A typical day

I wake up very early here, often before 4:00 a.m. Quiet and cool, this is my favourite time of day. I unlock the door to our flat, and open it to stand on the threshold for a moment, enjoying the coolness and fresh air. Then I go to the kitchen, turn the kettle on, put my oatmeal in a thermos and my tea into a travel mug, and pour hot water into both so they can steep until I'm ready for breakfast.

With breakfast steeping, there's no excuse now for me not to do my exercises. Every morning requires an act of will, but beginning is the hardest part. I roll out my yoga mat in the living room. Once I begin, my body wants more, and by the end of the series, the stiff, sore places are stretched out. I'm motivated to find there are poses in which I feel stronger, and now I have a good sense of how my body's feeling today.

Apple bananas, my favourite!

That accomplished, I get my lunch, water, and work things ready, and then finish assembling my breakfast on a tray. This morning, I cut up two apple bananas (given to me by a family in my neighbourhood who grows them), add fresh strawberries (sold for months now in cardboard trays by vendors walking along the streets), and sprinkle a heaping teaspoon of home-ground baobab powder over them. I've been eating this every morning for a week, and am every day amazed that I have these three delicious and exotic things, and that I get to eat them all together.

Baobab tree fruit, the strangest fruit I've ever seen or eaten
The tart, dry, powdery chunks contain hard, shiny, dark brown seeds.

,

Apple bananas, strawberries, and baobab fruit powder — amazing!

I take my tray of breakfast outside, along with a journal, pen, and the exercise book I use for Chichewa. During the cold season from June through August, I would bundle up in wool socks (knit by my sister), my down jacket, and a light blanket to wrap around my legs. Now that the hot season is here, I wear flipflops and spray myself with insect repellant. On the mornings I forget, the no-see-ums, gnats, and mosquitoes remind me.

I'm happiest when, like this morning, I get outside before dawn breaks, while I can still see the stars. Orion hangs directly above me. I've literally woken up with the birds. A few of them, earlier birds than others, have begun the morning recital. As I look up at the stars, in the distance a man's voice joins the bird chorus, droning a call to prayer for the nearby mosque.

At about 5:00, the sky begins to lighten. As the call to prayer ends, the rest of the birds awaken and bring the morning recital to a crescendo. Doves, roosters, larks, southern cordon bleus, starlings, crows, what sound to me like wrens, and others for which I still have no name -- they all join the chorus. As dawn breaks, I can now see the many green mangos slowly, slowly ripening on the trees in front of me. Many of us in the courtyard are anticipating the coming of their succulent abundance.

Mangos!!!

Gilbert, the night watchman, is up now, too. Six nights a week, he sleeps on a bench in the tiny brick guardhouse beside the gate, bundled in a red winter coat. He's doing his morning tour of the courtyard, looking for plastic, paper, or firewood to burn so that he can make his morning nsima. Seeing me, he comes over. "Mwadzuka bwanji, madam?" he asks. "Ndadzuka bwino. Kaya inu?" I reply. "Inenso, ndadzuka bwino, zikomo." All of which translates to, "How have you woken?" "I've woken well, and you?" "Me, too, I've woken well, thank you." All the guards who work here are friendly, but I'm especially fond of Gilbert, and he likes me, too. At his request, I taught him how to do the royal dancer yoga pose in his chunky black leather ankle boots. When the mulberry bush in our courtyard bore berries, he would bring me handfuls.

Gilbert and me

Morning is my favourite time of day, and breakfast is my favourite meal. I savour my tea, fruit and oatmeal, write a sentence or two in Chichewa (my daily practice), meditate for a few minutes, make some notes in my journal, and think about the day ahead. The sun has risen and is already warming the day.

Time to start moving before it gets too hot. I water my struggling little garden of tomatoes, kale, and arugula, wash my dishes, and get ready to cycle to work.

With Sniper, my local bike mechanic

The steep, long hill at the start of my ride quickly warms up my leg muscles. After that, the rest of the ride feels easy. Here and there, people sit on the side of the road selling mandasi, beef samosas, bananas, or other fruits and vegetables. Sometimes in the morning there's a woman selling warm cassava, one of my favourite treats. I look for her today, but she's not here to tempt me. I pass a man hoeing a plot by the side of the road, preparing this land to become a maize field when the rainy season comes. 

The CSONA office is a house in a residential neighbourhood, tucked behind a brick wall and a grey metal gate. In the face of the wall is a mini-shop run by Martha and her daughter Deborah. Peter, the young guard, greets me as I bring my bicycle through the gate.

View of the CSONA office from the outside

Veronica, the cleaner, is sitting on the curb of the driveway, which means that no one with a key has arrived yet. "Mwadzuka bwanji?" I ask her, and sit down beside her to wait. She, too, is very young and looks cute in her uniform, having removed the chitenje she wraps around her waist to ride the mini-bus to work. We chat a little in snippets of Chichewa and broken English, then check our cell phones. I pull out my Kobo and read.

A car honks, and Peter opens the gate. It's Jimmy, the senior finance officer, one of the key holders. The wait is over.

We enter through the small kitchen which has a kettle, microwave, water cooler, sink, and cupboards. The two small, open rooms next to it are the domain of the junior finance officer and the three interns. The rest of us share bedroom offices, each with its own ensuite bathroom.

