Tionana (See you later)

Kilimanjaro. This big mountain begins in jungle forest; trees draped with bearded lichen sway light green in a back and forth misty zen, and you can imagine black and white colobus monkeys swinging from the branches far in the bush. You quickly enter the open tundra that breezes cold and dry, baring little plant life, yet rolling vast like a meadow of rock and shale. The top, secretly holding sparkling glaciers that rise up out of a million years of earth history, is a humbling testament to how small we really are. Yet, along with this mountain beauty are hordes of people, richies and fatties alike, that swell the mountain paths. Thousands of porters harness the core strength needed to haul their cargo of comfort camping equipment and food, with salaries dependent on the hopeful chance of a generous tip. I carried my own load, but as required, had a guide (friendly Geoffrey) and porters (Daudi, Nauzari, and Ali) to carry and cook my (crazy delicious and full) meals. These are the kind people I hiked with and was inspired by. Bypassing a conga line of mzungus each morning, I found myself alongside dozens of seasoned porters (some in flip flops, most with backpacks and crazy sacks on their head, even two women!!) learning Swahili and shrugging their urge to pole pole (‘slowly slowly’). By the end, I perhaps earned a small piece of their respect, as well as a sunrise summit glowing in pink gold.

Lushoto. Many travelers have avoided Kilimanjaro due to the masses, and have instead opted for the quieter Usambaras in North Eastern Tanzania. Intrigued, I hopped on a bus, that broke down, and hopped on another bus, that corkscrewed its way up a to the small mountain town of Lushoto. To describe the beauty of these mountains would be to deny my first feelings of speechlessness. It was a hidden gem. Green lush farms terraced up, with bananas fawned alongside the river. The town itself had not been ruined by tourism and was politely curious and relaxed when I rambled down the road. It seemed peaceful, healthy, with chameleons in the trees, monkeys sounding, and goats nibbling, all alongside the flowers and fruit abundant. It felt like a home.

Zanzibar. High tide brings a warm morning swim in the metallic blue of the Indian Ocean and an underwater world fish tank to snorkel in. The strong current pulled me effortlessly alongside fishes and coral colored in all shapes and sizes (puffers and nemos and scarfaces!!). Low tide stretches a mile of kelpy puddles where fishermen and women scour in beautiful wraps and nets, with Masai men strolling down the beach warrior poised in Raybands. The food is amazing, deliciously flavored with the catch of the day and the local spices that the island is renowned for. Stonetown is the main port and a diverse mix of Arabs, Indians, and Africans flow happy and relaxed down a maze of alleyways with beautifully carved wooden doors and split level balconies.  BBQs and fruit stands are found when you are lost, and the twilight zone is constant but seems to only bring new passageways through the town and interesting stalls filled with beautiful cloths, Swahili spiced coffee or tea, or else a friendly chat with a funky rasta.

Homeward. Frenzied bus rides leaving me weathered and beaten, to breathtaking beauty of spiraling mountain farms and fisherwomen walking barefoot searching for shells, with heartbreaking realism of how to make/keep a dollar, always learning through generosity of selfless spirit or swindling corruption, on to other worlds underwater or in the sky. And all this is now ultimately linked to my own world. A fond memory I will keep close, yet an experience that will continue to gift courage, diversity, and new perspective in my story.  Thank you Africa, and good bye for now.

I have arrived

Jump forward. Though not without a fond look back and a tip of the hat. To the lovely Kusamala staff; for their warm welcome and friendly collective. To the four months spent developing projects, and gaining ground on Africa, agriculture and all that crops in-between. To the new perspectives and courage earned with my long stay in Malawi, which has prepared me with the up-most patience in traveling forward, and a certain solidarity only established with time in one place.

After departing Kusamala with lots of hugs and pictures, I headed south to hike up Mount Mulanje, the tallest mountain in Malawi (3,002m/ 9,849ft). It was all very 'lord of the rings' -esque with cedar forest giving way to open grasslands stretching far and up up, summitting with a bouldering escapade. Two nights I slept in mountain huts with a big fire place, playing Bao (popular board game) outside with my guide Stanford. He looked like he was off to school with his sneakers, and Jansport backpack full of bread, butter, a box of cookies, and was the perfect hiking partner; very quiet, yet with a quick wit that eased the stretch.

