Mumbling, Stumbling & Humbling: Peace Corps Malawi

Gina Althoff, PCV Peace Corps / Malawi Box 208 Lilongwe Malawi This blog is mine. The opinions expressed here are neither those of the Peace Corps nor of the U.S. Government.

[ginaalthoffmalawi]

@zzzzzin and I repping our homestates of #SoDak and #Cali at the Ambassador to Malawi's election breakfast this morning. Thanks #Malawi for offering me an outsider's perspective to #American politics. We should never take for granted our country's impact on other nations. #USA (at Lilongwe, Malawi)

[ginaalthoffmalawi]

The last two days, I have had the pleasure of interacting with #PeaceCorps Director Carrie Hessler-Radelet who visited #PCMalawi in celebration of the #PeaceCorpsResponse program's 20th anniversary. A good day is a day when you meet a new role model; thanks for the good days, Director Carrie!

[ginaalthoffmalawi]

Bye, Bye! but Tiwonanenge!

On one of my first long bike rides with my counterpart, I asked him why all the children ran to the road to bid me, "Bye, bye!" when I had only just arrived. Mr. Ndowera chalked this odd greeting up to poor English skills. However, when we reached our final destination that day, I asked Mr. Ngulube the same question. His response was a bit more philosophic as he stated, "White people are all just visitors; they are never here to stay, and, thus, we are used to bidding them farewell." 

At the time, I was disheartened to be classified as just another white person when, in my naive mind, I had just committed to a short eternity of two years to live in rural Malawi. I was not leaving anytime soon and demanded a less pessimistic greeting from my roadside fan club. From that day on, I used Chitumbuka to try and explain the necessity of greeting someone with "hello" or "hi" before ending the encounter with "bye, bye." Simultaneously, my community attempted to ingrain their Malawian habit of a full greeting: "Hello. How are you? How is your household? How is your livestock? How is your garden?..." before entering into the purpose of a conversation. It took me a long time to adapt to this less efficient, less business-like approach to communication. Likewise, it took the children who raced to the tarmac's edge as I rode by on my bicycle a comparable period of time to greet me before they dismissed me as I pedaled past. The day it happened though? Oh my. I pulled my brake levers with so much force and so abruptly Mr. Ndowera nearly crashed into my bike tire. I stopped and thanked the children so profusely that I am certain I frightened them from ever greeting a muzungu with a "Hello" again.

Apart from bragging of my small behavior change success, I'm telling you this story out of disbelief. I cannot believe Mr. Ngulube and the kids were right. I cannot believe two years came and went and I was forced to say goodbye like all the rest.

I said goodbye to the people and things most important to me. I found my lost family, went on my last walks through the forest where the kids crowned me queen, rode my last M-1 bike ride, bought my last bananas from my banana boy, played my last netball game, hung out with my dirtyvillagekids, visited my baby forests one last time, taught my final club sessions, presented gifts to those I love, harvested my last green maize, danced at my last village full moon party… I packed my things and said goodbye the way I needed.

But, my way was not the way the community wanted me to say goodbye. My neighbors insisted on a formal farewell party. I resisted until I realized that no matter how unimportant this event would be to me, it would still remain important for my community. So, instead of having ngaiwa, beans and chigumu (Africa cake) like I suggested, the menu was set for us to feast on goat, chickens, rice, fanta and cabbage. Somehow, I was guilted into buying the goat. If I would have known all along goats were only $20, I would have ended more goats’ lives sooner. (Ask any Peace Corps Volunteer, goats are the worst; they eat everything, create noise pollution and creep into your hut when you least expect.) I considered it my contribution to increased protein intake and decreased unwanted garden grazers. All of my neighbors worked very hard to prepare the meal. My backyard had four fires going with thrice as many chefs and sous chefs.

