Ethiopian Food

I was excited to go out for Ethiopian food with the McCauleys and a bunch of their friends. I wasn't sure what to expect, and what I got wasn't what I expected.

This was another meal eaten with the hands - only this time, instead of white maize sema, it was a sour flatbread called injera. It was an off-brown/grey in color, and smelled a bit like vinegar. Injera is made of fermented teff flour - teff is actually some kind of annual grass which grows in Ethiopia. The flour is made into something that looks like a thick kind of crepe, then rolled and cut in half for serving. You then get a bunch of different accompaniments, to eat with the injera - both mild and spicy. There was a spicy lentil dish, a fried beef and pepper dish, a chicken and egg stew, homemade cottage cheese, and a few sauces. Not bad, although I prefer the bland taste of sema to the acrid taste of the injera.

Here's Miriam, in purple, and a friend, as we were getting started:

The Return of HappyGeorge

"Hey! You from Canada?"

I was walking towards the Game store (kind of a South African Walmart, the newest shopping destination in Lilongwe - and home to the 500 kwatcha giant Cadbury chocolate bar), when a young man interrupted me.

"I remember you!" I regarded the interloper cautiously. This kind of greeting generally turns into some sort of solicitation for money.

"From near Korea Hotel. You remember my name?"

I shook my head, wondering what he was selling.

"HappyGeorge? You remember me?"

Of course I did! I had bought four bracelets from HappyGeorge, and written a blog about him. And here he was again!

I wish I could say I was happy to see him - but I was too intent on figuring out how to avoid further financial damage while under his spell.

"Because we're friends, I made you a present. No cost, just a present. A painting of my village, for you. A present."

One thousand kwatchas later, I owned a new painting and a fifth bracelet.

You can see why George is Happy.

I got verbal permission for his photo to be uploaded on the Internet, so here he is:

As we were completing our transaction, another young man showed up and began to put out some paintings. A store security guard ambled over to see what was happening, then wandered off after HappyGeorge said something to him.

Five thousand kwatchas later, I owned a second new painting and three gift cards.

That transaction went down with the assistance of HappyGeorge, who appeared to be representing both myself, the buyer, (his friend) and the other guy, the seller (coincidentally, also his friend). At the end of it all, I think HappyGeorge walked away with a commission of some kind - and two new friends.

Off to the Lake

The Lake, in this case, is Lake Malawi - and I have heard that it is quite majestic. Interesting facts about Lake Malawi:

1. It is the second deepest lake in Africa.
2. It is home to more species of fish than any other body of water on Earth; many are cichlids.
3. I have personally eaten one species of Lake Malawi so far - a dish which included banana and garlic, as well as Some Kind of \Unspecified Lake Fish.
4. David Livingston, I presume, was the first European to discover this lake, in 1859, and named it Lake Nyasa.
5. Lake Malawi is also home to snails which carry a parasite called bilharzia. You can read more about it here. Having already provided a home for more parasites than I care to think of, I am hoping that it is not so hot that I have to break down and swim. The idea of tiny male and female parasites setting up shop in my liver and engaging in an endless series of carnal "free love" sessions, is enough to put me off swimming. There is a one shot medication, but just knowing that my liver is, even temporarily, a breeding ground for bilharzia babies, freaks me out. At least this is one pest I can avoid.

I expect to be incommunicado during the days I am at the lake - until Saturday. Hopefully I will come back rejuvenated, not infected, and with lots of pictures!

Peppermints

The McCauley's daughter, Miriam, who spent the week stranded in England, after Heathrow airport shutdown last weekend, finally made it home on Christmas Eve. I joined the McCauleys and a few other ex-pat guests for candy-making and baking, followed by tacos last night.

Although, like me, Miriam isn't Dutch, she attends Dordt College, and now goes to a Christian Reformed Church. (She also happens to be friends with one of my pastor's six daughters - small world I tell you!). We were telling our dinner companions of that amusing CRC habit - as soon as the sermon begins, everyone breaks out the Wilhemina mints. No one had heard of such a thing before - not the McCauleys, or Mike and Colleen, a Canadian couple from BC who are working on a food relief project in Lilongwe.

I'm not sure of the origin of this sacrosanct custom, although it does make me wonder - were mints historically used as a form of crowd control during extended sermonizing?

Invariably, as Miriam explained to the rest of the group, as soon as the pastor starts talking, "You can hear the rustle of packages of candies and mints being opened."
This morning, most of the group reassembled at the McCauley's home church, which is an international Baptist church, for a Christmas morning service.

Imagine our delight when, as the sermon was beginning, Mike pulled out a handful of - Lifesaver mints!

Ere zij God

It occurred to me, Christmas morning, that in addition to using Skype to talk to my family and friends, I could use it to dial in to hear the Christmas service at my church, Grace Christian Reformed Church in Chatham. I was pretty excited about this - as the Christmas service is the only one in which I can hear my church family singing in Dutch. Every Christmas, we sing "Ere zij God" and I fell in love with the song the first time I heard it, in December 2007.

Confession - sometimes, I stop singing for a while, and only mouth the words (which are presented on the overhead screen in both Dutch and English) so I can revel in the deep richness of this hymn, as the congregation reaches levels of emotion and harmony which stirs my soul even as I write this. There's just something about this song that is really moving, especially when I hear my church singing it together on Christmas, reaching a rousing crescendo as the song develops.

"Ere zij God in den hoge!" "Glory to God in the highest!" Such a song!

At first, Skype kept dropping my connection, but I persevered, and eventually had 15 straight minutes of more or less recognizable worship service - as the congregation sang, "Oh Come Let Us Adore Him", "Angels We Have Heard on High", interspersed with Bible passages about the birth of Christ, and the lighting of the fourth advent candle. And wasn't that Doug Wiersma saying the offering prayer? I was especially pleased that the offering was going to the CRWRC, an organization I know much more about now, as I am volunteering with them and have been reading through some of their materials. As Doug said, they help people to improve their lives - and it is exciting for me to be a small part of the good work that is being done here in Malawi.

