The Rest of the Story: Malawi Elections 2014

On May 20^th, Malawi went to the polls for its fifth ever democratic elections. However, for the first time they would vote on three levels – local, parliament and presidential. It was my first time witnessing an election overseas, and it was incredible. First, I found it amusing that among the candidates for president were:

                a) the current president,

                b) the former president’s brother,

                c) the other former president’s son, and

                d) an unknown pastor.

This gives you an idea the small pool of the intellectual elite and politically connected families in the country. There was lots of speculation in the run up to the big day, lots of preparation of 'security plans' and phone trees, speculation of rest or unrest. The only thing that happened was the day before voting, a rumor circulated in Lilongwe that some ballots were “pre-checked” for the current President, Joyce Banda, so a District Commissioner’s office that had these alleged ballots was vandalized. 

Despite the rumor, Tuesday the 20^th dawned clear and crisp. In my area of Lilongwe, the polling station opened on time (6am) and by the time I went to work (7:45), my gardener, Dan, and his entire family, had already been to vote and returned with purple fingers. So far so good.

However, some polling stations in Blantyre and other areas didn’t have the correct materials (pens, ballot papers, plastic ballot boxes) so they didn’t open on time. In fact, some didn’t open at all. Long queues snaked throughout the village and people waited patiently, and then, not so patiently. A few (maybe 8?) polling stations were trashed. News of this rippled through the expat community via texts and emails as “There’s unrest in Blantyre. Stay home.” As a result, the Malawi Electoral commission (MEC) extended voting into Wednesday, and then into Thursday.

My offices, like many others, were closed that day. We let everyone work from home so they could go vote. It wasn’t a national holiday, but it felt like it, as the streets were subdued. After taking out some security money, filling my gas tank and finding my passport, I went over to a friend’s house to watch it all unfold. My day was spent checking emails, the local Malawi Broadcasting channel and watching movies. 

The next day I awoke to an email from my boyfriend with a link to an Al Jazeera headline – Riots Mar Malawian Elections. Riots? You mean the polling station unrest? I found that more than a little odd. Yes, there was some damage, but there were 4500 polling stations overall. This happened in only a few. While I realize that even a few is a bit of an anomaly in the West, was it overall unsafe? No. 

Everything was still unfolding, so our offices decided to open – even if everyone huddled around their radios to hear the latest unofficial results. Of the four major presidential candidates, the president was in a distant third. By Friday, the former president’s brother and the unknown pastor were in a statistical dead heat. The Malawi Electoral Commission had eight days to announce the winner. It felt like the 2000 US Presidential elections all over again.

And then things got interesting.

On Saturday, President Banda got on the radio and unhelpfully announced that by Constitutional authority, she was declaring the elections null and void. New elections, on ALL levels, would take place in ninety days. She declared that she would not run again.

I thought this was hilarious. What constitution would allow for the current President – or any President for that matter – the ability to nullify elections? What would prevent them from exercising this right when they didn’t win? Seemed like an egregious overreach of power. Luckily, the courts thought the same thing. Even more luckily, the constitution doesn’t actually say that. Again, this was picked up by the international media.

The situation over the weekend was stable, but tense. The streets were quiet, but rumors of riots still circulated. Apparently some shops were smashed in the Old Town Area 2 of Lilongwe, and in some of the outlying neighborhoods. The tension was palpable, but strangely, my life went on as normal. I went back home. Avoiding Area 2, I nipped out to the local grocery store, got money from the ATM and filled my gas tank – just in case I had to make a break for the border.

I’ve never encountered a situation like this; where you don’t really know what’s happening. Danger could be lurking right around the corner, or not at all. It was interesting to see what different policies organizations had. For almost all companies, it was business as usual. Embassies and the UN were kept on high alert and told to stay home. A few friends were booked rooms by their organizations at the nicest hotels in town for extra security. The US Embassy issued a statement to all Americans that we should avoid demonstrations which, for the most part, never materialized. I stayed with friends and then, eventually moved home.

