how i see it

The following is just a concoction of observations and opinions. This is just what I have gathered during my time here. I don’t know everything and I don’t claim to.

The more time I spend here, the less I think I want a career abroad, especially in a developing country. I will explain why:

     Working for the State Department! 

Wow- what a romantic notion to a youngin fresh out of college.

However, the more time I spend with ex-pats and their families, the more I think it is not for me. A lot of ex-pats I have met are foreign service officers (FSOs), a position that requires a lot of training and knowledge…… but for what? To sit at a desk all day in the Embassy, which is technically part of America? I’m not saying their work isn’t important or valuable, sure it is. They have helped Finn and I a great deal and I am glad to have the Embassy folks on our side. However, just for me personally I wouldn’t want a job like this. Working at the Embassy is a full-time job, leaving seemingly little time for exploration of a region or a way to genuinely fraternize with the local people. Sure, you make good money, but for what? To throw parties for other white people, and to buy plane tickets home? (Then again, a lot of people work at home to buy plane tickets here….ahem.... like myself). If you work for the Embassy, your house is provided by the government and is SUPER secure, and you can import anything from the States- anything from Pantene to HoneyNut Cheerios to barbeque grills. So basically what a lot of people do is make a little tiny America for themselves. But who can blame them; they have the means and familiarity begets comfort. Who wouldn’t want to be comfortable where they live? Who really expects an FSO or USAID employee with a family to move into an unsafe house in an unsafe neighborhood with no other white people around? That could be suicide. So, of course, a lot of ex-pats clump together and form communities. Within these communities, it seems like the members create mini-Americas or white-people-associations through groups and dinners and things of the like- to create a comfortable, familiar environment of support. Which is……I must admit- awesome. Some of the most fun I have had here has been at dinner parties hosted by other ex-pats. But I feel a little weird about that.

During these get-togethers, you either talk about:

1)    how backwards everything is where you are

2)    things you miss about home

3)    other countries you have been to and how this one compares

4)    when the next get together will be, so you can do it all over again

….. or you just play softball or ultimate frisbee to just forget about it all.

I’ve never seen white people getting together after work hours to talk about Malawian issues, development issues, or social issues just for fun- maybe because it isn’t really fun to talk about these things for the people working at the Embassy or at an NGO. They probably talk about it at work all day! Don’t get me wrong, I have met plenty of people abroad who genuinely love what they do and are passionate about their work. However, there are plenty of people like that in the States, who get together at dinner parties and talk about trips they want to take….

Working for an NGO abroad!

Wow, what a romantic notion to a youngin fresh out of college.

But DAMN does it seem like a different ball game when you actually try to make it happen. I have heard so many stories of people and met many people who either come abroad to volunteer or to work for an NGO and it is either a complete scam or just completely different than they thought it would be. Just because it’s an NGO does NOT mean they are organized, legit, or have anything for you to do! And, even if they are organized, legit, and have something for you do it; that may just be sitting at an office all day- the thing that drives many people out of their job in the US in the first place. A lot of people want to work abroad so they can be “hands on”, or working “in the field” to distribute either the money or supplies that other people have helped gather. However, why do so many deem this as more desirable, more important? Sure, you need someone to actually do deliver mosquito nets. Absolutely. But, that person may not even have that job of carrying out that task if someone else didn’t find a way to secure the funding, actually receive the funding, and execute the mission. Both are equally important but often the person who is doing the grant-hunting work is a) in America b) not as appreciated/recognized as the person “in the field.” All it takes to be “in the field” is a plane ticket. That does not make it cooler.

Living in a mud hut!

Wow, what a romantic notion to (some) youngins fresh out of college.

If I were really keen to do so, I’m sure I could arrange to go live in a mud-hut somewhere with a rural Malawian family. However, what would that really accomplish? I can pretty much imagine what that might be like:

Exchanging awkward pleasantries as we try to communicate

Wondering if the water/food is safe

Probably having a lot of diarrhea, therefore being dehydrated, therefore feeling weak- my least favorite way to feel

Praying I don’t get malaria

Reading a lot/writing a lot/thinking of home a lot

Wondering what the hell I’m doing there

Maybe learning how to plant corn or something…..something that will probably have little practicality in my life and I would just do it because it would be something to do.