But shortly after that, the Skype connection dropped and every time I called back, I was met with a busy signal. Thoroughly disappointed, I managed to find a youtube rendition of the hymn, which I am listening to as I type this. (To give you an idea of how bad the connection is today, it took me just over 30 minutes to load this youtube video fully.) Here are the words, in Dutch and English.

Still, I was grateful to be able to spend a little time worshipping with my church this afternoon - although I was probably the only person in attendance who was wearing a nightgown, lying on a bed under a mosquito net and eating chocolate during the service...

I will wait patiently until next Christmas, when I can once again hear this hymn in person, God williing.

Clothes for Orphans

Salima is a small town about a two hour drive from Lilongwe – located quite near Lake Malawi. Nearby is a small village which has a day care program for a group of local orphans, as well as their young peers.

Unlike a daycare in the west, there are no toys, furniture, kitchen facilities, bathroom facilities – the daycare is basically a large brick building, with two small rooms for storage, and a large woven mat for the kids to sit on.

Over a hundred kids - 129 or so:

A group of women from the community originally had an idea to help the orphans, many of whom have lost parents to AIDS, by running a half day program, which seems to include a meal. The Malawi government discourages orphanages, as there is no funding – rather, they try to keep children with extended family members, particularly grandparents. The school is staffed entirely by local volunteers. Linda is one of the people who has been working with them, to teach them techniques, such as how to stimulate the kids, and create simple learning aids like alphabet charts.

In the summer, a group from the US came and helped enclose the building with a tin roof. They also left a plastic container full of teaching supplies and some money to buy clothes for the orphans.

On Tuesday, Linda and I drove to the village, to distribute the clothes.

As we arrived, we were met by a large group of women and school-aged kids. The women were singing an African song, and many came up and shook my hand. We were then ushered inside the large, brick building - I was surprised to see that it was completely full of small kids, all sitting quietly. Some began to cry when they saw us. There were old chairs setup at the front for us to sit on. I felt like an honoured dignitary in a strange land.

They had prepared a short program - we began with a prayer, and then some of the teachers began centering out certain children, to get them to demonstrate their learning. A few recited the alphabet, then a couple said the months of the year in English. Then they all sang some songs. You could tell the ones that they really liked, because they sang with gusto and the whole room filled with their voices. One of the songs was about a fish that got eaten by their cat or something. They sure loved that song!

I videotaped some of the recitation and the singing, but it's kind of big to post here.

We gave each child a lollipop - considering they ended up staying inside, sitting on the mat, for several hours, while we distributed clothes and ate lunch, I'm sure they were happy to get a treat. (They also had some sema while we ate in one of the homes.)

We handed out a shirt and pants to each boy, first.

It felt like an endless procession of children, some had decent clothes, others were wearing threadbare and stained, ripped clothes. Although I am thousands of miles from North America, all the clothes seem to originate from there - lots of the clothes that were purchased in Lilongwe had Value Village tags! And of course there were several Western brands in the piles, like Gap, Lands End, and lots of cartoon designs from Disney. It seems strange to handout such things to children who likely have never have seen a TV or a movie.

When we first arrived, some of the children started to cry - we were told they were afraid of us. I think this boy was still a little nervous.

After lunch, we handed out clothes for the girls. By this time, we had acquired more helpers, a group of women, probably the mothers of some of the non-orphaned kids. It was harder to find appropriate clothes for the girls, as they have to wear dresses or skirts which come down past their knees. And pants are discouraged, although we did end up giving some to the girls.

These girls are wearing some smocks which the American work team had sent - they are made out of pillow cases. I thought the girls looked pretty cute in these!

As the time progressed, the scene became increasingly chaotic as we seemed to have more adults than kids. Luckily, the day care volunteers had prepared a list with the names of all the children, so they were able to ensure that each child received a donation.

We also had a bunch of new, white T-shirts, with black lettering from a Vacation Bible School somewhere. We started giving those to the volunteer teachers, and they became a hot item. I was disturbed when I handed one to a slightly older scruffy-looking boy who had somehow squeezed himself inside the room where we were handing clothes out. The moment I gave it to him, a slim, well-dressed young woman plucked it from his hands and crammed it under her shirt.

A few minutes later, I found one more of the shirts, handed it to the boy somewhat surreptitiously, and watched as he slipped away, fast. Hopefully he was able to hold onto his prize.

We had clothes leftover at the end - infant sized, and some which were larger, and would be given to older orphans.

It is strange to be surrounded by such poverty and to be handing out clothes which are such a small thing, and yet so appreciated here. It felt like our visit was a big deal for the village - we drew quite a crowd, especially older kids. I took some photos of them, and showed them - they thought it was hilarious! I guess they don't get to see themselves in pictures too often. I also took a quick video of them, which was also a huge hit.

And then we left.

Food for Stephanie

From Stephanie Clarke's comment: "So for the next blog, give it up...what is the most unique thing you have eaten so far? And what have you eaten that reminded you the most of home?"

In response to Stephanie:

I regretfully haven't had an opportunity to try any truly obscure dishes here - primarily due to availability. Mice are out of season, and I missed out on the flying termite snack, after dousing the lot of them with RAID. However, I did make a point of trying out the mainstay of the Malawian diet - maize - white corn. They remove the outer kernel and prepare a dish called sema, which looks like mashed potatoes. It is quite bland, but you eat it with "relish." Relish is any type of vegetable, such as cabbage, shredded, and cooked as an accompaniment. I had sema once in a local restaurant, and then again on Monday, at the home of a villager. In the home-based version, we first washed our hands in water from a basin, then ate the dish with our fingers, then washed again. You break off a chunk and kind of dip it and grab relish, because sema itself is kind of bland.

Both times, I had sema with chicken. The first time, I was presented with a body part that must have originated from the rib cage of the skinniest chicken in Malawi. In quantity of meat, it reminded me of the time I cooked and attempted to eat a Merganzer duck that Brandon's father, Bailey, a teen at the time, had shot. Apparently, you don't eat Merganzer. The second piece of chicken, served in the village home, had slightly more meat, and it was tasty, but you needed powerful incisors and a will of steel in order to separate flesh from bone.