It was so odd, being on High Alert, but not knowing for what. I felt a little bit like a lobster in water, not knowing if it was suddenly getting hotter. The mind game was intense, but also, strangely easy to forget. The sun kept shining, the world kept rolling. My toilet needed fixing; the electrician had to come rewire my refrigerator socket. I ran out of milk.  My organization kept monitoring the situation but by the following Monday, we were basically back to work as normal. 

That same Monday, MEC filed a request to have their 8 day requirement extended to 30-days for a manual recount. Apparently, while votes are counted by hand at the polling station, they are aggregated at the district level. These aggregates were then fed into the MEC system. There were allegations of tampering at a few of the District level stations with the tallies. While this may be true, a friend of mine who was an EU election monitor mentioned that they weren’t using calculators to tabulate the results at many polls, so it could just as likely have been mathematical errors over anything else.

There were a few more protests, most notably one in the city of Mangochi on Friday where an opposition party demanded a recount, burned tires and one unfortunate person was shot and killed. However, we’ll never know what a recount would bring because, as it turns out, the MEC request for an extension was denied (or rather, never really responded to as the judge in the matter recused himself). They were forced to announce their results late Friday evening, May 30^th.  With 36% of the vote, the winner is 74 year old Peter Mutharika, brother to the former President Bingu Mutharika, who died unexpectedly in April 2012. The new President was sworn in on Saturday, with his official inauguration the following Monday, nearly two weeks from election-day.  For us in the United States, this is a quick turnaround, but for Malawi – what a ride!

Despite all the tension and not-knowing, I’m glad I was here to witness how another country handles elections. I walked away impressed with the integrity of the Electoral Commission, who despite it all, kept cool, calm and collected. Their announcements were always very measured, while the local media tended towards the incendiary. I was impressed on how educated everyone seemed to regarding the Constitution, what was allowed, what laws meant and didn’t mean. The level of engagement was exciting. I was even impressed that Joyce Banda, despite throwing a few curve-balls in the beginning, handed over power peacefully.

The international media, for the most part, kept reporting on what Joyce Banda was doing, even though she was sidelined early on (both by her clear lagging in the polls, and by the Judicial branch). There seemed to be a perception from the outside that all was in chaos. While it was messy, it could’ve been worse. For me, the most interesting part was how the international media kept reporting in broad strokes, instead of any hard hitting detail. But then, as a friend reminded me, Malawi was lucky to be in the international media at all, even if it was slightly misinformed.

As Paul Harvey used to say: 

And now you know…the rest of the story!

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!

Time

This morning, I told my friend Premila over our mosaic projects that I was having serious questions about what I was doing here in Malawi. As I watch all my friends on Facebook having first (and second…and third) kids, I’m sitting here, at 34 with a great guy waiting for me back home. What was I doing? What am I getting out of this experience except exposure to malaria and frustration? And having the occasional naked guy running loose in front of my house?

Of course, I know the answer to this, otherwise I wouldn’t be here: I’m here for the experience of living in Africa, helping others, career advancement, adventure and the ability to pad my savings. I’m here because it means I’ve committed myself fully to my career goals; I’ve resisted convention; I’ve overcome the trap of the cube walls. I get to see a baboon run on the roof of the lake cabin. I get to feel proud about doing something hard. I get, in some small way, to help farmers. It means, it means…so much.

But Premila added another one to the mix, one that I had tangentially identified but hadn’t really grasped.

Time, she said, this place gives you time.

What? Time is what I don’t have, I exclaimed. Did you not hear the part about me being 34 and childless? I’m wasting the twilight of my childbearing years gluing glass shards to a plywood board.

She laughed, and then elaborated. In America, we are so busy, we don’t have any space to enjoy what we have. When I was living in Michigan, she said, it was all my husband and I could do to get our daughter to and from daycare, take her home, wash her, feed her, and put her to bed. We never had any energy just to _be_ with her. Here in Malawi, we have a live in nanny. Suddenly, all those things are gone. We enjoy the best parts of each other.

