tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18627629933893031682024-03-12T23:29:24.522-05:00Pardon my ChichewaJaime does the Peace Corps in MalawiJaimehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08386807582327860137noreply@blogger.comBlogger32125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862762993389303168.post-31067230063728084312014-01-15T09:31:00.000-06:002014-03-30T00:13:49.529-05:00basi<div class="MsoNormal">
“Basi,” in Chichewa, means finished – and I am. The end of
my Malawi experience arrived sooner than anyone expected, and with an entirely
unforeseen set of terminology and circumstances. In late November, I was
granted Interrupted Service. And, with both sorrow and resolve, I chose it for
myself.</div>
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<br /></div>
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On one hand, I’m reluctant to write about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">why</i> this happened because it is heavy
and unpleasant and I often sense that it makes people uncomfortable; on the other hand, I’m desperate to write about it. It has
affected me deeply and continues to do so – “it” being partly the circumstances
of my leaving, but mostly Malawi as this large abstract beautiful horrible
hilarious absurd place that is so powerful and so grand and so ridiculous that
it at times makes me forget to use commas, like right now. I will never be the
same. And as a “normal” volunteer I would have had the chance to write one last
thing, to tie up all the loose ends for myself and end the experience with
closure and finality and reflection. I still want to do that. So I will. </div>
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Essentially, without getting into the specific details, here it is: I was assaulted twice in the space
between June and September. I convinced myself that I was fine after the first
incident, swallowing any residual anxiety about it and throwing myself deeper
into my work, only to see those symptoms worsen despite my best attempts to
ignore them. When I opted to seek help, I was assaulted again on the way to my
first counselor appointment. Rattled and worn down, I couldn’t deny the
combined impact any longer. Malawi was not a good place for me to be. When
offered the chance to medically evacuate for 45 days, I said yes.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I got a lot out of those 6 weeks (although, admittedly, a
mixed bag): an unofficial diagnosis of PTSD; the comfort of my family, my
childhood friends, my hometown, and a Midwestern autumn; and most of all, a
huge, overwhelming sense of relief. For the first time in months, I relaxed. I
had perspective. With distance, I saw the dysfunction. When I left Tanzania
several years ago, it all felt so premature, and I was filled with a feeling of
“Wait, no – I’m not done! I wasn’t done!” But when I left Malawi, the
difference was stark – I was just so <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">relieved</i>,
so tired, and quite frankly so bitter. Malawi sapped my reserves, and left me
with a feeling that I could never give enough of my money, of my time, of my
attention, or of my affection. The prospect of returning filled me with dread.
And so, with sadness and decisiveness, I gave myself permission to be done.</div>
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<br /></div>
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But in many ways I am not done with Malawi – I can’t stop
talking about it. A few weeks ago, I was doing just that and an old friend
said, “From all the things you’ve said, I really have no idea what it was
like.” And he is right – I’m not sure that even I know. It was laid thick with
contrasts and contradictions. I met some of the kindest, cruelest people I’ve
ever known, and got to know a bit of the kindness and cruelty in myself. Just
as my Peace Corps experience should not and cannot be defined by the way it
ended, Malawi cannot be defined by any one quality.</div>
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<br /></div>
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When I first started this blog, you may remember, I aimed to
offer an alternative to the typical one-dimensional view of Africa: to counter
the stereotypes of a continent defined by poverty, violence, and illness by
presenting a picture dotted with “hope and comedy and a little sweetness, too.”
I hope I have done that. But I also realize that isn’t quite right either. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Malawi was a strange in-between land, a place full of
gorgeous, glittering moments of feeling very young and very free amid
devastating poverty and corruption. It was layered in extremes: joy coexisted
with sorrow, and tenderness resided among brutality. There was shocking
generosity and utter callousness, chaos and disarray and dishonesty living amid
beauty and love and simplicity. And there is so much that I will cling to:
Mary’s friendship, George’s raucous presence, Reuben’s dry wit, Mrs. Mbowe’s
sass and class, the misty mornings, the dusty afternoons, the students who maddened and amazed me, the scores of
strangers who looked out for me with no expectation of anything in return, the
small hands that slipped shyly into my palms, and the jumbled collection of
people I came to admire, to adore, and to call my family.</div>
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<br /></div>
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We cannot control what happens to us, but we get to select
the thematic arc. So I choose this one: Malawi allowed me to close the first
quarter-century of my life with breathlessness and awe and growth and gratitude
and a bit of reality, too. It was a time when I watched the space between my
childhood dreams and my daily experience grow very small, and when I found
myself chanting, so very often, “Remember this, remember this, remember this.” And
I will.</div>
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<i>Epilogue: A piece of Malawi is here with me now – actually,
one of the best pieces of it. Thanks to some seriously above-and-beyond acts of
friendship from Lauren and Allison and some possible insanity on my part, Chalo
was flown from Malawi to America in early December. The journey was harrowing –
it did not go as planned due to an airline mistake that will probably never be
explained – but he is here and he is alive and he is adjusting beautifully. And
I’m overjoyed to have him here, grateful to have a bit of Malawi to ease my own
adjustment. He is lucky far beyond the limits of his canine brain, and
continues to insist on holding hands with everyone he meets.</i></div>
Jaimehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08386807582327860137noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862762993389303168.post-4653266560519627662013-09-07T11:26:00.001-05:002013-09-07T11:26:02.381-05:00let me paint a picture for you<div class="MsoNormal">
A woman in my village has started a business selling baby
hats. Let me say that again: baby hats. And these are not just any typical,
functional baby hats to protect from cold and sun – these are glittering,
decorative caps for the discerning infant, meant to be perched jauntily on a
little head for pure STYLE. And business is booming. Many of the wealthier
babies in my village can now be seen wearing tiny top hats in vibrant shades
of red and purple, bedazzled in sequins and feathers.</div>
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It is so great I almost can’t handle it.</div>
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That is all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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Jaimehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08386807582327860137noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862762993389303168.post-35709689900233864932013-09-07T11:21:00.001-05:002013-09-07T11:25:18.545-05:00year of the dog: or, what an african village mutt has taught me about pedagogy, patience, and people<div class="MsoNormal">
When it comes to animals, I’m a fool. </div>
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<br /></div>
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In Malawi alone, I’ve lived with four cats, three chickens,
a few injured bats, and more than one serious consideration of a donkey (the idea of having one to ride to school is getting harder to resist – talk me out of it, please.) In recent months, my
menagerie has dwindled to one: just Chalo. This piece of canine Velcro remains
my ongoing project, my shadow, my bed-warmer, my running partner, my bodyguard,
my plus-one to every village event, and honestly, on a tangible, daily,
physically-right-there basis, my very best friend in the world right now. He
turns one year old this week, and I can’t imagine how different my Peace Corps
service would be without him. When nothing goes right – and in Malawi, that’s
pretty often – he is a bright little spark who keeps me here, restoring my
faith in my ability to teach <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">something</i>.
My students might struggle to understand me, but I’ll be damned if I can’t
teach a dog to give high-fives.</div>
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There’s something very compatible about these twin rites of
passage: about raising the first puppy of my adulthood while completing my
first year of teaching. They run parallel. They harmonize. The setbacks and
successes of training and teaching flow together and stem from the same source
(me), and beg the same questions: what am I doing right, and what can I do
better? Chalo and the other animals in my life have been responsible for many
of these revelations.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Here are the top 5 things I’ve learned about learning as they’ve
been teaching me about teaching. </div>
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<br /></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">1. Rewards rewards
rewards<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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Anything that is rewarded is repeated. Anything that is
rewarded is repeated. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Anything that is
rewarded is repeated</i>. It’s such a simple principle, but such a powerful one
when harnessed properly. A lot of behaviors are bad, but in the moment they’re
self-rewarding, so they happen again and again (like when Chalo runs out the
gate without permission, or when my kids cut class). And punishment alone often
isn’t enough to deter those ingrained bad behaviors, which my school proved to
me early on: kids got threatened and punished everyday, but they still followed
the same patterns. Negative reinforcement just wasn’t enough incentive to
change. But through good old-fashioned counter-conditioning, I’ve been able to
make a dent, weighting the behavior I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">want</i>
with big, meaty, happy rewards (praise! candy! high-fives!) so they start following
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i> pattern instead. Positive
reinforcement is, in most situations, a much better motivator – and I realized
that thanks to Chalo, who didn’t start heeling on a loose leash until I rewarded
him for what I wanted, instead of just punishing him for what I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">didn’t</i> want.</div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">2. Anger and
intimidation really don’t work. Fair, firm corrections do</b>.</div>
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This is huge, and maybe my biggest objection with the
disciplinary style I see in Malawian schools: a lot of threats, a lot of
yelling, a lot of bullying, a lot of public shaming. And it is made doubly
jarring by the fact that I have been blessed with some really <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">wonderful</i> teachers in my life – true
virtuosos who have modeled boundaries, limits, and control without showing anger,
silencing a classroom of teenagers with a look, creating an environment where
students <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">want</i> to do their best just
to impress them. It is the same presence I’ve felt among really talented
horsemen: a sense of extraordinary stability, calm, and “feel,” earning respect
by giving respect, often without saying a word. I admire and aspire to this. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And no matter how many Malawians say I am wrong, I cling to
these ideas: adults should be able to keep their emotional balance among
children. Teachers should be better than their students. Intimidation does not
belong in a classroom, and rage has no place among dogs, horses, or kids.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">3. Review review
review<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If I think my students know something after one try, they
don’t. If I think we’ve reviewed too much, we’ve probably reviewed just barely
enough. If I want Chalo to always come when called, he needs to practice in the
yard, in the kitchen, by the road, in the market, on a train, in the rain, on a
box, on a fox…everywhere. And if I want my kids to use the past progressive
tense consistently and correctly, the same idea applies. </div>
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<br /></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">4. Expect high
standards, but don’t make them impossible to reach.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve seen horses that, if asked to do something beyond their
abilities, will just shut down: eyes glazed, a withdrawn expression on their
face, every part of them in a far-off place. I’ve seen Chalo check out if he
gets too confused about what I’m asking. And I’ve seen the same look from my
students if I’ve pushed too far, too fast. I don’t want to bore them, but I
also don’t want to demoralize them, so finding the happy medium between a
challenge and an impossibility remains a tricky balance for me. I hope to get a
better hold on this in my second year.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">5. No matter what,
and no matter what species you are, ah-ha moments are magical.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Those flashes of cognitive connection are pretty dazzling. I
have no idea what I’m going to do after the Peace Corps, but the joy of chasing
down <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that </i>moment could keep me a teacher
for the rest of my life. Whether with dogs or with people, I swear to god,
there’s nothing better.</div>
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Happy birthday, Chalosi.</div>
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Jaimehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08386807582327860137noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862762993389303168.post-40363593668140432952013-08-25T05:46:00.003-05:002013-08-25T05:46:15.371-05:00madam chambezi, year two<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
To be honest, there’s a lot I’m
dreading about my rapidly approaching second year of teaching: the intricate
bureaucracy, the sap-slow staff meetings, the focus on punishment instead of
praise, the throng of school practices that defy logic, the demands placed on
me as a white foreigner with connections and a computer. But there’s one thing
I can’t wait for: seeing my kids again.</div>
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The student I’d predict to be most
likely to go to university is Samson. He announced in the first week that he
hoped to become a priest, and he did so in a sort of high-strung, highly
enunciated, holier-than-thou manner that made me not like him very much – but
he has since become one of my favorites. I marvel at his sincerity, his effort,
and his limber way with language. He works miles ahead of anyone else in the
class, forms sentences with varied structure, and has definitely reached the
same neighborhood as fluency. And he is always smiling. </div>
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Jacob is the other star of Form 3,
but he’s a little trickier to figure out. He perpetually wears a knowing smirk,
and for good reason – usually, he <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">does</i>
know. He readily raises his hand and jumps at opportunities to perform, but
always with this slow, sly swagger, a posture that seems to say, “I don’t care
that everyone’s watching me, but I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">know</i>
everyone is watching me.” Mysteriously, that classroom swagger fades on the
street. He lives closer to me than any other student in the school, and yet he
never comes up to me on his own. In fact, he is downright shy. I can’t explain
it, but obviously the image you choose to project can be complex, especially
when you’re 16.</div>
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There are other students who are
less intellectually flashy, but whom I’ve been lucky to get to know. Petros is
one of my favorites – he has the look and walk of a young Barack Obama, but
presented in a wildly friendly, almost puppyish way. He drifts easily between
the school social circles, but always sits alone in class, seemingly by choice.
And he puts a heartwarming degree of effort in his English, despite the fact
that it isn’t his best subject, and despite the fact that he is not the
brightest in the class. He is hard not to notice.</div>
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There are others as well, of
course: quiet, contemplative Richard, who prefers to just listen but writes
spectacularly when given the chance; sweet, eager Elijah, who leaps at the
opportunity to erase the board for me; sassy, straightforward Thoko, who is a
girl with the air of a woman; and beautiful, brave Maggie, the first of any of
the girls to approach me on her own, often the only girl to speak up in class,
and the student who delivered an argument so passionate, cogent, and bold in
one of our Life Skills debates that I consciously thought, “I want to be like
her.” There’s whisper-voiced Felix, who I sense does not get treated well by
his classmates, but whose time will come, and there’s multi-dimensional Benjamin,
who runs with a rough crowd and comes to school erratically, but has started to
glitter under the right light, turning in essays with surprising fluency and
looking at me with more engagement and fascination. It’s hard to say who will
still be here next year – my guess is the two suspendees, Bornface and
Hastings, have slipped away for good. But others are harder to pin down, like
Stanley, the boy who disappeared from school for weeks, was put in jail for
attacking a woman, and then came to my house on a Saturday afternoon asking for
help with his English. We’ll see.</div>
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The ten-year age difference between
me and most of the Form 1s creates a much different dynamic. They’re more
boisterous and bouncy, eager to talk because they’re less self-conscious about
what they don’t know, but terribly difficult to talk <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">to</i> because everything they don’t know happens to be a lot. It’s a
very female-driven room, too – Judith, Chance, and Bubile would run the whole
show if allowed. (And to be honest, they <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">could</i>,
undoubtedly). It’s harder to get to know the Form 1s in the sea of faces, but
there are some standouts: adorable Cecelia, always in a pink jacket and ready
to offer a guess, even if she is (unfortunately, usually) wrong, and
mischievous Chiku, who means well but can never be trusted. (On an end-of-term
survey, in response to the question “What did you like about this class?”, he
wrote “You because you are so beautiful and wonderful and delicious.” Oh god.)