Formal events in Malawi have always been my least favorite. They tend to accentuate the traditional hierarchy and unequal gender roles. They showcase ‘Malawi time,’ gluttony, alcoholism, corruption and the cycle of NGO dependency. Unfortunately, this event did not prove to be any different. I was not allowed to negotiate the invite list, so only people of high village status were invited: traditional leaders, teachers, health surveillance officers, foresters, etc. The event started two hours late. Six speeches were given, most to the tune of, “Do not forget us when you have money” or summarized my achievements only where funding or donated materials were involved. No speech went uninterrupted by a drunk teacher in the back shouting, “Bravo! Well done! Marvelous!” During my speech, I emotionally said goodbye to a room full of mostly unfamiliar faces. My vision was blurred instead with the images of the cherished friends to whom I would have rather delivered my speech. The only addition I was allowed to the invite list was my pseudo grandfather, Mr. Ngulube. He gave an impromptu speech, and it is the only one I remember: “Gina, you did what no other guest has done here. You came. You saw. You understood. You felt. And you collaborated with the community.” I was a mess; this was the same man that predicted my, “Bye! Bye!” two years earlier by saying, “White people are all just visitors; they are never here to stay, and, thus, we are used to bidding them farewell." 

The speeches ended and finally the women arrived, having missed the entire ceremony, bearing buckets of food atop their heads. They managed to cook food, bathe, dress in their Sunday best, walk 3K with hot weight, dish up every man and provide him with massive meat portions and seconds before dishing themselves. The food was all gone before Anya Tembo (my mom) even had a chance to make herself a plate. I gave her some of mine as I was sick to my stomach after seeing the men be so gluttonous while the hardworking women ate nothing. Photos were taken. Dancing occurred until the solar-powered speaker had no sun; the setting of which brought the event to an abrupt end. I washed the dishes with the women and hauled everything back. I do not mean to sound ungrateful. The event took a lot of thoughtful preparation and work, but I had been in Malawi long enough to know how the event would likely play out. It was not my ideal goodbye. But with the farewell party, the community gave me the sending off they needed to make things ‘official’ and meet the cultural protocol. You and me both know though, my real farewell party was the night spent dancing and singing with the kids beneath the full moon to the sounds of African drumming.

Saying goodbye to my family and friends in America was hard. But, in comparison, saying goodbye to my Malawian friends and family was much harder. In early April I said goodbye to Boni Village and Chimaliro Forest Reserve. It is one thing to say goodbye to a place and people you are confident you will see again. It is quite another thing to say goodbye to a place that will never be the same and a people you may never have the same relationship with again. In two years, I bonded with many of my community members. They trusted me and they communicated with me. I trusted them and I communicated in the local language with them. I was so immersed in Malawian culture that I began to forget my own culture. 

(My bapapi: Badada Ndowera and Bamama Anya Tembo)

A hard part of saying goodbye was knowing I was giving up my Malawian identity. I would lose my language and never be treated as an equal again. If I had the fortune of revisiting my life in the village, I would be treated as a highly respected guest. However, guests in Malawi are kept indoors, cooked for, chatted to by the heads of households, and sent home with food gifts. If I return to the village, I want to be in a chitenje outdoors in the hot Malawian sun, cooking nsima and dende, chatting and joking in Chitumbuka with everyone. I want to earn my food gifts by helping harvest someone's crops. It brings tears to my eyes knowing I will not have those sorts of experiences again. I have surrendered my insider/villager status for outsider/guest status and that hurts my heart. What hurts even a little more though is that in my two years, I could not help everyone or fix everything. In fact, I helped a few people and fixed barely anything. I left behind all my best friends to fight the same battles, face the same injustices, and feel the same helplessness that I used to fight, face and feel in my own way in Malawi. 

My time in Malawi is not over though. I accepted a Peace Corps Response position working on the USAID-funded PERFORM (Protecting Ecosystems and Restoring Forests in Malawi) Project before I even left the village. Knowing I would be still in the same country speaking a similar language (Chichewa) and living just a few hours away provided some comfort in the days leading up to my village goodbye. Lilongwe is by no means a big city, but it is still incredibly different from the little village I was used to. Explaining the village to a city-born Malawian is nearly the same as explaining Yankton, South Dakota to someone born in Queens, New York. Now, instead of being surrounded by sustenance farmers who could not comprehend work or life in a Malawian city, I was about to be surrounded by expats and more-privileged Malawians who could not comprehend work or life in a Malawian village. Additionally, I was about to be looked at and treated as an American when my identity had nearly entirely shifted to dirty-Malawian-villagekid. 

