Travel Diary, Malawi 2010

7/1-2/2010 (Crossed time zones)

Where do I start? I'm sitting in the car on my way to the airport. From the small town of Seabeck (Town? It's composed of a bakery, conferance center, gernal store, and antique furniture store. Town is a little grandiose word for Seabeck, but I love it all the same.) In a few hours, I will be sitting on a stuffy, suffocatingly warm airplane with screaming children, sick middle aged women, and exhausted flight attendants for the next twenty-eight hours to Lilongwe, then Malawi in Africa. This isn't a vacation, it's missionary work. Objective: Get the behind scene in our own organization (COTN, Children Of The Nations), interveiwing interns, widows,  and the children themselves.

My mom has gone to Malawi two times already, this trip bein g her third. For the past two times, she has constantly persuaded, begged, pushed, pulled, pleaded, and bribed me to come with her. I gave in eventually, but the idea of a small, dangerous, poverty-ridden country where rape is acceptable and AIDS is common isn't quite my version of paradise. I would've been perfectly content to work the summer away writing, picking up trashh off the side of the road, or volunteering at the humane society. But nonetheless, I'm going now. We're (Mom and I) are traveling with three other people from our church; Nick (a sultry sixteen year old boy), Jeff (In his late thirties, good tempered, but unmarried), and Ms. Witte (My second grade teacher, older sister to Jeff and seventh time to Malawi).  

As odd as it is to be stuck in Africa with my second grade teacher, I can't complain there. She's a complete sweetheart. Jeff seems nice too- it's Mom and Nick I'm worried about. Mom because I can barely stand being in the same house for five minutes as her alone, and Nick because he's already sworn that he's going to be like a brother to me by the end of the trip. Already he's an absoloute butt-head, so we'll see how I do with both of them for three weeks in a tiny little African country. Here goes nothing. 

I stepped off the plane in Washington D.C., Washington D.C, already expecting something new. It's only to be expected that I'd be eager, but I was let down when wandering out of plane terminal- it looked exactly like Seattle's, except possably a little blander. The differances are in the details. Our little group stumbles past vendors and shops- something most definantly not out of the ordinary. What's out of the ordinary is the fact that the majority of the shops feature patriotic flags and logos, shops filled with souvineers featuring not Washington D.C., but America in general. Phrases like "I love America, but not my goverment," are displayed in shop windows. My first mistake- forgeting this was an international airport.

Thinking not much of it, I continue to walk on, our destination terminal being at the very end of a seemingless endless airport. The airport isn't particularly full, but the people are incrediably diverse. After growing used to seeing Middle Eastern, African American, Hispanic, and Caucasion men, women, and children all together, I was getting used to seeing foreigners- foreigners, but not east coast-ers. A group of swarthy, cocky tan young men strutted by, and though I was slowly groing used to the foreign accents, it puzzled me nonetheless, sounding vaguely Australian and mixed in with something unidentifiable. 

"Where were they from? They sounded off, like Australian or something. Maybe New Zealand?" I voiced, giving the boys receding backs the once-over. Not bad. 

Jeff smothered a laugh. "That's Jersey."

Any reply I'd ever had prepared died in my throat. At home, Jersey Italians were a thing of various, stupid TV shows, like Cake Boss or Jersey Shore. The idea of even considering that they were Jersey party boys was pretty much nonexistant. I feel like an obsolute idiot. I think I vowed when I was like, six, to know every accent in the world. I hafta' keep working on that.

~

Our team has switched airlines; we're on Ethopia Air-Something. The interior reminds me of the stomach of one of our goats- it's wide enough to have three differant columns of seats, seating three in each section. I'd bickered with Nick endlessly on seating arrangements for this flight, as our industrial sized plane refilled with probably hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of gas in Rome. Rome, Italy. And I'd be damned if I was getting anything but the window seat. 

A stone the size of my kidney slowly sinks into my stomach as I note the middle column. Mom leading, the stone only doubles in size as she gives me an encouraging smile and motions to the middle row. Not only that, my seat was the middle of the middle column. We then settle our legs into the extremely limited space for the next couple of hours, plagued by elevator music-style bollywood music on the airplanes' speakers. But cheesy tv screens on the back of our neighbors' chairs play somewhat modern movies, and another, bigger screen is suspended directly over the two aisles to tell us where our plane is traveling, so I can't complain too much. 

It's almost 2:00 in the morning when we finally land in Italy- it's pitch black, but I can see the city lights past a Tansanian lady's head even as I type. Despite the fact I can't even get off the plane, I squirm in my seat, any exaustion suddenly forgotten. My longing to explore, to at least see even the airport, triples when an attractive, curly haired Italian guy climbs onboard with the rest of his cleaning staff, reminding me of a pit crew. He's instantly surrounded by middle aged women, striking up a conversation just to hear the guy talk. He's friendly, charming, and funny- this will NOT be my last trip to Italy if they're all like this, I  can assure you.   

7/2/2010

I woke up today missing one shoe, my only pair of prescription glasses, and the good common sense to hijack the plane or bribe the female pilot to turn around and let us all spend a month in Italy. I found my shoe under my Nick's seat, and the glasses under my backpack, but I didn't regain the smarts until were were switching airplanes for our final destination, Lilongwe, Malawi, in Ethopia. The airport was small- instead of boarding our plane through the boardwalk thing, we took an outdoor shuttle which ferried us to the foot of commercial stainless steel stairs. This plane was smaller, but the bollywood music still repeated itself endlessly and it was lacking the various tv screens. 

