MALAWIAN LIFE
I have arrived in one of the poorest nation's on Earth. It is with great sorrow that I am writing today. My face is stained with tears and my heart is heavy. I want to give all I have to these indescribably beautiful children, and I have not yet even reached the orphanage which is the primary destination in this journey. Malawi is known as the warm heart of Africa, and this has proven to be true within seconds of my arrival. Once I deplaned I followed the crowd to the small terminal to enter the customs line, but much to my surprise I saw someone carrying a sign with my name on it. I was greeted with a warm smile and introduction, and he promptly escorted me to a separate, shorter line where I was asked a series of questions by the customs agent. I had previously been advised not to mention volunteer work or building, not with dishonest intent, but for risk of miscommunication due to language barriers which might cause the need for additional visa requirements that I could not satisfy. I politely informed the natural beauty behind the desk that I was visiting Malawi for tourism, my passport was stamped and I was granted entrance. The man who kindly expedited me through customs met me on the other side to assist with my luggage and then handed me off to my driver for the three and one half hour passage to Cape Maclear on the shores of Lake Malawi. What I witnessed along the route was mind boggling. People upon people of all ages were walking for miles and miles, carrying buckets, sacks, food, wood and more. Women were balancing bundles of wood at least four feet long on their heads, men were pushing dilapidated bicycles imported from China up hills, all while balancing huge sacks standing five feet high on the seats that are filled with wood shavings used for cooking, loads of children walking without shoes while holding their mother's hand, passenger bicycles with as many people on it as we might pay to see in a circus act, and the occasional truck overflowing with bails of cotton and men seated on top of the sacks 20 feet off the ground as they sway with every turn and bump in the road. The landscape is barren, granted it is the dry season and I'm told the Earth will revert to green again in a few months, but the trees have been cut down faster than they can regrow to use for life sustaining materials. The rare vehicle that passed was clearly driven by a foreigner, with the exception of a motor bike now and then. I was informed by my driver that most Malawians live on less than one dollar a day. He also shared his thoughts on the severe government corruption in this country that is not being stopped by its people due to their culturally engrained nature to be gentle and submissive. The street was paved until we were relatively close to reaching my destination, at which point we turned onto a dirt road that was cut through the mountains and led to the enormous lake on the other side. Lake Malawi is known as the calendar lake, for it spans approximately 365 miles north to south and 52 miles broad; and, it is extraordinarily deep at 700m, plunging well below sea level. Concrete rectangles begin to emerge, chickens and goats roam freely, an occasional dog passes with its ribs protruding, and litter scatters the ground everywhere. But without warning a satellite dish appeared above a thatched roof. We slowed to avoid the children running about gaily. We had entered Chembe Village. I had no vision of my destination as I allowed my travel agent free rein, and never once looked up this particular place on the Internet in advance of arriving. When the driver said that visitors stay in the villagers' guest houses in this severely impoverished town, I cannot deny the fear that erupted within me. But we traversed on and when we reached the absolute end of the road a gate appeared. It was opened for us by a guard and we parked inside the walls of Chembe's Eagle's Nest Lodge (www.chembenest.com). It was rustic but quaint and comfortable with electricity and hot water, which we could bath in but could not drink. Admittedly and guiltily I breathed a sigh of relief. The lodge sits on a pebbly beach in the farthest corner of Cape Maclear, beyond the gaggle of fisherman, hand carved canoes and small outboard motor fishing boats. As you walk through the village you see drying racks covered with thousands of the tiny fish that are exported to the capital city of Lilongwe and other surrounding cities in Malawi, which keeps this village alive.
