Five Random Things about Malawi

• The national football (soccer) game is called the Flames. A new stadium is being built for them in Lilongwe.
•  The entire country is about the size of Pennsylvania. It feels much smaller.
•  Potholes seem to get fixed at night, presumably for the least amount of traffic disruption. I’ve only once seen a pothole squad during the day, and it was in the rain (?). No ideas.
• When there is a funeral or traffic disruption, branches are placed across one part of the road as a warning to slowdown.
•  A hyena was recently spotted in the poshest neighborhood of Lilongwe. A hyena!~ In a city~!

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. 

Thoughts About Stuff

On Thursday, my long awaited sea shipment arrived in Malawi. I sold and packed up my house last May. Eight months, two continents, three countries and one very ornery customs agent has transpired since I’ve last laid eyes on it. By this point, I had completely forgotten I even owned most of this stuff, having come up with somewhat suitable replacements for most of the important items.

                                                                                                                                       

As I watched the giant truck pull up and my life unload, I was overwhelmed by my feelings for these Things. See, I never thought I was a person defined by crap I owned (and yes, most of it IS crap). In fact, in the past, when household item would break (vases, lamps, etc) I really wasn’t all the concerned about it. Not because I didn’t like those things (my ex boyfriend once broke a vase that was a cherished gift from my sister), but because they are just Things. Being an adult, I realized it wasn’t the vase I loved, but the hard won relationship with my sister it represented.

I worked hard to cultivate this zen-like attitude towards my possessions. I purposely don’t have the latest tech gadgets (who can keep up?), never shopped more than once every other month for new clothes.  When things broke, I’d shrug my shoulders, clean it up and vow to be more careful next time. I do all this because I want a life and a lifestyle that isn’t defined by ownership, but by relationship. I felt pretty good about myself for this. Smug, even.

Enter, Malawi. For the first six months, I lived out of the two large and one small suitcase lugged from the States. Because of my old attitude towards things, I knew I could do it. It even felt liberating to be pared down to three pairs of shoes.  I was living out my values; making do with what I had. It was freeing, but also left me feeling….untethered. It wasn’t unpleasant, just a bit odd.

So, as that truck pulled up, I found myself enormously grateful. This Stuff, is isn't just Things anymore. These Things represent my Life. My couch provides a safe place to snuggle (along with the quilt my mom and I made together). My soft and smooshy pillows support me as I dream. My bike fills me with joy. I need these things because they represent and make up a part of my life that was missing: comfort, happiness.

Home.

I didn't realize it until Thursday, but this representation of a home (My home) is sorely overdue. This may not seem profound from the outside, but it was a paradigm shift for me. I had ignored and downplayed it for a long time, but stuff does have importance. I’ve flapped in the wind, felt the freedom of temporary things for eight months. It was a gift I’m not sure I’ll ever have again, but I am ready to nest.  I am ready to move into the next phase of this adventure, and bring Home officially to Malawi.  And I needed my Stuff to do it.

Back to the Tropics, or T.IA.

Last week I returned to Malawi from a fantastic trip home for the holidays. After being gone for nearly a month, I was a little nervous for what I would find at home and at work. Everything went fine on the reentry for passport control, and despite one piece of luggage missing from my tight connection in Nairobi, all seemed fine.

It began with the moldy car. I didn't even know this was a thing, but apparently, cloth - and even plastic steering wheels - can grow mold. (Behold the power of tropical weather!) I don't know how water got in the car, because it was in the garage. I guess leaky garage/car roof + hot humid locked small space = moldy seat belts. Slightly mysterious, but still, fine.

Then I woke up the next day with immediate jet lag AND the stomach flu. I don't know what was in my system, but my body wanted it OUT. I don't have any buckets in the house, so I threw up in a bread pan. Then, it was in and out of the bathroom until jet lag got the better of me, and I fell back to sleep.

The jet lag was just....weird. I'm not sure how one wakes up more tired than when they went to bed (8am Malawi team means midnight back home), but I felt like I'd been steam ironed. One part of my brain wanted to get up - I'd slept eight hours - but the rest of me felt like I was under water, or a very heavy rock.

I woke up when my electricity went out, around 10am.  

Ten minutes later it was on. Then it went out

......and stayed out until 9pm.   

At this point, between the mold, the stomach bug, the missing luggage and the electricity, I knew I was back in Africa. I also knew that struggling against it was totally and utterly useless. The best thing I could do was stop fighting, and the let the day (and bug!) run its course.