At takeoff, I was feeling natious. The air was incrediably hot, and smelled like unwashed, dirty travelers who've been on the plane 24+ hours. Turbulence was a frequent accurance, and it wasn't long before I was stumbling on my way to the closet-bathrooms with a doggy bag in hand. 

After my stomach had been emptied of Ethopian airline food, I spent the majority of the time napping while Nick flirted shamelessly with a pretty Canadian girl sitting next to him. French Canadian, no less. They traded phone numbers and chatted for a little while before Nick teased her a little too much in the american fashion, and they ran out of things to talk about. The poor girl wound up pretending to feign sleep for the rest of our flight.

Stepping off the plane was very much the same as stepping on the other one, except in reverse. We ascended stainless steel stairs again, and were greeted by an immense blast of warm, dry and dusty air. The airport was tiny, maybe the size of two of our P.E. gyms put together back at school. I imagine my glasses were the only things keeping my eyes in my head, as just beyond the plane runway, you could see a seemingly endless expanse of red dirt and a few straggly trees. A few high, yellow grasses randomely clustered, and it looked very much like something one would find in Africa. Not quite a serengetti, but close.

We step on a bus waiting for us, riding for a while back to the main COTN duplex. There's a few natives riding with us (Their skin is beautiful!!), exchaning hugs and jokes with the Wittes and my Mom. Me 'n Nick sort of hide in the back, Nick falling asleep again while I press my nose to the glass.  

Life is carried on right up to the borders of the rusty-colored blacktop. Scraggly farms end right up on the road while Malawi salesmen sell various whares off the palms of their hands. Our bus has to stop for a small cloud of goats to cross, then we drive on; a solemn woman with a basket of water on her head, a happy screaming child, a man selling week-old puppies on a corner, and brick/mud thatched houses are only meters away. I don't know what to think right now.

7/3/10

It's 7:20 something here in Malawi. I can hear roosters crowing from everywhich direction, and birds that hadn't shown themselves earlier are unstoppable. For some place getting one tenth as much rain as home does, it's really quite beautiful. Even the crows are differant- they wear tuxedos here. They have snow white collars, and really are quite handsome birds. I also just took my first Malawi shower- I dunked my head under the sinks in the women's bathrooms in our duplex. The water taps are on opposite sides here, we discovered when I vouched for the "cold" water to wake me up. After ten minutes or so of ice cold water, it turned warm. Mom promptly forgotten she'd already taken an actual shower, dropped everything, and took another, full-body warm one. 

I sat down outside in the sun for a little while while she took her second shower, soaking up the sun- it's so impossable to imagine it's winter here! A cat I'd seen yesterday when we'd first arrived mewed loudly, making it's presence quiet clear in case I hadn't noticed. It's quite the demanding little thing for a rat catcher, but I'm a sucker for cats. He's a black and white tom, lean and muscled, with a torn ear and scars, but he's only a little bigger than some of the older kittens I've known- he's not the battleworn tomcat my Dad and I always joked we would have someday, who would stalk the barns and live in the shadows, affectionantly refered to as "Slasher," or something equally dramatic and frivilous.

At first I tried to ignore it, but the little man is quiet possibly the most verbal cat I've ever met. I'm fairly poisitive he has fleas, ticks, and has never received a rabies shot, but if anything can continuously encircle you and cry out like that, my heart wins over my brain and backbone and I'm suddenly made of putty. So I pulled my jacket sleeve over my hand and began to pet him. His purr was almost instantaneous. It wasn't long before a second cat showed up- a calico male, just as small as the first and perhaps only an ounce less talkative. The two surrounded me and lured me into their trap, until both were asleep beside me on the steps and my camera's memory card had been considerably filled.

~

Around lunch time, our team made our way over to help without the orphan COTN household and helped with their daily chores. Residents at the house range from babies to legal adults, who're known as "double orphans" because they've lost both their parents. We met two of the three children we're sponsering there, Happy and Adija. Happy was adorable, and most definantly happy. Adija only responded to the name "Gloria," and was just as shy as I was. I think she said all of two sentences to me, and it went something like this:

Mom: "Adija! oh! I mean Gloria, sorry." *Crouches down to hug her, smiles* "Gloria, do you know who this is? This is my daughter, Erin. Say hello to Erin!"

Adija/Gloria: "..."

Mom: "Gloria, say hi to Erin?" 

Me: "...Umm... hi." 

Adija/Gloria: "...Hi. Her daughter?" *Shy smile*

Me: "...What? Sorry, I didn't hear you."

Adija/Gloria: "Ginny's daughter?"

Me: "Oh. Yeah."

Honest, if I somehow miraculously could understand past their accents like they were born on the west coast, my conversations and introductions would be 3/4 less awkward. They're voices are so rich though! I hardly have a chance at all as it is. To my relief I wasn't called away from my mother, or else I would have been made of stone, I'm sure. Adija/Gloria showed us around the COTN property, taking us to the bedrooms, the fields, the pigs, and eventually to the little courtyard where we spent the rest of the day shelling buckets and buckets of peanuts. 

There I loosened up a little as I sat next to Ms. Witte (I really need to stop calling her that- I was asking around for her at the main duplex with a few natives, and they just stared at me blankly.), and she helped me gain a little more confidence. We traded songs- the women and teenagers living there sang a few native ones in  english, and we taught them the lyrics to "Lean on Me." That being done, I learned Shakira's latest world cup song, "Waka waka," wasn't as american as I'd originally thought.They attempted to teach us the words she says in african during the chorus, and we attempted to say them. None of us knew what the words meant (apperantly they're in swahili), but I think we got it down for the most part. At the time, anyway. I couldn't sing them for you now if my life depended on it.