There’s quiet, sharp Prince, who confided in me that he hopes to become a
teacher “just like you”; Salayi, whose grades from the beginning of the term
are almost unrecognizable compared to her final exam results (in a great way!);
and sweet Divason, who sits in the back with rapt, faintly lovestruck
attention, sending encouraging smiles my way that really help, whether he
realizes it or not.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I admire them and I’m maddened by
them. They disappoint me and they amaze me. And I cannot wait to see them in
two weeks. </div>
Jaimehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08386807582327860137noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862762993389303168.post-43910306775574929462013-08-25T05:42:00.001-05:002013-08-25T05:42:48.441-05:00August<div class="MsoNormal">
…has been a ridiculous whirlwind. Let me count the ways.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
</div>
<ul>
<li><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> - </span></span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">stupidly jumping off a truck and landing in a
stupid way that has stupidly rendered me unable to walk for the past two weeks</span></li>
<li><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> - </span></span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">having my first ever x-ray at my first ever
Malawian hospital, and discovering it to be one of the most surreal experiences
of my life</span></li>
<li><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">reuniting with the other 16 remaining members of
my original Peace Corps family at our glorious mid-service training</span></li>
<li><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">catching and playing with wild hedgehogs – a
phrase I never imagined I would utter in Malawi</span></li>
<li><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">meeting the nearly 140 other volunteers
in-country (many of them for the first time ever) at an all-volunteer
conference in Lilongwe, and finding it both invigorating and overwhelming</span></li>
<li><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">witnessing the swear-in of the 20 new education
volunteers, administered by the Director of Peace Corps</span></li>
<li><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">chatting with the U.S. Ambassador to Malawi over
a Fanta…while limping ridiculously</span></li>
<li><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">accidentally brushing off the U.S. Ambassador to
Malawi when she apparently said to me, “I hope your heel heals soon!”, and I
limped away (ridiculously) and ignored her. Good-bye, career in Foreign
Service.</span></li>
<li><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">celebrating the 50</span><sup style="text-indent: -0.25in;">th</sup><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> anniversary of
Peace Corps Malawi by attending a gala at Kamuzu Palace, the home of President
Joyce Banda…while limping ridiculously</span></li>
<li><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">giving a speech in Chitumbuka in front of the
President, the Ambassador, the Director of Peace Corps, and Vanessa Kerry…while
limping ridiculously</span></li>
<li><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">participating in a dance circle with the
President…while limping ridiculously</span></li>
</ul>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
Here’s to the next ridiculous 12 months.</div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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Jaimehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08386807582327860137noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862762993389303168.post-8470125119160022482013-08-25T05:37:00.002-05:002013-08-25T05:45:37.075-05:00ku amerika<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve now spent the past two Independence Days in the company
of government-issued friends in a dusty, faraway land. And in the months
between those two fourths of July, they have taken on deeper meaning, as I
regularly catch myself fantasizing about a place where things are easier: where
people show up on time, where I am not a spectacle, and where I do not lie
awake thinking about all the different kinds of sandwiches, unable to sleep
through all the Pavlovian drool. Mostly – and quite notoriously, at this point
– I cannot think of the United States without feeling a huge, swelling
appreciation, and a subsurface urge to cry. Malawi has made a sentimental
patriot out of me. From 5,000 miles away, I finally see how incredible we are:
how rare and precious it is to come from a hodge-podge nation of mongrels held
tenuously together by the ideal that we are all the same, that we are born
free, that we deserve to be happy. We fail, over and over again, to live up to
these ideals, but still we reach for them – and that is extraordinary.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And yet I know, on some level, that I dream of a cartoon
America. In July I went back home, and I saw something with more shadows, more
complexity. I heard the verdict of the Trayvon Martin case while sitting in a
Burger King. The only other diners were construction workers, sitting
startlingly separate and in stone-faced silence: black men at one table, white
men at another. I went to a public forum where people in my small Missouri town
voiced opinions about a proposed human rights ordinance that would prohibit
discrimination based on sexual orientation – and my jaw dropped at some of the
things that were said. A bevy of citizens stepped up to announce, “I’ve never
seen anybody complaining of [discrimination] in our town, so it’s a non-issue.
We’re wasting our time here.” I couldn’t stop thinking of Malawi, where homosexuality
has long been illegal, and of how many battles we all have left to fight.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In late June, in the middle of my mid-service “what am I
even doing here?” crisis, I was given an incredible gift: being one of the
first people to meet the group of twenty new Peace Corps volunteers. I was with
them when they experienced, for the first time, the very things I have become
numb to: bumping along in the backseat of a range rover on a red dirt road,
dodging goats and chickens, sensing our mere presence send ripples in every direction,
leaving a trail of stares, waves, and cheers in our slipstream. They were
delighted. They were enraptured. They found it beautiful. And I did too, just
by seeing these Americans’ fresh reactions to this wild, wonderful place that I
find so frustrating, so infuriating, so slow, so joyous, so hilarious, so warm.
It was so powerful I nearly cried, and I couldn’t help but be reminded of it
just now, as I hugged my family good-bye for another year, choking back a very
different kind of tears in the security checkpoint. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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It’s easy for us Peace Corps volunteers to paint
one-dimensional pictures of America and Malawi, to pine for everything we <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">had</i> on the other side – but god, we <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">have</i> so much, in these perfect people,
in these two deeply imperfect worlds, and in all the gifts scattered between
them.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Jaimehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08386807582327860137noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862762993389303168.post-14423687150330790152013-06-18T10:32:00.003-05:002013-06-18T10:32:30.225-05:00encounters with the acirema<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times;">I’ve
been thinking a lot lately about good intentions, development practices, and
that famous article about the Acirema people, with all their unfathomable
body-related habits, their tile-lined altars to hygiene, and their masochistic,
horror-inspiring beautification rituals. (Spoiler alert, if you never took an
Intro to Anthropology class: the Acirema are us, and we are weird.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times;">I
say this because my village imposes two competing yet somehow coexistent roles on
me: one as “hapless, naïve outsider who must be looked after and taken care of,”
the other as “encyclopedic expert on all things in the universe.” You would
think these roles would be mutually exclusive, but somehow they are not. At the
beginning of rainy season, when bizarre thatched oval pods started cropping up
in inconspicuous gullies and side-paths around my village, I hypothesized about
their possible uses (e.g. mushroom growing nursery, compost storage area,
wilderness chicken coop, or sexy rendezvous meeting place for two humans lying
really close). And we all laughed when I learned how wrong I was, and how
obvious the answer would be to a Malawian. They were traps for catching flying
ants. Duh.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times;">But
a few Sundays ago, when a package from Canada arrived at one of the churches in
my village, I was thrust into the opposing role. The box was filled with toys
and trinkets, sent with the best of intentions, and expected to bring some
small joy to children imagined to have very little. But in reality, the gifts
ushered in confusion more than anything else. No one (not even the teachers I
work with, many of whom own laptops and televisions and are comparatively
worldly) had any idea what these items were or what they were for.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times;">And
so, over the course of several days, dozens of people approached me with these Acireman
artifacts. First they skirted around the issue with the elaborate greeting
ritual – a string of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">how-are-you</i>s, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">how-did-you-wakes</i>, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">how-is-home</i> that circled around the
central topic and approached it politely from the side, following the Malawian
concept of courtesy by way of circuitousness. (As opposed to the American
concept of courtesy by way of efficiency.) Then and only then would they show
me their item: a canister of play-dough, a yo-yo, a bottle of mouthwash. And I
would laugh each time – not at them, but at the serendipity of seeing an
ordinary item from home and realizing that it is the first one I’ve seen in
almost a year. I now react the same way to airplanes. (Or rather, airplane.
I’ve seen one in the past twelve months.) <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times;">I
found myself being presented items from my culture and explaining their uses in
simple language, while kind of enjoying the Malawian interpretations even more.
The most common questions: “What does it do?” followed by “So, you do not eat
it?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times;">Chance,
one of my Form 1 students, called me over at one point. “Madam, can you
identify this one?” She did not have the item, but rather a rough sketch of it,
which she narrated in faltering English. “It is a long instrument, with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ujeni</i> [whatsit]…different colors and…I don’t
know, it is what, Madam?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times;">I had
no idea what she was talking about, and after several wrong guesses, I asked
her to just bring it the next day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times;">When
she pulled a deck of watercolors out of her bag the following morning, I laughed
again – in part because I hadn’t seen art supplies for such a long time, and in
part because all of her descriptions were so far from the actual reality of a
watercolor set. The artifacts of Acirema culture are totally inscrutable
through the eyes of the outsider, even when they are reflected back upon an
Acireman.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times;">I
demonstrated the basic idea of watercolors on a piece of paper, a crowd
gathered. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times;">“Ohhhhh,
we thought it was for this,” one girl said, sweeping the paintbrush over her
eyelids. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times;">And
as they admired the cat I had painted, a boy asked for clarification: “So,
Madam, it is not for eating?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times;">“No
Paul, it is not for eating.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“It is for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ujeni</i>,” said Chance, “for beauty pictures.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Jaimehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08386807582327860137noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862762993389303168.post-71850726305855506192013-04-29T11:08:00.000-05:002013-04-29T11:09:27.787-05:00note to self: you're living the dream. don't forget it.I just wrote a rather lengthy diatribe about my recent frustrations, including, but not limited to: encountering fundraising roadblocks that feel downright insurmountable, rallying (with little success) against misplaced priorities that are hurting our students, witnessing Ministry of Education officials <i>laughing</i> about endemic sexual violence in schools, witnessing my own headmaster announce that boys deserve education more than girls do, witnessing countless people declare that women wearing trousers turn good men into rapists, fending off my own share of increasingly weird unwanted advances, and seeing an uglier side of myself come out -- one who suspects the worst in people, who gets stingy with smiles in order to protect herself, and who loses her emotional balance and proclaims someone else's beliefs "patently ridiculous."<br />
<br />
But then I made a misclick and everything I wrote disappeared. I'm going to take that as a sign.<br />
<br />
Here's what's really good right now.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmSxPMcgBEtXCIySS9feYyhsPLa7jNTeUgNttRyGVCrNlmjh5ldYhMcORe5inEwFDO1vE38kZkUN9XNo1awByx5HMu825iB2lnCTddS_0QHH_svcc4xyHEXr_WIuGeNvR8mRYVU8Bj4Mpt/s1600/DSC_0064.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmSxPMcgBEtXCIySS9feYyhsPLa7jNTeUgNttRyGVCrNlmjh5ldYhMcORe5inEwFDO1vE38kZkUN9XNo1awByx5HMu825iB2lnCTddS_0QHH_svcc4xyHEXr_WIuGeNvR8mRYVU8Bj4Mpt/s400/DSC_0064.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm learning cool things in beautiful places.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKnGPoLbYR63P4pCZJ6JuB7UOfBui6cAuSsARmuKzA3MmWgxAkodp-SNrCmUlLC2y15y-nS9tHSYMGoVaG8MIyVbSBNvyiK84BInW9OjUzPEQ3a8f766QbR84kmPyD9zuRZaHopoEfHJmc/s1600/DSC_0071.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKnGPoLbYR63P4pCZJ6JuB7UOfBui6cAuSsARmuKzA3MmWgxAkodp-SNrCmUlLC2y15y-nS9tHSYMGoVaG8MIyVbSBNvyiK84BInW9OjUzPEQ3a8f766QbR84kmPyD9zuRZaHopoEfHJmc/s400/DSC_0071.jpg" width="265" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm having adventures.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8augsnp8_tYcei13c_ydNC-RVMvwa3lSrTv5IWi8Wft6qz3rYY42uzLRPqRjelsetqca2CRU39TWqkO4glTNgSmXgJyW_hX6pJuxZlv9qJzWTO61lEhuK59HMrvFRvMA9ujys0WpiZgNf/s1600/DSC_0006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8augsnp8_tYcei13c_ydNC-RVMvwa3lSrTv5IWi8Wft6qz3rYY42uzLRPqRjelsetqca2CRU39TWqkO4glTNgSmXgJyW_hX6pJuxZlv9qJzWTO61lEhuK59HMrvFRvMA9ujys0WpiZgNf/s400/DSC_0006.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I live somewhere where THIS is just a short ride away from...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimlIrer3kKw0blUv6r6APAGatqHE5rVW3ZgJYTP515D7Ok7bDS_XuPikRRBspfSjaPv2CsXCpH_1ZaqEb0rkTFAzcqZLVm-q7XfdCdtVp1uYqw4bC56p4fnJP7bLzxXZziliRhiG0FXRFV/s1600/DSC_0035.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimlIrer3kKw0blUv6r6APAGatqHE5rVW3ZgJYTP515D7Ok7bDS_XuPikRRBspfSjaPv2CsXCpH_1ZaqEb0rkTFAzcqZLVm-q7XfdCdtVp1uYqw4bC56p4fnJP7bLzxXZziliRhiG0FXRFV/s400/DSC_0035.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...this.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg3QtSHv08k3nzuH_FIb0yh2dRO1_t7mKzwuVTWk5X__C3xcziJnzAiY2qsIAzXnp7nXDTLcikdOiZwJqkCB-jnp3vmidFd7rJULEKjVMAKUuPnq5HQc1EqzB0jy7zYKk3olKSNpCp0uZk/s1600/DSC_0034.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg3QtSHv08k3nzuH_FIb0yh2dRO1_t7mKzwuVTWk5X__C3xcziJnzAiY2qsIAzXnp7nXDTLcikdOiZwJqkCB-jnp3vmidFd7rJULEKjVMAKUuPnq5HQc1EqzB0jy7zYKk3olKSNpCp0uZk/s400/DSC_0034.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...and this.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj98RORYuB_yk5xsg6kEDvROTWgjvxZzZwdmNRwuvhiD7umYyiBaJzMHgyJjIb0HUSBUAvDXk6z7EZ-0ubPpDJJvAcfwY39oHRfFv2h1QBpVaeMR2wKgCuf4Qm8ka6KV4a8dfL6wrxQ2l-U/s1600/DSC_0007j.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj98RORYuB_yk5xsg6kEDvROTWgjvxZzZwdmNRwuvhiD7umYyiBaJzMHgyJjIb0HUSBUAvDXk6z7EZ-0ubPpDJJvAcfwY39oHRfFv2h1QBpVaeMR2wKgCuf4Qm8ka6KV4a8dfL6wrxQ2l-U/s400/DSC_0007j.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And most of all, I have this wildly wonderful job where I get to spend my days talking about books and words with sweet, hilarious people who desperately WANT me to be there. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL4EZOH7pi6df-2TEMVAVqpLW-5fQ8mbdxJvMU-zPK4YxoSvgHAOZ6JA1Xz3bGniflPZi-iJOJA8UQS6BMNQUPhd83hCFpuOsDGtoq8-qP59GtR8IU2gy3YgwsSlP-vPZLMdMGO454fjZr/s1600/DSC_0042.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL4EZOH7pi6df-2TEMVAVqpLW-5fQ8mbdxJvMU-zPK4YxoSvgHAOZ6JA1Xz3bGniflPZi-iJOJA8UQS6BMNQUPhd83hCFpuOsDGtoq8-qP59GtR8IU2gy3YgwsSlP-vPZLMdMGO454fjZr/s400/DSC_0042.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And I get to bring my dog to work. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />Jaimehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08386807582327860137noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862762993389303168.post-25031321924953514452013-04-24T14:07:00.002-05:002013-04-24T14:20:24.255-05:00an alphabetic tour of life as of late<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>A</b> is for
absurdity, which colors my life with a heavy brush these days. Here’s a
sample.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A
conversation in the staff room: <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Mrs.
Mbowe: “Jaime. I must ask you something. It is quite serious.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Me:
“Sure, of course, what is it?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Mrs.
Mbowe: “Well, are you sure I’m not disturbing you?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Me:
“Of course not, go ahead, please.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Mrs.
Mbowe: “Okay, well, I must ask you: Why does Chalo not wear shoes? How can you
let your son walk without shoes?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
My
headmaster, during a beginning-of-term assembly, threatening our students about
the dangers of violating the dress code: “I WILL SWALLOW YOU ALIVE.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
There’s
this new kid in my neighborhood – surely no older than ten – and he has
inordinate spunk, this sort of intimidating aura of confidence, and an inexplicable
London accent. His name his Gomez, and he is a fascinating mystery to me. Our
first conversation went like this:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Kid
[looking up from a game of marbles as I walk by]: “You failed to introduce me.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Me:
“I’m sorry?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Kid:
“You failed to introduce me.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Me:
“Who?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Kid:
“You. To me.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Me:
“Oh. I’m Jaime.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Kid:
“Gomez.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Me:
“Gomez?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Kid:
“Gomez.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Me:
“That’s a Mexican name.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Kid:
“Thank you.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>B</b> is for
bananas, which I will confidently assert are the most consistently mediocre of
fruits. (Mushy, disagreeable texture and a sweetness that, though not exactly
unpleasant, is definitely forgettable? Ugh. Give me a mango, a fruit that
exists on purpose.) But I’m definitely in the minority here, because when the
banana-selling ladies come around, the air in the staff room changes in a big
way. One teacher announces, “<i>Ntochi</i>! <i>Ntochi</i> are here!” and the others pop up
from their desks like prairie dogs, echoing “<i>Ntochi ntochi ntochi</i>!” and hurrying out to get a look before anyone
else. Malawians do not, as a rule, like to hurry, but they do when bananas are
involved.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As a loyal customer of the
avocado man, the mango ladies, and the occasional guava woman, I don’t go out
to see the banana ladies anymore. I have not gone out to see the banana ladies
since November, actually. But this pattern seems to escape the other teachers,
whom I still have to explain it to every time the bananas come. Every. Time. It
is now April, and I had to explain it again today.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Jaime. <i>Ntochi</i>. Bananas are here.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, yes, thank you, I know
– I just don’t really like them that much.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A ripple of surprise.