I packed my belongings and sorted the things I intended to leave behind as gifts. Most Volunteers end up leaving most of their clothing and belongings behind in order to travel with light luggage after service. Well, and honestly, two years in a village takes a toll on most things anyway: clothes are irreversibly stretched and stained, electronics are fried by uneven electrical currents, and everything else just seems must more expendable than it did when you first strategically packed it to maximize your fifty pound luggage limit two years earlier. I would have liked to leave more, but I was to move into an empty house in Lilongwe and needed to bring some things to help with the upfront cost of furnishing a new house. 

(My bagogo: Bagogo Ngulube and Nephew Blessings)

On my last M-1 bike ride, my eyes welled with tears as the kids sprinted to the roadside to shout, “Bye, bye!” This was only the second time their greeting had been appropriate in two years and they did not even know this goodbye was final. Well, until we meet again. I yelled back, “Tiwonanenge” or we will see each other so thankful my statement too was correct. 

I said, "bye, bye" to my village life, but I was not ready to say so to Malawians and Malawi as a whole. So, instead of going home like the rest, I said “hello” to Lilongwe. My roommate Isabel and I, a friend and fellow PCV turned Response Volunteer, were ashamed of our belongings as we moved into a fresh new living space. The dirt floors were now tiled. The whitewashed brick walls were now drywall. The boreholes were now taps. The fires were now electrical burners. The shutters were now glass windows. The candles were now light fixtures. The suitcases were now wardrobes. The rough wood planks hung with string now cabinets. The buckets were now sinks. Yet, we carried in bamboo mats, buckets, maize sacks, foam cushions and mattresses, flour sifters, chitenje, village brooms, etc. We looked like squatters in our own home. 

In some ways, we have reverted to our old American ways: taking way too long and way too hot showers (that's mainly me (but only in the two days a week there is water)), leaving lights on and using a hair straightener, putting things that don't need to be refrigerated in the fridge so they'll "last longer"...

But in other ways, we maintain our village habits: going to bed by eight, eating pumpkins/beans/sweet potatoes/soya pieces, negotiating any named price to at least half, complaining endlessly about the price of anything (everything is cheaper in the village (Ask Izzi; the 90MK eggs are really upsetting her)), sitting on the floor, hitchhiking our way through Lilongwe... 

As the old adage goes, “You can take the dirtyvillagekid out of the village, but you can’t take the village out of the dirtyvillagekid.”

peace(corps)andlove, 

g

p.s. One perk of having electricity is that I can now compose the blog posts I always intended to write. So, I know I am a slightly less interesting, less filthy dirtycitykid now, but I still have a lot of stories about and perspective on Malawi. I'll be blogging until May 2017, so I hope you'll keep reading. 

[ginaalthoffmalawi]

Malaria : Ready? Set? Malun(go!)

Malaria. In America the disease was eradicated in 1949, and since, "malaria" has become a word only remembered when planning a trip. Most Americans probably do not know that malaria used to be a major health issue for our country as well. Since the eradication, however, we have had the benefit of enduring itchy mosquito bites without fear of serious illness or death.

Mosquitoes in Malawi are different. The first thing I noticed about the critters here was their less-itchy, more quickly-to-disappear bites. The second thing I noticed was Malawi's funny English pronunciation of "Moh-skwEE-toh." My observations became less amusing, however, when I sat through a Peace Corps medical training session highlighting the horrifying statistics of malaria-related hospital visits and deaths in Malawi.

I could regurgitate these statistics, but outside the Malawian context, I am not sure they would be as meaningful as within it. Instead, allow me to paint you a picture of malaria in Malawi. Malawi is tropical country with an annual rainy season. The year-round heat and standing water in addition to the annual rainy season combine to provide the perfect breeding ground for all sorts of bacteria and mosquitoes. So, the climate is partially to blame for malaria here, but not entirely. 

Social factors also play a huge role in the rampant infectious disease here. The vast majority of Malawians live rurally. They spend their days and nights outside as houses are small, their agriculture and household work is done outdoors, and, maybe most related, food must be cooked outside over fire. The fire, then, becomes the social centerpiece especially at night when it offers heat and light not found elsewhere. Mosquitoes, as you know, are most active in the evening hours, especially around dusk. Well, that's when you cook your evening meal, is it not? The same is true here. 

