Living in Myst

After being in Malawi for two months, some people and places are now familiar to me. I’m able to conduct myself on the street and in public places with enough coolness and firmness to not feel harassed by vendors and attention seekers, but enough respect and sensitivity that I can still connect with people. I understand Malawians much better when they speak English: their intonations, accent, and expressions. I can fluently exchange greetings and say “thank you” and “sorry” in Chichewa. I can even stumble out a few words in Tumbuka, one of the languages in the northern region. 

Clearly, these are all indications that I feel more comfortable here. What I also notice is that I experience two persistent currents of discomfort.

The first is the discomfort I experience when I am on the streets, in the markets, or in local accommodations. Here I am very conscious of being different and out of place, not speaking the language, being unintentionally rude, not knowing how things work, making mistakes, and being either a disturbance or a novelty. I sometimes question whether it’s possible to be here at all as a wealthy white person without having a negative effect. 

The second is the discomfort I experience when I am in Savanna Courtyard, at a resort on the lake, or in another environment that approximates what I might experience in North America. In these places I find it easier to speak, move, understand people, and do “normal” things (normal for me), but I feel very conscious of being a member of a small and highly privileged group of people who are having an experience that is not available to the vast majority of people here, including the people working in the housing compound or resort.

My room at Nkhotakota Pottery Lodge

Discomfort #2 is certainly the more seductive. My home in Savanna Courtyard is simple, but very comfortable. I could choose to only shop in malls, to drive a car, and to live my life behind gates. Many people do that. Even on my monthly volunteer allowance, I can afford to occasionally treat myself to a restaurant meal that costs MK6,000 to MK12,000 (CA$10-20) – one or two weeks’ pay at minimum wage here.

With fellow volunteer Briana at Nkhotakota Pottery Lodge Resort

But as pleasant as these environments may be, they are protected by walls, gates and security guards, sometimes even German shepherds. On my first road trip here, I saw a large complex surrounded by cement walls topped with barbed wire, with several low buildings and a large water tower inside. I was about to ask my colleagues whether it was a prison, when I saw the entrance flanked by the sign: “Grand Palace Hotel”.

When I’m in these places — even when I spend too much time at home — I get a sense of disconnection, separation, defensiveness, and misalignment. If I genuinely want to reduce poverty, improve nutrition, and restore dignity to people, why am I separating myself from them like this?

Conversely, as taxing as it can often be, the richest and most rewarding experiences I have are when I embrace Discomfort #1.

 - * - * - * - * - * - * -

It’s my first morning staying at Aaucha Lodge in Mzuzu. I’m sitting at a small table covered white and blue cotton table cloths. All the chairs are covered in white cotton, too. Men are eating their breakfasts at two of the four tables along the opposite wall. The door to the kitchen is behind them and across from me. There is a small bar near the door, and two other  tables between it and the table at which I’m seated near the back.

The room I’m staying in here is almost completely taken up by the mosquito-netted queen-size bed. There’s a plain wooden armoire built into one wall, a flat-screen television mounted high beside the door, and just enough space at the end of the bed for me to roll out my yoga mat. The bathroom is very narrow and completely tiled, a toilet at one end, a shower at the other, and a sink in between. There’s no shower curtain. In front of the sink, a tiled threshold keeps the shower water (or at least most of it) out of the toilet floor area. A large pair of flip-flops are provided for entering the bathroom post-shower. In all, it’s very simple but clean, and cheap enough to be covered by the per diem for this trip. There aren't any other white people staying here, but by the vehicles in the parking lot I know there are other guests also working for international NGOs.

While waiting for the server, I review the menu: beef, chicken, or chambo (fish) burgers; pizza; T-bone steak, local chicken, or hybrid chicken; beef stew with rice, nsima, or chips. 

After a few minutes, a small, serious young woman comes out of the kitchen and over to my table. She greets me, asks for my room number, then goes back in the kitchen and calls to the cook, “Thirteen!”

