My Third, His Third, Your Third

Sometimes it’s a bit difficult to see common practices within the framework of another culture as being precisely what they are; cultural differences. Although I’ve been at various times in my life to about thirty other nations, until we moved to Malawi, I had never driven anywhere other than in the US and Canada. Our first, (by choice), vehicle here was a compact automatic, having taken into consideration the fact that I had never driven with the steering wheel on the right, as well as having to drive on the left side of the road.

All things considered, I adapted quite quickly, and Phyllis told me she thought I had mastered things fairly well. Other than a couple backward u-turns, and one relapse when I turned left into oncoming traffic, and had enough room to immediately correct the situation, I can’t recall any other serious mess-ups. Even the dreaded “backwards” roundabouts came much more naturally that I had thought they would. Once in a while I still look into the eyes of the front seat passenger to try to anticipate his next move, until I realize he’s not the one driving.

By early February, about three months in, I felt comfortable enough to purchase the four wheel drive we needed for the countless dirt roads we have to navigate each week as we go from village to village restoring wells, and working closely with the women and children. It’s a lot larger; takes up more of the road, and takes the multitude of curves, bumps, and potholes a whole lot better than the little Mazda ever could.

Describing the roads here in Malawi is almost as large a challenge as driving on them. First of all, with a couple exceptions in Blantyre and Lilongwe, all of the paved roads are two narrow lanes, narrowed further still through erosion having lopped off sizeable chunks all along the way. Pot holes, which begin as golf ball sized, rapidly grow through use and erosion through the heavy rainy season to sometimes as wide as your car’s wheel base, and a foot deep. They can be left in a state of disrepair for months on end. They are one of the main stresses to driving. The shoulders are often abrupt drop-offs, also the products of years of erosion, quite capable of causing serious damage to the sturdiest of vehicles.

With all this as a backdrop, I now need to introduce you to the fact that most of the traffic on the inadequate highways is pedestrians. Most will never even own a bike, and there are only four passenger cars for every thousand population. With most cars and trucks zipping along at 70 to 80 kilometers an hour, the constant dodging of potholes, pedestrians, bicyclists, along with the occasional goat or tractor makes one feel as though they are locked to the controls of an unending pinball game.

The constant yielding of five or so feet more than necessary to pedestrians and bicyclists by the great majority of drivers can be rather unsettling, as one then needs to squeeze all the way left in order to avoid a head on collision, with fatal consequences. For the longest time, I thought most drivers quite rude, uncivil, unlearned in regards the traffic laws of Malawi, or perhaps all three.

However, over time I have come to develop an entirely different theory. As most commerce and trade, as well as people’s daily commutes occur on foot or by bicycle, these people are being accorded the courtesy due them. I, by insisting on my right to my half of the road, am being the road hog by not wanting to yield those few extra feet in order to accommodate the brave souls who place themselves in harm’s way in order to eke out a living for their families. I may not like it, and I doubt I’ll ever feel very comfortable with it, but after all I’m the guest in their home, so I’d better get used to it, and when appropriate, maintain my third of the road.

"It May Be Your Country, But"

In the four major cities of Malawi, and even in many of the larger and mid-sized towns throughout this nation, there is the merchant class. These are people who, although many of them were born and grew up here, consider their countries of heritage, rather than Malawi, their true home. They own, and run the hardware stores, the poultry shops, the plastics stores, and the pharmacies, as well as many manufacturing, and service businesses. Their countries of origin are sprinkled for the most part across the regions of southern Asia  Many will make regular pilgrimages to their homelands, but will return here to both live and conduct business.

Their homes are in upscale neighborhoods, or on mountain roads above the cities, with walled in properties, twenty four hour security, and plenty of local domestic help. Their children, who are already being groomed as the next generation of merchants, will attend pricey private schools where the entire curriculum is taught in English, the official language of both government and commerce. They’ll have late model automobiles, laptops, and the latest electronics. They are a community unto themselves.

Most of their shops will be closed mid-day on Fridays so they can attend prayer at the mosque; the more religious will board up every day at noon for a couple hours. A few rare ones will stay open throughout the day, even on Friday.  Each, depending on the size of the business, and the weight and bulk of the goods sold, will employ one, two, or more locals, whose job it will be to bundle and pack these items into customers’ trucks and cars.

These laborers are extremely hard working and efficient, and will rely heavily on tipping, as even a small tip will add greatly to their very meager daily wages. Many merchants quite condescendingly refer to these men as their “boys.” ”I’ll have my boy do that”, or “My boy will go down to Blantyre to pick that up for me.” As the unemployment rate among poorly educated native Malawians is extremely high, they at least pretend to accept their lot. I’ve heard our fine groundskeeper Harry, a humble man of fine character, referred to as my “garden boy” on several occasions. “No” will be my reply, “he’s our groundskeeper, and an excellent one at that, thank you.”

So, several days ago, although a bit taken aback, I was not all that surprised upon learning of a common saying among these merchants regarding their Malawian hosts, “It may be your country, but it’s our money.” In fact, beyond being saddened and grieved by the outright callousness of this phrase, I was also able to gain a bit more insight and understanding of the great cultural divides I’ve witnessed since arriving here almost a half a year ago.