After a few hours and a mountain of peanut shells later, we headed back to the duplex and our hut for lunch. I was swaying on my feet when they suggested watching a soccer (or football, as they call it both titles here.) game of our duplex/COTN residents versus the guys across the road. I had to pass on that- not only was I exhausted, I hate soccer as well. I feel like I'm going to be kicked out of Africa just for saying that, as everyone loves it here. The whole world does. I'm only interested in the world cup because I want my favored countries to win. Paraguay is possibly the lowest on my list, mainly because I had to retake my South America map quiz because of it's stupid location and the fact I got it confused with Uruguay one too many times when studying. I was rooting for Italy because they have sexy accents, Portugal and Brazil because their beaches sound amazing, and America because I'm american. I can't be the only person who's biased around here, but they're smart enough to keep their opinions in their heads.  

So instead, I retreated to our hut to recharge and read a book of Sherlock Holmes stories from a number of good authors. I remember making it into one story, I think, before I fell asleep halfway through a page. Mom came back to wake me up with my neck cramped and my face pressed against the paper. Determined to make me defeat jetlag, she dragged me to dinner where we all sang happy birthday to one of the hired help, Francis, and ate a good dinner. There wasn't enough cake to go around (a rare treat for them), but the World Cup had come on again and the majority of the COTN boys were happily distracted. (why is it so great? I hate soccer. It's violent to watch and painful to play. Possiably the only way I enjoy it is when they have slow-motion replays and you get to watch the player's faces contort with concentration.)

Our little team played a card game (known as "threes"), and before long it had blossomed from five people to over ten. Nick is an incrediably sore loser, and a cocky jerk when he wins. Maybe he's getting a little too brotherly, because I'm ready to punch him in the face, lock him in his hut, and break his cellphone. And then run off whining to Mom on how he abused me. 

I'm about ready to report out now, and Jeff just checked up on us in our hut to tell mom there's church tomorrow. I've locked us inside (the key's with us, I'm just experimenting with the lock, I promise.), so he's talking through the door. It isn't thirty seconds into the adult's conversation when I hear a faint meow, a louder one, then Jeff swear and his noisy efforts to drive away my friendly little follower. As long as I'm in a foreign country halfway around the world, it's comforting to know that animals, at least, won't change traditions, behavior, or customs on may. maybe accents, but it's not hard to understand a cat when it wants you to do something. I probably shouldn't have given it rice cake crumbs, but I now have supporter. Goodnight, Malawi. And little man.    

~

Oh, side note. Malawi accents tend to skip "r's", so they called me Ellen here. If they keep it up, I might get used to it.

7.4.10

Today I woke up overwhelmingly lethargic. Not sure if that's still jet lag or what, but as we  all piled into the car to go to church, I would have loved absoloutley nothing more than to collapse on whoever was going to sit next to me and sleep until we got there. But the car ride was only ten minutes at tops, as anywhere our little medley goes, which is a shame. Car rides are perhaps one of the most fascinating things to do here. I know that sounds bad, but hear me out. Peoples' lives here are half on the road, half off. Vendors sell chickens, bras, potatoes (they have sweet potatoes here too, as well as normal spuds. they call normal ones "irish potatoes."), and even mops. I even saw a man on the corner of a gas station holding one puppy in each hand, selling guard dogs not even two months old. The idea of watching all this overpowers the idea of sleep, hands down, and that's saying something. It's quite a feat to just shrug off stupid jet lag.

But being the smallest of the team has its disadvantages, and I found myself in the middle seat again. I think Nick has taken the middle seat all of once, Jeff has taken it two or three times, and I've had it every other time. At least then I get an obscured veiw out both windows (Jeff has, to put it bluntly, a big head, and Nick has an annoying habit of leaning forward whenever he's talking to Ms. Witte or Mom in the front seat.). 

The church was lively, happy, and as far as it could be from your traditional catholic church- a lot more like newlife, with it's live modern band and lack of wax candles. The preacher was very much british, with a fast paced accent and sense of humor. Like newlife again, we sang before and after the sermon. Some of the songs were familiar ones we sing back home, and a few were in Chichewa. Those were perhaps the most heart tugging, standing there as every white person in the room grew silent and just listened while the native-speakers sang out, the rythm of their voices rising and falling. After church was over, we stood around and chatted until everyone but us, the pastor, and another american boy were left. We talked until I had to sit down- the ground was beginning to swim a little, though I didn't tell anyone. Finally, we stood up to go- and got out of the car again juust as the boy's family pulled in the parking lot to pick him up. And then they all talked again for thirty or so more minutes.

I can hardly complain though; just glancing around the church's neighborhood was interesting. Directly across the church sat an old, run down hut with a tin roof. Beside that was a makeshift gazebo with a fire pit in it's center. I highly doubt it was there for decoration- probably for cooking goat or something. And dogs were everywhere. An obvious mother trotted by, trailing flies like a kite's tail. These were not pets. They were skinny, covered in flies and scars, and wary constantly. I was a sucker for animals, but I wasn't going to pet these. They weren't just a few scrawny ratcatchers. They looked like something out of national geographic, in the articles that almost are constantly featured about the middle east, or poverty-ridden countries. The ones where skeleton-like men kick aside stray dogs (exactly like the one mentioned above), and beat their cloth-covered wives. It would be a lie to say I wasn't unnerved.