After the mountain trek, I headed again to Cape McClear, where after a long bus ride (complete with a 2 and a half hour sermon), I was happy to hear that the Ilala Ferry would not leave until the following day. I happenstance rendezvoused with some folks from Kusamala, as they were visiting Pierre's project in Kasanka Bay, and was able to take a day to relax by the lake with good friends and good eats. The next day I boarded the Illala Ferry which sails to port towns along Lake Malawi, as well as the islands, one of which was my destination, Likoma. I splurged on a first class ticket, and am grateful in retrospect. Along with the incredible price gap, First class is able to lounge on the breezy upper deck, while Second and Third are stuffed into the hull, along with maize sacks and livestock. I stretched out on the deck to sleep, so thankful for the millions of stars overhead, the lake below, and everything in between. On arriving to Likoma: beach camping, mini kayaks!!, clear water snorkeling (with crazy electric blue Cichlid fishies!), wandering hikes, and good good food. To sum up, very chill island living.

After a couple of very beachy days, I decided to make my escape, or else stay forever, and so I boarded a smaller midweek boat to the mainland. The boat was named Malungo (which means Malaria in Chichewa), and it slowly rocked and dipped its way to the mainland for a good six hours (of course busting the engine... so thank goodness there was a spare... though much smaller)! Mini bus from Nkhata Bay to Chitemba, a 15km mountain trek from Chitemba up to Livingstonia. My destination: Lukwe Ecolodge and Permaculture Garden to visit Leiza (whom I met at Kusamala during her water management workshop). I did not know until I arrived that I was to find a peace paradise nestled back in this bush. A mountain side dream garden, terracing lush and colorful and healthy, with ponds overflowing into ponds, and ducks scattering about, gravity fed water systems, and gooseberries and raspberries abundant, and coffee!!, pineapples and banana best friends, veggie bed cornucopias turning whimsy at every corner. And Lieza's home, an open air house that overlooks the craziest waterfall, all very much like Swiss Family Robinson, where once she stood, sixteen years ago, looking at this particular mountain side and said, "Well, no one's over there." I was in awe, inspired by what can be done with time spent and ideas shaped, and relaxed as if I was home.

And now, after crazy border crossings, buses that have stretched as long as eighteen hours (though not without spying some giraffes, zebras, and elephants!!!), a whole lot of fried bread snacks, too many peanuts, I have arrived in the big town of Moshi at the base of Kilimanjaro, the tallest freestanding volcano in the world; the rooftop of Africa.

Wheels on the bus

The wheels of our bus sat stubbornly stationary in their resolution to fill every square inch of bus with as many human bodies as tangible space would allow. After a good four hours, two samosas, and a couple of tangerines later, every seat was taken, the aisle properly jam-packed, with chickens smushed under seats, and a couple of roll mattresses stowed above the driver’s head, we finally departed the Lilongwe bus terminal. I was delighted to feel the cool wind on my face; the smells of nappies and fried food, which had stewingly accumulated over the wait, dispersing into the dust we trailed behind. I was less than pleased when this good feeling came to a swerving halt with the breakdown of our bus less than thirty minutes later. With more than half a day already past in waiting, the African’s showed only the slightest ruffle in their feathers, while my hair floofed with irritation. The bus ride was long, the landscape blurring a baked tan, with random villages of straw-roofed huts, bright green banana circles, and a thick grisly Baobab tree every now and again. Hucksters ran up at every stop, selling Mendazi (doughy balls of fried goodness), Chombe (snacky ears of grilled maize), Chips (bags of French fries and coleslaw of sorts… delicious), all which eased what turned out to be an 11 and a half hour ride. We arrived to the Tucka Tucka turnoff well after dark. A dirty, low-riding Toyota short-bed, most likely from the movie Mad Max, was awaiting our arrival. My eyes stung with exhaustion and wind, as we flew wildly up a canyon with headlights flickering on and off. Our final destination, Cape Maclear.

