Christmas Holly's Days

PART ONE:
(sorry about the title, couldn't help myself.)

It’s been a long day. This night owl found herself squinting in the early morning sun, wide-eyed at the fact she was waking up before 8:00 AM. Now, the day has long since moseyed off into a lazy sunset and I find myself fighting the call of my bed to grind out some thoughts about my Christmas journey.

And it was a journey. I had kept a notepad with me the whole way, jotting thoughts down as they came, reflecting on sleeping friends, passing trains, and the contrast of full up and empty. Unfortunately, as any marathon traveller might know, there is collateral in gaining memories that will last a life time, and so I cast into the swirl of memories to write out something meaningful without my much bereaved entries, lost somewhere along my travels.

The First Leg of the Journey
The trip lasted almost 3 weeks, a bit longer than expected, but there were some snags. It was budget and it was fast paced. Else and I started on the road on a 30 hour Taqwa bus to Dar es Salaam, Tazania. We knew we were in for a doozy of a trip, but it was affordable and I think we both felt like challenging ourselves. For those of you who have ventured into the taboo territory of my Blantyre bus misadventure, you might know that bussing it in Sub-Saharan Africa is not an easy thing. Taqwa was our prison on wheels. They rigid schedule of smuggling sugar among other goods was tight and therefore bathroom breaks scarce. When we did insist on a piddle-time, we were hounded for the spare seconds we might seize. That shower the night we arrived in Dar es Salaam (after going to find different accommodations because the Safari In gave away our reservation) was the best shower of my life, let me tell you.

The heat seized me with an unforgiving force. Dar was beautiful, and it was so nice to be in a new place, but the sense of being an outsider lingered. It’s a largely Muslim population, creating an even stronger sense of alienation than being in the fundamentalist Christian Malawi. Else and I made the most of our time in this city, which was not long (although we return to it as it served as a sort of hub for our Tazanian travel). We wandered around downtown for a bit, my Martimer soul greedily taking in the Indian Ocean, which was like a pristine azure gem in a bed of soft white sand, unlike the humble, although fierce Atlantic, murky and unfurling in frothy turns.

Zanzibar was a treat, regardless of its tourist trap-quality. We met up with the Mzuzu gang and the bright and lovely Lesley Gittings, who would be our travel companion and good friend for the rest of the journey, and sauntered around in the heat of Stonetown, which exceeded my expectations on every level (and yes, that includes the heat). The antiqued character that carved and shaped the buildings kept your eyes gazing upward as we walked the narrow streets. The stone, laced laugh-lines that unfurled in the corners and on the balconies were worth a healthy helping of photos.

The highlight of Stonetown for me was definitely the spice tour/beach day. Stonetown, given is convenient location on the Indian Ocean was majorly involved in the spice trade. Getting a tour and seeing the origin of all of the things I have consumed throughout my lifetime appealed to my outdoorsy naturalist side. Making our way to the most pristine beach I’ve ever seen was the perfect way to round out the day of learning about cocoa beans, vanilla, saffron and more. The low point of the day was finding myself in a former slave cave trying to take some neat photos of the gang only to realize that I had ventured into the humble abode of a distressing number of spiders. Needless to say, I made a quick get away. That evening, we all celebrated our time together watching the sunset at “Africa In” and feasting on coconut crusted barracuda. I felt sad to leave this jaunty little city with its catacombs and hidden pathways, but the Fairytale Lodge at Jambiani awaited.

Jambiani All-Nighter
I had a pretty decent entry from my all-nighter with Jaime and Emily at Jambiani Beach. We sat on the deck all night sipping on gin and tonic soaking up the freshness of the African air and the mystery of the dark night. When we realized we had made it to sunrise, we hurried down to the beach and got busy with our cameras. I felt like I’d stumbled into a painting picked from the minds of the finest artist. The light rose with a fierce gentleness and the water rippled in the ever growing breeze.

Staying up all night is a favourite thing of mine because as a night owl I don’t usually get to see the sunrise otherwise. Plus, I always feel so thoughtful and introspective. When the storm started to roll in on our photo session, we were chased by the hammering sheets of rain back to the house. I sat for a bit longer on the deck before straying out from the shelter of the bamboo roof and letting the cool rain cascade down my face. So much to think about but in the midst of such energy, burling deep purple clouds, crashing and howling, I just stood and stared for a bit. The palm trees bent and sagged under the weight of water, and suddenly, I thought of Robert Frost and his poetry for bending trees,

I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.

So was I once myself a swinger of palm trees? Stopping to take in the rain that bends them down and dream of rising up again. These words stirred in my tipsy, thoughtful brain as I finally coiled up on a cot I fell asleep half in the rain, which was unintentional and rather unpleasant, to be honest.

Our time at Jambiani was wonderful. Bennett, Danielle, Emily, Jaime, Mark, and Rebecca were wonderful friends with whom to share some of the pre-Christmas tropical holiday spirit. It was unfortunate that Else, Lesley and I had to leave them to spend Christmas swimming with the dolphins, but a visit from St. Nick was expected, he would be dropping off a safari jeep and guide, and we simply had to be on time (and I do not mean African time, although I think even they might have strict rules about the schedule of Christmas).

Crater Christmas 2011
I had expected Christmas Eve to be the most difficult, even more than Christmas day. We had missed out on, missed without regret that is, the barrage of more means more, consumer Christmas propaganda. I felt no need to have a tree or shiny, crinkled wrapping paper and weathered bows. That was not to be this Christmas, as all of the features of Christmas were tied to the people at home, all of whom would still be nestled in the bed, long into my sweltering crater-y day.

