Ntenga Funeral

I was scheduled to teach in Ntenga on Tuesday, but when we came to the yard where I usually teach, no one was there. We saw some women who would have been in my class standing in the road near the well.

So, George, Phalles, and I walked over to where they were standing. I learned that they were on their way to a friend's funeral. They told me that one of the women in the village gave birth at home that morning, but when she began to hemorrhage, she was taken to the clinic. The baby lived, but the mother bled to death. I asked if there were other children in the family, and one woman pointed to four young children who were standing around her skirt. She said that there are ten children in all, the youngest of which is two years old. The other children were still in school and didn't even know that their mother had died. In Malawi, traditionally, when a person dies, their funeral is held on the same day.

As we were standing there talking with the women, we saw a man in the distance meandering down the road toward us talking, apparently to himself. When he reached the place in the road where we were standing, he approached one of the women who was standing a little distance from the others. We were shocked to see him began push her around and to hit her in her her arms. The woman lowered her eyes and took his verbal and physical assaults. Then, when he asked her something, she answered softly, turning her eyes away. None of the other women said a word. 

George walked near the man and said, "These women are going to the funeral." Then he told the women that we were going the same way and that we would be walking with them. When George spoke, the man turned his attention away from the woman he was abusing, allowing her to join the other women on their way to the funeral.

At that time, the man walked over to the road's edge where Phalles, our interpreter, was standing, and began to push her around. George told the man that he should never hit a woman. The man, suddenly in a cheery disposition and smiling, approached George, shook his hand, and introduced himself. Afterward, we rejoined the women. 

Then glancing back, we saw the man approaching several children who were collecting water the village well. Long before the man reached the well, all of the children dispersed and stood some distance away, safely out of the man's reach. 

Along the way, Phalles said, "You know that woman was not that man's wife." I thought, "If that man is publicly abusive to a woman who is not his wife, then what must he be at home to his own wife and children?" Then Phalles told us that it was drugs that made the man crazy.

Stuck Between Two Cultures

We had already picked up our interpreter, Samuel, and were on our way to Songani, a busy market on two sides of the main road, maybe 10 km north of Zomba.  We eased our truck over the steep curb by the minibus stop, avoiding a swarm of  pedestrians as well as the ladies with baskets piled high with green oranges who were  sitting on the ground just at the road's edge.

Of all the places we visit, including deep in rural villages, Songani is the one that seems to have an edge.  In fact, when we pull into Songani, I always feel like we have arrived in "the hood."  

As we came to a stop,  beggars and nearby vendors, including the ladies selling oranges, jumped to their feet and eased near our windows. By the time we came to a complete stop, we had already shaken our heads no a few times. 

We looked for Timothy, our well repairman, to come walking between the shops, but he was no where in sight. So,  we sat there for several minutes, just people watching. However, we weren't the only ones people watching. As usual, hundreds of sets of eyes were on us, nearby, across the street, and down the road.  A few were giving us menacing,  cross-armed, from the top of their eyes, hard stares.  

Directly in our line of vision, maybe 20 meters away, was the goat meat market. The frame was four posts holding up a bamboo and grass roof. Skinned goat quarters hung by wires from a bamboo pole just under the roof. Below this, a  bamboo surface covered with stained cardboard held a rough-cut timber for chopping goat meat. Behind this platform stood a young man with a sharp panga knife.  

As we watched, a young Muslim lady approached the butcher and bargained for a portion of meat. The vendor pulled a goat quarter from the wire, laid it on the timber, and used his machete to quickly lop off several short portions of the leg. While the young lady counted her money, the vendor  scooped the meat into a small black plastic bag. 

Before the transaction was complete, my attention turned to a young man who was moving quickly toward the butcher. I have no idea what business he was on, but he stepped up to the side of the meat market, leaned in, and started a conversation with the butcher.

It was obvious that the butcher knew the young man because he carried on a conversation and continued chopping meat without turning to look at him.  But I was looking, and what I saw made me a little sad.

The clothing the young man was wearing must have been discarded into a donation bin destined for a shipping container on its way to Malawi. His dirty jeans were faded and nearly threadbare, and in some places, his skin was visible through the holes. He wore a western style shirt with the collar stylishly turned up. It, too, was dirty and  worn.  

It was impossible not to notice that his jeans were hanging so low  that above his belt, several inches  of his dirty underwear was showing,  and above that, several inches of his bottom.  Not a pretty sight.

When he turned from the meat market and began to walk away, I noticed  his ear buds and a little hip hop swagger, complete with one hand grasping his jeans and giving them an occasional yank.  

