Five Things that Have Surprised Me About Life In “The Field”

Bean field, feeling misunderstood

1) Every work place has “a field” – whether a country office, district office, or literally, a field of beans. Headquarters is, likewise, relative. They all equally feel misunderstood by the others. 

2) The importance of having a back-up for the back-up. To get a simple phone call through to headquarters, I keep two internet connections, one dongle, a cell phone and a landline on hand. For a local call, most folks use two phone numbers on two different networks, text, or even WhatsApp to get through. Constant problem-solving, creative thinking, bobbing-and-weaving is a must.

3) Streamlining does not always equal most efficient/effective (see #2). Why don't we just....? All that diversifying makes it tempting to cut through the red tape with simple solutions. Sure, it might make sense in one context to buy goats from all one vendor. One set of paperwork, one contract. But spreading the risk amongst three or four vendors ensures that if one overstates their capability there’s enough of a back up to keep the distribution on track. I call it the Not All in One Basket approach. It's exhausting, but not as exhausting as explaining why there are no goats.

Proudly displaying mango #11

4) I wouldn’t have interpreted it that way, but…it works. In an attempt to keep track of our office inventory, our gardener numbered each one of the ripening mangoes in the yard with a magic marker. I once also worked with an office manager who knew the project was underspending, so she stock piled over 100 bottles of toilet bowl cleaner, toilet paper and other cleaning supplies in an effort to increase the burn rate. I am constantly reminded that procedures need context, people need guidance, and it's ok to not take ourselves too seriously.

5) Waiting is the New Doing. When our car ran out of gas (because we didn't follow #2 and get gas when we were still at half tank and trying to streamline our stops) and the only station within 100 km hadn’t had electricity to pump in 14 hours, there was literally nothing we could do. So, we sat in the station with a coke and a samosa. Several solutions eventually revealed themselves (ending with the electricity magically turning on.) When in doubt, wait it out.

Watered Down

View from the waiting area at the airport.
Normally, you can see a tree row at
the far end of the tarmac.

Although the rains were late again this year (see my host and dusty earlier post about Tropical Christmas), they made up for it by arriving with a vengeance. In fact, they arrived right as we were preparing to board our plane to Capetown. The whole airport shut down for approximately two hours while we waited for the skies to empty. We returned to a green and glorious Malawi.

Unfortunately, there can be too much of a good thing. Following an enormous typhoon off the coast of Mozambique the week of January 13^th, fifteen of Malawi’s twenty-eight districts were catastrophically flooded. Thus far, the government’s department of disaster management affairs has announced a state of emergency, mostly in the southern region. Estimates are over 60 dead, 150 missing and 200,000 without homes. This does not include damage to just-planted fields and loss of livestock, which are nearly too many to count.

My company doesn’t work in those areas, but I have plenty of friends who do. One friend is managing camp in Nsanje for over 5,000 people. Another friend has been frantically busy garnering resources and is hosting a delegation of donors next week. Malawi is on a “no aid” budget, but suddenly it’s pouring in. Malawi seems to be flooded every year, taken by surprise by the onset of such fast and heavy rains. Although there are always efforts to prepare, the environmental impact of poverty - deforestation, poor housing, land degradation are endemic. They don't lend themselves to being solved by one season of "no-aid" solutions.

Photo courtesy of Malawi Red Cross, near Nsanje Southern Malawi. 

www.FaceofMalawi.com

For us here in Lilongwe, the major impact has been electricity. It’s always been a bit variable in rainy season, but it’s much worse now. Reports are that a few of the hydroelectric power stations have had their water intakes damaged by trash, logs and detritus. To clean them out, the entire station has to be taken offline, leaving even more load-shedding than normal. 

For us now, it’s not a matter of if the electricity will go off, it’s when. When it does, we manage. The longest our power has been out is twelve hours. Not so bad really, but there’s not a lot of warning, so we try to keep our electronics charged and plugged in as much as possible. We have a lot of candles. It helps that the whole community is affected, because we rely on each other. I have only had to take one dish over a friend’s house (with generator) to finish a meal. As we go into week two, it’s getting a little less “adventurous” and more “annoying as hell” but all things considered - if it comes down to this or having my home washed away in a flood, you can bet which one I’d take. Having lived through the 1997 flood of the Red River Valley, I know it could be much, much worse.

**If you'd like to donate to victims of this flooding go to: http://www.unicef.org.uk/landing-pages/donate-malawi-floods/**

Corrupted

For the past few weeks judiciary civil servants across Malawi have been on strike. Their strike is in response to an approved 300% salary increase for parliamentarians, who rely on civil servants to fulfill their mandate to the electorate, but to whom the increase was conveniently not extended. This strike has crippled the court system, raised the prison population to critical levels, and left hundreds of families in limbo. Because the default of the police seems to be throwing people in jail first and asking questions later, it’s kind of a tough time to run amok of the law.

