Banking with Bwanas

I walk into the crowded Standard Bank in Zomba. The odor of a hundred people who walked to the bank today hits me in the face as I walk in. They all stand in a long snaking line leading up to a few open counters, with tellers handling stacks of 500 note Kwacha bills. They are the largest denomination worth about three US dollars each. If I were a middle class Malawian, I would now be residing myself to a fate of waiting perhaps an hour or more in this line just to deposit a few thousand Kwacha, the equivalent of fifty or sixty bucks.

But I am not a middle class Malawian, at least not any more. Since I left the Peace Corps, were I made about as much as an average college educated Malawian as a volunteer, I’m now in a different social class. I own my own car. I live in Mulunguzi, the 90210 of Zomba. I travel to the lake for weekend get-aways. I am the director at work and I have four employees at home. I am now a bwana, a boss.

Now when I walk into the bank, I walk through the crowded lobby and locate the staircase leading to the second floor. I walk up the stairs, pass a vault on my right and head into the next office. Faith recognizes me when I walk in, saying “Good afternoon Mr. Dalious, how can I help you today?” I sit down in a clean and comfortable chair, which seems always to be empty and waiting for me. Faith, my priority banking representative, hands me the form I require to withdraw or deposit funds. I either surrender or accept a large stack of Kwacha, a few hundred dollars, and thank Faith for her time. I am already on my way back down the stairs, through the lobby and out the front door. On my way out, it seems like no one has moved in the lobby since I entered, and that more than a few people are looking at me inquisitively. But then they realize that I am a bwana.

Being a bwana comes difficultly for me. I don’t feel like I have worked all that hard to get here; it seems more like a privilege or inheritance for being born in a certain place. Nor do I want to be a bwana. Its not that I do not want a car or to live in a nice house, but rather that I wish everyone would have the opportunity to acquire such things. And I don’t mind being an employer, in fact I am coming to enjoy it, but I would like to think that all my employees could hope to one day rise to my position. This is not the case in Malawi and given the current state of affairs, it doesn’t seem like it will happen any time soon. The problem with being a bwana here is that with the status you are granted an unjust entitlement to have what you want while others go without.

So what can I do? I answer when someone calls out bwana. I enjoy my mobility and my comfortable home. And I do my best to respect those around me. For I have been around long enough to know that there is little I can do personally to lift this country out of poverty, to create opportunities for those who have been given few, but also to know the worth of treating those waiting in line, the people who work for me and even the crippled beggars waiting outside for loose change with the respect they deserve. Though it often feels like an insignificantly small gesture to acknowledge someone, the alternative is to deny that which not even a bwana should be entitled to deny, an individual’s dignity.

A journey home

Down four steps, the asphalt is still damp from the midday showers. The air is cool, but humid as the sun begins its decent. Pedaling out the gate, barefoot villagers pass carrying loads of firewood off the plateau balanced on their heads; men, women and children. The load varies accordingly, though they are all carrying more than one would deem possible for the length of their journey. Down the hill, soldiers wait idly by the road to have their turn at driving the lorry around the bend and up the hill. The large ‘L’ warning all that they should be given wide berth as they learn to take the corner. Passing over the drainage ditch, which has suffered heavily under the weight of the attempts gone wrong, I enter into a world of green growth. All matter of plants, urged on by the heavy rains, have begun their upward exploration is search of sunlight. Men swinging machetes respond with accuracy gained over a lifetime. The single track down across the bridges is dark brown with hints of glittery quartz. It shimmers as I glide quickly over the hills and down towards the stream. With the clambering of loosely nailed boards I fly over the stream and start to pedal again up the far side. The red bricks of the cathedral and the fresh green growth give a hint of Christmas as the temperature hovers around 80 degrees. Emerging from the green, the traffic rushes by in three directions. Taking the fourth, I continue downward. It is a long and steady descent from here which takes me past university students walking in pairs of two and three. The asphalt comes to an end, but my journey continues. Here the rich brown soil, cultivated into rows like corrugated tin roofs, gives life to future nsima paddies, and the road begins to show signs of the heavy rain, exposing rock and creating ditches. The plateau off to the left stands proud as magnificent clouds approaching from the southeast catch colorful rays of light. Rounding the corner, I slow, responding to the children. Mzungu bo!?! Bo, bo! Close now, their bright eyes and warm smiles regain the dignity lost to their dirty, hole-ridden clothes and lack of shoes. Riding past every day for six months now has only served to encourage their curiosity as they run along shouting greetings in English learned from an older sibling. Weaving through an unplanned community, I arrive to the grid like streets of Matawale. A right turn, followed by a quick left brings familiar faces calling out my name. Always the same: How are you? I am fine. How are you? I am fine. Thank you. Thank you. The green gate and tree laden with avocados signals the end of the journey home. In fifteen minutes, an experience, lived over and again, can prove to be as calming and mundane as it can a source of unexpected inspiration.