“What?” “What do you mean?” “You don’t like bananas?” “She doesn’t like
bananas?!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“…no, not really.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“But you must! It is so good
to eat bananas! There are so many kinds – sweet, very sweet, not really sweet,
fat, very fat, very very fat…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The best part is when the
teachers walk back in with their bounties: armfuls and bunches of bananas of
different sizes and colors. They always have big anticipatory grins on their
faces, and they sometimes even pump their fists, cheer, and announce (with disproportionate
gusto if you ask me): “I am eating BANANAS toniiiiiiiight.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have tried every type of banana.
I have learned all of their indigenous names. I cannot muster that kind of
enthusiasm. The magic eludes me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>C</b> is for <i>chimponde</i>, the word for “peanut butter,”
which is dangerously close to <i>chiponde</i>,
the word for “dead person.” I learned this the hard way.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>D</b> is for devaluation,
which is currently happening to the Malawian kwacha at an alarming rate. Prices
are rising everywhere, fellow teachers are complaining about their low pay, and
people are forming long lines outside ADMARC centers in an attempt to get
fertilizer before it runs out (…and I’ve seen them lining up at 8:00pm just to
get a good place in line. It’s a grim, foreboding sign in a country where people’s
survival depends on their garden, and where the economy is already downright
fragile. I fear for the coming months).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>E</b> is for
eggs. So I imagine, at least. The grand total my hen has produced so far: 0. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>F</b> is for
“foolish,” a word that recently caused quite a stir when one of the Form 2
students anonymously wrote the phrase “foolish teacher” on a desk. The staff
decided to get to the bottom of the mystery through – I kid you not –
handwriting analysis. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>G</b> is for
gestures, my favorite of which is a sort of half-high-five, half-handshake,
half-hand-slap that is shared when someone says something funny (which actually
leaves you with one-and-a-half greetings, if you were counting, and which is
quite fitting because I never know when it is supposed to end).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>H</b> is for
“hippopotamus in the water,” a phrase one of my favorite teachers likes to use
a lot, and which I think pretty well sums up the absurd environment at my
school. One day the other teachers speculated about its possible meanings: some
guessed it to be about the unwieldiness of an enormous blubbery animal, while
others assumed it referred to the grace of a creature doing exactly what it was
born to do. Both were wrong. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mr.
Muyira: “Oh, it means nothing.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mrs.
Mbowe: “What do you mean? It has no meaning? Why do you say it?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mr.
Muyira: “…because I love words and I love hippos.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And
then he proceeded to repeat the phrase “a hippo in ze vata, a hippo in ze vata”
in an increasingly exaggerated accent, building to the grand finale: “Look
everyone, I am French!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I
couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>I</b> is for
ice cream, which I recently realized I probably technically could keep at my
house if I really wanted to/really saved up for a refrigerator. Informal poll:
should I save up $100 or so to buy a mini-fridge as a one-year anniversary
present to myself? (A lot of people in my village already have one, and it
would be a game-changer in my village life, but I don’t want to spoil myself.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>J</b> is for
Jane, which a surprising number of people in my village still insist is my
name.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>K</b> is for
“Kid or Kid?,” the favorite game of many a Peace Corps volunteer. When you hear
an ear-splitting wail on a minibus, at church, at school, at a bar, or in your
bed at 9:00pm, you ask yourself and anyone around you the question: “Is that a
(goat) kid or a (human) kid?” The answer often surprises you.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>L</b> is for
laughter, and there’s a lot of it in my life – coming from me and created by
me, sometimes intentionally, usually not. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>M</b> is for
mami, a term of utterly platonic endearment that I’m pretty endeared by myself.
Usually people call me “Madam,” a term of respect that I appreciate but feel
kind of distant about, but I get the occasional “Yes, mami!” and “Hello, mama!”
And I love it every time.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>M</b> is also
for mononucleosis, which might be the funniest disease you can get while living
alone in an African village. And boy did I get it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>N</b> is for
nsima, the staple food of Malawi. I ate it everyday for the first three months
and have gone to drastic measures to avoid it ever since then. As I stretch
toward the one-year mark, I’ve been building stronger barricades around my culturally
sacred idols, the things I want to keep holy for the sake of my own sanity:
namely, the right to privacy and the right to eat whatever I want. And I never
want to eat nsima ever again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>O</b> is for
(o)rranged marriage (whatever – just pretend). Apparently my headmaster (who is
sort of a boisterous, larger-than-life character) has been approaching male
volunteers in my group and offering them his sisters’ hands in marriage. I
can’t leave George alone for a moment.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>P</b> is for
puppy, who is basically all I talk about these days and who is getting harder
and harder to raise as he explodes into full-fledged 7-month-old adolescence in
a place where crate training is laughably nonexistent. People here either a)
let their dogs run loose and allow them to live as scavengers, or b) keep them
chained up their entire lives. I refuse to do either of those things. (So far
the moral high ground has cost me the following: most of the pages of my Peace
Corps cookbook, an especially precious pair of wool socks, a favorite necklace,
a radio, and several rolls of toilet paper. This was possibly the most
upsetting loss. That stuff is important.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
I
took Chalo to the city to see the veterinarian about two months ago, and I
learned several things:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->-<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Young white
women in Africa have no trouble getting rides. Young white women with dogs in
Africa DO have trouble getting rides.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->-<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->It is easier to
sell this through a kind of entrapment: hide the dog behind you, and do not
reveal him until the car has already come to a full stop and you have smiled at
the driver and greeted him in the vernacular. Better yet: get a body part in
the car so they can’t leave without you.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->-<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->When the driver
starts to pull away in fear and you are pleading, “No, he loves everyone! He
will sleep on my lap the whole time,” make sure the dog in question did not
just sit down on a swarm of army ants, because if he does his eyes will start
rolling wildly at an unseen demon. He will spin, snarl, snap at the air, and
twist around in a rodeo-like way while you shout, “He doesn’t bite! He is calm
and gentle! Really!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->-<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Make sure all
the army ants are off of him before you climb in the car, or the dog in
question will continue to writhe, moan, and flash his teeth for the next
half-hour. The mother sitting next to you will cower and hide her baby. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Q</b> is for
questions, which my students are getting more and more comfortable asking me.
Within five minutes of my return to school after a week-long absence, I had
this gem of a conversation with a Form 4 student:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Boy:
“Hello, Madam, good morning. I have some questions for you.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me:
“Sure! Go ahead.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Boy:
“Firstly, how was your trip? Secondly, why is ‘practice’ sometimes spelled ‘practice’
and sometimes spelled ‘practise’? Lastly, what is sodomy?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>R </b>is for
religious conversations, which I seem to be getting drawn into more and more
lately, especially on public transport. There was the man on the bus who asked
me if I was born-again and did not find my answer of “No, once was enough” very
funny. There was the man who first asked for my hand in marriage, then my phone
number, then tried to get me to join his church – and when all of these failed,
he tried to get me to give him private prayer lessons. (What does that even
mean?) Then there was the day when the staff room practically burst into flames
over whether women are biblically permitted to wear trousers. And of course
there is the general omnipresence of religious talk, especially in a country
where Bible Knowledge is a required course, gospel music is played at school,
and official gatherings of all kinds always start with a prayer. And then there
is me: someone with a lot of deep-seated, highly concentrated, but ultimately
very generalized and very private spiritual feeling. Because religious matters
are treated very openly but very literally here, I struggle to answer all the
questions. I often wish there was a more succinct way to explain, “I was raised
Methodist, kind of, I guess, and there are elements of it that move me deeply,
but mostly all I know is that I can’t think about the Law of Conservation of Energy
without getting goosebumps.” If anybody knows a word for that, let me know.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>S</b> is for
strikes, which were recently held by civil servants nationwide (teachers
included) to demand a raise in salaries that will compensate for the
devaluation of the kwacha. I cannot comment upon it, but I <i>can</i> say that the extra sleep I got was exquisite.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>T</b> is for <i>ku</i>T<i>engwa</i>,
the feminine version of the Chitumbuka word for getting married. (A pretty
revealing little linguistic window on the gender dynamics of this culture: <i>kutengwa</i> is only used with women, and it
means “to be taken”; <i>kutola</i> is only
used with men, and it means “to take.”) And everyone wants to know if I am. Taken,
that is. My go-to answer in 2012 was, “No! I’m too young!” But now that I’m 24
that feels a little false even to <i>me</i>,
so I’ve started giving lengthier explanations about education, opportunity,
adventure, and the fact that the biggest decision of my life isn’t one I intend
to make quickly, or even in this decade, necessarily. This can be a difficult
thing to explain in a culture where most women my age are mothers – or at a
school where, if a girl stops coming to school, the reason is usually that she
has gotten married.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>U</b> is for
uranium, a major export and a very big deal. When trucks full of uranium come
barreling through my village, it is quite the picture: everything stops. Women
in colorful <i>chitenje</i> slow and turn with
teetering buckets of water on their heads, men on their way to the factory pause
in the road, and children stop mid-game to watch the long row of semi-trucks zoom
by, each vehicle practically screaming “DOLLARS” while flanked by screeching police
escorts. Life doesn’t resume until the swirl of red dust comes – the only thing
left in its wake.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>V</b> is for <i>vula, </i>the word for rain, which
practically constitutes a weather emergency around here. Life halts – people
come late or don’t come at all, choosing instead to hole up in their houses and
sleep. I like this custom.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>W</b> is for
“WOW,” my favorite (verbal) student response when I brought pictures of my
sisters to school. They were unanimously declared staggeringly beautiful.
Several kids asked to keep the pictures, and I caught a few boys drawing their
likeness on their notebooks. (My favorite non-verbal response was from a little
Form 1 boy. I caught him smirking and raising his eyebrows pretty lasciviously
at a picture of Maddie.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>W</b> is also
for wine, which Chalo spilled and consumed entire bucket of. And that’s how I
saw a drunk dog for the first time.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>X </b>is for
excellent, which is how I feel about the news that my deputy headmaster stays
up late at night writing essays for one of those U.S.-based cheating websites.
The irony of the whole thing is sort of infuriating but gorgeous to me: a lazy
college student orders a 10-page paper on the Ottoman Empire, and a Malawian
man who speaks English as his third language researches the topic using
50-year-old textbooks in a dilapidated storage room in a rural African village
and gets paid $100 to do it. More power to him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Y</b> is for <i>yembe</i>, the word for mango. I’m already
counting down the months until next mango season.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Z</b> is for
za kuno, the phrase for “come here,” because I’m running out of steam and I
don’t know any other “z” words. <o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Jaimehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08386807582327860137noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862762993389303168.post-17928349661119741742013-03-02T13:12:00.003-06:002013-03-02T13:14:40.989-06:00Portrait of the Artist as a Young Malawian<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve
decided there’s a reason why movies about idealistic young teachers in rough,
undersupplied schools often hinge on the redemptive power of language. It’s
because the cliché is true: the written word breaks down walls.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I
introduced a weekly journal ritual this term to address a few issues: to build
up my students’ writing stamina, to push them to use the language more, to
encourage creativity over regurgitation, to give me a better way of measuring
progress, and really just to get to know them better (something I desperately wanted
from the beginning). <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They’ve
surpassed my expectations in wonderful ways. Kids who used to approach
assignments with lackadaisical disinterest can now be found bowed over their
desks, writing past the bell, and smiling shyly when they hand in their work.
There are kids who use their journal as a chance to keep an ongoing dialogue
with me, kids who spill secrets and share dreams, and kids who sign off every
week with “Thank you for giving me the opportunity to write about this” or
“Thank you for listening, Madam.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The
first prompt I ever gave them was this: “Tell me about a memory from your
childhood.” Their recollections were so distinctively African, so
unintentionally humorous, and yet so touchingly universal – the smell of mangoes,
the trauma of early loss, the freedom of playing in mud puddles, and the joy of
hanging out with your dad. They made me laugh, they made me cry, and they paint
a picture of life in this country better than I ever could. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I
cannot resist sharing a few of them. So, behold, a sampling of the mingled
sweetness and tragedy of a Malawian childhood.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Games<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“When I was a child I liked
playing different games, as well as crying and beating my friends. I was good
at feeding my grandfather’s goats, cows, and sheeps [sic]. I was also good at
running when my mother called me to get a bath.” – Nyuma<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I played football so I
enjoy on that because I am a player man. Am have power energy.” – Jordan<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Firstly is that when I was
young I was not respecting my parents because my mind was not yet ready to
think about respect. Secondly is the type of playings. I and my friends we were
playing in places where as I’m talking I can’t play in that places. These
places are: in the stagnant water, in the rain, in the mud, etc.” –Jacob<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I played with toys like
cow, farm cart, axe, hoe, and bridge.” – Benson<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>[</b><i>I love this. An axe as a toy – how Malawian.]<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We were taking wires and
making cars for playing with, as like the real car like Toyota.” – Jacob<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“When I am watching things
like basketball I fill happy and not only that but comfortable.” – Maxwell<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I was like playing bao
game, draft, playing football very much. I also liked to go to the forest to
pick natural fruits. I was also like swimming at Kasito dam.” – Benard<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“When the rain were raining
me and me friend we were dancing by the rain and we were very happy.” – Jacob<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Food<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“…also I was unforgiveness
or glutton glumandaiser [???]. If someone have got snatched my food I was
crying.” – Wellings<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It was very easy to get
food without any problem.” – Jacob<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“My favorite childhood
memory I remember that when my mother come back to work every day she was take
chips or a biscuit. So now she didn’t take chips or biscuit and everyday when I
come back from school my sister first hugs me and she asks me Thoko today you
are learning about what?” - Thoko<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“In 1999 when I was young my
mother was telling that I love so much eating bananas and up to now still I am
loving bananas.” – Junior<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Violence and Punishment<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I don’t want to slap my
friend because am very happy when I have with many friends.” – Lontia<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“At first day at secondary school near Mzuzu, the headmaster
told me to sweep in the staff room and around the classes. Because I was too
late and he struck me. I was surprised.” – Peter C<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“When I was starting my
school in Standard 1, I was bothered so much with unkindful guys who were in
high classes. They seized my notebooks, pencil, and other school material. They
ran away from the school campus. I was started crying and when the teacher came
it was when they have already gone, so I told the teacher about it. Later she
asked me to show those guys. So I was helpless because I was not recognized
them. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So this is one thing I
remember in my life.” – Richard<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“When I was childhood I like
to beat my friend. Also I like to crying and I liked my mother to live together
each and every time. […] If my father say I don’t have a money I start crying.
I crying crying and my father give 20 kwacha and buying some sweets and
biscuits then I stop crying. My mother was slap me because I was say my
daughter if you grow up you have to be a thief because you love money so much.
