Everyday I watch the most amazing women go to work. They are wives, daughters, grandmothers. They are home-makers but at any given time you can see them moving around the village carrying this or that.
Colorful chitenges of every pattern are curled up like cinamon rolls atop their heads. Each woman has a unique way of carrying her load. Some don't use chitenges (only for heavy loads), head tilted or straight, hands up to guide or down. I have seen women so skilled they carry multiply things piled on atop the other on their heads. I have seen a grandma crouch/runnign with a full bucket of water on her head to try and make it home before dark, only one hand on the bucket.
They are impervious to everything burdening about their load. Water drips onto their faces and clothes, whole stacks of trees that they just cut down are bundled onto their heads, so long the ends drag on the ground ebhind them and almost touch in front of them. The loads are so heavy their foreheads are scrunched up in a mass of wrinkles. They carry everythign from suitcases to a foot of sugar cane on their heads.
I've tried some of these and they are definatly an aquired skill. Small bags are fairly easy but firewood bundles are so heavy I can't walk and are liable to crush my neck like an accordian. Large buckets of waters slosh and wiggle with a mind of their own.
So hats, or shall I say buckets off to these hard working, though necked women who carry an entire nation upon their heads and never ever complain about it.
Sunrise Breakfast
The Mnuw in Colonia, Yap
Showing posts with label chitipa. Show all posts
Showing posts with label chitipa. Show all posts
Monday, February 21, 2011
Traditonal Healer Remedies
Phil and I were helping out at our two new volunteers language intensive week which took place in our boma. They invited us along to visit a local traditional healer. So Bree and Kara (The two new health volunteers) Phil and I, two language trainers named Jeroham and Joseph, Fexony (Our coordinator) and a driver piled into the land rover and headed out.
When we arrive, I sit on the bamboo mat in the shade of a blue gum tree along with the other women. The men took the chairs. I made known my unhappiness at their sexism and most of the men had the decency to at least seem embaressed.
The traditional healer answers our questions in a vauge and dodgy manner. One language trainer whispers to me,
"He is just being cautious about his work."
I called him shifty. Examples;
They say he must look sharp and dress the part so people don't think he is a witch. His suits and other bwana type possessions (two cars car, several houses, satelite dishes) he claims are all gifts from whites who have sought him out to work with. He claims he does not charge and is only reimbursed with gifts. yeah right, he lives in a compound with at least three seperate houses. When asked who all the women were and whose kids were around (At least three mothers, serveral small childrena nd a few older) He shrugged and said he didn't know...who the women were, living in his compound...anyway.
"Have you treated famous people?"
"I can't answer that."
(It is rumored he has treated the president or a minister or something.)
"You have three houses, who stays there?"
"Some people."
(As we all stare at the plethera of women and children.)
He claims to treat mainly germans, south africans and flashes a big stack of crisp bills to reaffirm.
It is also rumored that the spirits come in the night for him and people try to curse him but he is too powerful. He can fight them off with his powers.
Finally we break through the round about answers and get to the real traditonal remedies. He takes us into a cramped, dark, one room mud hut and shows us his stock. He has dried hedge hogs for luck, ground up powders for stomach aches, protection, even love. He has a bundle of bike tires, filled with magic sand to met justice from thieves. There is a dirty mirror on the wall. He says it is a turth mirror. After mixing a concoction he smears it on the mirror and lets it dry in the sun. Once dry he hangs it on the wall and peers into the mass. He is then able to identify what ailment is plauging the person. He can also use it to answer other questions if smeared with a different concotion.
When we arrive, I sit on the bamboo mat in the shade of a blue gum tree along with the other women. The men took the chairs. I made known my unhappiness at their sexism and most of the men had the decency to at least seem embaressed.
The traditional healer answers our questions in a vauge and dodgy manner. One language trainer whispers to me,
"He is just being cautious about his work."
I called him shifty. Examples;
They say he must look sharp and dress the part so people don't think he is a witch. His suits and other bwana type possessions (two cars car, several houses, satelite dishes) he claims are all gifts from whites who have sought him out to work with. He claims he does not charge and is only reimbursed with gifts. yeah right, he lives in a compound with at least three seperate houses. When asked who all the women were and whose kids were around (At least three mothers, serveral small childrena nd a few older) He shrugged and said he didn't know...who the women were, living in his compound...anyway.
"Have you treated famous people?"
"I can't answer that."
(It is rumored he has treated the president or a minister or something.)
"You have three houses, who stays there?"
"Some people."
(As we all stare at the plethera of women and children.)
He claims to treat mainly germans, south africans and flashes a big stack of crisp bills to reaffirm.
It is also rumored that the spirits come in the night for him and people try to curse him but he is too powerful. He can fight them off with his powers.
Finally we break through the round about answers and get to the real traditonal remedies. He takes us into a cramped, dark, one room mud hut and shows us his stock. He has dried hedge hogs for luck, ground up powders for stomach aches, protection, even love. He has a bundle of bike tires, filled with magic sand to met justice from thieves. There is a dirty mirror on the wall. He says it is a turth mirror. After mixing a concoction he smears it on the mirror and lets it dry in the sun. Once dry he hangs it on the wall and peers into the mass. He is then able to identify what ailment is plauging the person. He can also use it to answer other questions if smeared with a different concotion.
Lessons on WitchCraft 2
Story: Witchcraft of astronomical proportions
It is common knowledge that those who practice witchcraft, are able to fly through the sky in woven baskets. Azungus with magic can fly to America, there and back in a single night.
But there are some wizards who take it a step further.
Some wizards fly around on seas turtles. But to fuel a sea turtle you need human blood...
One day several men were flying upon their sea turtle over lake Malawi. But they ran out of blood. So the turtle crashed into the lake. All the passengers fell into the lake and drowned, except one. This one man landed on a boat. The captain of the boat was shouting,
"Where did you come from?" "Who are you?" "What do you want?"
But the presence of the man appearing on their boat was even stranger because he was naked.
The captain brought the boat into shore, in Nhatabay, and the local villagers on the beach gave the man a shirt and pants. Then the captain took the man to the police, where he explained about riding the sea turtle ad his crash landing onto the captain's boat. His fate is unknown. But I'm sure the authorities were not too happen when he told them his flying turtle ran on human blood...
Lessons:
Professional Thieves:
Carry special charms and splah medicines to deactivate protection charms.
Hyena Shape Shifters:
Only medicine men, healers who have worked their way up first using herbs and spells, can cast this Hyena spell. First they prepare and take a special medicine. These witch doctors shift into a hyena to steal animals. At night they take a rope and charms into the bush. After tying the rope between two trees or bushes, the medicine man jumps over the rope. As they jump they transform into a hyena. At dawn they return to the rope and jump back over, returning into a man.
Lightning Rams:
Wearing red attracts lightning. Also, being around sheep attracts lightning. When sheep flick their tounge in the rain, its a sign they are calling lightning and you should run. In each lightning bolt is a ram. He will come charging down and smash you with his horned head.
Graveyard Rain Dance:
In the rainy seasons if the rains don't come the elders hold a ceremony. Everyone else is confined to their homes. Elders offer Nsima, food and beer to their ancestral spirits in the graveyard. They leave and when they come back, if there are ants in the food, the ancestors have heard the prayer.
Mulanje Mountain Witches:
People become lost and are never found on Mulanje mountain. People come to seek treasure off the mountains. The witches offer food and drink to travelers, if you refuse, they will punish you. You become lost and they take you and show you mysterious things, share their secrets. You are sworn never to tell. If you do you will become dumb and unable to speak. Many never return
It is common knowledge that those who practice witchcraft, are able to fly through the sky in woven baskets. Azungus with magic can fly to America, there and back in a single night.
But there are some wizards who take it a step further.
Some wizards fly around on seas turtles. But to fuel a sea turtle you need human blood...
One day several men were flying upon their sea turtle over lake Malawi. But they ran out of blood. So the turtle crashed into the lake. All the passengers fell into the lake and drowned, except one. This one man landed on a boat. The captain of the boat was shouting,
"Where did you come from?" "Who are you?" "What do you want?"
But the presence of the man appearing on their boat was even stranger because he was naked.
The captain brought the boat into shore, in Nhatabay, and the local villagers on the beach gave the man a shirt and pants. Then the captain took the man to the police, where he explained about riding the sea turtle ad his crash landing onto the captain's boat. His fate is unknown. But I'm sure the authorities were not too happen when he told them his flying turtle ran on human blood...
Lessons:
Professional Thieves:
Carry special charms and splah medicines to deactivate protection charms.
Hyena Shape Shifters:
Only medicine men, healers who have worked their way up first using herbs and spells, can cast this Hyena spell. First they prepare and take a special medicine. These witch doctors shift into a hyena to steal animals. At night they take a rope and charms into the bush. After tying the rope between two trees or bushes, the medicine man jumps over the rope. As they jump they transform into a hyena. At dawn they return to the rope and jump back over, returning into a man.