Pierre, whom I ventured this far, rents a house in Cape Maclear so as to be close to his work in Kasanka Bay. The owner of this house is named Shmickey (it says so on a wooden plaque hanging just above the door). Apparently Shmickey has a reputation for being quite large, which we use to our advantage when hustled about by the village locals. Cape Maclear is well known among backpackers and weekenders, as it is right on Lake Malawi and is host to several hostels that are parked right on the beach. Yet, adjacent is the intense flurry of the fishing port that is not often visited. It is heavily shaded black, reeking of racks of drying fish, with men bent over heaped nets or else preparing wooden canoes for the night’s endeavors, and women indulging in lakeshore laundry, children amass. Schmickey’s resides between the two, where on other side of the street is a quaint but lively little village which sinews in and out of straw fence alleyways, with women sweeping sand or else sitting cross-legged in chitenges weaving matts, groups peeping TVs through windows, blaring house music, water buckets at unreliable taps, children yelling ‘mzuuuunguu!!,’ rasta’s hocking braclets, all this and more sponged together. The people are beautiful, the weather dreamy. We lodged in local fashion, with a hot plate, cold showers, and in and out electricity, but did indulge in a canoe rental, lots of lake swimming, and sundowners.

On Monday, I headed into Monkey Bay, a lakeshore town that is only a frightening… I mean exhilarating, motorbike jaunt away. I made my way to the immigration office, where my visa could be ‘properly’ stamped for the ‘right’ price. This included lots of smiling. After, I made my way to see Pierre’s project, in Kasanka Bay. This time I decided to bypass motorized vehicles in lu for a bicycle taxi. The ride was no less gripping, as we were flanked on either side by grass fires. Kasanka Bay is as quiet as an African bush village can be, though there are still children in abundance and women centrally parked selling green leaves, tomatoes, and gossip. The project is focused predominately on permaculture home-gardens as well as the mass production of Moringa trees, hence the name African Moringa and Permaculture Project. These trees are kind of a miracle tree in that they have highly nutritious leaves which contain two times more protein than yogurt, four times more calcium than milk, potassium, vitamin A and vitamin C, and are fast growing and drought resistant. The whole idea has been well received in the village. Inspiration is gray here, as there is little to no influence, or even books, to follow. This simple spark of an idea, of simple home gardens, is as green and appealing as a new pea shoot. Green beans, mustard, pumpkin greens, tomatoes are just a few examples what has been popping up in several backyard plots, as well as smiles and excitement. Diversifying diet, revitalizing the environment, saving money, and even supplementing income are all high hopes for this project. My hopes for them met in small scale tandem with my hopes that my ride back to Lilongwe would be not be terrible. Despite standing, it only took six hours to get back home! Despite a desolate sandpit yard, green is actually growing in Kasanka Bay, with inspiration spreading. 

Landscape

Landscape is a local village located a half a mile down the main road. I mosey down the back path instead, through newly cut maize fields scattered weedy with old stalk and cob, skirting women with massive rolls of straw or else twenty ft. long cane bundles balanced perfectly on their head. The space is open; the sky sweeping honest blue toward Landcape which looms huddled in brown dust in the distance. I enter through a random backyard, rounding corners to the main market center. Most mud-bricked houses have tin roofs and are fenced with bamboo mats or else chitenge cloths, but you can peep gatherings of women and children (or else hear them hollering at you), cook smoke rising, a group of men playing Boa (much like the game Mancala), a drunkard, a Muslim, all the while sidestepping scraggly chickens and uneven ground. I am of course followed by a group of children that thickens the farther I endeavor, as well as a man with a marriage proposal. I’m here to buy candles and cookies. Row-housed vendor stalls measure approximately 8x10 ft. with their teller window guarded with chain link fence. All are typically selling: laundry soap, toothpaste, white bread (labeled Brown… bah!), airtime (strips of 20, all worth 10cents of cellphone time… bah!), pencils, groundnuts, ect. Adjacent are tables selling tomatoes, dirty bananas, sometimes tangerines, small bags of charcoal, eggs that will turn grey when scrambled, and bundles of three piece kindling. There are twenty chiefs in Landscape. There is a water board that measures and charges women by the bucket load. Small gardens are little to nonexistent, and while permaculture is a striving effort here at the center, it is a hard sell to a place where water is limited and the ground is as hard-packed as the people’s resilience.