A few minutes later, she returns with the omelet I ordered, chips, white bread, a sausage, a large bowl of cornflakes, juice, and a bowl of sugar. I send back the cornflakes and juice, and tell her I don’t need the sugar either. “You don’t want tea?” she asks, surprised. I say that I do, but I just take my tea plain. “No milk?” she says, now more surprised. 

I eat the omelet and the chips, then wait for twenty minutes until she finally brings the hot water for my tea. She tells me the cook was using all the burners on the stove, but the other diners have left, and there’s no one else in the restaurant. Afterward I sit outside in the verandah enjoying a couple tangerines and a banana to round out my meal.

That night when I place my breakfast order, in addition to placing a checkmark beside the omelet, I cross out the sections of food I don’t want and write, “No” beside them. When I give the woman behind the counter my order slip, I ask whether the cook could add a piece of fruit or tomato to my breakfast. She smiles and says something vaguely affirmative. But the next morning, the server tries to give me a bowl of cornflakes and glass of juice again, and there’s no fruit or tomato. When I ask for a second teapot of hot water, she seems annoyed. I pour it into my Neoprene bottle to drink later.

On my third and last morning at Aaucha Lodge, my plate of omelet and chips comes covered in plastic wrap. Although she’s given me the breakfast I’ve asked for, I now have the sense that the server thinks that I think that she and the Lodge are not good enough for me. I feel sad about that, but none of my attempts to better communicate with her seem to have helped.

 - * - * - * - * - * - * -

Four weeks later, I’m unexpectedly back in Mzuzu for a three-day training session. When I arrive at Aaucha Lodge the first evening, the woman at the reception desk remembers me. “You left lotion,” she says. At first I don’t understand. She reaches over, opens the drawer beside her, and pulls out a plastic bag with the travel-size shampoo and conditioner that I forgot in my room the last time I stayed here. I’m so surprised they would have kept them in case I returned — how kind!

This time when I place my breakfast order, I choose the Spanish omelet. The next morning, my breakfast comes wrapped in plastic wrap, as it did before, but when the server brings me a pot of hot water, she also takes my water bottle and brings it back full of boiling water, too. I thank her enthusiastically and she’s obviously pleased.

The women at the reception desk start teaching me how to say a few basics in Tumbuka, the primary language in this region. I stumble over “Mwa kauli” (Good morning) “Muli wuli?” (How are you?) and “Ndili makora, kwali imwe?” (I’m fine, what about you?” “Yewo” (Thank you) is easier.

On the third morning, even though I haven’t said anything at all, there’s no plastic wrap over my plate, and the cook has added — coleslaw! My face lights up and my eyes are almost teary — what a surprise! The server grins, delighted.

 - * - * - * - * - * - * -

Walking past the bustling market on my last evening in Mzuzu, I stop to buy cassava, something that I don’t see back in Lilongwe. I hand the vendor MK200 and say, “Yawe,” realize I’ve mixed up my vowels, laugh, and quickly correct myself: “Yewo!” She laughs, too, and hands me a smaller piece of cassava saying, “You get prize!” I walk away with a huge grin on my face, touched by her kindness.

 - * - * - * - * - * - * -

A few weeks after I arrived here, I decided to rent a post box so that I could receive mail. (Malawi has no formal street address system, and even couriered deliveries have to be picked up at the courier office.) The woman at the counter told me they didn’t have keys available for any of the mailboxes there, so she would assign me a mailbox at Crossroads Centre, which is a little further away. But since they didn’t have keys for the mailboxes at Crossroads, I could just come to this post office to pick up my mail.

That was confusing to me, but renting a post box is much cheaper than using a courier. I decided to trust that somehow the system would work.

Two weekends ago, I went to the post office to ask whether I'd received anything. The woman at the counter said they would send someone to Crossroads to check, and would call me if I had any mail. That seems like a very indirect way getting mail, but since Crossroads is further away and many people might not be able to get there easily, I thought it was kind of them to offer that service. 