As far as I can tell the criminal justice system in Malawi works like this: When faced with an alleged crime, the police use jail as a holding pen while they investigate. Because it’s so easy to melt back into the populace (no street signs, variable contact information, fluid borders, etc), I can kind of understand wanting to hold suspects - if it wasn’t such a gross breach of due process. Bail, if allowed, is variable. If it is found that there is evidence, then there is a hearing in front of a magistrate, who decides if there is enough evidence to go to actual trial. In an efficient system, this might work itself out in a few hours; in Malawi, depending on how motivated and resource constrained the police are, it can take much longer.

Over dinner a few weeks ago, our host told us of his friend who had just been robbed. The suspects were apprehended, but claimed that the accuser was one of their gang trying to frame them.  Just to be on the safe side, the police threw the accuser in too, leaving to the courts to decide whether or not there was any validity to the charges. The police refused to set bail. Our host was going to go down the next day to see what he could do.

Now, I understand that it is hard and perhaps unfair to judge an entire judicial system based on just this anecdote. I also think it’s terribly cliché to write about corruption in developing country. We Westerners often treated it as a fait accompli, simultaneously revealing our jaded experiences and our condescension. As the #blacklivesmatter protests rock the States, we’d do well to scrutinize our own systems before casting aspersions on others.

However, I do know I’ve been stopped by the cops more than once and asked for a bribe (Madam, I am so thirsty…). I do know that the prisons here are overcrowded, and that vigilante mobs exist to fill the role of an inefficient and ineffective police unit (a robber was beat to death by one just outside our office). It’s frustrating and scary and hopeless all at the same time. And when I asked my friend how he was going to get the robbery victim out of jail, he just looked at me like I was an idiot. 

“More bail,” he deadpanned. 

The Problem with International Development…is Us

A friend of mine sent me this article a few weeks ago, and I’ve since seen it blow up all over my Facebook feed. Doing a blog post on such a rich and thorough article is daunting, but Michael Hobbes gets it so right on so many points, I can’t help but get on my little soapbox to echo them. 

1. The myth of Overhead. The cost of keeping the lights on (overhead) versus handing out the blankets (activity funds) has already been written about prolifically in the domestic non-profit sector (See here. Or all of here). It’s just as bad in the international scene. I’ve seen donors reject multi-million dollar proposals, on the grounds that they only want to see a 15% overhead. How does one run the activities without the means to pay a living wage to staff, or keep the lights on?  Mr. Hobbes says what I've always wanted to say to a donor: just because you say we shouldn't pay for it doesn't mean the need for it doesn't exist. We need toilet paper. We need printers. We need (like, reeeally need) HR Managers.

Instead, those roles and tasks become diffused throughout the organization until the staff are wearing so many hats they lose their heads. In my own working life, I’m a logistician, supply chain manager, low-level bookkeeper, financial manager, janitor, HR manager, GIS expert, chief operating officer, communication specialist, procurement manager, contracts manager  and, apparently, the only one who can refill a fuel card in less than 10 working days. 

2. The myth of scaling up. Man I hate that word, "scaling up" As in somehow, magically, what works in Malawi will work in rural Azerbaijan. Hobbes calls this the Paradigm of the Big Idea. Why are we so intent on finding a one-size fits all approach to saving the world? Is it easier than actually thinking broadly, creatively? I think we've duped ourselves into believing this.

Letting go of this myth that what works in one place will work in another makes space for innovation and creativity. It embraces this wild crazy patchwork-diverse world we live in.  It's scary and messy. Shouldn’t the “solution” to a complicated problem such as endemic global poverty be as equally confounding and similarly heartbreakingly intricate? Then let it be so. Acknowledging that it is half the battle.

3. Our expectations of international development are off. I’ve read many of the same books as Mr. Hobbes and thought many of the same downtrodden thoughts of international development. Why isn’t this working? Why are Malawians still so poor? What am I even doing here, messing around with these stupid fuel cards? 

Hobbes argues that development is happening - just not in the way we expect. Since 2008, Lilongwe has seen three and a half new, enormous shopping complexes erected. (Never mind that most people are still too poor to shop there, and they are mostly empty). Change will look like what it looks like. 

I realized that it was time to let go of the expectation that world hunger will fall away because we start giving fortified peanut butter instead of living wages; that we have a magic bullet to scale up; that someone will notice that there is fuel in all the cars. Letting go of this expectation has been tremendously thought-provoking, and a bit freeing (thus, why it took so long to write this post).

Hobbes ends this article with some of excellent advice:  

 “If we really want to fix development, we need to stop chasing after ideas the way we go on fad diets. Successful programs should be allowed to expand by degrees, not digits […] NGOs need to be free to invest in the kinds of systems and processes we’re always telling developing countries to put in place. And rich countries need to spend less time debating how to divide up the tiny sliver of our GDP we spend on development and more time figuring out how to leverage our vast economic and political power to let it happen on its own.”

Amen, Mr. Hobbes. A-freakin’-men.

Monkey Business

Photo Courtesy of  Ice,
Dreamstime Stock Photo

My friend Kari called me Wednesday. She was in a village with her mobile clinic and a few community members brought her a baby vervet monkey. The mother had been killed. The baby, not more than a few weeks old, was helpless and hungry. Would she rescue it? Also, could she give them 2500 MWK (about $5) to help them keep it alive?  