This is all.” – Maurice<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“When I was a child I liked
to cry and sleeping for many hours. The one day when I crying my mother she
slap me with a stick and tell me don’t cry again. And that day may don’t eat
anything with a whole day.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Another day when I sleep
under a tree the snake was fallen down from tree and my brother came to pull
me, so that snake was ascending in that tree again. From that days when these
two kind of bad behavior I was change because I knows that this is a childish
behavior.” – Milliam <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Memories<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“There was a lot of things
which I was following when I was young. I cannot forget some of it. And also I
already forgot some of it. I remember that when it is Sunday day I always going
to church to pray. And during the school day I didn’t want to go to school
without any food in my bag. Also I didn’t want to miss any period in the
classroom. If a period has gone to tell us that it is time to go to our home, I
was not going home directly but I was going to the bush with my friend to pick
some masuku [<i>a small sour reddish fruit
that grows wild here. It defies description and I have no idea what it is in
English</i>]. And I’m arriving late in the home. My mother always she is
chatting to me day and day.” – Maggie<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“My parents were living in
village therefore my life is of village. My parents brought me up in the
spiritual life and this made me to grow honest and kind. Firstly, the most
interesting thing is that when I was 3 years old my parents commanded me that
there is God, the creator of the universe. When I was 5 years old I had several
question in my heart about God. If God created everything include a man, now
who created God?” – Samson <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I like my mother because I
was living with my mother for a long time. My father was die in 1998. I am
growing up with my mother start reading with my mother this is a reason I like
my mother.” – Isobel<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I was young in 1997. My
father buy me something like shoes, caps, fishnet, not books. And those day my
father encouraged me to school and gave structure when complained school. A
money is not problem because next you can be educated man it’s easy to find
jobs.” –Dan<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“In 2006 when I was in
Blantyre I saw a person who his name was Bololo. He was a very good grand. He
was loving babies.” – Junior<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I remember that my mother
was liked to buy a pair of shoes for me because I disliked to walk barefooted.
When the time come I was six years old my mother sent me to start reading. I
was working hard although I was young I remember in standard one, term one, I
was pass number two. My mother gives me a drink and biscuit. I was happy and my
mother was happy too.” - Isobel<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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[<i>The 2002 famine was a common motif in the journal entries, made especially
striking on a personal level because I remember that year so clearly in my own
childhood. This student, who wrote about it with unusual introspection and
maturity, impresses me on a regular basis.) <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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“If I can remember in my
childhood, I was enjoying without knowing that there are problems. It was in
2002 when there was starvation. My parents and sisters could complain about
hunger but to me it was nothing. […] Indeed childhood is very interesting
because one can enjoy even if one can face difficulties. But to child does not
take matter.” – Samson<o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Jaimehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08386807582327860137noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862762993389303168.post-3735245635187303592013-03-02T11:43:00.000-06:002013-03-02T12:02:28.321-06:00Southern African Living Magazine<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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I have shelves now, and I don’t live out of a suitcase
anymore! …six months after moving in. </div>
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If <i>Southern African
Living</i> were a real publication, it would probably have recipes for ant-and-avocado salads and articles about decorating your pit latrine (1<sup>st</sup>
step: remove spiders, 2<sup>nd</sup> step: add potpourri). And my house might be in it. So wallow in visions of my
domestic bliss and feast your eyes on all this TALULAR chic.* Mostly this is an
excuse to show you pictures of my dog.</div>
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*TALULAR = Teaching and Learning Using Locally Available
Resources. It’s not just a catchy acronym or a means of making do in an African
classroom; it’s a way of life.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1GWdJdIsFqk1ZGeWli5qggyefdnP3RAw7mjeij3YVFptdcCCn_Q69vq1VbhWLcroj9Vxi2Jm2r2DH5Pe9qS5FHMwKzMPB_0qnsrVO9jcYXgUb6vto0rXbepsy7KsTBx2e6YtlQHebHxYG/s1600/collage.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="512" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1GWdJdIsFqk1ZGeWli5qggyefdnP3RAw7mjeij3YVFptdcCCn_Q69vq1VbhWLcroj9Vxi2Jm2r2DH5Pe9qS5FHMwKzMPB_0qnsrVO9jcYXgUb6vto0rXbepsy7KsTBx2e6YtlQHebHxYG/s640/collage.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyGd3jd0ez2fRp3KU6Lmwk96-dytb9yBHuRhT19jmAHTtX3vK9A0jV5WrniSyECGuSS_-36DfztyBjyYOW8Mbl8SuiZKYu5ETfBAomhmW3GJ2mV69ZrAh-i1hF1lsMDMItEyOkWuktuYSl/s1600/collage2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="512" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyGd3jd0ez2fRp3KU6Lmwk96-dytb9yBHuRhT19jmAHTtX3vK9A0jV5WrniSyECGuSS_-36DfztyBjyYOW8Mbl8SuiZKYu5ETfBAomhmW3GJ2mV69ZrAh-i1hF1lsMDMItEyOkWuktuYSl/s640/collage2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwjRRdfpmhR7314_F5saCh8bXIpHidIaOAHJC_fMHAFSDTow6LppnxRGgobtc5Do7kPl3Ei_RzmCl-cWlwspceLv3_9CidciW-F-sxN_Ru9PgDOzDtCp58TAYcZiCXV1bpqxRaimeA3RGB/s1600/DSC_0002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwjRRdfpmhR7314_F5saCh8bXIpHidIaOAHJC_fMHAFSDTow6LppnxRGgobtc5Do7kPl3Ei_RzmCl-cWlwspceLv3_9CidciW-F-sxN_Ru9PgDOzDtCp58TAYcZiCXV1bpqxRaimeA3RGB/s400/DSC_0002.jpg" width="265" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sometimes there are idyllic sun-soaked afternoons.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgufADew_lazI1SkjtLsXvqbofrVRChNy93O5a7GOvTQcOpKN4yqJVCYSvXCw2Z5E_cFjOnnL9kNvMmdj0m8a1MjgZgy5qg2XBHp99zrsMbxBiA0KH4wBfNIMJQTrpiXl5svIQ4Ja60jntI/s1600/DSC_0003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgufADew_lazI1SkjtLsXvqbofrVRChNy93O5a7GOvTQcOpKN4yqJVCYSvXCw2Z5E_cFjOnnL9kNvMmdj0m8a1MjgZgy5qg2XBHp99zrsMbxBiA0KH4wBfNIMJQTrpiXl5svIQ4Ja60jntI/s400/DSC_0003.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And sometimes there are Old Testament-style disasters. These are flying ants (harmless, delicious, but annoying and messy for the way they crawl under doors, fling themselves at lights, and then proceed to die all over your floor).</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<!--EndFragment-->Jaimehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08386807582327860137noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862762993389303168.post-80774256049729279092013-02-21T09:30:00.000-06:002013-02-21T09:32:53.248-06:00changing lives with David Attenborough<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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Best moments from the first
meeting of Wildlife Club, which featured the experience of watching BBC’s <i>Planet Earth</i> with a roomful of Malawian
teenagers, many of whom had never seen a nature documentary before:<o:p></o:p></div>
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- a collective cringe of “Eeeeeeeeeeee”
in response to shots of windswept, snow-laden Arctic landscapes<o:p></o:p></div>
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- a collective “Ahhh, <i>pepa</i>, <i>pepa</i>” (sorry, sorry!) in response to my explanation that my
homeland usually has at least three to four months of winter, followed by
amazement that humans can even survive in places where it snows.<o:p></o:p></div>
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- explaining the lifestyle
of the Inuit to kids who think 50-degree weather is worthy of fur-trimmed coats.<o:p></o:p></div>
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- explaining that the taiga
is not the same as a tiger.<o:p></o:p></div>
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- David Attenborough states
that all living things depend on the sun for their energy. A hearty round of “Yes!
Yes yes! The man is right!” hums through the room.<o:p></o:p></div>
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- utter astonishment at the
news that many Northern Hemisphere birds travel south when winter comes. <o:p></o:p></div>
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- another collective “Ahhh, <i>pepa</i> <i>pepa</i>,”
this time at a male bird of paradise’s failed attempts to woo a pretty lady.
(One Form 4 boy knew he was doomed before anyone else: “I can already see that
he is not really impressing her.”)<o:p></o:p></div>
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- At the sight of a pack of
short-haired, black-faced African wild dogs, the entire room shouts, “Chalo!”
My dog hears his name and comes crashing out of the forest, peels across the
school grounds, tears into the classroom, and collapses happily in the crowd.<o:p></o:p></div>
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- As that same pack of African wild dogs chases down an impala, the room takes on the the feel of a football
game, full of shouts (in Chitumbuka) of “RUN! FASTER!” and “INTO THE WATER.”
The impala leaps into a lake, leaving the dogs waiting at the shore. A roar of applause.<o:p></o:p></div>
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- A troop of baboons wades
through the Okavango Delta. “Hey, those are our relatives!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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- A whole smorgasbord of
moments of communal awe, shared with people seeing many of these things for the
first time, which served as a good reminder of several things I already know
but need to get booster shots for every now and then: the waxing and waning of
the seasons IS incredible, animals ARE awesome, and the world we live in IS
staggering. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And I walked home that day
with that <span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">Antoine de Saint Exupéry</span> quote playing on repeat in my brain: “If you want to build a ship, don’t drum up people to
collect wood and don’t assign them tasks and work, but rather teach them to
long for the endless immensity of the sea.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Jaimehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08386807582327860137noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862762993389303168.post-51953935298526889662013-01-26T10:45:00.000-06:002013-01-26T10:45:06.786-06:00Portraits<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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With the much-feared national exams looming just a few months away, the students in Forms 2 and 4 were in need of official IDs, and I was asked to take the photos. Over the space of several weeks, with a red cloth draped over a spare blackboard in the shadow of a mango tree, I took a portrait of every kid in Day School (the 7:15am-1:35pm regular sessions, which I teach) and every non-traditional student in Open School (the abbreviated afternoon sessions, which are dominated by middle-aged learners). And the results were kind of beautiful. Credit it to the magic of rainy-season-filtered natural light, or to the fact that I know these students well and see them everyday, but there was something pretty moving about putting a camera in front of people who don't get the chance to be photographed very often and watching them <i>transform</i>. Clowns suddenly affected a glassy-faced calm, smiles bloomed across shy girls' faces, and some hammed it up in a way that only Malawians seem to understand (with a forced far-off gaze and a pained expression).</div>
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Chalo also had an ID photo taken to add fuel to the village-wide running joke that he's enrolling next term, which is being taken more and more seriously with every new word he learns, and which is a joke that will never ever ever get old.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaC2XSJiIPAAeJHF3sWyYUgc_9GQVrrusvKz4VeEUrtRLdz8YmmSL7VOhbwBYrv6CESdxNeeCllVxHmqkLWQqWzvWuAsw42czTWgK9A7IdbBFPGLdKjpIlJb-OSxuhgBuBelEERO3ChT0p/s1600/untitled+folder.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="512" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaC2XSJiIPAAeJHF3sWyYUgc_9GQVrrusvKz4VeEUrtRLdz8YmmSL7VOhbwBYrv6CESdxNeeCllVxHmqkLWQqWzvWuAsw42czTWgK9A7IdbBFPGLdKjpIlJb-OSxuhgBuBelEERO3ChT0p/s640/untitled+folder.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br />Jaimehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08386807582327860137noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862762993389303168.post-47930396730974976712013-01-24T14:03:00.001-06:002013-01-24T14:03:55.827-06:00The Seven-Month Itch
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I recently celebrated my seven-month
Malawiversary by spending the day sick in bed, which gave ample time to think
about everything that feels so far away, but also to take stock of all the gifts
that have been ushered in.<o:p></o:p></div>
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[Inspired by the lovely Rita, whose blog can be found here: http://malawhee.tumblr.com/.
If you don’t know her that’s
really a shame because she gives great hugs and her favorite song is “Ignition
(Remix).”]<o:p></o:p></div>
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I ache for:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin-left: 21.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->-<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->The easy,
unapologetic intimacy that only comes with people you’ve known and loved for
years.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 21.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->-<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Libraries.
Bookstores.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->-<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Transport that
does <i>not</i> feel like one of Dante’s
nine layers of hell.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->-<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Knowing what is
going on, exactly <i>when</i> it is going to
happen, and being able to count on that.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 21.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->-<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Foods that are
the subject of many lusty daydreams, including but not limited to: whole wheat
bread, dark green spinach-based salads drizzled in balsamic vinaigrette and sprinkled
with sunflower seeds and feta cheese, pineapple pizza, salmon, tofu stir fries,
chocolate chip cookies, macaroni and cheese, asparagus, brownies, baked potato
soup with cheddar and chives, grilled cheese, honey mustard, poppyseed muffins,
burritos, yogurt, General Tso’s chicken, chocolate milkshakes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 21.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->-<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Fast-paced
banter. Wordplay that needs no translation.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 21.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->-<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Resources. Everything
classrooms have that I always took for granted: posters, markers, crayons,
books, paper, electricity, running water.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 21.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->-<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Anonymity. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 21.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->-<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Feeling truly head-to-toe
clean.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin-left: 21.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->-<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span>The United
States as an idea – what we’re about, where we’ve been, and what we can be. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I really appreciate what
I’ve gained, though:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- a community.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- a belief that humans were
meant to live in villages like this.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- a general laissez-faire
joyousness.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- a work environment where
people come in laughing and leave laughing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- a fruit lover’s paradise,
with pineapples, mangoes, papaya, and avocado galore depending on the season.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- a renewed conviction in
the transformative power of education.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- a feeling of adventure
that permeates even the mundane (e.g. riding the bus! ordering furniture!
buying tomatoes! look at me, look at how integrated I am!).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- the ability to walk
everywhere I need to go on a daily basis. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- 100 funny, sweet,
generally hard-working students who are openly appreciative and (usually) a joy
to be around<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- prowess in a minority
language that is spoken by few outsiders.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- a taste of what it feels
like to be a local celebrity.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- the feeling that I have
become someone that 10-year-old me would have wanted to meet: an independent
woman doing interesting things while surrounded by animals in a small African
country.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- an untouchable inner
strength, getting steelier with every passing day. <o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Jaimehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08386807582327860137noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862762993389303168.post-31369586455489674602013-01-05T10:44:00.001-06:002013-01-05T10:44:24.238-06:00ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-changes
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<br />
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Chalo is getting downright
strapping. And you don’t have to take my word for it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Two rave reviews from Mrs.