Apparently Malawians like "local chicken" rather than "soft chicken" - the latter is favoured by Westerners such as myself. I assume the soft chickens are penned and fed grain - the local chickens wander around and peck at whatever they can find. As a matter of fact, a scrawny white one wandered into the home on Monday while we were eating, apparently unconcerned that we were chewing on its neighbour.

Here is my friend Nancy, eating sema at the restaurant - I made it through one scoop of sema:

As for familiar home-style foods - I am currently digesting orange Fanta, lightly-salted Lays potato chips and a quantity of Cadbury plain chocolate which I am too ashamed to divulge. This qualified as dinner tonight.


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Malaria Mix-up

What is the deadliest animal in Africa? A raging lion? Stampeding elephant? Roaring rhinoceros?

Nope – it’s the malaria-bearing mosquito. (Car drivers are #2 on the list…)

On Tuesday evening, I was reading a magazine article written by a local doctor, about malaria.  I read, “Chloroquin – not recommended. It is better than nothing but a significant number of users will get malaria.”

 Hmm – chloroquin – the name sounded eerily familiar, so I checked my medicine bottle and sure enough, I was the owner of a bottle of chloroquin from Shopper’s Drug Mart in Chatham.

I will admit to a high-level of paranoia about contracting malaria – not just the short-term illness and interruption of my teaching plans, but also the long-term impact – the end of my blood donor days. Canada won’t take blood from anyone who has ever had malaria.

I’ve picked up some mosquito tips from Nancy:

·         The ones that carry malaria don’t make the high-pitched irritating whine we know so well – they are, in other words, Silent But Deadly

·         In order to get malaria, the mosquito must first bite someone with malaria, then it gets passed on to the next victim

·         The ones that bite during the day are less likely to be malaria-bearing

I haven’t seen a mosquito bite me yet, but I’ve had two obvious bites, which I assume were mosquitoes, and a few unexplained itches. (And don’t ask how many times I have THOUGHT a mosquito was near me!) So finding out I have been more or less unprotected, was unwelcome news!

I remembered that my travel doctor had recommended a particular medication, one that gave vivid dreams to about 25% of users, and a smaller percentage would have some kind of psychotic break with reality, but we agreed that I was, to all appearances, sane, and most of the seriously afflicted had mental issues to begin with.

But when I read the medication print-out from Shopper’s, it didn’t say anything about dreams, which I thought odd, but I was so busy preparing to leave, who had time to double-check?

Subsequent Internet research on Wednesday morning confirmed my mounting suspicions – according to the Center for Disease Control, in big bold print: “Note: Chloroquine is NOT an effective antimalarial drug in Malawi and should not be taken to prevent malaria in this region.“ Great – good to know.

So in summary, I have been diligently taking a useless medication since mid-November.

My sister, Karen, back in Canada, contacted Shopper’s Drug Mart, who confirmed that they had made a mistake. I managed to find a pharmacist here who had some of the recommended medication, Mefloquine. I also picked up a self-diagnosis kit and one round of treatment, in case I get sick.

Here’s some of my anti-malaria battle tools:

As a side note, I’ve been having strange dreams for about 5 days in a row, which I had chocked up to the medication, but now have to attribute to my own wild imagination. Last night I dreamt that I suffered a bunch of psychedelic dream experiences because of the new medication! Night time is kinda interesting these days.

Out and About

I will try to give a photographic tour of these parts, to give you a sense of what it is like. In no particular order:

When Linda first took me shopping, I was amazed at the price of packaged convenience foods - $1299 Kwatchas for a box of Pillsbury baking mix - $889 kwatchas. $3500 kwatchas equals about $20 - and a $500 kwatcha is the highest denomination bill. Consequently, I feel quite rich, with a big wad of bills! Almost all the packaged food comes from South Africa. Very little is produced here in Malawi.

In comparison, the above picture is one of many roadside stores that you pass as you drive from Nancy's home in the country, to Lilongwe. Prices here are quite reasonable, but selection is limited. I've seen mangoes, bananas, cooking oil, chunks of fresh meat hanging, roasted corn - the basics of rural life.

It never ceases to amaze me the size of the cargo that bicyclists are burdened down with here. Bikes are an integral tool for commerce, and owning one is a real privilege for many. The other day, I watched a man whose load was so huge, that it tipped the bike upside down, with the front wheel high in the air! Unfortunately, a lot of the bike riders seem oblivious to the danger of other vehicles.

On Friday, returning from work after a rainstorm, we watched as a young man fell off his bike, directly into our path. Nancy swerved and avoided hitting him - barely - fortunately the other lane was empty!

My Cocoon

Now that I'm at Nancy's home, I am a little more vigilant about mosquitoes (as we are outside the city and I have seen several buzzing about) so in addition to my weekly anti-malarial pill and occasional anointing with repellent, I have taken to sleeping under the mosquito net Lisa Anderson gave me.

I just love it.

It is like a safe and comforting cocoon - protected by gentle white downy fabric, from malaria-heavy mosquitoes. I took a photo of it from inside this morning:

And here's an outside view:

I think my love of the mosquito netting harkens all the way back to when I used to babysit for the Groombridge kids. Susan, the youngest, had a canopy over her bed, and I quite admired it and thought how wonderful it would be to have a canopy myself. Since she was about two years old at the time, I felt it was rather unappreciated!

Although I have never had a canopy bed, the yearning had never abated, and the mosquito netting seems to be fulfilling some unmet past need.

I have taken to going to bed early and reading under the safety of my ethereal curtaining, feeling like a princess, tucked away safely.

The Sword and the Stone

Thanks to the intermittent power failures which are the norm at Nancy's place, I fell victim to a "Sword in the Stone" moment last night.

The Sword in the Stone, as you may recall, is a Arthurian story. A legend told that the future king of England would be the person who could pull a sword out of a chunk of rock. Thousands of strong men had used all their might, and failed. The young Arthur, unaware of the legend, sees the sword jutting out from the rock, pulls it out gently, and it comes free, thereby settling him in the throne as "The Once and Future King."

So...

The power grid here is somewhat unstable, and to reduce load, they shut-off the power to areas outside Lilongwe, where fewer people live, on a somewhat regular basis - a few times a week - for about an hour or so. But last night, we had a couple of brief outages.

Since our water supply is also known to shut off periodically, Nancy has insisted that we both shower in the evening, in case there's no water in the morning.