Kari is a missionary and prone to helping. But she smelled a trap. In places where there a few ways to make money, exotic animal trafficking is a real and present danger. People will sell almost anything they think there is a market for. She called me, thinking I might know someone who worked in wildlife management who could advise her. I passed her the number for the Lilongwe Wildlife Center, Malawi’s only wildlife sanctuary.

The Wildlife Center told her that this kind of stuff happens all the time. Because they wanted money from her, it is likely that someone in the village purposefully killed the mother. Sure, she could bring back that one baby to their center, but by buying it she’d be playing into the very black market they were trying to stop. They told her,as hard as it was, to leave it in the village. When she tried to do so, the folks with the animal protested, saying they owed her 500 MWK (about $1) for ‘turning them in’. It was then she knew she was doing the right thing, even if not for that specific baby.

I told my regional director later about this, all the while cursing the stupid meanness of those villagers. He grew up in Zambia and owns a game farm in the northern part of that country. It’s one thing to read about animal trafficking from far away. It’s quite another to know that someone who wanted your money killed an innocent animal just to play on your sympathies. The duplicity and cruelness of it had my blood boiling. 

He cautioned me not to think too harshly of the people who did this – not because they weren’t stupid and mean - but because they were playing a zero-sum game. Killing wildlife for a quick buck is a short term fix for the long term problem of endemic poverty. Not excusing their behavior, he counseled me to think of it in context. If it went on this way, eventually no monkeys would be left. It was a far bigger tragedy than one baby monkey. And besides, he said, vervets make terrible pets.

I try to think about this in a way that doesn't make me sad, angry or depressed, but I don't get very far. I know this doesn't represent all of Malawi or Malawians, but it reveals another layer of cruelty that I don't often think about. As hard as it is for humans, life here for animals is equally abysmal. I see the bigger picture, but I still kind of wish Kari had a pet monkey right now.

One Man's Trash...

Trash elephant - downtown Livingstone, Zambia

A friend of mine came for a visit during the entire month of June. As she settled into the house, the inevitable question arose around garbage: “Do you have recycling?”

“Yes,” I hesitated, “But not in the way you may think.”

In the west, we are now hardwired to Reduce, Reuse, Recycle. But, the separation of tin cans and plastic and newspaper and soft cardboard that ends up in blue bins doesn’t exist here. What does exist is another, more interesting form, more along the "re-use" spectrum.

Malawians don't typically own a lot of stuff, so what they do have, they treasure. This includes trash. I’ve seen bottle tops wired together to make toys, baskets, plant holders, fridge magnets, trivets. I’ve seen pop cans slit open and hammered flat to make toy cars, notebook covers and house siding. Plastic bags can be woven together to make purses. Plastic bottles, in particular, are most treasured. As a side business, many Malawians make “thobwa” a sweet millet-based beer, or mlambe (baobob) juice, to sell, so these bottles are in high demand.

This type of recycling inevitably creates a weird dynamic for an American expat.  For one, you know without a doubt that your garbage is being gone through on a regular basis. How would your habits change if you knew without a doubt that someone (or perhaps even the whole neighborhood?) was going to see what you threw away? I bet you’d shred a lot more documents. You wrap those maxi pads extra thick. You waste less food.

Lifecycle of a sparkling water bottle: full, empty, and thobwa!

I’ve taken to leaving out bottles I know that my housekeeper will want to use in making thobwa. My gardener wanted to try a terrarium out of wine bottles, so I leave those to slowly become yard art. He also put together the chicken coop from cardboard boxes and plastic garbage bags. It looks kind of like hobo-town around here, but I think it's cool.

I also find myself not throwing things away because I either don’t want someone to find it, or I can’t bear to see that embarrassing thing show up somewhere else (old, hole-y underwear).

What remains is still too much (plastic bags, arg!) but overall, this reuse is kind of cool. It makes you aware of the value of things that we take for granted. The mish-mash of garbage toys and plastic lined thatch houses admittedly contributes to Malawi’s shabby feel, but it’s also a testament of ingenuity, its MacGyver-attitude. 

Work and Culture

Part of my job is giving out government grants. I read proposals, rank them with our team, conduct site visits and pull together all the paperwork (to ensure we’re not giving money to terrorists). There are a ridiculous number of hoops to jump through to get one of these out the door, but I’ve spent the better part of the year getting the system nailed down. I’ve done 13 grants this year, ranging from $100 - $38,000, each requiring about 25 pages of paperwork (no matter what the size).