Most of the Kusamala staff lives in Landscape. So too does the temporarily appointed night-guard Daniel, who was recently caught red-handed rifling through a room, flashlight in hand. He hastily fled into the night with alcohol breath, yet strangely, we found our dirty dishes stolen, one of the couch cushions flung into the path, and Biswick’s pants strewn on the chicken fence. The police were called… yet here in Malawi if you call the police you better be willing to pick them up, or else call a cab!... not kidding. Daniel blamed the children from Landscape. I would probably blame the booze. After being hauled to the police station, I too was summoned to reclaim what they thought was our dishes. The whole police station is probably no larger than our common room. I was ushered into a pantry of a backroom where I sat sandwiched between our large Community Outreach Manager, Eston, and the culprit, Daniel. Three women sat in front yelling Chichewa at us. I sat quiet and thought about the gasoline tank squished under the desk, the plaid suitcase stuffed hastily into the corner, the mattress I was leaning against, and the cellphone that kept blaring ‘Alingo’ by the popular group P Squared. The dishes were not ours, but Daniel will stay in jail until his court date. For a culture where stealing is quite frowned upon, it is odd how often we are missing cassava and groundnuts from our staple-field. Blame though, seems as fruitless as our avocado tree dwarfed by the three bananas alongside; as blotched as the papayas that have recently shown signs of the 'black spot' virus. Circumstance and nature can be cruel, yet can also flourish as freely as our passion fruits whose veins reach high and climb. Passing through Landscape on my way home I spotted five tomato plants nestled against one of the shanty houses. I pondered the kind of spirit it takes to tend, not beat against, that hard-pack resilient earth, to grow and flourish against the odds. 

A future search

The mornings are brisk, with slow muscles under long sleeves, and a light fog lingering low over the residential garden beds we’ve planted to eggplant, chickpeas, lettuce and sorts. A mwadzuka bwanji (how did you wake?) and a cup of coffee start the day that will begin to heat warm and dry as the sun follows route. The staff assembles in the classroom, huddled chilly in 80s track jackets and odd sweater fits. A large chalk-board is center, with the internal and external mission of Kusamala printed across. Molly, our director, is admirably kind and shy in her genuine effort to erase the hierarchical posts that seem so ingrained in Malawian culture; that of bwana (boss) and worker. She describes last year’s annual budget, in tandem with the two new grants just received; how Kusamala will still act, in part, through external aid for the next three years, even extending to a new village with additional staff. Though, she stresses, what’s most important is that there is more time now to become a sustainable center, where the need of outside help is no longer necessary, and a self-sufficient Malawian staff will be able to take Kusamala forward. There is light clapping accompanied with polite nods, shivering, and no questions. Perhaps worker bees believe they will be worker bees forever. Maybe overhead will always be over head. Maybe everyone was just disenchanted with the cold. Despite the awkward silence, an underlying inspiration simmers as the issues and workings of management are consistently brought to laymen’s terms, and staff ideas and concerns are continually encouraged to be shared.

A New Yorker arrived with microscope in tote. She sets up lab in the common room and has enchanted the likes of Enock by designating him escort and camera man. He knows this will be a ‘very good week,’ package included with a fancy lodge stay at the lake, near the site of a new learning center she aims to build. He was completely dazzled upon his return, and proud as a newly appointed chief as he settles back into his routine with a inspired air about him. My own post, here at the center, has been centered on various construction projects. Having just finished cementing a raised garden bed for the kitchen alongside hanging baskets jerry-rigged from pvc pipe, I am planning next to build a bamboo dome complete with benches in the medicinal garden. I feel this bob the builder pairs well with Green’s comment, “She walks like an army man.” While veering away from my initial agricultural expectations, I know moving forward any future search I do is often gone with the wind. So while posts may be placed, or else cold bones are slow to move; while future maybe searching, there is solidity in what we do every day, there are breaks to be found, and slow cold can always thaw with time. And as we dispersed from the classroom we immediately livened walking out into the sunshine. 

Freedom

Independence Day precedes much the same here in Malawi as it does in the States. Both were won from the British, though Malawi almost 188 years and two days later than America, and here too there is a long weekend, outdoor festivities planned, and lots of food. The work-week finishes with me sitting on a second truck load of manure we've collected down the road at Kumbali; a fancy pants lodge, very pinky up, which has even housed the likes of Madonna in all her philanthropic glory. It is run by an very large and animated South African, who also owns the surrounding 650 hectares of land (which equals about 1606 acres), a multitude of Malawian employees (many whom wear worn jumpers and/or butler uniforms), an abundance of farm animals, a dairy, and a ‘cultural village’ that is indicative of the white perspective (especially considering the volleyball court). And not to forget the biggest, blackest, most adorable pup named Beasty. As directed by the Malawian government, a certain amount of mzungu (foreigner) owned land, must be allocated to humanitarian projects, …such as Kusamala, though there is no shame in neighboring it next to a GMO mono-cropping maize giant, Pannar Seed.  With forty-nine years of Independence Day celebrations, Malawians are still struggling to their feet with goliaths still towering above them. And as we bumbled passed the Kumabli garage filled with shiny mint conditions, in a truck that sticks in second and is filled with animal feces, it never seemed more true.