Lightning Rams:
Wearing red attracts lightning. Also, being around sheep attracts lightning. When sheep flick their tounge in the rain, its a sign they are calling lightning and you should run. In each lightning bolt is a ram. He will come charging down and smash you with his horned head.
Graveyard Rain Dance:
In the rainy seasons if the rains don't come the elders hold a ceremony. Everyone else is confined to their homes. Elders offer Nsima, food and beer to their ancestral spirits in the graveyard. They leave and when they come back, if there are ants in the food, the ancestors have heard the prayer.
Mulanje Mountain Witches:
People become lost and are never found on Mulanje mountain. People come to seek treasure off the mountains. The witches offer food and drink to travelers, if you refuse, they will punish you. You become lost and they take you and show you mysterious things, share their secrets. You are sworn never to tell. If you do you will become dumb and unable to speak. Many never return
Sunday, February 20, 2011
The Milk Man
One morning I woke up and decided to go and get some fresh milk from a fellow villager. I dumped out the ashes of my charcoal burner (on lend from Johnathan) becuase the unseasonably cold night. (It was so cols I was bundled up in underarmor pants and shirt, a hoodie, a hat, in my sleeping bag, under the covers. Now THATS cold...or im aclimated to Malawi weather...) I dumped the ashes down my chim to supress the smell and pests that love to fester in such squallid places. Then I set out for Mr. Simbeye's
The pedals and gear guard of my bike grate against my chain, screamng at me to oil them. I don't even try to shift gears this morning because I don't want to mess with another popped chain. I pass several people and after answering the greetings and shouted "Where are you going?!" 's, I press on towards my goal.
One boy happily calls, "Hi!" in English, very surprising because most children only know 'bye!" Very few know Hello. As he starts to chase my bike, other children shout "Cori!" after the customary "Mzungu!". I'm not sure why they still try Mzungu, they know I won't respond. Its as if they feel the need to declare to everyone, "Yes, see here, I see the white person!" Finnally I turn and bike down the dusty 'drive' to the Simbeye compund.
After I pull into the compound and dismount, I'm presented a rigid wodden chair in the dilligently swept yard. Yet their is a patch of grass and a small tre surrounded by bricks that speaks of good sense and a progressive, agricultural attitude. Very tall, lanky Mr. Simbeye pulls off his cap and greets me shyly. His prominent cheek bones stand out from his almost skull-like face. His eyes look to be developing cataracts. Yet, even though his hair is going greay, his skin weather beaten into leather, he runs off into the fields after his cows. Their young daughter smiles and hides her face from me. Eventually she is too overcome and leaves, too nervous to stay. The elder son of the Simbeye's, so obviously related by his tall and lanky build, comes and sits at the foot of a mud container armed with a screwdriver and cell phone sized radio. Music bleeps in and out as he tinkers. The sound ebbs and flows wether from faulty wiring or bad signal, I can't tell.
Mrs. Simbeye is bent over double, handwashing dishes in front of the smoking kitchen. When she bends, that swarthy, substantial backside, that marks almos all Malawian women, blocks out the rest of her bent-over body. As she ducks into the kitchen, the deep lowing and rattle of cow bells heralds the return of Mr. Simbeye He drives the cow he wants from the herd and to their 'barn.' (A structure with a thatch roof and stick walls.) Mother hens and their cheeping broods of chicks attack the abandoned dishes, hrowing and chasing bits of Nsima. As they clamor over the dishes, some goats wander into the yard. These are promptly chased away with rocks. A bold young goat walks into the house after Mr. Simbeye, who has just taken the milk to put into my container. After a sharp whistle and "Ahsay!", out trots the goat, hooves clack-clakcing softly on the hardened earth.
As Mr. Simbeye hands me my overflowing blue Nalgene, filled with warm, creamy fresh milk, he sits and waits a little nervously. I thank him and produce the required Kwacha. His grin lights up his whole face as he thanks me and scurries inside.
I say my goodbyes, put the milk in my chitenge bag, sling it over my shoulder and across my neck and walk my bike from the yard. I pedal the 10 minute ride home and start my boiling fiasco. Which, by the way ended up with me using parafin soaked matches. Believe it or not, i used the parafin that go on the floor from me knocking the container over. SO I soked matches in it. Waste not want not here.
Spilled parafin + old matches = lit stove.
Clumsy to the end.
(PS I dont use those anymore lol.)
The pedals and gear guard of my bike grate against my chain, screamng at me to oil them. I don't even try to shift gears this morning because I don't want to mess with another popped chain. I pass several people and after answering the greetings and shouted "Where are you going?!" 's, I press on towards my goal.
One boy happily calls, "Hi!" in English, very surprising because most children only know 'bye!" Very few know Hello. As he starts to chase my bike, other children shout "Cori!" after the customary "Mzungu!". I'm not sure why they still try Mzungu, they know I won't respond. Its as if they feel the need to declare to everyone, "Yes, see here, I see the white person!" Finnally I turn and bike down the dusty 'drive' to the Simbeye compund.
After I pull into the compound and dismount, I'm presented a rigid wodden chair in the dilligently swept yard. Yet their is a patch of grass and a small tre surrounded by bricks that speaks of good sense and a progressive, agricultural attitude. Very tall, lanky Mr. Simbeye pulls off his cap and greets me shyly. His prominent cheek bones stand out from his almost skull-like face. His eyes look to be developing cataracts. Yet, even though his hair is going greay, his skin weather beaten into leather, he runs off into the fields after his cows. Their young daughter smiles and hides her face from me. Eventually she is too overcome and leaves, too nervous to stay. The elder son of the Simbeye's, so obviously related by his tall and lanky build, comes and sits at the foot of a mud container armed with a screwdriver and cell phone sized radio. Music bleeps in and out as he tinkers. The sound ebbs and flows wether from faulty wiring or bad signal, I can't tell.
Mrs. Simbeye is bent over double, handwashing dishes in front of the smoking kitchen. When she bends, that swarthy, substantial backside, that marks almos all Malawian women, blocks out the rest of her bent-over body. As she ducks into the kitchen, the deep lowing and rattle of cow bells heralds the return of Mr. Simbeye He drives the cow he wants from the herd and to their 'barn.' (A structure with a thatch roof and stick walls.) Mother hens and their cheeping broods of chicks attack the abandoned dishes, hrowing and chasing bits of Nsima. As they clamor over the dishes, some goats wander into the yard. These are promptly chased away with rocks. A bold young goat walks into the house after Mr. Simbeye, who has just taken the milk to put into my container. After a sharp whistle and "Ahsay!", out trots the goat, hooves clack-clakcing softly on the hardened earth.
As Mr. Simbeye hands me my overflowing blue Nalgene, filled with warm, creamy fresh milk, he sits and waits a little nervously. I thank him and produce the required Kwacha. His grin lights up his whole face as he thanks me and scurries inside.
I say my goodbyes, put the milk in my chitenge bag, sling it over my shoulder and across my neck and walk my bike from the yard. I pedal the 10 minute ride home and start my boiling fiasco. Which, by the way ended up with me using parafin soaked matches. Believe it or not, i used the parafin that go on the floor from me knocking the container over. SO I soked matches in it. Waste not want not here.
Spilled parafin + old matches = lit stove.
Clumsy to the end.
(PS I dont use those anymore lol.)
Saturday, February 19, 2011
When Animals Attack
Ok so I have never thought chickens to be the brightest creatures, but some of the things they do are just STUPID!
I was biking to Lufita market one morning. Its about 15 k away anad where I go every Wednesday to get food. I strap it all to my bike and ride back and round trip normally takes about two hours. So Im approaching the market, people are sitting out front of a maize mill, talking, sitting, whatever. I see a bunch of chickens in the road. I figure they will move....oh how Naiive I am...One rooster sees me coming and panicks, its ont he right side of the road dodging back adn forth like t doesnt know which way to run. As I pull up next to it, im just thinking "Dont, dont do it."
The stupid thing bolts across the road and runs smak into the side of my front tire. There was no suave way to handle it. With everyone lookign on, i try to slam on the brakes and dodge to the side. No dice. Just as the chicken runs into my tire I stupidly scream "Chicken!" In a high, panicked voice.
I hate to admit that this was a hit and run but it was. It hit me and I kept going, for what its worth I did glance back over my shoulder and im prett sure it didnt die.
But oooh the shame of having to bike back past those people on my way home. Yes, their was laughter and hidden smirks.
Chickens also decide its better to keep runnig down the road in stead of off to the side...as if they can out run/fly a motor car.
Goats and cows are mainly indifferent to the fast moving, possibly dinner making machines and only mozy slowly out of the way.
