A CHILD'S JIG
We exited Chembe Village and were driven by our prearranged transfer to a lodge about 45 minutes away that has a private dirt airstrip. I was quite surprised to see lush landscaping with colorful flowers inside the confines of the gate after having intimately witnessed the Chembe Village life. We paid our $10 departure tax and boarded the Cessna. As I glanced out the window I noticed children beginning to line the fence bordering both sides of the dirt runway, and the traditional thatched roof mud huts just beyond. As I sat hunched in the rear of the four seater plane, I waved and they waved back. The pilot from Cape Town started the engines and taxied down the runway. As he did his flight check I reached for my camera and pointed it at the eyes peering through the diamond shaped openings in the fence. Not knowing if they could see me clearly inside the small angular window in the back seat, it became immediately apparent that they could when one boy began to dance a jig and make silly gestures. I gave him a thumbs up and his responsive smile to having my attention lit up my world.
SIGHTS OF THE CITY
We landed in the capital city of Lilongwe and were driven to a small hotel where we would spend one night until meeting up with the Habitat for Humanity team for the final leg of this journey. The capital is dynamically different from the outer villages, but still stricken with extreme poverty and filth. The roads are overflowing with cars, bicycles and people heading in every direction, and no operational roadway signals. Trucks passed with their beds jam packed with people of all ages, and bicyclists rode by with a myriad of dead chickens hanging off the basket attached to the handlebars. There was an incessant honking of horns and voices, but I otherwise noticed there were no familiar sounds of ambulances, police cars or fire trucks, nor were there airplanes flying overhead. As a matter of fact, I now realize I haven't seen a single plane flying in 6 weeks except two that were taking off or landing at an airport. The hotel is decent enough, it's best described as dormitory meets bed and breakfast. We took a taxi to dinner and made a brief stop at a curio market in a shopping center parking lot where we quickly learned how hard these men barter. They are relentless. You must have a strong will to go head-to-head with them or to be able to walk away. As I shopped two boys about 12 years old continuously approached me in their tattered t-shirts and bare feet, dirty as could be, with their hands cupped before them begging for money. It's a very difficult sight to behold and challenging to decide how to handle it. I refused time and time again until one said "banana." I asked him if he wanted a banana. They anxiously shook their heads up and down. I replied, "Okay, let's go find a banana!" I told my travel mate to continue shopping and said I'd be back. It was early evening now; many of the vendors had left, and we could not find any bananas; but, I found tangerines. I bought them one dozen and said I'll keep one and you can have the rest. They smiled and nodded. Then they convincingly said, "soap." I asked the tangerine vendor where I could find soap but he said everything was closed. I scanned the center and spotted an open pharmacy. I gestured to the boys to come with me and walked on in. I found bars of soap and gave them a choice as to which they could have, then paid the cashier who smiled kindly. We walked together back into the parking lot where I gave them high fives, and they excitedly pronounced with shining eyes, "zikwomo kwambiri!" (thank you very much in Chechwa), and I headed back to find my travel mate. I looked over my shoulder one last time and saw the boys sitting on the market steps tearing into the tangerines with huge grins that would light up the darkest night, and once again I felt complete.
MEETING THE TEAM
In the morning a Habitat Malawi staff member, Chisomo, picked up my travel mate and I at the hotel and delivered us to the Korea Garden Lodge (www.kglodge.net), where the entire Habitat team would be staying the night in preparation for our transfer to Salima the next day, where we would then be building and spending the following 5 nights. Upon check in we immediately made our acquaintance with the first two other members of the team that we encountered. We all excitedly shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. By late afternoon I had met the entirety of the team, some of whom had just flown in from the States and arrived that day. 16 members in all, 14 from various states, 1 from England living in Copenhagen, and 1 from Switzerland, from the ages of 23 to approximately 65 years old, and from all walks of life. Some are married, some single, some with children, many without, some with jobs, some without (like me as of a few months ago), and some retired. Many are going through a major transitional period in their lives (like me!), whether it be work related, relationship, facing a significant life decision, moving, and more. There seems to be one common thread that connects us. We share the passion for travel and giving back, not only by writing a check but by getting involved, doing the work, and seeing the difference we are making with our own eyes and the impact we are having with our own hands. All but my travel mate, one other person and me are newbies to any sort of service project, and I'm hooked. The others in our group have completed at least one HFH (Habitat for Humanity) international build, and many, impressively, have participated in multiple. They've worked in countries including Portugal, Krygystan, Guatemala, Dominican Republic, Honduras, Sri Lanka, Rwanda, Cambodia and more. It was an honor to join such an experienced crew. By the end of this journey it would become readily apparent how each person's contribution and personality would make this a successfully dynamic and motivated team that would build two houses in only four days. And not only were they my teammates, they would become my new friends.