There's a stupid acronym that expats throw around when things don't go their way: T.I.A (This is Africa). I find it rude and condescending. It seems to be thrown about over even the tiniest infraction, like the waitress not bringing food quickly enough. (Not to mention it could just as easily mean "This Is America"). I rarely - if ever - use it. In this instance though, I found myself thinking "Well, this IS Africa, what did you expect?" and laughing. 

After all, I was home, it was warm and I knew my system would soon rebound. I had just traveled 9,000 miles – when you think about it, it’s kind of foolish to assume you’d arrive no worse for wear, Africa or not.

Being totally unashamed to ask for help, I called my nurse friend Kari. She took me to the airport to retrieve my luggage. Then, I put my to-do list on hold (the mold could wait), left my backs packed and spent the rest of the day watching movies on her couch. 

Surprisingly, I was in fairly good spirits through it all. I think it had to do with coming back rested and relaxed, with a new perspective. I am lucky to get this experience in Malawi, with all its moldy, flu-like symptoms. I am blessed with good people in my life, a job that keeps me on my toes and a good constitution. I may lose this rosy glow (it started to wear off when my stove broke later in the week), but am firm in the perspective that indeed, This is Africa. For better or worse.

Oh, This Doesn't Look Good.

Starting in September of this year, while America was warming up to government shut downs and the roll out of Obamacare, Malawi was already knee deep in its own political upheaval. The Cashgate Scandal has rocked the nation. Billions of kwacha (millions of USD) have gone unaccounted for, seemingly blatantly pilfered from under the Government Accountability Office, both under President Joyce Banda's regime and the previous President. This post by a Malawian blogger provides a great summation of all the drama.

As a result, direct budgetary support by some major external donors (the UK) was suspended this month. There are rumors that this will lead to forex shortages, fuel queues, price hikes in the coming months. This is disconcerting because they are also the leanest months of the year for most Malawians, and this time around, it is also the run up to the May 2014 Presidential elections. This sounds to be like the definition of a tinderbox.

We've already seen the kwacha devalue by nearly a third (it was 330 MWK to $1 when I arrived in July; it's now at 415.) Good if you're holding US dollars, bad if you're not and trying to buy things in kwacha. Basic goods have already gotten more expensive, as the more inelastic goods show us - gas is up by 50 kwacha per liter, and 1/2 dozen eggs went from 390 to 449 MWK.

I recall back in March/April 2012, when fuel queues were long and the country was broiling in protest. We were saved that time around by the precipitous death of the President, and I was personally saved by not living in the country full time. This time though, I'm not leaving. I've made my home here, and I'm a bit nervous about what will happen next. My longer term Malawian friends say that it's par for the course; if not this scandal then another one. One only needs to batten down the hatches, keep your gas tank full and your wits about you.

Regardless, it feels weird to be surrounded by all this uncertainty, kind of like a frog in a pot of water, that may or may not be slowly boiling.

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.

Don't Follow Your Passion, Bring It With You

I've been struggling lately with Big Picture Development Questions.  Like: Am I effective? Is this project even making a difference? And even the more day to day struggles like: Does anybody even care?

I think it comes with the territory when face with complicated approaches that may or may not be working in a culture that you don't really understand. I like to think that I'm good with ambiguity, but a few things have let me down lately where it makes me really doubt if what I'm doing I will stand on its own if I wasn't around to push it forward. These things are small - inconsequential, really - holding Monday morning staff meetings, regularly scheduled vehicle maintenance, getting the generator fixed - but they need doing. I'm getting ready to head on vacation for a month at the holiday season, and I'm seriously doubting that anything will continue when I'm out.

I've seen this before, I've had the conversations with other, wizened, cynical Development workers and let me be clear - I hate feeling this way. What's even more frustrating is that I don't think I've been here long enough to feel this cynical. And really, nothing terrible has happened. I just...for whatever reason, feel kind of blah.

Because I'm conducting an experiment to see how long I can go without television (my sea shipment hasn't arrived yet), I've been doing a lot more reading, a lot of more writing and a lot more navel gazing. I came across this recent TED radio hour about Success (published Nov 1). Mike Roe, the host of Dirty Jobs was interviewed for part of it. He mentioned something that struck a chord with me.

"Follow your passion, that's probably the worst advice I ever got," he said. The idea that passion makes a great career choices is a misnomer. What is more appropriate is finding the job, and Digging In. Don't follow your passion, Bring it With You.  It struck because I realized that as of late, I'd lost my passion for development work. I'm not really energized by any of the daily conundrums put before me (granted, recently they've been more along the variety of how to get a trash bin in the ladies bathroom...not particularly stimulating..)