I was in the shower last night, half-soaped, when the power went off unexpectedly. Thanks to an almost fifty year familiarity with the dips and curves of my own "terra firma" I was able to finish the shower and towel off, all in pitch black darkness.

I stumbled my way to the bathroom door, recalling that it has a wooden latch, which you pull up with a string, freeing it.

I free it, and pulled it.

It wouldn't open.

I blindly trailed my fingers across the wooden latch, trying to recall the complex mechanics behind it - a string, attached to a slender bar, which pulls up and releases the door.

I pulled the string, and pulled harder, and rattled it , and pulled the string, and pulled the door.

Nancy could hear me - "Pull the string towards you!"

More tugging, pulling, inward cursing, with a far-off sense of panic as I contemplated a night spend in darkness, trapped in Nancy's bathroom. Why, only the day before, I had seen a large black spider and some kind of worm in there. Who knew what else I was currently sharing space with.

Simultaneous to the sudden flash of light, as the power returned, was my break-through moment as I gently PUSHED the door open.

The Ball

On Monday, I relocated from Linda and Larry’s house, to move in with Nancy Hinga, the Program Consultant for Malawi. She has recently moved to a beautiful thatched-roof red-bricked home on the outskirts of Lilongwe. As we were driving there, I heard a sudden “pop” and, alarmed, thinking we had blown a tire, asked, “What happened?”

Simultaneously, from a distance, I heard the loud sound of children, making a collective and loudly disapproving “EEEEEEEE!” sound.

“Oh we ran over their soccer ball!”

I looked through the driver’s side window, to my right, as Malawians drive English style - and saw a bunch of kids, out on a walled field, who had, moments earlier, been playing a game of soccer. We were driving through one of the many poor areas of town, where small impromptu shacks lined the roadside, attended by weary looking sellers who were all hawking the same goods – mangoes, bananas and cell phone cards. This was not an area where a destroyed ball could be readily replaced.

This is a drive-by view of some of the small shops, across the road from the soccer field.

We decided to buy a new one for them.

So today, on the way home, we stopped at the same field to deliver our purchase, one red Manchester United soccer ball, manufactured in Pakistan.

“Leave the ball in the car.” Nancy told me, as she noticed me picking it up.

Nancy, who is Kenyan, and has lived in Lilongwe for about a year, has picked up some of the local language, Chichewan, so she went over to one of the older boys, who was sitting on the wall, watching about 60 other kids playing scrimmage. It turned out that there had been a match on Monday, and today was more of a leisurely pick-up game, so there weren’t as many kids and spectators around.

The soccer field, with the brick walls surrounding it. This was taken in the morning, when no one was playing.

Nancy asked if he had been there on Monday when a soccer ball was hit by a car, and the teenager broke into a smile of recognition. She explained that we had been driving the car and wanted to replace the ball with a new one, to whichever team had lost theirs. He gestured to a group of boys who were playing, telling us, in English, “It was theirs!” and agreed to fetch them. Nancy went to retrieve the ball.

As she returned to the field with the ball in a bag, the group of children who had been playing on the field, ran towards us, and we were soon surrounded by boys, ranging in age from about 6 to 16, all shirtless, dusty and sweaty, desperate to be given the one ball we had brought. As I looked around the faces of these children, with their outstretched arms, all I could see was a universal look of desperate need, and we tried to settle them down, to stop them from mobbing us. Some of the small ones obediently sat down on the red-dirt ground as other pushed towards us; all were clambering in Chichewan, words I didn’t understand, but could guess meant, “Pick me! Pick me! Give me the ball!” I tried shushing them by putting my finger to my mouth and going, “Shhhh” which seemed to work for some. Other boys were now holding up two fingers, waving them towards us, as if to say two balls had been destroyed, and so I held up one finger, to explain we were responsible for only one of the losses.

Nancy picked out an older boy who appeared more responsible, and gave him the ball. He handed it over to a nearby group of older kids, telling us that they were the team whose ball had been destroyed, and that the younger kids hadn’t even been there that day.

This left the younger set to become even louder in their protestation, as the hope of a new plaything faded. One boy, perhaps ten, with a rivulet of sweat trailing down his dark face, looked at me with anger, and spoke words which sounded accusatory. What could I say in response, to a boy who spoke a language I don’t speak, who feels things I can only imagine?

All we could do was walk back to the van.

As we drove away, waving to a few of the kids who had followed us to the van, Nancy shook her head, “I was afraid of that reaction, that was why I wanted to leave the ball in the van until we knew who to give it to.”

I felt like crying. This was supposed to have been a happy moment, with boys who were pleasantly surprised to have their destroyed ball restored! How had it gone so wrong? I felt miserable, knowing I had caused these kids the pain of losing something they hadn’t consciously wanted, and had no hope of getting.

“Do you want to know something funny? Funny and kind of pathetic?” I asked Nancy.  “If I brought a soccer ball to give away to a group of kids back in North America, they would react the same way! They would be just as greedy for it – the only difference would be that these boys don’t have anything, and the ball could easily be the only toy they have. But the North American kids already have so many toys, and yet they still want more.”

As part of my pre-departure orientation, I was warned by CRWRC that tourists and foreign work groups create more problems than they solve when they decide to distribute North American trinkets to local children. I’ve now experienced the effect first-hand, and it hurt me to know that there was really nothing I could do to make this situation right. I suppose if we had brought along enough balls for each boy to have one, distributing them would have felt good – would have seemed like the right thing to do – would have given me that little glow of joy you get when you help someone.

But I suspect, even if we had brought along 80 balls, we would have fallen short of the number needed to satisfy the desire of every boy for a ball. Word would spread like wildfire, and before long, I bet more children would have materialized.

One hundred and fifty balls – you still couldn’t begin to make a dent in what is needed here. Perhaps one thousand and fifty? Not enough. And so on.

I am reminded of the story of Jesus distributing loaves and fishes to the hungry crowds. So maybe that’s what was needed, a modern day miracle – with just the right number of soccer balls for every child in Lilongwe to have one. And a few leftovers to spare!

