Red Out Loud

1-25-10 to 1-29-10

            I won’t write about this week in days, it happened differently. I mean, clearly, there were days, but they ran together like one, as I can see is probably the case for many of the villagers. The village activities, each with its own ceremonious action, repeat themselves daily, from preparing food, cooking, eating, farming, feeding the animals, fertilizing the fields, laundering clothing, washing dishes, cleaning the home, school, study, prayer, church or simply sitting in the shade to shield from the sun for a moment. Each activity is intricate in its process and takes long. Things move slower in the village and it has taken me a moment to ease into the slow pace and lifestyle in Malawi in general. This week I found my groove and have fallen into place. Our routine has thickened with only some variation.

            As I mentioned, Joanna and I are staying in a small home on a compound that is part of the village Mcomgamira (Tiyambe Nawo). The family is the wealthiest in the village with a bustling business selling crops. This week I watched them sell mounds of peanuts daily in sacks that were taller than me. Mama sat on the ground by the cow pen and counted them out, separating the good peanuts (they call peanuts ground nuts) from the bad and piling them into tarp sacks. Two men arrived daily on bicycle to collect the sack. I am amazed by the way they transport themselves in this country. There are mini buses, cars, bikes, donkeys and feet. Many people transport heavy material to and from the trading centers right on the back of their bicycles. How they pedal their way through and bear the weight of their heavy loads in beyond me. They manage. Some even manage barefoot.

            These ground nuts are very important to the Benesi family survival during this period of the year, the rainy season. They are also becoming increasingly important to me! One of the best treats the village has to offer, villagers unwrap these nuts and roast them by hand over the open fire. These nuts have nourished me through a few instances in the village.  The first afternoon we spent in the village the family served us peanuts raw. I can remember Joanna’s face distinctly as she turned to me and said, “I think I just ate dirt.” Ok, so when they are roasted they are far better.

            Mama insisted on taking us on a tour of the village on Wednesday afternoon, so that we could see the way, as she put it, “we Malawians” live. Turns out that “we Malawians” live nothing like the Benesi family and any complaining I did about size, lack of space, dirt, bugs, smell quickly got lost in last week when I saw the way the rest of the village lived.  We walked down the long path that separates the Benesi compound from the rest of the village, stopping along the way at different homes. It was a very hot afternoon. I am not sure I have accurately described the heat to you. But it is inescapable. It inhabits your insides with every breath. Perspiration beads rise to the surface of your every exposed and unexposed body part. The only time the heat subsides is in the evening, after a bucket bath. Hit the bedroom, though, and it floods back. The day of the walk was no different. The heat attacked us. But, as Joanna has advised, I “reframed,” or rearranged the experience of the heat into something somewhat enjoyable or at least I did my best to ignore it and smile through. The first home we stopped at had the typical scene. Mats outside where women and children sat, washed, prepared, lounged and a group of small huts. The small huts, that can house up to 6, 7 maybe more, have small windows and therefore very little ventilation. Some have furniture, some do not. All huts seem to be furnished with, at the very least, the “bamboo mat” and the “wooden chair.”

            I have found respite in this commonly found wooden chair, on many occasion, after a long walk home in the sweltering heat from the center. You’ll often find me pull a wooden chair under the shade of the tree in front of the Benesi home. While Diana and Mama work through the hottest hours of the day, Joanna and I take a breather in the shade on these straight back chairs, the only relief from the heat and from a trying morning with the children. Really, the only space that we have. Riddled with guilt for sitting while Mama and Diana work, we take breaks from our break, walking back to the kitchen, cooking and animal pen area to try and help in one way or another. A short time later, you can find us back on those wooden chairs.  “Go foh blake!” (or, go for break, rather) they scream in the nursery school to the students when it is time for their bathroom break.