Oh, so then people should wear long clothing, use mosquito repellent, and eliminate standing water to protect themselves from malaria!? Hmm... well, I will fault no one for failing to wear long clothing. It is too hot most times and clothes cost money. Likewise, mosquito repellent is not on anyone's shopping list or in any village tuk shop. Money is spent on food, fertilizer, transport, school and, occasionally, clothing; repellent does not make the list. Household water is not kept in pipes safe from breeding mosquitoes. No, it is kept in open-mouthed buckets just outside the home for convenience. You would store your water that way too if you walked long distances to get water, stood in line for an hour and then carried it back on your head. These obvious solutions are not as applicable here.

The best way for Malawians to protect themselves from malaria is by sleeping under a mosquito net. But even this easy solution comes with problems. Every time a woman gives birth, she is supposed to receive a new mosquito net to protect her and her child, as children under five are especially susceptible to malaria. Additionally, the country arranges a nationwide, mass bed net distribution every two years. In my two years in the village, the health center did not have nets to provide new mothers probably 85% of the time. In my two years in the village, a mass bed net distribution happened exactly never. Why don't people just buy a net then? Although sleeping under a long-lasting insecticide treated net could potentially save a person money in the long run as it saved on hospital transport, days out of work or school, etc., the upfront, investment cost is not feasible when your first purchase priority is always food. 

Since bed nets are seemingly provided for free, the blame of malaria is often wrongly attributed to culture and behavior. Yes, there are cultural myths that lead people to sleeping without a net. For example, some people are concerned they will become sterile beneath a net. Yes, sometimes people use their nets to fence their gardens, screen their windows, shade their yards, ties their shoes, catch their fish, etc.  (Fun Fact: 100% of Malawian fishermen use mosquito nets to catch their fish.) I am not denying that these things happen. 

Yet, on World Malaria Day 2015, I toured more than 200 village homes in my area and discovered most people were not sleeping under a net because most households did not have enough or any nets. Also, often people sleep on a bamboo mat on the floor with four or five other people. Most nets, however, are designed to be used on a twin or double bed so they do not work well with such situations. 

So, climate, culture, cost and availability all contribute to Malawi's malaria problem. What does malaria look like though? It looks like too many kids staying home from school, too many adults staying home from the fields. It looks like people wrapped in blankets or winter coats laying in the sunshine when it is over 100 degrees Farenheit. It looks like funerals. Almost every funeral I went to, I was told the person died of malaria. The only other cause of death I heard announced was "high blood pressure." 

Malaria is often misdiagnosed. It is so common, that sometimes it is assumed that any illness with similar symptoms is malaria. Also, people are so used to having malaria that the disease is commonly self-diagnosed and no formal medical blood test is performed. These facts also contribute negatively to the disease's impact in Malawi as people who should not be taking the free malaria drugs (Coartem, LA) take the drugs. Then, when someone who actually has malaria goes to the hospital for their free drugs, the hospital is out of stock. I am not dramatizing this. My entire district was without malaria drugs at the height of rainy season this year. Health centres are frequently without drugs, just as free drugs or mosquito nets are often stolen and sold.

An ill person is tested for malaria and is given free drugs if he or she is found to have malaria. That person is supposed to then take the drug's full dosage. Malawi even struggles with drug adherence though. The drugs tend to have a nausea side effect, so as soon as someone feels their malaria has left, they stop taking the drugs. It is lucky there is such a miracle pill for malaria currently. It is a shame to know this pill could lose effectiveness in the very near future due to people's reluctance to complete their dose. 

These are the ugly truths about malaria in Malawi. Although, I am not a Health Volunteer, I did a couple malaria- related projects with my community. First I did the original net survey at 200 homes in the village. Any family who actually had a mosquito net and could demonstrate how to use it was photographed. The photographs were then distributed to these "model malaria families" to encourage more families to hang and use their nets. 

Next, I recruited secondary school students to paint an awareness mural in the community youth hall. This space is used for all sorts of community meetings and by banking groups, churches, and school kids and, thus, was a good place for some bed net advertisement. There is a poem taught to school children that ends in the rhyme, "Clever people always get under a mosquito net." This poem inspired the artists' mural. The Chitumbuka translation was also included.