After not hearing anything from them after a couple weeks, I decide to cycle to Crossroads Centre, find the post office there, and check for mail myself — but when I get there, I can’t find the post office. 

After cycling through the complex a couple times, I approach the bell hops in front of the Crossroads Hotel for directions. They consult each other, and then refer me to the staff at the reception desk inside. The staff at the desk talk amongst themselves, and finally one man says, "I'll walk you over." We walk out of the building, turn to go behind the Standard Bank building next door, enter the staff parking area, and there he shows me a stand-alone bank of post boxes.

So, in fact, there is no post office at Crossroads, only post boxes for which there are no keys for the owners. And this is why I have to wait until one of the postal workers checks to see whether I have mail (after another postal worker has delivered it to these boxes? But that seems to be how bureaucracy works here). If I do have mail, then they call me to come pick it up.

When I relate this to a friend, she laughs and says, “It’s like some magic system that has a key that has been lost or hidden, and part of the deal is having to find the key before you are worthy of receiving a letter. It reminds me of that old video game, Myst.”

Yes, it’s true! It’s as if I’ve entered a live-action adventure game; another world where I have to figure out what things I have to gather, and what exactly I have to say and do to get the next magic (post office box) door to open – or to get my phone to work, or to renew my wifi access, or to have my visa extended, or to order food at Aaucha Lodge without offending the server. 

When I think of all this as a game I’m playing, I suddenly feel much happier, and more victorious and optimistic, too. I realize that I don’t have to take all of this so seriously. I am learning. Why not have fun while I’m doing it? 

With Esther in front of the booth where she took the photo for my temporary resident application

My perspective shifts, and I embrace the challenge. I wonder what level of the game I’ll manage to reach while I’m here?

Copyright © 2019 Lynn Thorsell, All rights reserved.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

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.

Creatures

I’m very happy to report that while cockroaches are part of our household, we are only occasionally aware of their presence. When I do see one, I’ve taken to scooping it up and depositing it outside, hopeful that it will find more plentiful food sources elsewhere.

We have three types of other (known) roommates. My favourites are the small geckos that sometimes appear on a wall. I suspect that they and the small spiders that I sometimes see in nooks and corners are equally beneficial in controlling the insect population.

Less beneficent, from a human perspective, are the termites, a seemingly persistent reminder that nature is ready at any moment to reclaim our human habitations. The strongest stipulation in our lease agreement is that as tenants we are obliged to immediately report any sign of termites to our landlord, or be liable for the cost of the damage they incur.

Because our flat was newly painted and repaired before we moved in, Marine and I thought termites would be unlikely. One of the other volunteers commented during her first visit to our home that she could see where the carpenters had repaired termite damage and sealed vulnerable areas in the ceiling. It took the visit of another volunteer a few weeks later to bring to our attention a foot-long worm-like trail on one of the brick walls, and to confirm that the dust we saw under the door hinge of the refrigerator and along a baseboard were other signs of their presence.

What surprises me most about both termites and the local mosquitoes is how tiny they are. In my mind, I had associated the size of their bodies with the magnitude of threat they present to habitats and health – but the opposite is true. Termites, at last the ones in our fridge, are the tiniest ants I’ve ever seen, and the mosquitoes here are little bigger than no-see-ums on the west coast.

- * - * - * - * - * -

The Tuesday after the Easter long weekend, I am (unsuccessfully) fighting off a cold. Because I don’t feel up to cycling, I get a ride with Marine, and at my lunch break I walk over to a wooded area and have a nap in the shade.

I still feel tired when we get home, but put on the celestial apron my stepdaughter made for me years ago and begin to make myself a big pot of lentil soup. I put the pressure cooker on the stove, open a drawer to get a wooden spoon, and suddenly near the wrist of my light pink, long-sleeved, knit cotton shirt there is a black, furry spider, about 10 centimetres wide.

I jump, shake my arm, and scream – loudly. Then form my scream into a word: “Marine! Marine!” She emerges from her bedroom. “Help! I need you!” The spider has disappeared, but I have no idea where it’s gone. Is it still on me? Marine grabs her glasses, and comes to investigate.

