medical student who worked there once recalled to me that he had seen ants crawling inside an IV tube attached to a person. I had heard good things about the hospitals in <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Blantyre</st1:city></st1:place>, but they were a 5 hour bus ride away, a journey not to be taken lightly. I didn’t feel justified going to <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Blantyre</st1:place></st1:city> since the pain was, admittedly, pretty minor. I had heard horror stories from a friend in college who had had appendicitis and my lackluster symptoms didn’t seem to compare. I decided to hold out a while longer and hope for the best. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I woke up Sunday morning and the pain was worse. I tried to tell myself that it was worse because I had spent the last week pushing and prodding my abdomen, but the time for rationalization was quickly passing. It was at this moment that I realized how nominal my ‘health insurance’ really was. Jes and I had both purchased catastrophic travel insurance before we left the states. The policy, aside from having a high deductible, was pretty good. It would airlift you out in case of emergency and would pay up to two million dollars. Yet before you can be flown out of country you need to find a plane, that means <st1:city st="on">Blantyre</st1:city> or <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Lilongwe</st1:city></st1:place>. Both cities are hours away on bad roads and I sincerely doubt a leer jet is standing by. As comforting as those travel insurance plans feel, I suspect Jes and I were, and are, at the mercy of local medicine in nearly all emergency scenarios. As I faced the prospect of acute appendicitis, my options were really no greater than a well to do Malawian. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">I decided that I had to act now as it would take a considerable amount of time to access medical care. I talked to Jes and we made the decision to go to <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Blantyre</st1:place></st1:city> if it was appendicitis. Mr. Sibale, the director of MCV, was at the campus on Sunday and we discussed my options. He knew a doctor at a local private clinic that I could probably see Monday morning with little delay. ‘Little delay’ was key since a visit to the district hospital could mean waiting the better part of a day. Every time I walk past the district hospital I see a meandering line of people emerging from the entrance, baking in the blistering sun. The line moves so slowly that people can be seen sitting or sprawled on their backs as they wait. I resigned myself to the fact that I would have to wait till Monday for any answers. Much of the country closes down on the weekends and this, to some extent, includes transportation and medical services. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Monday morning came and the pain was worse. As I went to the breakfast table I felt my abdomen jarred by pain from the movement of walking. Jes joked that it was probably because I was so heavy footed, but her teasing manor couldn’t mask the nervous edge in her voice. I didn’t feel like eating so I drank a protein shake while Jes picked at some bread and mangoes. Sibale arrived at 8am. I stepped gingerly into the front car seat and bade farewell to Jes. We had both decided she should stay and pack incase we had to go to <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Blantyre</st1:place></st1:city>. The 30 minute drive to the clinic was mostly paved but bumpy dirt patches caused me to rise off the seat in a vain attempt to shield my abdomen from the rough road. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">The clinic was part of an Islamic charity that has a large compound with a school and a large garden. The school and the garden looked well maintained and I became hopeful that the clinic was equally cared for. It was, but unfortunately quality does not go unnoticed in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Malawi</st1:place></st1:country-region>. Several men were sprawled out on the front steps and every available seat and patch of floor was occupied by sick looking people. I was ushered over to the check-in desk where the attendant promptly asked to see my health book. A health book is a small notebook used for medical records. It has things like your weight, age, sex, and notes from past clinic visits. Never having visited a Malawian clinic in a patent capacity, I had no health book. Every clinic is pretty strict about patients having their health books and seeing as I have chewed out patients for not bringing them I really couldn’t blame the attendant’s instance. Fifty cents later and I was the proud owner of a Malawian health book, yahoo, only $2499.50 more until I satisfy my insurance deductible. I was then ushered over to a line of chairs against the back wall. After several minutes of waiting someone came out of the door to the right of the chairs and the person seated next to the door rose to enter the examination room. Immediately, every other person in line shifted to the next seat with amazing speed, considering most were probably sick. I was reading at the time and kind of missed the cue so was leapfrogged by the woman behind me. ‘Oh well, I’ll get it next time,’ I thought. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">After five or six more seat changes I was the one entering the examination room. I was pretty thrilled; the queue had only taken about a half hour. Inside, there were two women, a small bed, a scale, and an old-school blood pressure machine. I immediately realized this was not the doctor’s office, just the pre-doctor screening. I guess there are hoops to jump through in every country. I was weighed (147lbs, okay I have lost some weight on the beans and rice diet) and had my blood pressure taken (120/80 – pretty good numbers, guess I am not dying yet). I was then ushered to the next, longer, line of chairs. To my relief, the door at the end of this line read, “doctor’s office.” Forty minutes later and I was face to face with a doctor with just enough gray hairs to exude a reassuring and competent manner. I had done some research on appendicitis and so tried my best to convey actual symptoms without imagined or embellished details which always occur after one reads what they are ‘supposed’ to be feeling. The doctor asked me some questions and did all the physical appendicitis tests. “Well,” he said, “I think you have acute appendicitis.” He started writing in my health book. Reading his scrawl upside down I saw the entry: refer to <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Mangochi</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">District</st1:placetype> <st1:placetype st="on">Hospital</st1:placetype></st1:place> for management. “So you think I should go to <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Mangochi</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">District</st1:placetype> <st1:placetype st="on">Hospital</st1:placetype></st1:place>?” I asked. He looked up, a bit startled that I had been reading his notes. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">“Mangochi is where we refer appendicitis cases,” he said in a voice that sounded like he used this line frequently.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">“So they can treat appendicitis at the district hospital?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">“Well it where we refer patients for appendicitis.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">“I heard that,” I said, “but would you recommend going there?” He stopped writing momentarily and fixed me with a gaze that for the first time suggested he was pulling out of automaton mode. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">“Well, if you need surgery you may want to go to <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Blantyre</st1:place></st1:city>,” he said.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">“Do you think I will need surgery?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">“In my experience most appendicitis cases are surgical.” He paused again, and then said in a rather frank voice,
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">“You should go to <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Blantyre</st1:place></st1:city>.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">“That’s what I needed to know,” I said, and thanked him for his assistance. He gave me some useful information on hospitals in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Blantyre</st1:place></st1:city> and within minutes I was on the phone to Jes. “We’re going to <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Blantyre</st1:place></st1:city>,” I shouted into the phone as the SUV bounced along the bumpy road. Jes had spent the morning wrangling transport and had serendipitously been connected with Octavio. Octavio is the former ambassador of <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Portugal</st1:place></st1:country-region> and I had spoken with him on several occasions as he often stays at his lakeshore chalet near MCV. He happened to be returning to <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Blantyre</st1:city></st1:place> with his wife, and upon hearing about my medical predicament, had moved up his departure time. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I decided to remain in Mangochi since it was on the way to <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Blantyre</st1:place></st1:city>. I waited on the dusty steps of Peoples, the local quickie mart chain. The sun was overhead and the temperature was steadily climbing into the mid-nineties. I pushed on my abdomen to see if the pain had gotten better. Ouch! Still there. After about a half hour of imagining a gruesome death on the steps of Peoples, Octavio’s gleaming Toyota Land Cruiser arrived. Octavio was dressed in a smart polo and the air conditioning was blasting. As I stepped into the car I felt as if I was also stepping out of <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Malawi</st1:place></st1:country-region>…well, at least out of Mangochi. In just two and a half hours –a full three hours faster than the bus – we arrived in <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Blantyre</st1:city></st1:place>. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Jes and I had decided upon the 7<sup>th</sup> Day Adventist hospital which came with good reviews from everyone we talked to. Their slogan is: we care, god heals. I secretly hoped the hospital also healed, but was prepared to accept intervention on my behalf from any source. After proving that we had adequate financial resources (in my case, being white was enough), I was ushered back to a waiting room that was so cold I was shivering within minutes (in retrospect the room was probably in the 70’s, but these days anything below 80 is too cold). </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">My doctor was a young and very nice Chinese man with an American accent. He became excited upon hearing that I was here volunteering for the year. “That’s how I started out in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Malawi</st1:place></st1:country-region> too,” he said, and then with a sheepish look added,” and I never left.” After a bit of poking a prodding he said, “I am going to admit you and call the surgeon for a consult, it does present like appendicitis.” The doctor seemed worried about my condition and before I left the examination room the surgeon had been called and was on his way. I was promptly put in a wheelchair and wheeled to the ward, a trip that actually involved going outside and down an alley. Nice to know I am still in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Malawi</st1:place></st1:country-region>. As I was taken down a barren but very clean hallway I couldn’t help but feel <span style=""> </span>as ifI was in the 50’s. Nurses (all female) walked up and down the corridors wearing white dress uniforms with little white hats. My room was painted white and was barren except for a curtain and an old-style iron frame bed. Behind the curtain was my roommate, an older and well-off Malawian man. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">The surgeon also poked and prodded me and after asking several questions said, “I don’t think this is appendicitis; wrong place wrong symptoms. It could be an infected caecum. We will give you IV antibiotics tonight and if it doesn’t get better we will operate tomorrow.” The surgeon left and I picked up War and Peace and prepared for a long night in the hospital. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">A small placard on the wall said, “Visiting hours strictly enforced. Patients will be billed for unauthorized visitors present outside of visiting hours.” The approved visitation times were very short and I thought the stipulation seemed rather strict. Visiting hours were also maintained at the hospital I worked at during college, but the rules were pretty lenient and almost anyone could visit at anytime if they checked in. The rules at the Adventist hospital also seemed at odds with the attitude of my doctor, who had encouraged Jes to stay with me, even through the night. The rationale behind the visitation rules became clear when, at 5:30, the hospital was besieged by an army of visitors. The halls were suddenly filled with a mass of talking bustling people darting in and out of rooms. My roommate had about 30 visitors crowed around his bed. Visitors entered the room single file dressed in their Sunday best. They all spoke with my roommate briefly, then relegated themselves to the far side of the bed and stood in respectful silence while others took their turn. Visitors entered in phases, and although there were never fewer than 20 people in the room, it was obvious the different visitors belonged to different parts of my roommate’s life. Some groups interacted with the intimacy and familiarity of family, while other groups were clearly professional associates.<span style=""> </span>Many visitors, upon noticing my glaring lack of visitors, came over to talk to me. It was quite nice to have the company and I ended up meeting the author of the biology textbook Jes uses in her class. As much as I have bashed Malawian textbooks in past posts, his is one of the better ones. Upon hearing I was from <st1:place st="on"><st1:state st="on">Oregon</st1:state></st1:place> he became excited, exclaiming that he had done his undergrad at Whitman, small world.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">After the half hour visitation period had passed I gained a full appreciation for the strict rules enforced by the hospital. All the people are nice, but very exhausting. <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">United States</st1:place></st1:country-region> hospitals can escape with lenient visitation policies because no one comes to visit. Okay, that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but in the entire year I worked at Penrose St. Francis Hospital in Colorado Springs I did not see as many visitors as I saw in just a half hour in the Blantyre hospital. I have come to the opinion that everyone and their uncle, their neighbor, and their distant cousin visits hospitals in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Malawi</st1:place></st1:country-region>. Seeing the positive affect these visits had on my roommate really made a strong case, in my mind, that we need to step it up in the old <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">USA</st1:place></st1:country-region>. The visitors even improved my mood since my roommate, in true <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Malawi</st1:place></st1:country-region> style, shared his extra visitors with me.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">My first night in the hospital (or any hospital for that matter) strangely reminded me of trying to sleep on a long airplane flight. People kept waking me every 3 hours to tale my blood pressure and refilled my IV. Jes, feeling guilty about sleeping in my bed in the presence of sisters (all the nurses are nuns), had been sleeping on the cement floor but after several hours of fortitude was overcome with weariness. The nurse, upon entering the room to find Jes in my bed, made a comment along the lines of: “what took you so long.” Morning came slowly but was punctuated by another half hour of visitation when my roommate once again entertained dozens of guests. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I spent the following day in the hospital in a manic cycle as my abdominal pain fluctuated from better to worse to better. By the end of the day the pain was a bit better and the surgeon decided that my problem was actually an intestinal block which should pass with proper medication. I was pretty stir-crazy by this point so was very in favor of being discharged. The surgeon agreed that I was probably safe to leave but recommended I stay close by until the symptoms completely disappeared. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">I am feeling completely better now and am back in Mangochi. The experience made me appreciate how accessible quality medical care is in the <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">United States</st1:place></st1:country-region>. I was in one of the best hospitals in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Malawi</st1:place></st1:country-region> and there were no CAT-scans, no MRIs, and I suspect, few specialists. There was a poster on the wall advertising the visitation of a neurosurgeon to <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Blantyre</st1:place></st1:city>. Apparently a neurosurgeon from <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">South Africa</st1:place></st1:country-region> spends part of his year visiting, for several days each, seven sub-Saharan African countries. The poster listed the dates he would be in each country and stressed he was only doing consults. While this neurosurgeon is shared by seven countries, my home town of 50,000 people has two neurosurgeons to itself. The level of care available in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Malawi</st1:place></st1:country-region>, even at the best institutions, is limited. Imagine having access to care only as sophisticated as a community clinic in the <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">United States</st1:place></st1:country-region>. Who do you know who would be suffering? Who do you know who would be dead?</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p> Jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09842524016656289777noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2686809739798389289.post-69310511609614940822009-11-08T11:33:00.000-08:002009-11-08T11:35:52.999-08:00It’s the Economy StupidIn Malawi, one has a lot of time to think. I think while I pump water (Jes and I pump all our water with an MSR hand-pump), I think while I walk down the road, and I think with quite little distraction when the power goes out every night at 6pm. What has come as quite a shock is that my mind has chosen to occupy itself with economics during these moments of monotony. In college, Adam Smith was about the only economic theorist I read. Over the last several months I have been kicking myself for never taking an economics class. I am sure many people share my regrets based on the recent bamboozling financial quagmire. However, being cutoff from all but the most superficial and inane news, my impetus for economic learning has been quite different. <br /> <br />Malawi provides a unique perspective from which to observe economics. I can literally watch the flow of goods as they move from farmers to market, and as they are distributed from wholesalers along a chain of increasingly smaller, more expensive, and more remote shops. When I walk into the market and see only one stand selling tomatoes, I know the price will be steep. A haggling system also makes painfully clear that prices are motivated, not by value or cost of production, but by what someone is willing to pay. In the United States, although the same forces of competition and scale are at work, they are shrouded from view by an economic system so large and complex that it operates beyond public perception.