It occurred to me that this young man is one of many living here in rural poverty  who are stuck  between two cultures. Singers, musicians, TV personalities, and others in Western pop culture have made their mark on him. So, without the essence of their material life, as best he can, he mimics their style. 

Although 90% of Malawians are farmer, many dream of a better future elsewhere, but without a good quality education and good English skills (the official language of government and commerce), it is nearly impossible to escape poverty.  1.7 million of  Malawi's unemployed youth,  just like this young man in Songani market,  are trying to survive on the line where Western culture blends with the realities of rural, third world poverty.


And tell me, please, what is their future?  

Philombe

There was a  wonderful worship service at the church in Philombe this morning. I  loved the way   the scores of children fully participated in the service.  There were at least a dozen pastors visiting, some from as far away as Blantyre. The district superintendent was also  there.

George gave a beautiful message about having faith in God to save us and keep us.  He told the true story of a family crossing the Shire River in a tiny canoe. A hippo overturned the boat, and everyone on board drowned. He said that many people choose to trust in their own way, and that is like getting in a tiny canoe. It is unsafe and dangerous to go our own way and trust in what we can do to save us and keep us.  We cannot work and try to make our own way to God. We cannot choose to go our own way. He told them that God is offering us a big ferry boat. It is big enough and strong enough to get us safely to the other side.

At the end of the service, when the Pastor asked for the sick  to  come  and  be prayed for many children responded.   When  I  laid my hands on one child,  I realized she  had a high fever. Many of the children had the sad, weak eyes of malaria.   We prayed for many, many people and asked God to reward their faith.

George  was  the  guest speaker today at the Apostolic Church of Pentecost  in Philombe. We waited for the service to  begin  in this  storage room  in the pastor's house. These  are bags  of cotton.  The opposite side of the room was stacked high with  bags of maize.  On  our  way  to  Philombe, we passed  large  fields of sunflowers, a major crop in the region.

Bags of cotton  line the wall of this storage room in the pastor's house. On the opposite side of the room were 50kg bags of maize  were stacked high.

 The church was  filled  beyond capacity, and there were people standing outside looking in the windows. Eventually,  there were people sitting along a ledge behind the pastors.

 Pastor  Tanaposi  encouraged the people  of Philombe church to love one another. He said, "See  Pastor George and Sister Phyllis, how they love one another? Husbands, you must love your wife. You should have only one wife and not divorce her.   Wives you must love your husbands."

 

The women of the church prepared a meal for us. Bowls of rice, nsima, cabbage cooked with tomatoes and onions, and boiled eggs.

Street Vendors

On many occasions we have been told that an item is not available here in Zomba, so we are learning our way around the "big city" of Blantyre, the commercial capital of Malawi.  Wherever we shop, in Zomba, Blantyre, and especially in roadside markets, George and I stand out like neon signs -don't ask me why - attracting many persistent street merchants and beggers.  

We had just pulled into a parallel parking spot along a busy street in Blantyre  recently when our car was almost completely surrounded, and several voices were competing to be heard through our windows. Without getting out of our truck, we could have purchased bananas, potatoes,  oranges, grapefruit, lemons, passion fruit, carrots, and apples. We could have also done a month's worth of charitable giving into the outstretched hands of several beggars.   

We both put on our I-don't-need-any faces, waved our hands in front of our faces and shook our heads no as we opened our doors. A few vendors and persistent beggars followed us. 

By the time we reached the curb another young man presented a pair of wiper blades, a cell phone, and a steering wheel cover for sale.  Another gentleman stood directly in our path and presented us with his artwork.  Many street vendors and beggars have a hard time accepting no for an answer, so we  had to repeat ourselves a few times as we made our way along the street. 

 In a couple of minutes, we were relieved to finally be standing in the fabric store, where we felt welcome and there was no pressure to buy.  We found the fabric we needed for our living room cushions and began to make our way  back to our vehicle.

Recently we went into  Zomba for lunch.  Before the car was completely at a standstill, two vendors were approaching us,  one the smiling young  banana salesman, John.  In our early days in Zomba, John would be argumentative and  dejected when we told him we didn't want any.  He would usually say something like this, "But I only have two bunches, and when I sell them I can go home." After several rounds of this, we finally reached an agreement with John:  1.  We buy bananas because we need them,  not  because you need to sell them.  2.   If we tell you we don't need any, it's because we don't need any.  3. Pressuring us only makes us want to buy from someone else. 4. If you can accept no for an answer, we will look you up every time we need bananas. This seemed reasonable and fair to John.

Since that conversation with him,  it is always a welcome sight to see his smiling face running to meet us as we pull into a parking spot near the market.  On this occasion, John lifted the tray from his shoulder and began to make his strongest case for buying his bananas. "These are very nice.  Maybe this one," he said, turning the bunches over in his hands. Before he got any further, George told him we already have two big bunches at home. John's voice softened.  "Next time,"  he said as he turned, and walked away.  