Recently, I went to see a guy who applied for a grant in Nkhotakota (about three hours from Lilongwe). He owns an agro-vet supply store, filled with chemicals, seed, farming tools, and animal vaccinations. It’s in our project area, deals with vet supplies, and buys seed from my organization’s farmer groups. He’s a good candidate, and I wanted to talk to him about the in’s and out outs of what it means to get a grant from us and what he needs to do (the hoop jumping doesn’t end with me, unfortunately…)

The guy had waited for me, but I was late. I’d been visiting with our admin team, who often need a bit of guidance and direction. In addition to heading up the grants department, I’m also head of Operations and Administration, which means whenever the lights go out, fuel goes missing, guards don’t show up for work or basically someone want to complain, I get involved. It’s frustrating, but I’ve built up a pretty good team. They just need some personal attention and management from time to time.

So, I was late. By the time I got over there, the business owner had left for a funeral. I had no idea whose funeral it was, why he was there or what his role was. It could have been his mother, it could have been his neighbor’s mother. He didn’t tell me he had a funeral to go to; I didn’t tell him I was running late.

When someone in your neighborhood dies in Malawi, you are absolutely required to give a bit of money and conduct visitation, even if you have to take off of work.  In our office, this sometimes causes a problem because four of our staff live in the same neighborhood. If someone dies in their part of town, it basically shuts down our office. However, one apparently faces severe social stigma if this isn’t done. So, I was surprised that he had waited for me.

My colleague offered to go get him, but I was unsure. I find it kind of nice that the whole community is socially obliged to mark someone’s passing and I didn’t want to get him socially ostracized because I was late. As development professionals, we’re told to be as culturally aware as possible. I try- I really do- but I'm learning that this dogma has limits. In this situation, I could come back later (but not too much later, as we still had to drive back to Lilongwe). Further, I didn’t know how long this funeral would take (they often go all day). I hemmed and hawed. I felt guilty for taking the time to help my staff while this guy waited. I should've called.

And then I remembered: I was there to interview him for a $10,000 grant. I was giving money to him. Why did I have to feel guilty? He should've called! If he wanted the money, he would come. Full stop. I didn’t think that taking 20 minutes away from a funeral for $10,000 would cause him too much social stigma.  

Apparently, he didn’t think so either, because he arrived 15 minutes later.

We made it through the interview, but these observations stayed with me as I drove away. It’s important to be culturally sensitive, sure. But why had I so quickly allowed myself to be led into ambiguous and guilt-ridden ether over it? It doesn’t hurt to have my own hard line (which, in this case, turned out to be exactly the right thing). In fact, without doing so, I lose respect for myself. I’m sure others do, too.

It was a banner revelation, and one that feels just a little bit naughty: I didn’t have to constantly bow to culture just because. Not that I’m going to start demanding my own way all the time. We both certainly could’ve communicated better.  But, I also have a right to get my stuff done, too.  I won’t feel guilty or nervous over having those needs. I’ll continue to struggle and learn how to accomplish that is a culture that is not my own, but I will no longer feel bad. 

The Farmers’ Market

Every last Saturday of the month, a farmers' market pops up in Lilongwe at one of the Safari lodges. The lodge is nestled in a quiet knoll of Lilongwe, tucked down a bumpy dirt path through a copse that opens to a clean, grass filled meadow. The lodge boasts a pool, and a bar, and nice restaurant onsite.

During the Saturdays in question, there’s always a brunch buffet on the veranda, which opens into the meadow area where booths are set up, carnival style. If the buffet isn’t your thing, there are usually some school fundraising booths making pancakes or sausage rolls. Booths range from the usual Farmer’s Market fare - fresh produce, home-made salsa, hummus and jam - to knitted scarves, beautifully carved wood furniture and locally made handicrafts. 

All in all, it makes for a nice festive Saturday morning (or, as my college roommate would say “beats a poke in the eye with a dirty stick.”) It’s all very well-organized, booths are spaced out evenly, and you’ll likely have a leisurely chat with some of the vendors about their organic products and run into a few people you know. After a few Saturdays, you tend to note the same vendors, the same scarves and the same handicrafts, but hey, that happens anywhere.

I generally go if I'm around, because it’s something to do (and there is a particular vendor that makes really great homemade hummus.)

The thing that just slays me though, is that up the street there is an actual farmers' market, filled with actual farmers that occurs every day, rain or shine (not just on the last Saturday of the month). It’s loud, dusty, jumbled and right off the highway, overlooking a trash-filled stream. Park your car there, and you’ll be immediately surrounded by hawkers with peddling homemade mops, windshield shiner, and DVDs (ahem, none of them organic).

Walk into the maze of ramshackle vendor stalls and it’s like being sucked into a living organism.  More often than not, I’m swarmed by vendors shouting out their wares, asking what I'm looking for. They either run off and try to find it or, ignoring my shopping list, continue to wave whatever random produce they have to sell. This hassling and hustling is all done while keeping an eye on my purse, squeezing tomatoes, looking for bugs on the cauliflower and testing the pineapples for ripeness (or over-ripeness). Once I’ve found what I’m looking for, next is trying to negotiate a fair price while calculating my desire for the good balanced with its quality. I’ve had some interesting conversations with Malawians in this market, witnessed the ebb and flow of what is seasonally available, and learned about the global fruit trade (much of it comes up from South Africa; I suspect it “falls off a truck” somewhere).