<br /> <br />Poverty is probably the most visible economic phenomena in Malawi. The last time I saw poverty as severe was on a school trip to India several years ago. I remember wondering why people, who appear to contain the same intelligence and ability as Americans, have so much less wealth. The question seemed simple enough, and I asked several of the economic majors on the trip. Their answers were never satisfying and seemed to explain the poverty simply by restating it. “Indians are poor because the country has a low GDP,” and, “people are poor because their wages are low,” were common responses. The response concerning low wages progressed my question, but simply shifted the quintessence of my query to wages; why are wages low? After returning to the United States and school my thoughts were diverted to more immediate concerns. <br /> <br />In Africa, however, the question resurfaced, and I once again started asking people about the cause of poverty. Malawians usually have two responses to this question. First, they claim that Malawi is not poor, only its people. Now this sounds nonsensical at first, but it is really a statement about wealth distribution. Malawians see BMWs drive down the road, they see wealthy resort owners, and they assume that the wealth is there and that they aren’t getting their share. As appealing as this explanation is, it is utter hogwash. In a country where there are few natural resources and the per capita income hovers around 500 US dollars, even the most egalitarian economic distribution would still leave Malawi, and its people, poor. <br /><br />The second rationalization I get from Malawians is that the country is lazy. This explanation is really a statement about how hard and how much Malawians work. It is true that the country enjoys a more relaxed professional culture than America. People take long lunch breaks, take mid-day naps, and work far fewer hours than Americans. However, when I see a Malawian tirelessly building a house in 100 degree heat, or carrying lumber for 10km on foot, I can’t believe Malawians are categorically lazy. Even if Malawians do work less than Americans, say 4 hours instead of 8 hours per day, the pay differential should be one half, not one orders of magnitude greater. <br /> <br />Although the laziness argument is a bit of a scapegoat, it did make me think about how much Malawians really accomplish with their labors. I was recently provided with a rather illuminating example at a roadside basket stand. An elderly woman sat on the ground, surrounded by stacks of woven baskets, mats, and little miniature cars targeted at tourists. I asked the woman how long it took her to weave one of her mats and she replied that it took about a day and a half. A person working in a factory in the United States could probably produce 100 or more such mats in the same amount of time. It was at this moment I realized the answer to my question. Wealth is simply the result of productivity. A person who creates 100 mats will have 100 times the wealth and purchasing power as a person who creates one mat. The man who hauls lumber on his back will probably work harder than a man transporting lumber with a truck, but he will transports far less lumber and therefore have far less wealth. At the rate Malawians weave mats and transport lumber, a considerable number of people are required to satisfy the country’s need for mats and lumber transport. In the United States, those same people are free to pursue other endeavors of production. They make cars, make television, build houses, and create the multitude of things we associate with wealthy societies. <br /><br />Overall, Malawi’s human capital is probably held tied up most by its unproductive agriculture. Malawian farmers till their fields by hand and, as a result, cultivate far less land than a mechanized farmer. The national statistics are staggering; 87% of the population is employed in farming, not because Malawi is a prodigious agriculture exporter (although they do export food), but because unproductive farming necessitates massive human capital. In a developed country only 2-3% of the population is needed to produce sufficient food.<br /><br />It seems clear that Malawians are poor because their overall productivity is low, however, within specific sectors of the economy the productivity argument appears to break down. What about teachers? Malawian teachers provide an inestimably valuable product and produce it at productivities roughly equivalent to their higher paid American counterparts (In some instances the teachers in Malawi may actually be more productive due to larger class sizes). If compensation is related to productivity, why then are Malawian teachers paid 2,500 dollars a year while American teachers receive more than ten times as much. I only saw the reason after I accepted that teachers, like other service professionals, don’t really produce anything. Now this seems harsh, especially given my current occupation. But to admit that teachers (and people in other service professions) are unproductive is not to say their labors are without value. Education and other service sectors are like oil to the economic engine; it aids the productivity and functionality of the engine, without actually providing the power or means of movement. The educational sector trains workers and develops production technologies. The health sector keeps everyone alive so that they can continue to work. And the financial sector determines how to distribute capital so that it best increases productivity and growth (at least in theory). Nowhere in these activities are the material goods associated with wealth produced. Therefore, the compensation of individuals in the services sector is inextricably tied to the wealth of the industrial complex that surrounds it. The teachers in Malawi are paid by student fees which are collected from families that are employed unproductively. The teachers can only charge what families can afford to pay and this fact limits the wages of Malawian teachers as well as all other service professionals. <br /><br />Even from the examples of the basket weaver and the lumber transporter the root of Malawi’s low productivity becomes obvious, technology. The basket company in the United States uses machines to construct the baskets. A transport company uses trucks driven on paved roads, a practice far more efficient than carrying freight by hand over rough ground. Observing the consequences of low productivity in Malawi has given me a new appreciation for the touchy issue of automation in the United States. <br /><br />Whenever a new machine or process eliminates jobs in the United States there is public outcry. Generally such occasions are viewed as evil companies maximizing profits at the expense of workers. I don’t really care to debate the morality of businesses, but looking at the end result of automation is instructive. Lets assume a new machine is created that eliminates the need for bank tellers (okay this has already happened, but it is a good example nonetheless). The most visible consequence is lost jobs and this is unfortunate indeed. However, people often fail to follow the less visible consequences of automation. Some of the money once paid to employs will pay for the ATMs, which will inevitably fund new jobs in the growing ATM-making industry. The bank, at least in the long term, will also realize an increased profit since the ATMs must cost less than humans to justify their use. The bank can then use that profit in three different ways: it can lower bank fees (effectively raising the income of everyone that uses banks), it can reinvest in the company (creating more jobs), or it can invest the money outside the company (creating jobs in other industries). Even if banks choose to lower bank fees, jobs will be created because consumers will now have more money to spend or invest in different areas of the economy, growing employment in those areas. <br /><br />However, the most important effect of the ATMs is an increase in productivity. The banks continue to operate at the same capacity but with fewer employees. The laid-off workers (or to say it nicer, “liberated human capital”) can now be employed in new fields that provide new products to society. Imagine if all those people were employed at a new electronics company that produced wristwatch televisions. Everyone could have a wristwatch television; wouldn’t that be great? Well, maybe not. But some of the people could also become therapists and spiritual leaders to help people cope with the societal consequences of ubiquitous wristwatch televisions. My point is, is that liberated human and physical capital can be used in new endeavors to improve everyone’s quality of life. <br /><br />This process of ever increasing automation, efficiently, and productivity is what has allowed the United State to enjoy such a high quality of life. The absence of such a process in Malawi has left the country devastatingly poor. In the developed world, the effort we spend castigating companies for improving efficiency at the loss of jobs would probably be better spent helping the now unemployed workers retrain and retool. If you question whether this process of ever-increasing productivity is worth the turmoil caused for employees and their families, I have one bit of advice: come to Malawi. <br /><br />Most Malawians (almost 80%) live a rural subsistence lifestyle, largely due to 30 years of economic and social policy under President Banda. Because of Banda’s policies, Malawi represents the starting point of economic development. The humanitarian costs inherent in such a state of existence are staggering. The low productivity and ensuing poverty means that many are malnourished, healthcare services are appalling, and the education system is accessible to few. I think few Americans would find the standard of living in Malawi acceptable. <br /><br />The economic question de jour then becomes: how can the quality of life in Malawi best be improved? One approach is outside humanitarian aid. Malawi receives so much outside aid that it accounts for 15% of the country’s nominal GDP. The money certainly assuages some human suffering, but after a year as an aid worker I question its long-term effectiveness. Fifty years of aid-culture in Malawi has bred significant dependence and done very little to progress people’s standard of living. There are of course pockets of success, but by most social measures the country has stagnated for the past 50 years. Much of the humanitarian aid that enters Malawi also has the downside of being unsustainable, a fact that was painfully revealed to MCV (and many other NGOs) during the latest economic recession. <br /><br />Another way to increase quality of life is to increase productivity. This inevitably involves moving people away from a traditional lifestyle towards a more productive and developed economic system. For this to be realized you need technology, you need the tractors, machines, and factories that fuel affluent lifestyles. Unfortunately, Malawi lacks the capital for the significant internal investment needed for development and consequently requires external input. In short, the economy needs to become more open to investment. Before coming to Malawi, this investment-economic approach to achieving humanitarian aims always gave me pause. It always struck me as exploitive. International companies extracting huge profits while the locals receive a pittance. I was also concerned with the reports of cultural disintegration and the dilution of traditional beliefs with the popular culture of the western world. My angst with both criticisms of development has been tempered, though not eliminated, by my time in Malawi. <br /><br />Let me begin with the argument that development and globalization destroys traditional culture. Every night outside my house I am serenaded by the singing and drumming of the female boarding students. Their performance is nearly always prompted by the nightly hour-long brownout. In the unlikely event the Malawi Power Board avoids a blackout, the girls remain inside and the air is silent. The other night, as I sat listening to their performance in my sweltering hut, I began to wonder how much singing and dancing is afforded nationwide by the regular blackouts. What effect would just one more hour of electricity have on the culture heritage of Malawi? Who knows, but I suspect the singing outside my window would stop. As people’s lifestyles change it seems inevitable that beliefs and behavior will follow. However, I doubt that this cultural change will morph Malawi into a nondescript country without any semblance of locality. <br /><br />The missionaries who came to Malawi started the process of globalization over 150 year ago and still the religious character of Malawi remains as unique as ever. Yesterday I was relaxing under our school’s baobab tree with other teachers in a vain attempt to escape the mid-day heat. As the conversation turned to religion (as it so often does when a heathen such as myself is present) I asked what effect they thought Christianity and Islam had on their traditional religions. I thought the biology teacher had an interesting point; he said that the evangelical religions brought new options that were relevant in some, but not all, situations. He appreciated both his Christian and traditional beliefs and embraced both ways of thinking without any apparent contradiction. People in Malawi are always on the prowl for new religions to try; religions are almost viewed as an a la carte offering. Jes is constantly being asked to start up a Jewish group and half the teachers hold strong convictions that I should start a congregational church so they can have a go. Religion here is a smorgasbord of options and even the imported religions like Christianity and Islam have a strong local flavor. Overall, I would describe the religious culture here as more interesting and unique because of outside influences. As more culture and technology is imported into Malawi I do see some traditional culture disappearing, but just as often I see new ways being blended with old to make a culture that is uniquely Malawi. Last night I saw a group of students singing and dancing around the tinny drum beat of a cell phone speaker, giving me hope that the bane of development will fail to usurp the vivacious character of Malawi.<br /><br />From more cultural concerns, I would like to move on to the argument that investment led development is inherently exploitive. When outside companies (usually manufacturers) enter a developing country the rewards of the partnership often seem one-sided. When a company ships manufactured goods from the 3rd-world they attach an enormous mark-up, little of which is seen by those actually making the product. When I walk into an American department store and pay 50 dollars for a new pair of jeans, the thought that those making the jeans are paid less than a dollar a day is a little unsettling. Such measly wages seem almost immoral. However, after living in Malawi for a year that dollar-a-day figure doesn’t have the same shock value it once did. In Malawi, there is nothing insulting about paying a worker a dollar a day; in fact, it is a good wage that many would be happy to receive. I can actually foresee it being socially disruptive to pay factory workers significantly more than the local market income. What sort of harmful incentives would be created in an economy where a seamstress in a textiles plant makes four or five times as much as a teacher or nurse? Is that justice? Regardless of how one-sided the rewards of third world investment appear to be, it is wrong to assume that local communities do not benefit; they actually benefit a great deal.<br /><br />The MCV sewing program recently made the choice to enter into what is called piece work, basically a compensation system where companies (often international) auction out large sewing orders at very low per item rates. The piece work system is how most commercial sewing is conducted and has a bit of a stigma because it produces a ruthless bidding system that leads to low wages (at least by American standards). MCV is making prison uniforms at 70 kwacha a piece, or about 50 cents. The people working in the sewing program start at 170 kwacha a day (about 1 dollar) and are expected to produce a certain number of uniforms, though I don’t think a quota system is in place. Although piece work has a bit of a stigma, I actually applaud Nettie’s (Nettie is the director of the sewing program) decision to change the sewing program. Previously, the sewing shop was routinely empty as the tourist orders on which the program relied were infrequent. “Piece work” may not have the same cachet as “tourist boutique,” but it has allowed the sewing program to train and employ a roomful of people, giving skills and a dignified livelihood to individuals who previously had none. Even at a dollar a day, employees can save for the future, pay for their children’s education, and appreciate the stability of an income. Now when I walk into the sewing shop there is a positive vibe; people are in a great work environment and proud of their vocation. The biggest complaint I hear in Malawi is that there is no work. People want and need employment. <br /><br />As long as a humane work environment is maintained, I see nothing immoral with outside companies bringing factories to Malawi. This may feel exploitive, but for all its evils this type of investment-led-development has helped lift millions out of poverty. China, and to a lesser extent India, have both embraced this style of economic development and have seen their incomes and access to basic services increase dramatically. Meta studies have consistently shown that developing countries with open economies and high levels of external investment post much larger economic and humanitarian gains than countries relying on internal investment alone. <br /><br />I still have reservations about the future of development in Malawi. If wealthy companies enter Malawi, the lopsided power between companies and employees could easily create an environment where workers are exploited in ways far more damaging than low wages. I would be most concerned by inhumane working conditions where a disregard for human dignity could quickly nullify any humanitarian gain offered by increased wealth. I think that Malawi’s development needs to move forward cautiously and deliberately. To not move forward at all would be robbing people of a proven path towards increased productivity and prosperity.Jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09842524016656289777noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2686809739798389289.post-59256956893026157162009-10-23T07:16:00.000-07:002009-10-23T07:31:59.476-07:00Generosity…in ModerationEver since childhood we are taught that sharing is a good thing. The idea is so engrained that just last week I found myself reflexively chastising two toddlers in the nursery for hording the Tonka truck. I think that an ethic of sharing is necessary for a successful society and that people everywhere are taught, in one way or another, that sharing is important. However, after living in Malawi for nearly a year I have come to the belief that Americans are not the world’s most prolific sharers. In the United States there is a sanctity of ownership and a belief that what’s mine is mine and what’s yours is yours. There are certainly many generous Americans (many, I suspect, are reading this blog), but their generosity is viewed as a choice, not an obligation. In Malawi, the culture of sharing is embedded within a system of property ownership that is much more nebulous. The boundary between personal and communal ownership has an equilibrium that is forever moving, ebbing and flowing in response to the changing needs of individuals and communities. I have observed that there is an unspoken rule that when you have something you are expected to share, with the expectation that others will do the same when they are able. I suspect this ethic of sharing evolved from the need of communal societies to temper the ups and downs of a subsistence lifestyle. Even if the generosity of Malawians emanates from the need for a social safety net, the result is nevertheless heartwarming.<br /><br />When teachers buy sodas or popcorn, they always buy several and surreptitiously place them on other teacher’s desks. During lunch you often see a group of students huddled around a plate, one student sharing their meal with their fellow classmates. Yesterday, I was sitting at my desk grading papers while other teachers ate lunch. I hadn’t paid for lunch, not because I didn’t have the money, but because I couldn’t face another day of nsima and beans. I have nothing against nsima and beans, but the heat compounded with the culinary monotony is sometimes enough to make me skip meals. Peter, realizing that I didn’t have lunch, brought some food over to share with me. Even though teachers pay for lunch separately, the food always arrives in a communal pot and is shared by all. Even when a teacher collects their food separately they quickly surrender it to the big bowl on entry to the teacher’s room. I can never bring myself to eat on days that I haven’t paid, but I am alone in this respect. Probably only 2/3 of teachers pay on any given day, but the communal bowl usually has enough food. Jes and I secretly grumble to each other on days when the communal pot is kuchepa (Chichewa for insufficient), often absconding to our house for a few biscuits to augment the paltry portions. If other teachers share our frustration, it is well hidden. I suspect most teacher do not feel entitled, as I do, to a full lunch simply because they have paid. If you are able to pay, you do, and if you can’t, you don’t. For Malawians it is no more and no less complicated, to suggest otherwise would be uncouth. <br /><br />For me, this unconditional generosity is one of the most beautiful things about Malawi. Unfortunately, this is often the only perspective taken by outsiders. Visitors nearly always laud the generosity of Malawians, and really, how could you not within the confines of traditional morality. Although I am honestly touched by the generosity of Malawians, I do see consequences of sharing, both societal and personal, which deserved to be acknowledged. <br /><br />One problem I see with the sharing culture is the entitlement people feel for the possessions of others. The other day at school Jes passed two students quarreling over a book. Finally, one student turned to Jes and said, “make her lend me the book, she should share it.” Apparently the girl owned a biology book but didn’t want to lend it to her class mate. “But madam, he never returns my book when I lend it to him,” said the girl with the book. Jes, bemused by the entitlement of the boy, rebuked his request and explained that the girl could do with the book as she wanted. The boy stared at Jes in disbelief; it was obviously not the response he had expected and probably not the reply he would have received from a Malawian teacher. I don’t think a Malawian teacher would have gone as far as to forcibly take the book from the girl, but they would pressure the girl to share. This may seem innocuous enough –it certainly would be in the United States– but in Malawian culture a recommendation of that sort would be tantamount to an order; it would be deplorable to refuse. I see this type of forced redistribution all the time at school.