We mzungu interns too played our part, reaping our own customary holiday traditions as we made plans to take our weekend at Lake Malawi. After a two hour drive, passing only about four smoking mac-trucks, we made it to our own private beach-haven (…also owned by Kumbali). The lake looks like the ocean, with Mozambique rising blue and shadowy far in the distance, much like the Channel Islands. There are monitor lizards, fish-eagles, baboons, and monkeys galore! The weather feels warmer, with a delicious balmy comfort and greens and tans mixing tropically. Canoes drift by. Fisherman gear up on shore, as the women wash clothes and children playing nearby. I camped on the beach under the stars; my head toward the sunrise. We of course indulged in the beach laze, as well as the customary barbecue, though sweet corn was substituted with green maize. It was beautifully relaxing and I felt more than relieved to escape the farm for a couple of days. Upon our return there was heated debate as to the football match that had taken place over the weekend. It was a draw between the Green Stars and the Yellows. Joseph asked why I hadn't attended and with my excuse he commented, “I've never seen Lake Malawi. It is very far.” Maybe one day, Joseph will see the blue calm of the lake. Maybe goliaths are not so great.

Word of the day

Trio-ing like a 1950s gangster squad, the implementation team: Daniel, Mike and Green arrive to help clear-cut an area of tall grass to further the fruit forest I’ve recently been channeling. What took me two hours of back and forth experimenting- machete, slasher, and/or khasu (hoe), took them exactly twenty minutes, grasses flying. Impressed, but not surprised, I remarked on African strength. Green, who has the comedic charm of a short Bill Cosby, blatantly attributes this to mavuto; loosely translated this means ‘trouble’ or ‘problems.’ I was confused, but then embarrassed as he went on to explain. “To go and get water, mavuto. To get firewood, mavuto. Money, mavuto. Aye!” His arms up-down gesturing exhaustion.

On Thursday, the ami (mothers) were organizing to mud the rooms, which in Chichewa is called kuzila. Giving me the ultimate stare-down I made no hesitation in joining them in what is considered one of the many womanly duties. A bucket of mud, plus a quarter sand, and a generous amount of water can make poor-man’s concrete. The mud felt soft and warm as we smoothed it thin over the floor. After half an hour it became stiff and coarse. On hands and knees, we then whittled down the grind using beer bottles as our tool. It became the day’s work. My back ached. But after, I was entitled to be called acihmwali (sister).

A football match. The Green Stars versus Kauma. Boundary lines are marked with ash and gaga (ground up maize) that is being pecked away by a couple of straggly looking chickens. The field is huge, but sloping and divoting throughout. It is a playground and meeting center before the game, with kids with shoelace jump-ropes and men gathered round radios. “No thanks we don’t want  a chair… we don’t want to stand out”…yeah right. One guy is playing in his socks, another barefoot, and … yes really… there are two players that are sharing a pair of cleats. Half time score is 0-0. Most players are widely scattered on the hard-packed dirt and skipping potholes like an obstacle course. The sun, dzuwa, is quite strong and there are no clouds, mitambo, to be seen. Enock, our garden manager, as well as the lead coach of the Green Stars, shouts, “Osadandaula,” (Don’t worry!). The Green Stars eventually won 3-0.

As I see women walking home balancing bundles of firewood on their head and babies strapped to their back, I understand. Chiponde means 'to pound,' but it also means 'peanut-butter.' Men haul huge bales of thatch on their bicycles that hang-slant and throws them off balance, people wait on the side of the road for a hopeful ride into town or else jam themselves into overcrowded minibus nightmares, and vendors sit all day in the hot sun to sell a handful of tomatoes. Our tea kettle has been fixed and broken three time already, and the rooster just keeps on crowing. Their strength of body comes from the everyday struggle for necessity (gathering water for drinking, cooking and bathing, firewood, and on top of that, money). Their strength of character is gained through acceptance and an easy smile. Osadandaula Zimachatika, ‘don’t worry, it happens.’