World AIDS Day

Today I co-facilitated a community dialogue with the faith community of Zomba City. We had Catholics, Baptists, Seventh Day Adventists, Muslims, Protestants and several other small denominations all in the same room to discuss the response to the HIV/AIDS epidemic. After introducing them to the concept of a community dialogue, we asked them to share their beliefs with the group related to human rights and HIV prevention, treatment, care & support and impact mitigation.

Allowing them to express their beliefs in an informative way, rather than a preachy way, we were able to go around the room and hear from everyone. With attention paid to the differences, but emphasis placed on the similarities, we were able to come out with an action plan that includes teaching religious tolerance, accepting people living with HIV/AIDS and continuing the dialogue by inviting additional denominations to the discussions. And that was just my morning…

After returning to the office to write some emails and prepare for my sessions with the new volunteers, I was called upon to teach an employee how to properly use a condom. This is not really within my scope of work, however our AIDS Coordinator was still out at her community dialogue session and I learned from my colleague that the gentleman was HIV positive and his wife was not. He came into the main office today, World AIDS Day, because his CD4 count was falling and he was afraid that his wife would become infected. Since his diagnosis nearly three years ago they have been practicing partial abstinence, but his failing health forced him to consider using condoms and to request food supplements from the city to help him recover.

As I taught this young guy how to put on a condom, I was struck by how unfair life can be. Here is a guy younger than I contemplating his actions and his death. I could see it in his eyes. He was scared and I was scared for him. As my colleague translated what I was saying, I had brief moments to reflect on my own life, on my own worries. Me, concerned about finding someone to love, versus him, concerned that his love will die because of him. I am telling you I could see this in his eyes, in how he held himself. It is a moment that I will not forget and one that will serve to humble me.

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.

Dark Star Safari

I have been reading the book Dark Star Safari by Paul Theroux for over three months now. Theroux was a Peace Corps volunteer here in Malawi during the 60’s, the final years of the British Protectorate. In the book he is documenting his present day travels from Cairo to Cape Town.

Each morning as I wait for my ride to the office, I sit on my front porch, read a few pages and reflect. Theroux is traveling mostly over land to experience Africa some forty years after serving as a teacher in a school near Zomba. His writing is highly critical of both the “agents of virtue” and the state of African development. Constantly questioning the charities running feeding programs and even the work of foreign teachers, he contrasts his memories to current realities, being disappointed by the resulting conclusion that things are worse now than they were then.

As a Peace Corps volunteer, it is not a cheery read. Theroux, turning 60 during his long safari south, is a man torn by his compassion for the continent’s people and his frustrated desire to see things improve. I struggle with his grim assessments and find myself comparing myself to those in his writing. Will what I am doing last? Or is what I am doing further stunting the development of an independent and productive Africa? And on a more personal level, will my compassion only lead to a frustrated and bitter life?

Professionally, it is my responsibility to continue to ask these difficult questions, to evaluate my work with a critical eye. However, I often think that being who I am and having experienced what I have experienced, I have little choice but to continue. I see my happiness in the fleeting moments when I connect with those around me, in the discovery of new places and ideas and I see the contentment I seek which rests in the self acknowledgement of my earnest, if modest, efforts. Though I am uncertain of my impact, I am confident in my good intentions and that is the best that I can go on.

So as I read of a journey south through the heart of Africa, I open my mind and my soul. I listen to the criticisms and doubt. I acknowledge the potential for benefit or harm. Daily I live the pages of this book and share in the experiences of so many others making small steps towards a more just world.

Rabies

Why push for health systems strengthening? Because there are not enough Global Funds, PEPFARs and President’s Initiatives to support our vertical response to every preventable or treatable disease out there.


I am glad the readers of this blog probably have no use for the following information. I wish that were the case for everyone.

Rabies is a viral disease that causes acute encephalitis (inflammation of the brain) in warm-blooded animals. It is zoonotic (i.e., transmitted by animals), most commonly by a bite from an infected animal but occasionally by other forms of contact. Rabies is almost invariably fatal if post-exposure prophylaxis is not administered prior to the onset of severe symptoms.

The rabies virus travels to the brain by following the peripheral nerves. The incubation period of the disease is usually a few months in humans, depending on the distance the virus must travel to reach the central nervous system. Once the rabies virus reaches the central nervous system and symptoms begin to show, the infection is effectively untreatable and usually fatal within days.