CHILD'S LAUGHTER
The first sunset was as magnificent as one would anticipate over the great expanse of turquoise waters of this natural lake, the ninth largest in the world. The voices of the village carry throughout the night. A bar stands beside the lodge and the volume increases as the hours grow late (or early depending on your point of view). I learned that the fisherman fish the lake overnight, apparent by the glow above the lake's surface that appears like a small city in the distance but as I later discover are the fisherman's torches, and upon their return they visit the local pub. In the morning after breakfast my travel mate and I venture into the village for a walk. As soon as we passed through the gate we were immediately bombarded with children racing up to us and yelling, "Jambuleni, jambuleni," which means "Take my photo, take my photo!" I asked one girl her name and she said Shakira. I questioned, like the singer? She smirked and proudly declared, "Oh yeah," and then we both shook our hips in unison and giggled, as I'm sure we were both singing Shakira's music in our minds. How this young girl understood my English and knew who Shakira was, was beyond me, but clearly she did. They then asked for sweets but I disappointingly had none. We continued on our walk and passed a small shirtless boy not more than 3 years old, wearing nothing but faded, filthy blue jeans, no shirt, no shoes, no underwear. He was leaning over a concrete block that stood above a dry wash, as if staring into an abyss. I bent down and said hello but he would not even turn to acknowledge me. I repeated myself to no response. I still cannot make sense of what he may have been thinking in that moment, but my heart sank, tears welled, and I filled with dread. We continued on the journey, I slowed to turn back with the hope of catching a glimpse of his face but he held the same position as if he were a statute. Anxiety built within and I found it hard to catch my breath.
We passed row after row of single room concrete and brick structures. With each step one child after the next yelled from their porch stoops and ran into the dirt street "Jambuleni, jambuleni!" I'd prepare to snap a picture and within seconds one child turned into five or more. It was a challenge to steady the camera to fit them all into the frame as they emerged from seemingly nowhere and everywhere, and stepped closer and closer to the lens. Once I'd finally capture a shot I'd switch the display to playback and show them the photo. They erupted in laughter like I've never heard before. It was a sight for them to behold their own smiles, eyes and silly poses. They'd point to the screen trying to identify themselves. I wondered if they'd ever looked in a mirror before. I'd later learn that most have not. As we passed the short market lined with bicycles and people where we were met with many hellos and warm smiles, and a handful of questioning eyes, two older boys joined us. One spoke relatively good English and he and I carried on a lengthy conversation as we continued on through Chembe. They helped direct us to another area of the lake where we abruptly recognized the solitude of the Eagle's Nest in the direction from which we came. This area was swarming with people bathing themselves, their clothes and other personal affects in the water, and locals selling their trinkets on the beach. We attempted to haggle for hand carved wooden bottle openers but the process became so overwhelming that we opted to escape into a nearby lodge for lunch. We did ultimately purchase 3 of them for a price we would accept. They offered to accept half of the money then go carve the pieces and deliver them to our lodge that evening, which they honorably did. The two boys stood by, gazing from the outside, while we sat in the open aired lodge and I guiltily treated myself to a Savanna hard cider. When they began to walk away I yelled for them to wait. I met them on the side of the restaurant and handed them a few Kwacha each through the makeshift fence, the equivalent of about five dollars. They were grateful and headed off on their way. I mostly sat in silence over lunch, unable to eat with a restricting knot in my throat, damp eyes, and a million thoughts filling my mind. Why do we have so much and they have so little? Is it fair? How is it they are still so happy with what we would equate to nothing? Would we be more fulfilled with less?
