…I think I just experienced what Oprah would describe as one of life’s “full circle” moments. I was rummaging through a pile of second-hand clothes in our neighbourhood market with my friend Jamie. It’s often cooler at night with the rains now, and she was looking for some warmer clothes. As we were searching through piles of dirty, XXL shirts, I noticed a polo t-shirt with a familiar red colour, a colour of my past. One feel of the scratchy poly-cotton blend and a glance at the grey collar with the trademark maple leaf below confirmed what in my mind I already knew to be true: a Zellers uniform. I pulled the t-shirt out of the pile yelling, “No way!” After noticing the confused looks on the faces of both Jamie and the vendor lady, I quickly explained that I spent part of my high school life working for the company with the ugly red polos.
As Jamie and I laughed at the randomness of the event, I realized how amazing it is that our interests truly do develop over time. Finding that t-shirt made me realize that I’m in Malawi for the right reasons. I’m not here volunteering because it is something that I longed to do while in high school and feel obligated to fulfill for the sake of my girlhood dreams. When I was 16, 17, 18… the thought of doing what I’m doing now would have made me weak in the knees. I’m here because overtime, God has grown a passion and a desire in me to see the world and to help make it better. I’m here because my interests were shaped through my decision to attend McMaster, and to eventually take Political Science and Health Studies courses. My high-school self did not even know what these courses were. But after changing my mind a million times, and being supported and encouraged by my parents and professors, here I am; and while I don’t know what’s next, I couldn’t be happier.
I had an interesting conversation with my host parents the other night. We stayed at the dinner table long after the kids had gone to bed, and chatted about my cultural experiences here in Malawi. I was explaining that I really feel there is gap in the information provided to volunteers during orientation in countries like Malawi, about the kind of treatment they can expect to receive from the locals. I knew I would stand out from the crowd here, but I did not know that I would experience such a range of feelings in my interactions with Malawians: humour, anger, bitterness, amusement, sadness, embarrassment, fear, happiness, impatience, frustration, and the list goes on.
One my earliest blogs spoke about my need for anonymity, a feeling I have not known since before I arrived in Malawi. As the weeks have progressed, I have come to long not for anonymity, but for equal treatment. No special treatment, no worse treatment, no different treatment at all, please and thank you. In my mind and in the mind of a select few, including my host family, I am just another person living and working here in Malawi. But to the majority of the population I am an mzungu (white), therefore rich, and female … and it is these three factors upon which my treatment is based.
First, let’s tackle ‘white, therefore rich’. I get dramatically over-charged for even the smallest items in the market. After watching the vendor try to sell a necklace to someone for 150 kwatcha, he’ll turn to me and suggest 500 kwatcha. The emotions here are usually a mix of frustration, humour and ‘you must think I’m stupid’. I always tell the vendors “I didn’t land yesterday, I’ve been living and working here for 3 months, you can’t give me the mzungu price”. This is usually responded to by a laugh and a, “My friend… it’s not the mzungu price, you are my friend, I give you good price”. People don’t believe me when I truthfully say I’m not buying today, or I’m just waiting for a friend, etc. They look at me in disbelief, with the occasional eye roll and a surprised “Ohhh…” The lack of trust is infuriating, and it’s something I don’t have an answer for. I think he’s cheating me, he thinks I’m lying to him. Where do we go from here?
I regularly get asked by random strangers on the street for a job. Unless they get pushy, my emotion here is usually sadness. I have to explain through my limited Chichewa that I am just a volunteer, I am not making any money and I do not own my own home. Therefore I cannot hire this person to work as my gardener, my guard, etc. I’ve had people walk up and present to me foot-long scars down their chest, blind children, and empty bowls and cups. Street children are particularly heart-wrenching. They walk up to me with dirty faces and bare feet, their hands cupped saying “Mama please”. Normally I cannot say no. But every Malawian who has ever seen me giving money to a begging child has scolded me, telling me that giving them money encourages them to leave school early. I see their point, but they also have to eat.