Early-stage symptoms of rabies are malaise, headache and fever, progressing to acute pain, violent movements, uncontrolled excitement, depression, and hydrophobia. Finally, the patient may experience periods of mania and lethargy, eventually leading to coma. The primary cause of death is usually respiratory insufficiency.

Worldwide, the vast majority of human rabies cases (approximately 97%) come from dog bites. Rabies kills around 55,000 people a year, mostly in Asia and Africa.

Source: Wikipedia @ http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rabies

Grieving

Our differences are so apparent, often intriguing at other times infuriating, it is easy to overlook that they are far outweighed by our similarities. Today I looked into the eyes of another human being and saw them grieving the loss of a loved one. The empathy experienced created a bridge of mutual understanding which made all of our differences seem as they are, insignificant.

And then there was one.

I arrived to Malawi with two fellow volunteers. We actually met in the Johannesburg Airport boarding our flight to Malawi. Mike O. was coming from Albania where he had served in the Peace Corps and then worked for several years with World Vision International. Richard was coming from a freshly completed Peace Corps service in Botswana, where he was working as a district AIDS coordinator. We spent two and a half weeks in and around Lilongwe for an orientation then were sworn in as Peace Corps Response volunteers by the US ambassador. Richard and I headed south to our sites in Blantyre and Zomba. Mike O. headed to the west for his site in Mchinji.

Backing up a bit in the story, I was recruited by the Peace Corps to serve as a response volunteer in Malawi, a job I was happy to take because I wanted work experience in Africa on health systems strengthening projects. Peace Corps was recruiting for 10 response volunteers that they planned to spread out over Malawi in an attempt to support the response to the HIV/AIDS epidemic. They only got three. I chalk it up to a limited pool of qualified candidates and well let’s say life. If you have finished the Peace Corps and have a graduate degree, you are no spring chicken. What you are is in that middle ground between running around and settling down. Mike O. and Richard were already married and a few years older than me. It was clear that we were all looking for something.

Well, a week into our service, Richard flew back to the States for his home leave. Having come straight from Botswana, the Peace Corps gave him a month to go back and catch up with his family and friends before returning to work. After a little delay, we heard that he was not coming back. So then there were two.

Mike O. and I got along great. He is a light-hearted guy that is quick with a joke (that’s what she said, Mike) but who also has a serious hardworking side too. We were the two response volunteers in country, Mchinji Mike and Zomba Mike. We hung out a few times when we were both in Lilongwe for work or a wedding, and we sent text messages, emails and called back and forth a few times.

Unfortunately Mike’s counterpart was a dud and it was difficult for him to get anything moving. The first time around in Peace Corps this would be considered a very normal occurrence and a process of growth for the volunteer as they experienced how things can come to a halt despite our best efforts. As former Peace Corps volunteers, Mike had experienced this already and was not up for a repeat performance. I can’t blame him. As Peace Corps Response volunteers, we expect tangible work assignments and the resources to accomplish them. I got lucky, as in Zomba I found a motivated counterpart and quickly got funding. Mike made the best of his situation for a while, but then made the decision to go home, a decision that I fully support, though I am saddened to see him go.

And then there was one. As the sole survivor of Peace Corps Response Malawi, I have to ask myself what it is that I am doing here. I laugh to think about the old Army commercial’s slogan, An Army of One. In development work, nothing seems more ridiculous than a sole person—especially a foreigner—trying to move seemingly inert government employees and policies and improve the lives of so many. Development is a collaborative process beset with trials and errors. It is a learning process that thrives on communication and good will. And it is a process that needs to reach a critical mass or it will simply stop. As one volunteer, I have to face the fact that it is unlikely that my efforts alone will have a lasting impact on the health and well-being of Malawians.

I need not only to finish my work here in Zomba; I have also to ensure that it is scaled up across the other cities in Malawi. I have to make the case that the urban population’s growth is bringing with it new health and social challenges, and if the government of Malawi continues to neglect the health of its urban residents by supporting a poorly implemented decentralization of the Ministry of Health that favors rural service delivery, urban residents will suffer. My counterpart sees this and is working to change the current structure of health within the government. Peace Corps Malawi is also supporting my efforts to establish an urban M&E system for health, so that the cities can have a better understanding of the health of their residents. And of course we are lucky as there are only four major cities in Malawi, and there is a potential for placing new response volunteers in the other cities in an attempt to roll out the M&E system countrywide.

Will it work? I don’t know, but I am certain that I cannot do it alone. Peace Corps Malawi and the Government of Malawi will need to make substantial investments over the coming years to see this project to fruition. I only hope that I can set them rolling in the right direction.