The once great respect I originally had for their apparently keen business acumen has all but evaporated, as I now fully realize that, apart from doing alms out of a sense of duty and appeasement to their deity, there is no investment in the development of the nation which is their home apart from what can be steadily extracted, which is “their” money. This was brought home to me in an alarmingly tangible way recently when Phyllis and I brought Harry’s two teenage daughters, Rose and Margaret  into a fabric shop to have new school uniforms made for them.

We previously had curtains, chair cushions, and other items made for us there, and had always been pleased with both the price and quality of the workmanship. Upon examining the shoddy work done on both uniforms when we arrived home, we were almost embarrassed to hand them over to the girls, but we assured them and their parents that they could wear them to school the following day, Monday and we would return them to be corrected as soon as they returned home at the end of the school day.

When Phyllis and I arrived at the shop, uniforms in hand, we showed the owner that the seams were held together with little more than basting stitches. He was in the middle of serving a number of Western tourists, and although we had assumed we had a fairly good working relationship with him, he seemed quite annoyed at our presence, but we insisted he was obligated to give these girls the same quality of workmanship he had given us. Quite to our shock, he boldly declared that there were two standards of expertise, one for ordinary Malawians, and a much higher one for everyone else.

Although he then proceeded to charge us an additional sum, we insisted these girls were deserving of the same quality of work he had previously given us, and that like it or not, we would be returning in a couple hours to pick up the corrected uniforms so that they would be able to wear them to school the very next morning.  They were indeed ready for us on time before closing.

This brings me to the greater point of how to more clearly define our role here as that of not only helping to lift the women with whom we work out of extreme poverty, but also to help them develop a mindset which aids them in thoroughly understanding that they have choices. They have latent skills, good work ethics, keen intellects;  in short, they have, by God’s grace, the tools needed to better their lives, and those of their children.  They certainly need never feel themselves inferior or subservient to those who see their own role as that of controlling, and owning the resources of this beautiful nation.

Political Season

We were having lunch downtown Zomba Sunday afternoon when there was an enormous commotion outside.  I ran outdoors to see what was happening.  A political rally for the UDF party was taking place in a  nearby soccer field. 

A huge open bed truck filled to over capacity with yellow clad party faithfuls surged by. The truck itself was draped in a huge UDF flag. The main speaker at this rally was a former president's son. There was much cheering and singing.

Then the crowd spilled out of the stadium and down the street singing and chanting. This is the season of many rallies and speeches.   Unlike the US, there are several parties competing for various offices in next year's election. 

Each party is recognized by the color of the flags they carry and clothing they wear. UDF is yellow, DPP is blue, and the ruling party of President Joyce Banda, the PP, the People's Party, is orange.   In shops cloths are available with candidates pictures on them, and many people proudly wear clothing made of these. I guess this is Malawi's answer to 24/7 TV political ads. 

Pahuwa Twins

Several weeks ago, a pregnant woman came to my sanitation and hygiene class in Pahuwa village.  She sat down near me, so I innocently asked her when her baby was due. She said, "I cannot tell." At first, I thought she was saying that she did not know the due date, so as we traveled back to Zomba, I asked Hellen, my interpreter, what she meant. 

Hellen said the woman could not tell  the due date of her baby, not because she didn't know, but because of superstition.  She believed that revealing the due date could put her and her  unborn child at risk. If anyone heard her tell the due date they could  possibly consult with a practicer of traditional medicine (witch doctor) who could exercise power over the child and cause it harm. When I asked Hellen further about their superstitions,  she told me that many people in the villages are very superstitious and, in particular, are afraid of curses.

Then, on Thursday of last week, we were again teaching the women at Pahuwa. At the end of the class, a group of women called me to the side and  said, "Do you remember the woman who was expecting? She  recently delivered and would like to show you her babies. She has twins, a boy and a girl."  

The sea of women parted and two women emerged walking toward me, each holding a baby. They looked so small and fragile. The mother told me that until she delivered, she did not know she was carrying twins.

When I asked what she named them, she told me that she had not yet named them and  asked me to give them names. I was caught by surprise by her request.  I told her that I would be honored to name them but I would need some time to think about it. 

From that time, I have thought often of how weighty a responsibility this is. Should I give them English names? Some children out in the villages have English names, and I could easily find the meanings of English names. Should I give them Chichewa names? There are many beautiful Chichewa names, but it is very important to me that the children have good names, names with meaning. So, in the past few days, I have been asking friends to suggest Malawian names for the children.  

As I was researching, I learned that twins are sometimes named Mphatso, which means gift, and  Mavuto, which means trouble.  Perhaps you can see that twins are not counted a blessing.    In naming these babies, I want both to come into the world with blessing. As they grow up, I want them to know they are valued, loved, and blessed. 