THE CITY EXPERIENCE
A few of us walked to the city center shopping area the first afternoon. Crossing the main road is a bit like playing Frogger; most drivers give little leniency, especially recognizing that we are foreigners. We marveled over the insanely long lines at the plentiful number of ATM machines. Each functioning machine (many are frequently out of service) had a minimum of 20 people awaiting their turn. Often times the line is further delayed when the bank has to replenish its cash. People use ATMs to pay water and electricity bills in Lilongwe. We stopped in a variety store in search of various goods to bring to the village, such as batteries, flashlights, soap and a soccer ball. We were surprised at the store's capacity, similar to a Walmart. We also ventured into the grocery store, which was equally impressive. And, we set out on a mission to find the medicine, Biltricide or praziquantel. Lake Malawi has a known parasite that is carried by snails called Bilharzia, snail fever or Schistosomiasis, which may infect the urinary tract or intestines. Taking Biltricide 6-8 weeks after your last exposure to the lake's water can serve as a treatment and preventive measure. Knowing that I would be swimming in the lake, had already spent days in its waters at Mumbo Island, and having heard some horror stories about the disease, it was of significant importance to me to locate it. The local pharmacies remind me much of those in Mexico, where various pharmaceuticals are available without prescription and a consultation can be had on site. The pharmacist asked for our weight in kilograms, which I happened to know from the bungee jump at Victoria Falls, when they took my weight and wrote it in black marker on my arm. At a mere cost of a few dollars, we all purchased the medicine and scheduled a 6 week reminder on our calendars to take it.
(Post-return entry: Sure enough a group message was timely circulated to all of us who exposed ourselves to the potential parasite in Lake Malawi by one of my new found HFH friends, with a hilariously written reminder to take our meds. We all did, no one got sick and happily have lived to tell the tale!)
INTRO TO SALIMA
Before departing from Lilongwe, the bus stopped at the city market where we all anxiously splurged on wine and liquor knowing that the hotel in Salima would not supply it. It became quite apparent I was amongst like-minded folk when we re-boarded the bus and were forced to reorganize the luggage in the overhead storage area in order to accommodate the approximately 15 boxes of wine we had collectively purchased, not to mention the multiple bottles of Malawi vodka and gin! Our larger luggage was crammed into a tiny, rickety trailer hauled behind the bus, and piled into the back seats. The more seasoned team members had managed to pack lightly in mid size duffles, but I have yet to learn that lesson as my bulging duffle weighed the maximum allowable 50 lbs, and my backpack another embarrassing 30 (I don't even weigh a whole lot more than that combined). There were no shortage of bicycle and pickup truck taxies loaded with men, women and babies on their backs, filling the roadways that led us to the village that first day (and each that followed). We stopped at a small wildlife preserve along the way. Having just returned from three magnificent safaris, the small preserve was truthfully of little interest to me. I stayed on the bus and reveled in the opportunity to decompress while the others wandered in awe of the nearby zebra and antelope. We arrived at the Lakeside Hotel in Salima by late afternoon. At first glance we were overwhelmingly impressed by the accommodations built on the relatively white sandy beach beside the huge lake masked as an ocean. However, once we discovered that the electricity regularly failed, hot water was infrequently available, the shower drains did just the opposite so that we stood in 6 inches of our own filth as we bathed at the end of a day filled with dusty work in the hot sun, only then to discover upon exiting the shower that housekeeping had taken the towels and not replenished them so that I had to drip dry, its outward appearance was its best attribute. But, and a huge "but" at that, perspective is everything. These are, of course, truly first world problems that we are SO incredibly FORTUNATE to have. How grateful we should be to flip a switch and have electricity, turn a faucet and have running water spew (or even dribble) out, to have plumbing, to not only have food, but nutritious food, to have a mattress with sheets and pillows to sleep on, to have clean clothing void of holes and tears, to have medicine, to have transportation, to be indescribably blessed to have this opportunity to travel, the opportunity to help others, and so much more.