Ahh, but I’m getting ahead of myself. I cannot possible complete this blog entry without selfishly noting the day that Else and I have deemed the Amazing Race Day. High stress, my friends, high stress! Tickets were the mandate of the day and Dar es Salaam was our massive multi-situated ticket booth. We drove around that town in taxis on what seemed like an endless mission to secure our fate on Fail-Train and on the Sai Baba bus from heck. It was so much work for so much work. I still propose that Else, Lesley and I try our luck for the Amazing Race. Although it is rather draining, sneakily shop-riting our way to the front of the economy class train ticket line -- sheer necessity trumps any moral qualms of budding, and it’s not the same as elbowing your way into the front of the Shoprite bag check to gain 30 seconds of grocery shopping time (bah humbug to that). Also, sheer necessity trumps my moral qualms about proffering my first (and only) African bribe. I’m not proud of it, but I’m pretty certain it was harmless enough. The bus company was only going to give us a seat for an extra $3 and after marathoning our way to Mpungo Bus station, just barely managing to avoid being swindled by a rough looking character with alcohol on his breath, I couldn’t possibly say no to the excitable, slender man behind the counter. Let’s get our asses to Arusha!

On Christmas Eve we went into the park to see some animals. It was the first part of the safari (and quite frankly psyched me out a little bit regarding monkeys... intelligent, aggressive little critters). We saw elephants and zebras, giraffes and hippos, impala and brightly coloured birds. The day had rounded off quite nicely with the next day, Christmas, to be spent in the Ngorongoro crater. We head back to the lodge and went to a little spot by some rice paddies to watch the sun set. We had some shortbread cookies that we shared with the local children and practiced some jump shots (trying to snap a photo of someone jumping in the air), which tragically are MIA in Lesley’s stolen blue camera. Back at the lodge, we ran into a nice, older Swedish couple who were off to a Lutheran service with a young, handsome Tanzanian man named Peter who is studying to become a lawyer. They made a joke about us coming to the service but there was no way 4 hours of my Christmas Eve in Mosquito Town were going to be spent sweating in a small Lutheran church. When the old couple turned their backs, likely showing off the older man’s Christmas tie that flashed and jingled upon the push of a button, we told Peter he should come back to hang out.

The night drifted on in a champagne, Amarula haze. We hauled out some bon bons and raspberries, popping them into the champagne bottle, letting them fizz around on the surface. We toasted to the ones we love and went around, each explaining why they mean so much to us. I’d be remiss to suggest there were no tears, but huddled together under the light of the stars, we didn’t feel alone, we felt together. I felt connected with two young women who were glowing and beautiful, a sincerity and genuineness of the most refreshing kind. People like these are hard to find, and I felt pretty damned lucky to have chanced into a Crater Christmas with two such wonderful women. The conversation meandered from meaningful topic to meaningful topic and continued to deepen when our friend Peter returned. I appreciated hearing his opinions on development work and shared his affinity for big, responsible government.

I could delve into the moral conundrum that ensued that night, but to what end? I have no desire to humiliate the parties involved, even if both of whom were people I did not know very well (no, not Peter). Sex tourism and HIV are topics that deserve their own entry, but I feel it was an eye-opening Christmas Eve that led us into the early hours of Christmas morn with much to think about for a very long time.

No visions of sugarplums. A bonbon induced coma that was only broken by the worst call to prayer I have ever heard in my life. I have often found the call to prayer to be beautiful, but this call to prayer clawed at me like and angry ostrich and I found myself groaning in its midst. Shortly thereafter, we were roused to the alarm and stumbled sleepily out of bed to start our Crater Christmas Safari.

How to describe the crater.... a true challenge even for a fan of nuanced words: breath taking? Too cliché. Soul soaring eye candy? Too fantastical. It was like a vision of heaven on earth, plain and simple. A place I feel I could find myself seeing on my death bed, sauntering down the hill to meet my end by walking through heaven’s gates, curiously placed beside Zebras, warthogs, wildebeests, ostriches, lions, black rhinos, hippos, elephants, tropical birds, ducks, whatever you could think of was probably swimming, running, or flying in that crater and it all existed holistically. Oh my gosh, am I actually going to admit I had a lion King moment? The circle of Life. Sing it, Elton. But seriously, I would recommend to anyone that they take the time in their life to visit this place. It was simply God’s poetry, breathing and being in an ancient volcanic crater.

We had an interesting opportunity before descending into the crater. We negotiated a tour of the Masai village with one of the leaders, and it was such a lovely and strange experience. Here, as with so many parts of this blog entry I could tangent for awhile (can I make tangent a verb?) about the commodification of culture and the strangeness of it all, but I felt that I needed to embrace this opportunity to learn and grow. I allowed them the agency to determine what they wanted for themselves and focused on the fact they would appreciate the funds to do so as they pleased. Perhaps a disconnect from the ivory tower of academia and the thirst for experiential knowledge of new worlds. Perhaps.

On the way home from the safari, we saw a burning tornado sunset, the sun in the sky spinning down to the horizon, disappearing in flurry of fire. I found myself listening to “Sunny Road” by Emiliana Torrini ... and “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” by Israel Kamakawiwo’ole. I felt I had found a somewhere over the rainbow, and left it in a haze of happiness that radiated from the most beautiful, hope-filled part of my being. Thank you to my family, Aunt Barb, Teresa, parents, grandparents, sister, brother-in-law and all who helped make that day happen for me. I am so grateful to the extent I cannot possibly express. Seeing the world is a privilege for which I am grateful and would wish even for my worst enemy.