Speaking of cows
There are alot of oxcarts around the villages. I was riding my bike to the boma to meet some friends and had to pass an oxcart. There was only a adolecent boy driving and he was to busy staring at me to control his cart, so it weaves over towards my side of the road. Unfortunatly I see all this coming. Im too far to the right to swerve to the left. SO I try to sqeeze by. SO of course thats when the boy tries to regain control of his cows since THEY ARE HEAED STRAIGHT FOR ME. All he succeeds in doing is halting the cows just as I pull even. One cow, particularly unhappy, shakes his head violently, smacking the protruding bar of the yoke straight into my thigh. Yes, I was hit by an oxcart...a slowmoving, rickety oxcart. I managed to stay on my bike, biting back all my curses and thinking, "Damn that hurt....GAAAAAAH." I had a tiny bruise that did not even hint at the deep tissue damage that was done that cused me to yell when touched and limp for two days...
I was biking to Lufita market one morning. Its about 15 k away anad where I go every Wednesday to get food. I strap it all to my bike and ride back and round trip normally takes about two hours. So Im approaching the market, people are sitting out front of a maize mill, talking, sitting, whatever. I see a bunch of chickens in the road. I figure they will move....oh how Naiive I am...One rooster sees me coming and panicks, its ont he right side of the road dodging back adn forth like t doesnt know which way to run. As I pull up next to it, im just thinking "Dont, dont do it."
The stupid thing bolts across the road and runs smak into the side of my front tire. There was no suave way to handle it. With everyone lookign on, i try to slam on the brakes and dodge to the side. No dice. Just as the chicken runs into my tire I stupidly scream "Chicken!" In a high, panicked voice.
I hate to admit that this was a hit and run but it was. It hit me and I kept going, for what its worth I did glance back over my shoulder and im prett sure it didnt die.
But oooh the shame of having to bike back past those people on my way home. Yes, their was laughter and hidden smirks.
Chickens also decide its better to keep runnig down the road in stead of off to the side...as if they can out run/fly a motor car.
Goats and cows are mainly indifferent to the fast moving, possibly dinner making machines and only mozy slowly out of the way.
Speaking of cows
There are alot of oxcarts around the villages. I was riding my bike to the boma to meet some friends and had to pass an oxcart. There was only a adolecent boy driving and he was to busy staring at me to control his cart, so it weaves over towards my side of the road. Unfortunatly I see all this coming. Im too far to the right to swerve to the left. SO I try to sqeeze by. SO of course thats when the boy tries to regain control of his cows since THEY ARE HEAED STRAIGHT FOR ME. All he succeeds in doing is halting the cows just as I pull even. One cow, particularly unhappy, shakes his head violently, smacking the protruding bar of the yoke straight into my thigh. Yes, I was hit by an oxcart...a slowmoving, rickety oxcart. I managed to stay on my bike, biting back all my curses and thinking, "Damn that hurt....GAAAAAAH." I had a tiny bruise that did not even hint at the deep tissue damage that was done that cused me to yell when touched and limp for two days...
Lessons on Witchcraft 1
1. It IS possible to be cursed by someone, go to sleep in your bed, and wake up in the middle of a river. (When asked by locals to explain how this could happen all I could think about was The Parent Trap.)
2. If you go to a traditional healer, (who must dress sharp and look that part so people don't think they are a witch(Quote by locals)) after being robbed, you will find justice. You must bring a new bike tire and pay for his services. After describing you theft, the healer inflates the tube, filling it with a special mixture, chanting under his breath. When he is finished he explains the that the thief will either confess to you or be stricken by his power. The thief's stomach will swell up like the tire with pain and kill him.
...try proving that thats not what is really happening to the unseen thief. Its perfect, justice no matter what.
Story: Witchy Guard
An old man was hired to guard a man's buisness grounds. One day the boss went to check and make sure the old man was actually working. When he went inside, he walked trhough the building calling the guard's name, shouting
"Where are you?!"
Always somewhere else in the building or outside came the reply,
"Here I am!"
The boss was angry that the man was not at his building. He was not truly there, only using witchcraft to leave his voice behind. The next day he fired the guard. The day after that, he took a seat at his desk and worked hard all day. When the boss grew hungry he went to rise from his chair to fetch soem lunch. To his horror he could not rise from the chair! All day he sat in the chair, his co-workers trying to get him out of the chair but to no avail. Finally the old guard was sent for. After examening the man, he worked his magic and was able to remove the man from the chair. Needless to say...the guard was given his job back.
A new take on the Guard buisness:
Another man can be hired to guard all your feilds at once, or even more than one person's fields. He is paid to protect the fields from thieves, like any watchman. But he does it by placing charms on the fields then going home, because he is 'protecting' the people's fields with witchcraft from the comfort of his own home.
2. If you go to a traditional healer, (who must dress sharp and look that part so people don't think they are a witch(Quote by locals)) after being robbed, you will find justice. You must bring a new bike tire and pay for his services. After describing you theft, the healer inflates the tube, filling it with a special mixture, chanting under his breath. When he is finished he explains the that the thief will either confess to you or be stricken by his power. The thief's stomach will swell up like the tire with pain and kill him.
...try proving that thats not what is really happening to the unseen thief. Its perfect, justice no matter what.
Story: Witchy Guard
An old man was hired to guard a man's buisness grounds. One day the boss went to check and make sure the old man was actually working. When he went inside, he walked trhough the building calling the guard's name, shouting
"Where are you?!"
Always somewhere else in the building or outside came the reply,
"Here I am!"
The boss was angry that the man was not at his building. He was not truly there, only using witchcraft to leave his voice behind. The next day he fired the guard. The day after that, he took a seat at his desk and worked hard all day. When the boss grew hungry he went to rise from his chair to fetch soem lunch. To his horror he could not rise from the chair! All day he sat in the chair, his co-workers trying to get him out of the chair but to no avail. Finally the old guard was sent for. After examening the man, he worked his magic and was able to remove the man from the chair. Needless to say...the guard was given his job back.
A new take on the Guard buisness:
Another man can be hired to guard all your feilds at once, or even more than one person's fields. He is paid to protect the fields from thieves, like any watchman. But he does it by placing charms on the fields then going home, because he is 'protecting' the people's fields with witchcraft from the comfort of his own home.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
The Making of a Traditional healer
(This was told to me by teh healer himself)
The young man was working in the fields. It was just him, laboring in the hot afternoon sun, with his Jembe and the rising dust. His labor rewarded him at the end of the day with a kilo bag of potatoes. Trudging along the narrow path home he suddenly stopped.
Abruptly he changed course, towards teh woods. The spirits, they walked with him, looking like people but never speaking a word, just followed him as he made his way deeper into the forest.
For four days he wandered teh forest, no food, nothing. This wandering only stopped when he came upon a waterfall. Without hesitation he stepped into the spray. But he was unable to become wet. He merely stood under the direct stream of water, reamaining dry, in silence, unmoving.
After the fourth day he was found, standing under the water fall. A man tentativly reached out and touched him lightly. The young man shook his head, like emerging from a dream. He felt the wter for the first time.
He returned to his village and wife but for two years he was unable to recall his own language. For two years he spoke the language of the lakeshore people, tonga, a language he had never known before.
The young man was working in the fields. It was just him, laboring in the hot afternoon sun, with his Jembe and the rising dust. His labor rewarded him at the end of the day with a kilo bag of potatoes. Trudging along the narrow path home he suddenly stopped.
Abruptly he changed course, towards teh woods. The spirits, they walked with him, looking like people but never speaking a word, just followed him as he made his way deeper into the forest.
For four days he wandered teh forest, no food, nothing. This wandering only stopped when he came upon a waterfall. Without hesitation he stepped into the spray. But he was unable to become wet. He merely stood under the direct stream of water, reamaining dry, in silence, unmoving.
After the fourth day he was found, standing under the water fall. A man tentativly reached out and touched him lightly. The young man shook his head, like emerging from a dream. He felt the wter for the first time.
He returned to his village and wife but for two years he was unable to recall his own language. For two years he spoke the language of the lakeshore people, tonga, a language he had never known before.
Milk Mayhem
I'm sitting now in my rickety wooden chair, the torn and discolored foam pad my only cushion in the house, try to stop shaking. Of course this was due to my stove, an outdated, parafin guzzling, hand-me-down, mostly broken, I inherited from countless volunteers before me. My heart is hammering and I pray the fresh, hot milk i'm about to drink
A. calms my nerves B. does not burn my mouth C. does not give me TB.
A. Because I felt I almost died. B. I am one of those with a tendancy to just drink or eat something thats too hot cause i just want it so bad C. I have no idea if through this debacle I boiled the milk long enough to kill disease. I tend towards hypochondracy
Back to the Story.