The master bedroom ensuite bathroom

Bessie, the national coordinator, and I share the master bedroom at the back of the house and have the biggest bathroom -- the one with a full bathtub instead of just a shower. I was excited when I first saw it, but of course there's no hot water in the house, so I've learned to appreciate a very refreshing cold shower after my morning commute.

Fresh and dressed for work, I come out of the bathroom and greet Bessie, who's now here and focused on her laptop. I set up mine, and continue compiling the results of the interviews with some of CSONA's members, funding partners, journalists, and members of parliament that I conducted over the past two months. We have electricity and water this morning, but wifi service is slow and intermittent.

Bessie and me

Meanwhile, Veronica is cleaning each of our offices, spraying insecticide, and mopping the floors. When she's done her rounds, she'll find a cool place to sit. She spends a long time sitting during the three days a week she's at our office. Later in the afternoon, she'll wash dishes and do a round of spot cleaning.

After Veronica first started, I asked Bessie why she spent the entire workday with us, when she didn't have enough work to fill her time. Bessie said that our contract with the cleaning company was for them to keep our office clean on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. If we needed something cleaned on one of those days and Veronica wasn't there to do it, the cleaning company would be in violation of their contract.

Peter also spends most of his day sitting idle. CSONA staff who own cars will often pay him to wash them. Otherwise, his only task is to watch the gate, and open it when someone needs to come in or go out. People's labour is very cheap here. Those in minimum-wage jobs either work extraordinarily hard, building roads and buildings with manual tools, or they are just waiting most of the day at the office or the gate in case someone needs them.

As I work, I overhear Jimmy talking with the interns in Chichewa. It's the language most often used by people both in this office and at CARE Malawi. I can now pick up a few words here and there, sometimes enough to make out the topic of conversation. In some ways, the language difference is another reminder that I'm an outsider. On the other hand, I find people's conversations much less distracting when I don't know what they're saying.

With intern Faith in the CSONA meeting room

This morning, I think they're talking about the WhatsApp messages and photos we all just received from the CSONA staff who are in the field today. Project officer Mike Khunga and communications intern Blessings Msibande are in Zomba as part of an urban governance project; advocacy and campaign manager Joseph Gausi is in Dedza leading district members through a week of district government nutrition budget analysis. I've been lucky in the past to get to join Mike and Joseph on some of these field trips. Most of my days, though, like this one, are spent in the office.

Facilitating a team development session

At 11:00, Bessie takes a break from her work to talk with me about plans for the next CSONA team building session I'll facilitate. I'm lucky to get some of her time today, as she's working on another project proposal. CSONA's existence and survival depends on these. All the staff positions, including Bessie's, are temporary, only lasting as long as the current project funding.

At noon, I take my lunch and walk across the street to Havilah Garden. Peter is laying on the floor of the tiny brick guardhouse, tucked away from the scorching sunshine, eating slices of white bread and margarine, and drinking a bottle of iced tea. "Kalibu?" he asks, which is Swahili for "a little bite?" I politely decline. I, too, will find a shady place to eat.

Banana blossom and fruit in Havilah Garden

The shade I find is that of a half-constructed cement block building in the garden. I spread a sarong over one of the cement blocks laying on the floor, and pull out a large yogourt container full of cabbage-bean salad with tahini garlic dressing. I'm not alone here. Now that the weather is hot, I'm seeing many more iguanas, geckos, and insects than I did just a month or two ago. As we hot-blooded animals have become slow and sleepy, the cold-blooded ones have re-appeared and gotten faster.

The most beautiful lizard I've ever seen

When I get back from lunch, I find we don't have electricity, which means no fan during the hottest part of the day. The blinds are closed, and we open all the windows to get as much airflow as we can. An hour later, we completely lose our internet connection, too. I have email and Microsoft Office 365 through CARE USA, not very practical when our office wifi service is so intermittent. Fortunately today I brought my personal wifi USB stick. When all else fails, I've also learned how much work I can get done with a pen, paper, and my brain.

Feeling frustrated, I decide to shift my perspective and take a break. I walk outside to the backdoor of the mini-shop and call, "Odi!" People do that instead of knocking, which makes sense when many doorways are covered by cloth or have doors without latches. Martha opens the door. "Mwaswera bwanji?" I ask — the equivalent of, "How is your day going?" although I think it literally means, "You've skipped how?" I hand her MK100 (CA$0.18) and a re-used blue plastic bag. "Could I have some popcorn, please?" She fills it from the small theatre-style popcorn maker, sprinkles salt inside, shakes it, and hands me the bag.

The mini-shop in the CSONA office wall

My delicious treat successfully consoles me. I offer some to my colleagues ("Kalibu?") who politely decline, having eaten their share earlier in the day. I would love to have a cup of tea with my popcorn, but of course with no electricity there's no kettle. At least it's gone off later in the day, and our laptops are all well charged.

A couple hours later, the electricity returns! But I when I go to make tea, I find the water is shut off. And we still don't have an internet connection. Aargh! I'm tired and hot, and my brain feels done for the day.

With Blessings, Faith, and Mike visiting Balaka

I pack up my laptop and change for the ride home. Tomorrow I'll be a the CARE office. Internet service is much more reliable there, and I have coaching sessions with two of the senior leaders, one of the most gratifying aspects of my work here.