Often times, this asking for money just makes me bitter and angry. Recently, I was walking home from my friends’ place, when I caught up to a large group of 13 or 14 year olds walking the same direction. I thought I would be able to make it past them without incident but I was wrong. It had been a long day and one, “Madam, give me 50 kwatcha now” pushed me right over the edge. These children were living in my nicer area of town, all with new shoes and some with diamond earrings. They obviously have access to media through a t.v., because I heard them quoting lines like “She’s a bitch” and “I’m a hustler”. “No, you’re not a hustler, and no I won’t give you 50 kwatcha”, was my response. I really lost my cool when one more of them pressured me again for money. I turned to him and asked why he didn’t beg his friend with the diamond earring for some money. The resounding “Ohhhhhh!” told me right away that I should have kept my mouth shut. They proceeded to follow me home, laughing and harassing me in Chichewa for the remainder of my 10-minute walk. I tried to keep my pace steady and my voice calm, but I couldn’t help but realize there were 8 of them and 1 of me. I had my purse and my laptop on me, and I arrived home safe but definitely rattled, but not before I had a face-off with another of the boys, after he actually followed me right up to my gate.
This incident brings me to the other classification upon which my treatment here is based: ‘female’. I would argue that this incident would not have happened to me if I had been a white male. Sure, the boys might still have asked a man for money, but I doubt they would have harasses him and followed him home. I would argue that foreign women have a much more difficult time in Malawi than do foreign men. Women have to deal with the constant added distraction of leering eyes, lingering handshakes and pestering questions about marital status. I had a tense moment at the market last weekend, when my friend was buying from a vendor. A man who had been pestering me to visit his booth and who would not believe me when I told him I wasn’t buying that day, began to pester me once more to follow him, this time saying, “Madam, please just come, it’s not business”.“Well why would I come with you if it’s not business?” I responded. Then he dropped the “Are you married?” bomb. “No.” “Good. I like you”, he said… giving me that creepy look that every girl knows. “Okay great but I do have a boyfriend and he won’t be happy when I tell him about this”, I said. “Ohh you have a boyfriend? Are you sure?” he answered back. And the conversation continued like this through an uncomfortably tight handshake that he wouldn’t release for several minutes. In the end I finally got away… a typical disgusted girl, mad at my friend for taking long and dousing my hands in Purell.
Most of the propositions that have come my way have not been this aggressive. My favourite happened early one morning, when I was walking down the street to my friends’ place. A young man on his bicycle rode past me, smiled, and continued, but before long I heard the sound of his tires turning around on the pavement. He rode up beside me and asked where I was going, where I was coming from, and all the questions that I’ve come to understand are typical Malawian inquiries for foreigners. (We’re taught to be wary of providing information to strangers at home, but I’ve realized Malawians are just curious about my life, they don’t want memorize my routine and kill me). So after chatting for about 2 minutes, he politely said, “Yes, so, I will like, for you to…. Well, you will be my girlfriend.” A statement, not a question. I couldn’t help myself, I laughed out loud a little. I explained to him that I was already a girlfriend to someone else, and besides, I’d be returning to Canada soon. He took the rejection graciously and rode off to town, where he told me he was heading to work with plaster on a construction site. I assured him he seemed very nice and would find a girlfriend here in Malawi very soon, and he just smiled. I stopped walking for a moment and watched him cycle down the road, wondering what would become of this young man.
The humourous and genuine interactions I’ve had with many Malawians like this man have certainly made up for my more negative experiences. While being an unmarried, white female in an African country may have its disadvantages from the point-of-view of the attention I received, I believe this attention also worked to my advantage during the Violence Against Girls in Education sessions. Because I became somewhat of a ‘spectacle’ on the school grounds, girls always raced to my sessions and sat listening intently to what I had to say. Even the use of a translator was helpful because I was able to process my thoughts and construct sentences more clearly while waiting for the translator to finish my previous sentence.
Though not quite over yet, my experience in Malawi has just furthered my belief that God can use anyone, in any situation, from any walk of life, to help others. I was a terrified white girl with little international experience upon my arrival in Malawi, but I truly feel content about the work I was able to accomplish here, despite how frustrating the process has been. If even one girl was able to realize her potential and understand the importance of education, then I believe the aggressive propositions, untrusting interactions, over-charging and harassment have all been worth it.