The same TED radio hour highlighted a school teacher, Angela Duckworth, tenured professor at Penn. She recently got a Macarthur Genius grant to study why some students are more successful than others. What she found was that it wasn't the smartest kids that did the best. It was those who had the most Grit. According to Ms. Duckworth, Grit is the disposition to pursue very long term goals with stamina. Grit is living life like it's a marathon.

Grit. Grit is the voice in your head that says - this is hard, but I'm going to do it anyway.Grit is continuing to smile even when the electrician lies TO YOUR FACE that he will arrive the next morning. Grit is staying late to google the different parts of a generator to figure out if you're being overcharged. Grit is asking the external evaluation firm to revise their qualitative tools yet again, even though you're two weeks behind schedule. Grit is tedium wrapped in faith that one day, something will click.

So this is me. Digging in. I must not have packed my Passion, but I have faith it will come.

Perhaps it's in my sea shipment.

No Strings Attached

I'm beginning to suspect that giving money away is harder than it sounds.

It all started with this NPR piece in August on an organization called Give Directly. This organization has the sexy premise of giving money to Poor People in Africa. That's it. Just giving money away. Gifts range on average around $300, although NPR's piece focuses on $1000.

A few days ago, I came across this article in the Economist, which evaluated the program. I don't have time to recap the whole thing in detail, but in a nutshell - the design of the study was done well (those of my evaluator friends will find that most interesting) and the findings were that - guess what? Poor people in Africa don't all immediately run out and spend their money on banana wine and hookers.

In development speak, we call these Unconditional Cash Tranfers (UCT). A few years ago, Conditional Cash Tranfers (CCTs) were really popular. That is, you give someone money but they have to do something, such as agree to send their girls to school, etc. These are widely popular as incentive programs (and also popular with economists).

Unconditional Cash Transfers kind of go against the grain of development work because most of us are beholden to donors (and taxpayers) that want Accountability, and to some extent, the Good Glow effect. That is, they want to know how and where their money was used so they can  justify to Congress where the money went; or as individuals, feel good about doing something nice for someone.

Makes sense, right? Why would you give something away without knowing how it is used? I mean, what if those resources get misused? (Like spend on - gasp - Overhead? Or banana wine and hookers?)

All of this talk of 'Unconditional Cash Transfers" got me thinking about giving away money, why and how we do it. The more I think about it, the more caught up I am in the term "unconditional". Is anything really unconditional? Think about it, even when you give money to a charitable organization in the United States, aren't you expecting something back (say, at the very minimum, a tax break)?

Giving something away unconditionally (otherwise known as "giving something for nothing") is harder than it sounds. No expectations. No returns on investment. No judgement. And, if you don't know how they spent or used it, then there's not even the warm fuzzy of knowing unequivocally that you did a Good Thing. Looking more closely, being able to give something unconditionally means you set aside your expectations and even your own Good Glow. Giving unconditionally means that you give simply because it is right, or because you are able, because you feel compelled.

And for no other reason.

I'm not arguing against accountability. Far from it. What I'm saying is that when you do something nice for someone - you want that little ego boost of seeing it be used - and used in a manner that falls in line with your values. But it's human nature to want to tie strings to something we give - whether it be operational or emotional. So, while I'm not against Unconditional Cash Transfers, I'm asking: does that really exist?

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. 

Peaceful Malawi..no More?

Today was a first for me. It was the first time I've had to close down an office because of an escalating security situation. In hindsight, I definitely made the right decision, but it has been an incredibly interesting and eye-opening experience.

Earlier this week, a prominent member of the opposition party, Atepele Muluzi (also, son of the former president) was arrested. He is/was being held in the prison which is very close to our office (recent reports are that he was moved to a local hospital for high blood pressure). This afternoon, over 200 people (opposition supporters) gathered at the prison gate late today, and were demanding his release. Not much of a big deal, right?

Malawi in generally a peaceful country, but for those of you who haven't been following my facebook posts, it has devolved significantly in the last few months. A zero-deficit budget passed by the ruling party has left the country with little foreign exchange to import much needed goods (fuel, TONIC for all that gin..) Last July 2011, protests against the increasingly austere environment suddenly got nasty, with reports of 18 deaths. The current President, Bingu Wa Mutharika, is reliable mostly for his outbursts in the press, recently telling all non-governmental organizations to "go to hell"' and sniping that the the world bank representative that was sent to meet with him was "too junior."