In hopes of absolution, I will take a moment to apologize to my sister for not spf-ing it up (pronounced, “spiffing”). I got a bit of a burn, but at this point I feel skin cancer is a small price to pay for Crater Christmas 2011. A large price to pay was missing my newborn nephew’s first Christmas. Mama, Papa and baby all had a very busy day in the Annapolis Valley and all that we could squeeze in halfway around the world was a late night, sleepy Merry Christmas on my crappy ZTE foni that failed me when I needed it most. I did, however , manage to skype to my own mom and pops, chatted with them about thieving monkeys with their sneaky breaking and entering ways, and the wild adventure from which I had just returned. The only bleary weather here spouted from my eyes as I wished them all the best on our first Christmas apart. Wow, I feel like an adult now... Boo, next comes big student loan bills and dirty diapers, even if they are not diapers from my own spawn (I kid, I kid,) although Phoenix does sound rather spawn-y: “The Spawn of Phoenix.” Something to taunt him with when he’s old enough to appreciate the word “spawn.” Until that day arrives, I’ll admire from afar his googly little owl eyes and vociferous coo’s and ahhh’s. There’s always something to be missed in life, but this was a tough one on which I simply cannot linger because it is what it is, basi.

As a small aside, it did not escape my attention that I missed my grandmother’s famous coquille’s saintes Jacques nor my grandfather’s profound completion to the always changing Christmas story. I found myself drooling at the memory of the creamy seafood concoction and compensated myself with a babybel cheese with my egg on Christmas morning. A far cry from what I would promulgate to the world as my choice for my last meal on earth.

I feel I should also make the joke about “no room at the Inn.” When we arrived in Arusha, at the Arusha Inn the night before the safari, we three queens were unsure we would be able to find room and sensed there was no stable as we were not carrying a baby jesus in any of our wombs. We are certainly wise women (no?) but had no gifts other than some spices from Zanzibar, which I felt wouldn’t suffice, although they did have the same sort of ring. We had a good laugh about this and it still amuses me. No room at the Inn on Christmas Day?


TO BE CONTINUED....

Hot and Bothered

It’s hot. And I mean it’s --- hot. Cold showers and fans are your only reprieve. Ultimately, as not just a mzungu, but a Canadian one at that, I find myself stumbling up the hill to work in the morning, drenched in my own sweat and cursing my too-hot-to-handle wardrobe. I actually conked out on my desk for two hours today. I think I may have (heat) stroked out for a bit. When I came to I was so uncomfortable, sitting in the kind of heat you only find in Nova Scotia your Grandparent’s attic that I felt like busting out of my own skin.

Air conditioning would be a foolhardy endeavour at this point, besides the fact the cost is way beyond my humble CIDA budget, there is a fuel crisis currently in our midst. Power cuts, water cuts, high costs for transportation; Malawi is hot and bothered and in quite a state, as am I, I suppose. It has really opened my eyes to how dependent we are on fossil fuels. Desperation can bring out the worst in people and at the pumps people are beyond desperate and therefore shockingly aggressive. I’ve heard rumour that now people are being rationed and can only take so much petrol because people show up with oodles of jerry cans and make a killing on the black market where I’ve heard you can pay 40 000 MK for a full tank of gas, over $250!

But life continues on, despite the heat and the current issues facing all of us here in Malawi. I trekked out to a Halloween party on Saturday, despite not feeling the best (and therefore leaving early), and enjoyed the company of my fellow costumers. It was nice to know that while life in Malawi goes on, you can still connect with a timeline in a world you know. I didn’t get the chance to gorge on mini-chocolate bars (although perhaps not a bad thing because there’s no gym in which to work it off). There were some amazing costumes at the party, with one of my favourites being the series of beers: stout, Carlsberg, etcetera. Little bottle cap.... caps – cute.

I was hoping to hike Mount Mulanje this weekend, but given that hiking capital hill every morning feels like a full day’s work, I think doing the hike would knock me right over the edge of sanity into the a frothy, sun induced rampage where I take off running down the road, or slope as it were, in search of the closest body of water.

I feel sad this evening. Analese, one of the ladies who works here at the lodge, is leaving. She is one of those people with the brightest smiles who graces everyone she meets with a sincere laugh and a warm hug. She also is the best at scrubbing the Africa out of my clothes. A hard worker and a lovely person, We will miss her as she makes her way to Blantyre. Attachment in Lilongwe is a tricky thing. People are transient and I find myself already trying to figure out how I will get back here to continue with the friendships and relationships that have been nurtured. I’ve always been one of those people who have a hard time letting go of a good thing, hatching ways to make beauty continue. I haven’t got everything figured out yet, but I’m trying for the whole “one day at a time” business.

Despite my love affair with Malawi, I still miss a world I understand. A few weeks ago I had my first real bout of homesickness, or as I like to think of it “get me the hell out of here – sickness.” Sometimes, you just get tired of accommodating the differences of culture when you are only expected to conform and the same courtesy is not extended to you. As a Canadian, we’ve got the whole hodge podge of culture going on and while we draw our lines in the sand, generally I’ve always found myself wanting to understand the different people I meet, not tell them they’re in Canada, so start getting you Canadian groove on, my distant friend. No, acceptance is the leaded throughout the fuel that keeps Canadian multi-culturalism alive (can you tell I’ve got gas on the brain), and have found it hard to not feel that sentiment reciprocated. The cut-throat individualism of Malawi, take or be taken, ask or be asked, no one owes you anything attitude can wear you down into the dry, hot dust. Even simple tasks like getting groceries can become overwhelming. I was asked for a bribe from the guard at Shoprite because I wanted to take my backpack in instead of checking it because I had rent holed up in one of the secret pockets. Perhaps a courtesy that could have simply been extended?