 ….. and to what avail? Sure, it would be a very memorable, maybe even life-changing experience, and granted I have never done this before. But would I do it just to say that I did it, or because I genuinely wanted to put myself through it? I’m over doing crazy things just to drop it in a conversation and see people’s reactions. That a sign of immaturity. To me, one sign of a naïve traveler is the desire to do things just to impress other people, or to seem badass to others but try to play it off like they don’t care what other people think. Please. I definitely see that in people I have met in the past 6 months and also in my younger self. I’m guilty! But I can’t be annoyed with my younger self; she didn’t know any better. Shit, I’m sure in 5 years I’ll be looking back on my time in Malawi, thinking, “Man, she didn’t know a thing.”  

“Hi. My name is Kaitlin. I am addicted to profundity.”

I have said it before and I’ll say it again, I am addicted to profundity. I am addicted to huge experiences that leave me befuddled at first but then irrevocably changed in the end. However, it’s sometimes hard to remember that when you are in the thick of befuddlement. When the doubts start to set in and you question motives that you came up with months ago…… the only option is to either stick it out or go home. One question I have been asking myself lately is; Why do we love the struggle??? What, after scams, robberies, intestinal trauma, emotional trauma, and things of the sort, keeps us coming back for more? When I left Tanzania, I was so ready to come home. I had had enough of being called “mzungu,” of being ripped off, of riding in a cramped mini-bus, of the pollution, of diarrhea, of always worrying if I were exposing my knees…… etc. But for some reason as the months passed and my memories started becoming selective, I only remembered the positive things. Why, directly after I travel in a developing country (I haven’t been to many) do I relish in being home, only to find that a few months down the road I start to feel the tug back to the very things I was so sick of; back to the struggle?

I was once talking with my dear friend Hadley about my “addiction.” She listened very closely, as she always does, and then handed me this pearl: “It is easy to find things that are profound abroad- the hard part is finding them at home.” She is totally right- having those eye-opening experiences comes easy when you travel- it’s almost as if the world hands them to you on a plate. It is no more noble to search for profundity abroad than at home. All it takes to travel is money- that’s it. Yet we are still addicted to the foreign quest, still thirsty for the foreign unknown, which usually happens to require foreign currency. What I’m trying to learn right now is that I can still quench that thirst right in my hometown, just in a different way. That would be more of a challenge.

      So which is the right way to go? Travel with a noble purpose? Who defines what a noble purpose is? If your purpose in traveling is to see Mt Everest, I think that is just as valuable a purpose as going to Uganda to work for a non-profit. It all depends on what you want to do with your life, and what makes you happy. That’s what we’re all after anyway, right? Thinking about this, the other day I sat myself down to make a list of the Top 10 things that make me happy. Here is what I came up with:

Being with/near my friends

Being with/near my family

Being with/near my love

Good food

Exercising

Children

Being in nature

Seeing new things

Music/ playing piano
Feeling free/independent

Notice anything? All of these things I have access to at home.

 None require living abroad.

This is what it boils down to: despite my bouts of homesickness, in no way do I regret coming here. To turn this opportunity down would have been nothing short of foolish. Had I stayed at UNC my final semester, I could have easily been thinking, “Man, I could be in Cape Town right now!” though while I was in Cape Town I started to kick myself, thinking, “why was I so eager to give up something so good in search of something unknown?” And that’s just it- there is no way that I could have known, no way to ignore that powerful tugging to do come back to this part of the world. The whole point of this journey is to figure all of this stuff out. And it’s not even that I am learning the hard way- I think I am learning this the only way I can- by actually doing it. If I were in America right now and Andrew Finn were here doing this project, I would be working 24/7 to find a way to get to Malawi. Why are the “things you’re missing” always become so magnified when you’re away? To me, it’s just the age-old conundrum of wanting to be where you are not.

Road Trip

So. This has been one crazy week. We decided to take a road trip to Mulanje, a region in southern Malawi to do some hiking. "Oh, we'll just take the car!" HMMMM. LETS THINK ABOUT THAT. 5 people, a shit-ton of luggage, and extra petrol because you never know if there's going to be a petrol shortage. I think this journey is best communicated through photos. So, here we are at the beginning, PACKED into the car like some damn sardines.