All of these things are interesting in the abstract. But seeing them played out in real life is almost surreal; I'm surprised at how easily a difficult environment becomes, well - NORMAL. Getting fuel means our drivers have to sit in long fuel lines, our accountant has to harangue the bank for foreign currency (last week, it took two days to get $200, and even then they only gave it to us in euros...). Leaving the country last fall, I got on the airplane to Nairobi and was told that our entire flight had been re-routed to Lusaka - because there was not enough jet fuel to get to Nairobi! Now, I'm thinking I might not even get to Nairobi, as Kenya airways has cut back their flights to and from Malawi.

Fast forward to last week. A Public Affairs Committee (PAC) made up of civil society leaders held a conference in Blantyre, which closed by calling for the President to resign in 60 days, and a referendum in 90. I haven't yet pieced together the rest of the story entirely, but from what I understand, members of the opposition tried to hold a rally on Sunday in Lilongwe (of which Atepele was a part) that turned violent. So, when he was arrested heading back to Blantyre on Tuesday, the situation was, as my office mate Jeff described: "emotive."

I didn't know much of this before 1pm today, but trust my co-workers, who alerted me to the fact that people were streaming in along the road which was our only exit. I understand the power of crowds, and I have no desire to be around them. After a quick discussion regarding the weekend's events (I knew about the PAC meeting), and a call to the Country Manager (who was in Blantyre, and agreed with our assessment), we alerted staff through the emergency phone tree and shut the doors. The road was abnormally busy - and my colleague pointed out some plain clothes police officers and other officials - but there was otherwise blissfully uneventful, and short.

I've been safely ensconced at home since 3pm. I'm getting periodic texts about tear gas around town, and the roundabout near our office did indeed close down around 5pm. All the staff that were in the field are now home, and vehicles are safely stowed. What's interesting is how calm everything is (I'm sitting here watching "What Not to Wear", thankful that the electricity has stayed on all evening) but also tense. I've a greater appreciation for how things can escalate quickly, without one really understanding how, and feeling powerless to change the outcome.

Malawi Round 4: March 2012

I have been accused of not keeping this blog up to date, and it’s true. I’m not traveling any less; I just find that I have less to say these days, and even less to share. That this is a completely self-centered exercise is not lost on me. But my family keeps insisting and I’ve got some time on my hands, so here you go:

Here is what I want tell you about Malawi:

It’s rainy season. It was just getting started back in December, and I didn’t really face the full brunt of it. But now, oh now: it’s glorious. The world is green, the maize is high. Every day a beautiful cool, sunny morning dawns with large puffy clouds. By noon it is raining grey buckets, so loud against the tin roof of our office building that it is hard to hear so we fall silent, tapping away at our computers. It tapers, and in a few hours the skies clear again. By 5pm I am taking my evening stroll around the block, tracking red spots of clay onto my pant legs and toes. The evening is usually clear, cool. I sleep like child underneath a bright blue bed net, windows, open surrounded by the smell of freshly washed juniper bushes.

This time around I am staying in a two bedroom flat, not bigger than my own condo. It has a little yard with – I just noticed this – two clumps of lettuce and a small tomato plant growing in it. My first three days here I didn’t have electricity from 7-9pm and the TV only got four channels: TV guide, the All Koran-reading Channel, Closed Circuit Chinese Television and South African Mathematics. I also discovered that I mis-packed an important cord for the external CD drive to connect to my computer, so no movies, and the internet was only available by dongle, which my corporate computer wouldn’t let me download the software for. So, I read an entire book and went for two very long walks.

During the week, I get picked up at 8am by the Country Manager who is an ex Seattle-accountant turned Peace Corps volunteer. While I am here I am his front-woman from headquarters, answering questions he would normally put in emails to us, explaining esoteric policies that, while they have purpose, have no defendable logic behind them when dismantled by the agile mind of an adult male.

We work until the work is done, often until about 8pm. It’s nice to feel a sense of accomplishment, and I don’t mind working hard. It’s also nice to work with a Country Manager who enjoys their work so much and is straighforward in his requests and follow ups. I read through and organize the feedback from six people on a 114 page End of Program evaluation in just two days. I get to listen to a radio program (in Chichewa) reminding our farmers to provide clean water to their cows regularly. Plus, each day I get to interact with new and old staff who are such lovely people, working with them is a joy.