2 weeks tomorrow. I will be touching down at Pearson Airport 2 weeks tomorrow. I will be able to hug my parents hello 2 weeks tomorrow. I will be able to hold Ryan’s hand as we walk out of the airport 2 weeks tomorrow. I will be able to talk and laugh with my girlfriends 2 weeks tomorrow. But here in my African day-to-day life, this day seems like a dream in a far-off land that will never come true. Right now my life consists of a schedule and a daily routine that has nothing to do with this day happening 2 weeks tomorrow. Many have asked what this daily routine looks like, so I’ll share briefly.
I wake up every morning at 5 or 5 30, depending on how noisy the kids are. I lie in my bed for a minute, reminding myself that I am waking up in Africa, thinking about my loved ones who are just going to bed, and mentally preparing for the day. I get up, get dressed for work, pack my lunch and have breakfast with the kids. Breakfast is usually either toast and tea or some instant oats I bought for myself (Hainaut: “it’s apple CINNAMON!”). Around 7 I head to work, either by car with Alice or Nelson, or by mini bus.
If by car, the morning commute is much more pleasant, and much quicker. We speed through the traffic of Malawi’s one-lane roads usually going about 80 or 100 kms/hr. Traffic cops everywhere direct traffic at the rare stoplights and more-common roundabouts. Lilongwe’s roads are BUSY.
If I’m taking a mini bus, I walk about 8 minutes down my street, through a quick catwalk and onto the main road of my neighbourhood, near the market. I walk past men sitting in groups fixing bicycles, selling fruit or cellphone airtime, and occasionally field a marriage proposal or a “good morning madam”/“where are you going miss?” I cross the busy intersection with the help of the traffic cop, and wander down a dirt path beside the main road (Kamuzu Processional) which I will take to get to work. About a 2-minute walk down the road is where busses will join the cue coming from town. I walk down the road until I hear a whistle or a “25!” from behind me- signaling they are going to Area 25 where I work- I stick out my hand and wave to the bus. The bus trips are usually quite eventful (see previous blog entry… “Christmas Comes Early…”)
At work by 8, I’m usually the first here. I stay until 5 if I’m getting picked up or 4 if I’m taking the mini bus home once again. During this time I work on proposals, plan my Violence Against Girls in Education program sessions, or go out to the schools in Area 25 to run the actual program. I usually break and eat my lunch around 12 or 1.
Heading home later by bus I will walk past the vendors and the market, through the catwalk, and up my street once again, hoping to get home before dark. If I get a drive I can avoid this stress. Tea is served at 5 30. Tuesdays and Thursday nights there is a blackout from roughly 6pm-8pm. Most nights I read, play with the kids, watch our one TV channel if there is something interesting on, or do a crossword- which I’ve become expert at. Dinner is usually served around 7, and afterwards I will do a bit of my Bible study or chat with Alice and Nelson, and finally I end the day with a bath after everyone else has gone to bed at 8 30 or 9. I consider this my ‘me-time’ of the day… where I can enjoy the short period when the house is silent. By 4 am the earliest risers are awake, and it all starts again.
I enjoy my life here in Africa. For the most part it is filled with enjoyable routine and friendly people. 2 weeks tomorrow will be a shock to the system, when a new routine will form and I will have so many more options for how to fill my time. I’m sure I will miss hearing “Good morning Madam” as I walk down the street to work… that doesn’t happen in Toronto. So I’m going to continue to enjoy the routine and the life I have developed here, before it is 2 weeks tomorrow.
10 weeks done. I’m flying out 3 weeks today. I can’t believe how fast time has gone over the last several weeks, but this last week… I feel like time has slowed to a crawl. I think it is because I’ve been saying “Less than a month!”, “Just over 3 weeks”, “3 and a half weeks” and so on, for some time now. Basically I need to stop counting days. Believe me, this is something I’ve been working on. I really want to enjoy myself and make the most of my time here right up until the last minute.
I also think that this week has passed slowly because I was not at work at all last week while sick with malaria, so I got out of routine. It amazes me how quickly time can pass when you focus on a routine. So back at work this week, I felt all out of sorts. Plus Alice and Nelson have both been away on business this week so I have been taking a minibus to and from work, which can make already tedious days even more tedious!