On the cycle home, I stop to buy a watermelon from one of the roadside vendors for MK2,000 (CA$3.50). She's set up in the shade, so the watermelons haven't been baking in the sun all day. When I cut open the last one I bought from a different vendor, I found it was already fermenting. And once, a watermelon bounced out of my bike bag when I went over a bump going downhill. I make sure I strap this one in much more carefully.

The ride home is more downhill than the ride to work, but much hotter. As I come through the gate to Savanna Courtyard, I exchange greetings with the guards. There are seven of them sitting on the curb playing draughts and listening to the radio. Their other major activity is gathering firewood and searching the garbage bins in the courtyard for plastic and paper so they can make a fire to cook their nsima. When there is so little for them to do, I don't know why Savanna Courtyard has so many guards. One jumped up to open the gate when they saw me. I think I should be able to say more to them in Chichewa by now, but my brain is very slow to construct the sentences. When one of them says something I don't recognize, I have to ask him to repeat it a few times, often to realize I know all the words, it's just that I don't yet recognize how they sound when spoken with a mother tongue.

Draughts (checkers)
Bottle caps for one player are right-side up, and upside-down for the other

After the heat of the afternoon and the cycle home, a cold shower and clean clothing revive and refresh me. I heat up a bowl of pumpkin lentil soup and a carrot maize meal muffin. The sun is setting by the time I go outside to sit and eat my dinner. The watermelon tastes delicious, and will be even better tomorrow when it's cold. The half moon that I saw in the blue sky on the cycle home is now bright in the dark sky above me. I sit outside reading a book borrowed from the Vancouver Public Library on my Kobo until I start feeling sleepy. I get ready for bed, turn on the bedroom fan, and climb under the mosquito net to nod off.

"Commitment to service development"

As frustrated as I get with things here, I continually remind myself that the frustrations I experience are minor compared with the challenges and hardships most Malawians deal with every day. People like Gilbert, Peter, Veronica, and the vendors along the roadside don't have the luxuries and resources I take for granted. People living in the villages have even less.

Tailor shop on my cycle to work
Note the treadle sewing machine, commonly used here

I also remind myself that it is by design that things don't work here. The Europeans who colonized African countries set up systems to extract raw resources using cheap local labour, and to import processed and manufactured goods from Europe. Railroads were built not to connect the continent, as they were in Europe and North America, but to provide routes from the inside to ports on the outside.

Malawi has been independent since 1964, but the economy on which it relies has changed very little. South Africa and China are now the primary sources of imported goods. Malawi has virtually no manufacturing industry. European companies continue to buy and profit from the tobacco, coffee, tea, and sugar that are grown so cheaply here, on land that's no longer used to grow food in a country where many people routinely go hungry.

My petty frustrations highlight for me the privileges that I've always taken for granted — a varied diet and excellent education, to start. Here on the other side of the world, I have new appreciation for what I've always been fortunate enough to have — and a new curiosity about how much I really need.

My brand new bicycle being assembled at the local bike shop,
with CARE driver Jeromy overseeing the job

Copyright © 2019 Lynn Thorsell, All rights reserved.

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Malawi album #3 on Google Photos

Please note that the views expressed here are mine alone, and do not necessarily reflect the views of Cuso International.

Life offshore

I am writing this as I sit outside the dorm at Africa WildTruck Lodge, listening to voices coming from the primary school next door of children counting together in English. The early morning was chilly, and I’ve been gradually removing layers of clothing as the sun rises over the treetops. When I look up from my laptop, I see massive Mount Mulanje where I will be hiking five of the next next six days. (I feel a shiver of anxiety as I write that.) This is my first week of vacation since I arrived in Lilongwe in March.

Morning view of Mount Mulanje (Mulanje Massif) from Africa WildTruck Lodge

Fourteen months ago, I was with my aunt and uncle on their 42-foot sailing boat, traveling with them and a cousin around the northwest coast of Vancouver Island. it was a very different experience than this one, and it was the catalyst that brought me here.

My cousin and aunt working onboard Tabinta

For three weeks, we boated, sailed, and anchored outside one of the most remote areas of British Columbia. Days on end, the only signs of other people were distant fishing boats, fish farms, or acres of active or recent logging. Every few days, we stopped in a village of anywhere from 12 to at most 200 people.

Each community was unique. Some had been there for millennia, and some for only a few decades. One was temporarily vacant while its residents worked elsewhere for the summer. Others were temporarily inflated with fleets of fisherman bringing in their catches, washing themselves and their clothes, and restocking their supplies.

Homes in Kyoquot, British Columbia

Whatever their heritage, age, belief system, relationships, and however they spent their days, each of these people share one thing in common — they are all people who, by birth or choice, are living on the fringes of dominant Euro-North American culture. I’d never seen my world from quite this perspective before, and it made me want more.

And so, I find myself in Malawi. It is sad but fitting, I think, that having started this journey on a sail boat, I now liken the continent and culture of my home to a sinking ship.

A home near Dedza, Malawi

Although I write mainly about what I appreciate about Malawi, there are also many painful and difficult realities here: environmental degradation, malnutrition, and food insecurity; the obvious chasm between rich and poor; the status of women and girls.  

