Hearts are bursting

It's all so beautiful and painful and bittersweet. It's all growing pains and pangs. 

I'm going to suck every drop out of this life, out of this Peace Corps experience.

One year

Hitching often manifests itself in a cycle of hating life and everything in your path to having faith in humanity restored, enhanced even. It's unpredictable, sometimes painful, (and occasionally sketchy) but mostly, it's representative of everything that Malawi prides itself on being: warm, giving without expectation, communal, caring, and all about the chatting. "Ah, ah!! Muyowya Chitumbuka?" Followed by bouts of laughter and language tests for the next few hours.. 

It's hands down my favorite thing in Malawi. Sure, the country is incredibly breathtakingly gorgeous, yeah the people are kind and communal and beautiful, and obviously the lake, it's all about that lake--but even the worst hitching experiences beat out most everything else for me. Because hitching is more than getting from point A. to point B. its about that good ol' fashioned human connection. It's about seeing the same route through new eyes and learning more about the country, and it's people. It's about swapping stories and cultural exchange. Its about me letting go, being in the moment and falling deeper and deeper down the rabbit hole--lost and in love with Malawi.

I think back to preservice training (PST) when I was terrified to hitchhike in a new country not knowing the language. (Plus, you know, you get hacked to pieces when you hitch, right?) I was so anxious about the experience I wanted to vomit. Still, when the time came, Emma and I jumped in the back of a rickety little pickup headed to Bua. Wind rushing through our hair, and beautiful scenery speeding past prompted a feeling of warmth that spread from my heart to my fingers and toes.  Freedom, infinity, peace..whatever it was, I stopped being afraid right then and there and started really seeing what this experience, this whole Malawi thing could really be for me.

Since my first time, it's been my preferred method of transport, not merely because minibuses are death traps that closely resemble my idea of hell--nor is it because it's fast and free, but because the human connection gained from these encounters transcends language barriers, cultural differences, everything. It's one of the few times that status, gender, and stereotypes seem to melt away and we're just left naked looking at and reveling in each other's humanity. Also there's tons of laughter, and I dig that.

That's why I was so tickled today on my ONE YEAR ANNIVERSARY IN MALAWI during my hour walk home from the trading center when I hitched a ride with a dreadfully nice man and a bunch of iwes on an ox cart. When I had to get off to continue my walk a little girl insisted on escorting me, taking my box and carrying it on her head until we reached her home. At that point, a man saw me trotting along and offered to bike taxi me home for free. 

That's just so Malawi, you know?

 If I could condense my year in Malawi into a series of moments, I'd choose tonight. And that's why I'm constantly swollen or oozing with gratitude and love here. People give without hesitation and kindness its not something that Malawians work on or aspire too, it's just how they live. Loving kindness, it's the singular answer to those deep dark questions we ask ourselves every day. 

Minus my time in PST when I seriously questioned whether I could hack it and whether I was, "hard enough," to live this lifestyle, I've never doubted my service. Sure, we all doubt our impact, and necessity as PCVs, but I've never truly wanted to leave or thought that I should leave Malawi. As soon as we got our homestay families and I moved in with my amayi I fell blindly and wholly for Malawi. And, as soon as I moved to Karonga and saw the opportunity and potential I've been hooked, addicted, conjoined, irrationally in love, whatever. Point is, my heart is here. And my passions? I'm living them.

Before I left for Peace Corps I had a weird break down (sort of spurred by a conversation about orange is the new black) and began to seriously doubt what I was doing. I was going against all my ideals, and for what? There was no way Peace Corps could be sustainable development, I was willingly working for the US government which is something I personally struggle with, and I was going to Africa, me and my anxious terrified little puppy of a self--the fuck? 

As I've been here, I've grown more and more impressed with Peace Corps and the potential of things that can be accomplished through it. I truly believe in what we're doing and the impact we can have. I fully intend to work my ass off and have no regrets when I leave. Unfortunately, I've watched many of my initially idealistic classmates begin with this perspective but have been reduced to a much more skeptical one. I think this is a testament to how challenging grassroots work can be and how disappointed and heart wrenching it is when our efforts and passion projects crash and burn.

And still, we rise again, because that's what Malawi has taught us. Every day, I'm a spectacle whether I'm buying tomatoes or sitting on my porch reading a book. I'm laughed at, judged, photographed, tested, harassed, an object of desire or class mobilization, I'm stereotyped, reduced to my skin, my gender, my nationality. Everyday I am disappointed by how Malawians see me or treat me and yet, every day I'm reminded of our underlying humanity and love that ties us all back together.