            The first home we visited during our walk through the village had three rooms. None were larger than a typical New York City kitchen. There was a mat on the floor that Mama and Diana insisted on sitting on, the woman of the house took what was left of the clay floor. She had brought in two wooden chairs for Joanna and I and insisted on us using these instead of the floor. Though a welcoming environment, I still felt uncomfortable in the heat and this wooden chair was a welcome relief! I did feel a pinch of guilt to take a chair while the others sit on the floor, it seems to be the custom, so I go with it. The home was dark, the floor was dirty and it became clear that the chickens and goats slept with the children in one of the sectioned off areas and the other area was where the parents slept. Though in actuality dark and dingy, it was still somehow full of color. Yes, the home is only made up of shades of brown, from the straw roof, to the clay floor, but the house colored with the laughter of Mama and her friend. The door remained open and the green from the trees outside showed through. The women dress in extremely colorful garments that glow in the light of our camera flashes. They chatter and giggle. No matter how I try to capture a picture of the dire circumstance, all I get are colorful happy shots and I wonder if my eyes are lying to me.

            The village homes vary from that point on. We walk for one or two miles, I am not very good at estimating distance. We meet many women, children and some men that are still on their lunch breaks from the fields. Most sit outside on mats, the homes are far too small to lounge about in, the culture here, even in the rain, is to sit outside. With every home we were so graciously invited into, it was made very clear to me why sitting outside was preferred. First off, there is little to no room indoors and secondly it is hot as hell, third, there is work to be done outdoors.  That said it seemed customary to invite us into the home to sit, chat and ask questions.  The custom of inviting guests in and welcoming them so graciously is one we learned in grade school at the Jewish school I went to and is a custom I am so inspired by. The same custom, small huts and all, exists here in this village. With little to offer in terms of space and food, the villagers make it up in love and laughs. The walls of most of the homes, furniture or no furniture, were covered with posters of the president and every home was equipped with a battery-operated radio, the connection to the outside/modern world.

            We stopped in a tea room, which essentially looks like a small bar in a hut, that only serves tea and scones. It is often times frowned upon for men to spend time in the tea rooms because they should be spending time and money at home on their growing families.

            There was a larger home we stopped in. Furniture was scarce, just a table, old sewing machine (I mean a manual sewing machine, not an electric one), a few chairs and rows and rows of clay bowls and roasters, made by hand by the homeowners that are sold in the trading centers and elsewhere. This home was the most comfortable size wise, appearing to have about 3 small bedrooms and a very large living area.  We sat in this home for a while, talking about the craft of making clay bowls, our stay in the village and what life was like in the village. In each home I made sure to ask how long each family had lived in the village and whether they finished primary school, even maybe secondary school. Most had quit school by grade 2 or 3, some were unable to read or write and all had lived in the village for generations. They married often at 14,15, 16. We met two 17 year old mothers on walk home along with one of their husbands, who must have been 18. Carrying their newborn babies through the fields on their backs, proudly, unafraid of infection, even as newborns, your life was in the field. Until this point I had assumed these children were carrying their mothers children on their back. Turned out, they were mothers themselves. Seeming content with the village way and perhaps not knowing of anything but the village way, the people answered my questions with cheer.

            Mama took us to the other side of the village entirely to visit the home of her best friend. Her best friend had 6 children, a few of whom were married, all lived on their little compound with their children, farm animals and a living room full of a couch set and piles and piles of maize and peanuts. This family apparently did very well with farming, however none could read or write so were often cheated out of money and change. 4 children, one grandmother and one pregnant daughter in law sat on the floor in front of the large pile of maize cracking open peanuts. Everyone helped. Children began playing jacks with the peanut shells and eventually the group sat deep in a pile of shells while one of the children took them out to roast. He brought the bowl back in with a bowl of water for washing. I pulled two sanitizing wipes out of my bag (fearing this was rude, I could not help but clean my hands appropriately), cleaned my hands and dug into these roasted peanuts. A perfect mix of sweet and salty I chomped on many of these peanuts. This was the last stop on our journey, we did not have water to sip on, so these peanuts revived us. Mama stayed to chat the longest here, and though most of it was indecipherable Chichewa, it was a very soothing sound to listen to women chatter and giggle away, Joanna and I just sat, listened and watched. And I ate peanuts!

            Eventually we were off. I insisted on finding one of the chiefs of the village, Jifisi (which means Hyena) who is also, coincidentally, Mama’s stepfather.  We found him on a mat surrounded by a bunch of men, young and old. Mama called for him. I love this man! He is old and thin as a rail. His beard is gray and his face is so happy. It is not common in Malawian tradition to hug. Their greetings are valued, but they involved a script of Chichewan phrases and a handshake, rarely a hug. Jifisi hugs! It is so warm and delicate and grandfatherly.  There is no replacement for my own grandfathers, but he does make a perfect Malawian grandfather. Joanna shoots an adorable picture of us. Though we cannot speak a word of decipherable language to one another, there is a bond in the joy we both feel for meeting each other. Many smiles and many laughs!