Finding nothing, we reassure ourselves that the spider is just as scared as I am, and is either cowering under the stove, or has already escaped through some secret crack that we would never discover. Neither of us is brave enough to get down on the floor and look for it. I take a few deep breaths and calm myself, Marine goes back to her bedroom, and I resume cooking.

Onions, spices, tomatoes – I chop and measure, adding each layer of flavour to the pot, and as the hot oil transforms them they begin to scent the air. I pick up the wooden spoon and reach in to stir the lovely mixture – and there is the spider, emerging from the pocket of my apron.

More screams! Marine runs out of her bedroom. “Get it outside!” she says. She opens the front door, and I run over to it. As I get to the threshold, the spider falls from the apron – and now he is on my right pant leg, scampering around to the back of it, near my ankle. More screams! I lift my leg, hoping to shake it away, and as I do Marine screams, “It’s gone! It’s outside!” "Is it really?" I think. But I back away from the door, and she slams it shut and locks it. We look at each other in relief.

Much later in the evening, I feel calm and curious enough to wonder whether it really could have been a tarantula. I google “spiders of Malawi”, and there appears a large, black, furry cousin of the creature with which I was in such intimate proximity earlier. Here it is called a baboon spider, but it is indeed a type of tarantula. They range in size from 1.3 to 9 centimetres in diameter, and take ten years to mature. Normally, they are reclusive and stay in or close to their nests, but at some point a male spider’s libido draws it out of hiding and motivates it to wander further afield in search of a willing female. What I encountered must have been one of these larger, libidinous, roaming males.

Photo credit: Peter Webb (I was not calm enough to take a photo myself.)

I also learn that baboon spiders have many predators, including birds and other spiders, and that their population is threatened by humans who collect them as pets or curiosities. I’m reminded of a friend who once counselled a woman experiencing arachnophobia, and that part of the treatment involved learning how vulnerable and fragile spiders actually are; developing empathy for them.

I think how possible it is that the spider that escaped through our door could have been injured during our encounter, and I do feel empathy for it. I wonder whether that empathy would make me calmer and more rationale in similar circumstances. I imagine myself seeing the spider on my sleeve, serenely recognizing our shared essence, gently transporting it outside, and setting it free to find its mate — a kind of horse whisperer for spiders. But it’s more likely I would scream equally wildly if it were on me again.

Copyright © 2019 Lynn Thorsell, All rights reserved.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

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.

Getting settled

I wake up and sleepily check the time. 5:30! It's the morning of my move, and I've slept later than usual. The sun is already rising.

I shower and dress for my last breakfast at Mafumu Lodge, very happy to again eat out on the patio by the garden.

When I return to my room, I realize how little I need to do to be ready. Why not relax for a while, read, review my photos? I have time.

The ring of the room's phone surprises me. My first thoughts are of all of my family and friends in North America, but then I remind myself that there are people here who already know me and may need to reach me.

"Hello?" I answer. "Good morning, madam," a woman's voice replies. "Your taxi is here." "My taxi!" It is only 8:00, and I hadn't expected to be picked up until 10:00. "Okay, tell him I'll be ready in ten minutes," I say, reflexively accommodating.

I hang up and look around. I haven't even started to get ready. And Marine isn't expecting me yet. What will happen if I arrive at Savanna Courtyard two hours early? She might not even have the key to our flat. Why am I rushing?

I pick up the phone and call the number for reception. The woman's voice answers. "Could you please ask the taxi driver to come back at ten o'clock?" I ask, feeling both relieved and proud. I am not just a passenger or something to be transported, as I've felt so often in the past few days. I am an active agent!

Before 10:00, I am packed and begin to take my luggage to the parking lot. One of the men on staff sees me and comes to carry my bags for me, scolding me laughingly for trying to do it myself. Not tipping him feels awkward, but apparently that is how it's done here. In any case, I don't know what amount would have been insulting, and what would have been too much. Refraining seems simpler. 