Mini busses are terrifying, dangerous and hilarious all at the same time. They are Malawi’s most common and popular form of public transport, running different routes all over town based on wooden signs they have up on their dashboard. To work I take a 25, because I work in Area 25. I also catch a 25 home because all of them go from 25 to town, and make sure they know to let me “drop” in Area 47 Sector 3, where I live. They are all old, usually white VW vans, with bench seating that should fit about 8 or 9, but a typical bus ride will have up to 15 or 16 people crammed in, along with various sacks of food and/or live animals. There is a tiny aisle way to the left of the bench seats, where you have to crawl out over various people and objects. There is always one driver plus one attendant who calls out the window at people/takes your money/opens the door, etc.Most ‘buses’ are in extremely poor condition, with a sliding door that doesn’t close, crumbling roof, flat tires, etc, making them a complete liability. Every few days you hear of a terrible mini bus accident on some highway somewhere. Most times you also hear this comment, “The minibus was cruising”; the drivers are often very reckless. I get extremely panicky whenever I have the misfortune of getting the seat on the far right of the back bench. It is hard to get the attention of the attendant to let him know you have to get off, especially when you don’t speak Chichewa. Rides are always eventful. One morning I had to sit on a sack of live fish. One commute home the mini bus attendant had to sit on my lap. Awkward. During another trip recently my friend Margaret and I had a fairly deranged man sitting in front of us, showing us pictures of a much younger version of himself in army uniform, all the while blowing kisses at us. Also awkward. Probably the most memorable trip recently included about 12 people squished in alongside 3 goats who were forced to lie flat under the seats. Every few minutes one of the goats awoke from their state of shock to let out a terrified scream that would make your ears bleed. That day Margaret and I sat with our feet up on the seat in front of us, terrified that one of the goats, whose head was inches from our feet, would lash out and bite us.
Sometimes though, I get lucky. I wave down a bus and hop into the front seat, or get a bench seat closer to the front, where I can easily communicate with the attendant.Sometimes the seats will be comfortable, the ride will be smooth, and sometimes the nicer ones even have disc players that the drivers use to belt out reggae or American hip hop music. It’s amazing how comforting Akon can become when you’re far away from home.
As for work, the next few weeks are up in the air. As of right now, I am planning to make next week my last full week of work, and go in from Monday-Wednesday during the last week of November, to finish a few things up. I will end around the 25th. I hope by then I will be ready, I hope by then I will be comfortable with leaving, and I hope that I will feel content and satisfied with the work I was able to get done. To my disappointment, I came back to work this week to learn that no one completed the in-school sessions while I was off sick. I feel awful for missing a whole precious week with the girls. I was anticipating doing sessions this week on Assertiveness and Decision-Making, but it was cancelled due to exams. I think this will be the way of things from now on. So, I am throwing myself into designing more sessions, even though it is unlikely I will be presenting them. During my last few days, with the help of WUSC, I will print all the sessions and bind them together in a booklet to leave for my organization to use over and over with other schools. I am excited about leaving this lasting impression and I hope that my material will be useful for years to come. This was an idea that I came up with a couple weeks ago during a meeting with my supervisor and the WUSC country director. My supervisor said that they may also translate my book into Chichewa, so they can make copies and sell the material to other organizations, thus making the book an income-generating tool, which I’m also happy about.
On Monday I left work early because I was still feeling some effects of malaria, but I took a minibus into town before heading home, to pick up a few things at Shoprite. Shoprite is a huge grocery store where you can get basically anything you want, but at a price, I don’t shop there often. Because Lilongwe is landlocked, brand-name and ‘luxury’ items are expensive here; most products are imported from South Africa. Rumour has it when Shoprite opened a few years ago, Malawians wandered around the store with their eyes wide and their mouths open in amazement. I had a similar reaction when I entered the store this week… as soon as I walked in, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing and hearing: Christmas decorations up around every cash register, Christmas crackers and table-settings and fake Christmas trees for sale, Frosty the Snowman and Jingle Bell Rock playing over the sound system. I excitedly sent a text to my friends to tell them the news. “Is it really Christmas-time already?” I asked them. I guess this means I’ll be home soon after all.