Head artist, Frank, did a beautiful job and all involved got incredibly messy, but had a couple of fun days. Two other Peace Corps Volunteers also came to help me facilitate the project - Thanks Cody and Isabel! At the very end of the last day, the only elements left of the design to paint were all near the ceiling. We were low on stools, so we improvised. (: 

A month after the paint had dried, teachers at the secondary school and I held a Malaria Fun Day: Malun(go!). Malungo is the Chitumbuka word for malaria. After learning all about malaria and its impact on Malawi, the students were taught about the American tradition of having awareness races and events. 99 girls and 101 boys then competed in a 10K malaria awareness run through several villages to the youth hall where the mural was painted. When they reached the youth hall, they had to demonstrate how to use and tuck in a bed net. After completing this activity, they ran back to the school. Track and Cross Country are not high school athletics here, but after our Malun(go!) race, I am convinced they should be. I mistakenly did not time the top runners, but I assure you, they were fast... fast-fast.

The top ten girls and the top ten boys were awarded prizes. My dad's and my donated running shoes were the first prizes chosen, but I was pleased to see the mosquito net taken third. It was a great day of cultural exchange, exercise, and health education. Best of all, the race DID work to raise awareness. The community was incredibly interested in the event and the students were questioned about their days at home. A rare occurrence in rural Malawi, the parents showed interest in what the students had learned and allowed their children a chance to educate them.

Nyimbo. Udzudzu. Mosquito. Unfortunately not long after our Malun(go!) Race, one of those little buggers took a bite out of me and I became a malaria statistic. One bad anopheles overcame my Peace Corps-issued malaria resistance and had me suffering for an entire week. It was not because I had not slept under a bed net though. I love a mosquito net slumber. I have not told you this yet, but nets also keep out the rats and the snakes. (: Anyway, be clever. Sleep under a net. You do not want to experience malaria-- believe you me.

peace(corps)andlove, g

[ginaalthoffmalawi]

Alendo wa Mulendo : Guests of the Guest

I am often asked what I miss most about America. Carpet and ice cream always make the list, but not before my knee-jerk response: my family. Coming from a large family, independence is something that has been required and embraced by me throughout life. Despite our independent nature and geographic spread, we are a tight-knit herd. Technologies like WhatsApp, email, snail mail and FaceTime have made my familial separation bearable, but there is nothing I miss more than an Althoff hug on this side of the world.

Yet, I have not spent my precious vacation days to see my family stateside. Instead, four of my family members have made a trip to Africa to see me! In December 2014, my sister Shaunti and I explored Rwanda and experienced all its adventures. We biked the Congo Nile trail, hiked a mud mountain in Volcanoes National Park, enjoyed Lake Kivu, risked our life on a circus ferry and navigated the streets of Kigali on taxi motos and a rented scooter. This trip introduced me to my favorite African country and reunited me with a mermaid sister; it was a Christmas to remember!

At the end of June, my next visitors arrived. My brother Isaac and sister Analise had promised to hike Mount Kilimanjaro while I was in Malawi, and they kept their word. They even arrived with a bonus extra visitor- my dad! 

We took the less-popular Umbwe Route upon which we passed through the seven levels of the Rain/Moss/Alpine Forest, through the sea of rocky, chalky moonscape craters, and then walked beside the Furtwängler Glacier. In the early morning of July 3rd, we all successfully made it to Uhuru Peak, Africa’s highest point. Although this round proved more difficult, this was the second time my dad, The Rick, stood upon the ‘Roof of Africa!’ Isaac compiled a hiking video of our trek; watch it here.

Our hiking efficiency and the short & steep Umbwe Route had us on our way to Malawi soon after our summit celebration. In retrospect, the four of us would not recommend boarding an African bus for an elongated twenty-two hours after climbing above 19,000ft... Ow! Miraculously we made it from Moshi to Mbeya and Mbeya to the Malawian Songwe border and, finally, to Lake Malawi before stretching out our by-this-time crippled legs and backs and bathing in the refreshing waters of Karonga. Later that night, we ate home cooked rice and beans among cureo stalls--a memorable occasion of the trip.

Next, we were back on the minibus for yet another Lake Malawi destination. I was excited to share my favorite spot in the 265. Although Isaac and I failed the dug out canoe challenge, the whole gang agreed Nkhata Bay a good stop.