            Upon our return to the Benesi compound I was relieved to sit on their lace covered couches in their living area, complete with wall unit and rug. I was happy to use the latrine, which seemed bigger than the others and I welcomed a steaming bucket bath and reveled in the wealth of the way “these Malawians” (the Benesi’s) actually lived.

            I have talked much of the peanuts and they showed up once more in our week at the village. We made peanut butter from scratch! This was Bertha’s idea. She pulled out what looked like an oversized mortar and pestal (guacamole making set) that was actually a HUGE wooden rod and deep, hand carved wooden bowl. We hand cracked a pile of peanuts all together on a bamboo mat. It was dusk. Bertha (who last week I was calling Bethe, but learned this week, that is only the way the Chichewan accent pronounces Bertha) took the pile of peanuts into the cooking area and roasted the nuts by hand. She brought them out, dumped them into the huge wooden bowl and the beating began. We beat those peanuts for over an hour, removing them every 15 minutes to sift them, creating a pile of peanut dust, essentially, that would then be added to the butter that was slowly taking shape. We added a little salt and within an hour or two had the richest most natural tasting peanut butter I had ever eaten. I hope to try this at home, though without the wooden rod, Bertha and the ground nuts, right from the earth, I am not sure it will be the same thing at all.

            Getting to know the village intimately this week I thought hard about what I was doing there. Like machinery infringing upon a fresh field of flowers, we are foreigners entering a primitive village with our futuristic, wasteful ways and suggesting, in a way, that these people change, be more like us. That is not actually what I am suggesting, but sometimes I walk the dirt roads as children and adults alike call out to us “Azungos!” and wonder if they see us this way.  I see the value in introducing some new values to this culture, but have no intention of changing them, so to speak. There are moments I think of our culture in America, how moving forward and exposing ourselves to every bit of technology out there has led to the pollution of our earth and our minds, to needing and wanting things so unnatural they are entirely unfeeling. We are so removed from human contact and from the goodness of our earth we speak to each other almost exclusively virtually and we eat foods that have been processed so many times over they can stand in our cabinets for years without going bad. We think each day is fresh, because we make one discovery or another, but really, in some ways, we are stale and removed.

            There are, however, some things about the village life I would love to see progress; first and foremost, clearly, education. That is why I am here after all. I realize that each day in class we are working to shape a class full of pre school age children (only 65 which is about 2/3’s of the children who should be in attendance), hoping they will want to go to primary school, maybe even make it to secondary school. A few things would need to change. Their desire to learn, to realize that even farming as a business can benefit from an education and the ability to read and write is priceless, but they also need to find the money to afford secondary school fees. The village houses a primary school: a two-room schoolhouse with a chalkboard in each room. In the afternoons this school turns itself over to the adults. Each classroom is taken over by up to 70 adults of varying ages, my age, younger and much older, who want to learn to read and write. They sit every day learning the alphabet, sentence structure, language and math. I visited twice this week, once with Joanna and once without her. Both days Bertha led the way, close to 50 children followed us there each day. They almost poured into the classrooms themselves as I entered. Waiting, not patiently, right outside the door, they peered in at the classroom of adults as Chief Mcongamira introduced me to the group. It moved me to see that, though these people had not been motivated as young people to learn these skills, that they were now motivated to learn and they were doing something about it. I wondered what had inspired this desire to grow; this change in their status quo. It did not feel like they were being infringed upon but that they were caring for themselves. I was inspired.