So, here are some Chichewa names I have been considering and their meanings:

Chikondi -Love

Kondwani -Be Glad

Kumbukani -Remember

Mayamiko -Praise

Mphatso -Gift

Takondwa -We Are Happy

Talandira -We have received

Thokozani -Thank God

Tiyamike -Let Us Praise God

Yamikani -Be Grateful to God

In naming children there is some sense of having power or authority over them.  So, when the time comes to name these fragile little ones,  I will hold them in my arms and  pray for God's blessings  and for them to come to know how much He loves them.  Then before I hand them back to their mother, I will put them in God's hands for safekeeping. 

The Trash Pickers of Gigodi

We have made the bone jolting 65 km trip from Zomba to Blantyre many times. I  am beginning to be familiar with this road,  but I can't say that I am used to it. This partially paved road, known as the Kamuzu Highway, has crater sized potholes and the long unpaved sections are a dust cloud in dry weather and a slurry of mud when it rains.

There are trucks, minibuses, and cars that travel this road, but the major transporters of goods are the bicycles.  Besides all the other traffic, along the way you will pass hundreds of people walking, many balancing baskets,  buckets, or bundles on their heads. 

This  road threads through many scattered communities and intersects trails going out to the villages.  There are little shops clustered  near the highway  and for shoppers who can afford it,  bicycle taxis are parked nearby to deliver people and goods to their destinations. 

 You will pass many little communities, most with shops of grass and bamboo construction and more durable small, mud brick buildings with rusty tin roofs. Here shoppers purchase seasonal fruits and vegetables, rice and maize flour, charcoal and firewood, as well as tall stalks of sugar cane.   

Several larger faded and chipped brick shops stand huddled under one roof among the crumbling infrastructure,  as testaments to the colonial era.  Each shop has a front porch and a  large window covered with chicken wire through which you can see merchandise grouped on shelves and hung on walls inside. Here's where you can buy a cold soda, matches,   a box of cookies, and a wide assortment of other items.

As you near Blantyre, you will begin to gain elevation, and if you look off to the right, you will see the multistory buildings of the city sparkling pristinely along the horizon.  But just  here, at the crest of a long ascent, you will pass through a town that catches your breath as you pass through.   It is the little town called  Gigodi. A few meters off the roadway, in a large smudgy black area sit the charcoal sellers, with their merchandise in little blue bags sitting in rows on the  stained black earth. Along the roadside and among the shops a mixture of food scraps, vegetation, and discarded plastic bags litter the ground and clog the ditches. 

A  little distance farther and just off to your left  is a road that  courses upward and out of sight through a thicket of tall  vegetation.  From a distance, you see a  trash truck  turn off the road, pass through the thicket, and disappear.

 Then as you approach the turnoff, you begin to notice a swarm of movement along the ridges off to your left. Looking more closely, you realize that the ridges are tall mounds of trash and  the  swarm of movement on the surface is being made by people picking through the trash.  Coursing down that road toward the highway, you see several men, women,and children, clothes stained by rain spattered garbage.  These are the trash pickers of Gigodi. 

Girls Dream Too You Know

     After having witnessed something so incredibly beautiful early this morning, (our groundskeeper Harry's daughters, Rose and Margaret standing at our kitchen door with their new uniforms we had tailored for them, and their brand new back packs filled with school supplies, heading off to school after a short holiday with lovely beaming smiles on both their faces), we went back inside, and after a little pause, just to soak it all in and to wipe away a tear or two, I asked Phyllis what she thought was the difference between hope in the US, and hope here in Malawi. Her one word answer took me by surprise, but I knew she hit the nail on the head.

     "Opportunity!" Of course that was it. American kids, and adults for that matter have opportunity cross their paths multiple times a day, and don't even recognize it when it comes their way. All my life I was handed one opportunity after another, and couldn't even begin to tell you how many of those I squandered along the way. Unparalleled freedom; farmlands that feed the world, first class education in every nook and cranny throughout the country; a highway system, freight rail, and other infrastructure second to none; peaceful succession of power at federal, state, and local levels of government for over 220 years; freedom of religion, speech, press; and so much more.

     Let me tell you a little bit about these beautiful young ladies. Rose is sixteen years old, and in 6th grade, while Margaret is fourteen, and in 5th. That's not a typo; that's reality, and all too common throughout Malawi, for young girls simply yearning to succeed. Tragically, many girls are already forced into marriage and childbearing by their age as a result of deep poverty, and a male dominant culture. Their father Harry works long hours here, and has for the past nineteen years, and also raises a meager amount of crops to help feed his large family. He has no pension plan, and there is no room for any luxuries, let alone necessities. When we asked the girls last week while we had them out shopping what they wanted to become in life, neither hesitated and both said they wanted to become nurses. A nursing career is such a lofty dream for girls in their situation, as such opportunity will rarely, if ever, come their way.

     We would not be foolish enough to think we can chase their dreams for them; that surely will be something they will need to determine how hard they will be willing to work toward their goals. We, however, can encourage them as we figure how best to help in little ways. I truly believe something grand was ignited in their spirits last week, unlike many, or perhaps most American kids who would fail to see the opportunity. Dream on girls! Malawi needs good nurses. We’ll encourage and support that dream any way we can, and we’re grateful to God that he used us to jump start something wonderful buried inside both of your hearts.