Malaria

“No animal on earth has touched so profoundly the lives of so many human beings. She has been a nuisance, pain and angel of death. Mosquitoes have felled great leaders, decimated armies, and decided the fate of nations. All this and she is roughly the size and weight of a grape seed.” --Andrew Spielman, Mosquito

Ahhh, Mosquitos. 

I've never thought much about them in the states--in fact they'd only ever registered as a minor annoyance, forcing me to donate blood and leaving behind itchy reminders of our brief encounters. The bastards. Even coming to Malawi, I knew that their bite could potentially be life threatening but I clung to my mosquito net, bug spray, and prophalyxis feeling safe and invincible. Can't get to me Ms.Mosquito-- I'm playing for keeps. It was even joke among my friends back home who knew how often I tend to get bitten by mosquitos. "There's no way you're coming home without getting malaria!" And I'd agree, laughing.

And so, I went through my first few weeks in homestay unaffected and unphased by p. falciparum until my baby brother was bitten. He developed malaria and became incredibly ill, incredibly fast. I watched this healthy baby go from smiley and playful to a sick wreck in a matter of a day. Luckily, my family was well educated on the symptoms of malaria, what happens when it is left untreated, and had a few kwacha to scrape together. They hired a bike taxi to take him to the health center the next day, he returned with medicine and was just fine.

However, that is not necessarily the norm. Within the span of that week, a little girl two villages over died from a case of untreated malaria. I couldn't help repeating in my mind over and over again.. "What a waste. What a tragedy. How easily that could have been avoided.." In the matter of that one week, malaria left the realm of abstract and morphed into a constant and tangible presence for me and my life in Malawi. Ever since, I've been obsessed with talking to the community about malaria. I want to understand why people don't take it seriously, why some choose to use their nets for other purposes, why some seek out treatment and others don't--and it's all fascinating. It's a mixed bag of cultural practices, needs and survival, myths versus information, and a sense of invincibility. While I have no doubt those two instances led me and my work on a path towards malaria education and prevention techniques in the community, digging further into the minds of my friends and neighbors has ignited the passion to be an activist for bed nets and early treatment. 

Soon after I got to my site in Karonga, I attended a mini-malaria Bootcamp learning more and more about malaria in general and more specifically in Malawi. After that, I was chosen to go to Senegal to work internationally with the Peace Corps Africa community on malaria from a Grassroots level. I was incredibly lucky to pair something I'd become passionate about into my every day work. I've been lucky enough to find people who want to go out into the communities with me--educating  and exciting everyone about malaria prevention and treatment. 

April 25th was World Malaria Day and it was my deepest hope and desire was to bring awareness to my and surrounding communities about malaria. I invited four other volunteers as well as myself to hold an event where we'd spread our knowledge and passion in a variety of ways. Luckily for me, my friend and fellow PCV made a video of it:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0DBb0Ph-T3g

And while I'd like to say that my presence here in Karonga has made a huge difference in how people see and treat malaria.. The impact is small, but growing. I still see people using bed nets to fish or ward off goats from their gardens, and I talk to adults and children every week who suspect they have malaria but haven't gone to the health center to be tested. And so, is the reality of grassroots work. Making connections, having conversations, reminding people howimportant  their health is--not only to them, but to their families. It's remembering that I'm working within a framework and culture that is not my own, and that I need to understand the multitude of layers surrounding each circumstance and situation. It's remembering to react with kindness at all times and not act as if I have all the answers.  I'm learning too, every single day, every single interaction. 

But I do know that malaria is both preventable and treatable--a child dying every 60 seconds from malaria, is a completely avoidable tragedy. Even if you're not living in Africa, able to donate to programs, or actively make a change, talking about and learning about malaria and how it still affects so much of the world is valuable to all of us. I'm not going to go on my normal speal telling you all about anopheles mosquitoes, or throwing statistics in your face, that's not why you read this (assuming anyone is reading this.) I just want to remind the world that here in Africa, real people are facing real issues that aren't too big and massive and overwhelming to be fixed. We're working through them, pachoko, pachoko..

I just want to remind you that unity and solidarity across the continents, oceans or any invisible barriers we create for ourselves are worth a damn.