            I could not stay in class for more than five minutes, realizing that the children outside of the open door were a complete distraction to the class. When I left for Malawi, one of my hopes was that after school I could work with the primary school aged children on music. Start a choir, teach them songs, learn songs from them. Being here I have learned that organization is not their strong suit and without the language to back it up it is hard to even instruct the kids to come back on a regular basis or even to repeat line by line the songs I want to teach them. To be honest, it is hard enough to get them to even spread out to make a circle in an efficient way. They surround me in piles. Laughing, pushing, screaming they are in awe of me from my camera to my white skin. So, we start. I manage to get them to create a circle of sorts. We sing through “twinkle little star”, start simple, than onto “Kumbaya,” they catch on, but I realize it might be more fun to start with songs more familiar to them, so I pull out what I have learned from our evenings dancing with Bertha and her little troupe of girls. The words are jumbled but I say “Ah Jigga, Jigga,” (Jigga means baby) and this inspires a full on dance party. They dance around me, call me into the circle, dance themselves into the circle. The movement is precise and a signature style I cannot attempt to emulate, not that I was ever much of a dancer! It is a mix of ages, I see familiar faces from the nursery school and I see 15 year old boys and girls, or women and men as the case may be in this village (married and parents by the age of 17). It is overwhelming to think of trying to organize this group into any sort of choir, there must be 100 of them. Older women sit protected by the shade of the school building, in the mud, watching, clapping. Young women and their babies sit on bamboo mats under trees. It is all beautiful chaos, but I think that with 3 and half weeks left, it may be near impossible to hear a group of these gorgeous kids sing an entire English song start to finish. By the next day, Joanna joins me, we come with Bertha and the rest of our troupe of girls from the Benesi camp. Equipped with soccer ball again I try to organize the group, a soccer game and a dance/song circle. We spend a couple of hours on the field. After some time and help from a shy Bertha we get a soccer game going and another piled up circle of kids chant authentic Chichewan songs. It is far from organized, but I feel it brings some energy to the village and an activity for the kids.  When we were ready to leave a majority of the children followed us, I prefer to think of it as escorted us, to the path leading to the Benesi’s at which point Bertha had to turn around and in Chichewa tell them to stop following us! Some stragglers continued on, but for the most part, dispersed. Hope to try again on Monday!

            That day prior to our after school “activity” we lounged about on a bamboo mat in the shade of my favorite tree. Mama and Diana were tired of working and they suggested the mini break. We brought playing cards with us and we played a Malawian card game under the shade. It was a glorious break from the heat and it felt good to spend this time midday with Diana and Mama. We laughed through the card game, riddled with convoluted rules. I opted for my wooden chair for much of the game. I love that thing. Joanna spread out, finally being able to stretch a bit.

            A 21 year old boy named Eddie stopped by. There is a lot of visiting in the village, apparently a custom that has sprung up only in the last 10 years. Up until 10 years ago most villagers kept to themselves and their family’s compound. In any case, Eddie stopped by, a handsome, smiling young man wearing an Obama t-shirt that brought back a whiff of home. He introduced himself to us, in English. He seemed proud to be able to communicate with us and I quickly found out that he was the first person from the village to be selected for the University of Malawi. He would start in February. He was so proud to bring us this news and it made him feel connected to us. Insisting on taking our phone number and e mail address he seemed committed to starting a friendship with us, deeper than that any other villager would attempt with a visitor. It was a deep pleasure for me to feel that because he was going to get a college education, he felt that connected us. It was so important to him to share this with us, as if to say he had advanced to our level. I don’t think of it this way, but it did give me insight into the people who do want to grow from within the village, educate themselves and be bigger than they already are. He expressed enthusiastic interest in what we studied and outright asked if there was a way we could help him attain his second degree in the states. It was a funny request, but it was well intentioned. He would be sure to e mail us when he finally got his very first e mail address from the University. I look forward to hearing from him.  He spoke of his devotion to Obama and I told him about the inauguration, what a special day that was and he told me, even all the way here in Malawi, that Obama was his inspiration. Whether he has achieved much yet in his presidency, to know that he is inspiring people to educate themselves and want to grow, means as much today as it did the day he was elected.

            Of course, there is school. That is why I am here after all. I can describe my moments in the village to you at nauseum, but the truth is, I am here to teach. Every day we wake up at 6:45, dress and eat and walk to school. We have set up our classroom with active stations for the kids and we have set up a schedule that has slowly taken shape.  The size of the classroom has grown since we started. It is supposed to be up to about 100 kids. None have ever shown up all together. The first day there were about 40 kids in the class and from then on it has been between 55 and 65 kids daily. They want to see the white people. There is usually just one teacher for all of the kids and she is tired. The first day we observed. What we saw was disarray. The children sat on one bamboo mat, piled on top of each other, singing some songs about months, days of the week and the alphabet and then essentially had unstructured playtime. The teacher quickly turned over the class to us and seems to be enjoying our stay as her little vacation. I know she probably needs one and I am also aware they are paid very little for this job, but we are not really here to take over. We are here to guide the teacher who will then be able to continue what we teach her when we are gone. The last week, we essentially taught. And it’s hard.