 The other man was selling a variety of Malawi newspapers.   As a rule, newspaper vendors quietly approach a potential customer with a variety of newspapers displayed on their outstretched forearm, and when you say no thank you, they never pressure. This time George  asked for The Nation and began digging in his pocket for the money. While all of this interaction with the vendors  was taking place, two uniformed school boys, about 9-10 years old,  had climbed some stairs overlooking our car and were carefully watching George as he took money from his pocket to pay for the newspaper. 

Just as he was completing the transaction and reaching for the newspaper, one of the boys leaned over the rail and said, "Give me your money."  We have been demanded in that way on different occasions, and it always gives me a chill because that would be exactly the wrong time to take money out of your pocket and give. It blurs the  line between begging and stealing, and we certainly don't want to encourage any  school child or anyone else, to think they could have a bright future by walking up to total strangers and saying, "Give me your money."  

Once we had gone to visit Yusef's little hardware shop in the market to buy replacement bulbs for our security lights. After we had  completed the transaction and were crossing the street to return to our truck,  a man at my back said, "Madam, let me show you my panties." My eyes bulged,  I caught my breath , then I looked back and said,  "No thank you."  Undeterred, the vendor moved in closer. "Come with me. Very nice," he said.  "No thank you. I don't want any," I responded. "I have beautiful panties. Come with me.  I will show you,"   he persisted.   This was getting a little uncomfortable because  he was not listening to me.  Then, as we got into the truck and closed our doors, George said, "We don't need any panties and we won't be buying any. Thank you. Goodby."  

Bicycle Shop

There are at least two new bicycle shops here in Zomba where a bicycle can be built. I say built because one can  choose not only color of frame, but also type of  tire, seat,  handlebar, grip, fender, etc.  Plus there are many extras available including reflectors, streamers, baskets and bells. Bicycle owners are usually men, but there are some women drivers. Women passengers usually ride sidesaddle. 

Because bicycles in Malawi are what motor vehicles are in the US, the major movers of people and goods, it only makes sense that there are many bicycle repair shops here in Malawi. Even little communities in rural areas  have small repair shops. As we traveled far out into rural villages today on our way to Mbwana for a workshop, we passed  several of these along the way. There is no need for a sign. Just look for an upside down bicycle along the roadside. 

Some  shops can fix a flat while others are better equipped for major repairs. The smaller ones with a few  inner  tubes and chains  displayed on a sheet of plastic may be under the overhanging branches of a shady mango tree. The larger ones will have wooden posts for support, a grass roof and a stall where repairs are done.

Every imaginable bicycle part will be hung along the lengths of twine stretched between the poles and on nails along the shop's back wall.  I had never imagined that a bicycle could be reduced to that many parts. 

Bicycles are also service vehicles. At every major intersection -  dirt road juncture- and in front of downtown grocery stores are  fleets of independently owned bicycle taxis, all parked in a row, available to those who can afford the fare.  Some bicycles are all dressed up with colorful plastic streamers, bells, and reflectors, but at a minimum, these taxis have a well cushioned vinyl seat over the back tire and a little license tag on the back fender.

Bicycles are the major transporters of goods to tiny shops out in rural areas. We often see cases of Coke, milk, bread, and other goods piled high on the back of a bicycle. Traveling through downtown Zomba recently was a bicycle loaded with furniture. It looked like moving day on the back of a bicycle. 

Laundry Day in the Villages

Most wells we visit have a two tub concrete wash stand near the end of the concrete well runoff.  Many women take their wash with them to the well. Sometimes there is a line, so the women chat and catch up on the latest as they wait their turn to do laundry.  After the water is pumped, the clothing is dumped into the shallow well of the wash stand, then water is poured over them.  For those who can afford it, laundry detergent is a large, dark green bar of very strong soap.  The clothing is rubbed with soap then pounded on the concrete. The second basin of the wash stand is for rinsing. Water is poured over the clothes then wrung out and piled into a tub to be carried home to dry. 

Some women are fortunate enough to have a tap or a well near their homes.  Water collected is carried home, then, in their yards, they stoop waist down to the ground and wash clothes in large plastic tubs and hang them on branches to dry.  

Recently, I looked over a small bridge we were crossing and saw a woman washing her clothes in the rocky river and spreading them on large boulders along the shore to dry in the sun.   I wondered how far she had to walk to do this chore. When her last piece of clothing has been pounded on a rock, she will pile the still-wet clothes into the tub, raise it to her head, and walk home. There, she will spread them on rocks, tree branches, and shrubs near her home and wait for sunshine. 