Over the course of the week, things started to look up. The electricity stays on from Wednesday onward. Our team goes for margaritas on Friday. I got my variable pay (bonus) notice from HQ. My internet connectivity issue improves. I get better television (I am embarrassed at how much these things mean to me), including TLC - which I don't even get a home! I learn how to “top up” my electric meter (it’s pre-paid!) so that I only have to worry about government blackouts, not self-made ones. I’ve discovered that the key is to stay calm, be patient and ask questions.

Malawi is starting to feel like home.

I am Vincible.

Normally, my body has no problems with travel. Cram me into the smallest seat, feed me the scariest looking food, blast me with air conditioning, steam me with humidity - I typically take it like a champ. Due to my upbringing near the edge of the universe and multitude of hours spent at the mercy of tedious church sermons, I have a preternatural ability to hibernate with my eyes open. And, for the most part, I have been lucky. My body can generally bounce back.

Unfortunately, I knew my luck had to run out eventually. What I didn’t know was that my luck would run out ALL at ONCE, creating Job-like suffering (see mom, I was paying attention) that has hilariously, lasted nearly my entire trip to Rwanda.

First came the cold. The morning I was to get on two trans-continental flights, I woke with a face full of goo. I loaded up on Dayquil, Nyquil, extra soft travel packages of Kleenexes and steeled myself for the hateful glances. No one likes to sit next to Typhoid Mary on the plane; I knew I wouldn’t be making any friends.

But oh, the pain.

Takeoff wasn’t so bad, as I remembered to take Dayquil. But you tend to forget how many hours have passed, and I failed in my timing of the second set of pills (also – does one take Nyquil as it’s 12am at your starting point, or Dayquil, because it’s 6 am at your landing? You tell me). I gave up around the time I was delirious with pain and opted just to cradle my face in my hands. When we finally landed, the nice Ethiopian guy across the way put his hand on my shoulder and said “Would you like a Dayquil?”

Yes, please.

A long hot shower in Amsterdam made me feel human again, as did fishing out the rest of my cold medicine and taking a double dose. I managed to make it to Rwanda without popping an eye.

Three days later, while crouching on the toilet at 4am trying to read an expose of the American Funeral industry (no lie), I would think fondly of that pain. Having emptied my stomach of all its contents, I was at the point where throwing up felt good. At least then I could crawl back to bed and get twenty minutes of sweaty rest before it started all over again. This was not exquisite pain; it was knife-slicing, from my sternum to colon.

I have had food poisoning before, so I knew it was only a matter of time before the worst would pass. So, each time the pain washed over me, I kept calm, counted the seconds and tried to move as little as possible. I made it to 5:00am, and finally fell asleep. I woke up two hours later, knowing I felt better (because hey, at least I rested longer than twenty minutes), but still with intermittent pain. Luckily, it was raining – and Saturday – so I had nothing else to do. The rest of the weekend was dry toast and juice and bad movies, with a healthy dose of antibiotics - which had been waiting at the bottom of my medical kit, blissfully unexpired.

As if that ordeal weren’t enough, I woke up yesterday plagued with bug bites. There’s no bug net to speak of in my hotel room, and I didn’t think much of it, until I realized that due to my earlier illness(es), I had forgone taking any malaria pills (why poke an already upset stomach?). As a result, I may be able to add malaria to my list of ailments. Or bed bugs.

Oh please, don’t let it be bed bugs.

So, right now I sit, covered with cortisone cream and Benadryl, ready to get on a plane for home. I am kind of half expecting another minor calamity; perhaps locusts to fall from the sky, or more realistically – lice from airplane pillows. On the other hand, things come in threes - and I feel like I've met my quota.

Never again will I feel cocky about my ability to go anywhere, eat anything. I get the message, Universe. I am not invincible. As it turns out, I am very, very vincible.

About Skin

Today, I had a series of conversations with a Rwandan colleague regarding our skin anomalies. I've appreciated getting to know this colleague, and I believe we've reached a level of candor that proves she trusts me, and vice versa. Nonetheless, it's been a learning experience for both of us.

Colleague: Do you have a mosquito net?
Me: Yes.
Colleague: You should use it. Your face looks like it was bitten.
Me: Ah, no, That's a pimple.
Colleague: A pimple?
Me: Yes, a pimple.
Colleague: But you have another one, here (points to forehead).
Me: Yep, that's a pimple, too.
Colleague: Oh.
Me: That's the problem with white skin. Everything shows up. Look at these. (I show her the moles on my arms)
Colleague: Ooo what are those?
Me: Moles
Colleague: Can you put lotion on them and make them fade?
Me: No, not really.
Colleague: (pauses while she thinks about my pockmarked, zit-filled and moley-skin)
Me: (trying not to show her the skin tag on my neck, too)
Colleague: (Thoughtfully) Yes, nothing really shows up on dark skin.
Me: Can we trade?
**********************
Later on, in the car, I notice a nickel-sized scar on her arm.
Me: (touching her arm) What happened here?
Her: I got cut.
Me: You got cut?
Her: Yes, during the genocide.
Me: .......Oh.
Her: Many people were cut, like on their heads and other places.
Me: (kind of wishing we were still talking about my pimples...)
Her: I am lucky.