Mbowe, who is one of my favorite teachers at my school for reasons that will be
self-explanatory:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->-<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->“He is becoming
as handsome as my late husband.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin-left: 79.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -43.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->-<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->“I love his
blackness. It inspires me.”</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin-left: 79.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -43.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTU2SZAFiEL6pcTYiKY883Y5D5hgHo9YLrf3mnb0F_gHy_3uKfoeUIjTg4RQKxamEV39MHWGOVBqIKxUFlP5ahLNi1NEwV_dJS84cF-DlCingoYTKKTpZ0TTC5Dq7JxF5lAmQoB7Yy125_/s1600/DSC_0057.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTU2SZAFiEL6pcTYiKY883Y5D5hgHo9YLrf3mnb0F_gHy_3uKfoeUIjTg4RQKxamEV39MHWGOVBqIKxUFlP5ahLNi1NEwV_dJS84cF-DlCingoYTKKTpZ0TTC5Dq7JxF5lAmQoB7Yy125_/s320/DSC_0057.jpg" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">See? So handsome.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-ud8vWLbAiAw2tn_tN0ImB7OndkYs5-mBf2L4huY3FarSsldPCY8BqTc4DEvVcR_mC9TqyhoYzmJWKXmFzGrahvojQv1b-iWJdJUAaHI4p5c1Lf-gVBHcM4nXjwpgGpRVuMrYO8rnM4Wi/s1600/DSC_0054.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-ud8vWLbAiAw2tn_tN0ImB7OndkYs5-mBf2L4huY3FarSsldPCY8BqTc4DEvVcR_mC9TqyhoYzmJWKXmFzGrahvojQv1b-iWJdJUAaHI4p5c1Lf-gVBHcM4nXjwpgGpRVuMrYO8rnM4Wi/s320/DSC_0054.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Annie is getting more beautiful.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitiiJ7XoziMHnEhRjIB9wpE1wIW-Cbd7ga9Mq9OrA1ADqe8oUkACVdqOTaKi7TLgixVcmITcxVSCpHgh5NIdPoVF-uPwxdDptrCRQsVB5uAN6W8FBD3Krr1wzulCPJU-Jc_AN9ecg_dSSI/s1600/DSC_0052.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitiiJ7XoziMHnEhRjIB9wpE1wIW-Cbd7ga9Mq9OrA1ADqe8oUkACVdqOTaKi7TLgixVcmITcxVSCpHgh5NIdPoVF-uPwxdDptrCRQsVB5uAN6W8FBD3Krr1wzulCPJU-Jc_AN9ecg_dSSI/s320/DSC_0052.jpg" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Elsa is getting braver. So are the bats.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3tYml1kq76drnMMCLvJ2aOjynwszhFMRmCER0fxDpHUG6cYZB6IJ8KC5BGOMPTDvatZeacx9B9Ud23XgLqsqo43NyKZ_IAwpW3kf0VVVC654opgUNTv748vkWVWmegf3XYjvYhBMcin5_/s1600/DSC_0076.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3tYml1kq76drnMMCLvJ2aOjynwszhFMRmCER0fxDpHUG6cYZB6IJ8KC5BGOMPTDvatZeacx9B9Ud23XgLqsqo43NyKZ_IAwpW3kf0VVVC654opgUNTv748vkWVWmegf3XYjvYhBMcin5_/s320/DSC_0076.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm getting tanner.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuTValkdSe5Giv7MBXOHIV5OJnONbSWw_qF17NFrQDatgKwwtPJ6ckMUxeTxZQEKqGVo0GoZ7A4dfx9oWhAO6mCQsA-0Q4Sj19scoowY2Qc_upgYtH3hf45Ej_fiUrB80ayCMKzAkBjOwA/s1600/DSC_0006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuTValkdSe5Giv7MBXOHIV5OJnONbSWw_qF17NFrQDatgKwwtPJ6ckMUxeTxZQEKqGVo0GoZ7A4dfx9oWhAO6mCQsA-0Q4Sj19scoowY2Qc_upgYtH3hf45Ej_fiUrB80ayCMKzAkBjOwA/s320/DSC_0006.jpg" width="282" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Everyone is learning to sit in one place for more than a few seconds. <br />(Or, in Chalo's case, for thirteen hours. He traveled to the lake<br />with me over Christmas and endured the hot sun, the confines<br />of my lap, a nightmarish bike taxi that literally almost killed him, and<br />drunk strangers kissing him on the mouth. What a champ.)<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDGSKGqujSqE8s0wYf7b9Qlfv-ptUG7lMmbPUB9SLdlGqoQWPKqONUwNGQWCTd77IvSRfJflh4Ofyq8G1P17zjOvwab0ApTF6GV8DLO1I_4kPThFzRk29P2Y5wW2uA1qXzy8kLs0SaJOxq/s1600/DSC_0003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDGSKGqujSqE8s0wYf7b9Qlfv-ptUG7lMmbPUB9SLdlGqoQWPKqONUwNGQWCTd77IvSRfJflh4Ofyq8G1P17zjOvwab0ApTF6GV8DLO1I_4kPThFzRk29P2Y5wW2uA1qXzy8kLs0SaJOxq/s320/DSC_0003.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">First step of my first bucket of homemade wine. That's mashed-up mango, yeast, and sugar.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYgj3Ihun2ihYgYsMScT4CKTklBb2TsWRkWqMgDS-th6lzWPjgJV1E1DSzd3O1-c623TqWQaAaDDuaRQ5rGHQO7CYxl3ZFgTDBhvUSZ6txv8BCsWsaIihATdbign8f_lqFeMik7fMO1XdH/s1600/DSC_0062.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYgj3Ihun2ihYgYsMScT4CKTklBb2TsWRkWqMgDS-th6lzWPjgJV1E1DSzd3O1-c623TqWQaAaDDuaRQ5rGHQO7CYxl3ZFgTDBhvUSZ6txv8BCsWsaIihATdbign8f_lqFeMik7fMO1XdH/s320/DSC_0062.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And the second step, several weeks later. It tasted better than it looks.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Jaimehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08386807582327860137noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862762993389303168.post-27152333127061623192013-01-05T10:21:00.001-06:002013-01-05T10:21:52.081-06:00r-e-s-p-e-c-t
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
A conversation I had this
morning with my neighbor Luca:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Luca: Madam,
your chicken, she has been captured by a predator. A very big cat.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: Oh.
[surprised]<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh.
[a little sad]<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
Oh.
[a little relieved because I see sweet, placid, quiet Diana Ross in the
distance, which means Aretha Franklin was the victim. Aretha was…difficult.]<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Oh,
that is sad. So now Diana is alone.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Luca: Yes,
you must eat her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m not going to eat Diana
Ross. But I <i>am</i> going to tell a story
about Aretha Franklin, the big, brassy-voiced hen who (visually, at least) was
everything I hoped my first chicken would be: quaintly scalloped feathers and sturdy,
faintly prehistoric self-carriage, like a Saurischian-inspired teapot. Chickens
can be beautiful. Chickens can be dangerous. Aretha was both.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I found her roosting on my roof
once. I found her sleeping on my bed twice. I found her on my kitchen table too
many times to count. I lost thousands of kwacha in precious food because of
her. (Literally fives of dollars.) I was jolted from deep slumber at least a
few times each week because I was certain I heard the telltale flap-and-squawk
of a chicken leaping someplace she isn’t supposed to be. (She was actually
innocent in this case because auditory hallucinations are a side effect of the
anti-malarial medication I’m on – but it <i>does</i>
paint a picture of the mental hold she had on me.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Her magnum opus was
fittingly presented to me in the most devastating way possible. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I came home one day in
November to find my kitchen <i>torn apart</i>:
bags of flour ripped open and flung across the cement; just-bought tomatoes partially
eaten and thrown on the ground; a loaf of bread pecked apart lengthwise, so
that half of it was gone but all of it was inedible; Aretha dozing on my hot
plate amid a Jackson Pollock painting of her own feces. But then, lo! There on
the floured floor, to complete the hellish scene: a single egg lain in the
middle of it, like an offering. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She contributed absolutely
nothing of any value after that.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7r8fOjT-4eBTaktbC2n-rS18y1hvoEB7F2j_i63zpR6n6Fxv8kqwKP3jd6Hjhtit3hr-1yrefhXtptOyou8p4izNiyN7jj88uXxgO7o_mgeN3PxLSWGeil60XIU7NlXpM0_e4YrDGqBFa/s1600/DSC_0108.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7r8fOjT-4eBTaktbC2n-rS18y1hvoEB7F2j_i63zpR6n6Fxv8kqwKP3jd6Hjhtit3hr-1yrefhXtptOyou8p4izNiyN7jj88uXxgO7o_mgeN3PxLSWGeil60XIU7NlXpM0_e4YrDGqBFa/s320/DSC_0108.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
R.I.P. Aretha Franklin
(2012-2013) <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We barely knew ye…and yet,
we also kind of felt like we knew ye enough<o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Jaimehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08386807582327860137noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862762993389303168.post-8750837181115030162013-01-05T10:16:00.001-06:002013-01-05T10:16:22.770-06:00Moments
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<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Life
in Malawi has mostly leveled into a cozy plateau of normalcy, but there are
still little surprises – the best of which are the moments when all the joints
pop into place, all the hinges swing open, and I’m left internally chanting, “I
<i>live</i> here. I am <i>doing</i> this. I can handle <i>anything.</i>”
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
One
such moment: I’m waiting on the road for a lift to the post office. It’s a slow
day, I’ve been standing in the midday sun for nearly 45 minutes, and a minibus
finally appears.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“How
much to Chikangawa?” I ask in Chitumbuka, feeling sixteen pairs of Malawian
eyes swivel onto me (and up me, and down me, and back again).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“400
kwacha,” the conductor says, shamelessly giving me the <i>mzungu</i> price. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Pssh.
Ah-ah. 200.” I scoff, sunburned and impatient, feeling crisp in more ways than
one. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The
conductor nods in assent. I step aboard.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The
entire minibus erupts in applause, accompanied by excited murmurs of “She knows
it! The girl understands! She is Malawian!” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I
get congratulatory high-fives from six people.<i><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
***<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Experience
and common sense have carved out a special category of exceptions to my “chat
with anybody and everybody” rule: men yelling at me from bars. On one particular
Sunday afternoon, when a slurring gentleman beckoned me to come closer, I
pulled out all my signature moves. I avoided eye contact. I didn’t smile. I
kept walking. I said, in the vernacular, that I was busy and going home.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
But
this one was persistent. He stumbled across the market and caught up to me. It
had all the characteristic signs of a confession of love and/or commentary on
my appearance and/or inquisition about my lack of a husband at the ripe old age
of 23. I slowed down anyway (a little huffily, I’ll admit).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
But
this is why the benefit of the doubt is so great: people surprise you. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Madam,
you are teaching one of my children,” he said. “And I just wanted to tell you…thank
you. You are doing a great job. Thank you so much.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
And
then he shook my hand graciously – <i>chastely</i>,
even – and staggered back to the bar.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
***<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
During
a listening exercise with my Form 1s, I read a passage about Nelson Mandela to my
kids, asking them to write down the important details. They seemed confused.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Madam,
who?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Nelson
Mandela,” I repeated, surprised that they hadn’t heard of him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Who?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Nelson
Mandela – he was the president of South Africa.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
A
wave of recognition passed. “Ooohhhhhh. Madam, you mean Nail-sohn
Mahn-day-luh.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Right,
Nell-sun Man-dell-uh.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Uproarious
laughter. “Nooooo, Madam! Nail-sohn Mahn-day-luh!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Nail-sohn
Manh-day-luh,” I said in my best African accent.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
And
the class burst into a sort of half-laugh, half-cheer, which is one of my
favorite Malawian idiosyncrasies, and which makes it impossible not to fall in
love with this place a little more every time I hear it: <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“AHahahaha
[pause for breath] EEEEEEHHHHH!” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
***<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Near
the end of the first term, news broke that several kids had dropped out of
school to get married. A special assembly was held to address the issue, which
is actually quite a widespread problem in Malawi.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Picture
yours truly undermining that seriousness in front of the whole school. Tears
pooled in my eyes from holding in the laughter as my headmaster announced in
total earnestness, à la <i>Mean Girls</i>,
“If you get married at an early age, you will <i>die</i>.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
***<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I’m
walking with purpose and a puppy, scanning a long mental to-do list. A man on
the road calls out to me with a common question: “What is the name of your
little dog?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Chalo,” I say.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Madam,
I could sue you!” he shouts in mock outrage. “You have stolen my nephew’s
name!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I pause
in the dust – here’s somebody with a set of jokes I’ve never heard before. “Oh,
please don’t! I don’t have a lawyer!” I plead.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“You
need to get one. How long has your dog had this name?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“About
four weeks,” I reply.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Ah,
my nephew has had his name for five years. You are sure to lose in court,
Madam.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The
charade gains momentum and keeps rolling, building into several minutes of
rapid-fire smack-talk about an imaginary lawsuit. But then it occurs to me that
there has been a misunderstanding.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Oh,
but sir – do you mean <i>Charles</i>? This
dog is a Tumbuka. His name is Chalo. You know…like <i>chalo</i>,” I explain, gesturing to the soil at our feet and the hills
on the horizon.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The
man nods in understanding. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Ah,
I don’t have a case then,” he says dryly, tipping his hat to me and boarding a
passing minibus.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
****<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I
loaned a six-month-old copy of <i>Scientific
American</i> to one of my best Malawian friends, Blessings – a security guard
who also happens to be one of the most intellectually vibrant people I’ve met
in a long time. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
When
he finished it he came to me breathless, in part from dashing to catch up with
me, but also from the sheer thrill of what he had read. “Madam. MADAM. That
book – I must tell you – I have loved it so very much.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Between
gasps, he spouted a string of statistics from the article, and I was reminded
why we are friends. For twenty minutes, we nerded out over neurons, evolution,
and super-computers, talking about the scope of human potential, reveling in
shared amazement at how far we can go and how much we can know – but also at
how much we still <i>don’t</i> know – and
feeling quite big in light of that smallness.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When
Blessings turned back to his post at the main compound, I spent the rest of the
walk home in a misty-eyed haze for reasons that came from all directions:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin-left: 79.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -43.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->-<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->partially
because mutual nerding-out in a completely noncompetitive, pure-hearted way is
my absolute favorite way of bonding with another person<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 79.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -43.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->-<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->partially
because it’s a pretty rare thing to find in general<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 79.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -43.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->-<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->partially because
I don’t get enough of it here and I miss it terribly<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 79.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -43.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->-<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->partially
because, in a country where books are scarce and reading for pleasure is
considered a bit odd, it’s truly extraordinary <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 79.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -43.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->-<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->but mostly
because of the sheer poignancy of finding such unassuming curiosity in a person
who, for reasons beyond his control, never finished high school.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin-left: 79.0pt; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Blessing’s
story is, unfortunately, all too common in this country. Orphaned as a
teenager, he moved in with grandparents; they could not afford to pay his
school fees (equivalent to about $15 USD per term), so his education was put on
hold for more than a decade. Just this year, at the age of 33, he took his
secondary-level exams, but he is now dangling in a crucial limbo, waiting to
hear about the national exam scores that will ultimately decide whether he can
start pursuing the dream he won’t stop talking about: enrolling in university
correspondence courses. In the meantime, he spends his days posted at the front
gate, devouring every book he can find. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
He just
started reading <i>A Brief History of Time</i>.