I love Malawi but I feel that whenever something nice is to be done, there’s some self-interest hidden at the bottom of the so called “altruistic” barrel. Searching for the catch can not only be frustrating, but I find it leaves a blight on my idea of human compassion and kindness. As my good friend Elsa was saying, you have a new understanding of what it means to be a “have” instead of a “have not” because you are always expected to be the one to give, to be the one to help, to be the one to do something for nothing. I haven’t come up with a solution for this trying issue. If anyone has any idea about how to maintain your compassion in light of the perception that your an endless well of benevolence, please, let me know. I feel my heart hardening a little bit, and that’s not something I ever wanted to happen, although I suspect my dad would be happy that is too-trusting daughter is learning some hard-knock lessons about life. So be it.

I suppose it’s a hard-knock world out there, which I do know, trust me I know, but somehow I’ve always maintained my view that people are inherently kind and generous. I guess I’ve just had a lot on my mind these past few weeks and trying to manage my personal life with my own cultural concerns has become challenging. I miss grass, the lush green that greets your eyes with a burst of colour. I miss the cool wind weaving through the boney trees, shuffling the dry leaves into the corners while the cool air carries the light of the bright moon down. I miss fat dogs and pregnant sisters. I miss smaller spiders. I miss ever-giving mother’s, and ever-joking fathers. I miss never wondering what is being said about you right in front of you. I miss having my shoes last, ellipitcals, and tap water. I miss feeling busy. I miss a world I understand.

I love Malawi and already want to come back, but yet I want to come home. I realize how convoluted this post is, but I suppose that is the nature of the beast, having two homes and knowing you’ll miss both. I just need a dose of Canada, and then I could keep on. Alas, I’ll have to keep on no matter and miss Malawi when I leave and wait for another dose of her, too. How fickle we are.

Well, I suppose it’s that time again, time to blog. A great deal of time has passed since my last substantial update, and as usual, for some strange reason I feel the need to apologize, maybe it’s the guilt tripping from my mom (love you). I want to start this entry from where I last left off, but that is a tall order, to fill in all that time, when this entry has really been inspired by the Lake of Stars Festival that I attended this weekend, and internationally renowned 3 day event.

Those of you who know me might remember my stories about my last experience at a music festival. The circumstances were quite different and therefore this experience bears little resemblance to my 2007 trip to Evolve in Antigonish. I can recall snapshots of my time there, more of a cinematic tale then a real life experience, hitchhiking to the event, trying my luck at getting in for free and succeeding by befriending the sound crew (“we were wondering where the diehards are, we’re the sound crew, we need to get someone in for free!”), sleeping by the waterfall and swimming in it just before sunrise during that flash thunderstorm. On my way out, I caught a ride with that Baptist woman who drove me to her church luncheon where I ate pancakes and sausages before catching my next ride to Fredericton with the solider on his way to be, deployed to Afghanistan. It all seems so fantastical compared to LoS, and yet sitting on the lake shore in Mongochi on Saturday at 5:00AM with my toes wiggling in the cool, damp sand as the sun light crept over the mountains, struck me as having a similarly unbelievable undertone.

Do you ever stop for a second and try really, really hard to think back to what that five year old kid thought you might one day become? You may have had some wild ideas about where Future You might end up, but I find it so amazing that I have never heard anyone saying they ended up exactly where they thought they would. There’s always some sort of twist in your former dream. Personally, with all my book-reading and play-making with my sister, crazy games with dragons and clouds, I still never thought I’d be the woman I am walking the path I am walking at this very moment. This was the sense that burst up from my stores of joy that sometimes bubbles up at strange moments. The music made my heart race, the dancing challenged it to race faster, and the energy set my sense of adventure into motion, but at the end of the day, my favourite moment of the weekend was those 15 minutes that I spent sitting in the sand slightly intoxicated (and probably a little excessively thoughtful from staying up the whole night), but more so infused with an appreciation for where I am in my life right now.

But enough of that, I surprise myself sometimes with the ease with which I turn to abstract thoughts about life and living. I guess old habits live on. I suppose I should say something about the actual LoS experience. Unfortunately, I’ve never been a fan of trying to “set the scene” I feel like when I’m reading, I always gloss over details about where the stage was, how many acts, where we stayed, etcetera. I’ll leave lyrical, delicate vignettes to Michael Ondaajte and those that have mastered such an art. Just know that a concert on the beach is the best of beach parties and concerts slammed in to one weekend of awesome. Although... I guess in all honesty Saturday night was not the best night...

