Stay on the Ride: 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?