It’s equally fun, but in a much, much different way.

I find it interesting that the two markets could be so close together in proximity and intent, but so far apart in execution. There are obviously many types of marketplaces (Let’s hear it for malls! I am a child of the 80’s after all). But it serves as a reminder to me that we Americans have taken the idea of a marketplace – the very soul of trade – and spun it so far that for most of us, it exists merely as an abstract or virtual concept. We've reduced this age old transaction to the click of a mouse by the aseptic glow of machine that will never know our true desires.

In truth I’ve probably been to the Saturday Farmers' market more times than the other, but I find the local one more exhilarating (and exhausting). Every time I visit that market, I plunge myself into the heart of commerce; jostle, barter and bumble until I emerge, victorious, with something I needed that I did not have before. I've not only purchased my good, I have won it. Now that's shopping!

Customer Service, Malawian Style

Today was one of those days; the kind that can only be ameliorated by meeting a good friend directly after work for a stiff drink.  My friend Elizabeth and I decide on a pub, and show up around 5:30. We can’t decide if it’s open or not, as it’s still early for the dinner crowd, but the light is on and the doors are open. We briefly discuss going to the lively bar next door, but commit ourselves to trying something new and seat ourselves at the empty bar.  There was some movement at the back, so we were reasonably assured that the place was staffed.

Sure enough, soon a short, worried looking Malawian barman scurries over.

“I’m sorry, we have no change.” No pleasantries,no hello. Just: We have no change.

“Huh?” I muster. Then it sinks in. “Uh, yeah, that’s ok,” I say. “We’re just here for a drink.”

He looks at me like I’ve got two heads. “But we have no change,” He insists.

“That’s all right, perhaps we have the exact amount.” I smile at him like he’s a small child and  grab my purse, not knowing what exact notes I might be lurking at the bottom.

A strange look passes his face. He tries again.  “But, the manager has all the change, and he is not here.” He looks very uncomfortable.

Elizabeth and I exchange glances, trying not to laugh. His distress over our possible overpayment is thoughtful…and unnecessary. Any other barman would take our money and pocket the difference. It's sweet, but it looks like we’re going to have to do some serious work to get this guy over onto our side. We’ve committed ourselves to this bar, there is no backing down now. The full bar glows like Brigadoon before us. After a beat, Elizabeth proposes an ingenious idea. “How about we order and perhaps by the time the manager gets here there will be change?”

Sadly, this only confuses the poor chap even more. He is clearly in distress. Why won’t these pushy white women go away? Can’t we see that he’s trying to help us but that there is NO CHANGE? He pauses for a moment before mustering his own solution.

“How about you go next door?”

We laugh. Perhaps he’s right, but once plopped down on the bar stool, I’m too tired to move. Plus, now I’m here for the challenge of getting this guy to serve us. Doesn’t he want our money? After much cajoling, we finally get him to give us a menu, where we see the usual: whiskey, gin, vodka, soda water, tonic and sprite or coke. We decide on a gin and tonic.

Magically, Elizabeth has exact change.

The gentleman is visibly relieved…until five minutes later. He comes back with a grave look on his face.

“Madams,” he intones, “We have no tonic.”

“You’re kidding!” Incredulous, I peer behind the bar. “Let me back there, I’ll help you look.” I’m halfway scrambling over the counter, desperate for a buzz, when he pulls out three mixers from the tepid refrigerator. He can make us a gin and sprite, gin and ginger ale or gin and soda water, but no gin and tonic.

“Bloody hell,” mumbles Elizabeth, and I start laughing. It seems we have committed ourselves to an insane asylum. Game as ever, she looks at me and sighs: “Gin and ginger ale?”

“Blech.” I was desperate, but not that desperate.  “I’ll do a vodka and soda.”

Another long conversation ensues wherein Elizabeth tries to ascertain the price for the imported vodka (to ensure we have correct change), we finally get our drinks. They have the largest single pour of vodka I’ve ever seen, but at this point, I feel like I kind of earned it. 

Later, the manager comes in (with change!). He’s a lovely guy, and the staff clearly adore him. Shortly thereafter, a complimentary basket of deliciously buttered popcorn appears. We left a nice tip for hassling the poor guy so much, but still had to laugh. Such a strange juxtaposition from the market guys who will try to get you to pay for anything! At least I can say, he was very thoughtful about our finances, even if he wasn’t the world’s best businessman. No wonder why the bar was empty!

Riding the Wave

How long does it take for a place to feel like home?

I’ve been asking myself this a lot lately. As it turns out, carving a life somewhere takes time and constant effort.  This may not come as a profound thought to most, but for me – the inveterate extrovert – I’ve always been able to set up a fun community with lots of activities fairly quickly. While this is a component of settling in, I’m always surprised at how hard it is to get that feeling of True Home.  For me, I think this takes about a year, or as one friend put it “Until you come back from a trip and the airport doesn’t feel weird.”