Some of the largest contributors to global deforestation are subsistence farmers who clear land for crops, and burn wood to cook their food and make bricks for their homes. Fuel-efficient stoves, and bricks fired in gas kilns are locally available, but they cost money. Cutting and carrying wood is laborious, but it’s free.

Back view of an outdoor deep-fryer (chiwaya)

I wonder about the indigenous wisdom that’s here. It hasn't been easy for me to apprehend. I have a sense of things having been badly disrupted, and yet there is also a sense of connection, kindness, and community that feels very different and special. It's not pure and unalloyed, but I do believe I'm learning something I don’t yet fully understand.

From the interactions I've had with very poor Malawians, what seems to mean the most to them is to be seen, heard, and appreciated — to be recognized as capable, resourceful human beings. And they are incredibly capable and resourceful. They make motors and bicycles work long past the point I would have believed possible. They grow every fruit and vegetable I can imagine. They climb mountains to gather straw for brooms.

In the midst of great generosity and wonderful projects being led by a full spectrum of international NGOs, I hear many people question whether we're enhancing or undermining Malawians' own resourcefulness and leadership; whether we're contributing to a culture of dependency.

Bricks drying outside a home near Dedza

One Malawian NGO leader from the northern region told me that people in villages take their undernourished children to the clinic and are given peanut butter or groundnut flour to feed them. “But groundnuts are growing in their fields,” he says. “We have what we need, but we’re not using it.”

What he says rings true to me on a larger scale. We so readily sell or give away what we have, not knowing its worth. We wait for others to lead us, to give us what we think we need. We believe that what we have, who we are, is too simple, too humble. We sell it cheaply, and then spend that money trying to get or become something different, something more.

Boys swimming in Ruo River

Life on that sailboat off the coast of Vancouver Island was simple, and also very fulfilling. We shared a very small space among the four of us. We got to know each other much better. My uncle is a masterful sailor. My aunt is an amazing cook. We worked and played and talked, and when the weather turned foul, we read a lot. We got outside. We had adventures. We explored. I've seen many people on much bigger, fancier boats, and I don't think they were having anywhere near as much fun.

What would happen if each of us recognized the power and value of what we already have, of who we already are? Of who are neighbours are? Of what's living and breathing and growing right outside our doors?

What happens when we ground ourselves in a sense of appreciation, and begin from there?

Copyright © 2019 Lynn Thorsell, All rights reserved.

Related writing

What if? (Introduction: You never know what you'll find in an RV park) Katie Talbott. Present Sense, 2019.

What if we were never separate? Katie Talbott. Present Sense, 2019.

What if we remembered our relations? Katie Talbott. Present Sense, 2019.

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Malawi album #2 on Google Photos

Please note that the views expressed here are mine alone, and do not necessarily reflect the views of Cuso International.

Eating as a global citizen

For almost 35 years, I've primarily eaten a vegetarian diet. (Has it been that long already?) Five years ago, I embarked, unsuspectingly, on what wound up being a series of dietary experiments.

I started by tracking and adjusting macro-nutrient ratios and eating more dairy, eggs, and legumes. After developing digestive problems, I spent three months not eating a long list of suspected allergens, including dairy and eggs; gradually reintroduced foods; consulted an allergist; and finally eliminated sulphites, sugars, and refined starches. Having no easy way to describe my diet, I now simply call myself a picky eater.

In the few months before I left for Malawi, many people expressed curiosity about how I would eat here. I had a lot of curiosity about that myself!

What do Malawians eat?

The remarkably consistent Malawian restaurant menu
(nkhanga = goat)

My first exposure to Malawian food is on my first day at lunchtime when my roommate walks me to the Spar grocery store to buy carrots. Along the way, we pass a number of outdoor barbecues and food trucks where vendors are roasting chicken (nkhuku in Chichewa), and perhaps other meat, served with either nsima or white rice (mpunga). The offerings are remarkably consistent.

At the Spar store, a long queue of office workers waits at the hot food counter to order various types of stewed meat with either nsima, white rice, or Irish potatoes, and perhaps some green beans or stewed pumpkin leaves on the side. Similar cafeteria-style services at gas stations serve the same foods.

 A catered lunch at the CARE office: chambo, rice and vegetables

Malawians refer to any food that accompanies nsima, whether meat or vegetable, as relish. This is telling. As in most parts of sub-Saharan Africa, starches are people's primary food source. Nsima, white rice, and potatoes are the mealtime favourites.

Roasted maize, which I find disappointingly tough and starchy, is sold for nine cents a cob on street corners. The white bread eaten here in many forms (scones, muffins, buns, etc.) is, by North American standards, plain and dry. Puffed maize snacks monopolize whole aisles in the grocery stores, and are in every corner shop. There is even a sweetened and flavoured maize beverage: Super Meheu.

A typical snack at a district meeting, which many eat as a meal replacement

Styrofoam-flavoured puffed maize snack

While middle class Malawians seem to eat meat or fish with every lunch or dinner, poor Malawians eat meat more rarely and in smaller amounts. And because meat is expensive, people make use of an expansive range of protein foods. My colleague Mike's favourite dish is offals, which are highly nutritious and highly under-appreciated in North America.