Also, she continued, there is too much to do in America. What is there to do in Malawi?  There are limited amounts of things to drag my daughter to (birthday parties, dance lessons, etc). As a result, we stay home and watch movies or play board games. You know, Quality Time.

I thought about myself. Since coming here, what have I done? Learned rugby. Taken a painting class. Attended home-made costume parties. Watched several sunrises. Learned how to make hummus. Listen to innumerable TED talks. Looking back at that list, it sounds like I’m at summer camp.

Of course, I could do any and all of those things in America, but I don’t. Premila was right. With more distractions at my disposal, I would usual wile away a Saturday afternoon being “productive”, e.g running errands, cleaning house and watching TV. I still do those things here, but they somehow don’t take as long.

We don’t do well with extra time in America. I think it makes us nervous. I remember when I first experience the abundance of time in the United States; it was terrifying. I was a freshman in college, and had just gone from the highly structured high school to the optional class going liberal arts curriculum. Without distraction, my mind picked at silly anxieties until they bled. What if I failed? What if I got the freshman 15? What if my parents died? What if I ran out of money? As that first summer post freshman year inched closer, I dreaded the void of long summer days with nothing to “do”. Frantically, I filled my time working two jobs. Even surrounded by co-workers (and roommate in a studio apartment) the summer passed slowly in an endless chatter of anxiety and loneliness.

Fast forward to the first time summer I spent in Malawi; it was much the same. One of the last weekends, I had absolutely nothing to do for two whole days, and no car. I felt that old familiar dread of time yawning endlessly before me. I knew that if I didn’t keep my mind distracted, the beast would come around and pick at the scabs of old worries, some of which by that time had hardened into full on scars.

I ended up sitting by the pool from 10 am to 6pm, reading an entire book. I remember wanting to stop, but there was nothing else I should’ve (could’ve) been doing, and the book was humorous, so I just kept going. At the end of the day, I felt like I binged on a giant chocolate cake. It felt both disgusting, scary….and a tiny bit glorious. 

I felt (and still feel) the drive to be constantly productive. Given big spaces of time, yes, I still do get nervous (probably why I hadn’t thought of time until Premila mentioned it.) But I’ve discovered that extra time is nothing to be frightened about. With practice, I can guide my mind away from silly anxieties. They will always lurk, especially here in Malawi, but I can live with them.  With practice, I can perhaps truly grasp this Time as a gift, instead of something to be waded through. I’m certain that I will never have this space again. God grant me the ability to play around with it, enjoy it, productive or not. 

Poverty Safari

Last week, this blog post article about voluntourism started making the rounds on Facebook. In a very short post, the blogger suggests that sometimes volunteers to a foreign country (aka “voluntourist”) don’t end up doing a lot of “helping.” She asks Westerners, especially white folk, to examine any underlying assumptions and motives of going to a developing nation.  There’s nothing wrong with that; a little introspection is good for everyone.

Then, as happens in the blogosphere, another post popped up. This author pointed out that we don’t need to discourage Western people in caring about other parts of the world. Instead of calling out the problems, we should come up with solutions that keep people hopeful, interested, engaged. Great post, but then, no solutions are offered. I can see why: because it’s hard.

Admittedly, voluntourism is not my favorite thing, mostly because I feel it sometimes fetishizes poverty as something to ‘experience’ (and then go on safari).  Being honest, I did one of these tours myself when I was first getting started. I wanted to see Africa, but was too afraid to go alone. I strongly believe the model of the organization with whom I traveled, so I’m hopeful we did do some good. But I make no pretense: I got a whole lot more out of the experience than the village did.

