Language

Being around all of these bilingual, trilingual, quad lingual and etc. people really makes one feel dumb. It’s what happens at an international school. The official language of the school is English, but if you listen, there is always someone jabbering into a cell phone in an unrecognizable tongue, or two kids shouting across the quad in Afrikaans. Gosh, that’s the beauty of the place.

In the past several years, as I’ve begun to think about my future, and what on earth I’m going to study and do with my life, the idea of French has been almost constant. I must learn this beautiful language. I will minor in French, then I will spend time in Francophone countries, and I will speak to my children in French and English. I really love the language and I think it’s extremely valuable to have the ability to speak to people who are different than you.

A thought has occurred. My friends who can speak several languages and understand even more have not necessarily learned them in a classroom. They know these languages because they have grown up in households and locations where it is a necessity. A friend of mine fled from Zimbabwe to Mozambique and became fluent in Portuguese in 4 months. As a single woman, she needed to support herself and the only way to do this was to learn the language. She had no choice and her desperation drove her to be hasty and precise. Her fluency in English, French, and Shona (native to Zim) weren’t going to help her in Mozambique.  And of course she takes for granted how incredibly impressive she is.

In most of Africa, if you want to make decent money, you must know English. Must. It’s a sign of education. Of course, I look at this in admiration but as my French teacher says to me weekly, “Don’t be discouraged, Marie Claire. Il n’est pas un chose facile apprendre un langue.”  It isn’t an easy thing to learn a language.

But I think the best way to learn a language is out of necessity. As English-speakers, a necessity to learn another language is becoming harder to come by. As the world learns English, we allow ourselves to get lazier, because the world makes it easier for us. I ought to feel relieved of this subject that is no longer necessary for me, but instead I’m disappointed. Strangely, I would love to be forced into a situation that pushes me to learn a new tongue.

So maybe, it would be a waste of time and money to study French in college. How much more can I really learn in a classroom?  I could use maybe one more year of schooling, but after that I think there is very little I can be taught. I have to speak it, hear it. I have to be immersed. This is a new thought for me.

African Rain

In Africa, rain is powerful. I don’t mean that necessarily in a physical sense, though it is, I mean its affect is powerful. It gets inside of you, into your bones. It’s beautiful because it’s so rare. I have never seen rain like I see it here. It sounds different, smells different, looks different, and it well may be exactly the same as it is in my hometown, but it’s different.

Before a big rain, clouds become big and mean. They turn dark, dark gray, bulging down from the sky, seeming touchable. The greening trees stand out boldly against the angry, floating, gray masses. You can sit outside and literally watch the storm roll in like a great big hovering bird.

Today, I had no desire to get out of the rain. Despite the fact that I was wearing a white, partially see-through oxford shirt, I couldn’t help myself but to stay and be doused by the downpour. Me, who has been sweating nonstop for 2 weeks needed to experience standing in the African rain with my new African friends.

Things continue in the event of rain. At school, if there is cricket practice and it begins to pour, so be it, you’ll get wet. Afterwards it’s ten times more satisfying to peel of your clothes and curl up with a cup of Chombe tea.

The whole city is transformed in the midst of rain. Everyone is thankful for a break from the seemingly relentless heat. People relax in the presence of rain. Perhaps it’s the cool air and the light, chilly breeze. Maybe it’s the lack of fervent sunlight, and the fact that you can open your eyes all the way when you walk outside. Or maybe it’s the reassurance that for this year, there will be no drought, and at least there will be water.

The stillness in the aftermath of a rain is also powerful, as well as the strong, musty smell of the stuff. Obviously, the city streets are wet, but they are strange to me who has never seen them in this state. It’s all just really exciting. It’s a variation in the usual manner of things, and it goes on and on.

Coconut Cookies

I have been asked to compose an ode to something that has become so important to us here in Malawi that it’s almost indispensable.

 

Ode to Coconut Cookies

 

For 75 Kwacha

They’re Indispensable,

To say the least.

$.40 has never bought

Such delicious eats.