Some of you may remember me mentioning in one of my entries about some mnemonic devices that serve to remind me not to give too much. Well interestingly, my friend Rebecca encountered this same individual who is, for all intensive purposes, a hustler. When we compared notes, we realized the story he fed us about being in “need” of money for “school” didn’t match up, does he want to be a welder or a carpenter? This question was the one that was firing through me as this hustler tried to pick me up at the Lake of Stars. He had no recollection of the money he had managed to get from me and I found it strange that someone who didn’t have enough money for school (a sure way into the wallet of my heart) would be at a lake side concert where the tickets cost $60. I definitely decided to interject with this question as he stood, solidly drunk before me. I won’t recount the whole exchange, but generally speaking I explained to him that when someone tries to help someone and finds they’ve been lied to, they are hesitant to help anyone else in the future and that is the greatest tragedy of being conned. Whether it be conned by a guy selling art and jewellery or whether it be conned by a man or women in whom you have placed your trust and affection, a con job is a con job, a lie is a lie and I guess this guy bore the brunt of my frustration about feeling jaded and untrusting especially in light of the frustrating gender dynamics that continue to reveal themselves to me.

I simply need to think about what this guy said to me two minutes later as he flagged me down to disregard any remorse, “if you ever disrespect me again, I will fuck you up...” and he continued in such a manner. Oddly enough, this man’s name was Respect, someone for whom I have none. There were more events that fit into this line of thought about that Saturday night. Weirdly enough, the whole night turned into a series of unfortunate encounters that lead me to reflect on gender dynamics on the drive home. I don’t have a whole lot of profound advice, only that I’ll have to continue on as if I am regarded as an equal and have that status already and hope that possession is 9/10ths of the law, and that’s something that should be regarded with Respect.

Generally, though, my friends, LoS was a great experience, and these things can’t be all sunshine and lollipops. When crappy things happen when something beautiful and monumental is transpiring, you tend to give them more attention than you might otherwise do if you were simple walking down the street on your day to day life, in that case you might just say you had a shitty day. Crashing waves, sweet summer breezes, and the first falafel I had in months does not obliterate these thoughts from my mind. Thanks for the shout out on Facebook, Summer (I don’t have FB at work anymore), it really reminded me of what I had weighing on me as of late. I don’t want to be a burden-bearing feminist, but taking a few steps back in your sense of equality squeezes the worst kind of frustration out of me. Are things just as bad at home, but perhaps just more subtle and secretly squirreled away to the cob webbed corners that no one cares to investigate? I would say not, and that is why I am here.

I have heard the first thunder I have heard in over a year, just now as my fingers meet the keys. It’s growling and booming and making me miss the prairies. I’m pretty stoked to see some rain as I haven’t seen any for so long. I’ll let you know when some precipitation finally makes its way to these dusty grounds and I can guarantee you I’ll be out there starting a solo impromptu dance party... okay, maybe I’ll just do a bit of twirling and leave it at that. Mmm, I can smell the moisture in the air; I have my fingers crossed. That monumental day might lead me to some more introspection with which to bore you, so I’ll keep my eyes on the African skies and keep my hope for change sheltered from the impending tumultuous weather.

Excessive Candor or Self-Censorship?

For anyone who has noticed my "Fuel for the Rebel Fire" post is slightly altered and that my last post has disappeared, it is in light of a new concern for being too outspoken about controversial issues. I consider myself an vociferous activist, but in light of a conversation with someone who has been living in Malawi for a few years, sometimes you just need to err on the side of caution. Hopefully, my self-censorship won't be judged too harshly. I take for granted my freedom of speech and I think it prudent to re-examine this privilege and the repercussions that can arise from reveling in it, at least in these particular circumstances. Things in Malawi are still tense and there is a remaining underlying turmoil that seems to be slowing stew in the political pot with regards to all these issues, so until things are a bit clearer and I can feel safe in voicing my opinions on controversial political issues, I'll try to be a bit less candid.

Thank you for understanding.
Another update soon to come.

The Currents of Time Carry Change

It was a quiet weekend here in Lilongwe, the kind of weekend that tempts me to forgo my weekly blog entry because I fear that the more tame aspects of my life here will be rather mundane and uninteresting. No matter, it is these quiet activities that can keep me grounded and make me feel like Lilongwe is more of a second home and less of a spot to vacation. Also, I’ve had some things on my mind all of which are a far cry from inappropriate bus stories, and although they may seem random, the connectivity is easily established in the neural pathways of my brain. Hopefully, I can relay these connections in a quasi-clear manner.

Saturday during the day Meghan, Else and I headed down to the market. Other than some seriously banged up bloody toes requiring a quick sprint to the nearby pharmacy (poor Elsa!), the afternoon was as relaxed as a day at the market can be. We first hit up the wood market, which is really a very unique, stressful experience. My favourite line to turn them off the strong scent of an azungu sale is that “I will be here for 9 months and will buy things at the end of my time here. I am on a strict budget, you know.” It works well enough. The wood, stone and organic pieces are quite beautiful and I am excited to shop there eventually, although it will certainly take some Malawian persistence to get some Malawian prices. Ayiii, Chikudula kwambiri! There is something about the markets that can either make you feel as though you could live in Malawi for a great many years, or you could take the first flight home in the morning. I think it really depends on who you meet, who you’re with, and how resilient you are that day, but it always seems to be one extreme or the other, although I suppose that is just my nature. At the food market, I really tend not to haggle too much for produce because it really is quite affordable and Moses, my vendor, is a sweet young man who works hard for his money. I’m happy to pay the extra money to him for his friendliness and good food.

It is an interesting feeling, being a “minority” of sorts. I feel weird when people clearly recognize me and I have absolutely no idea if I’ve ever met them before in my life, a regular occurrence at the market. As mzungu, you are easy to spot and easy to remember, or so it seems. It makes me wary of being too silly or crossing cultural boundaries to excess. I wonder, too, about the idea of “reverse racism.” I remember a long time ago being at a youth activist event and being told it doesn’t exist. It was so long ago I can’t recall if it was only referring to the situation in the context of the Western world, but here, I definitely have experienced the sense of being hated, or at least strongly disliked because I’m different, because of what (people think?) I represent. When I first got here I remember taking a photo of the maize mill in Kauma and this woman stepping in between my camera and the mill and saying something in a harsh tone while rubbing her belly. Perhaps it’s better not knowing, or perhaps my overactive imagination conjures up a more hateful message than the one that is actually being relayed...