Whether or not it's your intention, Peace Corps Malawi breaks you down to your core and your very foundations. It makes you question and consider everything. It changes you. The test is really how you deal with all of this, can you build yourself back up, better, wiser, stronger than before, or do you rely on distractions to fill the gaps and become the mortar to your new self? 

And I guess that's it, really. Yeah, I'm doing work and yeah I'm proud of it--but if you're really interested to know what a year in Peace Corps Malawi looks like, for me it's a hell of a lot of self-growth and it's the relationships. 

The ugly truth

When coming from a westernized country so spectacularly talented at hiding uncomfortable truths from the public eye, it's shocking to encounter or especially to interact with ugliness both created by and naturally a part of the human race.

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. 

Solo

For as long as I can remember, even back in the days when I'd lay in the grass and convince myself I could feel the earth spin--way before it was age appropriate, I've been longing for my soul mate.

The life I planned when I was eight hasn't exactly panned out the way I'd envisioned.

 Next week I'll be 27, unmarried (and with absolutely no prospects on the horizon,) no children, no career or real career history, no drivers license, and unsure of my next step. Still getting acquainted with myself and this crazy thing we call life.

Please gentlemen, contain yourselves. 

Then there are these absolute truths: 

You can't control life or, anything 

It's about the ride not the destination

Good intention paves the road to hell

Blah blah blah...

Moral of the story is the same as it ever was, yeah? 

Live a good life, be intentional/mindful, work towards living your dreams, and react at all times with love.

 I'm working on these, especially the second and last part.. But how disappointing is it when we have seemingly the perfect plan that all turns to shit?

Peace Corps was never something I would have seriously considered even just a few years ago-- just as now,  I realize that children and parenthood aren't a real option for me. The one thing I'd never doubted, never considered was living a life without was "that person." 

Peace Corps has been a lot of things for me. I've been broken down to my very foundation and learned to build myself up again. It's been a practice in patience and love and really working towards understanding--it's stripped me of my overwhelming anxiety and fear. It's helped me get past a heartbreak and it's given me like-minded friends, advocates, activists, and people who challenge me into my finest state of becoming while also supporting me at the same time. Perhaps most unexpectedly, it's given me a respite from my history of serial monogamy. 

The people I've loved, or nearly loved have shaped and taught me everything-- except to fully realize and appreciate the beautiful singularity that is me. I can be radically happy and in love with life without experiencing romantic love. Maybe even more so. 

It's not that I've been afraid to be alone or that I haven't seen myself as a strong independent woman. It's just always been so easy for me to really, fully see you-- know you, and inevitably fall in love with you, and, you know, swoon.

This is the first time in my life I'm really considering what it means to go it alone, and it's appealing.

Being alone generally isn't a lonely thing for me. It's more like a spiritual revival.

Of course I'm not writing anything off, and of course I'd love to find someone who challenges me, and fits me spiritually, physically, emotionally, and encourages my passions. I'm just not sure I'd have to sleep with this person to feel fulfilled. Though, seems like a bonus.

I know most people come to this thought process when they're 16 and afraid they won't find a prom date, "maybe I'll end up alone." But it's honestly never something I considered before, especially in a positive light. 

It feels like a revelation.

The things they carried...

Notable things I've seen strapped to men's bike racks:

A squealing pig

A goat

A chicken(s)

A dead cow

Suitcases

A coffin

Pipes and metal roofing 5-7 feet long (clear the roads or you WILL get clothes lined.)

Huge bundles of firewood 3-5 feet high

Huge sacks of charcoal

Huge sacks of maize

People

Notable things I've seen women carry on their heads:

Huge bundles of firewood

Obviously, massive buckets full of:

    Fish

    Water

    Rice

A single flip flop

A single flip flop with a rock ontop 

A single bar of soap

Recently purchased veggies

A purse strap

The bag part of the purse

Coolers

A stack of bricks

School books

A water bottle

A large ax laying sideways 

A gardening hoe

Welcome to the village!

Rain on the hot tin roof

It's hot season.

On the lake shore, more specifically, in Karonga hot season is synomous with dehydration, early menopausal night sweats, chronically empty water filters,  Nalgene upon Nalgene, or just the simple and classic--brutal. 

I've never been one to mind the heat, but it's been interesting to live in a place where you can't escape it. No fans, air conditioning, or freezers into which one could stick his or her head (or his or her undergarments)--but hot damn we do love a nice cross breeze. 

Baby doll, Karonga is hot. 

But I like it.

There have, however been some rare summer days when the rain clouds roll in and the mirages and heat filled hallucinations die down, replaced by cool breezes, the unexpected splash of tiny drops through your shutterless windows, and the varying speeds of, "ting, ding, ding," of the rain hitting your roof.