From there, we piled into the car again, heading to the "Crisis Nursery-" babies younger than a year old who lost their mothers. And they were absoloutley adorable. I say that in all honesty, and I am not a baby person. They cry, they drink, they eat, they pee, they poop. Lovely. But once you walk in that nursery doorway, it's all over. At least they can pee and poop adorably, si?  

All chubby cheeks and big brown eyes- but the most heart-tugging were the ones in the very first room we were shown to. A premature boy by the name of "Maria Baby," (Poor man!) and a baby girl with AIDS. Just thinking about her makes me sad. I have to stop for the night anyway; we'll be going to visit a group of widows tomorrow, and old ladies are so much funner to be around than a baby with a wet diaper.

7.5.10

Today I saw the oddest pigeon. This has absoloutley nothing to do with my day, but the differances between Malawi and America continues to surprise me. The said pigeon looked very like the rock pigeons you see in cities back home, except for it's colors and markings. This pigeon in particular looked like it had crossed the path at the wrong time of a P.O.ed white paint bucket. That surprise was dulled almost immediatly as at least fifty more pigeons of the same coloring and markings landed around it, realeasing a load of sticky white droppings within moments. Apperantly some things don't change. 

But then, back to our day. I met my pigeon friend when visiting a widows' group in a village known as Mtslisa. We drove for a few minutes to get there, then worked our way through a swarm of children, who, upon seeing our cameras, made our progress twice as difficult. ("Pictcha'! Pictcha'!") When we finally ambled our way to the widows' doorway, we were greeted by a dance and a song. 

None of us had any intention of joining their dances, but you can't say no to a seventy year old women with an iron vice grip on your elbow. We all danced and chanted for a few songs, including Nick and Jeff. And you haven't laughed until you've seen a usually cocky sixteen year old boy with an ego the size of Malawi stumble into his dance steps, waving his hands above his head and mumbling the words. And I was most certainly not the only one laughing, so you can't just label me as evil by my words. Or you could, but then you'd have a very poor sense of humor indeed.

After the welcome dance, we had the widows sit down and tell us about their lives and the widows' group in general. COTN created the widows' classes to teach women how to support themselves and their families with sewing, cooking, and knitting without a husband's income. The classes take about a year to complete, though the program is still new and moving sluggishly. They're only on their second class (they do not have enough teachers or space to run more than one at a time, or teach many students.), but already word has spread and many women can't join the classes because they are too full until next year. That's sad that most women can't support their families alone as it is! Now theres an oppertuny to fix that and they can't because there wasn't enough space nor teachers? That's, forgive the language, bullshit. (How do you say that in Chichewa?)

But the widows' group truly was fun and interesting, and I met a new friend. I can't for the life of me spell her name, but she's an intern staying with the widows. All of us- widows, team, and interns, walked to one of the older widow's houses, built by her daughter. The first african citezen house I've been in, it's incrediably dark, small, but at least well built, and fashioned from dirt bricks and some other, hard material. 

The progress we made on our way walking back to the main widows' house/thing was very, very slow. It was as good as going for a car ride, except through a village, slower, and with physical interaction. And as our group never failed to do, you could stop, take pictures, and watch daily life in Mtslisa. The majority of the widows but for maybe three at most walked up ahead with Ms. Witte, Nick, and occasionally Jeff.The other three widows, my new intern buddy, and my mother and I moved at the pace of cows, and only when the other widows' backs were becoming brown, fuzzy blobs.

We passed by a series of bricks were baking in the sun, and my curiosity got the better of me. So I turned to my friend, asked her how they were made, and without further ado, she promptly took me by the hand and pulled to the other side of an immense stack of bricks, the bottom of which were placed in a hollowed out shape. First, wet dirt would be packed into molds. (She then showed me the molds, of which two mud-covered men rested, watching us with little smiles.) Then they would be placed in the sun to solidify, (these too she showed me, but I had seen these from the road as well.) and third, placed into the towering brick wall with the alcoves underneath she had first showed me. Fires would be lit in the alcoves, completeing the hardening. Then the bricks would be used, and the final step would be carried out over many years as weather eroded and melded the bricks together.

Mom, never one to miss a photo oppertunity, promptly began to clickclickclick away. The two men chuckled a little, but made no move to stop her. Only when she asked if she could take their pictures did they reply, "no, we are too dirty." More smiles and more chuckles. It's crazy. If you just calmly walked into a construction site and started taking pictures back in America, you'd get sworn at, flipped off, and probably be on the recieving end of a police report. Even a group of children play here, watching us with shy giggles and not-so-shy steps closer. 

But when Mom attempted to take the picture of a maybe five or six year old, tiny girl, she screamed, terrified, and ran- directly into my legs. Looking up, she screamed even louder. And then ran. That was a demoralizer if I'd even seen (heard?) one.

"I'm sorry I'm white!!" I had to scream it over my shoulder. The look on that little girl's face had been one of utmost horror and terror. 

  I don't think my native, black intern buddy stopped laughing for a full five minutes.

Just before dinner back at the main camp, the power abruptly went out. Apperantly it happens often, and as I wandered (I never walk, I wander. Or I stumble.) to the dining room/cafeteria, they already had candles set up. Mom had her laptop out and had already downloaded any pictures she'd taken and was in the process of weeding them all out. Jeff, Nick, and I played threes for maybe three games, Nick's comments getting increasingly pig-headed as I lost. 