These language barriers also seem to present themselves in other ways. Just a couple days ago a friend of mine was getting me to say “mbolo” repeatedly. Naively I thought nothing of it at the time, until I recently decided to check out some slang/curse words in Chichewa and found I had been repeating a word referring to the phallus as many as ten times, trying to master the pronunciation in a delicate way of a not so delicate word. Yeesh, a nasty trick, indeed.

And yet, my friends, the language barrier disappears in those moments that really matter. The issue of disability here is one I find very distressing. Many who have physical disabilities have these little bike-like contraptions where the pedals are moved using one’s hands. Others, however, have nothing. They’re limbs lie in the dust as they sit on the edge of the road, hand outstretched simply gazing distantly, or their eyes firmly shut, a stoic demeanour creased into the lines of their faces. Sometimes, they are on the move, dragging themselves on the ground, hands and legs dirty from their efforts. I feel shame at the power dynamic and the tragic, unnerving sense that they might feel shame for their own challenges they face, in which they had no choice. I haven’t managed my discomfort in any helpful or practical way. I want to give them money, knowing that they have no “safety net” to catch them as they fall, a safety net that once caught me in a tumble, but I don’t know how to stop and face a person, visceral, pulsing before me, a representation of so much that I struggle with within myself, a young woman facing a sometimes cold and distant world.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Saturday night a bunch of us decided to go out to a little place called Chamillions. There was a live band, which was a pleasant change in pace from the “doon, doon, doon” of a night at Zanzi Bar, more of a dance club than anything else. The band was good and the last song (“Reality Music”) left the whole performance on a high note. We noticed that you could rent a hookah from the bar for 1000 MK and some of the group indulged in some pineapple sheesha, an enjoyable rare treat. We stayed at the bar, more of a pub type environment, until Meghan had the image of a boiling pot sitting on a burner set to maximum pop into her mind. Oopsy. We headed home to see if all our worldly possessions were burned to a crisp back in Area 11. Fortunately, the smoky smell that made my heart pound in my ears was the regular late night fires, and not all my work clothes and footwear turned to cinders. Anything but my entire work wardrobe and all my shoes... ha.

I do find it strange, that on some of my nights out with the group, I find myself stepping off to catch some air, and in looking up at the stars, my mind wandering to that same Canadian sky and resting on thoughts of loved ones. Speck, beating, growing inside the warm, rapidly expanding belly of my sister, makes my own thudding heart quiver. What is that line about “life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans?” Well, I feel life is what happens when you’re busy living in Malawi. Change, being the sometimes annoying constant that it is, continues to act on the lives of everyone here or there, and while Malawi has set up camp in the chambers of my heart, it shares its space with a whole slew of people, safely nestled in their permanent home. I know I have a habit of bringing up family and friends, but Speck has really been on my mind and I feel by noting it in some permanent way, I can reconcile my decision to be here, and not there, where my palm would be feeling the “Ringo Starr” drum beats of an active little Specky.

I know a time comes in every young person’s life where they must find themselves trekking down their own windy life’s path, and yet struggling to keep the roots of one’s childhood and youth firmly planted. How is this managed? I feel a desire to see the world has been unleashed as well as a strong affection for Malawi, and how can you reconcile this with a place that you always want to be? I feel divided between two very different worlds, with a foot firmly planted within the borders of each and I wonder if I’ll lose my footing in my balancing act. Besides, what is carried with you when you leave and return? With all the wild, tragic, poetic and beautiful things I’ve done and seen in the last two months, it is impossible that the same Holly will be returning to the same home. I feel the currents of time carry change. I worry the changes within myself will fracture and fragment the smooth form of a life once known and a reformation will be necessary to fit everything back together.

Ahh, enough profound introspection for one entry. I hope I don’t sound too emotional and nostalgic, and in the absence of entertaining anecdotes have lost you as a reader. If you made it through this rather brief, candid blog post, I appreciate that you cared enough about the issues to stay with me as I gallivant through such treacherous territory. Stoicism is overrated, and how can one remain aloof while living through experiences that should have some sort of long standing impact on not just your life story, but your entire world view? Cold-hearted calculation is part of the global problem, and I for one, have no intention, of not investing a lot of energy into better understanding my world around me, something I suppose I’ve always done.

Tionana, friends, family, and friendly blog readers. I’ll try to get out there and live a little this weekend and write about some lighter things next week, keep it balanced, and wot, wot.

Bo Bo, Blantyre

I apologize for my extended leave of absence from the blogosphere, although I’m sure everyone has coped better with it than my mother, who has politely reminded me that it is time for another entry (cue foot tapping). It has been a crazy few weeks, not all of which I can recount here as these issues are delicate. Mind you, I have been told that it is not a requirement for CIDA to keep a blog, only for AUCC interns, which relieves me from bearing the burden of political correctness and “neutrality”...

Warning: The following blurb contains amusing awkwardness. Reader's discretion is advised. I had to include it in the spirit of Malawi and the nature of the adventures that unfold, but perhaps my sense of appropriate blog material is a little off kilter. Either way, I hope you can find some of my bus story at least mildly entertaining.