The typical snack at a catered meeting: meat and a bun

Different regions of the country have their own specialties. A market vendor near my home sells roasted grasshoppers. I have seen long shish-kebobs of very small birds or mice sold along the roadsides. At one time of the year, dead bats (sonosono in Chichewa) are available in the Lilongwe markets. And the northern lakeside is famous for its flyburgers. (Yes, you read that right.)

Birds for sale

The cornucopia

As is to be expected, my diet has fluctuated since I arrived. I've sampled a lot of foods, including nsima, maize, baked goods, mandasi, and chambo (a tilapia-like fish from Lake Malawi). Unfortunately, after four months and much experimentation, I've found I have no interest or appetite for most of what's commonly eaten here.

There are local foods that I do like. My favourite dish is pumpkin leaves stewed with onions, tomatoes, and lots of groundnut flour. I like the stewed beans here, too, on the rare occasions when a restaurant has them.

Stewed beans, nkwani wotendera (pumpkin leaves with groundnut flour),
and Irish potatoes

I enjoy the roasted sweet potatoes or boiled peanuts that vendors sell on the streets. And my colleagues are impressed that I sometimes go to the ziwaya to get deep fried chips and eggs with cabbage salad.

A chiwaya, or outdoor deep fryer (plural: ziwaya)

Chipisi ndi dzuri chapa chiwaya (chips and a deep-fried egg with cabbage salad)

There are also many foods here that excite me. Produce is amazingly fresh and abundant. On almost every street, people sell bananas, head-sized avocados, fresh or dried groundnuts, perfectly ripe tomatoes, and bundles of red onions. Juicy, sweet tangerines have been in season for a few months now and are also ubiquitous. Cycling home from work, I frequently stop to buy ripe papaya, pineapple, or watermelon from roadside vendors.

In addition to these, vendors in every market, whether in Lilongwe or in the outlying towns and villages, sell sweet potatoes, Irish potatoes, cassava, and half a dozen varieties of freshly shelled beans. There are more types of greens than I knew existed: pumpkin, rape, and sweet potato leaves, as well as arugula, kale, and "Chinese". I get particularly excited about the cabbage: huge, beautiful heads of crisp crucifers.

I've fallen in love with the pumpkins here, which are bluish-green on the outside instead of orange, and are flatter than the North American variety. In flavour and texture, their flesh is like a cross between a North American pumpkin and a butternut squash.

The Lilongwe markets and supermarkets offer an even greater variety of produce: super fresh green beans; giant, juicy carrots; cantaloupes, honeydews, and dark yellow musk melons; the largest and most delicious passion fruit I've ever tasted.

The cost of food

Much more so than in North America, the type and quality of food available here depends on the season, the weather, and where one is in the country. So far my experience has been of the most abundant times and the most comfortable seasons.

Fresh peanuts

I'm living off a monthly living allowance that's intended to cover my basic needs, but I'm easily able to pay for my groceries. I can even afford to buy some items imported from South Africa or beyond that are at least as expensive as they would be in Canada, and that are only affordable to the middle class and wealthy: items like soy sauce, sesame oil, flax meal, dates, and tahini. I confess that there have also been times when I've soothed my emotions with episodes of soft ice cream (CA$1.26) or dark chocolate (CA$6 or more for 100g).

To me, anything grown locally is very affordable. A very large bunch of bananas or a giant cabbage is at most CA$3.60, and feeds me all week. It's difficult for me to imagine that in the midst of this apparent abundance, people go hungry. I'm surprised when one of the guards at Savanna Courtyard talks about not buying bananas because they're so overpriced this year, or when a co-worker tells me cabbage is too expensive for her and her family.

She's not alone. While the cost of 5-10 servings of fruit and vegetables per day is only 2% of a family's average income in Canada or the U.S., it can be as high as 52% in low-income countries like Malawi.

Bombara groundnuts, which are super nutritious and taste like a cross of peanuts and beans

Finding a balance

All of this, as well as being part of a project to improve nutrition for the poorest in this country, has caused me to think a lot about how I eat, and about how I want to eat.

As may be obvious already, I've had many emotions about food since I've arrived. Food — so fundamental to our survival and health — is such a sensual experience, so tied to pleasure and every other emotion. What we eat can join us together, and it can also set us apart.

A delicious, communal Ethiopian feast
(Injera, the bread, is made with teff and sorghum.)

In a culture that places high value on togetherness, family, and community, I am already set apart by my whiteness, wealth, foreignness, and North American upbringing. Early on, I felt guilty for indulging in foods that are obvious luxuries — fresh strawberries! I've come to accept that I will have these occasional indulgences, and not feel quite so separated by them. My fresh strawberries provide income to the man selling them on the street. On a road trip, I buy apples for my co-workers. The women at the checkout counter get to taste dates for the first time.

Rather than try to eat like a Malawian — there are many good reasons why malnutrition is a problem here — I've been inspired by a former colleague to eat like a global citizen. (Thank you, Trevor Seguin!)

Wholegrain maize and flaxmeal tortillas with avocado

For the past eight weeks, I've been following the EAT-Lancet Commission diet, a flexible set of guidelines designed to balance human and planetary health. At a global level, the recommended changes would double consumption of fruits, vegetables, nuts and legumes, and reduce consumption of red meat and sugar by more than 50%. (If you're interested in this, there are links below where you can learn more.)