Perhaps the most enjoyable aspect of our accommodations were the large rust colored verandas in front of each room, all connected to one another and each divided by a small white wall, with a 2 seater porch swing that sat on each stoop. Morning and night we gathered on those porches, as a team, a unit, as friends. We shared memories, learning about one another, as we partook in our boxed wine and gin and tonics, listening to music on my portable speaker playing a variety of genres from our various IPods, all the while creating new memories. We all joined in the dining area for our first team dinner, followed by a nightcap that extended late into the evening in the grassy courtyard that sits between the veranda and the steps which descend to the beach where the local men and women gather from 6 am until 7 pm every single day to sell their trinkets. Seeing them day after day, they essentially became our friends as well. Some mornings I managed to wake early to catch the magnificent sun rise in its glory above the massive lake, and go for a run on the beach. I was elated one such morning when, about one mile down the beach from the hotel, I came upon one of those men with whom I had bartered the night before. In exchange for two canvas paintings, I gave him some of my personal items. As he neared that morning, I quickly noticed my hot pink beach towel wrapped around his shoulders as if it was a shawl, topped by my beeny cap, even though it was at least 75 degrees outside. As soon as he recognized me a big grin emerged and we slapped each other high five as I continued jogging past him. My morning runs allowed me to witness the local life, as I passed women washing clothes and small children bathing themselves while frolicking about in the lake, and men walking along the lake's edge assumedly on their way to work. Each morning we boarded the bus promptly at 8:30 for our 45 minute journey to Nmima Kapatanga Village. We glared out the windows taking in the sights of daily life in Salima, people lining the streets, traveling markets with vendors selling clothing, produce and dry goods, bicycles the main mode of transport for people and goods, frighteningly with infants balanced on the handlebars, adolescent boys standing on the roadside selling dead mice skewered on sticks that they had caught that day in the fields (with singed fur still in tact!), dilapidated cement store fronts painted in vibrant colors with creative names like _________, and the occasional internet cafe that seemingly takes you back in time. But heartbreakingly, the most memorable daily sight along our route was the abundance of coffin shops containing hand carved wood coffins of all sizes stacked on the roadside, and most notably small ones that would hold a young child. These serve as a difficult reminder of the Malawian's short lifespan due to the grave illness caused by Aids and malaria, and the harsh poverty stricken conditions of the country. Yet one would never imagine these truly deplorable living conditions in relation to that which we know, if based solely on the joyous smiles, laughter and cheers from the children, many of whom are orphans, who chased our bus in their commonly bare feet, hooting and hollering as we drove the stretch of winding dirt road every day into the village to our two build sites.
DANIEL
On our first day we were greeted by many of the villagers who sang and danced in joy and gratitude to welcome us, led by the village chief's wife who emits an angelic energy that one cannot deny. Every day we were accompanied by Chisomo and Daniel, one of the HFH Malawi leads, and onsite we were met by the HFH Malawi supervisors. Daniel is a godsend. He is energetic, kind, helpful, engaging, and knowledgable. He served as our guide not only on the build, but in our immersion of Malawian life. He came to be known as "the beautiful one," not only for his magnetic personality, but also because almost every time someone on our team asked him a question, and they were countless, he would genuinely respond with, "Oh, that's a beautiful one." He always referred to his wife as his queen and his daughter as his princess. He added an indescribably positive aspect to our experience.