I swear, someone should write down "The Book of Nick" or something, because that kid says some STUPID things. I won hands down on the third game, wiping the smirk off his face. After that game, we attempted to teach one of the COTN kids here, Stephen, how to play. At one point, Nick was just talking to Steve (Stephen), and he said something on how Stephen looked like one of the Seattle Sounders.

Stephen: "How?"

Nick: "Well, he's black and you're black, and so you look alike."

Jeff and I automatically held in our breaths, staring between Nick and Stephen until Steve replied with a somewhat late laugh. 

Stephen: "Ah."

Nick: "Yeah."

Jeff never said anything, just stared down at his cards. How are you supposed to respond to something like that anyway? 

~

  On a side note, I can't interract with my boys anymore. (The cats- though there is a third female who's so painfully shy, you can barely even glance at her before she runs away.) I pet them so often on our hut's doorstep that they just sit there and occasionally nap. The first tom I ever met since coming here, the black and white patchy one, has in particular developed a habit of sitting like the sphinx directly on our doorstep. 

Since Jeff and Nick's cabin is farther behind ours and shares the same sidewalk, they naturally had to cross the boys' little domain. Jeff's allergic (not severely, but just enough), and was sick enough of the cats randomely coming up to me and rubbing on my legs or mewing when I'm standing beside him. So, no cats. Goodness knows how long that will last, but we'll see. As long as Jeff promises not to run screaming at the color of my skin (he's paler than I am, so that'd be a laugh.), I think I can not pet a few cats. I think.

   7.6.10

I should probably be writing right now. Not writing in this journal as much as writing short stories; I've been neglecting my other half. It's not that I have nothing to write about, rather, all the new surroundings and ideas have sparked an immense fire from an old flame. But it's like the new fire is used to cook food rather than the old one, which gave warmth and look pretty. (EVERYTHING has a purpose here.) I can't really do anything with the new fire, because my cooking tastes like absoloute shit. Sorry about the overload of metaphores, but that's the best I can describe it. 

These new ideas just don't coexist with what I already have, and I treasure what I have. I can't for the life of me imagine my characters in sub-saharan Africa and enjoy it- Evelyn hates it when it's dry and dusty, Dimitri doesn't see a point in being there when he has work back home, and Felix would be bored. If I forced the characters there, the story would either be awkward and tense or just poorly peiced together. So it would suck. And then what would be the point of writing it anyway if every part of me hated it?

But enough about my ramblings. Nothing really noteworthy happened today- we went to the COTN house where Happy and Adija/Gloria are living, took a bunch of pictures there, dropped off a naseous Nick back at the duplex, and washed a bunch of dishes left over from the feeding program. And then Nick threw up like six times. And that was my day. I'm not feeling so smooth myself, so I think that'll be all for myself.

7.7.10

I feel like crap. My nose reminds me of a faucet, my stomach feels like it went through the dryer and got twisted and knotted, and my heart feels like it's in my toes. I'm staying at the duplex for the most part today. The first two symptoms can be attributed to either Nick (Who's fine now, he's wandering around outside in conservative Africa without a shirt.) or Africa itself. The third can be blamed on an immense bout of homesickness. 

I woke up this morning from a dream where Alex *IWon'tTellYouHisLastNameButYouProbablyKNowWhoI'mTalkingAbout had told me he loved me, and then sat with me in my back yard in the lush grass while we wrestled with Nelly and got the frisbee stuck in the tree. Of past nights, my dreams have all been of my Mom attempting to kill me- the first night, she was abusive, demanded wine, then cracked the bottle over my head before Dad told me to take Nelly and run. The latest one was about one of my friends (I can't for the life of me remember who...) and I running from her through a packed, high-tech art museum before she caught us through the museum security and almost sawed my arms off. So a nice dream about a guy I constantly have crushed on since third grade is a welcome change. 

I miss it all! Africa is wonderful, beautiful, and incerediably differant to be true, but it's nothing like home. If I said I want reality back, it would be the perfect, undoubtable oppertunity for someone to point out that this was reality. Poverty, God, hope, and endurance through life. All reality, all real. And I'm so greedy for saying this, but home is reality too. Green-green thigh-high grass that hasn't been mowed in months, fluffy white clouds one day and sheeting gray rain the next, the ever constant call of crows (Our normal crows- the flashy ones here sound like bull-frogs.), and the smell of brine and salt water. 

It's all red dirt here, with occasional shrub/trees (they're the same thing here). I never would have even cared before, but they don't even have squirrels! Just an overload of rats and big, well fed mice. America is a very plugged-in country; we need our outlets to survive. I always think of it now like how the cat people in Avatar plug themselves in to the tree of life to communicate with family and friends and access all their thoughts and memories. *Coughcoughfacebookcough* There's no tree of life here- if you want to be literal, no wifi. 

I have no way of knowing if Obama died and Sarah Palin somehow killed off the vice president too, and turned America into one, giant nusery for teen babies and we should all move to Canada. I think I've forgotten how to put on eyeliner already. We missed Dad's birthday (It was on the fifth), and I already completely forgot about fourth of July. 

I haven't read Five Dollar Mail in two weeks, and now am in some desperate need of an immense shot of sweaty, dirty cowboys and european immigrants with sexy accents. I can't email Gina here to ask random  questions and trade stories, and I might just be going into Gina withdrawl, as odd as that sounds. I have no idea if she'll read this or not, but I have to hope she doesn't chuckle a little too hard. I'm not obsessed, I just need my good, healthy advice froma person who can relate an incrediable amount. I tried asking a native Malawian about white slavery in the victorian era in England as opposed to in America and he just stared at me blankly. 