<br /><br />In my form 1 class there are about six students, out of 50, who own calculators. During exams and problem sessions these six calculators get passed around the room with seemingly no preference given to the student who owns the calculator. Even during the national exams (test which are extremely important to future of students), I have seen teachers take calculators from students, without asking, and give them to students across the room. It would be comparable to having your calculator whisked away without your consent during your SAT math test. I personally believe that individuals should have a right to their possessions and that forcing students to share school supplies is unfair. However, I am willing to acknowledge that my opinion is colored by my upbringing in the United States. I understand that what is fair and unfair in Malawi is governed by a different covenant than exists in the United States. <br /><br />Morality aside, I worry that obligatory sharing often does more harm to the benefactor than it does good for the recipient. Many teachers with long commutes ride a bicycle to school and park it in the teacher’s room. Almost daily, a teacher will rush into the teacher’s room with a worried look on their face and exclaim, “where is my bicycle!” Turns out, many of the teachers who commute on foot (and live close by) like to borrow the bikes to nip home during breaks, but don’t think to ask permission. Sometimes the bikes disappear for only a few minutes, but last week one was gone for five hours. By the time the bike was returned the bike owner (who rides 18km to and from school each day) was seriously inconvenienced. The bikes have also started returning with flat tires or broken spokes with no one taking responsibility for the damage. A bike may seem like a minor possession in the United States, but near Mangochi it is often teachers’ only mode of transport. The teachers who bring bikes to school do so because they need to. It is impossible to walk 20 or 30 kilometers each day. Conversely, those who borrow bikes do so only for convenience and, through their actions, cause a large inconvenience for the bike owner. <br /><br />The manner in which the bikes are borrowed is clearly inexcusable, but one could argue that extensive sharing, even if it causes some inconvenience, would be necessary with scarce (and expensive) items (such as bikes) in poor areaa. Unfortunately, I worry that in many instances the scarcity of commodities is actually amplified by the sharing culture. Pens, which any teacher can afford in copious quantities, are always a scarce commodity around the teachers’ room. Teacher are constantly scouring the room and rooting through desks looking for extra pens. I often find that my personal stock has been pillaged from my desk. It feels like stealing to me, but I don’t think the other teachers see it that way. I suspect they would happily return my pens if I had the need, but are happy to ‘borrow’ in a semi-permanent fashion as long as I still have pens aplenty. There is no reason for a pen shortage among teachers; they are cheap and available at nearly every local shop. I think the scarcity of pens stems from teachers’ assumption that they will always be able to borrow from someone else. The teachers also realize, rightfully so, that even if they came to school with extra pens they would not be reserved for their exclusive use. The sharing culture actually generates a strong disincentive against bringing pens, and in doing so, creates an artificial shortage which frequently disrupts the workday. <br /><br />I fear the sharing culture causes far more widespread problems than simple pen shortages. Teachers are constantly complaining that they are unable to save for the future because the moment they accumulate any capital, be it goats or money, they are expected to provide for an ever-increasing proportion of their family and community. One employee at MCV was recently forced to rent a personal apartment in a nearby town because whenever he brought money or personal items to his home village, they were taken from his room and ‘redistributed’ within his family. If an individual cannot have personal ownership they cannot rely on their innate ambition to better their condition, they cannot plan for the future or invest prudentially. If capital is dispersed the moment any concentration of it exists, it prevents the type of long term investments that are needed by an economy. Imagine a shrewd farmer who dreams of building a granary or opening a market. Both endeavors require that the farmer save his resources so that he may afford the upfront costs. If the resources are wrested from farmer’s the moment they accumulate, the granary and the market will never be built. The money will instead be spent on smaller items which almost certainly contribute less to the economic development of the region. The economic development of a society and a country begins with the economic efforts of individuals and without an incentive for these efforts the economic progress of the country is stymied. I think this is happening in Malawi.<br /><br />I am still impressed by the generosity of Malawians. I still believe sharing is a good thing. But within these beliefs I also see drawbacks of excessive sharing. I can appreciate how communal ownership and sharing obstruct the progress of Malawi, and I can appreciate the value inherent in moderate selfishness. Living in Malawi has made me recognize the credence and insight of Adam Smith when he wrote, “it is not from the benevolence of the butcher, the brewer or the baker, that we expect our dinner, but from their regard to their own self interest… Every individual endeavors to employ his capital so that its produce may be of the greatest value…by pursuing his own interest he frequently promoters that of the society more effectively that he really intends to promote it.”Jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09842524016656289777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2686809739798389289.post-76157819727311517502009-10-06T07:19:00.000-07:002009-10-06T07:32:25.634-07:00Mysterious friendsOf all the teachers I work with at MCV, Zamizan was probably the one in the situation most similar to my own (Jes excluded of course). He was new to MCV, having just graduated from college in Blantyre. He had not studied to be a teacher but, for some reason or another, found himself far from home teaching at Gracious Secondary School (the MCV school). During school breaks he would endure the segmented 20 hour bus ride to his home village in the northern hills of Malawi. Aside from these infrequent excursions he lived on MCV grounds, isolated, except for Jes, myself, and the boarding students. As an unattached bachelor, he quickly became the boarding master; a job to which he devoted himself entirely. He dutifully arrived at school each morning long before other teachers to unlock classrooms. After dinner, Zamizan would return to school so that boarding students could use the electric lights to study. Often I would hear him leading students back to the dorms at eight or nine o’clock at night. <br /><br />At school his quiet assiduity stood out. While other teachers engaged in animated debates in the teachers’ room, Zamizan would busy himself grading papers or helping students. His taciturn manor often gave him an air of composure and contemplation I didn’t commonly see in Malawians. I always secretly wondered about Zamizan’s past since he was so different from other teachers. The mystery thickened when Zamizan showed up at school with a Toyota Corolla. For a man that lived in a 200 square foot cement room without electricity or running water, a car seemed an unexpected extravagance. The car also hinted at an undisclosed past, since such purchases are far beyond the means of a Malawian teacher’s salary.<br /><br />Several weeks ago the secret came out. It started in the teacher’s room as hushed whispers. “Did you hear about Zamizan?” “Yes, how long does he have before he has to leave?” “He is the big man now.” It turned out that Zamizan’s father, who recently passed away (and left Zamizan the car), had been a paramount chief of the Ngoni tribe. The Ngoni is the largest tribe in Malawi and although his father was not the head chief, he still presided over an area of more than 50,000 people. The Malawian government embraces tribal sovereignty and gives chiefs an official position in the government, an office staff, along with a house and a generous salary. In return the chiefs are responsible for governing their district and mitigating local disputes. According to Zamizan, there are also numerous social obligations. You could think of a chief as a bit like a mayor except that they, instead of being elected, are chosen by heredity. Zamizan, as luck would have it, was the eldest born and had thus been groomed his entire life for chiefdom. He had found himself at MCV through a family connection and I suspect he was biding his time until the inevitable moment his tribal responsibilities arrived. Even at MCV it was common knowledge that his father was ill, and Zamizan must have known his tenure as a teacher would be short. <br /><br />Still, I got the impression Zamizan was reluctant to take the post for which he was born. I remember Zamizan once admitting that his childhood dream was to become a mechanic, but that his father had pressured him to attend college and major in business administration. Although Zamizan certainly had the ability to be chief, I don’t think he would have chosen such a life for himself if given the chance. Chiefdom would require an extroverted persona very uncommon for Zamizan. A timely marriage would also be required and I gathered from Zamizam's expressions that this was not something he wanted just yet. His father's death also meant an abrupt end to Zamizan's life at MCV. Zamizan enjoyed teaching and he lamented leaving his students before their exams. <br /><br />Zamizan’s situation contrasted so sharply with a democratic system that it made me appreciate a drawback of electing leaders. Take the common example of presidential or gubernatorial elections in the United States. Such high stakes offices are so difficult to obtain that only very ambitious individuals, doing whatever it takes, are likely to win. Quality candidates who are unwilling to cut shady deals or sell out to big business are usually unlikely to rise. With an inherited system, being power hungry is not a prerequisite for office. Zamizan is humble, honest, and a good listener, characteristics that are important for leadership yet so often lacking in modern American politicians. Zamizan may turn out to be a good leader precisely because he is not the type of person who would normally pursue public office. Of course the reverse is also possible, and it is for this and many other reasons that I remain sour to the idea of pushing people like Zamizan into positions for which they may not be ready and may not be interested.Jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09842524016656289777noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2686809739798389289.post-17413606642937667522009-09-19T01:54:00.000-07:002009-09-19T02:01:29.957-07:00Dancing with MenBefore Jes and I embarked to Malawi it seemed that everyone had a bit of cultural advice. I consider myself a fairly easygoing person and have yet to be perturbed or embarrassed by a cultural idiosyncrasy, that is, until now. The 2nd most popular musician in Malawi was going to be playing at my favorite local bar. A night out is a rare thing in Malawi and Jes and I were very excited. <br /><br />After dinner we peddled down to the bar on our banduka (bike with a seat in back), ignoring the nearly constant laughing and pointing of passersby. I am used to the constant gawking now, and have come to accept that I will likely be a source of amusement for Malawians up until my departure. It is my way of giving back. Jes and I on the bike have become such a quotidian source of amusement that people often look crestfallen when we walk past bikeless and will ask accusatory questions like, “Azungu, banduka lanu lili kuti? (Where is your banduka white man?)” <br /><br />We arrived at half past six and I secretly hoped we would run into Vicky, the bar owner who, in addition to being a good conversationalist, buys Jes and I rounds for which, hard as I try, I am never able to reciprocate. To my delight, Vicky was there and a beer was quickly thrust into my hand; the night was starting out good. We played some pool and drank more beers as the opening bands started up. The first few bands were pretty atrocious. Some probably had potential, but any semblance of talent was drowned out by an overbearing synthesized backbeat. To my dismay, most Malawian music groups rely heavily on synthesizers, and although I am not universally opposed to this, I feel it detracts from the acoustic bands and choirs who often employ them. <br /><br />Although the music was disappointing, the backup dancers were not. Nearly every musical performance in Malawi, no matter how small, has enthusiastic backup dancers. I suspect they aren’t always professionals, just groups of drunken guys who feel the ambiance to be incomplete without five to ten men in tight pants gyrating their hips and spiraling around the stage. The dancing, although not necessarily good, is always executed with intrepid panache, which in the opinion of this dancing-impaired blogger, is what really matters. <br /><br />As the night progressed and the music got better, the dance floor started to fill and before long everyone was dancing. To make a blanket stereotype, it is true that Africans are better than average dancers. But what I find more remarkable is the sheer magnitude of participation. Poor dancing skills are no deterrent. Alongside the rhythmically talented are those with two left feet who, in the United States, would relegate themselves to standing in dark corners. This unbridled enthusiasm for dancing means that wherever there is a beat, people congregate to dance. Several nights ago while biking home from Maldeco, I had to swerve to avoid hitting a dance party (in the middle of the road) of young boys moving to the sonorous beat of a nearby Chibuku (shake-shake) bar. Once I was awoken at MCV by timid taps on my front door. After cursing quietly and putting on sufficient clothes to chastise someone without the loss of undue dignity, I opened the door to find a group of students, eyes timidly downcast, professing their belief that the night was perfect for a dance party and would I please, if it wasn’t too much trouble, set up the speakers and lend them my Ipod. <br /><br /><br />As a fairly remarkable dancer (by racial, not dancing criteria), I was quickly accosted by potential dancing partners at the bar. This would have been fine by me, if all the suitors had not been men. Although men and women do dance together in Malawi, man on man and woman on woman partnering is common. As far as women are concerned, the social norm is analogous to what it is in the United States. With men, however, the parallel quickly breaks down. The conventions of physical distance and masculine separation seem not to exist. The other day in class we had a shortage of chairs and a student came in late and found nowhere to sit. After scouring the room, the boy walked over to his best friend and sat on his lap. Very considerate of the friend, but certainly not something you would see at a high school in the United States. <br /><br />Back at the bar, I first tried to politely decline the interested dance partners. But then persistent men started buying me drinks in the hopes I could be cajoled. Declining drinks is considered rude in Malawi and as the beers in front of me quickly multiplied, I began to weigh the consequences of my continued inaction. Jes of course thought the whole thing was hilarious and started goading me with a lecture on masculine insecurity. Eventually, I was coerced into action. <br /> <br />The actual dancing was interesting and can only be described as half dance off, half cock fight. Most normal dance moves were employed, grinding was no exception, but with the added confusion of rapid-role-reversals. The whole affair took on a competitive bent, where dancers jockeyed for position and challenges were rhythmically intense. Thankfully, expectations of me were quite low and I was rewarded for even the most modest efforts. <br /><br />I don’t think dancing with other men is something I will ever be entirely comfortable with. Sometimes it is impossible to completely step into another culture; the homegrown expectations and thinking patterns are simply too engrained. That doesn’t mean, however, that one cannot overcome some social and culture barriers. I can now hold hands as nonchalantly as a Malawian native and I am thoroughly looking forward to freaking people out on my return home.Jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09842524016656289777noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2686809739798389289.post-17801655084593560702009-09-07T09:26:00.000-07:002009-09-07T09:27:53.416-07:00Reduce, reuse, recycle, REPAIRMalawi is truly the handyman’s dream. The nascent economy produces (or at least imports) most modern machines, but unlike a more consumer-driven economy, there is a lack of choice. There are often only a few iterations per product category. For example, there are only 4 types of soda, several colors of paint, and 1 common doorknob in the Mangochi area. The simplicity is quite nice; not only is shopping straightforward, but next time you need to touch up that chipped paint on the bathroom wall you don’t need to agonize over a color match. Yet, the chief advantage of such a parsimonious system is the ubiquity of spare parts and the resultant opportunities for the do-it-your-selfer. I count myself as a proud member of this demographic, and thankfully, Jes does not. Fortunately Jes doesn’t hog repair jobs or usurp my position as head tinkerer. .<br /> <br />I am not nearly as ambitious when it comes to jury-rigging as some of my Malawian counterparts. The other day I saw a man securing an engine block to his car with the remains of an old tire. I do, however, welcome the occasional weekend project; so imagine my delight when, while reading in bed, I began to smell the unmistakable stench of burning electronics. I jumped up to find that the plug of our electric water kettle had melted into a clump of mangled plastics and wires. Luckily, a plug in Malawi is a huge contraption equipped with screws for easy repair. I suspect that the inconsistent electricity in Malawi has spawned a demand for repairable and replaceable plugs. After a quick trip to the hardware market and I was the proud owner of a new, rather expensive, electrical plug. <br /><br />The hardware market-men, as I call them, are notorious sharks who will charge ridiculous prices for simple items. I was once quoted a dollar for a rusted used 1/16in bolt that was worth a few cents. I usually try to patronize the larger established hardware stores that have fixed prices; however, I entered Mangochi around 1pm, meaning most large businesses were closed for their 2+ hour lunch break. <br /><br />With plug in hand I returned home and prepped the wires from the dysfunctional kettle. Three wires protruded from the sheath: red, blue, and yellow/green. ‘Well, this doesn’t take a genius,’ I thought, ‘no sane person would make red the ground wire.’ This left me with a fifty-fifty chance of correctly guessing the proper arrangement of wires in the plug. After a moment of vacillation, I finally settled on blue as the most likely candidate for the ground line, and chose red and green as the live wires. For anyone who would rebuke me for picking blue over green, let me state in my defense that a later investigation revealed my choice to be irrelevant. Someone “intelligently” choose red as the ground line for reasons I cannot begin to fathom. <br /><br />I gingerly plugged my kettle into the socket and…ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ… OUCH!! What’s wrong Jesse,” Jes called from the bedroom. Jes walked into the room just in time to see me try to unplug the kettle…ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ… *@#!!$%. “It shocked me again,” I said accusatorily. Jes started laughing, much to my annoyance. However, her amusement was short lived as she nonchalantly rested her elbow on the refrigerator and…OUCH…WHAT THE #%$@. “The refrigerator shocked me!” Jes exclaimed - now eyeing the refrigerator as if the once harmless appliance had acquired a nefarious agenda. These weren’t paltry shocks either, mind you; they were body-spasm-inducing, make your-arm-hurt-all-night, shocks. The rest of the night was punctuated by outbursts of curses as we were shocked by various electrical appliances throughout the house.