Weeks later, I read about a Nigerian woman's reaction to tipping in the United States; how every time she does it, she feels like she's paying a bribe. I laugh, recognizing my experience through the looking glass.

A new home

When I arrive at #10 Savanna Courtyard, Marine is waiting outside to greet me. "I just got the key now," she says. "When I knocked on the landlord's door, the man who works for him answered. He asked me to come back later — I think Faheed was still sleeping, and he didn't want to wake him — but I told him you were coming with your things, so we needed the key now. If it had been just me, I'm sure he would have made me wait."

We're both very happy to finally get settled. 

Our white, solid wood front door opens into a large, open living space. On the left is a living room with a simple couch, two matching arm chairs, four end tables, a coffee table, a television, and a desk. On the right is the kitchen and dining area. We have a small stove, or “cooker” as it’s called here, a small refrigerator, black wooden table and chairs to seat six, a short pantry shelf, and a small, plastic washing machine.

All the walls are brick, most of them painted white. The high, peaked ceiling is made of varnished wood with black caulking running through the join at the top.

The middle of the back wall opens into a short hallway that leads to bedrooms on the left and right. Each bedroom has its own small bathroom with a tiled, concrete shower, toilet, and pedestal sink. Marine takes the bedroom on the left with a queen-size bed and white mosquito net. I take the one on the right with two twin beds, each with a blue mosquito net. With a couple pillows against the wall, one bed becomes my “couch”, and will be a guest bed when I have visitors.

Although our new home looks simple to me,  Marine tells me how much cleaner and better equipped it is than the flat she was sharing with Jonathan. The next day, our colleague and neighbour Chenai drops in after church and confirms this with her exclamations. "You have headboards," she exclaims, "and your walls are so white!" "Our cooker elements aren't just either off or on high, like the one in the flat I shared with Jonathan — they actually adjust their temperatures,” Marine tells her. Until hearing their comments, I hadn't even realized that these were things for which to be grateful.

The market and Chipiku

Since neither of us have much, unpacking only takes a couple hours. Once I'm done, my thoughts turn to groceries. "How do I get to the market from here?" I ask Marine. "I've only been there once," she says. "Why don't you ask Jonathan? I bet he would take you."

I collect my wallet and shopping bags, put on a cap and some sunscreen, walk up the row of flats to #7, and knock on the door. "Marine suggested I ask you to show me the way to the market," I tell Jonathan. He looks mildly surprised, but goes to get his things, and very shortly comes out to join me. 

Jonathan is in his late twenties, a lean, quiet man with a slight slouch, full lips, a square jaw, prominent brow, light brown hair, and a receding hairline. From his usual silence and thoughtful expression, I've already guessed that he's an intravert. He seems friendly when he does respond; he’s just someone with a rich internal world who prefers his own company.

Six guards are lounging on the lawn inside the gate. They greet us, and one of them gets up to pull back one welded black geometry of squared iron bar so that we can exit. 

We cross the road, and Jonathan leads me along a red dirt path that skirts along the thatch fence of the brick house facing Savanna Courtyard. The path angles onto another street.

Trees shade the roads, and birds call to each other above us. A few other pedestrians are also going somewhere. Once in a while, someone in a car or on a bicycle passes. We step down packed dirt steps held by tree roots, step across a deep ditch with brick sides, cross the road, and walk pass the 24-hour clinic that seems so out of place to me in this quiet neighbourhood.

We turn again, walk down another quiet street, and here we are amidst cars and shops and people. The smell of mandasi -- thick, dense doughnuts of fried bread, slightly sweeter than bannock, and sold out of plastic pails by vendors on the street -- greets my nose.

Mandasi vendor

I notice a National Bank, and we pause so I can withdraw money. Across the street from the bank is a large and busy mall, circled by sidewalk. We walk past it and beyond the sidewalk, along the side of a busy road, and then into the embrace of the market.