America is an incrediably rich, snobby, spoiled country. But our little group was talking to a native a few days ago who had been to America twice, and he said the most interesting thing. Rather than looking at us with jealousy, he said he looked at Malawi as being blessed that people who have so much care to put aside luxuries and help Malawi. We talked to him a few days ago and I'm still thinking about that. I'm listening to my Breaking Benjamin right now, wearing a fuzzy sweater made in China, and eating from an endless supply of apple-cinnamon rice cakes. Yes, we're helping Malawi and we're immensly wealthy compared to them, but us being rich in our own deep pockets really doesn't help Malawi with theirs.

So I'm spoiled and selfish and often immature, Nick is perhaps entirely too American in his words and actions, Mom can be slightly hypocritical, Jeff is allergic and hates cats (that's a DEMERIT, I swear), and Ms. Witte just loves Malawi too much to come back to the states. So Ms. Witte is perfect, and the rest of our team has issues. Yup.

~

On another note, I failed to stay away from the cats miserably. I am now resorting to looking aroundd with nervous glances before hurridly stroking them, straightening up, and walking away like nothing happened. I also discovered something sure to make Jeff swear- the female cat is pregnant. I got to pet her for the first time today, something that made me incrediably happy. I love cats- dogs too, but dogs can't purr. When you pet a cat and it begins to purr, you can smile easily knowing that at least you can make one creature entirely and undoubtably happy- so much so that they're entire body shakes with happiness.    

7.8.2010

The homesickness has, I think, hope, and pray, reached it's peak. We're going off  to Chiwengo for five days today, and leaving in an hour or so. Before leaving our Njewa duplex, we checked into the office (the only place with wifi) to see our emails. My patience was tested to considerable lengths as we waited for the internet connection- it took fifteen minutes at least to go online, type in Seattle University's website address, go there, log into Mom's student account, access Mom's student account, go to her email, download her messages, and then read them. The worst was perhaps waiting for the emails to download and read. The email layout would slowly, slllllowwwllllyyyy fill out, bits of white and color slowly flecking in and out to fill spaces. 

When we finally did get to the emails, we were fortunate enough to  get a novella-like email from Dad. Fortunate and unfortunate- as we read of Dad's adventures with Katie in fields of wheat, surrounded by horses, casually interacting with Nelly, the goats, and various farm animals of the palouse, I started to cry. In the office, in front of Nick,
Jeff, a few Malawi people, and Mom. It's not that I want to go home, I just miss it. I wouldn't trade this oppertunity to be where I am now for anything (except maybe if we wound up on a missionary trip to Costa Rica, Ireland, Italy, or something equally frivilous. I'd settle for the Czech republic. ;), but I just miss home. 

So immediatly three differant people offered hugs, and Potzo (a german shepard mix at the duplex- he's a good dog, not like the village dogs with their flies, snarls, and empty stomachs; though it really isn't their faults.) made a timely entrance and stuffed his cold, wet nose nto my stomach with something I would call a requesting look. I love animals. 

They don't ask anything, they don't talk about you behind your back, you can be yourself around them, and they really dont care if you say something socially inapropriate. They're easy to read, don't get insulted easily (except cats), and theyre needs are simple. You'd be hard pressed about worrying if a apethetic goat will tell his best friend your worries and fears. Or maybe they do, but any minor thing of your life is the least of their cares.  

~

After being stuffed in the rental car for a few hours, we all tumbled out like puppies in a basket  to be greeted by a few interns and COTN children in Chiwengo. We'd passed many, many fascinating things on the ride, of which I only have time to name the oddest.

On the beginning of our very arrival, I'd heard of "african sausage-" mice and rats cooked, and arranged on sticks like sheish-kabobs, their little blackened feet splayed out, tail stiff. I'd marked it off as a joke played on the stupid americans- until we were driving along, a peeked out the window, and discovered two men displaying three longs, sharp and thin sticks each to the road. Sharp, thin sticks with little, blackened, inatamite mammals displayed on their lengths.  

~

Where out little group is staying is one of five compound/house things- the COTN houses in general are on lots in a something that could be called a neighborhood.  The houses are very spread out, but on the other hand, they're not huts, they're not particularly shabby, and on the contrary, it looks like Africa. It's hotter here, drier, dustier, and sparsely decorated by trees you'd imagine to see a giraffe stop by and nibble, or a monkey chatter angrily. Our team is staying in the "House of Joy" with a few COTN kids and a few of Mom's friends from older visits, the aunties. Aunties are helpers with the house, guiding and mothering the children. The house mother is the head of the aunties.

The moment we arrived, our position was clarified. Enter Auntie Erin. Or Auntie Ellen- it seems their accents dont quite allow room for their "R's." 

7.9.2010

This is s mouthful to all say, so I'll start with my minor, random details and work my way up.

1) We (Our team, a few COTN kids, and a few more village boys) found a caterpillar as thick around as a tennis ball, and at least six inches long. 

This thing was enormous. I was washing dishes inside the guest duplex/house with Mom when Nick barged in the kitchen with a "You HAVE to see this caterpillar." My response: "yeah, sure, but I have to finish the dishes first. Hold on." And then Jeff, five minutes later: "Have you seen the sixe of this caterpillar?!" No, but Nick told me too. What about it?" "Go look at it! No, seriously. It's huge."