Azungu

I've been putting this post off for what seems like my whole (Peace Corps) life, but I keep coming back to it in hopes to break it down, process it. I know how incredibly sensitive this subject is, and how problematic some of the things that I'm thinking and feeling are. I know that as a white person, tackling racism or anything within that spectrum from the other side seems inherently wrong or unauthentic. Its tricky.

How are my experiences legitimate if I'm making a conscious choice to live this life? I'm not a victim of structural injustice. I'm not living with the burden and history of cultural and racial discrimination heavy on my back. My experiences here are a mixture of severe privilege as well as being singled or exploited because of my skin. So I know this is loaded, its complicated, its almost taboo--but my disclaimer is that I'm trying to be thoughtful about this experience in terms of my own life while understanding that I'm not speaking on behalf of any other person or group of people who experiences any type of discrimination. I'm just trying to feel it out, figure it out.

So, here I am. I'm finally going to bite the bullet and write a little about what its meant for me to be white in Malawi.


Walking around my village, and areas where I live and hearing the word, "azungu" immediately hardens my heart and toughens my hide. Depending on the circumstance, the anger causes my hair to prickle. I have, it seems, developed a literal physical reaction to that term. Azungu.

White person.
Stranger.
Outsider.
One with money.
One who has come to give me things.
One who will take me to America.

Okay, so only the first three are legitimate translations, but the others are held beliefs

I don't always despise this term but there comes times when it breaks you down. It breaks your heart a little that the people who know you deny you a name and an identity.

My skin is my permanent, irreversible stranger status. 

There's the correcting the same iwes over and over, "Don't call me azungu, I have a name, its Amy;" but, when an adult refers to me as azungu, that's when the  boiling-blood-achy-breaky-heart-action kicks in. Lady, I don't know your name but I'm certainly not calling you, "black person."

While I say all this, azungu is not an inherently insulting term. In many contexts, its perfectly fine, even the correct term, and thus not anger inducing. Therefore correcting someone can be an art, and their reactions unexpectedly fall on either side of the spectrum. They either tend to laugh, heartedly, and in my face--or be embarrassed. Referring to me in passing to someone else as an azungu is fine (if I'm out of earshot) but to address me as such is plainly rude. The distinction though flimsy, is tolerable. 

Honestly though, it all seems problematic to me. When you're constantly reduced to your skin, your perceived wealth, and status-- it beats you down. It is to have your identity wiped and instead a superimposed Malawian stereotype of a rich American here to give hand outs and live the bwana lifestyle. 

Being called azungu is the obvious, in your face admission of, "you are different and I'm acknowledging it." Its taken eight months for the term to get under my skin, and while I'm happy that I've been such a cool cucumber up until now-- it's also embarrassing. Man, there's no way I could make it as a black woman in the states, huh? I'd have it much worse, on a consistent basis, with no escape, with no choice in the matter, trapped in a characterization of an identity very visible to all and completely inescapable. This experience, however will fade back into a minor annoyance when I'm back in the states and  part of "the majority"--and eventually in the future might even be something that I'd laugh at myself for, "Wow, how frustrated I used to get. I used to lose my shit over that." 

But hell, I can't deny that I've got an escape route that many people would kill for.

Lets talk about entitlement. You know, that golden reason children and parents resent each other until the offspring reach their years of independence. That rhetoric-ridden battle cry of white male US senators everywhere. Or, more simply put, the American way. If there was one thing I was not expecting when I came to Malawi, one of the least developed countries in Africa, and the world, it was a strong sense of entitlement.

Holy hell, was I wrong.

Malawi has an unreal sense of entitlement. How is this possible, you ask, in a nation of unprivileged people, with no money, with no industry, no big plans of improvement or future momentum? 

Malawi's entitlement comes from yours truly. The USA and other western influence from years and years and years of charity, missions work--no sustainable development--but a metric shit ton of handouts. Malawi is the poster child for, "development done wrong." 

It has created the understanding that white people are rich. Especially Americans, super rich and that outside influences are the only real way to get lotsa money. Outside influences make the decisions, thus taking away the autonomy of Malawians to make critical decisions for their own futures. The complicated histories of colonialism in Africa and especially of the missions work has led to Malawians looking at white people as a business transaction. "This person has money, resources, the citizenship I want, and the leverage I need." Therefore it's not at all surprising that I get asked for things constantly. (And usually within the first few minutes of chatting.) and sometimes it's less sinister and more along the lines of, "I want you or someone like you to come work in my school." Or, "I've always wanted to marry a white person." And the classic, "We know you people have..."