A Killer Lake = a Killer Weekend

God bless the internet, it lets me keep in touch with all the great people I've met from around the globe. A woman I met in Sri Lanka two years ago has recently relocated to Rwanda, and we've reconnected while I'm here. In fact, she kindly extended an invitation for me to join her and some friends a Lake Kivu this weekend. Let's hear it for making awesome friends!

Lake Kivu sits between Rwanda and the Democratic Republic of Congo. "Kivu" actually means Lake, so the lake is effectively called "Lake Lake" (much like East Timor is really called "East East"). There's some remark to be made hear about duplicity in English naming conventions, but I'll let it lay. I'm not sure how big (on what scale) size-wise it is in the world, but it's quite deep and holds the 10th largest island.

But that's not the coolest part - according to our friends at Wikipedia, Lake Kivu is one of the worlds "exploding lakes" . Because it sits on one of Africa's seismic hotspots (the Rift Valley), Lake Kivu is sitting on enormous amounts of volcanic gas - mostly made up of methane and CO2. Scientists are afraid that triggers, such a landslides or seismic shifts, can upset the delicate balance of CO2 in the lake, causing it to reach saturation point and one day release enormous clouds of the stuff into the air. (It's happened two other times - in different lakes). As we've learned from climate change 101, massive amounts of carbon dioxide, of course, are suffocating. So far, nearly 2,000 people have died from other lakes - the time is ticking on Lake Kivu (which has many, many more people living around it).

Luckily, none of this happend while we were there. But still, the concept of a killer lake is pretty cool.

There are may points on the lake for visitors, but we chose to stay in Kibuye. The drive from Kigali is about two hours, on good - but windy and mountainous - roads. We left the capital city and found our way north-west, past mud homes chiselled into the hills, scraggly maize plants fighting for height, and streams of pedestrians. The weather has been hazy, with intermittent showers that kick up pollen (causing my nose to go haywire), but the sun peeked out now and again, welcoming us up north.

The lake itself is a deep teal, and surrounded by steep hills (much like all of Rwanda!). I hear there are beaches in Gisenyi, another point along the lake, but in Kibuye the shores are rocky, and covered in what looks like white-washed volcanic stones. The weather is cloudy, grey, but still warm - and still better than Minnesota.

We arrived mid-afternoon at the Bethane Presbyterian Lodge. For $10 a night, we each got a lockable room, twin bed, commode toilet, clean towels and a mosquito net. While waiting out (another) intermittent (and hardpouring) rainstorm, we had a late lunch (fish kebab and chips) and some enormous Primus beers. After the rain lifted, we wandered down to the shore and hired a boat to take us out to Amhoro ("Peace") Island, where we met Mama Josephine, and had sundowner beers on the beach. (I also got chased by a cow).

Dusk fell like a fleece blanket, warm and comforting. Too cloudy for stars, we hung on to the receding sunset, chatting and thinking about life. After the last light had leeched from the day, we headed back to the Bethane, lulled by the dull roar of the outboard motor.

More beer and some public readings of "Auntie's Guide to Being an Obedient Wife" left us in stitches until bedtime (some highlights include: 'don't mess with Rastas' and 'All young women are shameful'.) In the morning, we had continental breakfast on the terrace (during another intermittent rainstorm). After breakfast, we explored the other areas around the Lake and had lunch at the Cormoran Lodge. We were back in Kigali in time to catch some late afternoon weekend sun at the (normally non-lethal) pool.

Rwanda part deux

This will come to no surprise as avid readers, but I'm back in Rwanda. I kind of stopped posting about my travels, mid-to-end of last year - when my life stopped resembling a 'life" and more like a pinball machine of the African continent.


Although its had its ups and downs, my job continues to surprise and invigorate me - as well as as frustrate and abuse me. I guess it's not unlike any other long-term relationship; there are hard times, but you stick it out because overall, it's a stable, mutually beneficial relationship.