So I made my way outside, Mom and her camera  in tow. This caterpillar was huge. Imagine your average green fuzzy caterpillar knawing on a rosebush or something. Now imagine that same caterpillar swollen to ten times its size, knawing on you. No lie, it was 3/4 the size of my 8.5 length foot. It wasn't moving, probably dead, but I wasn't about to get close enough to find out. What sort of thing would that monster turn into?! A bird? We got pictures (with a size comparison), as I'm fairly sure it won't be there tommorrow. Either some little boy will wind up with it in the family closet (until his mother finds it), or the world's luckiest bird will digest a month's worth of bug in one sitting.

2) There was, at one point, a 2 meter long black mamba quartered in our elephant hut. The same elephant hut I so trustingly locked myself into when sick that one day. The one we so often collapse into our low, almost ground-level bunk beds to sleep for the long hours of the night. 

Jeremiah, our cook (he came with us from the duplex), dropped this lovely little bomb on us at dinner. They didn't know what to do with it at first, so they just locked it in there the first few days. Eventually they sent the staff in there to beat it to death with sticks, stones, and their rubber-clad feet. They're not sure how it got in, as the cabin was locked at the time, but this six foot long monster somehow wormed it's way inside to coil on the floor and probably digest a goat or something.

But on the other hand, he also reported that snakes don't mess with cats. Cats are supperior to snakes. Two cats in particular sit in front of our door all night, waiting and watching. Jeff and Nick kick at the cats. I'm taking comfort in this fact. I don't know how a cat is going to prevail against a 2 meter long, scaly, black, venemous monstrosity, but at the same time I'm reminded of the torn ears, old scars, and broken tails Little Man and the other patchy tom bear back at the duplex. If they made it this far, maybe there's something to it. 

NOTE: Jeremiah was very interested to hear that American tourists would pay good money for a snake pelt.

7.10.2010

We walked back and forth along the houses at night- the stars are absoloutley gorgeaus. There's no clouds here, and you can see the milky way. I don't know any of these constellations- we're looking at the other half of the sky. But I'm also way grateful for Mr. Detweiler's earth science pop quizzes (I never thought I'd say that), because Nick is standing there wondering aloud if the pink haze behind the stars are clouds. 

Why is it that adults and older kids alike automatically ignore a younger person's answer? After I answered him once (lightly, the last thing I want is to be a cocky know-it-all), he continued to ask Jeff. And Jeff never answered Nick. 

But he doesn't get it. Nick, I mean. If I ever become like that, someone will have to slap me up. He doesn't care about the little things, just the big picture. He doesn't care that the stars are breathtaking, or that there's a lizard the length of my thumb just scaling the wall of our duplex. And that drives me absoloutley crazy. He's the sort of person you'd take to the Victoria Falls and he'd admire it for a second, then move on. I'm too detail oriented to not get annoyed with that.    

7.12.2010

We have now safely returned to Njewa. It's good to be back in our cozy little huts, but I can't forget Jermiah's casual referance to a frickin' black mamba in our snug little elephant hut. I don't give a damn how many times Nick laughs and says I'm like a little kid, I'm staying in the top bunk. We returned to find another team had come to stay in the other huts, an orginazition from Arizona called "Somebody cares" with seventeen women, two men, and one twelve year old boy. So much for hot showers.

This group is messssssssssy! We walked into the bathrooms and were immediatly assulted by the site of at least ten towels crowding each other off the miniscule towel rack, collecting mold while no one took a shower. Hair was cemented to the sink countertop, and splotches of soap is hardening into nasty little crusts as I type. You know it's bad when it starts looking like my bathroom back home. 

Aside from the new team, not much else to report- unless you count my incrediably strong longing for male company. On our way back from Chiwengo, we dropped off a few of one of the village girl's friends at their boarding school. Male friends, about 17 to 19.

They started off asking all our names, then ages. I was the last one they got to, and the conversation went a little like this:

Boys: "How old are you?"

Me: "...Hmm?" (<-- spacing off again, had been staring out window)

Boys: "How old are you?"

Me: "Oh. Fourteen." *Blush*

Boy #1: *Sly smile* "We marry here at that age."

Me: "...!!!" (O.o) *Brighter blush*

Mom: "Watch it, that's my daughter! Turn around!" *Laughing*

That alone I think, swelled my wounded pride, vanity, and ego by like, twenty. (But I still want my man meat. ;) 

(Safari in Zambia tommorrow!)

7.13.2010

There are monkey tracks in the dirt. I've witnessed a lion hunt and kill. And I'm in Zambia. But from the start:

We left for our 3 day, 2 night safari in Zambia this morning. Nick and I waited outside the COTN office, catching snatches of wifi while we waited for the safari bus and guarded our team's luggage. I think I wrote Gina back 3 out of 4 emails and sent one to dad when a white land rover pulled in, spilling clouds of red dust everywhere. The sidedoor opened, sending another billowing cloud into the air. Three people spilled out- a Malawian, an american, and someone who looked suspiciously European. It's not until we all shake hands, call in the rest of the team, and climb into the landrover for a 5 hour car ride do we learn everyone's name and story.