I can’t wait to hear what he’ll say about it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Update,
as of November 17, 2012: <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The
national exam scores have been posted. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
….Blessings
passed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Jaimehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08386807582327860137noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862762993389303168.post-18098805315075564672012-12-31T08:32:00.002-06:002012-12-31T08:32:37.372-06:00Malawian chaos theory, in a sentence
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes, it will certainly
happen, unless otherwise.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Jaimehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08386807582327860137noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862762993389303168.post-27037834449173050732012-12-31T08:14:00.001-06:002012-12-31T08:14:51.398-06:00burn baby burn<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Big changes are afoot at Mtangatanga CDSS. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Thanks mostly to the deep sense of community in this village and the truly tireless vigor of George Chirambo, the buildings have been wired with all the inner organs needed for electricity. (All that is left to do is to coerce the notoriously unreliable Malawian electrical company to bring them to life, Frankenstein-style.) Two different locally operated but foreign-owned companies have generously offered to donate computers once the electricity arrives, but in the meantime, the school now has its own laptop. (Which proved invaluable in typing the end-of-term exams, especially when my own laptop was murdered in an unfortunate incident involving playful cats and spilled wine.) </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
The most significant ongoing project, though, is expanding the school itself in a way that will directly impact students -- and the dream of building teachers' houses, a library, a computer lab, and a science lab is just now getting off the ground. In what easily ranks as my favorite experience in Malawi so far, the whole school banded together to build a kiln -- teachers and students together, on their own time, working side by side in the sun and the mud, to finish the preparation of several thousand bricks. Pending additional funding for the rest of the materials (which I'm working on right now), I hope I see the whole project come to fruition by the end of my time here. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYiX2xA3wa1GNXgs5F8cJfRm5oVfpZuTe0_8P5OG1uD5mGLv7GXOhadhX2oC2McmLCqovxYouzUHZMc_MgwJlZpT8H1KXqPQb6_qI08dMdyoek7VfH5hcglXelGJRM0OSxGMW4lwldRFFL/s1600/DSC_0013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYiX2xA3wa1GNXgs5F8cJfRm5oVfpZuTe0_8P5OG1uD5mGLv7GXOhadhX2oC2McmLCqovxYouzUHZMc_MgwJlZpT8H1KXqPQb6_qI08dMdyoek7VfH5hcglXelGJRM0OSxGMW4lwldRFFL/s320/DSC_0013.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The soil is really that red.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnb-A8W7AmE5oE9hrFAVJAHDupppr-pvsmlspsDdDvTMdiRG1TQm45dRBtrxMzJJJKttoqtjJoqdeDdDflaT7pAkzBmJUKljC7xQwS1RCkun38t1lHHhsJl4oDeYe214ASyUiUiOiTaHFS/s1600/DSC_0015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnb-A8W7AmE5oE9hrFAVJAHDupppr-pvsmlspsDdDvTMdiRG1TQm45dRBtrxMzJJJKttoqtjJoqdeDdDflaT7pAkzBmJUKljC7xQwS1RCkun38t1lHHhsJl4oDeYe214ASyUiUiOiTaHFS/s320/DSC_0015.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gender roles in action. Girls carrying water for the mud walls...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO7gBWiASO-wUAHWBs-ldGe2KkK_kJABG2SwmUhaI5vrUQHvyOdxa2Kn72IQILhz4uyBaIPFRAlSEQeo5DXT-dRiVAVQ7S7f9qDg9VXxmjcFiPe3GluvOPjYAY6d6mr8bPm0PraTZcvHgi/s1600/DSC_0025.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO7gBWiASO-wUAHWBs-ldGe2KkK_kJABG2SwmUhaI5vrUQHvyOdxa2Kn72IQILhz4uyBaIPFRAlSEQeo5DXT-dRiVAVQ7S7f9qDg9VXxmjcFiPe3GluvOPjYAY6d6mr8bPm0PraTZcvHgi/s320/DSC_0025.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...boys chopping firewood to burn the kiln.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgase6SOpJ-8SWjd3c335muYZKsUOA5eGQv0GATPLRubeQ1BgDDIoRCZhr7nkqeGS305Qg88L4LX56Q_W_c4bvBtFDHvp2Rznom_iFiqWRBUUXRdQegWSadPfmSR5xW9ukYOXmEp9z6agRK/s1600/DSC_0017.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgase6SOpJ-8SWjd3c335muYZKsUOA5eGQv0GATPLRubeQ1BgDDIoRCZhr7nkqeGS305Qg88L4LX56Q_W_c4bvBtFDHvp2Rznom_iFiqWRBUUXRdQegWSadPfmSR5xW9ukYOXmEp9z6agRK/s320/DSC_0017.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiksKk91qX5ukR1nqNqHkIX1OxGGd1oGmJC-anpI4Mo904ofgjczzih0Bvs91QgQubKxLLVKLSBAvdAc6-Cyfo85FkK_SWIfKlELK_NeorW0fiQv4W3b89TH1VItqN-CEemjTIzSHDzNRR7/s1600/DSC_0026.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiksKk91qX5ukR1nqNqHkIX1OxGGd1oGmJC-anpI4Mo904ofgjczzih0Bvs91QgQubKxLLVKLSBAvdAc6-Cyfo85FkK_SWIfKlELK_NeorW0fiQv4W3b89TH1VItqN-CEemjTIzSHDzNRR7/s320/DSC_0026.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mrs. Mbowe at right</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photography by George Chirambo.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From left to right: Mr. Maukila, Mr. Kaluwa, Mr. Muyira, and Mr. Ng'ambi</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The two ladies in chitenje: Mrs. Mhone and Mrs. Kanyimbo</td></tr>
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<br />Jaimehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08386807582327860137noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862762993389303168.post-47669477097257935122012-12-30T05:13:00.001-06:002012-12-30T05:13:23.835-06:00goin' to the country, gonna eat a lot of peaches<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Many, many weeks ago, my best Malawian friend and I hiked over hill and dale to her grandmother's farm to pick peaches. It happened in Chalo's infancy -- and it basically made him the dog he is today.</span></div>
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<br />Jaimehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08386807582327860137noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862762993389303168.post-75178005574247992462012-12-30T04:40:00.001-06:002012-12-30T04:40:04.986-06:00Madam Chambezi<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Life in the
developing world has forced me to become comfortable with what it <i>really</i> means to be uncomfortable, but
not in the ways you might expect. It has nothing to do with pit latrines,
bucket baths, cockroaches, or catcalls (even though my life right now is full
of all of these). Rather, for me, the feeling is tethered to having a specific
job to do, guided by well-laid plans and lofty visions of how I’d like it to go,
only to find obstacle courses and lessons in chaos theory barricading my every
move. No matter how much I love this country, no matter how head-over-heels I
am for this continent, and no matter how culturally fluent I become, I still
marvel at how often the rug gets pulled out from under me – and how often I
find that I was never standing on a rug to begin with.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
It’s
tempting to compare my Malawi experience so far with the distant golden idol of
everything Tanzania was (which has been galvanized, cast in soft light, and
encrusted in rhinestones by my memory), but the comparison is not really a fair
one. Tanzania was a heady, perfumed rush even in the face of greater challenges
than I’ve seen here, while Malawi has been a more measured, balanced mix of
positive and negative, reflective (perhaps) of a more mature, independent
perspective. But that perspective also parallels the nature of the demands – there’s
not really anyone holding my hand anymore. It’s up to me to figure things out.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
And
perhaps this is why it has taken me months to find the words to talk about the
real reason I’m here – to teach – and how it is going. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The
landscape of the Malawian education system is, in short, nightmarish. It is No
Child Left Behind taken to an extreme – a machine that <i>hinges</i> on the idea of teaching to the test. Secondary school students
must hurdle over two major national exams to pass between junior (Forms 1 and
2) and senior classes (Forms 3 and 4). The Junior Certificate Exam (JCE)
determines who gets to move on to senior level, while the Malawi Schools
Certificate Exam (MSCE), taken in the final year, determines students’ ultimate
fate. The results are destined to dog every job application they ever submit. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The
national exams also determine how students are filtered through the system. Kids
with the best scores and the most financially secure parents go to well-supplied
private institutions or government boarding schools in the cities, while
everyone else trickles into Community Day Secondary Schools (CDSSs) – the chronically
understaffed, underfunded, overcrowded, mostly rural bottom rung of the
educational pyramid. This is where Peace Corps comes in. And this is where I
fit into the puzzle.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
This
first term has been spent figuring out a) how to teach, but also b) how to
teach in Africa, which are two different animals. There was the daily game, for
example, of fairly distributing 13 textbooks among 50 students without planting
any imagined seeds of favoritism, while also weaning them off the idea that
textbooks are the only way to learn. There was the surprise of showing up
prepared to teach on September 3<sup>rd</sup> only to be told that no teaching
happens on the first day because none of the students come. There were delays
in grading the national exams, which meant that the Form 1 and 3 students – <i>my</i> kids – didn’t start coming to school
until late September. And there was the maddening feeling of living in a
Salvador Dali painting, of watching the clocks melt into distorted floppy
pizzas all around me as staff meetings that <i>could</i>
take thirty minutes instead drag on for hours (the record, so far, is six). The
weekly assemblies scheduled for 7:00 a.m. always happen around 8:00 because no
one (teachers included) shows up on time. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
This
is a world where rote memorization is the rule, where “teaching” often means
leaving the students to copy notes from the board while the teacher drinks tea
in the staff lounge. It is a world where geography classes are taught without
maps, literature classes have ten kids huddling around the same book, and the
main material required in the science lab is imagination – because there is <i>no such thing as a science lab</i>. And as a
result, it is a world where learning stays frozen at the abstract level, rarely
stretching out into practical, tangible application.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I’m
vexed by the same challenges faced by any first-year teacher, but they are
compounded by the fact that my kids have to translate everything I say two or
three times over. How do I challenge the girls in the front corner who groan,
“Yeeeeees,” every time I slowly, patiently ask, “Is this clear?” At the same
time, how do I get through to the boys in the back who don’t even understand
the question, “Do you understand?” I sometimes daydream about what it must be
like to enter a classroom with a projector and individual desks and enough books
for every student, or to be able to make a stupid joke and get appropriately
sized laughs. (Not extravagant ones! Just little and polite, the kind usually
given to authority figures. Even a small smile or two would be fine.) <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
When
I look out on the sea of faces, some are lit with flaming expressions so desperate
to understand that it nearly breaks my heart, while others are dimmed in
resignation. And it is hard to know why. Is it because they had to wake up at
4:00 a.m. and walk two hours to make it to school on time, and now they are
(understandably!) exhausted? Is it because their parents don’t have a stable
source of income and there hasn’t been enough to eat? (Uncommon, but certainly
not unheard of, especially in the months before the rains come – <i>nyengo ya njala</i>, the time of hunger). Or
is it because (and this is the scariest possibility of all) I’m just not doing
a very good job? Add on top of that the lack of electricity or running water,
the fact that we have a schedule but no one really adheres to it, that there
are 50 kids in each class with a huge variation in language ability, and that
really the only tool at my disposal is a chalkboard, and it becomes easy for
the downs to feel abysmal. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
But
here’s the bright side: I love it. And I love it for the same reason that I
harbor affection for harsh landscapes full of stark sharp lines, dry air, and
animals and plants and diseases that could kill you: the roughness makes the
highs even more exhilarating. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
More
specifically I love these kids, who are sweet and funny and who generally try
very hard. I love the days where there is laughter, engagement, and visible
improvement. I love the girls who draw me pictures and the boys who salute me
when I walk in the room. I love being christened with the Malawian surname
“Chambezi,” which sounds so similar to my own. I love the blossoming sense of
rapport that is leading more and more kids to chat with me outside of school,
to borrow books from my personal library, and to shyly seek extra help at my house.
I’m in awe of the kind of determination – and <i>courage</i>, really – that it takes to come to your teacher’s house
with only a faint grasp on the language of instruction and an even fainter idea
of what you’re even trying to ask. One day, to help students apply for a World
Bank bursary initiative, my headmaster walked into the croom and asked, “Who
here has lost one or both parents?” In a moment that cemented my indomitable
sense of respect for these kids, one-third of the students in the room stood up.
Many of those same students make a four-hour roundtrip walk every day. I struggle
to punish them for being late, really, because I’m <i>reverent</i> of them for showing up at all.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Near
the end of the term, several of the other teachers said something to me in the
staff room that still gives me goosebumps: “Jaime, we’ve been watching you, and
we think that you were born to be a teacher. We can see that you must continue,
and we don’t care how you do it – if it’s at a secondary school or a primary or
a university. But we know that you must. We think you were meant to do this.”
(And then I excused myself to cry a little.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I’m
entering Term II with a lot of resolve, a lot of new ideas, and a better sense
of what I need to do differently – but most of all, with the feeling that, at
least for now, there is absolutely nothing else I’d rather be doing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw_oGvuTJ7kRFWPygFiULNLCZqznsOrQL5ec5EwZpk5o_0QtVHK3YfEmPNDlda6zW-R0d08lFc8dF9DzwJZ_G_MfU7pNeG_awvoPsF7qYpauakklvSMOizqHM9jrMR66GP6r5fmgueG5hX/s1600/DSC_0016.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw_oGvuTJ7kRFWPygFiULNLCZqznsOrQL5ec5EwZpk5o_0QtVHK3YfEmPNDlda6zW-R0d08lFc8dF9DzwJZ_G_MfU7pNeG_awvoPsF7qYpauakklvSMOizqHM9jrMR66GP6r5fmgueG5hX/s320/DSC_0016.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipB82WzZJVkvY_YcVDx3_j0EA-Kdhe3jh9IXqzObMwvdz3FgWDbEKhLK3_kq99QExS1DtphZ3A4FY4pTIj9odPkuEST7AvCADWxRPPIKAkrkdKBQWRocuo7Kc24-rH7PacLZ1suuNq7ljC/s1600/DSC_0029.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipB82WzZJVkvY_YcVDx3_j0EA-Kdhe3jh9IXqzObMwvdz3FgWDbEKhLK3_kq99QExS1DtphZ3A4FY4pTIj9odPkuEST7AvCADWxRPPIKAkrkdKBQWRocuo7Kc24-rH7PacLZ1suuNq7ljC/s320/DSC_0029.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Form 1 kiddos writing letters to my friend Emily's class in South Korea</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUvVm1gCXcap5YZM1lvqHlX48_jhR_PBOOSbt7jt0Uy4lWROMzRcss65jUwePa4h6LKOt_u-Yhm2PLXlYvhu-tLmr-iU2xI31jfEMmH2b8yr6sCtkoAFTsl-J4ynqpCwbxGy8SI0nwREuv/s1600/DSC_0085.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUvVm1gCXcap5YZM1lvqHlX48_jhR_PBOOSbt7jt0Uy4lWROMzRcss65jUwePa4h6LKOt_u-Yhm2PLXlYvhu-tLmr-iU2xI31jfEMmH2b8yr6sCtkoAFTsl-J4ynqpCwbxGy8SI0nwREuv/s320/DSC_0085.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg8prxcy5Yln5Dfmf3T7zf8M9Q8g0fad_PkgW8DahXwbR9Z9s8sawhx1BWhvXQ6FbTiRta_DUt2rxUO9cbbnliVrWV1PALc76w_7-96OrzTyce5kiRRyBnAfPoslOkTzzLwRhFWI_5lhkW/s1600/DSC_0088.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg8prxcy5Yln5Dfmf3T7zf8M9Q8g0fad_PkgW8DahXwbR9Z9s8sawhx1BWhvXQ6FbTiRta_DUt2rxUO9cbbnliVrWV1PALc76w_7-96OrzTyce5kiRRyBnAfPoslOkTzzLwRhFWI_5lhkW/s320/DSC_0088.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQFDtToEyZVAZFE3mcleadjCZ0r6A5bl5BqlNb6MvjHAIH43c8HiL5Zdo1itfyJ0DmroeIfGXzslqtc2B-D_xW0xyTX1Fm0iuIDRNlAbwNMUS6xj_H7Q5ULFyw9i5Jjw-af5opRlYhUJzq/s1600/DSC_0061.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQFDtToEyZVAZFE3mcleadjCZ0r6A5bl5BqlNb6MvjHAIH43c8HiL5Zdo1itfyJ0DmroeIfGXzslqtc2B-D_xW0xyTX1Fm0iuIDRNlAbwNMUS6xj_H7Q5ULFyw9i5Jjw-af5opRlYhUJzq/s320/DSC_0061.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Petros, Thoko, Jacob, and Maggie: four of my favorite Form 3s. Malawians' favored pose for pictures is a solemn stare, and I have no idea why -- it's precisely the opposite of how they typically are. Literally, they burst into laughter right after I took this.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGTfJyzyOOo22TJBFdboYpikzIhFHs6cY3qDAPVQ4KXXML0UNVANO1P5Nkw7XbEkz14F27ODX2thwhgOhoDZY0PJvHFuRaWQzhMON7TIIpxPxEIy8t-Z-9SsOZYK-9B3I9QnqDFOosPIRX/s1600/DSC_0116.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGTfJyzyOOo22TJBFdboYpikzIhFHs6cY3qDAPVQ4KXXML0UNVANO1P5Nkw7XbEkz14F27ODX2thwhgOhoDZY0PJvHFuRaWQzhMON7TIIpxPxEIy8t-Z-9SsOZYK-9B3I9QnqDFOosPIRX/s320/DSC_0116.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mtangatanga CDSS, as viewed from the main road</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoQDH3bAEtPJ1CukC8ToTtadeyAyLVIqUD_FbbzX_novHKgIB2w2UPqhpp0_QqGeEf-ZGcDe8PIonvSddRFAAj_mYDiQGKDqQyiZbiAgFwgsKtLMSUkuPeVsFjsMVc5SZ8B_zQpDuLwy-Q/s1600/DSC_0122.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoQDH3bAEtPJ1CukC8ToTtadeyAyLVIqUD_FbbzX_novHKgIB2w2UPqhpp0_QqGeEf-ZGcDe8PIonvSddRFAAj_mYDiQGKDqQyiZbiAgFwgsKtLMSUkuPeVsFjsMVc5SZ8B_zQpDuLwy-Q/s320/DSC_0122.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The row of latrines</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Main courtyard, with the senior classroom block on the left, junior block on the right, and the staff block in the distance</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The school has four identical classrooms, one for each form. A major difference between the American and Malawian school day: the students stay in the same room, and the teachers come to them.</td></tr>
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<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Jaimehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08386807582327860137noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862762993389303168.post-54909866004397678792012-10-27T15:17:00.000-05:002012-10-27T15:17:08.289-05:00Little House In The Woods, Part II: Bana Wane
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My behavior brings laughter,
curiosity, and entertainment for everyone in my village no matter what I do, so
I long ago went above and beyond the default role of “weird white woman” and
found myself in the territory of “weird white woman who keeps asking the names
of all the dogs in the village.” In the past two months, I’ve carried kittens
on minibuses, toted a puppy on my back, given human names to chickens, and
publicly referred to all of these creatures as <i>bana wane</i> – my children – in only partially a joking way. And people
around here clearly understand my priorities: I still don’t have comfortable
chairs, shelves, or other basic furniture in my house, but they made sure my
chicken coop was finished weeks ago. And I’m <i>so</i> glad for that. <o:p></o:p></div>
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So, meet my babies.<o:p></o:p></div>
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This is Elsa: fragile and
bird-like in stature, but independent, fearless, and named for the brave little
lioness that Joy Adamson raised in <i>Born
Free</i>, the book/movie that explains so much about why I am the way that I am.