I was kind of on the fence about coming back to Rwanda this time mostly because a) last time was so ridiculously stressful, and b) I'm kind of over the hard-work thing. But then I land here and I deplane - right onto the tarmac just like in the movies - and the rainy fog envelopes me, rich and heady with the smell of lush greenery. I'm hooked, again. I'm a user. I'm addicted to - travel? Africa? I'm addicted to something, because I keep finding the energy to come back.

I'm not sure if I'm world-weary (or even old enough to be world weary?), but I'm certainly not as excited about things as I used to be. The bloom is off the rose, so to speak. I hate that that would be the case, because life is so fully of interesting and unique experiences, who am I to grow tired of them? But I am. I'm tired of those crappy airplane meals, working out in hotel rooms and not being what anyone every expected of me - and not what I expected of myself.

These feelings keep coupling with the thought - when will my life start? Today, I walked onto the verandah during a massive downpouring rainstorm, and watched people struggle uphill getting soaked, thinking "Where is the beginning? When does my story begin? When will my life have meaning?"

I admit, this probably sounds ridiculous to most people. From the outside, I'm sure it seems like my life has taken a roaring jump. And, even in writing it, it sounds like something a person of privelige (and anxiety) would thing about. But I can't shake this sense that I'm still waiting around for something.

I don't know. I don't know when life becomes habit. I'm not sure where my biographer would pick up my storyline - if at all. I am happy with my life here, now. I have interesting friends. I go interesting places. I do interesting work. I don't see what the "more" might be - but it's out there, lurking. And for now, I don't know what I'm waiting for, but I'm a bit bored for it to show up.

Some General Observations

Some general observations about being my current age:

• being comfortable in my own skin
• being painfully aware of the "should's" - be married/have kids/house/career
• old enough to get drunk with South African miners...
• smart enough to leave before things get rowdy
• young enough to remember child-like joy, only now over a delicious cup of coffee
• young enough not to have been anywhere when Kennedy was shot
• old enough to realize the new Kennedy question is where you were on 9/11
• old enough to remember when the most sophisticated thing on a computer was "Word Munchers" and "Oregon Trail"
• young enough that my mom expects me to know how HTML
• old enough to suspect that everything I'm going through is only new to me
• realizing the universe will more me forward anyway, just like it has everyone else
• having time only for really superb people
• forgetting about people who aren't
• wearing sunscreen
• eating lucky charms and watching cartoons on Saturday morning
• while simultaneously rebalancing my retirement portfolio online
• remembering to check the air pressure in my tires
• worrying about my parents age
• being able to dance until dawn but realizing, There Will Be Consequences
• paying my own way
• having "my drink"
• fielding embarassing, inappropriate questions. All the time.
• really, really, really empathizing with Bridget Jones
• laughing continously, mercifully and un-, at myself
• having people wonder what is wrong with me
• half-heartedly wondering myself
• wise enough to value time sitting still
• while still itching to keep moving, growing, learning and conquering

Failure

My friend Julia gave me a one-a-day desk calendar for Christmas. It has inspirational quotes. She has the same one; the idea being that when we would read the daily quote, we'd not only feel inspired, but also think of each other. Nice, huh? She's like that.

Anyway, so far it's worked. However, something happened on Tuesday morning which made me pause for more than thought. Tuesday's quote was:

"Failure is Impossible" ~Susan B. Anthony.

No offense to Ms. Anthony, but I was not inspired. In fact, I immediately thought of cases where failure itself was not only possible, but giant, flame-loads of it had come shooting out of my ears. Some work assignments I've had this past year. That time I moved to Japan. My last relationship.

In fact, sometimes, I'm pretty sure I'm walking around with a big FAIL on my forehead.

Then I thought about it awhile longer: perhaps that failure was only IN my head, not on it. When I reflected on my percieved failures, I see upsides. I _love_ Japanese food. Because of my year, I have earned an ease with chopsticks and sushi houses that amazes (or intimidates?) a string of terrible dates. I've learned a slew of things that, without failure, would've never known.

In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I realized that the times I've truly failed, were actually, kind of, WINS. I guess I can see what Ms. B is driving at - failure IS impossible depending on your perception.

So, while I still disagree, perhaps her quote just needs to be tweaked a little bit:

"Failure is necessary". ~Mtanga.

////Tomorrow I'm hoping for a less thoughtful, more instructive quote, such as "Don't eat that entire jar of pickled asparagus." In which case, though, it might be too late.