LEARNING TO BUILD
We were introduced to our building materials, which consisted of matope, essentially mud to be used as mortar, and hand made, sun dried bricks. We were given some basic instruction to move and lay bricks, and to slather the matope with a trowl. We had a few local contractors working on each of the two build sites who oversaw our work and completed the structural aspects of the homes. Each house would consist of brick construction with three rooms, three windows, two doors and a brick and cement floor. Cement is an expensive material in Africa, so in order to reduce cost we would lay bricks like a puzzle across the floor, and cement later poured as fill with a thin layer of top coat. No homes in the village have electricity or running water. An "outhouse" had already been built beside each HFH home of the same type construction, which serves only the family who is gifted the home. It is used by squatting over a (very) small hole in the cement floor that drains into an approximate 6x6x4 foot hole dug by hand in the ground that supposedly would last 5 or 6 years until it fills with waste, at which time it will be capped and another hole dug next to it. Most other outhouses in the village, which are shared by multiple people and families, are holes dug in the ground and surrounded simply by some thatched paneling for privacy. The village has one water pump previously installed by the government that provides potable water and serves all. The pump is a communal gathering place for the women of the village as they fill their colorful 5 gallon buckets throughout the day. From age 6 or so to 70 perhaps, the young girls and elderly women carry the horribly heavy buckets filled with water, incredibly balanced on their heads, to their respective homes in the village that may sit 300 yards away. I watched in astonishment as we saw Emelisia, the 70 year old caretaker for whom we were building the house, walk those hundreds of yards with five gallons of water balanced on her head, and then hand it off to Brenda, one of the young orphans who would also live in the house, who then dumped it into the large hole dug in the dirt to mix the matope. We only took very short turns pumping the water and I must confess, it's not a job for the weary. And, it was nearly unfathomable for us to consider carrying these heavy buckets in our hands, never mind on our heads for even a matter of a few feet. The girls learn this skill at a young age and it becomes second nature, such that many even carry infants strapped to their backs while balancing the sloshing water buckets on their heads. The village is built about one-half mile from a river that is nearly void of water in the dry season but flowing in the rainy season. The villagers bath nude in its water year round, and farm some crops beside it.
The days were scorching hot in the direct sun, and the addition of sun block to our fair colored skin made us appear rather orange by the day's end after the brick dust and red dirt embedded into seemingly every crack and crevice of our body's. We were continuously advised to drink the bottled water by our endearing team lead and the HFH Malawi employees, despite the fact that the local construction workers rarely took a sip the entire day. We were often reminded that our bodies simply are not acclimated to working in these dry, hot conditions.
A line of string was stretched from corner to corner to guide us in laying relatively straight bricks as the walls of the homes are erected. About three feet of each wall corner had already been built prior to arrival, since that is a particular structural aspect we can not risk impairing. My perfectionism was quickly abated by my construction supervisor, as he repeatedly told me on day one to stop worrying about the particular amount of matope (a glob is purely sufficient) and the size and shape of the brick. Once our walls reached an estimated six feet, a scaffolding was erected. Our idea of a scaffolding built of metal pieces clearly designed to connect to one another surely was not the norm in the remote areas of Malawi. Though our crew did have one frighteningly rickety, metal scaffolding, the others were built by stacking wood planks on brick piles. But when they asked who wanted to start laying brick atop the wooden planks, I anxiously said, "I'll go!" I figured this was about as close as I'd get to my newly found passion and skill for rock climbing that my love introduced me to only months ago. During those hours I often inadvertently bumped butts with Abraham, my Malawian supervisor, as we attempted to work beside each other in a very cramped space. As the days passed our friendship emerged, and I was indescribably touched when he ultimately invited me to his home when I returned to Lilongwe to enjoy a traditional dinner with he and his wife. Regrettably I had to decline once I disappointingly learned that he could lose his job if I went. I was amazed every day how we would manage to cover ourselves in dirt from head to toe, and somehow the local workers left the job site nearly as clean as they entered it. I asked them how they did it and they just looked at me with perplexed glances.
CHILD'S PLAY
Daniel has such a gift for entertaining the children and keeping them in check. Each day the number of children would grow as our small bus entered the village and they chased us, waving frantically with smiles from ear to ear, down the approximately mile long road. It's overwhelming how their living conditions can make my heart feel so heavy while simultaneously their spirits, smiles and laughter make me so high. It's a rarity to even hear a child's cry in the village. I suppose they quickly learn in these deplorable conditions that crying gets you nothing except possibly further abandonment. On those rare occasions we heard a child crying, there he sat alone in the dirt with no comfort or food to fill his distended belly.
