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.

Pacing ourselves for change

In my last blog post, I wrote about the view I have of North America from here: the view of a giant ship that’s been slowly taking on water for over fifty years. 

While I was in Canada, I certainly knew that scientists were saying some scary things about climate change, the boundaries of our planetary systems and resources, and I took steps to reduce my contribution to those problems. But I was still on the same ship as everyone else in North America, a ship that I’d never seen from a distance.

2,000 to 10,000 year old rock paintings near Dedza, Malawi

Getting to know Malawi has allowed me to better see what North America looks like from the outside. It has also forced me to slow down.

As with visiting or moving to any new city or country, I’ve had to slow down simply because I didn’t know the basics that allowed me to function efficiently back in Vancouver: where things are located, how to get around, which companies sell the goods and services I need, what things cost.

But on top of that, things just happen more slowly. I’ve been accustomed to being able to fulfill my wants and needs very quickly. Here, I’ve had to learn that things aren’t as readily available, and even if they are, they seem much more expensive. Most transactions are still done in person. Very little information or goods are available online, and internet data is also expensive. A letter to or from North America takes at least a month to arrive.

Bicycle taxi in Mzuzu

People also live and talk at a slower pace here. They take time to greet each other and genuinely ask after each other’s well being. There’s a chair at the front of the line at the post office, foreign exchange bureau, immigration office so that the customer being served can sit for a while. More people walk or cycle. Only 6% of Malawians own any type of motorized vehicle, including scooters, while 36% own a bicycle.

The pace is slower at work, too. People don’t live by their calendars, as I’m used to doing. Most things happen when they happen. Meeting times regularly get postponed, or are scheduled on short notice. I spend much more time waiting, and often I don’t know that I’ll be travelling for work until the day before our departure. I’m learning a new level of adaptability.

This has been a huge change for me, and there have definitely been many times when I've felt impatient or frustrated, or caught myself being abrupt and unintentionally rude.

But I’ve also found that living at a much slower pace than I was before is one of the things I enjoy most about my life here. I have more time to think, read, learn, pay attention, and to connect with the people and environment around me. When I sometimes feel impatient, I remind myself of the many things that are more important than doing something quickly: safety, quality, health, relationship, understanding.

Enjoying the view during a hike to see ancient rock paintings

Slowing down. Paying attention. Those are such simple things to do — and also difficult, powerful, and profound. Most of us in North America live at such a fast pace that we don’t even have time to really know how we feel. We avoid discomfort. We distract ourselves with technology and entertainment, have a drink, smoke a joint, take a pill if we're in pain, so that we can keep doing what we think we need to do every day. And through that avoidance, we ignore so much.

Being in Malawi has forced me to slow down. Making that shift while you’re in North America takes much more intention and courage. It takes courage to pay more attention to what feels uncomfortable or painful, to say “No” to continuing to do the same things that have gotten us into this mess. But if we keep moving at this pace, where will we find the motivation or the capacity to change anything else in our lives? 

Many of you already know the benefits and importance of taking time to know how your body feels, to know how you feel, to really connecting with the people closest to you. It may be too late to stop our ship from sinking. The best we can do may be to mitigate the damage it does as it goes down. But to do that, we have to get ourselves and our families ready. We have to prepare the lifeboats. And we can’t do that if we’re too busy with other things.

Copyright © 2019 Lynn Thorsell, All rights reserved.

Resources for change

The Case for the 6-Hour Workday. Steve Glaveski. Harvard Business Review, December 11, 2018.

The Research Is Clear: Long Hours Backfire for People and for Companies. Sarah Green Carmichael. Harvard Business Review, August 19, 2015.

The surprising benefits of relentlessly auditing your life. Amy Westervelt. The New York Times, May 25, 2019. 

Full Catastrophe Living. Jon Cabot-Zinn. Bantam, 2013.

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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.

The view from here

It’s taken me a long time to write this. Being in Malawi is a huge change in perspective for me. I find it very different to see Canada and North America from a distance, to be living in a country that is very much not part of the G7 or G8. It’s taken time for me to make sense of what I’m seeing, but the view is finally becoming clear enough for me to write about it.

From here, I can see that for my whole lifetime I have been living on a gigantic ship that’s sinking; that’s been taking on water ever since I was born.

I know that how we live our lives in North America seems normal. We get up, do our morning routines, get the kids off to school and ourselves off to work, have very busy days, and possibly very busy evenings, too. We watch TV. We shop at the places where other people shop, buy things that other people buy, eat things that other people eat. It’s all normal.

We’ve been living like this, to a greater or lesser extent, for three or four generations. My grandparents experienced something radically different in their childhood, but their late adulthood was very much like my life. They watched television, drove cars, worked at businesses I recognize, shopped at grocery stores like those I shopped at, ate similar foods. My parents grew up in this culture. I grew up in this culture. It seems normal to me.

Those of us who are alive now don’t have any memory of what the world around us was like before. We’re just working and living and dancing on this beautiful ship.

But the middle class North American lifestyle is not normal. It’s the product of industrialization, consumerism, and radical inequalities. And, like the Titanic, very soon after this ship was built and we started living like this, we hit an iceberg. Rachel Carson published Silent Spring on September 27, 1962. Through the 1970s and 80s, Farley Mowat published numerous books describing how we were depleting the natural environment in Canada. 

In the early 1970s, The Club of Rome commissioned a group of researchers from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT) to create computer simulations and projections of world economic and population growth based on different possible scenarios. Their findings were published in 1972 as Limits to Growth. These researchers forecasted that the outcome of the “business as usual” scenario would be that global industrial output, services, food, and population would all start declining between 2020 and 2030, and by 2100 all would have collapsed to the levels they were around 1900 — before my grandparents were born. 

Recent events and statistical analyses indicate that those projections have been accurate. The data curves they forecasted are remarkably close to what's happened from 1972 until now. Global climate change, ecological destruction, depleted resources, declining economies, forced migrations, racism, nationalism, conflict — all of these seem to be evidence that the collapse has begun.

I think we all know that it can’t continue to be business as usual anymore. But, as individuals, what do we do?

Copyright © 2019 Lynn Thorsell, All rights reserved.

References

Carson, Rachel. Silent Spring. Houghton Mifflin Company, 1962.

Meadows, DH, Meadows, DL, Randers, J, and Behrens, WW. The Limits to Growth. Chelsea Green Publishing.

Mowat, Farley

Turner, Graham, and Alexander, Cathy. Limits to Growth was right. New research shows we're nearing collapse. The Guardian, September 2, 2014.

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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.

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.

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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.

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.

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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.

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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.