Shifting context

Photo courtesy of Mafumu Lodge

It’s 6:00 p.m. when I get back to my hotel room Thursday evening. I’m tired from the long first day in the office, uncomfortable from the heat and the persistent post-flight swelling in my hands and feet, but I’m also hungry. I have the refrigerated block of smoked tempeh that’s traveled with me from Vancouver, and the package of local carrots I bought during the lunch break. As tempted as I am to eat the carrots raw, the traveler’s food preparation mantra is fresh in my memory  Peel it, boil it, cook it, or forget it.

Rather than risk illness, I decide to tackle the carrots on several fronts. First, I scrub each of them with a nail brush. Then I scrape them as best as I can with my Swiss army knife. Finally, I place them in the sink and pour a kettle of boiling water over them, then let them sit for five minutes. Cold tempeh and parboiled carrots make a simple dinner, but simple seems to agree with me right now. The whole procedure takes enough time and energy that by the time I finish eating, I’m ready for bed.

Despite getting a good sleep, I wake up the next morning still feeling tired. When I go to the restaurant for breakfast, I find one of the staff unsuccessfully trying to open the French door entrance. He directs me to another door to the side of the building, and I enter there. After getting my breakfast, I find the doors to patio are also locked, and that no one has the keys to the restaurant doors today. I choose a table inside and settle down to eat. 

Photo courtesy of Mafumu Lodge

Al Jeera news is again playing on the restaurant television, which is how I learn about the shootings at the mosques in Christchurch. The horrifying story with brief updates is repeated over and over again. Yesterday I learned from others in the office that a cyclone has flooded and destroyed thousands of homes in Mozambique and in southern Malawi, and that hundreds of thousands of people have been displaced into emergency relief camps and are at risk. Members of the CARE team, including Laurent, the Cuso volunteer for water and sanitation, had already begun planning and preparing their deployment to that area. As I watch this morning, I see mention of this unfolding humanitarian crisis cross the bottom of the screen, but it’s clearly overshadowed by the violent drama that’s just taken place in New Zealand.

My second workday

At the office, many of senior leaders and staff involved in water and sanitation are busy with emergency response preparations. Meanwhile, I continue digesting the SANI baseline report. While I’m reading, I keep asking myself whether there’s any way I could offer to assist with the response work, but being so new here I have no clear ideas about how I could help. The CARE team seems well organized, and I decide that if they needed unskilled labour, they would ask. I’m also not sure that I’m emotionally prepared to be immersed into emergency relief camps so early in my time here, and while I’m still figuring out how to take care of myself. I may be more of a liability than an asset.

Marine interrupts me to let me know that she’s getting the keys for our townhouse from the landlord tomorrow morning at 10:00, and that Clement is arranging for a taxi driver to bring me over then so that we can both move in. Six weeks after moving out of my apartment, I’m looking forward to finally unpacking my suitcases and getting resettled.

Ground floor view from CARE office building

I’m relieved that CARE staff end their workday at 1:30 on Fridays. Hot and ankles still swollen, a shorter day is long enough for me. Towards the end of it, Clement comes over to let me know the driver is ready for us, and tells me I look very tired. I’m grateful to finally return to Mafumu Lodge.

Small luxuries

Since I have the afternoon to relax and this is my last day at the lodge, I decide that I’ll treat myself to dinner at the restaurant tonight and spend the afternoon outside. When I arrive at the lodge, I walk over to the restaurant to review the menu. Although most of the items are not to my taste, they do feature a Greek salad: “The Classic!” it exclaims. The thought of fresh cucumber, tomato, bell pepper, and oregano along with plump olives and salty feta already has my mouth watering. And the price is MK4,000, which converts to $7.20. I have enough cash, and since that seems relatively expensive, I think the salad must be substantial enough to form a meal.

Next, I go to the office to pay for my last night. I ask whether someone could help me open my patio doors, and one of the women at the desk accompanies me back to my room. She seems amused by my request, and is surprised when she finds the doors are more difficult to open than she expected. After making sure they’re unlocked and then shifting them in their frames, she finally manages to free them.

With a book, my water bottle, and the left over tempeh and carrots, I settle myself on the the tiny patio outside my suite. Other than a few hotel staff and a couple drivers working and talking in the parking area, I’m the only person outside. The patio doors of all the other rooms are closed and draped. The air is warm, the vegetation is lush, and after three days of travel and one and a half days at the office, the luxury of having time to just relax is absolutely delicious.

Photo courtesy of Mafumu Lodge

Very soon, though, I start to feel sleepy. By 3:30, I can barely stay awake. In fact, I’m tired enough that I don’t trust myself to wake up in time for dinner. I set an alarm, and by 4:00 I’m fast asleep.

The alarm wakes me two hours later. It’s twilight. I’d been sleeping deeply — could have kept sleeping all night, perhaps. For a while I consider doing that, but the thought of the Greek salad motivates me to rouse myself, get cleaned up, and dress for dinner.

When I arrive, the only other diners are two men just finishing their meal. The restaurant closes at 8:00, so I expect people here eat early. As I wait for my dinner, I reflect that a salad was not the safest choice. The ingredients are unlikely to have been peeled, boiled, or cooked. I question my selection, but decide to take my chances.

I read while I’m waiting, and look up with anticipation when the waiter brings my order. A few lettuce leaves form the base. Spread on top of these are many slim slices of red onion, shavings of green pepper, a few slim and decorative slivers of seeded tomato, a sprinkling of canned black olive slices, and half a dozen small cubes of feta, drizzled with balsamic vinegar. Nary a hint of oregano greets my mouth.

It’s disappointing, but at least it doesn’t make me sick.

Copyright © 2019 Lynn Thorsell, All rights reserved.

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Malawi album on Google Photos

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