She is always the first at the food bowl, the first to investigate new things,
and the first to find my lap when I sit on the porch to drink coffee in the
morning. She is also sitting on my shoulder as I write this. Secretly, she’s my
favorite.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEEWNyGj4qyXDyCOkjPU8-MXIkBixZvqBs4V7CkyNtRig2-iXL2Tn57jevKSJPfFY-0PWXw52ovMiOzUqnyc34mbehbf79A_MI1y1yNkRw2GAamwe6RBFjKOIivmppNM_NQDLLJ6jk6mmx/s1600/DSC_0112.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEEWNyGj4qyXDyCOkjPU8-MXIkBixZvqBs4V7CkyNtRig2-iXL2Tn57jevKSJPfFY-0PWXw52ovMiOzUqnyc34mbehbf79A_MI1y1yNkRw2GAamwe6RBFjKOIivmppNM_NQDLLJ6jk6mmx/s320/DSC_0112.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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This is Annie: sleek,
beautiful, fun to watch, but with serious prey drive and way more erratic
behavior than her sister. She lost bed sleeping privileges within the first
week for using my mosquito net as a jungle gym, but she is also the sole reason
my home has stayed cockroach-free. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3mheUm6u_9_NMKLUV0olOMNKqvz4QiTeFEqRQdVbmXmXqvqVYhcGvWHWopcmQyf2nj-Bmhrsoh6Gkny9VSXLst9_3rb2-UGPCoUMwQqFHarILTxY6cfmA6SMzzYiudfNZhA2roturRgyd/s1600/DSC_0173.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3mheUm6u_9_NMKLUV0olOMNKqvz4QiTeFEqRQdVbmXmXqvqVYhcGvWHWopcmQyf2nj-Bmhrsoh6Gkny9VSXLst9_3rb2-UGPCoUMwQqFHarILTxY6cfmA6SMzzYiudfNZhA2roturRgyd/s320/DSC_0173.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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I also have two young hens
of indeterminate African breeding that will (if all goes well) start laying
eggs by February or March. Chicken ownership has already been the realization
of a dream, for sure, but training has been a learning process – within an hour
of their arrival, both hens had already waltzed into my house and decided to
roost on my bed, for example. Boundaries have since been established. Mostly I
just have to chase them out of the kitchen now.<o:p></o:p></div>
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This is Aretha Franklin:
diva extraordinaire, with attitude in great excess. I shoo her off the porch
and hurl cuss words her way at least three times a day. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOtuDOHGYqFRTpxJX57CvmoE60OrdxUkCgE1hYLWCoeOoKHdTg6k5qxRPqetTOTjIntUsVijyYqlepMJmEtCd7dax34QtIRyjpyo0BvXjPcxw6NjKtmJzm8crnAeCpG25bn2dsWYc6MNKh/s1600/DSC_0122.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOtuDOHGYqFRTpxJX57CvmoE60OrdxUkCgE1hYLWCoeOoKHdTg6k5qxRPqetTOTjIntUsVijyYqlepMJmEtCd7dax34QtIRyjpyo0BvXjPcxw6NjKtmJzm8crnAeCpG25bn2dsWYc6MNKh/s320/DSC_0122.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Meet Diana Ross: undoubtedly
the more placid, easily handled, and frequently bullied of the two, but also
the more clever one. Serious velociraptor vibes when she’s stalking insects.
Look at that face; it’s like something out of the Cretaceous.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrjwpcOgMzy-Sbvtkkfqoriu7h_Ii-7FQIN5RhnFK-VinQqfS3syI_73cPQwm49wO35-inYzYhz1GnZ33TDE-tT1KkkzXFYUc8Z9mZaAKxk1hjmcBMhM-2MjqRqdD1s9-ASaF-X30G3sY_/s1600/DSC_0131.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrjwpcOgMzy-Sbvtkkfqoriu7h_Ii-7FQIN5RhnFK-VinQqfS3syI_73cPQwm49wO35-inYzYhz1GnZ33TDE-tT1KkkzXFYUc8Z9mZaAKxk1hjmcBMhM-2MjqRqdD1s9-ASaF-X30G3sY_/s320/DSC_0131.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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And then there’s Chalo, who
is possibly the greatest tool of cultural integration I’ve ever had, the best
icebreaker for encouraging shy students to talk to me, and the biggest reason
for my recent exponential rise in happiness. His name means “land” or “country”
or “earth” in Chitumbuka and “let’s go” in Hindi, which seemed like a nice
linguistic coincidence in a place where Indian immigrants and Malawians work
alongside each other. And, call me biased, but this little dude is <i>smart</i> – wildly easy to train, even with
verbal praise as the sole reward. At only seven weeks old, he already has a
solid grasp on “sit” and “come” and gets the basic idea of “down” and “shake,”
but he only responds to Chitumbuka commands, and only when spoken in an
American accent. Example: picture a few dozen of my students whistling and
yelling, “Chalo! <i>Za kuno</i>!”
simultaneously, while he looks at them with only vague interest. Picture me
softly saying the same command from thirty feet away, with Chalo immediately spinning
on his heels and running full-speed in my direction. I can’t decide if this is problematic
or <i>awesome</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<o:p> </o:p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdqCmT-NJi8848qSvMouHpuTs08jCnTKx7ODjqGzgR0yDaP7vO9HkySvdsCeQYQWu1-HRHumNNxla8AUE3Tm0ivCFfatjZL3WUNCf_FbgNTY2kKPHaOTtdWRLZn2QkxmJGqKa5nQQ1pt06/s1600/DSC_0142.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdqCmT-NJi8848qSvMouHpuTs08jCnTKx7ODjqGzgR0yDaP7vO9HkySvdsCeQYQWu1-HRHumNNxla8AUE3Tm0ivCFfatjZL3WUNCf_FbgNTY2kKPHaOTtdWRLZn2QkxmJGqKa5nQQ1pt06/s320/DSC_0142.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>
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Because this is my first
experience raising a puppy on my own, as an adult (…whoa), I was fretting for
weeks before I even brought him home. What if he doesn’t learn bite inhibition
because I’m taking him away from his mother too soon? Should I teach him
commands in Chitumbuka or English? How do I housetrain without a crate? How do
I socialize him without puppy kindergarten or dog parks? What do you feed a dog
in a country where dog food is only sold in cities? And most of all, what will
happen when my service ends in two years?*<o:p></o:p></div>
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But really, I shouldn’t have
worried. In lieu of rawhide, he gets potatoes and toilet paper rolls to gnaw
on. He has a collar made of spare cloth, a bed of cardboard and blankets, and a
diet of <i>usipa</i> (small dried
anchovy-like fish) and porridge. After a couple horrifically sleepless nights,
I made a makeshift crate out of a chair, a cardboard box, one of the wheels
from my bicycle, a bungee cord, my Peace Corps medical kit, and, of course, the
all-purpose garment known as a <i>chitenje</i>.
(…101 uses, yo). My neighbor/best Malawian friend recently bought Chalo’s
littermate, so we have daily puppy play dates that ease my worries about socialization.
And I take him everywhere – to the market, to friends’ houses, to nearby
villages, and to school if I’m not teaching – to give him a chance to meet lots
of people and see lots of things. And now I can’t go anywhere alone without
being asked, in tones that vary between worry and amusement, “Where is Chalo?
Where is your child?” <o:p></o:p></div>
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So, it’s really little
surprise that my reputation as an eccentric animal lover/wannabe farmer is
growing by the day, but my collection is now final. Someone offered to sell me
a cow the other day, and I politely declined. Applications to my zoo are no
longer being accepted. (The sole possible exception: honeybees. We’ll see…)<o:p></o:p></div>
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Stay tuned for the next
things bouncing around in my brain, which include: flowers, a vegetable garden,
bucket wine, cheese-making, and mango jam.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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*This is the question that
almost kept me from getting any animals at all, but thankfully there are two
very good answers on the table. If I’m still in a position to have a dog in two
years (and if I feel like he would make the adjustment easily), it’s possible
I’ll bring Chalo back to the States. If not, I have animal-loving Malawian
friends who are already a daily part of his life, who already adore him, and would
gladly welcome him into their homes permanently.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKwsLEID_9DVLxaWzO5KPiZ93VhFctZ7yrb4wfaTKYJpkoZz6qy7UUInIujl9zKOa2YLQd8CH4cTEe-UtRTUmqiJC5qNzRtCOqeGNHkB5nCWKeSATfrZILb6O8nbXbayqJVFoNZ4W3Wrir/s1600/DSC_0055.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKwsLEID_9DVLxaWzO5KPiZ93VhFctZ7yrb4wfaTKYJpkoZz6qy7UUInIujl9zKOa2YLQd8CH4cTEe-UtRTUmqiJC5qNzRtCOqeGNHkB5nCWKeSATfrZILb6O8nbXbayqJVFoNZ4W3Wrir/s320/DSC_0055.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pardon the culturally inappropriate flashing of thigh.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMDHw7sPr9qPk4OdhorzkuY9QqV2HDBHcdFul3EuU-KE9ABtrmrcicVKWfgieUl5gjzMxUAMyLpneGUwddXjK5YaUr0VOOWoQqIZSFspIfb9-eGKVteJe-SG69c8tcVhN6_eu77UsJrwsd/s1600/DSC_0013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMDHw7sPr9qPk4OdhorzkuY9QqV2HDBHcdFul3EuU-KE9ABtrmrcicVKWfgieUl5gjzMxUAMyLpneGUwddXjK5YaUr0VOOWoQqIZSFspIfb9-eGKVteJe-SG69c8tcVhN6_eu77UsJrwsd/s320/DSC_0013.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lloyd mean-mugging with kittens and cake dough.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPXsddZZChSv5d13fPw5X_dTnfuco4NdumOKk4W1MLBszvZsb3ZKWJUkJb5MnRYv_QYUQjnz7LpUcZjTFH4LMHi1DM09NNTJAOfULoCie4XiW4ULYHXrj9g55w5ZaftCtyK5t2115pS6Ts/s1600/DSC_0001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPXsddZZChSv5d13fPw5X_dTnfuco4NdumOKk4W1MLBszvZsb3ZKWJUkJb5MnRYv_QYUQjnz7LpUcZjTFH4LMHi1DM09NNTJAOfULoCie4XiW4ULYHXrj9g55w5ZaftCtyK5t2115pS6Ts/s320/DSC_0001.jpg" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My masterpiece: a dog kennel crafted from locally available, sustainable resources.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieiu0q6MUje_tublMnMC2TYTIGuqWSnwcEI0CYvvz4Lhc17sWcrvX06_D6DJZu34_WP3uH7oaTqV6ypUMWOqFP7OOKD5Xf1S8okq7Adm-xhaOz0aDziRUsMBxayL5zra0vKBm6R7Y_dTlw/s1600/this.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieiu0q6MUje_tublMnMC2TYTIGuqWSnwcEI0CYvvz4Lhc17sWcrvX06_D6DJZu34_WP3uH7oaTqV6ypUMWOqFP7OOKD5Xf1S8okq7Adm-xhaOz0aDziRUsMBxayL5zra0vKBm6R7Y_dTlw/s320/this.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is what my life looks like now, except usually the dog is eating the chickens' food, the cats are sleeping in the chicken coop, and the chickens are in the dog's bed.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<!--EndFragment-->Jaimehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08386807582327860137noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862762993389303168.post-4515702620600904872012-10-09T11:21:00.003-05:002012-10-09T12:07:12.823-05:00<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings></xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:DontAutofitConstrainedTables/> <w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument></xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="276"> </w:LatentStyles></xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]><style> /* Style Definitions */table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;}</style><![endif]--><!--StartFragment--><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think in patchwork these days, so here is a string of totally unrelated moments you might appreciate:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I Think I’m Turning Japanese<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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It’s mid-afternoon. I’m ravenous, exhausted, and eager to get home, and one of the neighborhood kids is approaching on a bicycle. I rev up for a hasty exchangeof “<i>Mwatandala uli</i>,” but he races by with a cheery “<i>Konichiwa</i>!” – and from the grin he shoots over his shoulder, it’s clear he knows exactly what he is doing.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>Sister Act<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
Time is fluid, schedules are negligible, but the morning greeting ritual is sacred. Anyone entering the teacher’s lounge must be asked individually if he or she woke up well, if the family woke up well, and if everything at home is going well, and then he or she must ask the same questions of everyone else in theroom, and if anyone fails to adhere to this pattern, the social glue starts to ooze and the entire fabric of the day collapses. (I’m just guessing here – but it’s such a highly prized ritual that the consequences must be dire.) The pointis: ever since I jokingly referred to Annie and Elsa as “<i>bana wane</i>” (my children), it has become customary to ask me, “<i>Mwawuka uli? Na bachona balongosi bawuka uli</i>?”(How did you wake? And how did the sister-cats wake?)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Lloyd. JULA CHIJARO SONO.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
My neighbor’s three-year-old son, Lloyd, trapped me within my own fence today by locking the gate from the outside. I had to stand on my chicken coop and yell to passers-by for help while Lloyd sat eating peaches. I hope to draw a picture of it someday.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>We Did, In Fact, Start The Fire<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
Shortly after sunset on Sunday night, I was lying on my reed mat and lesson planning when I heard a rhythmic pounding on my roof. In the time it took for me to wonder, “…Is that rain?” a knock came at my door. I stepped out to find a weird yellow glow, a loud crackling sound, and Mrs. Wanda trying to explain something to me about fire, questions, and snakes. What I thought was the early start of rainy season was actually the sound of windswept embers pelting my little house, and those embers were blowing from an enormous brushfire approaching (quite swiftly, I might add) <i>right in my direction about thirty feet from my house</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
So, picture me standing awkwardly in the dark in my pajamas, uncertain whether the fire was started intentionally or accidentally, whether it was in its last throes or just getting started, whether the people around me were ecstatic or panicked, and whether I should be carrying my cats to safety or doing anything to help. (Slowly I pieced together the story: my Indian neighbors had started the fire on purpose to clear the fields, kill the snakes, and prepare the ground for their cricket practices. It <i>was </i>under control, even if it didn’t look like it.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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Picture, also, middle-aged men beating the ground with branches, sending red-hot cinders flashing and shooting twenty feet into the air. Picture kids prancing against the amber glow, shouting, “Moto! Fire! Moto! Fire!” and laughing maniacally, their cartwheeling silhouettes making abstract, barely human shapes in the smoke.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
And picture me sorting it all out, ruminating on the same feeling I got when we cornered and killed a rat in the dorms during the first week of Peace Corps training, which is the same feeling I always get during football games: “I really don’t get this at all.” I don’t get it, but I <i>feel</i> it: the visceral charge in the air, the ancient rush in our blood, and the knowledge that none of us own it. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Soon the flames were beaten into ash, the soil was left black and smoking, and the only light left was from a few red sparks, twinkling across the field like bioluminescence on a beach. But still, people lingered. <span style="text-indent: 0.25in;">I stood on my chicken coop and watched what looked like shadow-puppets in a play about human nature, re-enacting a scene that could have taken place at any point in our history, whether that be thousands of years ago or (in this case) just last weekend. We’re still the same animals, still scared of the other animals hiding in the grass, and still emboldened and electrified by our tenuous mastery of fire.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1AIMzkUudBaypoyeIU-Zd4q476g-fwk0TF1OHAjpD-juxIcHCvZvs9zdSmuPrL44tKKVoOKskz5-9vkxz8iesJOrc3et5l5vM4Er01W8Yyv7COcKLAlepVJNb2jQwK116bhnbllzIFDIf/s640/blogger-image-472976167.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1AIMzkUudBaypoyeIU-Zd4q476g-fwk0TF1OHAjpD-juxIcHCvZvs9zdSmuPrL44tKKVoOKskz5-9vkxz8iesJOrc3et5l5vM4Er01W8Yyv7COcKLAlepVJNb2jQwK116bhnbllzIFDIf/s400/blogger-image-472976167.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Jaimehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08386807582327860137noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862762993389303168.post-69936746581511470072012-10-09T09:53:00.003-05:002012-10-09T09:55:36.137-05:00Vignettes from the Road<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
In
the United States, hitchhiking carries some deservedly sinister connotations (often
of murderous proportions), especially for a young female traveling alone. But
in Malawi the story is much different – in a country where the only people with
cars are a) foreigners working for development organizations or b) educated, affluent
host country nationals eager to practice their English, hitchhiking is not only
common, but often <i>safer</i> than public
transportation. And although I’ll happily spend one thousand kwacha to share a
seat with three other people and a goat (why else am I in Africa, after all?),
I’m not one to turn down a cheap (often free!) ride full of interesting
conversation, air conditioning, and plenty of leg room, even if it <i>does</i> force me to check my privilege and