After returning from Mr Simbeye's house, my fresh milk man, I started to boil the milk and do some dishes while I waited. I was careless and the milk boiled over, so now my notoriously hard to light and onery stove goes out. I already have to pour parafn down onto the wick to light it and now its doused with milk. Just m luck. So naturally I pour more parafin on and try to light the sucker. As usual it lights, sputters, dies. So more parafin, I'll admit, sloppily poured and once more I light my lighting stick and jab it onto the wick.
BOOM!!!!!!
Sort of like a muffled boom, like the initial shooting of a firecracker out of its sheath. Suddenly my stove is a ball of fire. All I can think is shit shit shit shit! As my heart is racing and doing flip flops. Desperatly I cast about and grab the first cloth I could find, my towel. I cover my hands with it, grab the stove and run outside (im not sure but I may have been muttering shit shit shit! out loud now)
Using the towel, I rip apart the stove, and beat each peice out with the towel, trying not to catch on fire, wondering if I would die if it exploded or if it would even explode if let alone. Finally (after this whole 1 minute ordeal the falmes are out and the stove did not blow up and is disembled in pieces in my front yard.
After coming into the house, sitting and listening to my heart beat for a while, I decided to try and calm my nerves with fresh milk. Then i'm going to try again, carefully, to light my stove again, adn boil the other half of my milk.
By the way, the milk SO GOOD.
It doesnt taste like spoiled milk (The first time I let it sit too long and another time used a pan that made it taste like tin).
FOOTNOTE:(I have since not freaked out when my stove exploded and in fact have put out other peoples fires, including my soap club who lit a vat of boiling oil on fire and had no idea what to do. My stove has also broken more and yes I still pour parafin down it.)
A. calms my nerves B. does not burn my mouth C. does not give me TB.
A. Because I felt I almost died. B. I am one of those with a tendancy to just drink or eat something thats too hot cause i just want it so bad C. I have no idea if through this debacle I boiled the milk long enough to kill disease. I tend towards hypochondracy
Back to the Story.
After returning from Mr Simbeye's house, my fresh milk man, I started to boil the milk and do some dishes while I waited. I was careless and the milk boiled over, so now my notoriously hard to light and onery stove goes out. I already have to pour parafn down onto the wick to light it and now its doused with milk. Just m luck. So naturally I pour more parafin on and try to light the sucker. As usual it lights, sputters, dies. So more parafin, I'll admit, sloppily poured and once more I light my lighting stick and jab it onto the wick.
BOOM!!!!!!
Sort of like a muffled boom, like the initial shooting of a firecracker out of its sheath. Suddenly my stove is a ball of fire. All I can think is shit shit shit shit! As my heart is racing and doing flip flops. Desperatly I cast about and grab the first cloth I could find, my towel. I cover my hands with it, grab the stove and run outside (im not sure but I may have been muttering shit shit shit! out loud now)
Using the towel, I rip apart the stove, and beat each peice out with the towel, trying not to catch on fire, wondering if I would die if it exploded or if it would even explode if let alone. Finally (after this whole 1 minute ordeal the falmes are out and the stove did not blow up and is disembled in pieces in my front yard.
After coming into the house, sitting and listening to my heart beat for a while, I decided to try and calm my nerves with fresh milk. Then i'm going to try again, carefully, to light my stove again, adn boil the other half of my milk.
By the way, the milk SO GOOD.
It doesnt taste like spoiled milk (The first time I let it sit too long and another time used a pan that made it taste like tin).
FOOTNOTE:(I have since not freaked out when my stove exploded and in fact have put out other peoples fires, including my soap club who lit a vat of boiling oil on fire and had no idea what to do. My stove has also broken more and yes I still pour parafin down it.)
Legends One: The Standing Snake Killer
There is a snake in the Savanah valley in Chitipa. It can stand up straight with only an inch of tail on the ground and look you dead in the eye.
There is no cure for its venom.
The only way to avoid being bitten is to collapse when you see it.
One boy way biking and failed to see the snake early. He braked to a halt, the snake now standing equal with his eyes and starring him down. You don't know how it feels to be looked in the eye by a snake, knowing there is no hope, until it happens to you. The boy covered his face with his hands and prayed. He knew he was already dead. When he got up the courage to face his death, he lowered his hands. The snake had lowered itself and was moving off. He was a lucky one.
There is a legendary man however who is always travelling by foot. His only protection is a stick. When the snakes' rear in front of him, he does not stop. He merely taps them on the head and moves on. They fall to the ground and crawl off to die. He never looks back.
Most people are not sure how he accomplishes this feat. They agree it must be withcraft.
There is no cure for its venom.
The only way to avoid being bitten is to collapse when you see it.
One boy way biking and failed to see the snake early. He braked to a halt, the snake now standing equal with his eyes and starring him down. You don't know how it feels to be looked in the eye by a snake, knowing there is no hope, until it happens to you. The boy covered his face with his hands and prayed. He knew he was already dead. When he got up the courage to face his death, he lowered his hands. The snake had lowered itself and was moving off. He was a lucky one.
There is a legendary man however who is always travelling by foot. His only protection is a stick. When the snakes' rear in front of him, he does not stop. He merely taps them on the head and moves on. They fall to the ground and crawl off to die. He never looks back.
Most people are not sure how he accomplishes this feat. They agree it must be withcraft.
The Tango of the Mango
Mangos, the messiest fruit you'll ever love.
Most PCV's develope an allergy to mangos after living in Malawi. Why you may ask? Because since food is seasonal, we stuff our faces with mangos when they are in season, ripping them open with our teth just like the natives. I've even seen PCV's chew on the skin, just like the Malawians. We expose ourselves to so much of the toxins in the skin of the mango and overdose on large quantities of the fruit. Therefore, we develop allergies. The same goes for peanuts/peanut butter.
But Back to Mangos.
Truly, there is no better tasting yet wholly annoying fruit on the planet. If you eat them like a native (When they are more sour and green, unripe basically) its not as bad, but if you wait for them to be ripe, its a blessing and curse.
Imagine eating a mango so ripe the color of the flesh, when you pull back the molted green and yellow skin, is neon orange. It is so juicy that as you eat it, it coats your hands, drips down your arms in such a steady stream it drips onto your feet and the floor. Your mouth and chin are soaked in the sweet juice and unless you bend forward, it drips down and coats your shirts in a tell-tale orange stain.
You spend longer than you should trying to ripe off the stubborn pulp from the pit becuase it seems like such a waste of flavor and color to leave it. You ignore the hundreds of threads of pulp between your teeth becuase its pointless to attempt extraction until you finish and give up hope of getting any more pulp off the pit...or it squirts out of your hands like a slippery fish and you make an audible 'AW!' noise and stare forloarnly at the wasted mango laying in the dirt.
Then spend the next hour picking at the pulp in your teeth, and find stubborn, hidden strands the next day. It takes a bucket of water to clean your hands, hell you might as well take a bath....nah.
Worth it?
Of course
Most PCV's develope an allergy to mangos after living in Malawi. Why you may ask? Because since food is seasonal, we stuff our faces with mangos when they are in season, ripping them open with our teth just like the natives. I've even seen PCV's chew on the skin, just like the Malawians. We expose ourselves to so much of the toxins in the skin of the mango and overdose on large quantities of the fruit. Therefore, we develop allergies. The same goes for peanuts/peanut butter.
But Back to Mangos.
Truly, there is no better tasting yet wholly annoying fruit on the planet. If you eat them like a native (When they are more sour and green, unripe basically) its not as bad, but if you wait for them to be ripe, its a blessing and curse.
Imagine eating a mango so ripe the color of the flesh, when you pull back the molted green and yellow skin, is neon orange. It is so juicy that as you eat it, it coats your hands, drips down your arms in such a steady stream it drips onto your feet and the floor. Your mouth and chin are soaked in the sweet juice and unless you bend forward, it drips down and coats your shirts in a tell-tale orange stain.
You spend longer than you should trying to ripe off the stubborn pulp from the pit becuase it seems like such a waste of flavor and color to leave it. You ignore the hundreds of threads of pulp between your teeth becuase its pointless to attempt extraction until you finish and give up hope of getting any more pulp off the pit...or it squirts out of your hands like a slippery fish and you make an audible 'AW!' noise and stare forloarnly at the wasted mango laying in the dirt.
Then spend the next hour picking at the pulp in your teeth, and find stubborn, hidden strands the next day. It takes a bucket of water to clean your hands, hell you might as well take a bath....nah.
Worth it?
Of course
Another Snake Story
I sanded up the door next door. Its attacthed to my house but not 'mine', its my 'landlord's' storage closet. I was standing on my front porch with Johnathan and his young wife. They were just getting ready to leave and I was handing Nakawong my yellow Jerry can to fill with water when she freaked out, yelling,
"Njoka!" (Snake)
Dropping the an and doing a hop step away. I immediatly turn my head and catch the tail end of what appears to be a small snake scrambling under the door to the storage room. Nakawonga describes it as small and grey. A baby cobra...spitting cobra...Great, not only is it a spitting cobra but it is a young one, the worst kind because if they bite you they release all their venom because they do not have control over it yet. Just great.