            We brought so many supplies with us, but the challenge becomes, how do we come up with a system that will sustain itself, how can we ensure that the teachers will learn to utilize the materials we have brought, consistently? We have a Social Dramatic area, a reading area, a blocks area and a Manipulatives area. We divide this oversized class into sections and guide the groups around the classroom from station to station. The teacher helps us lead the groups, it seems she is catching on to the structure of this play time, but with the size of the class I can not imagine how she will lead these 4 large, rambunctious groups on her own. It is a challenge to work on creating something that you worry may not last after you leave. And, this is only the beginning of the day.

            It is hard to describe the joy I feel to see them light up at the new activities and toys they have, it is also interesting to see how they choose to use the tools. The hard part is the discipline. The language barrier is fierce. We connect to them through modeling and acting. All are eager to learn, some more eager than others. They tend to push, shove and beg. Unfortunately, often times the louder and pushier kids are more paid attention to and quicker to reach the toys and blocks and other materials. I watch many of the well behaved children, the patient children, the quiet children fall behind. It is hard not to get frustrated with some of the behavior, behavior that, after observing much of the villagers interactions, these children are simply modeling from the older children and adults of the village. Pushing, grabbing, screaming, not ill intentioned. Without the language to explain why these actions are wrong our direction can often get lost in translation, even to the teachers. This week we have created signs with the Chichewan translation for simple directions, this may help. I feel guilty when I get frustrated and quickly remind myself that we are working with pre school children and a lot of the behavior is only natural. We try to also have fun with their exuberant personalities, their beautiful, loud voices that fill the room. I have taught them a couple of songs, we teach them English words, they absorb them like little sponges and I just love to make them laugh.

            Both Joanna and I are so eager to make sure that in the short time we have here, we make a difference, an imprint. It is so important for me to make sure our trip was not a waste, not just a time for the teacher of the class to take a break from teaching, not just a 6 week period where we got to spend time with a bunch of adorable children and with an incredible family, living in a challenging environment. Getting to know Malawian culture, I see that their way of life is joyful, musical, gracious, kind and very religious. The people are smart and motivated. As farmers, working class people and some higher educated people, all feed off a land vast and rich. But they are slow paced and while I would never want to take that away from them, many fear advancement, it seems, or at least advancement is not accessible to many, whether it is out of reach financially or simply not made aware to them. The desire to learn and be educated, at least in the village, is not as strong as I would hope it could be. I wish only to let this community know, as the Benesi’s have modeled, that education does not mean changing the lifestyle of the village.  The intricate care in which they live their lives, caring for each other and for the land is not something that should be changed, it is something to be revered. So is an education. I hope this belief is something that can grow for them. It seems that though these pre schoolers are only 3,4 and 5 years old, that this is the place to start inspiring this desire to learn.

            A few of the children have stuck out to me, learning all of their names is hard and, keep in mind, this is a classroom full of 65 children ranging in age from 2 years to 5, possibly 6 years old, so levels vary. I find myself relating to the rambunctious children. I was one myself. Divintina is the niece of Chief Mcongamira. She demands a large amount of attention and has a hard time with authority, but she is so smart, calling out the months of the year, days of the week, words of the songs with such vigor, I can’t help but warm up to her. She has followers of course, Beatrice and others, who while trying to impress us, as visitors and teachers, also follow Divintina’s lead. This can make for an immense challenge in the classroom in terms of quieting the group down, but it also makes for some great laughs.

            Monday will be the first time that the teachers join us from the two other nursery schools in Tiyambe Nawo, they will be bringing some of their students with them which is sure to be a chaotic mess. Joanna and I have been plotting as to how we will communicate effectively so that the teachers that are visiting can model the work we have done in their own classrooms. I only hope that the language barrier does not get in our way.