These things shift, of course. They go in waves. Turns out, culture shock doesn’t just apply when you’re moving from Minneapolis to Malawi, but also Saint Paul to Saint Louis Park (just across the river).  The classic culture shock “wave” has five parts. First there’s the Honeymoon stage (yay! I’m finally here!), then the dip (Oh dear, what did I get myself into?), the Initial Adjustment (Ok, this isn’t so bad), the Jaded Comparison/Isolation Period (Things would never be like this where I’m from, Everything Here is Stupid) and finally Acceptance (This is my life now!).

It’s not rocket science, but I didn’t factor in two things: 

1) the distorting effect of Facebook; 

2)   the cycle never really ends;

There are many reasons to dislike Facebook, not the least of which I’ve discovered is the FOMO effect (Fear Of Missing Out). Being able to see what your friends and family are doing, how much fun they’re having in all your old haunts doesn’t help with homesickness. In fact, I think it is actually detrimental to your new life (unless you start copiously adding new friends and begin your own rampant posts…neither are really my style.) Being on Facebook means I can get a quick fix of home any time I want, which is fun (atleast I'm up to date) but sometimes leaves me feeling lonelier more often than is really true, even when I’m having a good time myself. (I say this knowing I’m going to post this article on Facebook…). It leaves me wondering if the culture shock “wave” shouldn’t be updated to include mini waves whenever you log in.

Which brings me to my last point: the “wave” is misleading. It’s not one wave over the course of a year or six months or however long it takes you to feel Acceptance. It’s many little waves, sometimes all in the same day (and sometimes in the minute or two you’re looking at Facebook). Instead of length, I think we should talk about frequency, intensity. You may reach the Acceptance phase, but even within it, there are moments where you want to go back to your previous life. There are even moments where you can still feel isolated. I believe that this adjustment never really ends, it only shallows out.

Given the constant rotation of expatriates on two- three- or four year contracts, the feeling of permanent settlement in Malawi remains elusive. I’ve been here 10 months now, and many of my first round friends are moving on (meaning, I’m going to have to start networking for Saturday night plans again). However, I can tell that the culture shock wave has mellowed somewhat and I’ve come to a sink a little deeper into this life.

The secret, I’ve come to realize, is to hang on when those waves come. Keep busy, keep going. I know I’m making progress because I recently returned from another trip abroad, and arrived back not with trepidation, but curiosity. The airport no longer gave rise to anxiety and anticipation (helped out by the fact that I now have my Temporary Employment permit). Malawi has tipped the scales. It is now more familiar than foreign, more friendly that foe, more homey that homely.

It's about time!

Security

There’s a fine balance to things here, on so many levels.  The idea of Security has most recently been on my mind.  If you believe the talk amongst the expat world, there are gangs of roving thugs with machetes, sticks and rabid dogs just waiting to scale your fence every evening as you slumber.  Seems over the top, and yet, it’s not entirely untrue. A gang of thugs did just rob a man outside my office Wednesday morning and a vigilante mob formed, stoning one of the robbers to death. A crowd gathered to see the body. A naked man was roaming outside my gate the other night; I had to call the security company to haul him away.

I remember coming here as an intern and having the Embassy warn us about packs of wild dogs that roamed the city. You shouldn’t walk at dusk, they warned, you’ll definitely get bit. And yet, the sunshine and the beautiful air – it is irresistible. I walk nearly every night or early morning around my neighborhood, and have yet to get bit. Instead, I’ve gotten to breathe in the frangipani, stretch my legs and release my body from the front of a computer screen. This bit of glory is probably the best part of my day; should I pack up my mental health on the chance that a dog will find me tasty?

It’s good to be aware that these things happen, but I find myself wondering how far is too far - and at what expense? Because this is the first African country I’ve lived by myself in, and most of my life and living situation here is new, everything seems risky. I’m unsure what’s overreacting and what’s…just being cautious.

The unknown is hard, but listening to expat regale stories of kidnappings and snakes in pianos, just feeds my paranoia. I know they are just trying to offer helpful advice (ahem, don’t get a piano), but mostly it comes off as alarmist. My old roommate and I used to call over the top fear-mongering the “Fox News Effect”. As in, the local news segments that started with “What You Don’t Know About Your Shower Could Kill You.” I often walked away from those news shows feeling like ignorance was bliss. Luckily, there’s always someone around who wants to tell you what could kill you. Normally, I’d have enough context to know which to be concerned about, and which to turn off. But here, I don’t have enough experience yet.  

In the meantime, every day I’m pulled between a state of fear to fairly calm. I try to be smart, while not letting the paranoia run my life. I’ve updated my electric fence, gotten a dog, a night guard, put up more yard lights. Most nights, it works – it calms me enough to get me to sleep. Other nights, I’m up every two hours, listening for the naked dude at my gate (and not in a good way), or dreaming of venomous piano keys.

Recently – and I knew it would – my circuits overloaded with anxiety. I was sitting out another power cut, chewing my cuticles over what thing would crawl over my walls now that the electric fence was off, hating the dread in the pit of my stomach.  As the sun set, I watched in fear as the shadows elongated across my porch. A long evening stretched before me, and I mentally began to tick off the places and friends with whom I could seek refuge.

