In this way, beyond lack of infrastructure, differing GDPs, and cultural barriers--this is perhaps the starkest difference between Malawi and the US. In America we hide all those uncouth things away. We don't really understand factory farming and it's impact because we never see them. We don't see where our garbage goes--we only know that the nice men in coveralls take it away from our curbs each week in their large stinky trucks. When people die their bodies are taken away, refrigerated, injected, preserved, or burned. It's all very hygienic.
I think the first shock in coming to Malawi was trying to deal with my own personal garbage. No metaphor intended. Malawi is the most beautiful place I've ever seen. Tropical plants and climate, fruit trees everywhere, waterfalls--basically imagine a (very hot) paradise and you're there. Juxtaposed to all that natural beauty is trash, especially in trading centers and market places, trash lines the street. Sure, people dig pits in which to throw this junk and...often they'll burn it. Otherwise there is no way to deal with trash. No environmentally friendly option or country wide initiative, just a whole lot of garbage accumulating.
After being in country for 10 months I'm still embarrassed and ashamed to throw a wrapper or empty bottle on the ground. I actually have to hype myself up before littering. Though most of my garbage goes into my chim or (pit latrine). While Malawi is certainly not America and does not have as many individually wrapped items, containers, or bags, it still blows my mind that with so many people, there is no solution to the trash we produce and so poorly dispose of.
The second thing that struck me, hard were disabilities, both physical and mental. While in America it is incredibly cringe worthy to refer to any part of a disability as "ugly" and not a politically correct term with a hint of kindness, you must admit that acknowledging disability can still make the most empathetic of us slightly uncomfortable. It's a hard and controversial truth. We know this is not defining of personhood or "whole ness." We want to treat everyone with dignity, respect and appeal to their best selves but we can feel awkward in knowing what is okay to talk about and what's not--do we pretend never to notice and not talk about it or do we speak freely? What is taboo and what is honesty? In Malawi these challenges don't exist. Physical disability is evident and constant. There is little hope of altering your body or it's capabilities. It is not ignored but often talked about. There are rumors of causes: witchcraft caused his bum leg or he went mad from smoking weed.
My next statement will go against this, which I believe to be utterly true, Malawians are the friendliest, kindest people I've ever met--hence the nickname, "the warm heart of Africa," however, I have seen few empathetic responses to "mad men and women" or mental illness from Malawians. I'm not sure if people believe that disabilities are warranted because someone smoked himself into a stupor, or because they were cursed--but more often than not, those with disabilities are mocked, treated with distain, anger, or cruel actions. It's incredibly hard to watch and sometimes even harder to talk to Malawians about. This has been my experience and could be limited to my area, not universally a Malawian thing. But, mental illness, is not something that Malawians know much about. It's not taught nor discussed outside of small medical pockets. It's something that has become hard to witness and to try to discuss/ explain with Malawians.
Lastly, the most gut wrenching and uncomfortable bag of worms (pun intended) is dealing with death. I have never been so close to so much death in my entire life. It started with the kitten my homestay family gave me to take to site. He was so sweet and sick. He lasted one night. Though, it really started before that, when the little girl a few villages over died of malaria, and that man was brutally killed by mob justice--and then that funeral in Chinkombwe.
A mild beginning to what would turn out to be a frequent occurrence. I've heard stories of volunteers riding on minibuses which have hit and killed children, I've seen a cow get hit by a bus and literally get slaughtered on the side of the road as the iwes played in the bloody grass, I've been to double funerals where bodies were kept inside houses in the sweltering heat for a few days before put on display for a viewing, I've heard the stories of tying dead bodies to live motorcyclists in order to get them to the hospitals in time, I understand what it means for parents to wait too long to diagnose and treat malaria and to watch a little girl slowly dying next to you, I've been around as bodies of fishermen or drunk swimmers wash up waterlogged on the lake shore; I've heard stories of volunteers walking into the aftermath of traffic accidents, surgeries, even amputations at their local health centers, I know what it smells like to unknowingly breathe in mortuary remains and complain about how bad the burning trash in Lilongwe smells, and I absolutely get the shivers when I hear the wailing women in my village announcing the death of yet another community member, calling us all together to mourn.
Death is much more apparent here, nothing is hidden away, especially not the grieving process or body, despite it's state of decay.
It's so different living in a place where you are sheltered from nothing. Life, death, and our choices, are blatant. Our impact on the land and the world makes so much visual sense here. There's no place for denial. Like the intense Karonga heat, there's no escaping ourselves.