Lately, I've gone through a period where I've felt constantly on guard, hardened, even more distrusting, and just plain exhausted in my interactions with Malawians. You name it, they want it. And for the record, it's honest to goodness out of need, and because of our shared shitty developmental history. So, there is literally no shame, nor is it seen as inappropriate to ask me for anything.. All the things. It's also a cultural practice to share basically everything, almost without question. (And so without shared resources, it looks like PCVs and other expats are hoarding treasure troves from their communities.) Can't even tell you how many iwes I've run into who don't know a lick of English except for what their parents have taught them, "Azungu, give me money." The joke is, that we had a large hand in creating this mess and further exesperate it..

This has resulted in things being stolen from in or around my house multiple times. It's the reason I'm overcharged for everything, and it's why people want to chat with me, be friends with me, or be around me at all. It creates really complicated feelings within me because I understand where it stems from, I get the sense of need and urgency and how my existence looks like a band aid or cure all. I know that I am very well off comparatively and that this is ultimately teaching me generosity, patience, and empathy in ways I'd never anticipated. But I get angry, I feel shitty, I become rude, or short, or aggressive in every day interactions with Malawians. Just because I understand it, doesn't make it tolerable--doesn't make it okay. 

When you lose your tourist status and become an expat doing her damnedest to integrate, you tend to have intensely troubled feelings towards white people who are just passing through. I generally avoid or have to mentally prep when going to places that white people (who arent PCVs or other expats) frequent. The challenges arise when they perpetuate stereotypes of ignorance, wealth, inability to care about language, culture, customs--it's the short shorts, it's the safaris and the tourist mindframe--those willing to pay $20 for a "village walk" or someone who openly and loudly scoffs at the notion of eating village food. Its the use of phrases like, "those indeginious people," it's the unknowingly paying 3x the actual cost thus jacking the price for all other white people, and it's the waving around of expensive purchases and electronics as if trying to flag down a rescue flight. It's being embarrassed, feeling as though these faces are a mirror held up to my own and knowing that a few short years ago this would have been me. It's telling and painful and it makes me wish I could shed my skin and start anew with no stereotype to fight and or live up to.

I'm not saying that anyone should move to a new country and give up their sense of identity or culture to integrate; instead, I am saying that cultural exchange can be done well, respectfully and in ways that will be better received.

 Being white, especially here, means a lot of things. One of the most undeniable is privilege. Privilege for days. Seriously, anyone who doesn't understand or believe in white privilege should come and live in Malawi for 2 months. Afterward, even the most conservative disbeliever would become a well-versed expert. 

It's just one of those disgusting concepts that rears it's head as an imbalance of power, whether realized or not. It's a hard truth to admit to yourself, especially when you realize that you've just participated in an act that was privileged. But it's a part of life here and something very few, if any people push back against. It's the reason people will give me their best product and maprizeys when selling me something, I get the best seat in the minibus, people will pick me up when I'm hitching but leave Malawians along the side of the road, I get the best portion or piece of food when eating with Malawian families, or people want to hear me speak at events, be their friend, give me gifts...etc. Sometimes, when it's someone you're friends with, you can confuse privilege with appreciation and it become dangerous ground. In admist all the shit we go through regularly, it's can be hella hard to push back against things that are nice and feel like little luxuries. But god, having that discussion with Malawians? Its so necessary.

My life as a PCV in Malawi is a weird combination of being privileged and taken advantage of. The goal is the grey area.. The land of integration where your neighbors and friends understand you. Who you are, why you're here, what you're doing--and real relationships develop without a sense of wanting a thing from each other other than honest to goodness human connection. 

If this doesn't happen, you're destined to live in a world of extremes. Here are some of mine that I've encountered a time or two (times a thousand) more than I'd like to admit:

-Men admitting to wanting to have sex with a white girl "just once" 

-Marriage proposals and admissions of love constantly

-Everything is exorbitantly priced. "Azungu Mtengo"

-"Madam, what the difference is between me and you?"

-"I will come over tomorrow and you will teach me English"

-Malawian friends wanting to leave their wives for me

-"You will marry me then carry me to America."

-Countless blanket statements about the whites, Americans, and Malawians--and those ever confusing, elusive, sometimes fake "Black Americans"

-"I want you to be my friend."