We took a trip to Blantyre last weekend. It was Meghan’s birthday (Happy birthday, my dear!) and five of us (Myself, Elsa, Hayley, Lauren and Meghan) decided it would be fun to set off into the sunrise to Malawi’s economic capital. As most bus trips, a 5:00 AM wake up time was required, and the Lilongwe downtown was already bustling, street vendors vying for our attention and tekisi offering a ride to here and there. We found a bus going to Blantyre almost instantly, and got on to settle in for the four hour trip. It took us quite awhile to get going and frustration was festering in depths of my... bladder. I was pretty upset when I realized the aisle had been blocked off by folding seats that flip down to seat one person in each row all the way down the aisle, which should be serving as my exit path to the chimbudzi cha amayi. Why?! I had made sure to go before leaving the house! And yet we waited on the bus for two hours before we started to move, only to sit for awhile longer about 2 minutes down the road. I was certain they would stop somewhere along the way, probably multiple times at various villages, and there would be a toilet somewhere, but without the knowledge of how long I would have to endure the knocking around of what felt like five litres in my abdomen, I felt like it was in my best interest to come up with a solution.

And that’s when it struck me. Desperate times, my friends. The water bottle.

That’s it. I have no choice but to empty the contents of my dying organ into my burgundy Acadia University stainless steel water bottle. Alma mater, indeed. It could be done, with some manoeuvring as the mouth was wider than a regular water bottle. “pssst, Elsa!” Elsa seated beside me would have some idea of some strategies out of the situation which was exponentially escalating into a state of emergency. Naturally, Elsa’s bulging science brain, bless her ingenious heart, decided putting down some newspaper (which made me feel like a giant puppy) would serve to catch the... you know, backsplash. Okay, enough details. The operation was a major success! We were both quite impressed and pleased with ourselves as even Meghan, seated to Elsa’s right had absolutely no idea anything had ever transpired. Elsa did make contact with one guy peering around our way, to the last row of seats along the back of the bus, but she just held his gaze and the remaining newspaper in a full page spread, shielding me from any curious stares.

We had some good laughs about the entire debacle and I promised Elsa that I would blog about the events as sharing embarrassing stories can help someone when they might be in the same situation, trapped on the highway, busting at the seams... ; ) More to the point, as any traveller might know, sometimes things of these nature lose their taboo quality as everyone will find themselves in a situation of sorts somewhere along the way, it’s only a matter of time.

It took about 7 ½ hours to get to Blantyre. Almost double the predicted time! The salt in the wound was definitely the blaring African pop music. Think of your stereo’s max volume and add a few decibels for horrible measure. It was mentally exhausting to try to tune something out for so long and when you don’t understand the lyrics to songs and they are all the same genre... one just might feel as though they have been listening to the same song for the last 7 hours.

But enough of that. Blantyre was a breath of fresh air after the events of last week (probably one of the worst weeks in Lilongwe for many of the interns), we needed to get out of town. Elsa and I hadn’t left since Cape Mclear. We were very disappointed with the travel time, though, as we had ourselves on quite a schedule. How very un-Malawian of us.

We arrived at Henderson House excited that the Ethiopian restaurant was so close. We would get settled and maybe go grab a bite before venturing out to peruse the more affordable shops in Blantyre. Alas, the reservations I had made the night before had just disappeared into the African airtel waves. No record of a “Holly Woodworth” on the books, and “no, sorry, the executive room is booked.” After a few stressful moments, Meghan and Lauren recalled a few precious items that they left on the bus, so they took off to see if they could find them. Fortunately, the distinct, ghastly blue curtains that had flapped in the breeze of the open windows allowed them to spot the bus and get their stuff. Meanwhile, Hayley, Elsa and I decided to grab the aforementioned bite while trying to hatch a plan. Elsa had been singing the praises of Ethiopian cuisine for the past two months, but given all of the dark clouds that had been forming in the last week, it was unsurprising that it didn’t quite meet Elsa’s standards (and I had somehow ordered something that was way out of my budget, confused by the structure of the menu).

But fear not, this trip was destined for glory. We hit up the local backpackers lodge, “Doogles” and walked up to a bar and lounge overlooking an in ground pool. The price was reasonable ($6-7/night), and given our current un-housed status, we were open to just about anything affordable.

The plan to hit the night scene in town was replaced by a desire to enjoy the Canadian-city-like quality of Blantyre: To the only theatre in Malawi we go. After singing Happy Birthday to Meghan for the third time (the first being at 5:30 AM as we walked to catch a minibus), we indulged in some pizza and cake, followed by movie snacks, and camped out for The Hangover 2. It didn’t matter that the movie was funny in a weird, silly kind of way, the peanut M & M’s and buttered popcorn stirred up a general familiar ambiance that I hadn’t ever thought I would miss, given in Nova Scotia I’ve gone longer than 2 months without seeing a movie.

The rest of the night was pretty tame. I hit the showers, which were honestly the most disgusting showers that I have ever graced with my dusty, bus-travel filthy presence.

The bus ride home was significantly less eventful, thank god. I didn’t use the washroom once in the entire ride, which while it was not 7.5 hours, was certainly not 4 either. I felt I had redeemed the reputation of my bladder... ha.

We re-celebrated Meghan’s birthday last night, surprising her, bearing our party hats and smiles. When you’re away from home like this, it’s the little things that make you feel connected. Birthdays are certainly special and showing that you want to share in this specialness with a friend is a gift in itself, I think, one that contributes to that sense of belonging and community, something I crave here in Malawi.