 

A thin,

Buttery biscuit,

A snack for the old and young

Like a savory, saccharine cloud

Resting on my tongue

 

In Malawi we have no

Parmesan cheese

But scrumptiously, indeed

We have Coconut Cookies

 

In its lackluster box

One would never suppose

Such a light, mesmeric taste

Inspiring this bit of prose
Jeff Oliver

Can eat a sleeve in one sitting

For the rest of the family

This is a pity.

 

 

 

Africa Time

I don’t know if it’s Africa, in general where I feel so completely at home, or Malawi exclusively. I like to think I have a special connection with this continent. Or rather, sub-Saharan, because I’ve never been north. It must be the way that time moves slowly, and you can spend all afternoon just talking to someone. Several weeks ago I expressed astonishment at the time, realizing how early it was, and a friend of mine shook his head at me and said, “This is Africa time. We move slowly here, just relax, Marie Claire”. So I did because I loved the way he said that. Africa time. Time is often completely irrelevant here. In the US, it dictates our lives. We would be lost without time.

If you come here you‘ll recognize immediately the carefree nature, and lack of stress. Or even in the midst of stress, the ability that people have to laugh at themselves. People have even commented on the pace in which I walk! And I’ve come to terms with the fact that no matter where I’m going, I move extremely fast! Why is it that Americans are always in a hurry? We are constantly trying to get through life faster and faster. We have no patience!

I’m quite proud of my new ability to loose track of time, move slowly, and spend an extremely large amount of time doing absolutely nothing productive. In the US, we are scolded for spending time idly, but in Malawi, loosing track of time is part of their way of life. Its fantastic!

The Farewell

The Farewell

To dance like I did. Nobody can dance like me.

When I dance I run away

I know that

All anyone wants is to be free. And by the way

Lets all decide for ourselves then. Perhaps that’s what

our fathers did.  This year I shed my

 

skin. On a smoldering hot day in Tennessee

the breeze is icy in the city of farewell. After a hollow embrace, I flew

away.

She just stands there.

Tears stood on her eyes.  A thin, gray woman with a trace of a

smile. Watching for a final

 

glimpse of her little girl. Because they’re

 

Scarcely connected by a string of electricity.

A tone distant,

and eager on the

Stupid telephone line. Someone said to me one time

 

You’re speaking to a

plastic box

 

I can’t see or touch or smell

that old smell.

That old perfume. Sweet to me and strange to others.

And five short years later I will

catch a trace of it in a public restroom, but its

Gone.

It departs as suddenly as it comes.

Mocking me as I recall the last time

I spoke to them.

And how I

Ran away so early for a

good thing but

a painful situation.

-          31 October 2009

Mulanje

6 hours up the mountain. 3003 m, thats almost 10,000 feet above sea level and i think, the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But it was the kind of beauty that you can only find in Africa. The arid, scorched yellow kind. The unknown kind. The kind that reminds me why i feel such a connection to this continent.  When you’re in the middle of it you feel completely removed because you could walk for ever and never see a building or a road, and because your in Africa, IN THE BUSH!

I was in my happy place on top of Mulanje Mountain. I think mountains are my comfort zone.  For 3 days we cooked over a campfire, hiked about on the plateau, took baths in the cold mountain springs, and got to know each other better.  Both nights it rained, and my lazy group tended to start trying to build a fire about that time every night. It was amazing the optimism we still felt, the six of us, sitting cross-legged in our mammoth tent listening to the rain. Even the sound of that was beautiful and uplifting.

We hiked to a giant basin called the ‘Crater’. Essentially, we were looking at the end of the world. Or so it seemed as we stared at an enormous, never-ending bowl. I sat down in front of it, my legs dangling over the edge thinking about how weightless and free I felt in Africa, looking down into an eternal abyss. We were infinite on this mountain. Bliss.

And suddenly I was homesick. I thought about my friend Meredith and my brother, Tim at home. Both of whom would find so much pleasure in this dry beauty.  I thought about the bleakness of dying and never seeing this magnificence that was before me at this very moment.