So how do I eat in Malawi?

After much experimentation, my breakfast is now as it was before I left: oatmeal with flax, fruit, soy milk, and a cup of tea.

My lunch today was a big salad of arugula (grown outside my door), shredded carrot, beans marinated in garlic and lime juice, avocado, and papaya; a tortilla made from whole maize flour and flaxmeal, an apple, a few dates, and some groundnuts.

Dinner might be a bowl of lentil vegetable stew with a sesame maize flour biscuit; cauliflower masala, dal, and chapati; Mexican beans, a maize tortilla, and grilled vegetables; stir-fried ginger-garlic-sesame-chili tofu and bok choy with brown rice; a homemade bean burger, sweet potato, cashew cream, and steamed broccoli...

Vegetable kolhapur, roti, and cucumber raita in Mzuzu

As you can see, this is not a deprivation diet (at least, not from my perspective). I still don't eat meat, and rarely have eggs or dairy — but even without adopting the full range of possibilities offered by the EAT-Lancet diet, I enjoy my food immensely, and I feel good about what I eat.

I also recognize that I have an extraordinary amount of freedom and privilege. It's possible and much easier for me to make this choice than it would be for the vast majority of people on this planet. Knowing that, and the enormous effect our diets have — on ourselves, our families, our communities, our planet — I feel very lucky to be able to do this. I want to trust that even these small changes make a difference.

Copyright © 2019 Lynn Thorsell, All rights reserved.

Resources to support change

Watch the "EAT-Lancet Explained" video or read the EAT-Lancet summary report

The Will Power Instinct. McGonigal, Kelly. Google Talk, February 2012.

Create a Chain Reaction of Good Habits with the Domino Effect. Clear, James. Lifehacker, July 26, 2016.

My daily diet audit

References to learn more

On carrots and curiosity: eating fruit and vegetables is associated with greater flourishing in daily life. Conner TS1, Brookie KL, Richardson AC, Polak MA. The Journal of Health and Psychology, May 2015.

What you eat effects your productivity. Ron Friedman, Ph.D. Harvard Business Review, October 2014.

Ultra-processed diets cause excess calorie intake and weight gain: An inpatient randomized controlled trial of ad libitum food intake. Hall, KD et al. Cell Metabolism, May 16, 2019.

The startling link between sugar and Alzheimers. Khazan, Olga. The Atlantic, January 26, 2018.

What Is the Hunger-Obesity Paradox? Scheier, Lee M. Journal of the Academy of Nutrition and Dietetics, June 2005, Volume 105, Issue 6, pp 883–885.

How the Western Diet Has Derailed Our Evolution. Velasquez-Manoff, Moises. Nautilus, November 12, 2015. 

Food in the Anthropocene: the EAT–Lancet Commission on healthy diets from sustainable food systems. Willett, Walter; Rockström, Johan et al. Lancet. 2019; 393: 447–92.


Allen Carr has written a number of books designed to help people free themselves from addiction, including food addiction. If this interests you, I recommend either Good Sugar, Bad Sugar or The Easyweigh to Lose Weight.

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Malawi album #2 on Google Photos

Please note that the views expressed here are mine alone, and do not necessarily reflect the views of Cuso International.

In this together

It’s my third week of being in Lilongwe. I’m cycling home from the CARE office passing a long line of rush hour traffic. There’s no real shoulder on this road, and the edge of the pavement is jagged, some areas much narrower than others. As I slowly try to squeeze by a small grey car that’s hugging the outside of its lane, my bike handle knocks against the car’s side view mirror and pushes it out of place. I pause to reposition the mirror before continuing, but the woman in the driver’s seat leans out to say something to me. I brace myself for her anger. “Are you all right?” she calls.

It’s not what I expected. But Malawi has a reputation for being The Warm Heart of Africa, and in my experience, that reputation is very well deserved. I’ve learned a great deal about kindness and togetherness since being here.

I arrived in Malawi during the campaign period in advance of a national election on May 19. I soon learn that music and dancing are an integral part of political campaigns here. Sitting outside on the lawn during my lunch break, I see truckloads of people dressed in the t-shirts and chitenjes (cloth wraps) of one of the political parties being driven through the streets. They’re standing tightly together in the backs of the trucks, moving and singing to music blaring from loudspeakers. It’s a noisy and joyful procession that’s repeated throughout the weeks leading up to the election, the colours, slogans, and choice of music defining each of the political parties.

Because of this election, I get to go on my first road trip outside Lilongwe. The Civil Society Organization Nutrition Alliance (CSONA) is sponsoring debates on nutrition across Malawi among the aspiring members of parliament. My new colleagues Joseph and Mike, our driver Synod, and I travel five hours north to Mzuzu, where we stay overnight, and then drive another hour east to a lakeside resort for the first debate.

I’m surprised, and unprepared, to see that the debate will be held outdoors. A table is on the lawn under a large tree with chairs for the candidates and several bouquets of flowers. Chairs have also been set up on the other side of the lawn, but there aren’t enough for everyone. Most of the villagers who arrive sit on the grass, and once my chair starts feeling uncomfortable enough, I join them.