Hayley and Lauren are leaving this Monday, with the rest of the gang from Michigan State close behind and our roomies following toute suite. I am nervous about how empty the house will feel with all of these wonderful, crazy people taking off to travel, returning only for moment before boarding their flight home. I might find myself taking an excessively long extended leave from blogging as I suspect Elsa and I will become rather bored and have nothing to write about. Potlucks, surprise parties, nights on the town that end in a narrow escape or a side-road hyena sighting, goat slaughtering braiis, all of these memories for which I am so grateful. Elsa, Jay, Mayme and I will hold down the fort here in Lilongwe, looking for new adventures with new friends, and exciting possibility with which I haven’t yet managed to hone in on in order to fill the void of the AUCC interns. Maybe Else and I will take a trip to Mzuzu and get in on the dance parties. Speaking of which, I wish I could be there for Mark’s birthday party this weekend, but I just don’t think I can commit the funds, at this point. I know there will be some memories made, which I am looking forward to hearing about, in all their scandalous, lake side glory.

August 17, in case you haven’t heard, is the date for the next protest. Activists have given Bingu a deadline by which he must respond to the concerns that they have brought forward. Given we are talking about Bingu here, I think that the protest will be a go. I’m not sure how things will unfold, but word on the street is that it will be as bad, or worse, than the previous one, so I will be hunkering down and buying supplies like its 1999.

I am thinking of my thesis supervisor, Dr. Donna Seamone. Things don’t really sound like they have been going her way these past few weeks, and I just want her to know she’s in my heart, her and her little feline deity, Shiva. We are long overdue for a skype date, although these are tricky because (shhhhh!) they can only happen at work. Hence the hold-up, but soon!

One final birthday wish goes out to Aidan Bharath. I wish I could be there to celebrate with you. Alas, all I can do is send you my best and most heartfelt wishes and tell you to look forward to a small package that has miraculously, against all odds (fingers crossed) made its away to other side of the planet...

Anyways, this monster update must come to a close. I am sitting here at the commission with gospel music being played on the desk next to mine. Our office-mate turned it on and left the room, which makes me wonder if there are quasi-evangelical motives to the act, which does not bother me in the least. I think people often assume my own religiosity matches their own as I explain to them that my name is “like ‘holy’ but with two ‘l’s.’” This is very necessary as the common interpretation of how to pronounce my name is “Harrrry” or... “Whorrry.” Yikes.

Thinking of friends and family, always,
tionana...

Fuel for the Rebel Fire

Greetings from Lilongwe, the capital full of civil unrest. It’s been a tough few days cooped up in Area 11. Stress has found itself a home in my constantly stirring mind, with little else to do but drink coffee and worry. There are a variety of issues with which I have struggled. As usual, the dynamics of black and white meet somewhere in the middle, the liminal gray. Keep it in perspective, though, Holly. These issues pale in comparison to the turmoil bubbling beneath an already rocky political situation. With a ban on media coverage, news has been travelling from the digital devices of Malawi to Canada and back to a small group of concerned Canadians. I have a new found appreciation for twitter, more than a broadcasting network for the latest Jersey Shore drama.

My roommates, Brad and Spencer took a day trip to towni and were witness to some pretty extreme situations: Tear gas thrown into the crowd by the police and then thrown back, still contained in its shell, to the rivalling forces; police cars escaping protestors by driving through a wall of fire; and before they packed it in, a very large crowd of protestors yelling to them, “Azungu! Azungu!” in hopes of soliciting some media coverage for their cause. This was our limited exposure to the violence that has been kindled to a blaze in the last few days.

Now, I sit in a chair in the hotel down the road feeling strange about my minute role in the pursuit of a noble, democratic goal. As someone who gave a note to her French teacher in high school, excusing her from Histoire Globale in order to show her activist aspirations would not be quashed by her academic diligence in order to protest the arrival of George Bush on Maritime soil, I am discouraged at my puny efforts. I just remind myself that Meghan and Elsa’s effort to make a trip to the Metro Cash n’ Carry was not endorsed by a local Malawian, who approached them outside of the Capital, telling them that as azungu, they are prime targets for robbers and violence and that if they insisted on going, he would escort them. The thing is, you get a different story from every person, reminding me that everyone has a different socio-economic interest. The concierge at the hotel told us in a bizarrely enthusiastic manner that everything is perfectly fine and walking to Kauma is completely safe. Shortly thereafter, Meghan’s boss, a man with extensive political connections called her and told her that even though they have a driver that picks them up for work, it is not safe for them to come as vehicles were being stoned.

From my perspective, as a government employee my situation is somewhat precarious. I would harbour no hard feelings for anyone who finds my civil servant position unfavourable, or perhaps more accurately questionable. I feel I will never really recover from the memory of remaining holed out in my home and a ritzy hotel, and yet the results of embarking on a dangerous political mission could have resulted in so many tragic ends, including death. Just down the road from us in City Centre, a twelve year old boy was shot and killed. How’s that for justice?

Thank you to everyone who has shown support and solidarity. It means a great deal to know that friends and family follow my meandering theories and thoughts and keep tabs on me as I foam at the mouth in a frenzy of anger and frustration. My stoic demeanour is a guise for disappointment in my inaction, and perhaps someday I can come to terms with a country that has welcomed me, and that I have not fought for in kind. Preoccupied with my own social and emotional concerns, I lose myself in thought and wonder what the future holds for the warm heart of Africa.