Suddenly, I was sick of feeling this way. I like my house and didn’t want to leave. I realized that I was the only one making myself feel this way, listening to the Fox News of my mind.  Yes, the lights were out, but I had flashlights, water, food. My dog for company. My guard at the gate. I was safe, but making myself feel miserable. By this time, I should know it’s an unrealistic expectation that the lights will stay on all the time. Why was I wasting energy cursing the darkness? 

I got up. Sunset had turned to dusk. A quiet golden light was sifting through the garden. The shadows were still there, but punctuated by the last dying light of day. Enough, I muttered. I opened my gate, stepped out into the road, and headed out for a late evening walk.

Development As Personal

It’s hungry season here in Malawi. The crops are in the ground, giving the land a lush, green atmosphere that it didn't have in the dry season. The maize is looking good, getting quite tall in some places, in others not yet knee high. Everything has the appearance of abundance, but it’s not quite there.  It’s a few months yet to maturity, and you can’t eat appearances.

A few Malawian colleagues were telling me that people often come round to the gates this time of year and ask for food or money. My guard/gardener Dan, who lives on my rented property with his wife and son, tells me some people have been by our house, but haven't seen anything yet. I’m always being asked for money or favors, so things haven’t changed from my perspective.  But I know this time of year, it’s there.

So, it came as no surprise when Dan approached me a few days ago and said he had a few things to chat with me about. When we eventually sat down, he straight out asked if I would give his parents and his in-laws parents each a loan - about $130 (50,000 MWK) each – to buy fertilizer (14,000 MWK or $30/ bag) and get them through the hungry season.

He would give them the money himself, he explained, but he was going to use the small savings we’d started together for him as a way to pay for his school fees. Now, this is an extraordinarily UN-Malawian thing to do, placing himself over his family. It’s also the smart long term choice, in a country where most decisions are immediate at best. We discussed this for a while, and eventually came to the issue of a raise.  When I inherited the house, I also inherited their salaries – about $130/month cumulative. I felt really weird about this at first, but it's actually in line with the national minimum wage standard (that is, ridiculously low).  We agreed on a three month probation period before I would commit to changing anything, and January was the end.

I fundamentally believe that the best kind of development is on the personal level – individuals helping out individuals. Big aid programs have their place, but to overuse a phrase - development is complicated. The simplest way I can think of to help another person is to be a good boss, a good employer, a good friend, or even a kind stranger. This is what makes up the world. In the end, that's all that ever has.

But, in a country where the needs are so great, where does it end? It’s impossible to hand out coins and cookies to everyone. I'd soon have masses at my gate. Now, for those closest to me - Dan and Dorothy -I’ve set up mechanisms: a savings account with matching amount every month, payment of medical expenses for them and their child, free electricity and water, seeds for the garden, chickens. But if you try to do that for everyone, you’ll not only run out of stuff but you’ll also be quickly overwhelmed and burned out. So, where do I draw the line? Aren't his parents part of the "family" too?

The hardest – the absolute hardest part for me being here – is living in the terminally gray unknown. I have no idea where that line is, and I'll be darned if that bugger doesn't also shift around depending on the situation. Being an expatriate, I can afford things that most people here can’t, so I always feel I fall on the much too conservative end of that line. As a friend put it, there will always be a whiff of Expatriate Guilt about my life here. What I struggle with is balancing short term needs with investment in longer term choices and what I think is "right".  Ultimately, only I know the line that keeps me sleeping comfortably at night, and it changes with each raging debate.

In ruminating over this situation, I realized that while Dan was choosing himself over his parents and in-laws (a good thing), he was also transferring that responsibility to me.  Also, I knew there was little possibility of them paying me back, as loans often turn in to “gifts”. I didn’t want my relationship with Dan to sour over an unpaid bill by his in-laws. Even if he couldn’t see it, I could. I had make a distinction that was good for all of us, even at the risk of alienating the people who come into my house daily, and keep watch at my gate.

Although I feel that development is personal, ultimately, I turned down his request for a loan. Instead, I gave him and Dorothy at 25% raise.

This post has taken me days to write, as I sort through the layers of conflicting feelings, trying to put my finger on exactly this grey blob of emotion. Often, that's all I have - just a blob of feeling, that takes unpacking, examining, challenging. I am left wondering what others would've done, if there was a "right" answer here. The only conclusion I can draw is that the longer I stay here, the more my internal compass of what is right and what is wrong is challenged. For whatever reason, I always feel like I come up short, but I am slowly, painfully turning into a truer version of myself. 

A Chronicle of Something Good

Ok, it could be Friday night euphoria talking (I made it!), but it dawned on me during my drive home, that of late, I haven't been focusing very much on the good things here in Malawi. It's been a tough week. Nothing I couldn't handle, but none the less.

I had a discussion with my friend Deb before departing for Malawi about happiness. She was wondering when she's ever be "Happy". I mentioned to her that my thinking on the matter had changed over the years. Happiness isn't a static state; it's more of a fluctuation. One doesn't flatline at happiness; you hover above and below it, like a sound wave or a a frequency. The net effect - the average - is happiness.