<br /> <br />I finally managed to unplug the kettle using a long wooden stick while standing on a plastic beer crate, a stroke of brilliance to which I still refer. I am not sure exactly what happened, but I think I managed to electrify the ground line of the house when I improperly wired the kettle’s plug. The end result was that everything plugged into an electrical outlet had its chassi electrified with unbridled Malawian power. When Jes or I touched one of the electrified objects, our bodies provided a seductive electric conduit to the well grounded cement floor. This theory should only work, however, if the ground line of our house was affixed to an object with less grounding potential than yours truly (I actually suspect the outlets in the house were interconnected but never grounded to anything). This would not surprise me in the least, seeing as many Malawians view ground lines as an irritating waste of time. Many appliances and dwellings are frequently mis-wired, and I am constantly receiving low-level shocks from ovens and refrigerators that are not probably grounded. Through trial and error, I was able to construe the correct arraignment of wires for our plug. Don’t tell Jes, but as I was sweeping the next day I found the small instruction card that had fluttered, unnoticed, out of the plug and onto the floor. Jes and I have now been enjoying piping hot shock-free water for over a month. My next project is the stove, which inexplicably has only one functional burner. Wish me luck.<br /><br />Ps. If anyone with more electronics knowledge has insights or theories about what happened with the ground line, please send them my way.Jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09842524016656289777noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2686809739798389289.post-9783548503015481182009-06-26T09:20:00.000-07:002009-06-26T09:26:43.910-07:00On BriberyOne of the more prominent stereotypes of Africa purveyed in Hollywood movies is that every policeman, soldier, and government official that you cross will demand a bribe. I honestly arrived in Africa with very few preconceptions, but nevertheless came prepared to spar with crooked officials. I say, “prepared,” in a loose sense. I honestly had no idea what I would do, but played through enough scenarios in my head to know the outcomes weren’t pretty. Either I could acquiesce to the request, looking pride and money I could not afford, or refuse, and be at the mercy of the official. Even if a refusal ended with a benign outcome, I was fairly convinced I would botch the job and stand there stuttering embarrassingly before tourists who were handling their bribery with far more class. <br /><br />To my relief, Malawi has lived up to its reputation for friendliness. The police, military, and government officials here are some of the nicest people I have met. The most likely place to run into police is at roadside checkpoints, which are scattered along Malawi’s major roads. They are the government’s primary method of enforcing vehicle registration and insurance, since patrol cars are still too expensive for ordinary use. The first few times I was pulled aside my pulse quickened and my mind began to race with images of Jack Daniels and wads of cash being coyly surrendered by tanned and muscular movie protagonists. At a roadblock near the capital, I think an officer noticed my apprehension since, after returning to the car with my license, sternly said, “we have a problem here.” His frown then immediately melted into a smile and he slapped me on the back and said, “just kidding, have a great trip.” Luckily for me, the police do not seem interested in booze or money, and if they are, show no compulsion to extort it from me. There are several things, however, the police nearly always want: a friendly wave, pleasant conversation, and information regarding how good your day has been.<br /><br />The Malawian police also serve a handy dual purpose. Since the quality roads in Malawi are not accompanied by quality road signs, the police are often the only source of reliable directions. They always enquire as to your destination, and are quick to point out, always in non-judgmental way, that you took a wrong turn. I was once told how to drive half way across the country after a friendly police officer realized I had no clue where I was going. I think American cops could really improve their image by emulating the Malawian system. Of course, it might seem a tad patronizing for a police officer to ask if you are having a good day after pulling you over for running a red light. Just a hunch.<br /><br />I lack the experience to judge whether Malawi is the exception or the rule, but paging through the Africa Lonely Planet leads me to suspect the former. The pages are rife with examples of bribery scams and boarder crossings to avoid. Tourists I have met are frequently hassled at the border crossings and checkpoints of neighboring countries. I am relieved that Malawi avoids this stigma, but nevertheless cannot shirk the feeling that I am missing out on the full African experience. Okay, that’s horrible. No one should ever root for corruption; it is one of the biggest obstacles holding back Africa. Still though, after playing out bribery scenarios in your head, you start to wonder what it would really be like.<br /> <br />Luckily for me, though perhaps not for Malawi, my curiosity was satisfied by a crooked immigration officer at the airport last month. I suppose that even in a country known for its friendliness there are always a few jerks. Jes and I were on route to a Safari with Jes’s family, but first needed to clear immigration. Pat, Wendy, and Elias all had no problem, but Jes and I were told we had to meet with the immigration officer. I half expected this, since at first glance I appear to have overstayed my visa. This is not the case; I was approved for a temporary residence permit and by Malawian law, need only the paper work and not a stamped passport. I had the paper work and had handed it over with my passport, so was understandably a little irked when I was told there was a problem. <br /><br />“Well, should I go down to the immigration office?” I asked. The immigration paperwork had been courteously handled by a proxy from the airline while we licked ice-cream cones on the observation level. “Oh that’s not necessary,” relied the attendant, “he is going to come up here to talk to you.” That really should have been my first clue that something was wrong, but at the time I graciously accepted the seeming friendly offer to meet in a locale where I could finish my ice-cream unabated. <br /><br />We choose a secluded table at the corner of the cafeteria and the conversation started out cordially enough. He started with a long drawn-out speech on how Malawi doesn’t issue fines for overstayed visas. ‘Well good,’ I thought, who would open with a line like that if bribery was to come. Looking back, he was probably trying to abolish any chance of legitimately buying our freedom. Nevertheless, at the time I was put at ease and accepted that there must be a simple misunderstanding. Jes and I ardently tried to explain our situation to the officer, but he didn’t seem particularly interested in our story and kept affirming that the permit was invalid. <br /><br />Undoubtedly, Jes and I first appeared to the immigration officer as easy patsies. We look like young American tourists who overstayed their visa. He also knows that we are shortly scheduled to depart the country by plane, a scenario which probably entails subsequent expensive flights we will not want to miss. Indeed, by all accounts he should have had us over a barrel, but not all was as it seemed. Firstly, we were flying to Zambia on a private plane. There was no connecting flight, and as the only passengers, the pilot was unlikely to leave without us. Secondly, after living in Malawi for 6 months we had acquired some useful contacts and information. <br /><br />“Why don’t you call the immigration officer who handled this for us in Blantyre,” I said, as I produced a phone number from my wallet. He wasn’t expecting this; as I said earlier, I had given the bribery stuff some thought. He quickly regained his composure and withdrew a cell phone form his pocket and dialed. Jes and I have been learning the local language, but we are unusual in this respect. Most international workers don’t bother since English is so ubiquitous. Now understand that Jes and I are in no way fluent, but at the time, we knew enough to suspect the officer’s conversation was likely to a friend, and not to our contact in Blantyre. <br /><br />“I am afraid we still have a problem,” said the officer after concluding the call. He then proceeded to repeat everything he had already told us. I began to wonder whether we had been misinformed in Blantyre; maybe we really were in visa violation. After all, the immigration officer undoubtedly knew more than we, and had still said nothing blatant to suggest he was not an upstanding agent of the law. But part of me was still suspicious; little things just didn’t add up. The phone call, the discrepant information, something was wrong. I glanced to Jes and then back to the officer and noticed something peculiar. Usually uniformed men and women in Malawi have name tags, but the man before me seemed to have inconspicuously removed his. ‘That’s odd,’ I thought. “Well, what should we do?” I asked. “Well,” he said, glancing to the ceiling before reaffixing his gaze, “I could allow you to leave for humanitarian reasons.” ‘Sure, fine,’ I thought, whatever it takes to get us out of this mess. “Does that mean we could leave?” I asked. “You could leave today, but it is up to you,” the officer replied phlegmatically. What did he mean, “it was up to us.” Who in their right mind would spend their vacation dealing with entrenched bureaucracy? “You can call your friend in Blantyre yourself if you want, unfortunately my phone is out of minutes,” he said. I was pretty sure this was a lie. I was willing to bet his phone had plenty of minutes, but he knew that we probably didn’t have a Malawian cell phone and would therefore have no recourse. We did actually, have a phone that is; one that was stocked with an unusually high number of minutes that would allow us to call any official in Blantyre, no matter how protracted the conversation. We also happened to have the numbers of several people who are close friends of Malawi’s chief immigration officer. I was pretty sure that in few minutes I could have the personal cell phone number of this guy’s boss. ‘Bring it on’, I thought. I’ll call who ever I need to. And then it came, the final piece of the puzzle, the sentence that confirmed that the officer was not inept, just corrupt. “We can help each other,” he said.<br /><br />Damn, this guy really did want a bribe. I was sure he could probably detain us, but at this point I was pretty pissed off and was prepared to inconvenience myself on principle. I just hoped Jes was on board. “He wants a bribe Jesse,” said Jes very loudly. Bless her heart, she was on board. Several people at the far corners of the room glanced in our direction. The officer across the table shifted uneasily in his seat. Then Jes continued, still very loudly, “I think we should call the people in Blantyre.” To the shock of the man across the table, I quickly produced a Malawian phone and replied, “I agree, this doesn’t seem right.” I then made a show of searching through contacts to the chagrin of the officer who now realized that he had messed with the wrong two tourists. His ambivalent demeanor quickly faded and he said in a resigned voice, “I think we are okay here.” I personally still wanted to call Blantyre and bust the guy, but our plane was scheduled to depart in minutes. As we passed through the immigration gate, the officer was all smiles. “I called Blantyre and got it all worked out,” he said as I walked past. I thought, ‘yeah right,’ and looked over at Jes as she flashed me a sardonic look. <br /><br />After the feeling of ultimate victory had subsided, I began to consider whether the officer’s behavior was excusable. In the Africa Lonely Planet guide, a common boarder crossing bribery scam is described in which the author maintains that the officials “shouldn’t be blamed since they have probably have not been paid in months” (I tried to find the page number and exact quote, but the book is over 1000 pages and I failed to relocate it). During the Safari with Jes’s family, I overheard a tourist who was telling a story of how a guard demanded a bribe at a boarder crossing. He finished the story with an air of nonchalance, saying, “hey, he probably needed the money right?” I don’t know why this type of rationalization is so common. Perhaps it is fueled by a sense of guilt arising from witnessing the poverty that is so common in Africa. Perhaps people are masking their embarrassment of being cheated. Maybe stereotypes have made people so expectant, they don’t think twice. <br /><br />It is very gracious to dismiss corrupt behavior as the product of poverty, however I worry such sentiments are more of an excuse than a cause. I am not about to begrudge a mother or father that steals to feed their family, but how often is bribery done out of necessity? In my bribery experience, the immigration official had a government job, and was therefore relatively affluent. We need to be careful to not excuse behavior that has such severe consequences<br /><br />Every time a tourist pays a bribe, they are assuaging a personal risk but increasing the likelihood future travelers will encounter a dangerous situation. They are also contributing to a system of corruption that is holding back Africa. When encountering bribery, I would never encourage anyone to put themselves in physical danger, but safe countermeasures can taken. Have your documentation ready, have numbers you can call, and of course, don’t break laws or overstay visas. Most bribery occurs when the victim is at least a little at fault. If you are in the wrong, try to work through official channels even if it is inconvenient. If your relative affluence makes you uncomfortable when traveling in a poor country, donate your time or money to an NGO, but please, don’t allow a sense of guilt to rationalize corrupt behavior.Jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09842524016656289777noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2686809739798389289.post-33877385099271829682009-06-07T07:17:00.000-07:002009-06-07T07:19:37.272-07:00Laptops and Appropriate TechnologyI have been giving a lot of thought lately to the term, “appropriate technology.” The term became a buzz word a while back in the realm of development and foreign aid. The principal behind it being that developing countries should be given technology that will mesh with their lifestyle and current state of development. Proponents of the theory would argue against giving undeveloped areas medical or educational aid which relied too heavily on electricity or consistent access to technology. This could include anything from x-ray machines to computer based learning tools.<br /> Several years ago during a service project in India I saw remote villages that had benefited greatly from low tech borehole wells. The wells have no electronic parts and can be easily fixed with basic hand tools. They represent a project that would fall under the classification appropriate technology. Projects like this, and those that focus on soil reclamation and improved farming practices have provided significant improvement in peoples lives in a sustainable fashion. In the same village where I had seen the boreholes, I also saw the remnants of a failed electrification project. Several years back a centralized solar system had been installed to power basic electronic devices such as radios and lamps. After 6 months the battery had died, and without access to new acid or the electronics knowledge necessary, the equipment had been dismantled and was being used decoratively in the chief’s house. Ironically, I was visiting the village with a team from college who were installing a solar lighting system. At the time I secretly wondered whether our equipment would eventually be used aesthetically, but the time and effort I had invested in the project made it easy to ignore such thoughts. A year later I heard rumors that the solar systems were still in use, but to subsequent news I have not been privy. Overall, the experience lead me to question the practicality of technological projects in remote areas. <br /> After returning home I began reading about the One Laptop per Child (OLPC) movement. The organization was started by an MIT professor who wanted to bring computing to the children of the 3rd world. His idea was that by building a rugged laptop aimed at children, you would create a tech savvy population ready to utilize the technology necessary for development. The website featured many idyllic photos of children typing away on custom green laptops in the shadow of thatched mud huts. Aside from wanting to play with the laptops, which were admittedly pretty cool, I was skeptical. I simply could not imagine the laptops succeeding in places like the village I had visited in India. I thought the project was bound to confirm that those boring appropriate technology people were right. <br /> Fast forward several years to today. I start the day as normal. This means waking up to no power and no water. That fine, I am prepared for this now and quickly wash down the bread I had baked the night before with the water I had presciently set aside. I journey to school where, in the half hour before classes start, I quickly outline my lectures for the day. In form 1 we are starting acids and bases, this means two things: first, an excursion to the supply room, and second, that I will end the day with acid burns from lack of protective equipment. Although the school is woefully ill equipped for labs, a smattering of grants and donations over the years has left the school with some surprising equipment. Recently, during an afternoon of snooping, I found a cabinet full of chemicals (most improperly labeled), a brand new electronic scale (without batteries), and a water deionizer (wrong type of plug). Luckily for me, though unfortunate for the students, the stash remains untouched, locked away in a room which the other teachers seem nervous to enter for fear they might break something. My sense of entitlement, fostered by a childhood and adolescent in America, leaves me with no such trepidation, and I frequently hunt down the keys and go searching for something to spice up my next lesson. <br />I have made it a goal to do at least one lab per class per week. Sometimes the lab is basic; last week I rigged up a water-alcohol solution over a candle to illustrate the principals of distillation. After some of the stunts I pulled in COOL Science (a science outreach club at Colorado College), the stuff I do now seems down right lamb. Amazingly though, the students are always a great audience. During the distillation demo I actually got cheers when the water started to boil. I know these kids cook at home so boiling water shouldn’t be too exciting. Perhaps it is because these kids never get demos at school. Except for a sedimentation demo I once saw a teacher do (he ingeniously used sand and a coke bottle), I have never seen another teacher do a demo. This is a shame, since with some improvising and a little ingenuity our basic supplies can make some passable educational demos.<br />Today I was hoping to find anything labeled acid or base, and if I’m lucky, something with a chemical formula and a stated concentration. I was in the back of the room, trying to hold my breath because I had just accidentally kicked a box full of unlabeled white powder, when I saw a box of with a green cord protruding. Through a crack in the box I saw a green bevel and I was filled with disbelief. Yes!; it was a box with 15 pristine OLPC green laptops. The first thing I did, after doing a kick ass acid-base demo with color changing indicators, was spend the day playing with the laptops. <br />The laptops got some things very right and some things very wrong. A linux variant is used which is smart, since due to the proliferation of pirated software in Malawi, every computer expends half its energy following the instructions of viruses and spyware. Another smart idea is the mesh network, which automatically creates an adhoc network between all OLPC laptops in range. This is great for doing activities and lessons between the computers. A feature which allows two people to work on the same document is quite fun. Jes and I’s collaboration quickly digressed into an exchange of dirty words that ended with a small food fight. Still, I think the feature holds promise for those who show a little more maturity. The biggest drawback of the laptops is that they are designed for primary school aged children. This is a problem for two reasons. First, young children in Malawi rank slightly above a goat in the social order, so are very unlikely to ever get their hands on the laptop. Second, the games and applications that come preloaded are of limited practical use for the secondary students or adults who are likely to have access to the laptop. <br />Access is the key issue here. I found the laptops buried in a supply room and judging from the dust on the box, they had been there for a while. I conspicuity took two laptops to the teacher room and started running loud attention grabbing programs. Within minutes every teacher was huddled behind my desk, taking excitedly about the laptops. Most teachers had never seen the laptops before and expressed disbelief that I had found them in the supply room. This is nothing new, I often hear the head science teacher exclaim, “oh, we had that did we,” when I return from the supply room with some scientific contraption. Some veteran teachers (teachers who have been here more than 1 year), recalled with nostalgia when the laptops had arrived, but seemed unaware they still existed. Apparently after a short foray, they were stored away for safe keeping with every other useful item the school owns.