The children implored everything in their arsenal to capture our attention, such as song and dance, hand holding, and making toys out of the scraps they could scrounge. They would strike every possible pose they could muster for a photo opportunity. They piled on one another in the hopes of being included in every frame when that camera clicked, and then pushed and shoved until they could look over your shoulder to see themselves in the playback. Can you imagine never having seen yourself? Perhaps only a blind person in our society could truly relate. Is it possible that their absence of vanity deeply contributes to their seemingly innate sense of happiness? The begging for picture taking began to get in the way of our work and forced us at times to leave our cameras behind. And instead, we replaced them with music, coloring books, nail polish and a soccer ball. That precious time spent with those beautiful souls was indeed every ounce as rewarding for me as was building a home for them. Daniel often gathered us all together to engage in traditional African children's song and dance. On one occasion a circle formed and some of the kids took turns showing us their ingenious moves. I found the nerve to participate by jumping into the circle, on my belly demonstrating the serpent in the dirt, which was received with cheers!
Lunch time on the job site was a bit tormenting for us. There was no sufficient indoor space to house us, so mats were laid out on the ground in a shaded area in plain view of the villagers, and a rope circled around us to maintain a boundary that they sadly were not allowed to cross, as required by our local supervisors. Box lunches were made by our hotel daily, and though they were overly simplistic and more or less tasteless by our standards (since I do not eat meat, my sandwich consisted of white bread and a slice of tomato with French fries), we knew that every one of those children would trade the clothes off their back for our food. This became abundantly clear one afternoon when we thought we were doing a good deed by disposing of our leftovers in the grasses for the pigs and goats that roamed the village freely, rather than wasting them as we had been. Only moments later, we discovered the err of our ways when the children raced to the area and devoured every bite of food they could find buried in the dirt. (We were not allowed to give anything to the children directly, all offerings had to be given to the HFH staff who in turn delivered it to the Village chief, who then dispersed it to the villagers). We watched with heavy hearts. We shared the experience with Daniel that night over our ritual dinner and expressed our discomfort eating in front of them. He explained there was no other space available, to which we replied that we'd then rather forego our lunch, but he informed us that this would not be allowed under the HFH guidelines. He further explained that we should not feel badly, as the villagers know and understand that we are there to help build homes in their community that they could only dream of without our aid. We sit pondering, hoping that we are doing greater good.
As perhaps strange as it may sound on the surface, one of the most astounding experiences for me in the village was an afternoon spent picking up trash. Given the lack of education and waste disposal services, Malawian's have taken to dumping every ounce of it on the ground. The village is littered with their garbage. We suggested amongst each other one day that we bring bags to clean it up. We began with the areas immediately surrounding the houses that we were building. The villagers, young and old, watched in seeming awe and confusion. The ladies giggled and pointed. The children circled about and within minutes my heart filled with satisfaction as they began scouring the grounds and running to me to deposit their findings in my garbage bag. It wasn't long before my bag was overflowing, and in the next inspiring moment I noticed Brenda carrying a sack that she had found, wandering further from what would become her new home, to help pick up trash elsewhere in the village. Tears of appreciation filled my eyes. Eventually the ladies even bent over to pick up an item here and there, then beckoned me so they could drop it my sack with a smile of understanding. I proudly obliged.
Equally gratifying were the times spent in the early afternoon playing with the children. And it was always so endearing to me when Brenda and I would walk through the village holding hands while she happily wore my sunglasses. She will hold a special place in my heart forever. We played soccer and frisbee with the boys, with the toys that one of my wonderful HFH teammates purchased earlier in the week. The kids were entertained when two of my teammates were juggling like a circus act. Another fabulous teammate (and teacher) was wise to bring crayons and coloring books and nail polish. My travel mate was concerned that the children would not be able to draw because they literally have no furniture to sit at or on, but I was certain they would find a way to engage in these activities that were completely foreign to them. As a matter of fact, every home within the village is desolate of furniture. They eat, sleep and sit on bamboo mats. Within minutes the kids were filling the pages with vibrant color while seated on make shift tables, or simply sitting in the dirt. And once they were introduced to nail polish, the boys were perhaps even more excited to paint their fingers and toes than the girls! On our final working day I brought my IPod and portable speaker. We formed a circle with the children and turned up the tunes. They seemed unsure for quite some time and watched us curiously. We continued to encourage them to join us by grabbing their hands and dancing them around, and we ultimately sang the afternoon away as we spread matope and moved bricks to the likes of our current American pop stars.