The moderator for the debate introduces the questions in English, but the majority of the debate is in Tumbuka, the dominant language of this region. Although I understand very little of what’s being said, my interest never flags. I’m sitting beside people who have no shoes, or whose shoes are so worn that they’re falling off their feet. It’s obvious from their presence and their attentiveness that this matters to them. The candidates’ debate is lively, and the villagers’ interest is contagious.

As the debate comes to a close, the moderator has one last request for the parliamentary candidates. “On election day,” he says, “these people will elect one of you to represent them. Once that is decided, it’s our responsibility to support the chosen candidate in performing their duties and delivering on their promises. I invite all of you to now stand and hold hands, demonstrating your support for one another.”

The candidates stand, reach out to each other, and raise their hands, smiling at the crowd and at each other. “We hold our elections in peace,” the moderator says. “Tili timodzi! We are one Malawi!”

Member of parliament candidates close their debate with
a declaration of mutual support

Driving to Mzuzu for the debates, I keep seeing the names of international aid organizations prominently displayed along the highway on concrete place markers, street signs, and banners: Plan International, World Vision, United Nations, US AID, European Union, Islamic Relief, Pennsylvania Methodist Church. Each of the signs and banners advertise projects underway or recently completed, or point to a local school or medical clinic that organization has built.

I imagine the experience of a child growing up in that village: what an event it would be to have an organization like that came into your tiny community; what a difference that kind of a project would make. I can easily imagine the kind of loyalty and admiration that child would have for that organization, country, or institution; that she or he might aspire to grow up and work for them and make a similar difference in other communities, would feel an affinity for that nation, would want to become a member of that faith.

As I meet and talk with more Malawians, I am impressed by how many of them have dedicated their careers to either working for a non-governmental organization, or founding their own smaller civil society organization to serve others.

A few weekends ago, one of my fellow volunteers invited me to take her place on a team-building trip being organized by Passion for Women and Children, one of the Southern African Nutrition Initiative (SANI) grassroots partners. One Saturday morning in the parking lot of a nearby mall, I board an already-full mini-bus and find myself seated between a large rusty metal barbecue grill and a lean, friendly man in his mid-twenties.

I am impressed to learn that Mackson is the acting executive director for this organization, and am curious about someone so young having this much responsibility. Passion for Women and Children provides services to people living with HIV and AIDS. An important aspect of their work, sponsored through SANI, is helping those people improve their nutrition.

Through the two-hour drive to the lake, Mackson and I dive into a rich conversation. He tells me he grew up very poor in a small village, often having very little to eat as a boy; sometimes pumpkin leaves would be his only meal of the day. He was fortunate enough to have an uncle who paid for his secondary education. (Only primary school is free here.) Eventually, his family’s socioeconomic status improved.

Mackson began working in non-profit social services organizations after graduating from secondary school. When I ask him about his proudest achievement, he talks about the work he did with young prostitutes who wanted to leave the sex trade. He tells me that sometimes he runs into one of those women, and how excited she is to see him and tell him how her life has changed. Now that Mackson has enough income, he sponsors the education of a few children from his village. He tells me his aspiration is to pay for 100 of them to complete school.

Other colleagues have similar stories to tell. They, too, grew up poor in villages. Because an older sibling or a donor through an international NGO sponsored their education, they were able to eventually go to college or university, find work, and escape poverty. They, too, aspire to help other Malawians transform their lives in kind.

It’s Thursday afternoon, and I’m walking through the streets of Nsanje, the southern-most town in Malawi. Nsanje was the area of Malawi most devastated by Cyclone Idai in March. I still see homes being reconstructed, an occasional tent still in use. This morning, across the street from the lodge where I stayed, women were lined up with colourful plastic buckets to draw water from one of the boreholes that Laurent, a volunteer who lives next door to me, would have inspected and repaired.

Nsanje has an atmosphere that makes me imagine a North American wild west community in the late 1800s. Although there are cars and motorcycles instead of horses, goats and donkeys graze along the side of the roads, a pair of donkeys loiter on one of the main streets, and a herd of cattle occasionally pass through town. As I cut a corner to turn right, I startle a family of pigs rooting among the bushes.

The two paved main streets, which converge into a Y at the south end of town, are also joined by a lively market area that crowds a dirt road. Driving through this road the previous night in our rented Ford Ranger with my colleague Mike and our driver Steve, looking for a place to stay, I felt anxious and tired. Steve slowly and nimbly navigated the vehicle through the crowd, dodging vendors’ goods spread along the roadside. We were surrounded by music, people, voices, lights. I felt more different and out of place than I’ve ever felt here.

Now that I’m out walking on my own, I feel safest sticking to the two quieter, wide, main roads. White people are obviously a novelty here. Almost everyone I pass greets me with a word or phrase of English. Young children run out from homes or schools waving and calling, “Mazungu! Mazungu!” and then sometimes run back squealing in wide-eyed shyness. I feel something brush the back of my head, turn around, and see two girls of about fourteen giggling, one of them having just touched my hair.

A young man is selling tangerines on a corner, and I stop to buy some. “Ndalama zingati?” I ask, and hear his reply as “150 kwacha.” That price is a little high, but still reasonable. I hand him MK300 and take two. “No, six,” he says. MK600! That’s expensive for tangerines. But then he starts handing me more of them, and I realize that they are only MK50 each – and rather than just taking my money, he’s making sure I get what I paid for. I’m touched.