What to do? I dont have a key, my landlord is not answering his phone, im scared dumb dumb Howie is going to go sniffing around and get bit, and that its going to come out and crawl into my house next. Luckily J goes next door and finds the landlord. He tells him we need the key to kill a snake. He says he will get the key but it will take three hours because he is busy and he lives far away.
SO im sitting on the wall to my porch wondering what to do. What? am I supposed to just sit on my porch for three hours starting at the door to make sure it doesnt come out??? So J gets the idea to sand up the door so itcant get out. I run inside, staring at all the rafters I share with that room to make sure it can't cross over that way. Seems safe.
I'm definatly not surprised when my lying, always late landlord shows up at 3 pm the next day. He brings two guys as 'back up.' All macho like, they open the door and go. They search around and come out in about five minutes saying,
"Palige," (Nothing.)
Of course I'm not comfortable with the whole disapearing snake act because their is the nagging worry that it made its great escape into my house. But so far no snake. I demand my landlord give me and extra key to the room. He tries to weasle out of it by saying,
"Ah, no the snake is gone, its can't come back."
I reply,
"There are other snakes and it will happen again, and next time I dont want to wait a day for you to show up and let it get away, I'll kill it myself."
He gives me the key.
So now I have lemon grass (a natural snake deterrent) planted all around my house and yard (Hopefully when I get back it wont all be dead). I'm currently trying to prevent another
"Oops, I lost the venemous snake act."
"Njoka!" (Snake)
Dropping the an and doing a hop step away. I immediatly turn my head and catch the tail end of what appears to be a small snake scrambling under the door to the storage room. Nakawonga describes it as small and grey. A baby cobra...spitting cobra...Great, not only is it a spitting cobra but it is a young one, the worst kind because if they bite you they release all their venom because they do not have control over it yet. Just great.
What to do? I dont have a key, my landlord is not answering his phone, im scared dumb dumb Howie is going to go sniffing around and get bit, and that its going to come out and crawl into my house next. Luckily J goes next door and finds the landlord. He tells him we need the key to kill a snake. He says he will get the key but it will take three hours because he is busy and he lives far away.
SO im sitting on the wall to my porch wondering what to do. What? am I supposed to just sit on my porch for three hours starting at the door to make sure it doesnt come out??? So J gets the idea to sand up the door so itcant get out. I run inside, staring at all the rafters I share with that room to make sure it can't cross over that way. Seems safe.
I'm definatly not surprised when my lying, always late landlord shows up at 3 pm the next day. He brings two guys as 'back up.' All macho like, they open the door and go. They search around and come out in about five minutes saying,
"Palige," (Nothing.)
Of course I'm not comfortable with the whole disapearing snake act because their is the nagging worry that it made its great escape into my house. But so far no snake. I demand my landlord give me and extra key to the room. He tries to weasle out of it by saying,
"Ah, no the snake is gone, its can't come back."
I reply,
"There are other snakes and it will happen again, and next time I dont want to wait a day for you to show up and let it get away, I'll kill it myself."
He gives me the key.
So now I have lemon grass (a natural snake deterrent) planted all around my house and yard (Hopefully when I get back it wont all be dead). I'm currently trying to prevent another
"Oops, I lost the venemous snake act."
Agriculture Aggrivation and the Bush Dende Incident
(Ok so a quick rant then the story. There is a story I promise)
There is a stubborn haughtiness to these people. There is a huge disdain for 'bush' food. They refuse to eat 'bush' food because it is for 'poor people.' Everyday, they are dying of starvation and malnutrition but refuse to reap the benefits of the plentiful variety of foods that grow around them. In fact, many cut down bush foods and refer tot hem as 'weeds' often telling me that I 'can't eat them,' because they are 'bush.' In fact, they refuse to eat any bush food during the rainy season because money and food are plentiful. But come dry season...they beg at my house for those same 'bush' foods they stuck their nose up at. They have spent all their money on expensive 'hybrid' or 'exotic' foods and now are right back where they started...with nothing.
So much money is wasted on buying 'imporved varieties', and 'hybrids'. Since this is an agriculture based society they put all their hope into their crop yeild, a scary fact considering that many familys monocrop and if prices are low, weavils get into stored food, bugs attack the crops, or drought comes, the family may starve to death. Especially since most farmers commerically grow Maize and Tobacco because "They've always done it." Yeah...for the past fifty years...since Britan told them to grow maize, in monocropped, celared feilds, in direct african sunlight...yeah, brilliant. Or the ridges, soil eroding, poor water absorbtion, space taking ridges. Like in Britan.
A ton of money is also spent of government subsidized fertilizer, that are 'guarenteed' to improve the growth of your crop. But there are several problems with this.
A. The fact that the government subsidizes the fertilizer and gives out coupons for people to collect it does not make it free. In fact, it is paid for with the peoples taxes. Worse yet, the money leaves Malawi and helps benefit another country which makes the fertilizer. Buying fertilizer with coupons is like stealing money from the education, road building, hospital improving funds.
B. The style of monocropping used was given to them by the british, so a combiation of british style and traditional practice has come together to destroy the soil. Monocropping with no tres and full exposure to the sun is great in the UK where its overcast all the time, but here it bakes the soil hard. Ridges are used which are rotated over each year, a walkway becomes a ridge and an old ridge a wal;kway, packing down the earth into a hard pan. Also, Ridges only use half the available growing space. They are steep angles so the nutrient rich topsoil, added fertilizer and water are all washed off the mound and pool in the walkways, breeding malaria. Through all this Malawians still burn everything after harvest, destroying the utrients and putting too much potash in the soil. They forgot somewhere along the way tat their ancestors burned feilds in a rotation pattern, not every year.
C. It costs alot of money to find transport to a fertilizer depot and to pay to transport it back.
D. Worse yet, most farmers dont compost, saving all their organic material and animal maure to freely fertilize crops. Instead they burn their feilds and destroy any nutrients the soil had.
E. 'Improved varieties, and hybrids' are more expenisve, more suseptible to insect attacks and plant disease.
Congratulations Malawi! You had a surplus of Maize last year! In fact, you sent out maize to other countries! WHile thousands of people here died of starvation. Sorry Tobacco farmers, last year we burned thousands of bales of tobacco and refused to reimburse farmers for their 'poor quality' product! But at least some people sold their tobacco, at a laughably (truly cry-ably) low price. But dont worry, NGO's are trying to encourage variety! They gave a villager of mine seed to plant peprike, which is a good export crop, and guarenteed to find buyers. My villager came to me, innocently puzzled, asking why the NGO had not collected yet and if I could get them too. What was he to do with thousands of peprika plants he dried and harvested? Oh, but he still had faith, they were only over a year and a half late. There is no local market for the spice, particularly not in quantity.
Its hard to believe im here trying to correct "Improved varieties' and western taught ideals. No wonder people look at me funny. It just pains me to know there is a culture lost here. Traditions and a life style are fading from the memory of the people, covered over with western ideal. Sadly this is not even a benefit to the people, the life expectancy went from 60-70 to 40. 40! Can you emagin being an elder? or preparing to leave this earth at 40?!
3 times a day, huge patties of nsima, bleached twice, and ground twice, tastless, nutritionless paste are the way of life here. The only thing it has is carbs for energy. Sure your stomach feels full, cause its packed with useless cement. I eat Nsima, but not their bleached to death prefered kind. I like more traditional Nsima, mgauwa (only ground once) or even millet nsima, a rich, red, textured nsima. It fills you up fast and actually has nutrients. I have not tried sorgum or cassava nsima but they are healthier too. Things like that are what nsima used to be made of, before maize. Now people complain of too much flavor and stomach pains when they eat them. Duh,
1. Flavor=nutirents/ white nsima=flavorless= Malawian happy.
2. Of course your stomach hurts, you can eat 4 patties of white nsima nothingness, but you cant eat 4 patties of nutrient rich nsima, without your stomach protesting, you dont need so much! Your stomach actually has to work, break down something!
3. Unless something is ridiculously sweet, (candy, tea with half a cup of sugar, ) then it has to have no taste, and no effort to eat. All dende are soaked in oil and cooked till all nutrients are gone, except salt, there is always a heart attacks worth of salt.
Just listen to this: My then unfinished garden of its own accord became a jungle. When my friend Griven came over to look he told me it was full of a bush dende. He said that
"It is much sought after in dry season, but now no one will want this. If it was dry season people would coem beg this from you. But now, nothing."
"Why?"
Because other 'hybrid' food is available during rainy season and people have money so everyone is spending it on expensive dende and will be poor again for dry season.