Shops on the street side of the market

We are surrounded by wooden stalls displaying fruits and vegetables, vendors seated at each one. People are milling about, and I breathe in the warm, musty scent of people's bodies as they pass me. I haven’t inhaled this much body odour since gym class in high school, and I’m surprised to find it’s not unpleasant.

I haven't eaten since breakfast, and everything looks delicious. As soon as I stop to admire some green beans, I'm surrounded by young men eager to sell me their produce. I select a few things — a papaya, a package of small ginger bulbs, a little plastic bag of powdered turmeric, carrots, sweet potatoes — and they call out prices. I'm trying to do one thing at a time, but all of them are handing me things and talking at once. I pack my purchases, dole out kwacha to them, pick up my weighty bag, and turn to find Jonathan at my elbow with a small, black plastic bag of his purchases.

On our way back past the mall, I see that there's a Chipiku Plus, which Marine had recommended for anything I couldn't get at the market. I tell Jonathan I'd like to stop there, and he looks reluctant. "That's okay," I say. "I think I can find my way back from here." So he walks on without me, and I turn to go to the store.

A security guard stands at a wooden pedestal in the middle of the entrance, stamping people’s receipts as they exit, and several men are mopping red dirt off the white floors. The aisles are much busier and the produce section better stocked than the Spar store Marine took me to at lunchtime a couple days before. I find one shelf with bags of dals, cumin, bay leaves, kokum, and tamarind, and am reminded of the shops I used to frequent in Vancouver on Fraser Street. A few rows down, there are boxes of the delicious Kenyan tea, Kericho, to which my dear friend Rahel introduced me. And I'm thrilled to find soy milk — I had little hope of getting it here after seeing only dairy milk in plastic bags and tetrapacks at Spar — and peanut butter with no added sugar. They even take Mastercard, so I pay with credit, avoiding the still unfamiliar currency.

Finding my way

Well-burdened now with both a backpack and large grey fabric grocery bag, I begin the walk back home. I recognize familiar landmarks — the bank, the tourist market stalls, a gas station on the corner — and am proud of myself for this early independence. It's 28°C, the groceries are heavy, and although Marine had said the shops were only a couple kilometres from our home, the journey seems longer. 

After walking up a short hill, I reach a T-intersection. The 24-hour clinic is on my left, so I turn in that direction. But once I pass it, I'm unsure where to go. A road branches off to the right, but the gates and walls of the residences look too wealthy to be our street. Further down, there's another T-intersection, but when I get there, I'm not sure which way to turn, or whether either way would take me home. I thought I would be able to see our gate from here, but nothing looks that familiar.

On the corner across from me, two men are roasting and selling corn. I walk across to them and ask whether they know the way to Savanna Courtyard. They are friendly, but unable to help me. I approach a couple women walking past, but although they respond affirmatively, it soon becomes apparent that they, too, don’t know.

Still hungry, I decide to just take a break and treat myself to a cob of roasted corn. It’s only MK100 ($0.18). I walk back up to the first turnoff and sit down on the grass in front of one of the housing compound walls.

I’m disappointed to find the corn is crunchy and starchy, not sweet and soft as I’d expected. I’m reminded of corn kernel snacks I’ve had before, but, not having oil or salt, this is much plainer.

A couple with a well-used white Toyota Range Rover is also taking a break nearby. We strike up a conversation. They are waiting to look at a flat for rent in one of these housing compounds. The woman, Angela, has just gotten a job in Lilongwe, and they’re moving into town from the village where they’ve been living. After we’ve talked for a while, they invite me to see their sleeping three-year old daughter, lying on the backseat of the Toyota.

Having eaten and rested, I finally give up any pretence of independence and call Marine. “You’re almost here,” she says. “Go back to the T-intersection, turn right, and then turn left at the fork in the road. Savanna Courtyard is the first gate on the left.”

What I’ve learned about getting lost is that it can be very helpful in really getting to know the way.

Copyright © 2019 Lynn Thorsell, All rights reserved.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

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.