The Infection of Good Blood by Bad Air
Time passes over Mlali mlima.
Mlali’s curtain, the mlima. From the village below, it looks soft and slow, with its rolling green folds. No hint of the people gathering firewood, cows and goats weaving new trails, quenching waterfalls, or the valleys and encampments beyond the sill… I'll never be able to donate blood again. After gestation, the effects of malaria come on swiftly; from the time it took me to walk from the neighboring church to my host family’s home I was already cold and dizzy. I remember beautiful colors, strange dreams, and then depression. But I was lucky, I had anti-malarials on hand and an incredible, caring host-family at home. A few days after it was all over, I relapsed. The second time it hit me in the cassava fields, where many from the village grow both their income and sustenance. I laid in the burning sun, under Hannah’s blanket, freezing cold.
Malaria once blighted most of the world. It took centuries to develop what are now the simple and relatively affordable pill-form cures. Suffering from Mal Aria, bad air, was a long and frightening process, but with pills and a minor infection, I had it relatively easy. Even now, it kills 1-2 million people a year; mostly children under the age of five. The most affected areas are all in the continent of Africa: Nigeria, Democratic Republic of Congo, and Mozambique.
A pause in sermon at Kanisa la St. Stefano.
As generally positive as my writing has been so far, my trip hasn’t been without its tragedies. The problem with telling you this story (or others) is that I’m worried it will begin to define the people I’ve visited. At this point, I haven’t revealed much. A lot of what people outside of the continent of Africa hear about Africa are generalizations. Of course, how could any one statement apply to so many diverse nations? This lens radically simplifies issues (and peoples) and removes context (including our own). Rampant statistics become more recognizable than languages, foods, or customs. Frankly, life is more fragile in the three countries I have visited. However, that story isn’t relevant or even be possible to encompass in this project. Under the Tree is meant to be a portrait. An invitation into the lives of the people I’ve met. A project about whom. Things like malaria, instead concern where and why.
While economies in the West recovered after WWII, malaria dwindled in places like my home country. The disease was able to be effectively rounded up at the cost of draining wetlands and spreading poisons like DDT. Do we, as a culture, even remember this? Malaria lingers elsewhere for many reasons, but partially because approaches by western nations have now made it harder to replicate its eradication e.g. pesticide resistance.
Isaya and Selemani gaze over Mlali.
Mlali, is gorgeous. Even without the influence of my heavy head, the perfect split of the green-blue horizon envelops the gaze. Kilines Elizabeth Sekwiha, with the profound support of her parents, continued her education through to a doctorate at Edinburgh University in Scotland. During her studies, she decided to begin to use her hard work and good fortune to manifest similar opportunities for children not so different than she was. Started seven years ago, the Queen Elizabeth Academy now has 100 students. With the help of Annie and previous advocates it’s now building a boarding house to support even more. The time I spent at the school was mirrored by time in and around Mlali. With views so inviting and possible to explore, it felt like entering a landscape painting. We hiked over the mountain with two shepherds. Watched the father of two QEA students paint bullock carts. Spent a (shortened) day in the infinite green and gold of cassava fields, sunflowers, and maize. As much of a hit as malaria was, the loss of days, optimism, and weight certainly won’t define my trip. Let this be a reminder to myself.
Teacher Ammon administers the mid-term exams at the Queen Elizabeth Academy.