But we weren’t pulling out miracles from the van today, just one red Manchester United soccer ball. And for a field full of needy boys, the gift of a ball is hardly the miracle that’s needed. And the joy of helping has little to do with distributing soccer balls in Lilongwe.

I’m not even sure how to help here – where do you begin? Upon further reflection, I guess you just begin with obedience to God's calling...and go from there.

Grace

Linda was telling me about the Christian Heritage School, which is associated with the International Baptist church they attend - it is located on the same grounds. It was originally intended to be a school for disadvantaged children, but due to financial constraints, they ended up taking in paying children as well. Over time, the balance has shifted, so out of about 300 students, only 48 are from the slum areas. And because money is so tight even in the families who are able to pay, they are now looking for sponsors for the 48 kids. There was a special church service which was dedicated to bringing this situation to the attention of the congregation, in the hopes of finding sponsors for the 48 kids. The children even put on a special re-enactment of the Christmas story, which was written by the Grade 6 teacher.

Despite the need, only one child received a sponsor. Linda is going to sponsor a child, and it seemed like something I could and should do - it's 650 USD per year.

We went to the school last week so I could meet the child I was going to sponsor. The woman who runs the place was very happy to know I would sponsor a student, as they only found one sponsor after the church service.

I told her that I would like to sponsor a child, boy or girl, about age 11 or 12, as that is the age of my Church School students.

Meet Grace, the child I am sponsoring:

Grace is the girl in the middle, I had suggested she bring some friends along for the photo shoot. I am told she is outspoken, although she was very quiet around me. She has an interest in Hannah Montana! Her father is a cook at a local health clinic and her mom is a housekeeper. She is the youngest in a large family.

Here is a look at Grace's classroom:



This is Grace's teacher, holding one of their textbooks:

Here's the outside of the school:

I did a walk-through and met some of the teachers and students. The school is small, but all the staff are friendly and committed. The library was very small - not much larger than a large walk-in closet, crammed with books, many of which look well-read! And they don't have any computers for the students to use, as the ones they had were old and in disrepair.

The preschoolers were cute - I loved the Pippi Longstockings-style hair on the girl in orange!

Centipede Update!

Adam Gamble wrote to provide further details about my recent centipede encounter. Apparently, it was not a centipede, it was a milipede. I am chocking up my failure to recognize its true nature as yet another example of my poor math skills. As Adam explained: " By the way that giant “centipede” is actually a giant African millipede  (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Archispirostreptus_gigas) and they can apparently reach 15 inches in length."

Good to know.

In further insect news, Linda informed me this morning that there was another invasion of winged termites - this time they somehow found their way into the inside of her washing machine (which sits outside in a covered, but not enclosed, shelter). They filled it up about half way, and many were still alive this morning! She had to scoop them out.

I have a feeling I will leave Africa with stories of insects, not stories of lions, elephants and rhinos, any of which I would prefer to meet!

Centipede

Linda and I encountered a large centipede in the church parking lot - I have decided to keep a running log of my insect encounters so I can relive the horror when I return home!

This picture shows the size of the centipede in relation to Linda - note how fearless she is after years of exposure to these critters:

And here's a close-up:

“For God is at work within you…” December 10, 2010

I decided to start class with a devotion last Friday; so I wrote my very first devotion. I'm not sure if there's a method to writing a devotion....without an Internet connection, I couldn't Google to find out. Here's what I came up with:

Just less than two years ago, my Book Club read the book “Half of a Yellow Sun”, about Biafra in the 1970s, and my friend Deborah loaned me an audiobook,”A Long Way Gone” about child soldiers in Sierra Leone. And then a third Africa related event occurred, and I had the sudden thought that I would someday go to Africa and teach. This was surprising to me, as I had never planned or even though about going to Africa. I had long suspected that I would someday teach again, and had captured that thought in an image on a special PowerPoint slide I call my visionary diagram. This diagram is very special to me, as it has captured certain images and visions and words which I have felt were God-given. Since about 2008, I have made ongoing changes to it, and so, prompted by the recent unexpected appearance of an African theme, I added a small picture of Africa to my PowerPoint. I gave no further thought to it. I imagined that in the far distant future, I would have some connection to teaching in Africa, possibly after I retired from work.

I also, around that time, turned down an invitation to join a mission team from our church, which was going to Belize. “I am absolutely not interested in doing any kind of mission work.” I assured one of my friends, Myrna, “It’s just not something I could ever see myself doing. But thanks for thinking of me.”

Mission work wasn’t in my life plan, as far as I could see. I certainly didn’t connect teaching in Africa with any kind of Christian activity.

“For God is at work within you, helping you want to obey him, and then helping you do what he wants.” Philippians 2:13

Consequently, it came as a shock to me last May, when I found myself applying to become an IT Trainer in Malawi, through the Christian Reformed World Relief Mission organization. Malawi, which I thought was somewhere relatively close by, in South America, was actually in Africa.

I read once, if you want to hear God laugh, come up with a plan. I understand, as I look back over my life, that even before I was an active Christian, God’s plan was unfolding.

Let us pray:

Dear Lord, thank you that it is your plan for our lives, and your purpose that give meaning to our lives, and not our own. Your plans for us are so much more purposeful than anything we could conceive of ourselves. Help us to be patient and to listen to your promptings, especially during those times when our own plans seem to fail, and our own dreams seem to be lost. And help us to accept your plan for our lives, even when it does not seem to answer the needs of our minds, but instead to trust that it answers the needs of our hearts. Amen

December 10 is also my dad's birthday - as I have been experiencing Africa, I have often reflected on how nice it would have been if both my mother and father had been alive to hear about my travels. Both of them did a fair bit of travel in their younger days. Dad especially liked to talk about his experiences overseas - I'm not sure if he ended up in Africa or not. He was born in 1931, so I think he would have been 79 on Friday.

Thank-you Gift from MCP Supervisors

I was very grateful to receive my first piece of African clothing on Wednesday, from my first class. Florence is giving me the gift:

Here I am modeling it - it's a Kenya-style shirt, with embroidery, which Linda thinks may have been done in Malawi:

My First Class in Malawi

My first class in Malawi ended last Wednesday - I had over 10 students, and ended up dividing them into two groups - those who were new to computers and those who had some background.