The hike down was nice. I was determined, but at the same time lost in thought. It was probably the reason that I tripped and slipped and slid so much. It was very rocky, but was made enjoyable by Michael Jackson’s greatest hits booming out of someone’s rucksack.

It was a perfect trip. It was breathtaking, and engaging, and just plain fun.  At the bottom of the mountain on that last day I felt mostly dirty, but also heartbroken that it was over. I will never for get the austere beauty of the Mulanje Mountains.

THIS ENTRY DEDICATED TO MY MULANJE GROUP:

Yu-luen, Roberto, Mike, Ruan, and Abraham

America the land of fat, stupid people

All Americans are fat and stupid. I don’t believe that, but everyday I am surrounded by people who think I am the only exception to that stereotype. The hardest part is that there are very few Americans in Malawi to prove the stereotype wrong.

I ‘ve been told that when Americans do come to Malawi, or other parts of Africa, they arrive off the airplane, head to toe in khaki safari suits, wondering where all the savannahs and wild animals are. I laugh because I know how true that is. To many Americans, Africa is a simple land of wildlife, desert, and poor, uneducated aborigines that are impossible to communicate with. A white person walking around downtown Blantyre in a safari suit is reason to laugh.

And of course they all have their opinions of each region of the US. And when friends found out that I hail from Tennessee, the land of Jack Daniels (and cowboys????) the jokes began to pour from the sky! The stereotype of the south is ten times worse outside of the US than inside the US. And as usual all they know are the negatives. Do you ride horses everywhere? Do you live in a forest? Is your house made of only wood? No, really? Well that’s not very American?!

My absolute favorite is when people try and tell me how racist the south is. The comments usually start along the lines of, “We were talking in history today about how racist the south is….” One can only assume that the British teachers at my school are just as anti-American as the students. I’ve heard about the global perspective of Americans, but OH how true it is.

And the worst question of all, Do you like America? My oh MY. After several weeks I began to catch on when asked this question. They were just sure I was another ignoranant American who thinks I’m the best, and so on… They couldn’t wait to bash in my face everything they know about why America is full of capitalistic cowards who don’t think of anyone, but themselves. This is problematic for me because I do love America, and I love the south, and what we try our hardest to stand for. We’ve made our mistakes, quite a few, but it’s a beautiful country with good people, and it does a lot of good in the world. Now, can I be educated and aware of the errors that my country has slipped up on, but still have pride and enjoy living there? It makes me sad that the general opinion of educated people in and outside of the US, is that America/ Americans are sliding down the drain into a increasing  mound of fat and stupidity.

Villages

Let me paint a beautiful picture for you:

Of barefeet, caked with dirt, oversized, dilapidated clothing swallowing threadlike bodies, dry, cracking fingers, tangled, rust-colored hair, round bellies, and skinny limbs. There are toothy grins, colorful patterns, throaty songs sung in loud, joyous acapella, and clapping hands. In a dark room with a thatched roof these people stand and tell us the struggles of living in the village of Katondo.

Njallah- hunger. A word that says so much about their way of life.  And what is the communal reaction to this word? Laughter! Together they laugh in the face of starvation, struggle. And perhaps that is the only way to bear it.

I sat on a log with a litre of water beside my left foot. Soon Carter waltzes along and begins to drink the water. Along come his new friends. They speak Chitchewa, but I know clearly what they want. There is no telling how long since they have last felt water on their desiccated tongues.  We have a limited supply in the car. In fact, this may have been the last of it. Claire makes sure that Carter doesn’t give water to anyone else. I continue to sit there, like a fool, baffled by the situation. To give or not to give? It wasn’t my water to give. It was the whole families’, and I knew it wasn’t enough for everyone. Do you know what I did? Nothing!

Now I kick myself. Ouch, ouch, ouch. What a stupid thing for me to do! I live with missionaries! Of course they wouldn’t mind if I gave the rest of the water to starving children!