I offer some to johnathan and he at least is enthusiastic. He calls over his young wife Nakawonga. She brings a pot but huffs and refuses. She is saying that it is old and past the point of eating. I am confused, I ask for an explanation.
"Its past the time to harvest for food." (This coming from people who think green fruit is ready and fruit that fell off the tree for any reason is rotten.)
I ask what the problem is.
"Its too tough to chew now."
...wait...the leafy green plant right there, the leafy, green plant, is too tough to chew? That sounds like horse honkey to me. I tell him so. Johnathan ends up agreeing with me and his wife takes it to cook lunch. Me and him work on the garden.
A little later his elder wife brings us over lunch and me and Johnathan sit inside to eat. Our dende is village cow cheese and the greens. Can I tell you that those greens were some of the best I have had in country? They practially melted in my mouth.
"Yeah, you should try it when its not old," he says.
I told J his wife looked mad, she did not want to eat them. He said,
"Yeah, she was begging for money for usipa (Dry fish) or some other dende, but I have no money."
I shook my head, yet again someone wanted to pay money for food, when perfectly nutritious, free, bush dende was available, and taste GOOD! They wanted not bush, not 'old', 'easy to chew' food.
...Its no wonder and old woman was found dead on the side of the road in one of our training villages, died of starvation surrounded on both sides by feilds of potatoes.
There is a irony there. To starve surrounded by food. Its a way of life here. A chosen way of life.
There is a stubborn haughtiness to these people. There is a huge disdain for 'bush' food. They refuse to eat 'bush' food because it is for 'poor people.' Everyday, they are dying of starvation and malnutrition but refuse to reap the benefits of the plentiful variety of foods that grow around them. In fact, many cut down bush foods and refer tot hem as 'weeds' often telling me that I 'can't eat them,' because they are 'bush.' In fact, they refuse to eat any bush food during the rainy season because money and food are plentiful. But come dry season...they beg at my house for those same 'bush' foods they stuck their nose up at. They have spent all their money on expensive 'hybrid' or 'exotic' foods and now are right back where they started...with nothing.
So much money is wasted on buying 'imporved varieties', and 'hybrids'. Since this is an agriculture based society they put all their hope into their crop yeild, a scary fact considering that many familys monocrop and if prices are low, weavils get into stored food, bugs attack the crops, or drought comes, the family may starve to death. Especially since most farmers commerically grow Maize and Tobacco because "They've always done it." Yeah...for the past fifty years...since Britan told them to grow maize, in monocropped, celared feilds, in direct african sunlight...yeah, brilliant. Or the ridges, soil eroding, poor water absorbtion, space taking ridges. Like in Britan.
A ton of money is also spent of government subsidized fertilizer, that are 'guarenteed' to improve the growth of your crop. But there are several problems with this.
A. The fact that the government subsidizes the fertilizer and gives out coupons for people to collect it does not make it free. In fact, it is paid for with the peoples taxes. Worse yet, the money leaves Malawi and helps benefit another country which makes the fertilizer. Buying fertilizer with coupons is like stealing money from the education, road building, hospital improving funds.
B. The style of monocropping used was given to them by the british, so a combiation of british style and traditional practice has come together to destroy the soil. Monocropping with no tres and full exposure to the sun is great in the UK where its overcast all the time, but here it bakes the soil hard. Ridges are used which are rotated over each year, a walkway becomes a ridge and an old ridge a wal;kway, packing down the earth into a hard pan. Also, Ridges only use half the available growing space. They are steep angles so the nutrient rich topsoil, added fertilizer and water are all washed off the mound and pool in the walkways, breeding malaria. Through all this Malawians still burn everything after harvest, destroying the utrients and putting too much potash in the soil. They forgot somewhere along the way tat their ancestors burned feilds in a rotation pattern, not every year.
C. It costs alot of money to find transport to a fertilizer depot and to pay to transport it back.
D. Worse yet, most farmers dont compost, saving all their organic material and animal maure to freely fertilize crops. Instead they burn their feilds and destroy any nutrients the soil had.
E. 'Improved varieties, and hybrids' are more expenisve, more suseptible to insect attacks and plant disease.
Congratulations Malawi! You had a surplus of Maize last year! In fact, you sent out maize to other countries! WHile thousands of people here died of starvation. Sorry Tobacco farmers, last year we burned thousands of bales of tobacco and refused to reimburse farmers for their 'poor quality' product! But at least some people sold their tobacco, at a laughably (truly cry-ably) low price. But dont worry, NGO's are trying to encourage variety! They gave a villager of mine seed to plant peprike, which is a good export crop, and guarenteed to find buyers. My villager came to me, innocently puzzled, asking why the NGO had not collected yet and if I could get them too. What was he to do with thousands of peprika plants he dried and harvested? Oh, but he still had faith, they were only over a year and a half late. There is no local market for the spice, particularly not in quantity.
Its hard to believe im here trying to correct "Improved varieties' and western taught ideals. No wonder people look at me funny. It just pains me to know there is a culture lost here. Traditions and a life style are fading from the memory of the people, covered over with western ideal. Sadly this is not even a benefit to the people, the life expectancy went from 60-70 to 40. 40! Can you emagin being an elder? or preparing to leave this earth at 40?!
3 times a day, huge patties of nsima, bleached twice, and ground twice, tastless, nutritionless paste are the way of life here. The only thing it has is carbs for energy. Sure your stomach feels full, cause its packed with useless cement. I eat Nsima, but not their bleached to death prefered kind. I like more traditional Nsima, mgauwa (only ground once) or even millet nsima, a rich, red, textured nsima. It fills you up fast and actually has nutrients. I have not tried sorgum or cassava nsima but they are healthier too. Things like that are what nsima used to be made of, before maize. Now people complain of too much flavor and stomach pains when they eat them. Duh,
1. Flavor=nutirents/ white nsima=flavorless= Malawian happy.
2. Of course your stomach hurts, you can eat 4 patties of white nsima nothingness, but you cant eat 4 patties of nutrient rich nsima, without your stomach protesting, you dont need so much! Your stomach actually has to work, break down something!
3. Unless something is ridiculously sweet, (candy, tea with half a cup of sugar, ) then it has to have no taste, and no effort to eat. All dende are soaked in oil and cooked till all nutrients are gone, except salt, there is always a heart attacks worth of salt.
Just listen to this: My then unfinished garden of its own accord became a jungle. When my friend Griven came over to look he told me it was full of a bush dende. He said that
"It is much sought after in dry season, but now no one will want this. If it was dry season people would coem beg this from you. But now, nothing."
"Why?"
Because other 'hybrid' food is available during rainy season and people have money so everyone is spending it on expensive dende and will be poor again for dry season.
I offer some to johnathan and he at least is enthusiastic. He calls over his young wife Nakawonga. She brings a pot but huffs and refuses. She is saying that it is old and past the point of eating. I am confused, I ask for an explanation.
"Its past the time to harvest for food." (This coming from people who think green fruit is ready and fruit that fell off the tree for any reason is rotten.)
I ask what the problem is.
"Its too tough to chew now."
...wait...the leafy green plant right there, the leafy, green plant, is too tough to chew? That sounds like horse honkey to me. I tell him so. Johnathan ends up agreeing with me and his wife takes it to cook lunch. Me and him work on the garden.
A little later his elder wife brings us over lunch and me and Johnathan sit inside to eat. Our dende is village cow cheese and the greens. Can I tell you that those greens were some of the best I have had in country? They practially melted in my mouth.
"Yeah, you should try it when its not old," he says.
I told J his wife looked mad, she did not want to eat them. He said,
"Yeah, she was begging for money for usipa (Dry fish) or some other dende, but I have no money."
I shook my head, yet again someone wanted to pay money for food, when perfectly nutritious, free, bush dende was available, and taste GOOD! They wanted not bush, not 'old', 'easy to chew' food.
...Its no wonder and old woman was found dead on the side of the road in one of our training villages, died of starvation surrounded on both sides by feilds of potatoes.
There is a irony there. To starve surrounded by food. Its a way of life here. A chosen way of life.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Double Lunch Date
This story takes place at the Catholic Church Parish Life Center in the boma with one of the two district priest that rotate through the villages to give services. There are not enough priests for even a third of the churches in Chitipa so they rotate around the villages. Church is normally conducted by devoted village individuals, including women.
I was biking from the boma to my village when a truck drives up from behind me and pulls to a stop next to me. It is one of the rotating reverands. He offers me a ride and since its the hot season I accept even though I'm over halfway home. We throw my bike in the truck bed and drive to my house. But he is very excited to meet me and offers to feed me lunch at the Parish Life Center then take me to Kaseye to see the Catholic, girls secondary school.
