misplaced nostalgia

A song comes on that reminds me of my life in Washington DC. I think back to the time I spent in that city, the first big city that I lived in. I try hard to picture the streets, to see my daily sights, to remember my life as it was in that city. It strikes me that my home is here in Zomba now, as thoughts of the glowing street lights, driving on the right, the Giant supermarket in Columbia Heights, and being surrounded by Americans and Latinos seem so foreign in comparison to the dusty roads, the banana trees, the ad hoc markets and being a muzungu (white person) in Africa.

The feeling of a misplaced nostalgia is not new to me. My time in New Zealand and then in Bolivia elicited similar feelings. I think back to my life as it used to be, longing for something or—more pressingly—someone, I idealize those moments, yearning for them only to realize that my place is here now. I am at the same time content and frustrated. There is sacrifice in moving across the world, but yet there is also a gain in perspective and the opportunity to live anew without fear or hesitation. Experience encourages me to keep moving forward with a willingness to venture in new directions and explore new thoughts and emotions. I grasp tightly onto the manner in which I have learned to live my life, embracing all that surrounds me, and continue searching for that next place, the next lesson and perhaps someone with whom to share it.

Those who do more than endure

Yesterday I spent the day out in the community. The National Association of People Living with HIV/AIDS in Malawi (NAPHAM) was in town with their drama group and they performed at two community-based organizations that provide HIV/AIDS services. It was a long day for me as the events were conducted in Chichewa making it difficult for me to follow along. However, it gave me ample opportunity to think about what I should write about next.

On the way out to the first community we passed by a funeral, seen from the branches laid across the road to alert those passing so they can slow down and show respect for the dead. The driver of the bus slowed accordingly and softened the radio, which temporally dampened the joyous mood of the actors on board. Once we passed over the second strip of branches the music was revived and the volume of conversation quickly rose.

As we were watching the first performance, I was struck by a small boy with a distended belly and blondish hair–familiar signs of malnutrition–who through hazy eyes knelt down near me, placed his forearms on the ground for his head to rest on and quickly fell asleep.

Both of these stories partially describe my experience here. They serve to illustrate the depth of poverty which embraces much of Malawi. However, these stories in isolation do not do justice to the people that endure them on a daily basis. For they are strong enough to bare the constant loss and the pains of hunger without losing their startling ability to warm your heart with a glowing smile and kind eyes. The bus rolled on to a vibrant performance and the small boy got up to go off and play with his little friends.

This strength of character did not escape the drama group. With their play, they walked down the path of HIV infection and the saddening stigma experienced by so many. And with tears in their eyes and frowns covering their faces, they would explode into radiant smiles with the tears still running down their faces to a wave of laughter and applause from the audience. Quickly as it came the smile would disappear into a look of confusion and fear as the actor lashed out at his wife or neighbor. The dramas were roller coasters of emotion that cleverly illuminated the lives of their audience in a way that encouraged acceptance and coexistence. For me they were a reminder to write of more than the ugly and strange face of poverty, to acknowledge those who do more than endure.

Lake of Stars

Ice Cream and Frozen Pizzas

When I get frustrated and have an internet connection, I go to craigslist and search for used motorcycles in the Washington DC area. The other day I found a black 2002 BMW R1150R with 40K for $4500. It was almost too much to take, the thought of such a beautiful and powerful bike on the back roads of Virginia, free of goats and bicycles overloaded with charcoal swerving back and forth. It is fall now back home. The leaves must be changing colors and nothing sounds more appealing than a ride through the hills.

I am at that point in time when trip back to the US sounds very appealing. Work is going well, but it is the hot season and with the humidity at almost 100%, I sit in my office at 8am and begin to sweat. This time of year I can understand why things move slowly here. With your clothes sticking to you and your bug bites itchy, thoughts can quickly slip from urban health indicators and the procedures to collect them to a cold drink in the early evening with friends back home. Air conditioning, good restaurants and even supermarkets make for exciting thoughts. Don’t get me wrong, I am happy to be here, but a short hiatus back to the land of ice cream and frozen pizzas sure is tempting.

They tell me that as the rains start the temperature will fall. So I will keep taking my three cold showers a day and make frequent trips to the swimming pool to deal with the heat. And I am adjusting my work schedule and my expectations to get the important tasks done and follow them up with siestas in the shade. Writing this blog is the first of those tasks today, so I am off to the shade!