-"Give me: money, books, pens, toys, candy, clothes, peanut butter.. (You name it...)

And many, many more experiences.

It's hard because good, solid, real relationships are what make me whole. They're everything to me. Sometimes its really challenging feeling like I can't make authentic relationships with Malawians  because I'm being sought out for mobility  or utility and not as one human being to another. More than anything in my life here, this is my struggle.. But

All of this comes down to one thing,

Choice.

I have a choice, to be here, to spend my time and live my life as I will. I have a choice in my future, who to marry, when to marry, to have children or not, to pursue further education or not. I choose how to live, where to live, how to spend my money. 

I get choose my future because I have the resources and opportunity to do so. All I see looking around Malawi is the inability to choose. Circumstance, poverty, and hardship are kings here. And so people are resigned to their fates. 

All of this is undeniably linked with privilege.. But I can't help but be thankful for being able to be here. To better see inequity and better understand the roots of poverty and really see and understand what privilege means. I've always been sort of lucky, and now I understand what that means on a global scale. I'd like to spend my life working in a way that lessens that injustice, if only a little.

Baltimore

Tonight, I'm half a world away from home, sitting by myself in the dark, trying to untangle the jumble of emotions in my gut, feelings of sadness, hot tears of anger, and mostly an overwhelming feeling of helplessness. I'm mourning the deep wounds of one of the great loves of my life. My city, Baltimore. 

For years Bmore has been keeping it together but hanging by threads in the face of tense race relations, poverty, police brutality, lack of jobs, drug issues, and general lack of equity. So many fates exist within Baltimore, so many lives and roles to be played out--two streets away from the some of the wealthiest residents are condemned lots, boarded up row homes as far as the eye can see. Living in Baltimore, along with being the best year of my life, opened my eyes to the world, to unjust police surveillance, cavalier attitudes about homelessness and harassment, violence, so many unnecessary deaths, and literal lines drawn in the street separating black from white, poor from the rich, those with a future and those who would die years before their time.

It's no surprise to me that in a time where people are finally fighting back, those who have been oppressed their entire lives are coming together, finding their voices, and fighting structural injustice that Baltimore has found it's place in this war. Yes, it's violent. It's scary, and it's a consuming type of wildfire--the kind that spreads and hopefully creates revolution. The kind that works to change this heinous bullshit we call justice at it's very core. But god, what I can't understand is how we're surprised that this is happening again. Have we forgotten Trevyon so soon? What about Ferguson? How about the thousands of other black bodies broken and battered by our justice system? Did we truly not anticipate this outcry after the police broke the spine of a young black man who only ostensibly committed the crime of being a young black man? 

I can't believe I'm not there. I can't believe I'm not closer. I can't believe that all I can do is read about it on the news and post articles on Facebook. I can't believe I can't be there for my city, my people, protesting in solidarity. I can't pretend that I didn't spend a better part of the afternoon looking up plane tickets and riding a rollercoaster of emotion. 

I believe in a need for protest, I believe in change. I don't support or endorse violence, but I understand why it's happening. What I can't stomach is all the racist things I'm seeing on social media in response to these events. How do we not recognize that we're perpetuating all of the things that this protest is fighting against? How do we not care? 

When did our disgust for property damage override our disgust for massive injustice. Why aren't we all standing together right now?

http://m.dailykos.com/story/2015/04/28/1380944/-The-Dominant-White-Response-to-Baltimore-Shows-Why-Black-Residents-are-Justified-in-their-Anger?detail=facebook_sf

http://www.forbes.com/sites/dandiamond/2015/04/28/why-baltimore-burned/

http://www.theatlantic.com/politics/archive/2015/04/nonviolence-as-compliance/391640/

http://www.theatlantic.com/politics/archive/2015/04/the-paradox-at-the-heart-of-police-brutality-protests/391637/?utm_source=SFTwitter

http://www.theguardian.com/us-news/video/2015/apr/28/baltimore-riots-police-justice-video

http://www.buzzfeed.com/adamserwer/black-leadership-in-baltimore

http://www.bbc.com/news/blogs-trending-32497921

http://www.washingtonpost.com/posteverything/wp/2015/04/29/why-is-america-celebrating-the-beating-of-a-black-child/?tid=sm_fb

http://www.buzzfeed.com/ryanhatesthis/another-side-of-the-baltimore-riots?bffb&utm_term=4ldqpho#4ldqpho