With that in mind, the troughs are easier to take because it's only a matter of time before you hit a peak. The problem is that we really only take time to mark the troughs (Ugh! My day was so crappy! My boss did blah blah blah, I feel so fat, etc, etc). So, when we look back at the days, weeks and years, we have a negative reporting bias rather than the average hi's and lo's.

In the spirit of more positive reporting - and just in time for Thanksgiving - here are my positive things about my life in Malawi thus far:

• I have really, really enjoyed re-learning how do cook things from scratch. Hummus, pumpkin pie, salsa, local chicken (with neck and feet stuffed into the rib cage). I am Martha Stewart ON FIRE. I can't wait for Thanksgiving, because I"m planning a huge feast for 12 of my friends. My table is going to be full of fresh flowers from trees in my garden and mismatched plates. It will awesome.)
• The food here is more 'fresh' and 'local' than any hipster could ever dream of. If you don't eat your produce with two days, it will start to rot. Tonight I made salsa from tomatoes that were still warm from being outside, green chili peppers pulled from my friends garden, and coriander/cilantro that still had dirt on it. All the while, chickens were clucking outside my back door. It was the best damn salsa I've ever eaten.
• I love the way things are MacGyver'ed (yes I made up a new verb) around here. It reminds me of being on the farm. Don't have the right size screw? whittle a stick down to the right size. Don't have the right screwdriver? Use a coin. Don't have a bed net frame? Make one out of bamboo. Yeah, the net effect is a little like living in Swiss Family Robinson and usually works only half the time, but it makes me feel so capable. I'm using parts of my brain I never knew existed. I am also really missing duct tape.
• Constant battle with bizarre bugs where I WIN. Last week it was cockroaches, recluse spiders and scorpions. Just two seconds ago, an African centipede (an inch thick and twelve inches long) wandered onto my porch. After freaking out, I deflected it into my garden with a pillow. I am terrified, I am still bigger than these bugs. There's something to be said about constantly facing your fears, and winning (atleast in the bug wars). 
• Instant Community. Expats and Malawians alike. I've met some wonderful people who have accepted me with all my homelessness, larium induced hallucinations and poop stories. There are some co-workers who also don't suck. It's a pleasure to get to know these people, and create a community of my own here.
• The smells. Ok, so I still don't understand how a place with so many flowers can always smell like urine, but for the most part, I enjoy the rich, heady smell of the outdoors.
• I love that it gets light at 5am here. I often get up early and go for a walk. The fact that it is cold and snowy in Minnesota right now isn't lost on me. 
• I am thankful that I my family and friends have been so supportive of this move. I've learned a ton about myself and what it takes to run an office (officeS) in Africa. Growing is painful, but atleast now I know how to fix a generator.

A co-worker of mine back at HQ once said to me, when he first started, "I feel like I should be more busy." I told him not to worry, he would be. Taking the easy days as they come (instead of second guessing them and trying to find busy work), makes the days where you are dogpiled a bit easier. Today wasn't a true "easy" day, but it was "easier." No matter, I'll take it. And now I have a record.

The Big Move

I've moved to Malawi.

This happened about four months ago, and every once and while the enormity of what I've done sinks in. It was a move I contemplated for many, many months, and one that actually took more than a few years to hatch. It was well thought-out, planned. It was the right move.

I'm one of two Deputies, with a triple role of heading up Administrative, Evaluation and Grants components of the project here. It's a big job, but doable. I'm here for two years, but to be honest with you, every day I think about quitting. I liken it to when you start a really good, tough workout. You know you'll like it, once you get into it. But man, those first 20 minutes are hell.

The move itself went pretty smoothly. I still marvel that I was able to sell my house (in one day), inclusive of my cat. I was homeless up until about a months; couch surfing, living out of a hotel, then staying with new friends. The good thing about having a long run up to a big change is that you have time to think you're ready. That I chose to do this, and had thought out all the options, has made the move slightly easier.

I love it here. I love my job, my life. I'm incredibly happy, but it's hard. I'm committed to living in Malawi, in approaching it the only way I know how to tackle challenging things - with my whole self: authentic, clumsy, big-mouthed, frustrated, joyful, curious, messy, hilarious and yes sometimes a bit drunken.

I've also decided to become a writer. After too many years of wanting to do things, I finally see the that isn't enough. My job has taught me that you can be Conflict Expert just by calling yourself the Conflict Expert, so I've decided to call myself a Writer.  As I chronicle my life here, I'm simultaneously (hopefully) evolving into another.

It's nice to have found my voice again.

A Year and Half Later...And Still Malawi

No, I wasn't here the whole time, but it felt like it.

What a year! After losing my literary voice (who was listening? what makes me and what I have to say so important?), seriously considering a move to Peru, choosing Malawi instead, selling my home and moving to Africa - I'm back. 

I'm back to writing, blogging. Back to Malawi.