The truth is, most people (ahem; me) are just muddling through the best way they know how, learning as they go. Those that have an interest in going to far flung places also have a lot of airplane time to feel guilty about our ‘efficacy’ (as well as our ‘carbon footprint’). In keeping with that spirit, I’m throwing my own blogpost into the mix. Here are my suggested “solutions” or rather “muddlings”:

Recognize the limits of volunteering: Let’s be frank - volunteering (free labor) even at home can be a hit or miss experience for both the volunteerer and the voluntaker. Speaking as someone who is a lifelong volunteer (at home and abroad) and has spent significant time managing them (at home and abroad) – it can suck, for a lot of different reasons.  Poor communication, poor planning, poor expectation setting on all sides – oftentimes leads a person to walk away feeling underutilized, baffled and perhaps, a little hurt. I once spent five gorgeous Monday evenings during the spring, sitting at a table in the children’s library, trying to get kids to sign up for the summer reading program. SNORE. I also once had a team of bee keeping volunteers in East Timor yell at me because there had been an assassination attempt on the President during their trip and they had to be in lockdown. Eek. Throw jet lag, dengue fever and cultural differences into the mix and you’ve got a (bee’s) nest.

Realize that You are not the Center of the Universe: I stumbled across this lesson as a young manager, inserting myself into situations where I thought I was responsible for everything, that I had to DO something about everything RIGHT NOW. Unfortunately, it came off as hubris (I was actually told this by my boss. It was humiliating. She was right.) So goes the same in volunteering overseas. I became a better manager when I restrained a bit longer from sending emails, listened a bit more, and stepped back from the equation. I found out that – 9 times out of 10 –what was required of me was not what I would’ve initially guessed.

The first blogger hit the nail on the head when she wrote “…My presence is not the godsend I was coached by non-profits, documentaries, and service programs to believe it would be.”  I found this interesting, in one part the idea of being “coached” to be a godsend, and the other, the choice to believe it. I feel like we would all do well to pick a different choice.

I know, I know. You are a very special unicorn.  You care so much that you flew ALL THE WAY TO AFRICA to help these people. But to others – especially in a temporary assignment – you may be one of fifty volunteers they see that month. Here in Malawi, when I ride my bike around town, kids run after me yelling “Give me money!” Their context is that foreign people are walking cash machines. Nothing takes more wind out of your helpful sales than that. The communities that one enters will be there long after you vanish. The people and social fabric will continue. You are merely a thread. If you remove ego and realize this, then volunteering becomes just an act of living, of service, of being human. 

It’s a lot easier than trying to “save” a community all on your own, don’t you think?

Be realistic and give yourself a break. It’s not all on You. When I was one of those voluntourists, I can tell you I didn’t do a whole lot but chase kids around a yard and mix cement. I spent ten years feel terrible that I didn’t do it “better” or have "more impact". But the face of the matter is, you'll never know what impact you actually have on a person. It has taken me much longer to realize that the bigger picture:  Its fine to be a unicorn in your own mind, but don’t be an ass to everyone else.

Get Frustrated: Even those with special skill sets – doctors, nurses, engineers, art history majors – they feel frustrated and useless from time to time. I can’t say that I love it when I get frustrated, but I know in some ways it’s a good sign: it means I still care.  Fail. Get up. Try again. Do better.

Don’t Give Up: Development is personal. Start with yourself. Start with your sphere, and what you know about. Hold a door open for someone, give money in the [insert your favorite organizations here]. Bake cookies and give them away. Don’t yell at that jerk driver that cut you off. In fact, don’t be that jerk. Fail. Get up. Try again. Do better.

Consider giving money to the Professionals:  There are any number of wonderful western and non-western based organizations that aim to assist in the developing world. It’s worth pointing out though, we don’t always get it right, either. In fact, I’m embarrassed by some of the things I’ve heard of (World Toilet Day (which is actually kind of funny), the Million T-shirt campaign, or any of these). But there have been some truly awesome things too (the Ushahidi platform, the Grameen Bank). Money counts as helping, too.

That's all I have. Time for more muddling.

PS It’s not my intent to side step the race conversation started in the first blog. However, much like the second blogger, I felt like the race piece was tangential to the basic message: being privileged doesn’t make you a more qualified “helper.” There are oh so many things to say about this, but in a nutshell: take stock of your biases, and get on with being the best person you can be today. Right now.

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.

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.