Stickin' It To The Scale

Returning from Zambia/Washington DC, I vowed to get my life back on more of a "regular" schedule. It may be just my personal outlook, but spending a month sipping (draining?) g&t's and inhaling carbohydrates is more therapeutic than healthy. So, upon returning home, I made a conscious effort to eat better, take some more challenges classes at the gym (spin, zumba, etc) and hopefully, lose a little weight.

Initially, I was pretty excited. I arrived home energized, loving my new classes. I felt strong, capable, empowered. It didn't matter that I didn't know the steps. I danced in between a barefoot pregnant woman and an octogenarian. They didn't care; I didn't care. My butt didn't look as good as the guy in the spandex pants during spin class, but what did it matter? I was sweating too much. And I had a stupid grin on my face the whole time.

I thought for SURE that my new found joy would find its translation on the scale.

Ahem.

So, what did it matter? Why was I so upset by this? I still had access to the sauna. That dude in the spandex pants' butt still looked pretty good.

But I began noticing (re-realizing?) that I am a terrible dancer. The spin instructor plays Coldplay - for everything, even the uphill parts (seriously? who gets energized by "Yellow"?) Then it snowed. I got a blister. Who can haul themselves to the gym when the couch is such an appealing option?

"What is the point?" I groused to a friend, "If I watch what I eat, I stay the same. If I eat whatever I want, I stay the same. I'm staying on the couch."

My friend replied not unsympathetically: "What are you doing trying to lose weight during the Holidays anyways? Do you like being set up for disappointment?"

During one particularly snowy weekend on the couch, I rented a documentary entitled "America: The Beautiful". It was about the extreme lengths that American women go to - from plastic surgery to injecting ourselves with known poisons. The lose storyline followed a young girl, a super-model at 12 who by 14 was CONVINCED she was ugly. At six feet tall, pug-nosed, blue eyed, dark skinned, she is the closest thing to 'gazelle-like' I can imagine. It was absolutely heartbreaking to watch.

As I put two-and-two together, I realize that its not the scale's fault that I've begun a long-term relationship with my couch. We all start out so blissfully unaware - of our beauty, our capability, even our joy. Then someone or something comes along and we let it tell us otherwise.

And I don't like being told what to do. Even (especially?) by inanimate objects.

Reverse self-psychologizing? You bet.

I'm not about to run out and replace my diet with candy and fried chicken (fried chicken candy? am I onto something here?) but I'm through beating myself up over an inanimate object. I enjoyed Christmas and all its offerings, guilt-free. I am not in danger of becoming morbidly obese from some Dove chocolates. Especially in the "post-Christmas" season when every commercial makes it sound like you're one step away from the Biggest Loser, I think its important to keep reminding ourselves of this.

Do what you love. At the risk of riffing from Michael Pollan's tagline brevity; "eat some, move some more, mostly cardio."

Tonight I went to the gym and ignored the scale like all the cat hair in my car. Tomorrow, I will be back dancing next to that barefoot pregnant woman.

Then I will have chex-mix for dinner.

///and be allllllright.

The Meaning of Christmas

Last night, after all the toddlers and babies and grandparents and sisters and brothers-in-law went to bed, I sat as I normally do: by myself, in the dark, quietly soaking in the lights of the Christmas tree. I was tired - it's been a long year - but got to thinking about the Meaning of Christmas.

The Meaning of Christmas is:

• listening to kids at the mall
• paying $9.99 to see Santa (??)
• watching any and everything being turned into That "Perfect" Gift (a roadside sign on the way home: Give the only gift with taste - a Subway Gift card!....) (sheeesh)
• an enormous. exhausting emotional investment
• wondering why you and your sister can get along perfectly in your own houses, but the moment you're back at your parents, everything she does is annoying.
• seeing old friends and laughing until soup comes out your nose
• being hopeful for the new year
• Feeling guilty, fat and/or alone - atleast once, however briefly. Perhaps all three. Hopefully not on Christmas eve.
• Dealing with it, as a matter of course. Just because it's Christmas, doesn't mean life isn't happening.
• witnessing your family growing and changing
• taking crazy photobooth photos at the mall with your dad
• finally having an occasion to wear those tacky socks
• Andy Williams
• expecting to relax
• being surprisingly irritated - at bad drivers (do they get worse at Christmas, or is it just me?) or at everybody
• finding room to forgive yourself for real or imagined flaws
• giving that same grace to everyone else (including those wicked drivers..)
• letting it ride
• Bailey's
• seeing everyone around the beautifully decorated Christmas table for one more year, the same way we've done it for the past 31 years, and wondering what the next year will be like.