After the "lunch" break we returned to the beach to admire The Brother's Band, a group of 5 young boys who entertain visitors by playing instruments hand made from plastic water jugs and ropes tied to sticks, while they sing and dance. They were superbly entertaining. We made a donation and headed back through the village. We had scheduled a snorkeling boat excursion from our lodge for that afternoon and had only 30 minutes before its departure time. We discussed the need to stay focused in order for a timely arrival at the Eagle's Nest. I stopped quickly in the market to purchase two bags of banana candies with the intention of handing them out to Shakira and her friends once we were near the lodge. As we walked on through the village one young girl about 4 years old, decorated with braids and Jamaican colored rubber booties too large for her tiny feet, shuffled toward me and grabbed my hand as she looked up and gleamed. Within one second another small girl took my other hand. Then a tiny boy held my pinky finger, and then another joined, and another, and another, and another, until I literally ran out of fingers to share. Within moments I had walked a few hundred meters with an army of children embracing my limbs. I was speechless. We were stopped by a man with his bicycle wanting to sell us his canvas paintings. By now my priorities had shifted away from the snorkeling excursion entirely, as my heart embraced this village. He unrolled his art and laid it out for us to see. We bought three pieces that I will proudly display in my new home when I return to Arizona, to admire and reflect on this eye opening and heartfelt experience. The man explained that his grandmother is suffering from malaria and showed us the juice he had just purchased from the market to share with her. After our purchase was complete, he asked if I wanted to meet his grandmother. I said yes. The children followed as he walked us to the second row of concrete blocks which opened to a dirt courtyard of sorts, where we found his grandmother and her friend, wrinkled and nearly toothless, sitting on a tarp on the ground. They spoke to each other in their native tongue and he translated for us. We said we were pleased to meet her and hoped for her health.
Further along in the village I noticed a young girl standing alone behind a small fence that enclosed the empty yard in front of her house. I opted to open the first bag of candy to give her one. As if I had made an announcement with a bull horn, before I knew it children raced from every direction and I was swarmed by dozens of varying ages with outstretched hands, chanting "ba-na-na, ba-na-na." At first it brought me tremendous joy, but quickly the crowd grew too large for me to control and I nearly fell backwards onto the ground as they pushed and shoved. I tried to recognize those that had not received anything yet because some were returning a second, third and fourth time. A local elderly man and middle aged woman wandered over to try to help. Then a few moments later a Range Rover shockingly pulled up (shockingly because a) it seemingly came out of nowhere, and b) seeing a Range Rover in this environment was surreal), the passenger door opened and a man abruptly yelled, "Get in!" I felt as if I was in a movie. I wasn't sure who he was but he seemed intent on helping me. I scaled my way out of the crowd, feeling overwhelmed. I hopped in the car and closed the door at his command. I could just barely force myself to make eye contact with the children, now feeling rather lost and defeated. I learned the driver of the car was our boat captain who had driven out in search of us since we had not returned from our walk through the village, and it was approximately 30 minutes past our scheduled excursion time. He returned us to the Eagle's Nest where I handed the remaining bag of candy to the security guard at the gate entrance and asked that he share them with the local children. The mix of emotions I was experiencing was utterly confusing and shocking to the system. I boarded the small catamaran and in near tears I reflected on all that had just happened as the boat pulled away from the lake's shore.
UNCLE CHARLO'S
I had inquired that morning with a few people at the Eagle's Nest about the sounds of music I heard the night before that were streaming through Chembe Village. I mentioned on more than one occasion that if the villagers were going to keep me up all night, then I would like to join them! At dinner that same evening one of the staff, Owen, asked if I'd like to go out in the village. Once I confirmed with him that it would be safe for me, and that he would escort me back to the Eagle's Nest, I answered with a resounding yes. Around 8 pm we wandered past the security of the gate and into the village. I had five thousand or so Kwacha with me (the equivalent of about $10) and my headlamp, nothing more. Without electricity the dirt streets were pitch black, and a dog scurried past my feet now and then just seconds before I would have tripped over it. In such dark of night the stars were brilliant. I looked up and asked Owen if he knew what the Milky Way Galaxy is. When he said no I pointed to it and did my best to explain in simple English. After meandering about 20 minutes through the village we arrived at Uncle Charlo's Booze Den. As you pass through the large wooden doorway you enter a courtyard that is encapsulated by concrete. A small stage sits at the opposite side of the entry way where four foot tall speakers stand, blaring dance, reggae