From there, I walk down to the riverside to sit in the shade. A few men are also hanging out there, and I sit a few yards away from them, watching a young man in a dugout canoe ferry people across the water to the beautiful vegetable and maize gardens on the Mozambique side. One of the men comes over to sit beside me. We exchange greetings and introductions in his few words of English and my few words of Chichewa.

Then I think, “Why not take a trip to Mozambique?” “Do you think they would take me across in the canoe?” I ask him. He calls to the ferryman and another man in a red shirt, and very quickly everything is arranged.

The men excitedly help me board the bow of the canoe from the muddy riverside. The man in the red shirt is my guide, and the river is deep and dark.  “We are very safe,” he reassures me. “We make this crossing many times. There’s no danger.”

When we reach the other side, we’re greeted by a very lean, older man who appears to be the father of both the ferryman and my guide. The men proudly show me the crops they’re growing, and are delighted when I take their photos. They show me the nsima cooking for their lunch under a small shelter. “No one swims in the Shire River,” they tell me, pointing out the crocodile lying on a little islet about a hundred yards away.

The men are all very lean. Women and children come from working in the fields. Everyone’s clothes are well worn, sometimes tattered. None of them have shoes. They’re subsistence farmers growing crops on land in a neighbouring country, land they don’t even own. I pay about $1 for my ferry ride, which I’m sure is a small fortune.  

Some of the women and children join me for the passage back. The gunwale of the canoe is much closer to the water, the boat seems a little less stable, and I can’t stop thinking about the crocodile as we cross.

Later in the day, I eat dinner in a little restaurant on the main street closest to the river. Well after the sun sets, I walk back to my lodge, along the dirt road through the busy, noisy market. I’ve rarely felt this safe in a crowd, or this much community and connection as a stranger.

Many of us have the belief, conscious or not, that only some of us can live the good life, and that we have to protect what we have from other people who are trying to take it away; that it’s poor people who are the threat and the problem.

I’ve experienced something very different here. The opportunities I have to talk with, empathize with, and collaborate with people of a much lower socioeconomic status have been at least as much benefit to me as they seem to be to them. They seem proud to connect with me and tell me who they are; proud to be seen. I feel my anxiety dissipate, my body relax. I’m better able to open my heart not only to them, but also to me and to the whole of my experience — the wonderful and amazing parts of it, as well as the painful and lonely ones. We are both humanized in the process.

I’ve come to believe that fear is only necessary when we are trying to defend ourselves and our wealth from the people around us. It’s the wealthiest people here who top their walls with glass and barbwire, guard their premises with German shepherds, speed through rural communities in Mercedes and Land Rovers with windows rolled up, arm their security with guns. It's when I'm in those vehicles or behind those gates that I feel the most distrust of those outside; the most righteous and defensive of my many privileges.

Having a viable future for our planet requires something different. It requires us to see each other as resourceful, capable human beings. It requires us to reach beyond ourselves — beyond our religious, political, ethnic, and socioeconomic differences, beyond borders, even beyond our species.

I’m sitting beside my colleague Mike at a large wooden table in a very small concrete building. We’re in Mponela, a one-hour drive north of Lilongwe, and Mike is orienting this group of 15 civil society organization representatives to their new role as members of the national nutrition alliance. As he walks through his presentation, he periodically pauses and turns to them.

“Tili timodzi?” he asks. “Are we together?”

Copyright © 2019 Lynn Thorsell, All rights reserved.

Related resources

Maintaining relationship through difference and conflict

Three lessons of revolutionary love in a time of rage. Valerie Kaur, TED Talk, 2017

Red brain, blue brain. Shankar Vedantam, The Hidden Brain. National Public Radio, October 8, 2018.

Want collaboration? Accept – and actively manage – conflict. Jeff Weiss and Jonathan Hughes, Harvard Business Review.

The power of social (dis)connection

All the world's a stage – including the doctor's office.  Shankar Vedantam, The Hidden Brain. National Public Radio, April 30, 2019.

The brain makes no distinction between a broken bone and an aching heart. That’s why social exclusion needs a health warning. Elitsa Dermendzhiyska, Aeon. April 30, 2019.

Ways we genuinely can buy health and happiness

The Soul of Money. Lynne Twist, W.W. Norton & Company, 2006.

We froze the salaries of 20 executives – and it improved the lives of 500 employees. John Driscoll, The Guardian. May 15, 2019.

Costa Rica is one of the world's happiest countries. Here's what it does differently. Josephine Moulds, World Economic Forum, January 31, 2019.

How economic inequality harms societies. Richard Wilkinson, TEDGlobal 2011. October 2011.

‘It’s a miracle’: Helsinki’s radical solution to homelessness. Jon Henley, The Guardian. June 3, 2019

“A higher degree of acceptance towards migrants increases happiness both among newcomers and the locally born.” The Happiest Countries in the World 2019. Luca Ventura, Global Finance, March 25, 2019.

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New Malawi album #2 on Google Photos

Please note that the views expressed here are mine alone, and do not necessarily reflect the views of Cuso International.