It was always heartwarming and heart wrenching to come and go from the village. Our arrival brought such joy and excitement, and as we departed the children sang a song in unison with grins from ear to ear, but that we later learned translated to "take me with you." As you might imagine, hearing those words left behind a sense of emptiness beyond description.
We took a few excursions on our way to and from the village. One day we visited a school. Though it was summer and the children were absent, a few staff members graciously showed us the grounds. Their school work filled the walls of the classroom and one particular composition caught my eye. It was written by an 8th grader and titled "How to Take Care of the Sick." It read as follows:
"I would like to write a composition about 'How to take care of the sick.' The sleeping place must have adequate beddings and clean. It must be swept every day in the morning.
The sick person must be given some porridge and some fruits such as oranges, guavas, mangoes and pine apples. The sick person must be given liquids such as fruit juices.
The sick person must take a bath of warm water. He or she must sleep in clean beddings, wear clean clothes and eat from clean utensils and give him or her a lot of time to rest. This is what I wanted to write about 'How to take care of the sick.'"
What notably caught my attention in that composition is the omission of doctors or medicine. We are so incredibly fortunate to have access to advanced medicine no matter our financial circumstances, all the while their society is so desperately in need of assistance.
Another day on the way back to the hotel after working in the village, and after days of begging to our team lead, we stopped at an Internet cafe that we passed daily on our route, which seemed to scream at us in its brightly painted green facade. A few of us anxiously exited the bus first and entered the small shop that was large enough for only the few of us to cramp in, housing two computers that we'd be accustomed to seeing at home over 10 years ago, and a printer controlled by the one young girl sitting behind the desk. After she gazed at us lacidazically , a middle aged man walked in and asked if he could be of service. We requested wifi access, and he agreed to grant it to us for a small fee that equated to approximately $___ U.S. It was never clear whether this man owned the cafe or worked there, but as we each paid the girl, she somewhat secretively passed a small folded piece of paper across the desk with a handwritten code that gained us access. The routine was so slow, and considering that our time allotment was short, we began sharing the code with each other as we gathered on the front stoop of the small cement building, but of course each person still paid their fee before leaving. I took the opportunity to immediately contact my honey back home and respond to Facebook messages. While I loitered, something caught my eye a few feet away in the neighboring parking lot where two men stood beside their trucks, and another man in the bed of one. Suddenly I noticed a pair of eyes gazing at me from the bed and not that of the young man, but a cow laying on its side roped and tied. I so desperately wanted to look away and yet I couldn't. It had obviously given up on life some time ago, as it would occasionally lift its head but suffered horribly from exhaustion from the fight. What woke me from senses in the next moment was a goat being violently pulled from the bed of one truck, flipped on its back into a sort of hog tie, and tossed like a piece of garbage into the bed of the truck while it baa-ed for comfort, compassion and respect. It took all my might to refrain from attacking these men who, in my opinion, deserved the same treatment in return. I respect people's right to eat meat, but beg for these creatures to be treated humanely in the process.
The next stop was a nearby ice cream parlor. We all loaded off the bus and into the mid size restaurant. My teammates were overtly ecstatic at the idea of eating ice cream after a day of working in the hot sun (I, myself, do not eat ice cream), and anxiously lined up at the counter. The two men were overjoyed at the prospect of so much business, I'm guessing we would constitute in a day more than their weekly clientele; however, when the first of us ordered ice cream they graciously informed us that the electricity had been out (not at all an uncommon occurrence) and they were unable to make any ice cream. A cacophony of sighs emanated throughout the group as we shuffled back to the bus.