http://www.colorlines.com/articles/thugs-students-rioters-fans-medias-subtle-racism-unrest-coverage

http://www.npr.org/2015/04/28/402761088/-aint-no-way-you-can-sit-here-and-be-silent?utm_source=facebook.com&utm_medium=social&utm_campaign=npr&utm_term=nprnews&utm_content=20150428

http://everydayfeminism.com/2015/04/what-white-folks-need-to-know-about-baltimoreuprising/

 http://ftw.usatoday.com/2015/04/orioles-john-angelos-baltimore-protests-mlb?utm_content=buffer01307&utm_medium=social&utm_source=facebook.com&utm_campaign=buffer

https://www.jacobinmag.com/2015/04/baltimore-freddie-gray-unrest-protests/

http://socialistworker.org/2015/04/27/in-the-streets-for-freddie

 https://radfag.wordpress.com/2015/04/26/in-support-of-baltimore-or-smashing-police-cars-is-logical-political-strategy/

http://www.salon.com/2015/04/28/baltimores_violent_protesters_are_right_smashing_police_cars_is_a_legitimate_political_strategy/?utm_source=facebook&utm_medium=socialflow 

http://www.alternet.org/economy/ten-shocking-facts-about-baltimore#.VUEQe6gPjuE.facebook

That's something.

Sometimes I'm completely unfulfilled by my life here and little by little I sink into a of profound sense of failure, emptiness, and sadness which is not easily mitigated. Unknowingly, it creeps up me, unpleasantly surprising me, like running into an old classmate in the supermarket. Maybe it's because I'm not actively nourishing my soul through all the beautiful and meaningful things I deeply love. (like spirituality, art, exploration.. etc.) Or, possibly it's the utter lack of stimulation here, instead stagnation grows filling the cracks in my foundation like weeds in concrete. I know, I deeply miss my family and relationships back home. But more than anything, it's due to unmet expectations I've created for myself. It's because my mind is cradling lost moments in time both mourning and delighting in their passing; or it is tangled up, aching from failed romance--or likely, I am creating countless scenarios for my future. 

It's because I'm not present.

At this point in my life, I know that I am capable. I'm strong and I can survive most any circumstance--I can go without, and I enjoy living simply. I have little to fear in terms of making it out there as an adult. I'll get a job, I'll live and breathe. I'll buy groceries and I'll cook. I'll have friends and an apartment. The problem is that I don't understand my place; I don't really see where and how I can fit into this world. I don't exactly see a future vision of the me operating within the world that makes me happy. I've given myself time and I've given myself opportunities, (and all I have to show for it is this lousy blog post.)

I've always lived sort of unconventionally and actually, I'm incredibly proud of my life and my choices. I've really worked to live and experience life this way, and I'm damn thankful for all of it, but I still feel like I'm wandering and sometimes, floundering. 

I know it takes time, or being at the right place at the right time, or good networking skills, or a strong sense of direction, or maybe a dash of magic and luck, or hell, even nepotism to live in a way that's aligned with your passions, values, and makes you happy. 

Most times, I'm totally there, and I know how lucky I am to live in this place at this time. I know im living out my passions and I'm in love with life, but sometimes when I look to the future, I'm completely lost. 

I miss stability, but it's too confining. I miss being deep in the throws of romantic love but, it's all encompassing. I love and appreciate the journey, but ultimately, I am worried it might amount to nothing. 

But if nothing else. While I suffer through the not knowing, feeling like I'm not making an impact, failures, figuring my shit out, I've got this view. 

That's something.

PCV Identity Crisis

Hands down, the best advice I've gotten about being a Peace Corps volunteer are the following words of wisdom:

Define what you want your service to be about.

&

Don't compare yourself or your service to anyone else's.

Simple enough in theory.  But then, sometimes you have a best friend in country who is just killing it--implementing amazing projects from all angles and successfully doing sustainable development work (I'm looking at you Rebecca Burleson..) and you can feel a little inferior. 

I've found myself thinking, "am I doing this Peace Corps thing right?" Too many times to count. It can be in relation to work, travel, relationships here--whatever the case, it's always when I'm comparing myself and my service to another volunteer's experience; and it's always a little damaging. We have a vast range of experiences here, and while they differ dramatically, for better or for worse, they are all valid. This is especially hard when comparing elements of life that you're struggling with to something that a fellow PCV is conquering like a champ. 