Next up? Village. As if reaching your destination after an all-day bus trip was not enough of a relief, my visitors disembarked to a beautiful scene of fifteen kids sprinting through the field adjacent the road screaming, “Gina! Gina! Gina!” They were running TOWARD us rather than AWAY from us as many other children had during our journey from Tanzania. This must be the right stop. 

I was not certain how my village would react to so many white people in one hut. Likewise, I was unsure how my family would react to so many curious eyeballs and incomprehensible sentences. I hoped for the best and the best things happened: strangers became friends, communication was achieved, laughter was heard, and mutual respect was established. Firewood was hauled; clothes were handwashed; chickens were killed; sima was consumed; floors were slept upon; bodies were bucket bathed. My family did the village right, and the village did right by my family. 

One of the tree nursery groups I had been working with had insisted I bring my family to meet them. Instead of just holding a regular meeting as I expected, they organized an entire welcoming event featuring endearing speeches, impressive dancers, traditional foods, and more. It was a whole day affair and really proved why Malawi is dubbed “The Warm Heart of Africa.” On this day, my dad also met my Agogo (grandfather)-- Weird. You would have thought he would have already known his own father Ngulube. (: 

No, but in all seriousness, showcasing my American family to the Malawians who I consider my family was a very special gift. It has almost been a year and still people ask me about my brother, sister and, most especially, my dad. In fact, those who did not have a chance to meet them during their too-short stay are still verbally punishing me for not having brought my family to their homes or alerting them when my family arrived. Although I will forever be a guest in Malawi, having my family members visit me in Rwanda, Tanzania and Malawi allowed me to share my life here and proved to me how much I have learned about Africa. 

peace(corps)andlove (from The Warm Heart of Africa),

g

P.S. Isaac also created a video documenting his time in Malawi; click here to watch.

[ginaalthoffmalawi]

The past couple of days I have been in the field testing new #environmentaleducation materials in conjunction with the Early Grade Reading Program. Literacy rates have proved promising in Standard 3 classrooms and the stories will soon be published and sent to schools across #Malawi. I miss spending time with lovely #dirtyvillagekids and have enjoyed a few days reliving my village glory days. #pcmalawi #

[ginaalthoffmalawi]

A #tearoom?! What a lovely surprise. I'll take a grande skinny chai latte. What's that? No milk? No spices? No sugar? Do you have boiling water and dried bush tea leaves? Sounds delicious; I'll have that! #caffeinefix #drinkteahere #notearsjusttea #cheaperteahere #pcmalawi

[ginaalthoffmalawi]

And in the afternoons, wamama #GraceTembo na ine tikusuwa pumpkin leaves.

[ginaalthoffmalawi]

Flowers of the Forest: Maluwa M’malo

Along with the mushrooms’ growth, flowers begin to bloom all over the forest with the onset of rainy season. Among the recognizable buds are many interesting looking flowers. I enjoy inspecting the novel species and tying together beautiful bouquets for my hut. Flowers are not valued much here though; they do not provide food or medicine, and only sometimes will people plant them for their beauty. However, sunflowers (much to my delight!) are planted as a source of cooking oil, and thus add color to the green, agriculture fields.

[ginaalthoffmalawi]

Fungi of the Forest: Nkhowani ya Ntengele

Rainy Season brings about dramatic, noticeable changes to Malawian life. While daily routines shift and the landscape repaints itself green, Malawians head to the forest hills to find the fungi that have seemingly appeared overnight. The variety of mushrooms is almost as remarkable as the inherent knowledge villagers have about these fungi. As they scour the forest floor for the favored food, women, men and children know just which mushrooms to avoid, to dry for later use, and to cook for dinner. Most often, the mushrooms are cooked with oil, salt, and tomato and eaten with sima. 

[ginaalthoffmalawi]

This round garden shelter is one of many idyllic #forest 'mile markers' that measure my runs. When my boundary route is this lush and beautiful it is not hard to jog for an hour. The sixty minutes without trouser-wearing-induced shame helps too! (: #run #malawi #pcmalawi #forestreserve

[ginaalthoffmalawi]

Joyce spread the #mushroom joy when she showed up with some larger-than-life #fungi this morning. This sundial reads mushroom soup time! #pcmalawi #rainyseason #forestforaging

[ginaalthoffmalawi]

Forest fungi foraging with a fun guy today was a success! If we aren't alive tomorrow, someone please identify the poisonous variety.