and pop music. Men were milling about. We entered one building known as the nightclub. I would guess it to be approximately 200 square feet inside, no larger than one of the walk in closets in my friend's (beautiful and extravagant) house that I currently live in, in Arizona. Two women work as bartenders behind a window of iron bars. Men were dancing and I noticed only two other female patrons. The stench of sweat and unbathed body odor was overwhelming. I asked Owen why there were so few women and he said they would arrive later. He bought us two beers and politely refused to accept my money for the first round. This had my mind spinning knowing that I probably have more in savings than he is likely to see in his lifetime if he never gets the very rare opportunity to break free from the village. We wandered outside into the courtyard where one man after the next approached us and introduced themselves to me, then asked my name and where I'm from. Each seemed to say they were Owen's best friend, so I looked at him and chuckled. I did my best to engage them in conversation, attempting to understand their broken English over the heightening music. Some were quite drunk and getting a little too close for my comfort, but I felt safe with Owen by my side and held my ground. We reentered the nightclub for a second round of drinks. I asked him who owns the place and shortly thereafter I met the infamous Uncle Charlo, the dapperly dressed owner who seemed very pleased to meet me, and I noticed him making the rounds to shake the hands of many of his patrons. We then took the few steps needed to find ourselves on the far side of the dance floor. Owen sat on a concrete bench extending from the wall and rather than sit I elected to dance. I was the only girl on the floor but didn't let that stop me. Once he stood he whispered, "You're a good dancer." I giggled, smiled, said thank you, and carried on. Once I had worked up a sweat and could hardly breath in the heavy, putrid air that filled the room, I suggested we go back outside. We spoke with his friends again then wandered across the courtyard to the open air bar equipped with a run down pool table being used outside. Owen asked if I'm married and I informed him that I am divorced and have a boyfriend, to which he seemed to kindly respect. A few more women had arrived, all of whom had a very natural beauty about them as so many Malawians do, though I later learned were all prostitutes.
OWEN'S HOUSE
When I was ready to leave we walked back through the blackness of the village toward the Eagle's Nest and Owen asked if I'd like to see his house. I was nervous and curious. I opted to trust my instincts that he is a good natured, kind soul and agreed to go for a short time. Once we arrived he left me in the dark for a few moments while he went to find his house key from I-don't-know-where. Seeing as how he had my head lamp in his pocket I began to wonder if I had made the right decision. Thankfully he returned with the key, crouched through the doorway, then said in his shy tone, "Please come in. This is my home. This is how we live." He asked me to wait inside the doorway while he located a candle that he lit and put in a holder on the floor. Then he moved a stool sized for a kindergartener to the side wall, placed it on a floor mat, and offered for me to sit. He turned over a plastic water jug and sat himself against the opposing wall (I'd estimate to be six feet away) with the candle softly lighting the room between us. The small concrete room was just tall enough for his six foot stature to stand up straight. We chatted about life in Malawi and life in America for hours. I inquired about books and he quickly and politely excused himself to his bedroom beyond the hanging sheet, which separates his single size mattress resting on the dirt floor from the area that I was sitting, and returned with two books. One was a portion of a soft cover Christian prayer book and the other was a seventh grade reading book, both written in English. I also asked where he cooks. He lifted a tapestry covering a small wooden rack that contained one pot and one dish and explained that he cooks outside over a fire. He has no running water or electricity in his home. Despite his brief education and little opportunity, I quickly recognized how bright, motivated, hard working and respectful this young man is. He simply needs a chance for something more, a chance I hope to someday offer to him even if in an indirect or small way.
ECO FRIENDLY PARADISE
The progression from poverty to an eco friendly, self sustaining, luxury island was a culture shock. The next morning we were picked up from the Eagle's Nest and driven to Kayak Africa's (www.kayakafrica.co.za) base camp on the lake shore on the other side of Chembe Village. Knowing I would be without electricity for the next six days, when I saw the sign for wifi I promptly inquired. In order to use it I would have to purchase an air time card, but base camp did not have any. I sent a staff member into the village to acquire one for me and he returned with a piece of paper containing a hand written access ID and password. I was able to connect and despite the fact that it was nearly 2 am on a weeknight in Arizona, I ceased the opportunity to call home to briefly catch up and bid farewell yet again to my love through a broken connection, while I waited for the boat to cross the lake to pick us up. Where I stood on the dock I overlooked naked children bathing in the lake and others washing their personal affects.