Here I am with the two groups combined - we are standing outside the CRWRC office:

 I was amazed at how eager everyone was to learn - and how quickly they learned new things. My students gave me permission to share some photos with you:

One group of students worked on the balcony - what a great place to have a class! They are working on creating an Access database to manage information related to the Malaria Community Program. I hadn't expected to teach anyone Access, even though it's one of my personal favorites. Even learning about database joins and primary keys etc. didn't faze these guys!

On the right-side is Frank, the student who wrote about his excitement about being able to develop computer skills. (I wrote about him on a previous blog entry.) Here he and a friend work on writing a report using Word - prior to class, they were writing these reports longhand.

Two of the eight MCP Supervisors are women - here are Madalitso on the left, and Florence, on the right, working on data entry in Excel. Each month, they submit an Excel report. The report is used to collect information about the volunteers who go out to villages and educate people about malaria, and distribute items like mosquito nets and anti-malarial medication. The report collects information like:

• Number of households visited
• Number of households with children under 5 years of age
• Pregnant women who received SP injection once (a preventative treatment)
• Households with one ITN (ITN is "Insecticide Treated Net") 

Since I've read that more than 3000 children die daily from malaria, in sub-Sahara Africa, these efforts save lives. What I didn't realize was the quantity of reports associated with all of these programs. On a monthly basis, the MCP Supervisors submit the detailed Excel spreadsheet, described above, as well as a lengthy anecdotal report in Word. There are many different international agencies providing funds here in Africa and each has a myriad of reporting requirements - filling out the required forms and reports can take many hours.

Really, I had no idea that I would be encountering as much paperwork here in Africa, as in my own little cubicle back in Canada!

Speaking of malaria, at least so far in Lilongwe, I haven't encountered many mosquitoes. Since the Mcauley's don't have any in their house, I didn't use my net. At night, I have used repellent - I seemed to get one bite so far - the MCP Coordinator, Chipi, gave me a package of treatment for the net which Lisa Anderson gave me - it makes the net lethal to mosquitoes on contact.

Attack Follow-up

Linda arrived home yesterday, and confirmed what I had begun to suspect - my winged invaders were flying termites - one of the indigenous food sources!

Apparently my Red Alert manoevres were overkill - they only live for a short time. "If it happens again, just turn off the light, shut the door, and sweep them into the garbage in the morning."

In Kenya, where Linda and Larry lived for 15 years, winged termite mounds are so precious that families own and guard their supply of the winged snacks.

Should you have reason to stumble upon some, here's a recipe:

Fried White Ants

This is usually served as an ndiwo, but can be eaten as a snack. Many volunteers compare it to popcorn.

1 cup day-old white ants (these are large termites, in the winged stage)
½ cup water
2 Tbs. margarine
salt to taste

• Clean ants by removing wings and any foreign matter.
• Place insects in salted water and boil over high heat until water has evaporated.
• Reduce heat and add margarine.
• Cover and simmer for 3 minutes.
• Remove from heat and serve immediately.

If you're in a hurry, you can eat them raw - according to Linda, they taste like Crisco.

Attack!

Because Linda is out of town tonight, I was entrusted with the house key and a set of instructions. My first task was to get into the house – easier said than done as I discovered when faced with a dark garage, two keys, two locks and a deadbolt. Thank goodness for the Light app on my iPhone 4!

Relieved to be home, I thought I would check on the dog, Foxy, a 12 year old Pomeranian, who lives mostly outside and is of a somewhat feral temperament. Since I had an offering of turkey scraps, I was pretty sure he wouldn’t attack me. After depositing the scraps in his dish, I returned inside and rebolted the back door. I should mention that literally every door in this house has a lock – even the cupboards. Even though there are 2 to 3 guards also patrolling the barbed wired walled enclosure, for some reason, all of this security makes me feel more vulnerable. Who, exactly, are we being protected from?

As I was leaving the kitchen, I noticed a large winged creature, scooting along the floor. Although I have a strict “live and let live” policy when it comes to Canadian insects, here, I felt stricter measures were called for. After all, I have no idea what an African malaria-bearing mosquito looks like, nor what other venomous creatures are waiting to strike. Admittedly, this bug looked much bigger than a Canadian mosquito, even  the long skeletal females that you see flying along the ceiling every so often, but how could I know for sure?

I found a Time magazine, and, flinching, after several missed swipes, slammed it down on the winged thing.

As I was wiping up the smeary brown debris, I quietly congratulated myself for my newly surfaced hunting instinct.

Just as I was leaving the kitchen again, I saw another one fly along the floor. How odd! I hadn’t noticed it a moment earlier.

Once more, I brandished my magazine and nailed the second insect. I glanced around the room and established it was now insect-free. Victory over the insects was mine!

Upstairs, I doffed my day attire, settled into my nightgown and trotted back to the kitchen to grab dinner - a grilled cheese sandwich (I am still nursing a delicate digestive tract).

I stepped into the light of the kitchen.

HUNDREDS OF THEM!!!!

All I could see was a swarm of those same insects, all flying around in the kitchen – literally a hundred or so - like a scene from the Hitchcock movie, The Birds, only scarier.  I froze in horror – all I could think to do was slam the kitchen door, barricading myself from the horde of wings, beady eyes and fuzzy tentacles.

Could the door just stay closed until Linda’s return?

Reality check. I may be a coward, but I’m also a conscientious house guest.

I thought fast – Linda had mentioned that they had lots of bug spray – where would they keep it? Storage cupboard?

Got it - Raid “Crawling Insect Killer.”

I opened the kitchen door, carefully, and like Dr. Peter Venkman in Ghostbusters, with my can of Raid held high, began squirting insecticide everywhere I could see movement. Within a few seconds, the first casualties were flopping around on the ground, bits of bodies, bits of wings, and what appeared to be larvae. It was horrific. Every time I thought I had downed them all, more seemed to appear. But where were they coming from?

Had I accidentally left the door open when I fed the dog? Unlikely, as I remembered rebolting it – but I checked – secured.

Could the maid have left a window open – I checked, all closed, but through the window I could see more of them – all batting furiously at the outside screens, knocking their own wings off in a frenzy to get inside. To get to me!  To attack! Murderous, blood-lusting beasties!