<br />A week has passed now, and I have dutifully charge two laptops every night and delivered them to the teacher’s room every morning. After years of doing fundraising projects, I have a pet peeve for donor dollars going to waste. Someone shelled out a lot of money for the laptops, and until now, they might have invested in Chrysler for all the good it’s doing. Slowly the teachers have been cracking the green lids of the laptops and trying them out. Throughout the week, several teachers have asked whether they could take the laptops home. I made it clear that the computers did not belong to me, and encouraged them to check one out from the school. This is something the teachers are entirely free to do, but the moment I suggest entering the stockroom their interest fades. I don’t get it; the administration does nothing to discourage teachers from using supplies. The principal even mentioned she wished the teachers would better utilize the resources we do have. I got the first sign that my plan was working today when the computer teacher asked if he could use the laptops in class to illustrate networking. Because they don’t have MS Office he can’t use them in his normal lessons, so it might just be Jes and I for a while.<br />I took the laptops into my form 1 classes today as a treat for completing their physical science course work. After a stampede to the front of the room, the students were putting the term childproof to the test. I hadn’t until today appreciated the vocabulary that has evolved with the assimilation of the computer into everyday life. A quick instruction to use the mouse left kids furtively looking to the corners of the room for rodents. An instruction to click a button had half the class pushing on the screen. One kid sat in front of the computer, hands folded in his lab, giving verbal commands to no avail. Big cheers erupted when the students realized that moving their finger on the front of the laptop moved the curser. I honestly think moving the curser around would have amused most the class for the entire period. Needless to say the laptops were a big hit. I don’t think they can ever be used for education purposes, but as an introduction to computers use they are invaluable. <br />At the end of the day I am still asking myself if the computers are worth the money spent on them. The cost of the laptops was about $2300, enough to pay the tuition for 23 students for a year. Jes and I plan on using them occasionally, but I suspect that after we leave they will be relegated back to the stockroom. The computer teacher may use them to illustrate networking, but without commercial software, he can’t use them regularly in his classes. I am afraid that in the case of MCV the tech project has failed. In many ways the OPLC laptops at MCV illustrate why high-tech projects are so risky. The computer required charging, a difficult proposition with intermittent power, no converters, few plugs, and no power strips. The laptop design also failed to accommodate the population to which they were given. These inconveniences, combined with a lack of prerequisite computer knowledge, doomed the project and wasted thousands of dollars. This example would seem to demonstrate why appropriate technology should be embraced and high-tech projects dismissed. However, living in Malawi I have been exposed to a perspective which also should be given credence.<br />Please, for a moment, put yourself in the shoes of a Malawian. If someone gave you a choice between a textbook and a laptop, what would you choose? The answer is simple, you would choose the laptop. It is more interesting, more novel, and unequivocally cooler. The Malawians’ choice, and their motivations, would be the same. Malawians want they same things as you or I. They want a developed economy, cars, computers, and advanced medical care. <br />The problem with appropriate technology is that you are giving people what they need, without advancing them towards a lifestyle that they want. You are making a judgment about what is best for the person. I think that Malawians should have a voice in the aid they receive. It is not the place of the 1st world to tell the 3rd that they should be happy with better crop yield and fresh water while forgoing the technological amenities we enjoy. In developed countries, I have noticed a tendency to idealize rural or village life. In magazines like Natural Geographic, large vibrant pictures of thatched huts and traditional garb convey a quant lifestyle. The subsistence lifestyle may be quaint, but it also has some very serious drawbacks. If people want to continue living traditionally, let them. However, those who desire a more modern life should also be supported. <br />A developed lifestyle doesn’t come from bore-hole wells; it comes from more radical investments in technology. Without crazy projects like OLPC, a computer movement will never begin, and people will be trapped in a way of life with inherent disadvantages. A perfect example is illustrated in the book, Mountains Beyond Mountains. In Peru’s peasant populations, Paul Farmer treated multi-drug resistant tuberculosis with state-of-the-art medication, often spending tens of thousands of dollars per patient. At the time, the therapy was considered too expensive and impossible without access to 1st world medical facilities. Nearly all of Farmer’s patients responded to treatment, creating a paradigm shift in the field of tuberculosis care. The expensive drugs were certified for 3rd world application causing use to rise and prices to plummet. Farmer took a large risk and it paid off big. A similar but smaller risk was taken with the laptops at MCV. In the case of the laptops no benefit was realized, which begs the question, should the risk have been taken. It is impossible to answer such as question because one never knows what the outcome will be. All that is known for certain is that if enough projects are attempted, eventually one will succeed. <br />This is not an argument for high tech aid any more than it is an argument for appropriate technology. I personally think the two models of assistance need to go hand in hand. Dollar for dollar, the low tech stuff will always work better. I still believe the basics: food, water, health, and shelter need to come first. I am still skeptical of projects like OLPC. However, I also realize that the lifestyles people want will never transpire without higher risk projects. I believe that hardnosed pragmatism needs to be tempered with an acknowledgement of what people want from their lives. If people want development, and they do, the higher risk ventures are needed. Many projects like OLPC’s and Farmer’s will fail, but sometimes they will succeed, and when they do, they will do more to advance people’s quality of life than appropriate technology ever could.Jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09842524016656289777noreply@blogger.com56tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2686809739798389289.post-12215444492476507012009-06-06T03:19:00.000-07:002009-06-06T03:30:01.736-07:00Pictures from Safari<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioN53Zcjdr1L2ZalX73i7cbeEUc9zht-e0qDrBZhnfs61o5n1IRdu3GKPUrPqy5T-szB50I7s99JOwjz_iw85ka2704OuWKNRcuPXotJ9B9832uaz5uEg2DzVFSvRj22GKy5q1WPRYLm9M/s1600-h/IMG_0240.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioN53Zcjdr1L2ZalX73i7cbeEUc9zht-e0qDrBZhnfs61o5n1IRdu3GKPUrPqy5T-szB50I7s99JOwjz_iw85ka2704OuWKNRcuPXotJ9B9832uaz5uEg2DzVFSvRj22GKy5q1WPRYLm9M/s320/IMG_0240.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5344158397524360450" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN7Zj7z0idG0wcPe1xhGsljjhGlRQcv9PAIs0plszP1ck8Z2SfQu1ZyCRWGKuknui1JSvnSbWXlEKUM9hJwQNJuXVg5OxC3Us4SmXVxnt0qPlikjN2qKzSM-XgkcBfoth0PB4W22prerNm/s1600-h/IMG_0204.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN7Zj7z0idG0wcPe1xhGsljjhGlRQcv9PAIs0plszP1ck8Z2SfQu1ZyCRWGKuknui1JSvnSbWXlEKUM9hJwQNJuXVg5OxC3Us4SmXVxnt0qPlikjN2qKzSM-XgkcBfoth0PB4W22prerNm/s320/IMG_0204.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5344158399336844722" border="0" /></a><br />Ever wondered what a village looks like? Here are some shots from the sky that will take you back in time.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9L9F66xHvKLj7-NR6WB1XUl0skf7kVrUsbzM8rS0jcVwYUSv09AlMZO4-b5-gFbbqm0kUTqvtwD_un7_INB4vVjvuXm-UAnRxj1t6ClDCe3W807aOAtQnuhNJNVZzSnQLgjaeKOLV7fEn/s1600-h/DSCF3686.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9L9F66xHvKLj7-NR6WB1XUl0skf7kVrUsbzM8rS0jcVwYUSv09AlMZO4-b5-gFbbqm0kUTqvtwD_un7_INB4vVjvuXm-UAnRxj1t6ClDCe3W807aOAtQnuhNJNVZzSnQLgjaeKOLV7fEn/s320/DSCF3686.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5344158394305337922" border="0" /></a><br />Myself, next to a very large termite mound. This is one of the biggest I have seen. Keep in mind that I already climbed up about 2 feet.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3A9w2H_Eq3Cg7tzgfVDAl2TowO-ffPOSN2g7DaYRUTLLjcvO5en0ZEuzup7AFL6EqOE947ZMUyJn7K2PBLWhALzWvjxhkgFd3QKDQSqQmHY3q-s7wUjW7Z1lMjTzu6Xb2z_0Tq_MgTT2a/s1600-h/DSCF3681.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3A9w2H_Eq3Cg7tzgfVDAl2TowO-ffPOSN2g7DaYRUTLLjcvO5en0ZEuzup7AFL6EqOE947ZMUyJn7K2PBLWhALzWvjxhkgFd3QKDQSqQmHY3q-s7wUjW7Z1lMjTzu6Xb2z_0Tq_MgTT2a/s320/DSCF3681.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5344157680865725218" border="0" /></a><br />Dont move. That was what I was told.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJQIm4NA5x1aIacDaDbITD1XQs59smBKEYYzdOsrCxeonxHCKy1KC-PMdaK3BGdMvOPoSmmghdN_4EBksOINUWUawGmdJU0nwoeKSQxlllJPpto_v-_SrfNSFds8c6T_fwGPOpsL3VjAFx/s1600-h/DSCF3637.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJQIm4NA5x1aIacDaDbITD1XQs59smBKEYYzdOsrCxeonxHCKy1KC-PMdaK3BGdMvOPoSmmghdN_4EBksOINUWUawGmdJU0nwoeKSQxlllJPpto_v-_SrfNSFds8c6T_fwGPOpsL3VjAFx/s320/DSCF3637.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5344157675066409618" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvvUspsSGGdfdXfl_EHooK7cS_UHtm9UlkPYLwMaSHRfmKYjlD2ObnI-2Jt1UFfSivx0UolNLM20ovLravUWxvD_8u5tUeKMwsFTe4m-oHHR2xTmmVvfJCW0JAuNbSG6NIPXOdolCanMxY/s1600-h/DSCF3568.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvvUspsSGGdfdXfl_EHooK7cS_UHtm9UlkPYLwMaSHRfmKYjlD2ObnI-2Jt1UFfSivx0UolNLM20ovLravUWxvD_8u5tUeKMwsFTe4m-oHHR2xTmmVvfJCW0JAuNbSG6NIPXOdolCanMxY/s320/DSCF3568.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5344157677391238722" border="0" /></a><br />Jes, looking cute as always.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisalRUj9X8nqUk8m1J_AZAcbbWvCfhN5CStWlJnDTM_v4JUrZhA5HnvHHd9Y4SHH6dmUoL8vSIbyiO6KRW2FfcPFdwvMDW07sFg2htxKAyGxKDyHCymzVwc3V0ZSDEPg70zfNXAY6RG601/s1600-h/DSCF3559.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisalRUj9X8nqUk8m1J_AZAcbbWvCfhN5CStWlJnDTM_v4JUrZhA5HnvHHd9Y4SHH6dmUoL8vSIbyiO6KRW2FfcPFdwvMDW07sFg2htxKAyGxKDyHCymzVwc3V0ZSDEPg70zfNXAY6RG601/s320/DSCF3559.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5344157665327740818" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsXELNeMY9_3TNFGXFuxlt42JWngJuUrxzaV4WFlFEjDZYosKLXKWXtcYEr2Nhho4_ArMGrwdoqxtYxXe46phg6RPYKBSxLi2NgVJsnlIfYuA-Q5L_8M9S3e7Dahcd6La_4mQvz927ewd_/s1600-h/DSCF3554.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsXELNeMY9_3TNFGXFuxlt42JWngJuUrxzaV4WFlFEjDZYosKLXKWXtcYEr2Nhho4_ArMGrwdoqxtYxXe46phg6RPYKBSxLi2NgVJsnlIfYuA-Q5L_8M9S3e7Dahcd6La_4mQvz927ewd_/s320/DSCF3554.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5344157667088547730" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Check out Jes's blog for different pictures. The link is to the right.Jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09842524016656289777noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2686809739798389289.post-55420225223624890112009-05-12T09:05:00.000-07:002009-05-12T09:09:37.158-07:00Enigmatical PovertyMalawi is consistently ranked among the 5 poorest countries in the world. If you look up Malawi in the encyclopedia, ironically its entry follows that of malaria, you would find the per capital income to be 596 US dollars. I used to always be skeptical of numbers like these. Aren’t things cheaper in poor countries? The answer is a tentative yes, but once the shock of 7 cent mangoes wears off, you begin to see the hidden costs. Anything imported is more expensive, and since Malawi manufactures so little, a lot of things are more expensive. I recently saw an old computer, which in the US would be sold by the pound, selling for 800 dollars. If I were to make an estimate, let us call it the fruit-adjusted-guess-jesse-is-not-qualified-to-make-estimate, I would say Malawians live on about 1000 US dollars a year. Most Americans would call this impossible, and I would have too until recently. With this sort of budget forget about a car, a telephone, electricity, internet, or running water. Forget about having more than one room for that matter. Look down at the grocery bill. See the occasional staple that it is too cheap to really be considered in a food budget? That is all you eat, and to make it simple, cut it down to corn flower, wheat flower, beans, salt, and veggies (don’t worry, you will grow most of those). What really struck me was the absence of “essentials” that, as a member of the American middle class, I had been raised to think were a basic right. Things like health care, food, education, books, pens, and art supplies. These were the things your parents never said no to when growing up. Many of the teachers and MCV workers we meet live in one or two room unelectrified huts, sometimes, with their entire extended families. By any definition this lifestyle should be representative of poverty, but somehow in Malawi it isn’t. I didn’t dawn on me for some time what element of poverty was missing from the teachers and professionals at MCV. I finally realized it was the psychological element of being poor.<br /> I associate poverty with feelings of inadequacy, a feeling of being destitute, and a position at the bottom of the social hierarchy. The teachers and MCV workers live simply and without excess, but they have jobs, and are therefore very well off compared to the average villager. Their houses have doors, they have metal roofs instead of thatch, and they have enough food. Most of the people that work at MCV are big shots back in their villages. They own business, are landlords, and are the epicenter of supports for their entire families. <br />Fraction, the man who runs the sewing department at MCV is quite the industrious fellow. He owns several houses, a tea house, a small shop, and recently started a bakery. He excitedly showed this all to me one afternoon after I had stumbled into his tea room. The entire complex is housed within an area no larger than a suburban garage. Someone working minimum wage in the United States would have far more money and live a more luxurious life than Fraction, but still, Fraction would be wealthy and the minimum wage worker would be poor. What I have come to realize most about poverty while in Malawi, is that it is relative. The wealth of a person is not determined by the absolute amount of money they have, but by the amount of money they have compared to other people. <br /> When I came to Malawi I became rich even as my standard of living decreased. Here I live on 3 or 4 dollars a day in a one room house which, occasionally, has electricity and running water. In this United States I would be poor, but on this budget I still spend more money than most Malawians. I don’t have a car, but I also don’t have to consider the cost of a matola (see earlier post) before I hop on. I eat a rather simple diet, but because I am not exposed to richer foods I rarely want for them anymore. When I go out to eat and get a simple plate with chicken and rice, I can honestly say that I enjoy it as much as a more elaborate meal in the United States. I think my satisfaction with my rather simple life in Malawi stems from the fact that I am rarely exposed to those who have more, and frequently exposed to those who have less. I feel rich for the same reason that Fraction does, because I am doing well by comparison. <br />A consequence of my relative affluence is that when I walk into a room everyone else becomes poorer. If I take my laptop into the teacher room to do grades, everyone there becomes acutely aware of what they do not have. After several occasions where I (or other American teachers) brought expensive items to school, I noticed a distinct change in the mood of the room. The other teachers began talking about how they wanted those items. Even days later, I would overhear conversations between the teachers expressing dissatisfaction that they could not afford the things we could. Since I noticed this I have become very careful of flaunting my wealth around other Malawians. <br />In the teachers room the other day, Moto, a fellow teacher, divulged his master plan to become a janitor in the United States after he heard that janitors have cars. I began to think of how Moto’s life might be different if he carried out his hairbrain scheme. In Malawi Moto is in the elete; he has a college education and has a respected profession. He enjoys his job and associates with other intelligent people near the top of the social hierarchy in his village. If Moto became a janitor in the United States he would be at the bottom of a society and loose, what I think, are far more valuable things than a higher standard of living.<br />Americans may have expensive jewelry and caviar, but I don’t think Malawians are any less happy than their counterparts in the United States. When I visit isolated villages the people seem happy. They probably know there are those who have it better, but it doesn’t matter. Their world is the one around them, where they have friends, family, and everyone eats the same corn mush day after day. There is also a relaxed and jovial atmosphere here, one which I rarely experience in America. The stress knot which had gained permanent residence between my shoulder blades during college now only flares up when I am trying to check my bank statements using the glacially paced internet. Visitors to Malawi will expound endlessly about the kindness and generosity of Malawians and I suspect that these vary qualities may be a result of poverty.<br />Everyone here lives perpetually without a buffer to the turmoil of life. If someone in Malawi looses their job, it could literally be days before they run out of money for food. Parents of a boarding student we know recently failed to send their weekly check for food. Within two days the student was out of money and going hungry. This constant vulnerability has spawned a sense of community and generosity which defines Malawi. Whenever a teacher at school looses a family member (unfortunately a rather common occurrence), a collection immediately begins to help the teacher pay for funeral costs. If you loose your job or livelihood, you are immediately welcomed in by a family member. When Jes and I went to visit the home of fellow teacher Mr. Piyo (he is probably around 30 years old), he excitedly introduced us to his mother and father who share the room next to his. Such an arrangement in the United States could vary well bring out homicidal tendencies, but in Malawi Mr. Piyo can’t imagine living without mom and pop. When I told Mr. Piyo that such arrangements were rare in the United States, he said he thought that was sad. Mr. Piyo and the other teachers at MCV live a life of relative comfort, but unfortunately there are many in Malawi who are not so lucky. Poverty does exist here with the worst kinds of consequences. The constant deaths resulting from illness strike a particularly big blow to the psyche of Malawians. <br />In this blog I did not mean to discount the poverty of Malawians, I meant only to articulate how the use of Gross Domestic Product and Per Capita Income are incomplete measures of wealth and poverty. I have noticed expats and volunteers in Malawi frequently discount the recession of the developed world because their economies, even if decreasing, are still magnitudes more wealthy than countries like Malawi. I think we need to resist such sentiment. The fear of losing what you have, of moving backwards, is very real. It is what has made the economic disaster in Zimbabwe so horrific. Zimbabwe was once the wealthiest country in Africa, but is now rounding out a decade of negative growth and inflation that has left the country’s moral in shambles. Zimbabweans I have spoken to describe the country as having an atmosphere of despair that you can viscerally feel. I doubt the knowledge that they are still better off than Malawians would be of much comfort. Being poor anywhere is a painful experience and we should acknowledge that there are components of poverty that are not buffeted by living in a wealthy country. We cannot call everyone in America rich, same as we can not call everyone in Malawi poor. There are parallels, and a common human denominator that must be acknowledged.Jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09842524016656289777noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2686809739798389289.post-70041787523149951982009-04-25T09:01:00.000-07:002009-04-25T09:03:44.848-07:00Easter Break AdventuresIn Malawi, the Easter holiday marks the end of first term and is punctuated by a battery of exams. For me, school exams were always a bit of a celebration. They marked the culmination of a lot of hard work that, most importantly, was coming to an end. Unfortunately for Malawian students, this “culmination” lasts seven hours a day for two weeks, until what should be a crescendo is more reminiscent of a diminuendo keeping beat to a funeral dirge. The whole situation is made more unpleasant by the fact that I am required to sit in the examination room, board to tears, until the Friday nearest the reunion of Christ’s resurrection. <br /> After a long two weeks and tens of hours of grading, freedom was finally upon Jes and I and we set off on a backpacking trip to the highest peak in central Africa, Mount Mulanje. The word Mulanje is the original name for the peak and literally means, “mountain.” When the English arrived, they intelligently added the title “Mount,” I assume because they didn’t want the mountain to be mistaken for hill, heap, or mound. In the tradition of colonizers getting it not quite right, the mountain was hence forth known as “mountain mountain.” On the way we were lucky enough to hitch a ride to Blantyre with Felix, who was already going to retrieve Ayub’s four daughters from boarding school. Blantyre is Malawi’s largest city, and interestingly, is named after the village in Scotland where Dr. Livingston was born.