The scene upon arriving to Mumbo Island (www.mumboisland.com) following the 45 minute ride in the diesel engine, dilapidated boat was jaw dropping. It was the epitome of serenity. I walked the wooden plank from the boat to the cleanly raked beach that lies in the turquoise cove of Lake Malawi for our introduction to life on the island. We then walked the long bridge that leads to the individual tents and chalets built into the crevices of the boulders rising above the crystal water. A blue hammock swings in the gentle breeze on my wooden deck through which I can peer between its boards and catch a glimpse of the tropical looking fish swimming 30 feet below.
It was such a peaceful, rewarding way to begin each day by preparing my morning coffee that was delivered on a serving tray set outside the room at 6:30 am, and exercising with light stretches, yoga, pushups, dips and sit-ups. Much of my time on the island was spent reading and writing. The quiet setting could not be a more perfect opportunity for reflection. It was interspersed with activities like a solo kayak excursion around the island, affording me a great upper body workout and a new perspective of the fisherman. I sat on Pod Rock about 100 feet above the water's edge while taking note of those men in their individual hand carved canoes, and contemplating their thoughts as they bob day after day in the great expanse of this enormous lake. I swam alone in the Mumbo Island bay taking in every ounce of its magnificent beauty as a sea otter joined me with its playful banter. I hiked the trails on the island and uncovered the beach that marks the halfway point for the fisherman who are traveling from Cape Maclear, where they converse, rest their weary yet strong musculature, build fires, sleep, and eat. The stench was intolerable and it became horrifically apparent as to everything else they do in the confines of that beach. I learned to play Boabob, a traditional African game played on a wooden board with small stones (though later learned that I was not actually following the rules!). The game is played on the communal deck at camp. One day a young family was playing Jenga beside me. It was then that I realized the laughter of a child is no different, whether they live in poverty or live in riches. A child's laughter fills the silence like no other; it is the sound of innocence, the sound of truth, the essence of joy and simplicity. I believe I may now have a better sense of how having a child, whether your own or adopted, can complete us.
I listened intently to the breathtaking song of the fish eagles, who look so similar to the American Bald Eagle, and watched them swoop into the water to catch their prey and fly in unison high above the island as if they were painting circles in the sky. I took a sunset ride on a small outboard motor, wooden boat, where I always find peace when I witness mother nature demonstrate her unique talent. In the late afternoon before the sun dropped too low in the sky and the air began to chill, I would order a hot shower which consisted of a 5 gallon bucket of water heated over a fire and delivered to my chalet. I stood on the bamboo open flooring below the tin can that had a nozzle welded to it to control water flow, and was tied to a rope lever system. After the first shower I quickly learned to properly time the steps of my bathing so that I could enjoy the final minutes of the piping (figuratively that is) hot water running over me and take in my surroundings. I enjoyed our banter and stargazing while sitting around a campfire with other guests on the deck above the beach in the evening. I reveled in a surprise from Owen one afternoon on his day off, when one of the island staff relayed a message to me during lunch that Owen would hitch a ride on the boat that afternoon for a short visit. When he arrived it again felt as if I were playing a role in a movie, but also genuine and sincere. I gave him a brief tour of the island and we talked on the beach for just a few minutes until he had to leave on the boat's return to the lake shore. Since I quickly adapted to not having electricity, the only real challenge I faced over the course of those six days on the island was not sharing it with the man I love, though he was ever present in my heart. And I captured his presence by writing "I love you Paul" in the sand of the beach and snapped a photo of it for our memories. When I departed Mumbo and arrived back at Kayak Africa's base camp, I was handed two small envelopes and quickly boarded the anxiously awaiting taxi to take me to my last charter flight on this incredible journey. As the driver trekked his way out of the village I exhaled and opened the envelopes, where I shockingly discovered five hand made bracelets each personally inscribed by Owen. As a smile grew on my face I again recognized that Malawi truly is the warm heart of Africa.