[ginaalthoffmalawi]

My flock is dwindling at the hands of some unidentified #dirtyvillagekid who appears to be a #muzungu and to wear OPI's infamously named polish, 'chicken blood.' #pcmalawi #chicken #freerange

[ginaalthoffmalawi]

You know when you have that amazing hitch that pulls over at the roadside #mango stand so that you can purchase $0.75 worth of vitamin C and happiness? I'm betting you don't, but this fruit desert dweller couldn't be more appreciative this breakfast. I was so happy; I gave away thirty fruits pre photo. Also, my stacking abilities explain why #Hyvee denied my employment application three times... #letsgetreadytoflosssssss #pcmalawi

[ginaalthoffmalawi]

Clever people always get under a mosquito net. #malaria #mural CHECK. #pcmalawi

[ginaalthoffmalawi]

A Dirtyvillagekid Coming Clean

I know that my two years in the Peace Corps have led to immense personal growth. However, I must admit that among my expanded perspective, understanding and growth, some of my abilities, manners and actions have regressed.  So ... this dirtyvillagekid is coming clean. My restored, childish habits confessed:

I run with sticks. For some reason, the most vivid plea I remember from my mother was, "Don't run with sticks!" There was even a facial stabbing incident in which my sister's walking stick punctured my six year-old face to justify this request. (She denies it to this day.)  Although, I hear my mom’s voice in my head every time I do it, I continue gathering my firewood, piling it upon my head and running down the forest hills. Sorry, mom.

I eat dirt, regularly. We are taught that dirt is full of germs and potential death. This may hold true, but with a dirt floored, outdoor kitchen, dirt happens. It adds texture, color and personality to all my dishes. Frankly, I do not understand what the big anti-dirt fuss is all about.

I never turn off the lights. My father's pet peeve has always been wasted electricity. He demanded, "Turn off the light when you leave the room." until we were trained as young electricity conservationists. Well, now I live without electricity. My finger-jerk reaction to switch off lights as I leave a room has been lost with this change. I have become so unaccustomed to electricity that often I assume all light is originating with the sun even if a bulb is right in front of me. If someone left the lights on in Lilongwe, it was probably me. My apologies.

I forget to flush the toilet. In the village, we use pit latrines to do our business. A pit latrine is just a very deep hole in the ground with a small opening for waste's entry. There is no flush button apart from gravity. Therefore, when I find myself atop a ceramic throne, I lose my wits and forget what to do when I have finished. Eek! Luckily America has automatic flushers?

I am always home by dark. I grew up in a safe neighborhood where we were allowed to roam free as long as we were 'home by dark.' My mom's blanket statement of "Nothing good happens after dark" has me in my fence as soon as the sun sets. The dark here is not interrupted by street lights. It is the darkest dark. If it were not for the numerous stars, I would have to touch my eyeballs to ensure they were open. Even with a headlamp, I have no interest in adventuring through the disorienting blackness or running into hyena or snake nightlife.

I play with fire. I cook over fire and have never been so comfortable handling a glowing coal, a burning candle or a smoldering stick. I burn things for fun: plastic, feathers, papers, piles of garbage. I do not notice the scent of smoke anymore for it is all around me. All wastes are burned and everything is flammable. (However, most fuel-carrying trucks have the confusing words "Inflammable Goods" painted on their sides.) I might need to relearn to fear the flame upon return to my fire-fearing home.

I play with my food. I eat with my hands, make balls with my sima patties and lick my fingers. As if that is not enough, I have cooked some odd village meals with limited ingredients and even more-limited cooking foresight. If I am craving something sweet, I might mix some oats, sugar, vanilla, peanuts and cold water for dessert. That is not a cringe-worthy concoction, but I am too embarrassed to publish my best (read: worst) snacks. My food standards have dropped to the dirt floor as you read above. If it is edible and not moving, I will eat it. Someone needs to train my palate before I give myself food poisoning. I am the kid the Zoom producers were worried about and thus had the characters beg viewers, "Please cook with parental supervision."