I stepped back and tried to figure out how they were getting in – ah ha! They were emerging through the crack at the bottom of the door! Quickly, I started shoving paper towel into the gap. As fast as I was cramming it in, a new insect would manage to squeeze itself through – only to be met by a quick spray of Raid, as I stopped shoving and started spraying. They appeared so determined to breach the door, that I added a second layer of paper towel as reinforcement, and even considered piling up some cans, in case, in some Borg-like show of solidarity, they made a team effort and stormed the paper towel.

In the midst of all this, inhaling all the Raid fumes triggered an allergy attack, so I had to keep stopping to Kleenex my nose.

I’m writing this now in the aftermath of the trauma, a cup of hot tea at my side. Memories of the attack and its aftermath (the clean-up) will haunt me forever.

No photo can do justice to the carnage, but here's a peek at the kitchen floor, pre-clean-up - keep in mind that all those bugs were flying around minutes earlier! You can see the start of the paper towel barricade at the door.

And here's a brief video of the outside window, showing the desperate efforts of a few final survivors, to break through into the house. Note the discarded wings scattered about - I think that happened if they were thrusting too hard against the window or something. It added to the horror.

HappyGeorge

It’s a seven minute walk from the McCauley’s home in the secured compound, over to the CRWRC office – basically straight up a long non-residential street. I was walking home tonight, after another inspiring day of teaching, when a young man approached me – offered me his hand and introduced himself as “HappyGeorge.”

“My father called me George and my grandfather called me Happy so I call myself HappyGeorge.”

I wasn’t exactly happy to meet him, as my hard-working students had stayed late and it was starting to get dark and who was HappyGeorge and what did he want with me anyway?

Turned out he was a high school student who knew a French-Canadian girl who lived in Toronto, who had been in Malawi for two years and was planning to return. He suggested we walk and talk.

Four thousand kwatchas later, I now own four handmade baobab tree-fibre necklaces:

The mental math I attempted, during the transaction, in order to determine how badly I was being taken, is too complex and painful to recall, even now. But after haggling HappyGeorge down from 6000 kwatchas, I was quite proud and triumphant – until he threw in a fourth necklace, which makes me wonder what the actual street value of each necklace might be.

 I even used some Spectra Energy “win-win” talk during the negotiations:

Me: If I give you 4000 kwatchas and you give me three necklaces, I think that’s fair. You’re happy and I’m happy. But if I give you 5000 kwatchas, then you’re happy, but I’m no longer happy. Or if I don’t buy any necklaces at all, I’m still happy, but you’re no longer happy. For 4000 kwatchas, we’re both happy.

This kind of corporate logic won him over.

According to my calculator, 4000 kwatchas is about 27 dollars, thus  a win-win for both parties, I think.

But even more importantly, I got home alive – and didn’t have to flee from a malnourished seventeen year old, so I’m feeling pretty good about the whole thing.

Don’t Leave Home Without ‘Em!

(From Sunday, December 5) After seeing Larry off at the airport, for a week of meetings in Zambia, Linda and I drove to church. The McCauleys attend an English service at a Baptist church. There aren’t any CRC or RCA churches in Lilongwe. (Actually, the McCauleys are Presbyterian by background, but are hired by the RCA and on loan to the CRC.)

About halfway to church, I became aware of my stomach. It was beginning to indicate that breakfast would not be making a long-term commitment to my digestive system.

I couldn’t figure out why that would be. I had eaten the same breakfast as Saturday – bran flakes with milk. Oh, and come to think of it, on Sunday, I also had a fresh, local banana. Could that be the culprit, a seemingly safe and innocent banana? My Malawi guide book had assured me that local fruit, peeled, were harmless.

I managed to keep it together throughout the two hour service, until communion. Just the thought of the bread and wine was leaving me in a cold, lower-abdominal clenched sweat. Linda was able to direct me to the ladies room, and I found the last stall with toilet paper – score!

Unfortunately, the frail, elderly woman who came tottering in after me, wouldn’t have been as fortunate – but during these desperate physiological times, it is every woman for herself…

The rest of Sunday was a write-off as I took to my bed and swore to never again mock Stephanie Clarke’s battalion of germicidal office products. It looks like my dream of enjoying indigenous African food may die on the banana vine… oh, and I also found out that I missed the mouse season by about four weeks. And yes, for those of you wondering, the locals do eat the whole mouse – skin, tail, feet, tiny tongues and teeth and all.

Antibacterial spray, Pepto-Bismol and Immodium – don’t leave home without ‘em!

Malaria Community Program Out in the World!

My Group A students (the ones who arrived with some computer skills), after watching a whirlwind tour of the Internet yesterday morning, asked if they could create their own websites.  After a quick Google search I found a site called Weebly.com, recommended by Newsweek, which promised to help non-technical people quickly develop and publish sites.

Here’s what the students came up with:

www.nrdhealth.weebly.com

www.nkhomamcp.weebly.com

I am so proud of them – you should have seen the look of joy when we browsed to the nrdhealth site on a different computer.  Someone asked, “Is it really out in the world?” I assured them it was.

I walked home smiling yesterday.

Hello World!

“I have eyes and now able to see the entire world. Frank has joined the rest of others in enjoying the world as it advances in technology.” So wrote Frank, one of my students, at the end of his first day of instruction. Early on, Frank had declared himself dead, and only truly alive once he was able to get his hands on some technology. There is definitely an excitement about technology here that truly delights me . As a teacher, it is both humbling and gratifying when students are energized by learning, and that is exactly what is happening in our little classroom, Lilongwe, Malawi.

It makes me wonder, how exactly will they use this learning, when they venture back into their day-to-day lives and occupations. A couple of them boldly asked if they could keep one of the laptops I brought, as they wanted to keep using Office 2010! They are, as a group, concerned about not having enough opportunities to use computers – I get the impression that their whole group of 9 or so supervisors, have access to only one or two computers.

There is still so much I could teach them – but today is my last day with this group, the Malaria Community Program Supervisors. They were actually an addition to the original terms of my engagement here, and some of the fund-raising money went to pay for their accommodation and food while here in Lilongwe for three days – most had travelled an hour or two to come.