There is a very cold mountain stream that runs through our neighborhood. This is where many neighborhood women do their laundry and bathe. The stream  runs swiftly enough over the rocks to form small rapids, but in places it is shallow enough that children can play among the rocks as their mothers do laundry. 

We often see women bathing their children here, and from time to time we see women taking the opportunity to have a bath as well.   As we wound our way up the mountain road that crosses this stream a few days ago, I saw a woman stripped from the waist up, wet, and fully lathered. I thought of the risk that woman took in order to feel clean. 

No Ordinary Life

Water flows naturally downhill, but in the end, choosing not to take the path of least resistance leads to a fulfilled and rewarding life.  A good future doesn't start with doing but with choosing.  

When you choose to live a radical life for the purpose of God, some may not understand you and some may offer resistance, but know in your heart you were never meant for downhill. 

Your whole life history may have told you that you are ordinary, but that is far from the truth. All your circumstances may have told you that  you were never meant for greatness, but you dare not believe it.  Trust God's plan, pursue it with your heart, and never look back. Never.  In the end, that will prove to be the most fulfilling and rewarding life of all.

You are neither random nor ordinary. God made you with purpose, so set your heart on knowing the purposes for which you were made.  Jeremiah 29:11,  "For I know what plans I have for you says The Lord. I have plans to prosper you, not to harm you. I have plans to give you a future full of hope." No matter what anyone has told you or the lies you have told yourself, that is who you were really meant to be. 

Peanuts

On an early morning trip from home to Blantyre, we watched large numbers of women from the villages making their way toward Zomba.  Huge plastic tubs on their heads were  piled high above the rim with freshly dug peanuts, each with a tiny blue bowl for measuring perched on the summit.

It amazes me how Malawian women walk so gracefully carrying their infants and toddlers on their backs  and balancing heavy loads on their heads, all the while chatting, traversing rocky, uneven terrain and avoiding oncoming traffic.  Probably because they have had constant practice since they were five years old.  Since they were very young, these women have collected wood and water for their families and  carried maize to and from the mill. Also since they were very young, they have had plenty of practice carrying infants on their backs.

One of the women  briefly stopped by the road to purchase one of Malawi's favorite fast foods,  a stalk of sugar cane. With a machete, the young man tending the stand lopped off a piece for her, maybe 20 cm long. She continued walking, peeling the tough stalk with her teeth and revealing the sweet, fleshy core. She took a few bites, then, without looking back,  she passed a short stalk over her shoulder to the reaching hand of the toddler on her back. 

When these women reach their destinaton, they will sit all day on the ground in front of a downtown shop or by a busy street, hoping to sell their produce to passersby. Then, as the sun begins to set and shops close for the day, the women will start their trek back home to their villages, many arriving home after dark.

Maize Harvest in Malawi

Maize harvest is now nearly complete. The once tall green plants are now dried yellow stalks with skirts of papery leaves. Out in the  villages, women have been harvesting their crops, and laying it out on large plastic sheets to dry in the sun.

This process of drying takes several days. Afterwards, the kernels are ready to shell.  Shelling  can be a tedious process, taking hours, so the women like to sit together in little clusters to do this work. A few days ago in Pahuwa, I picked up a few ears of corn  and plopped myself down in one of these circles of friends. I began to wring the kernels from the cobs.  Ouch! That hurt. The women laughed as they watched me struggle. I wondered how they could work twice as fast as I could.  Then they showed me the thick callouses on their hands.

After the maize has dried for several days in the sun,  it is treated with insecticide and stored in 50kg bags. Then as needed, the women take their grain to the mill to be ground into very fine flour. This maize flour is used to make Malawi's staple diet, nsima.

As we travel the  rural roads, we pass many women and girls returning home from the mill balancing bags and bowls of maize flour on their heads. I recently saw a woman carrying a large bag (probably 25-30kg) of maize flour on her head stoop to pick up something she dropped, then rise gracefully and continue walking.

Men Working

A little wooden board with hand painted lettering, "Men Working," was propped along the roadside betweem Zomba to Songani, near the Matewele market.  Just there along the roadside, many traditionally dressed Malawian women, some with infants on their backs, were digging a ditch for new water lines.  They pulled and pushed together, combining their strength to remove large rocks in their way. 

For weeks, this has been a huge ongoing project in the Zomba district. I understand that the old water pipes are being replaced because they contain asbestos. 

Then a bit further down the road, other groups of women with long bladed curved thrashers were clearing the tall grasses along the roadside. 

This is the way grass is cut. Even the grass in the huge Zomba Botanical Garden is cut the same way. We have only seen one  push lawnmower in the six months we have been living here, and that was in the city of Blantyre.