<br /> The ride from MCV to Blantyre was characterized by ever increasing wealth. Thatched roofs became metal, concrete replaced wood, and no longer was the palate of paints limited to white and the offensive purple color of Malawi’s major cell phone carrier (Zain). In Malawi, the color purple is Zain, and seems to be the color of choice for the plural majority of Malawi’s rural buildings. Perhaps people simply like the color, but this is unlikely because the color is hideous (okay, Jes likes it but she doesn’t count). I suspect Zain pays out for the color’s use, or at least pays for the paint. Regardless of how they have managed to inflict the eye soar on rural Malawi, it was refreshing to see more variety as we moved closer to Blantyre. <br />In the changing landscape, many of the indicators of wealth were too subtle for me to have detected several months earlier. The spectrum of wealth and poverty in the United States is so different from Malawi, that it takes time to calibrate ones eye to understand the gamut that is Malawian poverty. When I arrived in Malawi things mostly just felt different. The most accurate way to describe it was a feeling of traveling back in time. If pushed to think about Malawians as rich or poor, nearly all would have outwardly appeared poor, with little distinction between their varying economic realities. After living in Malawi for sometime, I began to notice small things like shoes, sunglasses, or whether a window frame had glass, as indicators of wealth. In the United States, even the shabbiest apartment has glass windows; just as most poor people have shoes and sunglasses. In the United States the presence of such things are not indicators of wealth, but in Malawi they are. I was not completely oblivious to the subtly of poverty upon my arrival in Malawi, but after I learned more about Malawian culture and priorities, I began to be able to differentiate between a range of wealth where before I could only see poverty. It was these subtleties, which I had missed on the drive to MCV three months prior, that were painfully obvious on the trip to Blantyre. <br />We caught a public bus from Blantyre which was scheduled to depart at two o’clock. The bus station master was helpful yet confusing. “The bus departs at two o’clock,” he said, “so made sure you are here by noon.” Be here at twelve? What on earth for? I wondered. Nevertheless, Jes and I have learned that people’s advice often seems a non-sequitur only because of some misunderstanding on our (ok, my) part, so we showed up promptly at noon. At 12:15pm the bus rumbled into the station. The station master rushed over with the urgency of a person who wants to help others who are rather hopeless if left to their own devices, and says, “Your bus is here, better get going.” It was very kind of him to alert us, since the line was already forming by the bus door before it had stopped. Even with the station masters assistance, we were bringing up the end of the queue. No problem, I thought, as we clambered on the bus, the thing was still mostly empty and we still had over an hour and half until the bus’ scheduled departure. As Jes was negotiating her bag down the aisle to join me, the bus gave a lurch, and smartly started off. I am perfectly comfortable with the idea of public transit being late, it is in fact the predominate state of most mass transit operations. What I don’t understand is why any bus would leave early, it just doesn’t make sense. Perhaps the government strives to attain a 100% on time statistic; perhaps such claims were common during dictatorship rule, and now that a more transparent government cannot outright lie, drastic measures must be taken to preserve the appearance of the “flawless government” people were used to seeing. <br />The reason for the early departure still dumbfounds me, since on a back road not far from the bus depot the bus abruptly stopped for a 15 minute break. It was as if the bus crew was taking a well deserved siesta to reward themselves for the record departure time. The driver got out, walked around a bit, made small talk with several people walking by, and with no apparent motivation got back in the bus and started off again. Next we stop for fuel, then at a bus depot in a neighboring suburb. By this time the bus was completely full and people were cramming into the aisles. I looked over and saw a sign that said, “this bus is authorized to hold 65 seated occupants and 25 standing occupants. Well good, at least we weren’t loading the bus passed any sort of “official capacity.” Just then a live squawking chicken was smacked into my face as a woman nearby began jockeying for a better position. Finally, at 2:30pm the bus left the city and started heading for Mount Mulanje. We’re still okay I thought, only 50km away and plenty of time before dark. <br />Unfortunately the bus was what Jes endearingly refers to as, “the milk run,” meaning that it stops at every village, hut, or random spot along the road where someone desires “transport.” Of course whenever someone had to get off, they were inevitably in the back, meaning everyone before them in the aisle would have to get off then back on. The last half hour of our five hour (50km) ride was made even more interesting by the fact that Jes managed to antagonize a very loud and obnoxious drunk passenger. I have made it a goal in life never to draw the attention of loud drunk people. It is good for me that I have chosen a partner without such aspirations, since as soon as Jes murmured the, “shut up,” that everyone on the bus was probably thinking, the irritating man’s attention was focused entirely on her, and more importantly, entirely off me. We finally arrived at Mount Mulanje just as dark was blanketing the streets. <br />The next morning we started out on what was to be a spectacular trip. Mount Mulanje has an extensive hut system, each with a caretaker who will warm up bath water for you. At first I wondered whether the luxury of hot baths would cheapen the rustic experience of backpacking. The answer is a resounding No! It is customary to take a guide while hiking on the mountain and at first I was against such an idea. I had never needed a guide to go backpacking before, and getting lost was one of those cherished experiences no trip should be without. Jes was more receptive to the idea, maybe because she was a girl with no male ego to appease, or maybe just because she has better sense. I lost the battle to go it alone for two very good reasons. Number one, we didn’t have a map, and number two, we didn’t know where the trailhead was. <br />We stayed on the mountain five days and four nights during which time we hiked up steep escarpments, over rolling plateaus, and ascended the highest peak in central Africa (Sapitwa). Aside from a few cold nights it was a great trip and I encourage everyone to look at the pictures. Check out Jes’s blog for different pictures and a more complete description of the mountain.<br />We arrived home to the dream of every American schoolchild: Easter break had been extended by one week because of a conference that was happening at the school. Jes and I decided to take the Ilala ferry to Likoma Island, an island off the Mozambique boarder of Lake Malawi. We arrive in the port to find that the schedule had changed. Turns out the president was taking a campaigning to trip to the island and decided to commandeer the sole mode of transport. Still determined to fully utilize our extra week, we struck out to Senga Bay, a popular tourist destination with a multitude of lodges and resorts. <br />Hippo pools were supposed to be only a 10km walk from our resort. Several hotels offered tours, but being too cheap and foolhardy for such things we headed out on our own. After several minutes we came across a fishing village and acquired several guides with questionable senses of direction and no English ability. The price was right though, only 4% of what the resorts were charging. Jes and I’s Chichewa has improved in recent weeks (partly from lots of studying during exam week) and we are now able to communicate our needs and wants, as well as make general small talk. After a few minutes the path degenerated and I made, what was in retrospect, a very ironic comment of how it is a good thing we had gotten the guides. I suspect the guides had simply chosen the wrong path, since pretty soon we were up to our knees in stagnant and parasite ridden water. Oh well, the worse thing that had happened so far was that Jes had been stung by a wasp on her face, no skin off my back, the trip still had promise. We walked for one hour, and then two, and I began to expect our guides to jump us from behind and steal our money. But no, our guides were actually very friendly, just inept. Finally we gave up and hired a boat to take us back. At first the boat tried to charge Jes and I five times the going rate. When Jes and I started to get out of the boat, presumably to find our own way back, our guides began berating the boat owner, sensing that if we disembarked they would have to pay their own fares. Apparently the guides were able to make the boat owner see reason, since we were quickly ushered back into the boat and offered the normal rate. In the end we never saw any hippos, but we weren’t gored to death either, so I peg the expedition as a success.Jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09842524016656289777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2686809739798389289.post-60982149634838336922009-04-14T04:50:00.000-07:002009-04-14T05:13:08.045-07:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitHfoM29ncT52MffTRmP01UfhclKhj1Bd92BxxQN3NCaK1uqV9xp5Ly9lXO0u45GUXp0vuYkGUAhPddLZ4Wbk2_jGN1yfuuXuNunVgILRdLd3h1v7Xi2glp1la7S-JVeRcdBIXBZUKDUM4/s1600-h/Jesse+5.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324516840659186786" style="WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitHfoM29ncT52MffTRmP01UfhclKhj1Bd92BxxQN3NCaK1uqV9xp5Ly9lXO0u45GUXp0vuYkGUAhPddLZ4Wbk2_jGN1yfuuXuNunVgILRdLd3h1v7Xi2glp1la7S-JVeRcdBIXBZUKDUM4/s320/Jesse+5.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5qmCETLPJbmXwr73ADhg8eWBCgm_kX-XUdhyD4wurC4Sfc3GPFXQlPOM1SC0mlA_UnKLxusVAFHmF4pysp9_cVgI011JoqEIJXSoQcgsxlKnibwT9h3L8i6pEz1ET-YpZm7sdZPSaBZwN/s1600-h/Jesse+4.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324516838976992082" style="WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5qmCETLPJbmXwr73ADhg8eWBCgm_kX-XUdhyD4wurC4Sfc3GPFXQlPOM1SC0mlA_UnKLxusVAFHmF4pysp9_cVgI011JoqEIJXSoQcgsxlKnibwT9h3L8i6pEz1ET-YpZm7sdZPSaBZwN/s320/Jesse+4.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVS-0rTLEu0V_1IekqPN_MChYdv_qt8CwuK1iPzWmcRIRql0CIqv8LS6AtE4hT7jIIEckfz-XjrtCsD_OmOi8YBJdSC_wc0eUVfxaVZnbDJW8jL7cCIJdmqtrSA1Ha3tao8Pj8YlQtQ-BJ/s1600-h/Jesse+3.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324516833979705714" style="WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVS-0rTLEu0V_1IekqPN_MChYdv_qt8CwuK1iPzWmcRIRql0CIqv8LS6AtE4hT7jIIEckfz-XjrtCsD_OmOi8YBJdSC_wc0eUVfxaVZnbDJW8jL7cCIJdmqtrSA1Ha3tao8Pj8YlQtQ-BJ/s320/Jesse+3.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_MjiG-RRkPrHt8-OBb9J73KGlLCshPxCvgsN9LXL9ZTQtpnX6TS0K4keQGx4UfvLKDfko4H1m5ZiY4KQXvG0BsVu8x2PuJgB4kPqdhyphenhyphenUCCOC_vSSUs85uSHjp2f8xusko845HlVtggZ_9/s1600-h/Jesse+2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324516827480524722" style="WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_MjiG-RRkPrHt8-OBb9J73KGlLCshPxCvgsN9LXL9ZTQtpnX6TS0K4keQGx4UfvLKDfko4H1m5ZiY4KQXvG0BsVu8x2PuJgB4kPqdhyphenhyphenUCCOC_vSSUs85uSHjp2f8xusko845HlVtggZ_9/s320/Jesse+2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg03wXMRmGo57q_wROTPWMTbHvwgbMklztk2tY3snLgb3XlOQ6t2qtISkKl4qM8QdYhxhKnQ7uQ5WhARmljzLyFgeCWBabZSqRLgKyFIdFesAn70CIW62Fj2aDe-03JapsdocJrv2jA3_Zk/s1600-h/Jesse+1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324516823959173362" style="WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg03wXMRmGo57q_wROTPWMTbHvwgbMklztk2tY3snLgb3XlOQ6t2qtISkKl4qM8QdYhxhKnQ7uQ5WhARmljzLyFgeCWBabZSqRLgKyFIdFesAn70CIW62Fj2aDe-03JapsdocJrv2jA3_Zk/s320/Jesse+1.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Pictures from Mount Mulanje (the highest point in central Africa)<br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div></div></div></div></div>Jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09842524016656289777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2686809739798389289.post-79636895085843795152009-04-02T10:12:00.000-07:002009-04-02T10:14:59.897-07:00Dry Sex and Malawian HospitalityFor the last week I have had the pleasure of getting to know, Florence, Phiri, and Catharine. These three women comprise the field team of MCV, and can often be seen barreling down the road in the back of a pickup truck dispensing knowledge and assistance to local villagers. Being a teacher, my work is centered at the main MCV campus, and as such, I am detached from the village based work which comprises a significant portion of MCV operations. When I asked if I could join them I was warmly ushered into the truck. After a journey down a road that looked like the set of a truck commercial whose purpose was to emphasize how tough a truck is, we arrived at a one room brick building with a metal roof which I was told was the chief’s house. A blue and white sitting mat was promptly produced and I was made aware of the fact that it was machine made (a mark of quality and affluence in Malawi). As the village woman began to arrive we were offered grilled chimanga (maize (corn)). The corn here is rather dry and starchy, much better suited for milling; however, it has a mouth feel that is strangely addicting. <br />Women from the village began to appear and everyone came by and graciously welcomed me to the village. After greeting the woman, my work was done. Most of the meeting would be conducted in local dialects and everyone understood, myself included, that the only thing I would bring to the gathering is novelty. The turnout to the meeting was good, and for a moment I allow myself to think that the cause was my novelty. Then I noticed clothes being handed out in exchange for attendance and I accepted that I was completely superfluous. I have come to realize that outside the small domain of school, my usefulness in Malawian affairs is effectively nil. I think it is important to be honest about my position as a volunteer; namely that I will likely receive far more than I can give.<br />As the meeting progressed I was treated to three very entertaining health presentations. Austin, our driver, is a friend of mine and graciously offered to translate. This is commendable, since I am not an easy person to translate for. I continuously get excited when I understand small snippets of the language. These periods of linguistic “understanding” inevitably lead to lengthy grammar lessons from Austin where he explains to me how I really don’t understand. With Austin translating I am able to follow along with the presentations. In an area where many superstitions still exist about disease, education really is the most effective treatment. A good portion of the meeting is devoted to HIV/AIDS. Southern Malawi is particularly vulnerable to HIV or several reasons. The single largest factor is poverty. Without the education and sanitation which accompany a more affluent society, the very foundations of healthcare are absent. Combine this with sexual promiscuity and men’s preference for dry sex (sex where the vagina is dried with a rag or absorbent before sex), and you get HIV/AIDS infection rates which are among the highest in the world. To their credit, Florence, Phiri, and Catharine leave no stone unturned. The woman are extremely frank about sex, describing in detail how the abrasive nature of dry sex causes cuts that promote viral exchange, and how allowing a husband to sleep around puts the wife at risk. <br />At this point in the presentation I notice a peculiarity. A quick survey of the audience reveals 40 or so attentive woman accompanied by three men. This count includes Austin and I, and although we are displaying rapt attention, we are highly educated men in monogamous relationship and thus not the presentation’s “target” audience. I ask Austin whether the men receive the same presentation. He replies that they do, but I have my doubts. To my knowledge the three ladies giving the presentation are MCV’s only field team, and I doubt whether a presentation of this nature could be delivered by three women to a male audience in rural Malawi.<br /> As the presentation was finishing up, Austin invited Jes and I to his house. I was told to never decline an invite from a Malawian and quickly accepted. I told Austin I would talk to Jes to see if the weekend was free. On Friday night, after a week in which I had not seen or talked to Austin, a man appeared on our door step and said, “Austin will be by for you at 11am tomorrow.” The man then quickly walked away as I stood there dumbfounded. Why was Austin coming by? The previous week’s conversation long forgotten, I racked my brain trying to think if I had inadvertently made plans. Jes gave me a look that said, “You did it again!?” <br />In America, all arrangements are soft until a confirmation cell phone call 5 minutes prior to said arrangement. Not so in Malawi. A comment as noncommittal as, “Hey, we should hang out some time,” is interpreted as, “lets meet in the very near future, don’t worry about the time, just show up.” This had already happened to me several times. After playing Frisbee with some of the boarding students I had mentioned that I thought we should play again sometime. The next evening during dinner a throng of students materialized outside our window wondering why we are not “playing again.” Ironically, the inability of Americans, especially the 15 to 25 demographic, to make concrete plans is something that has always bothered me. In Malawi I am the one who is aloof.