So a huge thanks to everyone who donated money, attended the Pasta Dinner or purchased auction items, your money is going a long way here in Africa. (I raised enough that I could bring two new laptops to use for teaching, then leave behind – and still have enough to pay for 50% to 75% of my expenses – 50% had been the goal. I still have to do all the math to calculate more precisely. Math, not exactly my area of expertise! And yet I find myself teaching Excel and QuickBooks here – who said you can’t teach an old teacher new tricks?)

CRWRC Office in Lilongwe

I am conducting the training in one room in this office - actually it's a house which has been converted into an office:

The big tree in front of the walkway is a mango tree - the mangoes aren't ripe yet - they appear as big green orbs. When walking along the road, I look down periodically and see either a discarded banana skin or a mango pit! 

Brand is King!

On Saturday, Linda and I went in search of a SIM card for my iphone – I have since realized that I am going to have to cut one myself, as no one here carries the micro sims. The alternative is a nearby wifi signal, which is adequate, but not strong enough to reach the house. Yesterday, I connected outside the compound, sitting on a small ledge – until a platoon of tiny ants invaded me – I looked down and realized they had breached my arms, legs, etc. Although they weren’t biting me, I didn’t like knowing they were crawling around. I’m also told that large cockroaches sometimes show up inside the house, and silverfish. I did see one cockroach, but I stayed clear of its path.

We also stopped to look at some of the local artisans who sell a variety of carved wooden pieces – this is the art that Malawi is known for. Unfortunately, the sellers way outnumber the tourists – I saw probably 15 men with their wares spread out on blankets, and from what I could tell, I was the only potential buyer. Sensing a potential and naïve customer, everyone was eager to sell to me – at exhorbitant ”first timer” rates, according to Linda. “We will negotiate – for you, a friend of Linda’s.” The command of English is impressive, although not surprising when you consider how saturated Africa is with North American culture. It bothers me to see, so far from home, tokens of North America – like magazines featuring the stars from Twilight! It is clear to me that Brand is King, and that companies like Pepsi, Cadbury and Carlsberg, haven’t missed out on an opportunity to move into this market. Unfortunately, most of the people can’t afford to buy these products.

I am left wondering how different my experience would be if I were out in the rural areas, rather than the urban setting. It seems to me that the social fabric of Malawi village life has been ripped asunder by the City – leaving people who yearned for a better life, to live in poverty and hopelessness. There are parts of the city which would break your heart – and only a few miles away, a gigantic, brand-new government building! And some pretty impressive banks, too, although I expect they serve a small percentage of Lilongwe’s residents.

Welcome to Malawi, Ladies and Gentlemen!

"Welcome to Lilongwe, Ladies and Gentlemen!"

With these words, I found myself in the south eastern African town of Lilongwe, which I will call home for the next two months. I’m typing this while sitting on the bed in my bedroom, which is located on a secured compound near the CRWRC office. Larry and Linda, the RCA missionaries, on loan to the CRWRC, frequently open their home to volunteers, like myself, who have travelled from the west on various missions. Larry works in economic development and Linda is a teacher.

Here's a picture of the outside of the compound:

Early impressions: the heat hits me as soon as I step from the airplane in Nairobi – a dry heat, as although this is the rainy season, there hasn’t been a lot of rain yet. But I don’t get the full impact of the heat until I disembark in Lilongwe. We are shuttle-bused from where we landed to the airport. Miraculously I pass through customs without incident. This is surprising as I have travelled with a gigantic water filter and two laptops. Linda has furnished me with some “talking points” to explain about the filter and laptops. But when the customs officer, a woman, asks me if I have anything to declare, I respond, “What kinds of things should I declare?” She restates: “What did you bring with you?” I begin a rambling recitation, and she gestures me onward. Thinking she wants me to open up my suitcase for further inspection, I move to the side and begin to make opening suitcase gestures – instead, she just waves me through. Later I am told that the people in the Nnkoma Relief have prayed that the water filter parts would make it through.

Linda is waiting outside with a sign “Roseanne” but I recognized her from the newsletters which she and Larry write on a quarterly basis. She takes me to her vehicle and we drive from the airport, on the outskirts of town, to the heart of Lilongwe. All along the way we see people along the side of the road, women carrying large clumps of branches on their heads, children in small groups, wandering around, one man, holding a small clump of greenery, presumably for sale. Linda tells me, as a van full of people drives by, that people are known to reach into a vehicle and grab stuff, so you have to keep an eye on your possessions. It’s tropical so we pass a lot of palm-type trees, red dirt and green grass (thanks to a recent shower).

Over the last few years, the number of people in Malawi with motor vehicles has increased exponentially, so most of the drivers on the road are inexperienced, and pedestrians seem almost unaware of the danger posed by these often careless drivers. I sense that a lot of my time here will be spent dodging incoming traffic. I can’t imagine having to drive here - to round out that decision, I note that the driver’s side door is on the right-side, England style. As we braked at one point, a small, sad-looking boy came up to the vehicle and said, “Mama, I am hungry.” Linda didn’t respond to him – later she told me that begging is an organized thing – adults will have a group of kids who go out and beg for them – like Oliver Twist’s Fagan.  Being marked by my skin as a Westerner, I expect this will be ongoing. Actually, I would observe that the majority of the people I meet have been sad looking and poor. There are two classes here – the poor and unemployed and the privileged class. When most people are barely surviving, even those we consider middle-class are privileged. There’s a deep divide between those with money and those without.

We went shopping and spent about $200 US, which becomes 300,000 kwatchas here. It’s weird to see products like Brownie mix going for $12,000. The more processed and instant the product, the higher the price tag. All of what we would consider convenience food, and pretty much anything packaged, originates from South Africa. Very little is produced in Malawi – with the exception of maize, which is grown here then exported elsewhere, then, reshipped here! So people end up purchasing their own product at inflated prices. Fundamentally, this is wrong, and explains part of the poverty that I see.

In the evening, we met up with a small group of people who belong to Partner’s Worldwide and Africa Works. Partner’s Worldwide was started by a man from the CRC. They are in Lilongwe to see if they can drum up support.