I love the sound of rain on my hot tin roof. I could spend lifetimes of afternoons curled up with tea, a book, and the inconsistent splatter of a mid-hot-season rain storm.

If nothing else, its a hellofalot better than the damn birds clanging around up there.

The Pad Project

Many of you fine folks have asked what you can send me, here in Malawi and I finally have an answer (beyond chocolate, deodorant, and cheese..)

I have two girl's groups in my community as well as two youth groups that I'm working with, and many discussion topics and project ideas to tackle. One relatively easy, but possibly life changing project that I'd like to do with young women is the Pad Project.

The Pad Project is a sustainable and really effective way to keep girls and women active in school, their communities, reduces shame and stigma around menstruation, provides opportunity to educate about the female reproductive system, by teaching women how to make reusable, sustainable, pads.

This might not seem like a big deal, but commercial products are often too costly for women and girls in Malawi to buy, there is a lot of shame and privacy surrounding the topic of menstruation, and the inability to deal with menstruation  in a reliable way leads many girls to miss large amounts of school or drop out entirely. Having a simple, reusable pad can make all the difference.

If I can provide the resources, I can teach girls how to make their own pads, give them patterns, and they can use resources around them to make more pads and teach others. All of these materials can be found locally-- but on a peace corps budget I can't afford the volume of supplies that I need to support my projects.

The process is really simple. I have directions, patterns, and a sample pad that I've made. Here are the resources needed for the girls:

Needles

Thread

Scissors

Metal snaps (to button the pads onto underwater.)

Paper, (so I can make more patterns to give out.)

Absorbent fabric 

If you are interested in supporting this project please send any of the above resources, especially the metal snaps and sewing materials.

I will in turn send you photos of the girls that you've helped  and possibly some fan mail from Malawi! 

Thanks for supporting women, girls, education, my time here in Malawi, and international development!

My address:

Chilumba Rural Hospital 

PO box 131

Attn: Ame Burke Peace Corps

Chilumba, Karonga

Malawi

When reading the news becomes to heavy for your heart

There's this

A Rose By Any Other Name..

You may know me as Amy, Ame, Burke, or the bee's knees..

But in my beloved home district of Karonga, Chilumba city, and my overall area of "the  jetty," within the general village of Chifyu, though more specifically my area within Chifyu, Dambiro (yeah, took me about a hundred years to understand where the hell I live let alone explain it to others.) 

I'm known as the following:

Emily

Emmie

Annie

Emma

Ilana (my Peace Corps predecessor)

Naomi (also my predecessor)

Chikwegza (my village name--my land lady and essentially my village mother's surname.)

And most popularly of course, AZUNGU often followed by "give me peanut butter!"

Depending on my mood and perspective I find this lightheartedly delightful, or disheartening that people still don't "know" me. Either way, whenever I'm not being called azungu, my heart strings are tugged just a little by the knowledge that people are trying.

Grace period

So, my 3 months of "site lock down, go make friends, integrate, assess my community's needs, come up with some rockin' project ideas, identify people to work with, and try my damnedest to figure out Malawi" are officially over. IST, (Peace Corps training,) wraps up our generous 3ish month grace period of no expectations and suddenly demands qualitative results and concrete work efforts.

Welp, I am intimitated. 

It's no secret nor will it come as a surprise that many Peace corps projects fail. Hard. 

Crash and burn, baby. 

And while I'm sure that is incredibly frustrating, and will be slightly embarrassing, I don't find failure particularly scary. There is so much I still don't understand culturally, which will lead to the success or downfall of my efforts. There's so much to learn about need, and priority--and honestly I expect I'll fail a few times, and I've already accepted that. 

It's also not about looking or feeling stupid or out of place, (that's my everyday life as an azungu in Malawi) or even unsuccessful.. It's something about initiating projects in my community that scares me. 

It's like I recognize all of this incredible potential and this seemingly infinite possibility in Malawi and my immediate community but I am my own mental and physical roadblock in achieving successful development work. It's about finding a starting point, diving in, making real change. Faking it until we are making it, as they say; but, Im suddenly feeling unskilled and unprepared to lead. It scares the hell out of me. 

In PST I learned that all of the things I was scared of or anxious about were totally attainable, or not so bad. (Not even the man eating spiders or inevitable diarrhea) So, I know that I am capable, I know I'm strong. I don't know why jumping full force into this whole Peace Corps thing is wigging me out.

I guess for the first time in my life I'm  doing something that I really believe in, and something that I feel really matters and it's all completely self-initiated. What I make of my time and my service is all on me.. And it all starts now.