Oh wait, did you see that face? Let's zoom in. I entitle the following 

"SKEPTICAL"

I had a feelin. Anyways, I decided not to fear too much, because a few days ago we couldnt help but spend the $1 to get this bumper sticker that we keep seeing everywhere:

Well. We must have been runnin low on the blood. Computer mal-function here, rainstorm there, emergency pee stop with crazy ants all over the place, a slowly deflating tire.... which eventually looked like this about 20 minutes outside of Blantyre:

 But the blood was still with us- we managed to change that sucker in about 10 minutes to our little spare tire that happened to be about 90% flat. Awesome. We also managed to somehow create a huge gash on the underbelly of the car because there was a dispute about whether or not to put the jack on the body of the car or the frame. I said the frame but I dont think anyone listened. Anyways, this postponed our trip a great deal and we realized we would not be able to summit. 

BUT WE STILL DID NOT LOSE HOPE!!

We finally made it to Mulanje to see this beautiful view:

I also realized that one of the most fun things you could ever do on a road-trip here is to just stick a camera out the window and snap away. This entertained me and the other passengers for HOURS. (big word up to Finn who drove extremely well the entire time)

Here are some of my favorites:

What an inspiration. 

The colors!

The hike itself turned out to be ok. With the lack of sleep and substantial food to eat, it was pretty rough for me on the way up. But the views were great. There were many other disasters on this trip that I dont even feel like going into. In the end we had a good but exhausting week.

*whew*

a day in Chakhala

Last week we had a narrative scheduled in a rural area in Dowa called Chakhala. Here are some of my favorite shots:

Finn, the person we interviewed, and our friend/translator

This man is amazing. He also helped translate for the book, The Boy Who Harnessed the Wind

It actually looks like this. Everyday.

On the way home

Is that the best you can do?

The other day I sat down and did a little personal survey of what I have learned since I arrived on this continent last August. I thought about the legacy of apartheid in South Africa, how Africa’s people and resources are in a perpetual state of exploitation, and how seldom you can trust people. I tried to come up with something profound, something positive, something moving. However, the phrase that kept rearing its head despite my efforts to keep it at bay was, “The world is actually a lot shittier than you thought.” Now, c’mon Kaitlin, the eternal optimist, you’ve GOT to do better than that! Is that really the main lesson that I’ve learned in the past 5 months? Then some things I have found frustrating or hard about my time in Africa bubbled up. I shared many of these while I was in South Africa, so I’ll mainly focus on ones I have noticed in Malawi.

First of all, the notion of integrity is a different beast here in that it doesn’t really exist. The fact that I would be able to bribe my way out of anything may seems like it might be cool, but it actually really bothers me. Get caught speeding? Just pay off the cops! Want to break into someone’s house? Just pay off the guards! If the people whose job it is to ensure my safety lack the integrity to refuse a bribe and therefore enforce any form of law, where do I feel safe, and who do I go to? Some friends of ours here had an unfortunate situation years ago in a different part of Malawi where a number of men broke into their house in the middle of the night. When our friends called the cops, nothing happened. They found out later, after time in the hospital, that the crooks had paid off the cops. Lack of trust runs rampant here. I guess it can just never catch up with honesty.

This is also a very private culture in that inviting someone into your home is a huge deal. As a young woman born and raised in the American South, it has been hard for me to adjust to this concept. In Shelby or Carrboro it seems you could give anyone a tour of your house and pretty much say, “and here is my closet with all of my cash/gold/life savings” and not have to worry about a thing. However, here we aren’t even supposed to tell anyone the area we live in. When people ask, we lie, because we were told if word gets around that 2 white people live in Area ___, that could be bad news for us. Already, my housemate has come in laughing because she asked someone on the street if anyone was home (our home) and they replied, “Kate is home, but Finn is not.” I have no idea who said this or how in the hell they know my name, not to mention how they keep track of my whereabouts. Anonymity is not an option here.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again; for the most part interactions between whites and blacks here are stiff and mildly uncomfortable because there is usually an undercurrent of $money$. Even with the guards at our house, if I were to become best friends with one of them, at the end of they day I am paying them to provide a service for me. Therefore, money colors the interaction. Even with people outside the house who I can genuinely see being a friend, they will still flash-call me so that I will call them back, and be the one who pays for the call. Because, as we all know, anyone white in this part of the world basically has a 98% chance of being better off financially than anyone black (unless you’re the president), and can therefore better afford the 20 cents for the phone call. When I talk to other white ex-pats about these kinds of things, I usually get this in response:

“Oh, you’ll get used to it.”