I agree, much of our life in Africa is based on spontanaity...and the fact that we are poor and never turn down free food. Before lunch we are sitting on the back porch of the Life Center, looking out over the small walled in back courtyards. They used to grow crops but in the dry season it is just a patch of land with some trees. We sit on cushioned chairs, watching a herd of goats bleat and nose around the yard, occasionally hopping up onto the brice lattice porch railing. I study the barely visable white bugs crawling trhough my cushion and onto my arm rest. It was not so long ago that I had a nghtmare fight with bed bugs for about three weeks. You never want bed bugs, they are hell and make you itch, miserable and in my case perpetually paranoid.
The Reverand and I casually sip ice cold cokes, another luxury for me. The Life center (and therefore the priests) are very Bwana (rich/hotshot), with refigerators, cooks, electricity. Suddenly the Rev says,
"Oh Look, a snake."
"Where?" I say, a little shocked he doesnt freak out like most Malawians.
We stand at the rail and he points with his coke. I shake my head,
"No, thats a camellion."
Its huge, the size of my open hand, and weighing at least a pound. He is neon green with little speckles of blue, red and a few other colors around his bulging eye ridges. The Rev shakes his head.
"Yes, that is a camellion, but that is a snake."
Its then I spot a green mamba coming across the yeard, about five feet long and skinny as a stack of three pencils. Observing a little more closely, I begin to notice that the Camellion is looking dazed, weak on its feet, like it may have fallen out of the tree it was under...or was bitten by the venomous green mamba...Its staggering a bit, swayign from side to side, the normal pendullum back and forth, forward walk of a camellion not in evidence. By this time the herd of goats is on the move. They are bleating and walking towards the camellion, but it does not move. The goats appear equally unaware of the snake as they do the camellion. One goat even stepps on it. It doesnt move. The snake however, is spooked by the goats. It darts back and swirls up the truck of a small tree.
Suddenly both the Rev and I are worried that the snake is going to kill one of the goats. Luckily, they pass without incident.
Just then the cook calls us in to lunch. We go inside and sit down at a huge table, layed with a feast. Bread and butter, soup, rice, nsima, beef, chicken, mpangwe (greens). I cant help but think that someone outside is enjoying their hearty lunch too.
I was biking from the boma to my village when a truck drives up from behind me and pulls to a stop next to me. It is one of the rotating reverands. He offers me a ride and since its the hot season I accept even though I'm over halfway home. We throw my bike in the truck bed and drive to my house. But he is very excited to meet me and offers to feed me lunch at the Parish Life Center then take me to Kaseye to see the Catholic, girls secondary school.
I agree, much of our life in Africa is based on spontanaity...and the fact that we are poor and never turn down free food. Before lunch we are sitting on the back porch of the Life Center, looking out over the small walled in back courtyards. They used to grow crops but in the dry season it is just a patch of land with some trees. We sit on cushioned chairs, watching a herd of goats bleat and nose around the yard, occasionally hopping up onto the brice lattice porch railing. I study the barely visable white bugs crawling trhough my cushion and onto my arm rest. It was not so long ago that I had a nghtmare fight with bed bugs for about three weeks. You never want bed bugs, they are hell and make you itch, miserable and in my case perpetually paranoid.
The Reverand and I casually sip ice cold cokes, another luxury for me. The Life center (and therefore the priests) are very Bwana (rich/hotshot), with refigerators, cooks, electricity. Suddenly the Rev says,
"Oh Look, a snake."
"Where?" I say, a little shocked he doesnt freak out like most Malawians.
We stand at the rail and he points with his coke. I shake my head,
"No, thats a camellion."
Its huge, the size of my open hand, and weighing at least a pound. He is neon green with little speckles of blue, red and a few other colors around his bulging eye ridges. The Rev shakes his head.
"Yes, that is a camellion, but that is a snake."
Its then I spot a green mamba coming across the yeard, about five feet long and skinny as a stack of three pencils. Observing a little more closely, I begin to notice that the Camellion is looking dazed, weak on its feet, like it may have fallen out of the tree it was under...or was bitten by the venomous green mamba...Its staggering a bit, swayign from side to side, the normal pendullum back and forth, forward walk of a camellion not in evidence. By this time the herd of goats is on the move. They are bleating and walking towards the camellion, but it does not move. The goats appear equally unaware of the snake as they do the camellion. One goat even stepps on it. It doesnt move. The snake however, is spooked by the goats. It darts back and swirls up the truck of a small tree.
Suddenly both the Rev and I are worried that the snake is going to kill one of the goats. Luckily, they pass without incident.
Just then the cook calls us in to lunch. We go inside and sit down at a huge table, layed with a feast. Bread and butter, soup, rice, nsima, beef, chicken, mpangwe (greens). I cant help but think that someone outside is enjoying their hearty lunch too.
Johnathan Mabaso and Crew
Ok so Johnathan is my counterpart, but he is so funny and with me alot that I figured I would Give him and his family a Bio.
Johnathan is short, with a beard and otherwise cropped short hair. It is due to his religion, called the apostoles, of which only about 5 families in my village are. He described it as a mix of chrisitan and muslim. He also always wears long pants and sleeve, mostly made of linen I think His shirts are normally collared.
He is always laughing, and ready and willing to do work. He is a go-getter and alot of vollies are jealous that I get to work with him.
His nickname is Mandevu, which means beard. People that dont know his name simply know him as the one with the beard, normally riding around Chitipa on his bike. He is always moving, he will bike from the boma to a village past chisenga, then to our village and a village by Kapoka all in a day. Isuppose you can not appreciate this without a map. And his bikes are terribly crappy.
He is a tin smith by trade, when his equipment is working he is a photographer, he built nursery schools and oversaw them until jealousy took him out. He also has two wives that run a bakery at his house.
Pause. Yes, he has two wives.
His first wife (I can never remeber her name. she is Elder wife) has low blood pressure so she was passing out from all the work of being a Malawian wife. She is the mother of Lostina, Abby and Raquel. So wife number two is younger, 21, and from Zambia. Im not sure if it is her son or not but she has a little boy names ken and a baby named Salome. The younger wife acts, well, young, she whines a bit and is stubborn. She also brings me water and does laundry occasionally. But somehow Elder wife and Agogo bring me water too.
The children (age wise) are L, A, K, R, and S. I am only not sure if Ken is J's. (Like the abbreviations?)
Abby is one of my favorites, she is very precocious and not afraid of anything really. I have been getting J to feed her more fruit because she had the vitamin deficiency fungal sores on her head.
They all live together, with J's mom, Agogo (grandmother). They literally live several hundred feet away. So very close. They are as close to family as I have here in Malawi
Johnathan is short, with a beard and otherwise cropped short hair. It is due to his religion, called the apostoles, of which only about 5 families in my village are. He described it as a mix of chrisitan and muslim. He also always wears long pants and sleeve, mostly made of linen I think His shirts are normally collared.
He is always laughing, and ready and willing to do work. He is a go-getter and alot of vollies are jealous that I get to work with him.
His nickname is Mandevu, which means beard. People that dont know his name simply know him as the one with the beard, normally riding around Chitipa on his bike. He is always moving, he will bike from the boma to a village past chisenga, then to our village and a village by Kapoka all in a day. Isuppose you can not appreciate this without a map. And his bikes are terribly crappy.
He is a tin smith by trade, when his equipment is working he is a photographer, he built nursery schools and oversaw them until jealousy took him out. He also has two wives that run a bakery at his house.
Pause. Yes, he has two wives.
His first wife (I can never remeber her name. she is Elder wife) has low blood pressure so she was passing out from all the work of being a Malawian wife. She is the mother of Lostina, Abby and Raquel. So wife number two is younger, 21, and from Zambia. Im not sure if it is her son or not but she has a little boy names ken and a baby named Salome. The younger wife acts, well, young, she whines a bit and is stubborn. She also brings me water and does laundry occasionally. But somehow Elder wife and Agogo bring me water too.
The children (age wise) are L, A, K, R, and S. I am only not sure if Ken is J's. (Like the abbreviations?)
Abby is one of my favorites, she is very precocious and not afraid of anything really. I have been getting J to feed her more fruit because she had the vitamin deficiency fungal sores on her head.
They all live together, with J's mom, Agogo (grandmother). They literally live several hundred feet away. So very close. They are as close to family as I have here in Malawi
Living Logistics
Ok just for the record, so you can have a visual of where I live and what not.
I live in Africa, in Malawi, in the North, In Chitipa district, the most remote, northern part of Malawi, in teh village of Mubanga. Mubanga, pronounced, (Mu-wan-ga) is about a 45 minute bike ride to the boma. The boma is a word used to describe the main trading center in the district. My trading center is small and the size of some villages in Malawi. We have sketchy electricity, reliable in the fact that it always goes off. There are no places to get American...or any other kind of food. There is no plumbing. Taps are known to not work.