<br />Eventually, I connect the nice man at the door to the conversation with Austin the previous week. It is lucky I remembered, since at 11am sharp the next morning I hear a sharp knock at the door. Austin is on his bike, but we take a matola (see earlier post) to the nearby town. The matola was particularly hot and sweaty. Matolas usually are, but matolas are scarce on the weekends and are thus packed so full nearly everyone is standing. The shear number of people translated into an inordinate number of stops. As we arrive in Namias we are met by Austin, who has managed to arrive at the same time despite the fact that we were in an automobile and he was on a bike. <br />After a journey through meandering cornfields we come upon a tidy house with a metal roof. Inside there is a table, several chairs, a wicker couch, and a boom box. I am perplexed by the boom box since Austin told me that he does not have electricity. Then my attention is drawn to a large car battery which supplies Austin’s house with power. He takes it on the back of his bike into town, where, for a small fee, he can charge it at a charging station. He says that between the radio (which is currently blaring music) and a light bulb he usually get two weeks of power before it dies. Alas, the car battery provides Austin with more consistent power than the Malawi Power Company is able to provide us. <br />Soon we move into the back yard to meet Austin’s family. His wife is busy in the kitchen, a small shack removed from the main house. The kitchen has room for two stooping individuals and resembles a dark cavern, one permeated by the aromas of wood smoke and cooking oil. Since most Malawians still cook with wood fires, the kitchen is usually a drafty room outside. To the left of a smoldering fire is a pile of feathers and naked looking chicken which I soon learn is about to become lunch. My back is starting to hurt and the smoke is making my eyes water so we soon retire to the backyard. The packed dirt yard is lined on all sides by corn fields, which to Austin’s credit, are some of the healthiest I have seen. Also in the yard is a mango tree, which to Jes and I’s immense disappointment is as barren as every other mango tree in Malawi. Mangos are now out of season, and since the fruit import business is nonexistent in Malawia, I have had to transition to sugarcane. I never got a good look at Austin’s youngest child, who for the duration of our visit could be found hiding endearingly behind the legs of his father. When children in Malawi see Jes or myself one of two things happen, either they scream with glee while toddling quickly towards us clapping their hands, or they toddle quickly away and take refuge behind mom. Austin’s older son was bolder, and upon meeting us, quickly produced a Bow board. Bow is a game resembling moncola, except that there are twice as many spaces and the rules are far more confusing. Bow is the game of choice in Malawi and it is hard to walk 20 paces and not see someone playing. I have no doubt that given time to practice I would no longer be an embarrassment when playing Bow. However, given than my total playtime to this point equaled 20 minutes, and the boy’s total play time equaled playing most of every day for his entire life, I was quickly beaten. It doesn’t help that every time I play Bow the rules seem to change. Either there are thousands of variations or I am being taken; I haven’t decided which possibility is more likely. To my reassurance, defeat is handed to Jes and quickly as it was bestowed upon me. Since in Bow the winner continues playing and the loser does not, Jes and I mostly watch for the next hour as neighbor children materialize to insure I never get another chance. <br />When the chicken is ready, Austin, Jes, and I return to the table inside. I keep expecting Austin’s wife and children to join us but am told that they will be eating outside. This seems strange to me but is apparently is the way entertaining is done in rural Malawi. At the table we are presented with a heaping platter of rice and a succulent chicken. I am worried at first that none will be saved for the rest of the family, but I am later relieved to see that the wife and kids did indeed get some, although not the quality cuts Jes and I had received. On the chicken patter was the heart, which I am told is traditionally offered to guests. Austin said that “if someone cooks you a chicken but does not offer you the heart, the chicken is not really for you.” The heart is chewy, but satisfying. I can’t be sure, but the heart may be important because it signifies that the chicken was slaughtered particularly for your arrival, since store bought chickens often come without the heart. I am later told by a teacher that the slaughtering of a chicken is the highest welcome you can receive in Malawi; Austin really pulled out all the stops. <br /> I am continually impressed by the hospitality of Malawians. The next week we were invited to a fellow teacher’s house. We were greeted by the teacher’s mother (people often live with their entire families in Malawi) who ran up to us and promptly gave us both big hugs. I at times feel guilty that so much effort is taken on my behalf, however I also get the impression that it would be inappropriate to decline. Thus I have adopted a new strategy: pass it on. Last week we invited our neighbor over for dinner, we all had a great time. <br /> On another note, Jes and I have an Easter Break coming up and we will be backpacking on Mount Mulanje. There are forest service huts that you can rent for a small fee and it is supposed to be spectacular. I also hear they sell Bow boards so my play may soon improve. I will write more when we return.Jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09842524016656289777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2686809739798389289.post-78299205496339877732009-03-28T03:17:00.000-07:002009-03-28T04:05:37.545-07:00Pictures<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQlDLD_eRVdc0jrKJ7MdQm0tSiZ7B1F3GnjwAyCxwj1sfwxPQFpo52SGoSv2wnNMRIvszqtz5B_aXzXMz0NUiq1w8HM0MXRSzGScLwpqIcxKoze820Eum7ugQfXha5PrVhiEWNn9SFSOOV/s1600-h/DSCF3525.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318183299919850162" style="WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQlDLD_eRVdc0jrKJ7MdQm0tSiZ7B1F3GnjwAyCxwj1sfwxPQFpo52SGoSv2wnNMRIvszqtz5B_aXzXMz0NUiq1w8HM0MXRSzGScLwpqIcxKoze820Eum7ugQfXha5PrVhiEWNn9SFSOOV/s320/DSCF3525.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Children in the neighboring village<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcpVk53DJuWmLUmD27kkQtSwb4ujTv2_7qPw7KkKnqsikdLrjNUBF6orh34kPHsIUe1N0lhaNX5VNvOq11OweMk5GuHnnU61nvd9jSXiKghRdc5uHghdpUlFk1q7qVIamhmbA68j99bPHm/s1600-h/DSCF3523.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318183288770945234" style="WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcpVk53DJuWmLUmD27kkQtSwb4ujTv2_7qPw7KkKnqsikdLrjNUBF6orh34kPHsIUe1N0lhaNX5VNvOq11OweMk5GuHnnU61nvd9jSXiKghRdc5uHghdpUlFk1q7qVIamhmbA68j99bPHm/s320/DSCF3523.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />A toddler investigating the camera<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbDqezgyyxk2A_hYNKtQAHqchwPA8KB7nzMGeHQ9-Onz0kc9s0BXE6trkD77R8uREKPgfRZELWcqlidYOawzgbRi7WhnX4vBM40z49gqBj3KeNcD_1FCesSMzKIgdnlj0nd7i8FdIJEPDY/s1600-h/DSCF3522.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318183283756998674" style="WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbDqezgyyxk2A_hYNKtQAHqchwPA8KB7nzMGeHQ9-Onz0kc9s0BXE6trkD77R8uREKPgfRZELWcqlidYOawzgbRi7WhnX4vBM40z49gqBj3KeNcD_1FCesSMzKIgdnlj0nd7i8FdIJEPDY/s320/DSCF3522.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />A nice hut. Its door and good roof are what make it a step above average.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD1Q2D0PXU2uL5rcu_4hs8vS-XWOjEZ5y6z9jOZg6jVXBb4p2nQMVsxwrVYm5DVAPNdqC6qYB51wfNZQ1BFi7HUIgy9VvM1DC2Z9z5dPkyT_9Au3QNJnJpqMDJtfn5BDY7uHOcykufVkBH/s1600-h/DSCF3518.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318183275689816498" style="WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD1Q2D0PXU2uL5rcu_4hs8vS-XWOjEZ5y6z9jOZg6jVXBb4p2nQMVsxwrVYm5DVAPNdqC6qYB51wfNZQ1BFi7HUIgy9VvM1DC2Z9z5dPkyT_9Au3QNJnJpqMDJtfn5BDY7uHOcykufVkBH/s320/DSCF3518.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Another house across the street. Most people build their own houses out of mud bricks. If you have money you can buy metal for the roof, otherwise it is thatch.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9XKXbzzYsOtePRvwYkHeEMLcFRzilgQFkn9BHv2wiEt_qmqaxHHzOOfyWGt5c3Y0S9q3l_7EeYo01Dkd5o-MM6rkuQCOijD2x8LOcq36B1fHOP8BYOhcM03v3s9azkSONFU7i0EIuiYBj/s1600-h/DSCF3484.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318183278966668898" style="WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9XKXbzzYsOtePRvwYkHeEMLcFRzilgQFkn9BHv2wiEt_qmqaxHHzOOfyWGt5c3Y0S9q3l_7EeYo01Dkd5o-MM6rkuQCOijD2x8LOcq36B1fHOP8BYOhcM03v3s9azkSONFU7i0EIuiYBj/s320/DSCF3484.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />A very large bug we found on our frying pan handle while we were cooking dinnerJessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09842524016656289777noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2686809739798389289.post-27201404160996503752009-03-20T21:53:00.000-07:002009-03-20T21:58:57.994-07:00Funny StoriesI usually write blogs in a piecemeal fashion and have several going at once. There is always some small segment that really doesn't belong with the rest of the post so gets stored for future use. I don’t know if some of the things I write will ever see the light of day, but I do know that some are just too funny to let die. Here is a collection of short stories from the past several months. <br /><br />The Undead Lizard<br />I awoke to a rather comical situation today. I was lying in bed, enjoying the last few minutes of the snooze setting before it would be replaced with offensive ringing noises, when I hear a concerned voice from the bathroom. “There is a dead lizard in the tub.” This is not what I wanted to hear at six o’clock in the morning. It wasn’t the lizard that bothered me; it was more the tone Jes used to convey the information. From the short sentence I gathered three things. Number one; there was a dead lizard in the tub. Number, two, Jes was not happy about the lizard in the tub. And number three; Jes had no intention of dealing with it, except that is to wakeup her boyfriend and make him fix the, “situation.” Before I could begin carrying out my manly duty, I heard an exclamation from the bathroom, “IT’S NOT DEAD! IT’S NOT DEAD!” I never saw the lizard, but it could have ranged in size from one centimeter to half a meter. There is one, particularly large lizard, which has taken to sunning himself on the dirt patch in front of our door. The lizards are everywhere, and one cannot walk more than a few paces without seeing them scurry for cover. The lizards are quite prone to loosing their tails, so it is not uncommon to see one awkwardly running away, thrashing its butt excessively, in attempts to compensate for its missing latter half. <br /><br />A Bicycle for Two<br />Austin (a friend of ours) was kind enough to lend Jes and I a bike during our time here. It was in slight disrepair, but after a short visit to the very capable bike mechanic down the road we were zooming around, gleefully covering distances unheard of on foot. We had a back carrier made (a robust seat over the back wheel) for the bike so that Jes and I could both ride. By this I mean that I pedal and Jes sits on the back. This is quite common in Malawi, and one frequently sees bike taxies shuttling people down the road. Most Azungus (white people) in Malawi own cars and are not often seen on bike taxis, and certainly not in the petal position. As such, Jes and I provide a good bit of comic relief to people as we pedal down the road. I have taken to saying, “you transport now, good price, good price,” as Jes approaches the bike.” I also frequently demand money upon arrival. Occasionally, Jes will play along and hand me 50 Kwacha (33 cents). This always evokes big laughs from people nearby. <br /><br />Annoying Flies<br />Today in class I was giving a lecture on gas laws and noticed several male students staring at me intently while sitting spread eagled stroking their crotch. I thought this was a bit odd. It wasn’t until one student caught my eye and then quickly looked down that I glanced down to find my zipper hanging wide open. I laughed a little and quickly zipped up, at which point the crotch stroking boys let out loud sighs, as if to say, mission accomplished, while everyone else broken into tumultuous applause. <br /><br />Probably the Best Story Ever<br /> Jes and I frequent a rather dilapidated resort just down the road from MCV. Mulangeni, as it is called, was once a respected upscale establishment, but is now so rundown that Jes and I are commonly the only guests. Paint is peeling everywhere and crumbling cement buildings scatter the compound, looking more like forgotten bomb shelters than luxury accommodations. Still, the food is cheap, and a quiet respite is just what is needed after a busy week of teaching. The slogan for the resort is, “Simply the best of lake Malawi.” One can see the slogan plastered, in peeling paint, everywhere. Jes and I always found the presumptuous slogan a bit funny given the state of the resort; the management it seems, agreed. On our most recent escapade we found that the old slogan had been replace by a new one, “Probably the best of Lake Malawi.” I kid you not. Jes and I could not stop laughing.Jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09842524016656289777noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2686809739798389289.post-85714145521766368072009-03-15T01:41:00.000-07:002009-03-15T02:12:23.214-07:00Entertainment EconomicsIf you venture into a larger village or town in Malawi there are a number of things you will inevitably see. There will be a market, usually a bustling dusty road lined with a smattering of small stands selling anything from maize to cell phones. What exactly people choose to sell in their shops is sometimes comical. The other day I saw a shop specializing in fabric and bicycle parts right next to a payphone which had a sign that read, “Praise the almighty GOD phone booth.” A section of the marked usually focuses on food, but as should be apparent from the previous examples, there is no hard-fast rule dictating where food should be sold. There is also usually a hardware section of the market which has a remarkable variety of merchandise if you are prepared to search for it. <br />The standard size shop is around 10ft2, filled from floor to ceiling with shelving on which a prodigious amount of “stuff” is stored. The amount of products stored in just one of these shops could easily fill a large convenience store. The efficiency of not stocking 20 iterations of the same product is huge. Not only can you usually find what you need after visiting two adjacent shops (people always refer you to their neighbor if they do not have what you are looking for), but the simplicity of the supply chain allows for considerable reuse. <br />For example, in Malawi there are four main bottled drinks: Fanta, Carlsburge Beer, Sprite, and Coca-Cola. Each has a distinct bottle, which after use, can be returned to be washed and refilled. Because the bottles are reused instead of recycled, a generous deposit of 25 cents is possible, and insures that all bottles are returned. Some bottled are so old that they are partly ghosted and resemble beach glass. <br />At first glance most shops appear to be selling locally grown/produced products, and have hand tied baggies of oil, or mounds of salt and flour heaped high on woven mats. Closer inspection, however, reveals a curious economy. Most people in Malawi are so poor that a bottle of oil, or a box of salt, the kinds of which Americans regularly buy on a visit to the grocery store, are prohibitively expensive. As such, small shops buy these commodities, break open the container, and sell the contents in smaller proportions after a modest markup. Some products the shop owners are able to get at bulk rates and thus sell at good prices. One must be weary though, since often times the shops are just reselling something they bought from the nearest brick and mortar grocery store at hiked up prices. I recently saw a shop owner opening a can of powered milk (the exact brand Jes and I just bought) and adding it to a large heap. The price was nearly double. Many poor Malawians are either to poor to buy the proportions at the grocery store, or as is often the case, live too far away. Since larger stores are located in larger towns, rural Malawians get hosed. <br />On a quick jaunt through a local market you will also find a plethora of video theaters. At first I was very surprised that movie theaters could be found in such abundance. However, after venturing into one such, “theater,” my confusion was resolved. I was met with a dark room, at the end of which was a wooden crate with an old 29inch television on top. For 40 kwatcha (25 cents), you can sit on the floor and watch a South African soap or a football game. The fee pays for the electricity, the satellite dish (very limited broadcast offerings in Malawai), and the darkened venue. Very few Malawians own televisions, so just as businesses exist to share cars, businesses exist to share televisions. Seeing these movie theaters gave me an idea. I had noticed several weeks ago that MCV has an old inFocus projector they use in the computer lab. I brought several movies on my computer, and after a little searching, easily procured a speaker setup. <br />I announced the showing of the movie during a school assembly on vandalism. Students seemed confused, and I was swamped with questions after students had been told, using several comical stories, why writing bad things on the wall of the toilet was wrong. The biggest concern of students was that they lived too far away. Many students walk several miles to and from school, so a return trip at 6:30 for a movie requires considerable conviction. I made it clear I didn’t want students traveling after dark, and that the movie was for students who lived, “close by.” At 5:30 while I was preparing dinner, Jes returned to the school to lock up. She came across a class room full of students studying hard. She asked why the students had not returned home for dinner. The response was a jumble of murmurs explaining how they weren’t really hungry and seeing as how they, for some reason, weren’t hungry today it seemed sensible to stick around and study until, oh, 6:30 there abouts. <br />After spending an hour walking around the MCV campus rounding up spare power converters and extension chords, I had successfully geri rigged a passable theater. The only concern at this point was electricity. Power usually fails around six o’clock because of “technical faults” at the power-station. Once I expressed disbelief that the irregularity of electricity could be caused by just one power station, to which a Malawian friend of mine conceded, “they do have lots of technical faults.” Seeing as how it had been raining most of the day (nearly a guarantee for a power outage), Jes pegged the chances of us making it through the movie as a little above her class passing their genetics test. <br />At six o’clock the power is still on but there was a group of students conspicuously loitering around our house. The spokesman for the group approached me and said, “Sir, if we are doing a movie tonight can we help you set up, sir?” One thing I love about Malawian students is that they are always quick to help with anything. I barely carry my own books anymore. I started Jurassic Park at 6:30 sharp, to cheers from an audience of about 15 students. By 6:45, the group and burgeoned to about 50 students who were spilling out the door and jockeying for the limited seating in the studio. Every few minutes a student would try to sit on the chair blocking the projector and would get a thorough telling off by the audience. Eventually, the doors and windows were packed with peering pupils. The students got really into the movie and would cheer and clap during exciting moments. The clapping seemed to coincide with narrow escapes and with disembowelments by dinosaurs, so it was hard to tell whose side the students were on. <br />Halfway through the movie, a sophomore turned to me and asked, “Is this a true story?” I replyed that it wasn’t, but that dinosaurs really did exist millions of years ago. This response was met by a mixture of awe and disbelief, as though the student thought dinosaurs were undeniable cool, but was skeptical as to their existence during any epoch. <br />About a half hour in the speakers cut out. I had been warned of this by Jonathan, one of the computer specialists at MCV. The amp’s fan was broken and as such could easily overheat. Seeing as how the temperature was likely well above a hundred degrees in the cramped and sweaty studio, I was personally surprised the amp lasted as long as it did. After a short hiatus, during which time the amp was moved outside and cooled by swinging it through the air, we were back in action. By assigning students to fan the amp by hand we made it through the movie without any further hiccups. <br />On my way back to our hut many students approached me and said, “again tomorrow sir?” One student even made a logical argument about how it made sense to show a movie the next night because it was a holiday. Seeing as I have only 7 movies on my computer, the showings may have to be more spread out. Next I think I will show Star Wars.Jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09842524016656289777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2686809739798389289.post-30885446845038461022009-03-01T12:22:00.000-08:002009-03-01T13:14:43.646-08:00<OBJECT class=BLOG_video_class id=BLOG_video-1b3b27f447f22e73 height=266 width=320 contentId="1b3b27f447f22e73"></OBJECT>Jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09842524016656289777noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2686809739798389289.post-52660014194622369452009-02-21T20:44:00.000-08:002009-02-21T20:49:39.090-08:00Neighbors<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CJESSEF%7E1%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="place"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="country-region"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="PlaceName"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="PlaceType"></o:smarttagtype><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">On Sunday Jes and I attended the sports tournament between <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Gracious</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">Secondary School</st1:placetype></st1:place> (our school), and Mangochi Private School. Jes is our school’s sports patron. Although the title sounds like she should be a saint or muse of some sort, it means that she is the girls coach. I find this particularly funny because I don’t think Jes has played organized sports, ever. We arrived at 2:00pm, the scheduled start time of the games. An hour later the coach of the competing team showed up and asks where our players were. Jes could have just as fairly asked where his players were, since after what should have been an hour of playtime, no one from either team had arrived. Turns out the students had had a hard time finding transportation to the venue, a dirt field that is just far enough away from both schools to preclude the possibility of walking. The school had tried to arrange transportation, but had tried to charge students for the privilege, with little success. At about 3:30pm students started to trickle in. At 3:45pm enough students had arrived to start a healthy game, in my opinion. At 4:00pm I ask why Jes and the other sports patrons weren’t whipping up some frenzied competition. I was told that the girl selected to bring the girls’ uniforms was also selected not to play, so had decided that bringing the skirts was no longer in her best interests. As the girl struck off to get the uniforms, the remaining girls started playing in their shirts and underwear, knee length skirts that, as far as I could tell, look just about the same as their uniforms. At our school the boys play soccer and the girls play netball. Netball is like basketball except it is played outside, on a dirt court, and there is no running with or dribbling the ball allowed. Imagine a cross between Ultimate Frisbee and basketball. The result is thoroughly entertaining, and I soon found myself standing enthusiastically on the sidelines. The heat was blistering, and while I was drowning in my own sweat, the players seemed barely to be breaking one. A good effort was brought by both sides, but I am happy to report that the Gracious Girls (as I like to call them) trounced the ladies from Mangochi Private. The boys’ game was also entertaining, but anyone familiar with soccer (or football as everyone here calls it) would have a pretty good idea of what transpired. I am not sure who won the boys soccer game because Jes and left early due to mild heat exhaustion. When I enquired the next day at school as to who had been the victor, nobody seemed quite sure. It seems that in the absence of a scoreboard, the actual results of the game had been lost in the excitement. However, I am unsure if I had asked the boys from Mangochi Private whether they would have been stricken by the same, enthusiasm enduced, amnesia.