            I keep talking about the language barrier. If you know me, you know that speaking is something I not only do often, I am passionate about communication. I love chatting, talking, teaching, laughing. I have learned so much here about how to communicate without a common language. So many intimate moments stick in my mind of shared giggles, glances and formal Malawian greetings exchanged (Muli Bwanji or “How are You” is about as extensive as many of my conversations have been with the villagers). The children in class begin to trust us to such a degree that they feel comfortable enough to chat to us in Chichewa, of course that is when the connection is broken slightly, but it feels so special to know that they feel comfortable enough to try and communicate with us. At first it was all just laughs and wonder. Slowly, even to the children, without Chichewa as our first language, we are feeling connected.

            I feel that though I have never carried on a real conversation with Mama in a common language, that we are close and have shared so much. She has nourished us, protected us and laughed with us. We have shared personal jokes and with the help of Diana’s translations have talked about things as important as how to make the school more efficient and things as intimate as how she met her husband. Somehow the language is lost and we still relate to one another. She has taught me to cook, to clean and shown me her village. I feel very close to her and will miss her a great deal when we leave.

            The Benesi family never ceases to impress me with their intellect, desire to learn and accommodation to our strange American ways. All of their family members, including their lovely son, Patzo, who at 31, is just about to get married, have made a great effort to get to know us and reveal them selves to us. Our differences are beginning to erase themselves.

            Bertha, their niece, lost her parents a long time ago and lives with her sister in her grandparents home. She is 13 years old. I have gravitated to her, as I most often gravitate to young teenage girls, recognizing their plight as growing women. The fear, complexity and frustration involved in making the transition from girlhood to womanhood is something I remember well.  She, like Mama, is afraid to speak much English to us, but she enjoys being around us. She dances for us and plays cards with us. She taught us how to make delicious peanut butter. She is so devoted to her family, working around the house and on the farm, there are times I forget she is still a growing girl. She is full of strength inside and out and her quiet, graceful way is very inspiring to me. A hard worker and a wonderful student, I am so glad that she is a member of a family that I know will make sure she gets the exact education she wants and deserves.  She is someone, like Eddie, that I can see wants to grow infinitely.

            Religion is extremely important to Malawians, they are all some form of Christian. This week, a 25 year old girl who lives on the Benesi plot tried to convert me. It failed, but it was a very hilarious conversation.

            I will say that one of my most moving experiences yet has been going to Church. We went this morning and I feel so happy that I can add this in to this entry instead of waiting until next weekend, when the experience would no longer be a fresh one.  Everywhere we go we are treated as revered guests. Raphael, our driver and tour guide here, who works directly for Goods For Good, took us to church with he and his family today. Raphael is one of the warmest, happiest and most open minded people I have met here. I am so glad to call him our protector! His relationship with his wife is one to be emulated, he reveres her, respects her and loves her. Watching them interact makes me hopeful. He is close to his children and inspired by their dreams and goals. His son is 20 and studies music, a great passion of the whole family.

When we first arrived at church in Chitenze, we sat in one of the front rows and before we knew it were ushered up to the alter to sit facing the crowd for the entire 2 hour service. We were introduced and asked to say a prayer (this is where I faltered, but luckily, Raphael’s beautiful wife stepped in). Church is amazing. There are hundreds of congregants seated in rows. Bamboo mats are put down in the front to make room for the many children that attend. They are perfectly behaved, no talking, only devoted prayer and intent listening. The men, women and children are all bathed and dressed to the nines, in what are likely their fanciest suits, dresses and shoes. The service consists of many announcements, sermons and a collection of money. But the most impressive part of the service is that there were groups within the rows of hundreds of people who would get up to sing different songs and hymns. There are many choirs within one congregation and you know how I feel about the voices of the people in this country. They sing, a cappella, together, in perfect harmony. Raphael and his family are very involved in the community and particularly with the Gospel Choir who performed. Raphael, who is gentle and small in his build, got up to lead his choir with such strength and vigor I could not believe this was the same man we had gotten to know up until this point. His son played guitar and at one point only the family, Raphael, his wife and his two sons sang a song to the entire congregation. I was moved, nearly to tears. Music has a place in every language and in every life. It is free, it is emotional and it is valued.