What does it say about me if I get used to poverty, to injustice? Is that just a nicer way of saying that I’ll be jaded? Lately I have sensed in myself a slow-spreading apathy to some of these issues, but this must stop. I refuse to become one of those ex-pats who is completely disenchanted with the world, who sees no hope and has no problem criticizing any form of aid or any form of government or basically anything. While I’m way past the point of, “Oh, I just love Africa!!” I never want to reach the point of, “I can’t wait to get off of this hopeless, piece of shit continent.” It amazes me how many people say both of those things. I find it quite hilarious listening to first-time travelers rave, in all seriousness, about "African culture” and “African language” as if they are one and the same. At the same time I find it quite disheartening listening to seasoned-travelers rage, in all seriousness, about things they have no intent on trying to change, as they see no point.

Back to my little mental survey. After mulling over these negative aspects (and many more,) I thought of how I can make the phrase “The world is actually a lot shittier than you thought” sound better, not so defeatist. I still honestly think this is the biggest thing I have learned, in a sense. However, fear not, I still have my head held high. Talking at length with Andrew (Finn) about this, he put it quite perfectly: “I used to be a naïve optimist. Then I was a pessimist. Now I consider myself a realistic optimist. I think that is the only way to be.”

I couldn’t agree more as I have seen a similar journey in myself. So, with that in mind, I would like to rephrase my biggest lesson and put the following in its place:

“True, the world is a lot worse than you used to think. However, that doesn’t mean you should curse humanity and go hide, or drive yourself crazy by trying to fix it. The only thing to do is keep searching for the good, and in the process make your own good”

So, despite the issues I may have with lack of integrity, Malawian culture and white privilege, all I can really do is deal and move on.

No one said it was easy. 

going out on a limb...

So I haven’t written a poem in years. It had its place in my artistic whatever in high school, but never really survived after that. However, I’ll go to a Poetry Slam and absolutely marvel at what people can do with words and I love reading poetry. Perhaps in some place in my mind I associate poetry with hipster-coffee shops, dreads, and snapping your fingers; things I have scoffed at before. But today I kept getting these specific images in my mind of what Malawi is to me, and started writing them down. I guess you would call the following a poem (why do I feel pretentious saying that? Because it’s not my ‘normal’ mode of artistic expression? Because I’m sharing it with people?). Who knows. Either way, I hope you enjoy it. And please, don’t snap at the end (unless Lil’ Jon tells you to, duh). 

legs littered with scars

barely connect with the tiny feet

that push rusty pedals down

the streets littered with trash

“whites” of the eyes that are really brown

stare at the SUVs full of hopefuls

who will never actually know what is like

to be “brown” in the eyes of whites

waiting in long lines at the bank

in order to get just enough kwacha

to go to the market that lies

on the banks that line the river

flies licking open wounds

don’t seem to phase the babies

who wear hand-me downs of

baggy pants with open flies

the edges of impossible clouds

set starkly against the bluest blue

again contrast with the reddest earth

that lies on the edge of possibility

the smell of something burning

is a pleasant distraction

from the constant feeling of

the burning sun on my smelly skin

strong women with their babies on their backs

walking

walking

walking

to get home to weak men

who keep babies in the back of their minds

phone credit that always runs out

is no problem for me

when im in a cornfield at dusk

running with no phone

long skirts and baskets on heads

balancing far more than meets the eye

this is the common factor

as I dive headlong into

Malawi. 

update!

It’s been a while! I said I would ‘write more later’ but have been busy traveling/being ill/having fun! I’ll explain them all:

 Last week, Finn and I decided it was time to get out of town and we headed to the lake, as it is the thing to do here. The drive took about 2 hours and was BEAUTIFUL! Once out of the city, the landscape is impossibly green this time of year; we were both baffled by the scenery. We arrived in Senga Bay, close to the small town of Salima. We stayed at a cute hostel that was right on the lake for $10! While there, we stumbled across an HIV/AIDS organization that we had heard of called Nyumba ya Thanzi, meaning House of Health. We knew it was somewhere in the area, but had no idea it was only a 5 minute walk from our hostel! We found it with the help of 2 local guys, one of which was named Giraffe. I thought he was kidding when I met him, because he is rather tall and giraffe-like, but as we walked everyone kept saying, “Hey, Giraffe!” Whaddya know.

We introduced ourselves and were warmly welcomed with looks of recognition, “OH yes, we have heard of you!”  After a 20 minute talk with 2 health workers, they were both totally enthused about participating and giving their story. “We are ready anytime!” How cool!! So, after an evening of swimming, reading, and getting to know the 1 other guest at the hostel we headed back the next morning.