feel my inner guilt-o-meter tingling a little (or, more often, a lot). <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
But
the biggest draw is the fact that the story file in my brain is always open for
new additions, and hitchhiking has a full supply of them. Here are a few.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
***<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I
had my first (and most authentically Malawian) hitchhiking experience with George
Chirambo, my school’s headmaster: a character of gigantic proportions,
tenacious resolve, and endless quotability, and someone who really deserves to
be featured in a book someday. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We
stood on the side of the road and assumed the customary hitchhiking position –
not a raised thumb, in this country, but a hand held out at waist-level and
flopped up and down at the wrist. A little pick-up truck stopped almost
immediately, urging us to hop in for a 600-kwacha lift to Mzimba. Squeezed in
with four other Malawians, perched somewhat perilously on an upturned tire in a
truck-bed, I had one of the most wind-blown and breathtaking 40 minutes of my
time here so far, with every twist and bend and escarpment accompanied by the
mental tune of “Remember this, remember this, remember this.” (You get to
choose whether you want the phrase “my time here so far” to mean “my time in
Malawi” or “my time on this planet.” It works either way.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
About
halfway to our destination, Mr. Chirambo explained that drivers are required to
have a special permit to carry a certain number of people and that, oh, by the
way – our driver doesn’t have one. It was unclear whether or not this was going
to be a problem as we neared a police checkpoint manned by several large,
heavily armed men, but I quickly assumed the Zen-on-command trance that I’ve
learned well by now: “Don’t worry yet; just deal with things as they come.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The
driver stopped the truck, turned off the engine, and greeted the officers with a
stiff, sticky-smiled politeness as they inspected the vehicle for contraband
and asked to see the appropriate licensing. I held my breath, but Mr. Chirambo
broke the quiet. “Ah, one of my corrupt friends!” he shouted, because of course
this is Malawi and of course Mr. Chirambo knows everyone and of course – of <i>course</i> – he knew this particular
officer.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The
men stood together in a laughing, hand-slapping circle, and I jumped into the
conversation when it became clear they were referring to me (hearing the Chitumbuka
words for “teacher” and “white person” are usually the dead giveaways). And
after a few minutes, as we pulled away from the checkpoint amid smiles and
laughter, Mr. Chirambo turned to me to explain: “That officer stopped me once
while I was driving my car without a license, but I just gave him 1000 kwacha
and now we know each other and drink cold beers together!” Oh. Okay.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But
I still had some questions about what I had observed about the Malawian legal
system.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“So,
the police checkpoints are here to look for illegal activity, yes?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes,”
Mr. Chirambo said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“But
if you are doing something illegal, you can give them money and they’ll let you
go?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Exactly.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“So,
if the police officers don’t actually stop people who are doing illegal things,
why even have police officers? Couldn’t the government save money by just not
having police, and things would still be exactly the same?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Everyone
in the truck erupted in laughter, probably partially at my perceived naivete,
probably at the sheer anarchy of my suggestion, but also, I sensed, at the insanity
of a system that <i>already</i> borders on
anarchy.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We
waved at our corrupt friend on the way back, and the jacarandas in Mzimba were
incredible that day.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
***<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On
our way to a meeting in Mzuzu, my sitemate Rebecca and I got a lift from a
“businessman” named Goodall. I hedge this title in quotation marks because I’m
still – for many reasons – not exactly certain what his line of business was.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
As
we approached one of the many police checkpoints along the M1, Goodall stopped
mid-sentence, turned to me in the back seat, and casually announced, “Oh,
sorry, I forgot: you are on a gun.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;">
I
tried and failed to be articulate. “…wait what.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;">
He
repeated the same words flatly: “You are sitting on a gun.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
I <i>had</i> noticed that I was sharing the seat
with a long hard something-or-other, but I had been so involved in our winding
conversation about economic flux and patrilineal marriage that I had failed to
connect the dots. Now that I was giving it my full attention, I could see that,
yes, indeed, the tweed sport-coat beneath me <i>was</i> in fact draped over a gun-case, and that the gun-case <i>did</i> seem to be holding a rather large
weapon, and that, okay, well, yes, look at that, I was <i>indeed</i> sitting on it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
Part
of my brain started running a risk assessment, flashing
Choose-Your-Own-Adventure-style scenarios of varying degrees of ugliness, while
the rest of my brain insisted on staying in that tried-and-true “don’t worry
about it yet” stupor. Thankfully the latter half of my brain was right: we
passed the police with a wave and a smile, and I worked up the courage for my
next question. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
“Uh,
so, Goodall, why do you have a gun?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
“Yes,
I have a gun.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
“No,
<i>why</i>?” I repeated.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
“Yes,
I have one.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
With
our destination in sight, I dropped the subject and we diverted the
conversation back to international economics. As he stopped for us to get out
at a gas station, I slipped out of the back seat, draped the tweed sport-coat
back over the gun, and bade a friendly farewell to Goodall, a man of mystery
off to conduct some “business.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
***<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
On
a short afternoon trip to pick up my kittens, I hitched with someone who may
just be the most interesting (and interest<i>ed</i>)
man in Malawi. The man (who will remain unnamed here) is a member of
Parliament, world traveler, Doctor of Philosophy, former secondary school
teacher, and published poet (whose poems are actually featured in one of the
books I’m supposed to teach). But his accomplishments pale in comparison to his
interests – and oh my does he have them. After exchanging the usual
pleasantries about family, education, and place of birth, he turned to me and
asked, with exactly this sort of emphasis, “So what are your <i>hobbies</i>?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I stuttered
the sort of response that would be expected of someone who had never thought
about the topic before: “Oh, um…I like reading a lot. I like reading
everything, actually. I like drawing. And painting. I studied art at
university. Uh…and in America I worked with horses – actually, I owned a horse,
but I had to sell him before coming here.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
He praised
each hobby with soft noises of encouragement: “Oh! Oh, <i>really</i>! What <i>else</i>?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
And
then I asked, “What about you?” and the floodgates were opened.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Over
the course of the next hour, each of his subsequent dreams, diversions, pet
projects, and pastimes was presented like a revelation – each time I thought
the list had come to an end, another came spouting forth with just as much
energy as the one before it. He announced each interest as though he had just
thought of it, as if his passion for it had just been sparked in that moment. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I
am also fascinated by compost!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I
am a great fan of computers, cars, and machines!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I
love design. I am interested in design of all kinds!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I
also hope to import donkeys!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I
would really like to have a fox!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I
am a lifelong fan of Shakespeare!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I
learned about his forays into the world of food processing, his plans to invent
a soft drink that will compete directly with Coca-Cola and Fanta, his recent acquisition
of a mining license, his impending purchase of land for an orange farm, and his
intention to import horses from South Africa (a plan that will not be deterred
by the fact that he has never ridden a horse). <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
He
also had a wealth of experience taming monkeys as pets, and strongly disagreed
with Peace Corps’ rule that volunteers may only keep dogs and cats. “The
wonderful thing about monkeys,” he explained, “is that they are very clever,
and they do everything a human does. They are like children! But the problem
with monkeys is that they do everything <i>too
much</i>.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Oh?
How so?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“You
are cooking; they want to help. You go for a walk; they want to come. You go to
turn the knob on the radio; they want to do the same.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Ah,
of course, just like children.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Yes,
but then you turn around and the radio no longer has a knob.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But
the climax of the conversation – the point where I very nearly lost it –
arrived with a sentence that was made exponentially funnier not just by the
brief silence immediately preceding it, but by the weight of every other thing
that had already been said: “I also know how to keep hedgehogs.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And
I choked back giggles long enough to learn that you can feed hedgehogs many
things, but that it is better to handle them with gloves.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibg7drh9FTAf8WtPp7XJbPAOMSj9LrcdANLBXAwYtkFikcZhbS1Gk0a1ZUv25d5x_Fex5U0tR-SgB5CXgGZ-apXGFy__lDxn4XjaCMOqMVMW8NW9uKbTlQmauIH7RBAYBX9vKhdMX_XD6T/s1600/DSCN1571.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibg7drh9FTAf8WtPp7XJbPAOMSj9LrcdANLBXAwYtkFikcZhbS1Gk0a1ZUv25d5x_Fex5U0tR-SgB5CXgGZ-apXGFy__lDxn4XjaCMOqMVMW8NW9uKbTlQmauIH7RBAYBX9vKhdMX_XD6T/s400/DSCN1571.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The one, the only, George Chirambo</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUyF6qqXv6eqprUQb-i0nsaLKKjChHVkRBsToYQb_D20xlzfcy9EtEWSCN2pK0q2nm0whCnPnvBndZ1v_te8chp4iHeM4yiYwcHyYEAK14cOneT5kqg2shT7gbAoMoDoH4x7GtHBcPw6B4/s1600/DSCN1576.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUyF6qqXv6eqprUQb-i0nsaLKKjChHVkRBsToYQb_D20xlzfcy9EtEWSCN2pK0q2nm0whCnPnvBndZ1v_te8chp4iHeM4yiYwcHyYEAK14cOneT5kqg2shT7gbAoMoDoH4x7GtHBcPw6B4/s320/DSCN1576.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Malawi is quintessential Africa in that red-soiled, big-skyed, acacia-tree-dotted kind of way.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Jaimehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08386807582327860137noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862762993389303168.post-70099854934363978062012-09-23T12:58:00.002-05:002012-09-23T13:18:39.669-05:00Little House in the Woods<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">The past 24 hours have featured some of the most significant, joyous, and simply heartwarmingly domestic moments in Malawi so far. </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"> Friday marked the 3-month anniversary of my arrival in this country, the 3-week anniversary of my move to my permanent village, the finale of my first week teaching a full schedule of classes, and the first real, shining, honest-to-goodness moments of feeling my house becoming a home.</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">This</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"> has been my first weekend with a fence around my yard, pictures on the wall, vegetables
resting on a </span><i style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">real</i><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"> table, and not just
one but </span><i style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">two</i><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"> kittens perpetually
resting in my lap or perched on my shoulder. All these little things together have
built up a lazy, consummate sort of contentment that is exactly what I’ve been
needing – the soft mental hum of a slow Saturday spent in my own space, with
the autonomy to do whatever I want.</span><br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
But
before I get too caught up in the present, let’s retreat back to the land of
last month’s news: when it comes to permanent sites, I lucked out.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My
village is a mysterious land that goes by many names: a place in Mzimba
district that is locally known as Mtangatanga, sometimes conflated with the
nearby village of Chikangawa, but most often just known as Raiply (pronounced
“rye-ply,” not “rapely,” as I originally thought), the name of the timber
company that employs most of the area’s residents. In fact, Raiply built most
of the local houses <i>and</i> the school
where I teach, resulting in something that feels less like a remote village and
more like a piece of Malawian-flavored suburbia.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Topping
my list of favorite things about my village:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- The fact that it is the
last major outpost on a windswept plateau at the edge of the largest artificial
forest in Africa, and yet…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- it’s still on the main
highway and only a one-hour minibus ride from Mzuzu, the northern region’s
largest city. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- I have fantastic Malawian neighbors,
all sweethearts, who drop by several times a day to chat in Chitumbuka and make
me feel loved and supported in every possible way<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- …along with equally
fantastic Indian neighbors who give me delicious food and free rides<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- …and a community of vervet
monkeys that come just close enough to be entertaining and a little thrilling,
but not close enough to be scary or annoying<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I'm staying in a little brick house with (usually, but sometimes just theoretically) electricity
and running water, two freshly painted rooms, an open porch, and a bathroom
with a shower and sit-down toilet (in the former there’s only cold water, and
in the latter the seat is actually missing…but still). The company has generously donated the space, the fence, and the furniture, while footing all my utilities-related expenses, and any worries about my
safety while living alone can be assuaged by the fact that I’m located within a
guarded compound that is itself within <i>another</i>
guarded compound, located within the grounds where the senior staff stay.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCA9emOOnJwQLSO0hVxQtToAaXmG1HgeVhe2ZEslsTyUzsFUS_P82o4dtn8CK38ESpiwqB3PvRA8WHdqMmalbaUfHxnIn-Du4gdnA73ioOIT2Y-1flPhXOhYSf602y8aQLjKyQXKiXGPrs/s1600/DSC_0101.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCA9emOOnJwQLSO0hVxQtToAaXmG1HgeVhe2ZEslsTyUzsFUS_P82o4dtn8CK38ESpiwqB3PvRA8WHdqMmalbaUfHxnIn-Du4gdnA73ioOIT2Y-1flPhXOhYSf602y8aQLjKyQXKiXGPrs/s320/DSC_0101.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And this iiiiiiis...Annie and Elsa! They like stealing my oatmeal and jumping on my shoulders from high places when I'm not expecting it. And they have snobby taste in books. We were meant for each other.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Decorating
is a work in progress, but I’m shooting for a kind of colorful sub-Saharan
whimsy, like if Karen Blixen’s house was furnished from an Anthropologie
catalog. Stay tuned for bookshelves, chairs, chickens, and a PUPPY.<o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Jaimehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08386807582327860137noreply@blogger.com0