          By the end of the service, we were asked to say something to congregation, when I tell you there were hundreds of people there, I am not exaggerating. AND it was a smaller group than usual, apparently some had trailed off to attend a funeral (there is a funeral daily here, FYI, which is a whole other blog entry). Knowing Joanna’s deep fear of speaking in front of large groups and she being well aware of my comfort in doing so, I took the reigns, stood up and thanked the group for having us. Many of you know, I have been to church a whole of 3 times in my life, I am Jewish and while none of it makes me uncomfortable, I have no education about what traditions, prayers or customs are involved in Church. But looking out into the audience/congregation, I felt extraordinarily welcome. It felt familiar. Not religiously, but it did remind me of my early years in synagogue with my family and my family friends. We all cared for each other like one big family, people who are not related to one another in any way, somehow come together, pray and spend time with one another. It was not different here. Others were caring for children who I am sure were not their own, while the parents of the children sang or prayed. I felt honored to be included in the service and welcomed so warmly. Of course, by the end of the service they asked if we could round up $100,000 dollars from our American Christian counterparts to help them complete the construction of their new, oversized church. This made me giggle a bit. It also saddened me slightly to know that this is where the money from the Church is going, as opposed to going to feeding the hungry or caring for the very sick, which is a much more impending matter in this country.  I only thought of this for a minute, we were ushered out of the Church and brought into a small room in the half constructed new church for bread and fantas and a meet and greet with Raphael’s gospel choir.  Before I get to this most moving meeting, I have to let you know that on top of the glorious singing and the extensive sermons, they did auction off a live chicken right next to me on the alter today. It went for $1100 Kwacha (or about 10 bucks). Just so you know.

            Meeting with the choir gave Joanna and I insight into a group of very talented teenagers, all highly educated in comparison to most of the teenagers we had met up until this point. They had gorgeous voices, effortless and voluminous. I am not even sure how these voices rise to the levels they do. Their harmonies are perfect, award winning, in my opinion, in fact. They sang two English songs for us and sang one in Chichewa. They even convinced me to sing for them. I sang Lean On Me, the only song I thought of that I knew that might somehow be able to be confused for being somewhat religious. I am shy about singing here as I am about singing spontaneously at home, but I let go. It was a joy, they backed me up with gorgeous humming and harmonies. One of my most joyous experiences yet. I hope to be able to organize some kind of singing in the village when we return for this week of work.  This group is not only super talented, it seems they are attached to each other and that they inspire each other to be good and dedicated to, not only their music, but their educational endeavors and their moral character, not unlike an organized group, choir or sports team at home. Raphael and his wife take great care to mentor the members and inspire their continued devotion to performing. Of course, it is all, in the end, Jesus and God related, which is not my cup of tea, but it inspires such beauty. I can’t help but be taken by it.

            I write to you all now from the house we stay at in Area 49, yes, the one with the toilet and shower, and in the distance I can hear another Church choir belting it out. Music like this does not exist in the states, it just does not. It is unspeakably beautiful. I will carry the memory of it with me, always!

            I want to let you know that here in Malawi, I have killed 3 bugs, seen 2 rats, one that jumped dangerously close to me and have spent up to 5 days without looking in the mirror once. I wear no make up. I check my e mail 2x a week. The truth is, none of this has phased me much. Ok, the bugs did, but I am getting used to it. This is a new me, but is not to say that I will maintain this new state of being when I return to the states. I do, however, welcome this variation of me.

            Tomorrow we return to the village for our third week of work. The weekend will be spent in Salima, at the lake, where we will relax, mid trip. The weekends have been spent, until this point, at our base in Area 49. We spend quiet time, getting as much space as we can possibly take in, but we miss our family. I miss the action, the energy and the love. I am looking forward to going back home tomorrow. Sure, the bed is not comfortable, but I am slowly learning that a big cushy bed is not really what it is all about.

            I have met many children here already, babies, toddlers and out and out kids. They are often being carried, cared for and chased after by different adults. The Malawians in the village don’t even know the difference between niece, daughter, cousin or friend, literally, their language does not account for the difference. They just look after each other. With the growing amount of orphans, losing parents to HIV/AIDS and other preventable diseases, these families and communities take each other in. It is more beautiful than I can describe to watch people care for each other, no question. To watch people spend real time together, because there simply are no disengaging distractions. To watch people entertain themselves with their spirits and their voices only. I feel very lucky to be reminded of what is important. What is really important in this lifetime.

Love you all and I really miss you very much!

Zikomo Con Bwiri (Thanks so much)!

Dee