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Ruth and Tom came over the other day for pizza and introduced Jes and I to neighbors we didn’t know existed. A two minutes walk past corn fields and chicken coops leads you to the house of Ayub and Hote, two afghan refugees that settled here just two years ago. As we approached the house we announced our presence with the traditional saying “Odi odi.” At the door we were met by the type of people who are so hospitable is makes you almost feel guilty…almost. In seconds we were seated in their living room and brought beers and Afghan snacks. I had just eaten dinner, but was happy to avail myself with food that was not beans and rice. Ayub is involved with the NGO, Solice International, which has done work in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Malawi</st1:place></st1:country-region>, and specifically, with MCV. Ayub and Hote were concerned about raising their five daughters around the Taliban, and, after the violence of the <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">US</st1:place></st1:country-region> occupation, decided it was time to leave. This weekend we all got together at Ruth and Tom’s house. Ayub’s Afghan friend, Dr. Ayub, also came because he was in the area doing cholera clinics with MSF (Doctors without Boarders). The irony of Jesse introducing Jes to Ayub, and Ayub introducing Aub to Jes, was lost on no one. Dr. Ayub has been with MSF for 15 years and was fascinating to talk to, having worked in over 10 countries all over <st1:place st="on">Africa</st1:place>. His wife and children also came and many a joke was made about it being the largest peaceful Afghan-American gathering for thousands of miles.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Speaking of neighbors, Jes and I took one in as a roommate last week. Her name is Pus, and she is a black cat we stole from the storage building across the street with the hopes that she might enjoy the company of rats. Since I arrived in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Malawi</st1:place></st1:country-region> I have been waging a silent war against the colony of rats that lives in our roof. Well, my efforts have been silent, theirs have not. I am regularly kept up at night listening to the army of rats knock dishes off the counter, engages in noisy territorial disputes, and, perhaps worst of all, gnaw an ever growing hole into our food cupboard.<span style=""> </span>After an extensive survey of the rat poop left on all cooking and eating surfaces, I can accurately conclude that the population must stand near 700 healthy individuals. The rats show no trepidation; the other night I was awoken to the sounds of one pulling my cash/passport fanny pack back to his nest (seriously, he got it all the way up the bookshelf and was beginning up the wall with it before he was discovered). Last week I bought a trap, but after a rather unpleasant episode, decided an alternative was needed. Enter Pus; the moment we kidnapped her she perked up her ears and ran around the house sniffing everything. She obviously had never seen a house supporting this much prey. Moments after the lights went out I heard the familiar scurry of rat feet, followed by a squeak and the sounds of Pus exercising her hunting prowess.<span style=""> </span>Ah, bless the circle of life; I am blasting the Lion King theme song as I write this. </p> Jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09842524016656289777noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2686809739798389289.post-89135833789912769632009-02-11T06:43:00.000-08:002009-02-11T06:50:55.480-08:00more pictures<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9tr0DMbmBumC3YusAm8PEHv-I_NH-bybTDHpYZkEklg9dWUKpSk4ba4WjJghOYSQRObDvW3rRgfeOxcfgPpwmBsf5hdiTsNbNxg3kiIaQ4tp20-Ph241Dqy1Yfn6AA_zdWBIEIEt1DMh0/s1600-h/IMG_0559.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9tr0DMbmBumC3YusAm8PEHv-I_NH-bybTDHpYZkEklg9dWUKpSk4ba4WjJghOYSQRObDvW3rRgfeOxcfgPpwmBsf5hdiTsNbNxg3kiIaQ4tp20-Ph241Dqy1Yfn6AA_zdWBIEIEt1DMh0/s320/IMG_0559.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301551967079757330" /></a><div>jes with kayak<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFZgv5GF5o3DWQqKPHOR1NwW8fjIU1Yev00Ub63jUrKlXLe1n9gu3UwnDgN578EjUAVqSEW3bxu9XtaEKIBOTur3OvfBSFQj1Spp_iukyTZpkax8ehrZ5CNsQ8148pCistVRk1cxWaxhwO/s1600-h/IMG_0629.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFZgv5GF5o3DWQqKPHOR1NwW8fjIU1Yev00Ub63jUrKlXLe1n9gu3UwnDgN578EjUAVqSEW3bxu9XtaEKIBOTur3OvfBSFQj1Spp_iukyTZpkax8ehrZ5CNsQ8148pCistVRk1cxWaxhwO/s320/IMG_0629.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301551961408864210" /></a><div>from our tent<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOB2OuNeMlexOIGxgG07RDS0u7r5TzY880pZuzbP6mnzNuuUwHTcPpnfK6SYIG5ASD9_QGXOySeZxBz7K0kcn9CJkWWATIOg_Bgnovoh6WscmiL8qRpUnf1jR9G6V97B1r5MiwUz7MOUTO/s1600-h/IMG_0567.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOB2OuNeMlexOIGxgG07RDS0u7r5TzY880pZuzbP6mnzNuuUwHTcPpnfK6SYIG5ASD9_QGXOySeZxBz7K0kcn9CJkWWATIOg_Bgnovoh6WscmiL8qRpUnf1jR9G6V97B1r5MiwUz7MOUTO/s320/IMG_0567.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301551961288965122" /></a><div>fishermen<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFfig8wIVi-BIbsHcFPQRAjM03VNLZlDZz8mb0lZRqTSEu_9kfOFygf1s7N-HYuCglQvZYZOmab_41Q6iW_ioai6NEkWPI1Xglw3P0XV3NDC0EktdDqHBcEIcS1k6JfTgRzKQnROLUjSm9/s1600-h/IMG_0566.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFfig8wIVi-BIbsHcFPQRAjM03VNLZlDZz8mb0lZRqTSEu_9kfOFygf1s7N-HYuCglQvZYZOmab_41Q6iW_ioai6NEkWPI1Xglw3P0XV3NDC0EktdDqHBcEIcS1k6JfTgRzKQnROLUjSm9/s320/IMG_0566.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301551962684903794" /></a><div>me snorkling<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhujn1RPDuzkTlDJMxmVSOFfDtKrf3FNGHdyyXDY2rt5OeJ2Ct5SBwzx9flHfjPQqiQf4C3PA3dErHXCy4F06LfFF_xaiNeYHOQRtR18tG8xhtLqH49QzFcJ9WXTfDfAQx664nOPEVnSis9/s1600-h/DSCF3459.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhujn1RPDuzkTlDJMxmVSOFfDtKrf3FNGHdyyXDY2rt5OeJ2Ct5SBwzx9flHfjPQqiQf4C3PA3dErHXCy4F06LfFF_xaiNeYHOQRtR18tG8xhtLqH49QzFcJ9WXTfDfAQx664nOPEVnSis9/s320/DSCF3459.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301551958488855186" /></a><br /><div>our house</div></div></div></div></div>Jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09842524016656289777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2686809739798389289.post-49089197933774079382009-02-11T06:01:00.001-08:002009-02-11T06:42:35.112-08:00pictures<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXT-IEtkdCl4X6RpkUPIvOWXU9ZglLUj9oZW_MTTsLX5U8egx7saF_pFMjHDamtSDHNfsdr8f-1J5m1yjCho9mguL6GEfNNIG6tZ0gg7lj4SpMWNh7LNTKH4GASw-AQmS-h2G-DoKHrCxX/s1600-h/DSCF3451.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXT-IEtkdCl4X6RpkUPIvOWXU9ZglLUj9oZW_MTTsLX5U8egx7saF_pFMjHDamtSDHNfsdr8f-1J5m1yjCho9mguL6GEfNNIG6tZ0gg7lj4SpMWNh7LNTKH4GASw-AQmS-h2G-DoKHrCxX/s320/DSCF3451.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301540690050151010" /></a><div>me grading papers<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpZ3m1M78OHs7oEZ5dy-d5BFA9fG7zzRFcdN3aMEGfZk4slkT-NoR5ZbjBGDSkNFr3MgzO-m5i0l2bh7cdD4eF1QEzv0XqmnCu2TPQW0BZW-sXNgjcP-usdWVu3qZi76RKaUOGNl7JbJ1m/s1600-h/DSCF3446.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpZ3m1M78OHs7oEZ5dy-d5BFA9fG7zzRFcdN3aMEGfZk4slkT-NoR5ZbjBGDSkNFr3MgzO-m5i0l2bh7cdD4eF1QEzv0XqmnCu2TPQW0BZW-sXNgjcP-usdWVu3qZi76RKaUOGNl7JbJ1m/s320/DSCF3446.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301540692767752978" /></a><div>teachers playing computer games<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8NuPzaegyZxcJ20eM73wTai3cfuX_GUuJRozwPju8DAI0mGuJozjWSzEKd13gO6J3Kq0SVX8Wdq6jtWAYC7zdsc7EKswHjy0DNbzYEI7oyohC5GPFKFDix_d2F9YigbXO1g7QlAurhUg1/s1600-h/DSCF3443.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8NuPzaegyZxcJ20eM73wTai3cfuX_GUuJRozwPju8DAI0mGuJozjWSzEKd13gO6J3Kq0SVX8Wdq6jtWAYC7zdsc7EKswHjy0DNbzYEI7oyohC5GPFKFDix_d2F9YigbXO1g7QlAurhUg1/s320/DSCF3443.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301540689436088306" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_lxrVluR8pZsooTYfkEaYTm9qcItyb1CEg_1WVQY8C3SG-iINofZGBUjpw-vBZ_clV8aQB67mIb625off-D5BDPrII5OvYaD-pM_FLPC2UAcXovRhxEUnZ3OowMh_GFxJnlY6by27eIkG/s1600-h/DSCF3431.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_lxrVluR8pZsooTYfkEaYTm9qcItyb1CEg_1WVQY8C3SG-iINofZGBUjpw-vBZ_clV8aQB67mIb625off-D5BDPrII5OvYaD-pM_FLPC2UAcXovRhxEUnZ3OowMh_GFxJnlY6by27eIkG/s320/DSCF3431.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301540686445048546" /></a></div><div>my class<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEireznxBfRO40lnTrbfrMhF7nit5yBbbjgNjP-i-xIv08A6rkELQipBAlqs0cwse8eSo3sYvqxWNH9cTbUve4FbuhiqYAGeJn24VFfnNUOg3MrFV_zd8t4fvHfNoO_av8NB-i0bUqu6w75O/s1600-h/DSCF3419.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEireznxBfRO40lnTrbfrMhF7nit5yBbbjgNjP-i-xIv08A6rkELQipBAlqs0cwse8eSo3sYvqxWNH9cTbUve4FbuhiqYAGeJn24VFfnNUOg3MrFV_zd8t4fvHfNoO_av8NB-i0bUqu6w75O/s320/DSCF3419.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301540688208280770" /></a><div>Jes with the dog</div><div>sorry no video as promised, it was too big</div></div><div><br /></div></div>Jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09842524016656289777noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2686809739798389289.post-84858208325894295712009-02-11T05:42:00.000-08:002009-02-11T05:59:24.305-08:00Sickness and Health<p class="MsoNormal">Hello Everyone,</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Life in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Malawi</st1:place></st1:country-region> has been interesting as always. I got sick last week with a high fever but thankfully the Malaria test was negative. The director of the NGO is a Health Officer (the Malawian equivalent of an MD) and his wife is a nurse so I was well cared for. The clinic is just across the street and I while I was hobbling towards the clinic, Hope (the nurse) stuck her head out the door told me to go back home and rest. I obeyed, and within an hour I was paid a house call by the director and his wife; talk about good care. Sibale (the director) is quite gregarious, and after the Malaria test came back negative, started walking around the house in good spirits slapping me on the back and saying, “Ahhh, don’t worry, you will be fine; you’ll be back on your feet any day!” I missed several days of school, and since there is such a shortage of teachers, my students went without class. Sickness here is common and students are used to cancelled classes. There is usually at least one teacher out sick, and although there is a gamut of diseases, often Malaria is the culprit. The other day a teacher friend of mine looked a little weary and I enquired as to his condition, he responded, “I am doing well, I just have a little bout of Malaria.” I had always pictured Malaria as a horrible and exotic disease, the type that leaves you gasping for breath on your deathbed. However, for a healthy individual with access to medication (malaria meds are easily accessible in this region of <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Malawi</st1:place></st1:country-region>), Malaria is far less severe but far more disruptive than I had previously imagined. Picture the entire <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">US</st1:country-region></st1:place> population with a chronic disease that incapacitates individuals for weeks out of the year and you will have an idea of Malaria’s impact. And this is the impact on the healthy portion of the population. If you combine Malaria with rampant malnutrition and a 30% HIV infection rate the problem is compounded. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Tom and Ruth (the people from whom we learned about MCV) arrived last week along with several medical students from the States. We all had dinner at Ruth and Tom’s house last Friday and had a great time (it was the largest gathering of white people I have seen in some time). Their house is right on the lake and the waves were so big you could almost body surf. After hearing numerous stories about burnt out and jaded medical students it was refreshing to meet a group that were so excited about the medical profession, and for all the right reason<span style="font-family: Wingdings;mso-ascii-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-hansi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-char-type:symbol;mso-symbol-font-family:Wingdings"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol;mso-symbol-font-family:Wingdings">J</span></span> The group has been running clinics at the nursery and I have been joining them after my classes. The experience has been both uplifting and sobering. The nursery conveys a good feeling the moment you enter the door. The caretakers are fantastic and the children are well loved and cared for. That said, an afternoon working with sick children receiving inadequate care can be taxing. Several of the children are HIV positive, but don’t yet qualify for antiretroviral drugs because they aren’t sick enough. <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Malawi</st1:place></st1:country-region> got access to AIDS drugs several years ago through the World Health Organization yet the stigma of AIDS here is so strong that many people don’t go to the ARV Clinic for treatment. As the product of the US HIV/AIDS education system, the amount of disinformation here came as quite a shock. Many people still aren’t clear on what AIDS is or exactly how it is spread. I have not heard a single person mention AIDS since I got here (aside from in the clinics), and as such the epidemic is nearly invisible. As an outsider, if you avoided clinics and hospitals, I am fairly confident you would have no idea AIDS was an issue in the area. People who are sick stay home, and since an individual’s HIV status is private, the only indicator of the epidemic is an unusually large number of coffin makers. Disease aside though, the babies in the nursery are still babies; they still burp and smile when you hold them, and most are quite cute. Jes has now become jealous and is demanding I take her along so she can play with the babies too. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>This weekend Jes and I escaped from school (we normally have school on Saturdays for a half day) and visited a gorgeous area called <st1:place st="on"><st1:placetype st="on">Cape</st1:placetype> <st1:placename st="on">Maclear</st1:placename></st1:place>. Other teachers have been telling us for weeks that we need to pay this little gem a visit. It is only 60km away, but any distance of travel in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Malawi</st1:place></st1:country-region> is interesting. We were planning on taking matolas (see previous post) the whole way but we ended up getting picked up by a Malawian music producer who was driving from <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Blantyre</st1:place></st1:city> (biggest city) to his home village. I am not sure why he picked us up; Jes and I must have looked pathetic on the side of the road. He could only take us part of the way because he was almost home; nevertheless, it was an interesting leg of the journey. His company recorded local Malawian bands, several of which we got to sample on his car stereo. We asked if he wanted any money for gas, but he responded, “life has been good to me, please give your money to the poor”. The second person to pick us up was an Italian contractor who had lived in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Malawi</st1:place></st1:country-region> for nearly a year. His company was doing the construction on the road we have been witnessing for the past month. His wife was with him for the first six months but then had to go back to <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Italy</st1:place></st1:country-region>. He said that he missed <st1:country-region st="on">Italy</st1:country-region>, but really enjoyed living in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Malawi</st1:place></st1:country-region>. He left us at the junction to <st1:place st="on"><st1:placetype st="on">Cape</st1:placetype> <st1:placename st="on">Maclear</st1:placename></st1:place>. Figuring that our luck with free rides had run out, we sat down next to the road and waited dutifully for a matola. To our surprise a SUV rounded the corner with stickers proclaiming it to be associated with the “Icelandic Group,” whatever that is. Inside, was a very nice Icelandic man who gave us a ride the rest of the way. He was working for an Icelandic NGO that was doing work with sanitation and education. He was quite well traveled and prided himself on having been to 25 states. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>Finally in <st1:place st="on"><st1:placetype st="on">Cape</st1:placetype> <st1:placename st="on">Maclear</st1:placename></st1:place> (actually the trip only took an hour and a half), we quickly went about locating a resort which had tents, also known as a resort which is cheap. The guests were either young like us, or old with “hippie hair;” two groups which I can only presume prefer what the Lonely Planet likes to call, “budget accommodations.” </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span><st1:place st="on"><st1:placetype st="on">Cape</st1:placetype> <st1:placename st="on">Maclear</st1:placename></st1:place> is an odd fusion of tourism and village life. When most spots are, “discovered,” tourism pushes out the locals until the only traditional life which remains exists solely for exhibition and profit. For the most part, this is not the case with <st1:place st="on"><st1:placetype st="on">Cape</st1:placetype> <st1:placename st="on">Maclear</st1:placename></st1:place>. A corner of the village is scattered with a handful of resorts, leaving most of the town an actual fishing village. If you travel more than 100 meters from the resorts, western products become unavailable and English becomes rare. Sure, some cultural exhibition existed; several men approached Jes and I trying to sell us a “traditional” Malawian meal for 1500 kwatcha (10 dollars). He said that if we visited <st1:country-region st="on">Malawi</st1:country-region> we should eat <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">Malawi</st1:country-region></st1:place> style. I said that we normally paid 50 cents for our traditional Malawian meals and that if he came down to that price we might consider it. He seemed to think this was funny, but after realizing that we really weren’t going to pay that much, left us alone. I was personally glad that he hadn’t been willing to match our price, since Jes and I had been eating traditionally for the last month and were really in the mood for something that wasn’t beans with corn mush. All heckling aside, I got the impression that the village would go on existing in about the same manor if all the tourism decided to pack up and leave.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span><st1:place st="on"><st1:placetype st="on">Cape</st1:placetype> <st1:placename st="on">Maclear</st1:placename></st1:place> was beautiful; Jes and I rented a Kayak and paddled around exploring the many islands in the bay. Check out the pictures and the video. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>For everyone who keeps asking me to send pictures, I finally started taking some. I am posting pictures from school and <st1:place st="on"><st1:placetype st="on">Cape</st1:placetype> <st1:placename st="on">Maclear</st1:placename></st1:place>. The hut is a picture of our house, and the class pictures are my form 1 and form 2 students. The dog is a recent acquisition that started hanging around after we put some chicken scraps in the garbage. After a little chicken skin the dog was completely devoted to us. The picture of the water and the island is from the resort we stayed in. The pictures of the fishing canoes are fisherman we ran into while paddling around. </p>Jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09842524016656289777noreply@blogger.com2