Service is also a rollercoaster of high and low points, Peace Corps acknowledges this and has a chart that indicates the likely peaks and valleys of one's service. They anticipate our moments of depression and despair and our elation and honeymoon affairs with Malawi so accurately, it's a little unnerving. 

And it all takes time. I'm a year into my service and I've only recently and concretely figured out what I'm doing here, redefining my service once again. The things I'd initially prided myself on, or told myself they'd be a priority.. Well, some of them panned out, some of them didn't. And that's really the name of the game here: everything is complicated and challenging, projects fail, friends and counterparts move away, people are unmotivated and unreliable--and yet we are still capable of greatness and real, tangible change. This isn't a two year vacation where I'm off traveling, smoking weed, and finding myself--it's a life I've committed to, it's an innate promise I've given my community, and a promise I've made to myself.

People are confused about what I do here and, that's fair. My blog has really been a forum for me to talk about all of the things that PC has meant to me and done for me. My Facebook isn't wholly representative of my life or my work either. (I find it undignified to take pictures of people going about their lives here just as much as I hate people snapping photos of me because I'm alive and breathing or buying tomatoes.) And then, there's that pesky definition of "work" itself. Everything here is work, cultural exchange, etc. It's a tiny bit intimidating to explain to a bunch of fellow Americans what work is here versus work in the good ole U S of A.

But, let me break it down a little, my scope of work has recently shifted dramatically from village level to national level. This means instead of just working locally in my village, in my health center, etc. I'm now doing bigger picture work for Peace Corps and PCVs. 

Currently I am malaria girl! I am part of the M-SWAG team (Malawi, stomping where anopheles gather). I'm actually the northern regional coordinator for all things malaria. My role is to be a catalyst for other PCVs to do malaria work-- and to support them best I can with resources, technical knowledge, etc and report all the work in my area. I recently went to Senegal, West Africa for a malaria Bootcamp. Here I gained a more in depth understanding of malaria related issues in country and tons of project ideas for malaria prevention within my community. It was amazing, (both the country and the Bootcamp) and I gained a lot from it. It's made me seriously consider pursuing malaria work in the future. I also have some ongoing village malaria projects--some training programs in schools and in the community and a project where I go into homes and make sure people are using nets correctly, take pictures of them to post at the local health center, and do community demonstrations with songs, books, and lots of laughter. (Both are more fun and effective than they sound.) 

I'm also coordinating a camp for female empowerment. We pull 66 girls from around the country to participate in Camp Glow as campers, as well as some junior counselors. Here we talk about sexual health, career planning and goal setting, let them express themselves freely, teaching them to use computers (for some this is the first and last time they will ever touch a computer in their lives) we take them to the embassy, have them meet role models and bad ass Malawian women who have accomplished great things, do the pad project, have a forum where they ask men questions, talk about sex, pleasure, masturbation--and we cover gender based violence, rape, and gender disparities. This is an incredible camp that offers something that most girls in Malawi will never have--comraderie with other young empowered girls, a place to ask questions and talk about taboos, it also gives them a sense of freedom and power they might never experience again. It's an incredible experience, something I'm stoked to be a part of, and more than anything--a hell of a lot of work.

Lastly, I helped create and form the Gender Committee and our main task is to help train staff and PCVs for encountering and dealing with gender disparities in Malawi. We are also compiling a comprehensive list of laws and safe places to send those encountering rape and GBV in Malawi. As well as a bunch of other things.

The pull between wanting to do work directly in my community and doing less tangible and explainable work in the capital has created an internal struggle for me. This is not at all what I envisioned my service to look like, and it's very different from my peers.. But it's also enabling me to do and be a part of everything I've wanted in country. 

I still have a bunch of projects in my community that relate to youth, gender, and malaria-- but my focus is wandering to the bigger picture and settling in the realms of change and support. 

And so, I try to remind myself that everyone has their own paths, work differs  greatly here for everyone, and that what I'm doing is valuable. I try to remind myself that this is my choice and it's a good one for me!  And I try to focus on what I can do in my own context.. This place, this time, and with my own limited resources. 

After all, we can't all be Beccy's of the world.;)  And I'm just okay with that!! 

Disclaimer: We have a ton of PCV all-stars and I highly respect and  only slightly envy them all for the amazing work they're able to accomplish in their time here.

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!