These villagers sat before me, staring. Occasionally letting their eyes fall upon the child suckling their breast or laying in their lap. These people struggle together, tying them as one. This is there family, these are their friends. As a village, they share the joy of a new bore hole and withstand the adversity of hunger together. We don’t have this sense of community in the US. If we do its hard to come by. People live individually. We don’t ask our neighbors for help when we cant feed our children because its embarrassing. But in the village of Katondo the people live together in unity, and there is nothing to hide because they share the same struggles. The people of Katondo rely on each other. It is all they have. I have seen it, and its beautiful.

Just another day in Sub-Saharan Africa

Malawi in the early morning. Ahhhh. There is Busy-ness in the streets, men on bicycles carrying loads of large plastic packages full of whatever item makes their daily income, and minibuses swaying dangerously around every turn.

“Just another morning in sub-Saharan Africa.”

Next to me is Jeff Oliver, and behind me are Claire and Carter Oliver. We roll along the road and its typically quite silent except sometimes.

“Daddy?!”

“Yes, Carter.”

……. (silence)

“Carter?”

“Daddy, when are we getting a pet?”

“I dont really think we’re getting a pet.”

“yeah but  like what kind of pet are we getting? Like a kitty or a doggie or…”

“Carter, I don’t think we’re getting a pet.”

Its during this time that I can think about my day and pull my head together. Occasionally I look out the window and count people staring at me. But mostly I just enjoy the serenity and think about everything there is to think about.

“Hey daddy?”

“Yeah, Carter.“

“Do warthogs, uh do warthogs sleep?”

Sometimes I roll the window down and breathe morning air. Then a car turns in from of us and exerts a ridiculous amount of exhaust in our direction making it almost impossible to see, and quite difficult to breathe.

“I have a Kwatcha!”

“Great, Carter.”

As we pass a sign that says, ’10 mph’, we know we have  into the advanced into the developed world that is Saint Andrews International High School.

Transportation Frustrations

I’m a bit frustrated. I don’t understand how white teenagers in this country get around the city. Apparently it’s not safe for white people to walk, no one can drive until they’re 18, and everything is really spread out. What am I supposed to do? I’m getting tired of meandering around the house.

After school today I was brainstorming about things to do and I realized that no matter what I want to do, I can’t leave the house. Its not as it I could call a friend either. No one can drive.  I feel that I need some kind of outlet, some way to escape every once in a while. I really want to purchase a bike, but I’m not sure if it’s even worth it because im here for four months only.

I enjoy being outside, being alone, feeling independent, watching people, breathing fresh air, discovering new things by myself, and quite literally seeing the road from a different angle. in a car, especially in a new place, passing something at 35 mph isn’t quite enough time for me to sufficiently see it. There is a certain satisfaction from walking. You notice things walking that you have never seen, yet driven past a gazillion time. Right now I’m craving that satisfaction. So maybe you can understand why this might be frustrating for me.

I have never realized how much I rely on always having a car at home. Or how much of the security of my neighborhood in Nashville I take for granted. In fact, I have often thought of my Nashville neighborhood as relatively unsafe. Now that seems entirely absurd.

It’s not that the neighborhood we live in here in Blantyre is dangerous; it’s just a different scale. As a young girl, the hazards of taking a lone 30 minute walk up the street and back are questionable.  Every person I talk to has had something different to say about it. And the ethnicity of each person weighs heavily on their answer.

Chimwemwe, a Malawian friend says it’s fine to go on walks by myself as long as I wear trousers or a skirt past my knee. Clemmie, an English friend from St. Andrews who has lived here her entire life says that it’s almost never a good idea.

Is it worth the risk? Probably not.  My heart says “Take the risk, Marie Claire! Explore! Since when are you one to be cautious?” My head says, “Are you mad?! Anything could happen!”

I know, I know what that the obvious decision is, but I wish I could convey to you all that its almost worth the risk to feel newly independent every once in a while.

I hope it doesn’t seem like I am unhappy here because I’m very very happy.  Like many, I just have more to say about the things that bother me and frustrate me than the things that bring me joy and contentment. I’ll try to balance it out a bit more in the future. I’m enjoying myself very much and so far this experience has been a fresh breeze for me. Each time we discover some new place or some unexplained aspect of the culture is uncovered to us, I remember why I’m here.