I speak with horrendous grammar. Learning a different language has been one of my favorite components of Peace Corps service. I am proud of the Chitumbuka conversationalist I have become and so is my community. However, I have reached the point where my friends now expect perfection. My verb tense or noun class mistakes are numerous and they let me know. "Nkhaluta ku chigayo." "Mayiro? Mukaluta mayiro?" "Ahhhh! Nanguluta ku chigayo."

I employ an elementary English vocabulary. There are fourth graders with better vocabularies than me. I learned early on to simplify my spoken English to assist Malawians to understand. Listening to other Volunteers speak to each other at trainings is like sitting in a grade school classroom; I kid you not. We are all losing our native tongues faster than our non- sun-damaged skin.  I plan to read the thesaurus to rebuild what was lost in the peaceful war here in Malawi upon my unemployed return.

I spend my time outside. My house is used for very few waking hours every day. The climate and culture here encourages time to be spent outdoors. You already know I bathe, use the restroom and cook outside. But I also read, chat, shell peanuts, teach, etc. outside. Especially at this time of the year dubbed 'hot season', spending time under a hot tin roof is my least favorite thing to do. In America, we tend to work, learn and live indoors. I do not look forward to that culture shock.

I must be reminded to clean behind my ears. I have mastered the cleansing art of the bucket bath. Although I bathe at least once a day though, I am not confident I am ever really clean. My feet definitely suffer from a PCV condition known as 'permadirt.' The red dirt in my village permeates every pore, every crack and every follicle. I am a dirtyvillagekid. I have learned to accept that. I have also nearly given up trying to wash my thick mane in a bucket. No amount of water can relieve the nest of its dense, dirty darkness. However, my hair and I have come to a compromise. It stays as permanently fixed as a messy bun atop my head and I promise not to try to brush it. This resolution has led to other issues though; sometimes I find an ash, sunscreen, sweat, dirt- filled build up behind my ears. Who knew 'clean behind your ears' was actual, sage advice?

I drink orange soda. I don't think I even knew what orange soda tasted like before I arrived here. Not enjoying a cold soda and instead preferring room temperature water is something I nonconvincingly claimed early on. Buying a cold, glass bottle soda for someone is a point of pride and rejecting gifts is rude in Malawian culture. Thus, I have learned to swallow down high fructose corn syrup, carbonation and orange food coloring to please my acquaintances. I can't pretend not to like it anymore though. I'm starting to crave it. Yes, I want a Fanta.

I cannot dress myself. When my hiking boots arrived in America, I nearly cried upon the sight of their ugliness. Now I wear them with dirty socks, long printed skirts, conflicting patterned tops, and a sweat stained headband. On days like these people call, "Mwachena!" or "You've dressed sharp!" which only contributes to my fashion faux pas. My abysmal hand washing skills certainly don't help either.

I forget what I look like. Mirrors are not common here. My one foot by one foot shattered square of a mirror is seen as a luxury. Its size and broken reflection are discouraging enough for all vanity, but I also do not care to know what I am looking like on any particular day in the village. It shocks me when people still refer to me as "muzungu" or white person as I don't feel I stand out anymore; I'm just Malawian like everyone else. Well, until I cringe into my duct-taped, dusty mirror and see a white dirtyvillagekid scowling back.

I am not to be trusted nor do I trust myself with breakables. You heard about my mirror, right? Did you also hear about all of ceramic mugs, my picture frames or my sunglasses? Nothing gold can stay or in my case, nothing breakable can't NOT shatter. Luckily, nearly everything I have left is shatter proof. Your dinner is served... on a plastic plate.

I am the subject and object of laughter. Without any sitcom laugh reels to determine the appropriate time of laughter, every moment becomes the appropriate time to laugh. I laugh at myself, my errors, chickens, situations, cultural differences, anything and everything. I am not the only one laughing either; I am the object of many jokes and much village amusement as my errors and actions are studied carefully by the villagers. Laughter is a great escape from the very serious, very overwhelming development realities here. So, tikuseka... chomeni.

I struggle acting my age. Malawians rarely know their age off the top of their head and lately I have had a hard time remembering too. I have celebrated two birthdays in this country. On top of that, I spend most of my time with kids under twelve or with men over fifty. So, to my relief, my age is just a random number to which no one holds me accountable.

I feel better already having confessed my dirtyvillagekid dirt. Now, excuse me while I continue these habits for the next five months. 

peace(corps)andlove, g