 That night I unfortunately came down with some illness, I don’t know what it was, but it only lasted for 48 hours. Fever, headache, all that jazz, I felt pretty rotten. However, we were set to record the very first narrative the first day I was sick so I had to suck it up and go out. The woman was so helpful and polite and a great person to start with. I don’t want to give away too much (must save some for the album!) but both Finn and I get the vibe that she will be of great help throughout this process. She even invited us over to her house to teach us how to make nsima, the staple dish in Malawi.

 When the weekend rolled around and we thought it was time to go on a hike. Finn, our housemate Sam, and our friends Amanda and Jackie all loaded into our car (Toyota Spacio- look it up. Totally soccer mom, but great for lugging people and equipment) and headed out early to Dedza Mountain, about 2 hours away. It was a little cloudy, but we figured that it would burn off.  After about an hour or so we reached a point of really steep ascent. Half way up we noticed we had seen no other hikers on the trail but did see a lot of Malawians carrying wood on their heads coming down the mountain. Hmmm…. Curious. Only when we took the time to turn around did we figure out why: there was a massive black cloud heading our way pretty rapidly. Then we heard thunder. Our split second decision to forgo the summit and head down turned out to be in our favor as the heavy rain started right when we were in a safer place. And when I say rain, I mean the type of rain where I wrung water out of my UNDERPANTS 3 hours later. It was really fun and also exciting- a race with mother-nature! So, safe and happy in the car we started to drive home. Approximately 30 seconds into the drive our alarm system malfunctioned somehow and went BALLISTIC. Here we are, a group of 5 soaken-wet white kids completely stuck in the middle of a muddy road in rural Malawi. The car shut down and wouldn’t even go into neutral. We attracted a crowd of onlookers who offered to stare, but not to help. It was quite comical and after about 20 minutes of phone calls to the previous owner we figured out how to turn OFF the alarm and in turn start the car.

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! …… ……………whew.

Back in Lilongwe a few hours later the girls headed to an African dance class set up by some ex-pats at a random studio near one of our favorite restaurants. Jackie, our new friend, and I weren’t too impressed with the class and agreed to have our own personal dance class afterwards as she was in a Malian dance group in college. DAMN, SHE CAN DANCE. We had so much fun back at her place cutting it up, shakin it to Kenyan and Tanzanian music she has in her collection. Finn and I finally made it home around 10:30- our biggest day yet!

 Needless to say, after 2 + hours of hiking and 2 + hours of dancing (where you’re constantly in a squat position), the next morning I WAS SO SORE!!!!!! Holy smokes. My quads haven’t burned that bad since the first time I went to the gym with Shane Zeigler (for those who know him, you know what this can entail). So, I thought that going to the local Hash would work it the soreness. What exactly is Hash? I don’t really know, but I know it involves a big group of people running and then drinking alcohol. Google it or something. Well, I participated in the running part to “work out my soreness”. Genius idea. (I could barely walk that night). However, I did make a new friend on my run, a man who I would guess is in his 60’s. After at least 20 minutes of running through gorgeous cornfields and random streets at a pretty quick pace with a pack of 15 ex-pats, I was getting a little tired.  But this man would not let me give up. He was the best coach ever, giving me pointers on my stride. I put aside my embarrassment in having this old guy totally beast me in running and was just grateful to have a cheerleader. I will definitely be going back. (PS to those who know how I can’t run worth a damn, I am totally getting better. In Cape Town I made a new record for myself- 36 minutes! Without slowing down once! Hot dog)

 A few days later Jackie, Amanda, another friend Rose and myself all agreed it was time for a good ol’ fashioned all American all girl sleepover. We went to Rose’s cousin’s house where she is staying and made tacos (or rather, they made tacos as I Skyped….. oops) then watched “When Harry Met Sally”. The only piece missing was a pillow fight, but by 1 am we were too tired (WAY PAST MY BEDTIME).

The next day we recorded our second narrative. We met a group of people who are all HIV/AIDS Peer Educators at a local hospital. Out of the 12 people in the meeting, all of them agreed to give a narrative! We were thrilled. We only had time to do one yesterday (the rest are all scheduled for next week) with the help of a translator. I can't say much, but it was really incredible. 

Coming up this week:

A performance at the American ambassador’s house to celebrate Black History Month. Finn, Peter Mawanga and myself will be performing some tunes… I’ll be sure to give the full story.

Wishing I could play in the snow but also so glad to be here,

Kaitlin