There were 5 of us, 3 enviroment and 2 health but one enviro is moving to LL (Lilongwe). Each of them is on a different mountain peak on a different mountain range, (Misuku hills, Ifumbo, Chisansu, and Chisenga). I can get decent transport fom my house to the boma and to chisenga, but to get to ifumbo and Misuku, the only consistant way is ambulance (which is easy since they are both health). Chisansu is screwed lol, maybe thats why he is leaving? I mainly only go to the boma and chisenga, and yes I bike to both (Chisenga is around 45-50 k up a mountain) arnt you proud?
In Chitipa they speak 27 languages including Swahilii from tanzania (Asanti-sana) and vemba from Zambia, both which border chitipa/malawi. The only way to get to Chitipa is on a matola (truck). There are no paved roads. My main language is Chilambia (Lambia)
When I stay in the boma, I stay with a friend named yotham, he owns a bar and is super sweet Malawian.
In Malawi we work mainly with/through a counterpart, mine is johnathan Mabaso.
My house is completley fenced in cause it is my sanctuary. In my yard I have a permagarden by my chimbudzi (pit latrine) my 'corral' (brick structure with four rooms, my bafa (where I bath with a bucket or a solar shower, a large room with a door I keep some tools in and my dog when im away, a open room for my firewood, and an open outdoor kitchen) across from that is my back door. My house is a converted grocery but not like you would think in america. When you walk in my gate (a nice tin one, J made fore me) you see my porch, with teh words Tumbleweed and Old West written over it. There are two doors. The one on the right is a storage room my landlord keeps. The left is mine. You walk into the 'grocery', a large room with a L shaped counter. I use it as a kitchen. You walk through the next door and thats my living room. Off the living room are two rooms, a storage room with basically nothing in it and my bed room. I spend alot of my time fixing up my house and my yard.
So withcraft is alive and well in Malawi, a volunteer had their counter part stones to death because they claimed he was a witch. They claimed he was a witch becuase he was so succesful which brings us to the next point.
Jealously is a huge huge factor here. People steal, and remove people from seats of athority becuase they become jealous.
Also, people have no concept of saving money, everyone lives hand to mouth. If one family member is making money, they others come and beg.
Malawi really is the warm heart of africa though becuase overall most people are nice and the crime is low. People always want to invite you in for food, especially Nsima. Nsima is the main food of Malawi, people will tell you they do not feel full or have not eaten a real meal if they have not had nsima. It is made from Maize flour and has about 0 nutrients. It is something like a patty of congealed grits. It is served napalm hot and you use your hands to roll it into a ball and scoop up dende (side dish) with. It grows on you.
And yes, women are oppressed here. Women do all the housework, have lots of kids, have no say and are generally not appreciated. Johnathan and I are practicing, Thank you, to the wives. ;) A law was only recently passed allowing women to wear trousers.
Er...yeah, thats your crash course in Malawi and Where I live. Oh, I have a puppy named Howie. Howard the Coward.
I live in Africa, in Malawi, in the North, In Chitipa district, the most remote, northern part of Malawi, in teh village of Mubanga. Mubanga, pronounced, (Mu-wan-ga) is about a 45 minute bike ride to the boma. The boma is a word used to describe the main trading center in the district. My trading center is small and the size of some villages in Malawi. We have sketchy electricity, reliable in the fact that it always goes off. There are no places to get American...or any other kind of food. There is no plumbing. Taps are known to not work.
There were 5 of us, 3 enviroment and 2 health but one enviro is moving to LL (Lilongwe). Each of them is on a different mountain peak on a different mountain range, (Misuku hills, Ifumbo, Chisansu, and Chisenga). I can get decent transport fom my house to the boma and to chisenga, but to get to ifumbo and Misuku, the only consistant way is ambulance (which is easy since they are both health). Chisansu is screwed lol, maybe thats why he is leaving? I mainly only go to the boma and chisenga, and yes I bike to both (Chisenga is around 45-50 k up a mountain) arnt you proud?
In Chitipa they speak 27 languages including Swahilii from tanzania (Asanti-sana) and vemba from Zambia, both which border chitipa/malawi. The only way to get to Chitipa is on a matola (truck). There are no paved roads. My main language is Chilambia (Lambia)
When I stay in the boma, I stay with a friend named yotham, he owns a bar and is super sweet Malawian.
In Malawi we work mainly with/through a counterpart, mine is johnathan Mabaso.
My house is completley fenced in cause it is my sanctuary. In my yard I have a permagarden by my chimbudzi (pit latrine) my 'corral' (brick structure with four rooms, my bafa (where I bath with a bucket or a solar shower, a large room with a door I keep some tools in and my dog when im away, a open room for my firewood, and an open outdoor kitchen) across from that is my back door. My house is a converted grocery but not like you would think in america. When you walk in my gate (a nice tin one, J made fore me) you see my porch, with teh words Tumbleweed and Old West written over it. There are two doors. The one on the right is a storage room my landlord keeps. The left is mine. You walk into the 'grocery', a large room with a L shaped counter. I use it as a kitchen. You walk through the next door and thats my living room. Off the living room are two rooms, a storage room with basically nothing in it and my bed room. I spend alot of my time fixing up my house and my yard.
So withcraft is alive and well in Malawi, a volunteer had their counter part stones to death because they claimed he was a witch. They claimed he was a witch becuase he was so succesful which brings us to the next point.
Jealously is a huge huge factor here. People steal, and remove people from seats of athority becuase they become jealous.
Also, people have no concept of saving money, everyone lives hand to mouth. If one family member is making money, they others come and beg.
Malawi really is the warm heart of africa though becuase overall most people are nice and the crime is low. People always want to invite you in for food, especially Nsima. Nsima is the main food of Malawi, people will tell you they do not feel full or have not eaten a real meal if they have not had nsima. It is made from Maize flour and has about 0 nutrients. It is something like a patty of congealed grits. It is served napalm hot and you use your hands to roll it into a ball and scoop up dende (side dish) with. It grows on you.
And yes, women are oppressed here. Women do all the housework, have lots of kids, have no say and are generally not appreciated. Johnathan and I are practicing, Thank you, to the wives. ;) A law was only recently passed allowing women to wear trousers.
Er...yeah, thats your crash course in Malawi and Where I live. Oh, I have a puppy named Howie. Howard the Coward.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Bicycle Dog
Bicycle Dog
I have always had pets. My family currently has four dogs at the house and I miss my St Bernard mix Annie tremendously. So even though I resisted the urge and responsibility for a year…I recently caved and got a dog. He is now about 4 months old.
His name is Howie, short for Howard, Howard the coward.
He earned this name because when I was visiting Adam in Chisenga we went to Adam’s Village headman’s house, Mwene-Chisenga. Adam’s counterpart, the woman in his village he chooses to work with closely, Daria, has picked out a dog for me. She picked the male that looked like her dog, Ruby. They told me he barks a lot and would make a good guard dog. I didn’t fall in love with him and the little female, who was friendly and adorable, had some infection in her eye. SO a bit disheartened I am ready to call it quits when Mwene-Chisenga says
“What about the other one?”
I’m curious.
“Is it a boy?” It is.
SO next sparks about 20 minutes of awkward waiting while his 20 children chase this small puppy around. They give up so Adam goes out to help. We all watch as Adam and three sons chase this dog through the bush. It gets cornered and a\Adam wades into the bushes and grabs the dog as he bolts. Adam manages to grab it by the leg. Howie starts yelping bloody murder. Then he pees on Adam. Adam brings the pee-soaked trembling puppy out and sets him on the ground for me to see. Unfortunately I always seem to root for the underdog and my heart melted. His brown eyes peered up at me in terror, his short tan fur and two white socks on his front legs was adorable, he was skinny but not mal-nourished.
I picked him. I don’t really know why.
I carried him the few kilometers home in the mid-day heat. He was terrified of Malawians, cars, Mwabi (M-why-e which means ‘lucky’) Adam’s dog, the chain we put him on (which he would spaz out and chew hysterically rolling frantically around like an alligator.)
I’m not going to lie; I thought I made a mistake. He was giving me anxiety attacks lol, and I had had him only a few hours! I thought he was going to hate me forever. Adam said it would not take long for him to love me. I’m the animal whisper to Adam haha.
Sigh….Adam was right.
I love my puppy and feel guilty whenever I leave him at my house. So coming back from the New Years, island trip, Adam started feeling crappy when we reached Mzuzu and it got worse when we arrived in Chitipa Boma. He came down with severe dehydration and a sinus infection that we were not able to treat for a few days. We waited for a ride but eventually I had to bike from Chitipa boma to my house (45-50min) and get medicine for him. It was bad, I think he should have been hospitalized but the boy fights medicine tooth and nail. I was really worried so even though we needed other stuff I only grabed the meds…and Howie. I felt to guilty to leave him especially since I did not know how much longer I would be away helping Adam.
What to do? The only thing I could. I went to my clean laundry basket.
I strapped an old, previous volunteer donated, forest green Hawaii
That’ll show ‘em
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