Monday Morning

Monday morning rolls around. I wake up with two cups of coffee and head into the office. What to do this week? I have made my annual plan, my monthly plans, and each week I come up with a list of things to do. These plans help to keep me heading in one direction, but they are by no means day-to-day plans. You can’t force things here. It is a game of patience and diligence to accomplish anything. To know the right people, to approach them in the right way, to do so at the right time, and it often seems, to have a bit of luck; this is what it takes to check off each item on the list.

In a resource-starved environment often with under qualified though thoroughly networked staff, round about ways of accomplishing tasks develop that while being foreign to an outsider get the job done. When I get locked out of my office, there is not one person to go to. Instead I ask around until I find someone who happens to have the spare key to the room where the spare key to my office is located. When I am trying to obtain a copy of the reporting forms for health centers, I visit the health centers that refer me to the District Health Office then to the Zonal Health Office then to the central ministry and pick up an additional form or two at each place I visit.

Complicating things, at every step of the way there are three additional tasks that could be taken on. I am working to improve the coordination of the HIV/AIDS response in Zomba City by creating a monitoring and evaluation system that will collect key pieces of information from health providers in the city, which will be later used to make informed health programming decisions. However, right now we are not able to properly administer our bursary funds for orphan and vulnerable children meaning that there are children out there who could be in school but aren’t. We are not providing food supplements to city employees living with HIV which help them take their medications and retain their jobs. And sadly, I have just been informed that one of our secretaries, who has been cooking lunch for me since I arrived, has died from rabies after being bit by a dog this weekend. Apparently we need to revisit our rabies vaccination efforts as well.

In the face of it all, it is easy to understand how people can become demoralized. Some blows can take away your breath while others seem to deprive you of the air around you. However, day by day we make incremental steps towards a healthier Zomba City: by teaching an environmental health office how to use a GPS unit; by encouraging our data entry clerk to submit timely reports even to government agencies that are not cooperative with us; by incorporating rabies control efforts into our M&E system. Though they often do not appear in work plans and are difficult to measure and appreciate, they may be the most lasting efforts we make. They quite literally are the blood, sweat and tears of development.

On the way to work

A man pushes a young boy on a bike. A mother smiles as she carries her daughter. I am riding in the passenger seat of a car, and as we pass through this small trading center on the way to work, my eyes connect with theirs. For a moment I forget where I am. The context of the situation is lost to the simple expressions of joy seen in their faces.

This connection is precious in a place where you are often set far apart from those around you. Yes, I live in their community and I shop in their markets and at their stores. I travel their streets and say hello to their kids, but I am foreign to them. The place where I was born and the color of my skin are the most apparent, but also the least significant. They make me a foreigner, but they don't set me apart as our differing perspectives do.

Knowing other places, other people, other ways of living means that we see the smoking tailpipe, the innocent laughter of children, the piles of tomatoes and the bicycle taxi in a different light. The fact that I choose to be here—and could leave tomorrow—creates a distance between us. I could get a job that pays more in a month then they will earn in the next ten years. Basically, we have a different set of options available to us. No doubt, I have more. Though they too have access to options that I don't. The lives that they live are as inaccessible to me as my life is to them.

So as I move through this place I reflect on what it is that sets us apart and what unites us.

While it is the differences that draw our focus, that which we share is by far in the majority. It must also be our hope for a better tomorrow.

Agogo

A woman marries.
She has four children that survive until adulthood. Her husband is married to another wife and lives in the other household. The woman leaves the man and raises her four children, paying their school fees and caring for them while working a full time government job.

Her children have children.
Her oldest son has six children, but his wife dies and he does also. The children move in with their grandmother and aunts. Her other children, all girls, have five more children between them all. The girls are educated and get good jobs around the country. Then a daughter dies suddenly. A woman, now a grandmother to eleven children, is left with two daughters.

Her friends consul her.
“I am sorry for your loss”, “she was a bright girl”, “I am so sorry” they say. She grieves saying that she wishes her children would not die before she. The women tell her that it is the will of God and that she must carry on. To her remaining daughters the women say “you must look after your mother”, “this loss is most hard on her”.

A woman looks me in the eye.
In the midst of her loss, I am welcomed into her home. She introduces me to her family and friends. She teaches me new sayings in Chichewa and counsels me on gardening. She does so with a smile on her face and an interested tone in her voice. I see strength in her and wisdom. She is not a rock solely enduring life. She is far to supple for that. Instead she has allowed herself to be molded by the passing of time and events. She has grown like a tree from rocky soil and bent by strong winds, yet she is the root support for her family. She shelters them and holds them close.

She still flowers and her warmth is felt by those around her.