There's the bus driver (Malawian) Bentley, Sydney, an intern from Salt Lake City, and Andy, a redheaded, freckled, fair-skinned, accented Ireland native. And when I say accented, I mean he said his "aye's" and skipped his "h's." Sydney and Andy were both to come on our safari with us. On the road, I'm not sure what I was more attentive of; the Malawi road and life, or the redheaded foreighner with blue-grey eyes and stubble in front of me. This guy smoked, drank, cussed, and possessed the ability of being able to sleep through anything. He reminded (past tense? He still does, now that I know him better) me of a younger, less experianced, bolder George Washington Monohan. Ecept for the life of me, I can't imagine Wash swearing like a sailor at little things, reading a horror novel, or going on a safair in Zambia. (:D:D:D)

So we all talked in the car (until Andy fell asleep, Nick retreated to his ipod, and I began to stare blankly out the window again), and Andy enlightened me on just how close to my dream climate Ireland was. Rain almost everyday (Or, word for word as he said "Pretty much pissin' down e'eryday, yah."), a good amount of snow, not too hot, green, and lots and lots of sheep and goats. In my mind, that sounds like paradise. Now I sound obsessed with him, and I will tell you (and you probably won't believe me) that I do not have a crush on him. I just find his accent and nationality fascinating. I'm not kidding, I started conversations just to hear that guy talk.

Irish (Ir-eesh) Translation Guide for the Poor Denied Peoples of Limited Traveling Experiance and Henceforth Unfortunate Souls 

No (Nay-oh)

Why (Whi)

Zebra (Zeb-ra)

Cigarette (Cigareete)

Yes (Aye) (I'm not kidding, he didn't skip out on his aye's, his lads, or his lassies) 

Road (Rood)

Sleep (Slip)

If I could translate his voice to paper and ink, I would. Take a simple sentance for example- (We'll use one of our earlier conversations)

Andy: *Opens a new pack of smokes, takes a deep drag*

Me: "Are those random special Irish cigarettes?" (<-- boring, blunt american accent)

Andy:  "These? Oh naoh. Afreecan, these are. Got 'em at th' store, I theenk." (Translation: "These? Oh no. African, these are. Got them at the store, I think.")

Me: "Do they taste any differant? Or feel, I guess." *Wide eyed, fascinated* 

Andy: *Completely oblivious* "Naoh- they all taste te' same t' me." (Translation: "No- they all taste the same to me.")

Ahhh... soo,  yah. Irish accenmts. Damn awesome.

~

But anyway, the road. Our drive was fairly uneventful until Zambia, but always interesting to watch daily life. I don't think I've mentioned this for, but Malawi women are amazing. They carry everything, everything, on their heads. Maize, full buckets of water, backpacks, tree branches, anything and everything. I tried to carry half a bucket of maize on my head in Mstlisa and almost killed myself and lost three days worth of food at once.

But when we passed through the Zambia border, things got interesting. For one, after fifteen minutes or so, things started to look like Africa. Not the poverty, people, life, love, joy, God, crime side of Africa- baobob trees, savannah grasses taller then  me, and mud and grass huts. THAT'S the Africa I like best, I think. After about forty minutes, the paved road dissapeared, and packed, red-brown dirt and potholes took it's place. 

I don't think once that that speedometer dipped below sixty.

The highest speed I remember seeing on that thing was eighty-five mph, on a windy, single car, bumpy, hole-filled dirt road. I have photographic evidence of both the speedometer and the road. The car's shocks were spent, so I do believe I could feel the tires hit silt. I prayed no less than one prayer every five to ten minutes. At some points we had to drive half in the gutter, so our poor land rover was almost propped on it's side. (My side, may I add. ;) Andy actually fell asleep during one of the worst parts. I KNOW he felt the road's effects though, because every picture I took of the scenery outside the windshield includes his hand on the door handle and his head by the steering wheel. 

The end result was a hella worth it. Zambia, in my book, is far preferable and far more beautiful than Malawi. So when we finally got to the safari place, the land rover immediatly dropped off us and our bags outside our cabins/extremely nice huts. We were greeted by baboons at the gate. And then baboons and giraffes in our back yard. We can, no lie, see them off our porch. There's elephant poop in the walkways from our cabins to the lounge, open resteraunt/patio, and gift shop. Scarcely fifteen minutes after seeing our new homes, we were picked up by an open-backed jeep with three rows of open seats to our first night safari.

~ 

We started with giraffes at  4' o' clock. I'll tell you right now, those things are absoloutley huge up close. We saw a few elephants at a distance, and bushbucks EVERYWHERE. Due to a bumpy road and bad hearing, we first called them bushbutts. And the name stuck. By the time the guide bothered to correct us, we couldn't call them anything else. Or, as our spotter (guy with the spotlight- we'd use the spotlight as it got dark.) pointed our with a cheshire cat grin, McDonalds. Sure enough, the markings on their butts form a gold "M." Also noted as fast food. (Bad joke, I  know, but it wasn't mine.)

We stopped just as the sun was setting on a panoramic, breathtaking veiw of the river in front of us, plains behind us, and the red sun sinking behind the trees to our right. Our team all broke open a few bottles of soda, Andy smoked, and Mom took pictures. And then the guide announced we would only be stopping for nocturnal animals, and it got good. Mom and Ms. Witte both were starting to sound like drunk schoolgirls as we were forced to pass up hippos, giraffes, and zebras. Their main joke consisted of "Nope, can't stop now, gotta see them nocturnal animals! Stupid non-nocturnals- just majestically wandering around, stopping an arms length from the car, rolling in the dirt, you know how it  goes." 

But they both gave up the joke the moment at least a thousand cape buffalo stampeded across the road, obviously scared by something. I can't describe what it was like to see so many, so close, so panicked. It was five minutes before we could drive forward a little again. The buffalo were so scared they didn't give a shit about us, our car's spotlight in their eyes, or the endless paparazzi flashes from cameras. I tried to get a good picture, but there were too many, and it wasn't until thirty minutes later did I find the movie recording setting. 

But I got a video of the lions. Four videos, in fact. Our first sighting was from a distance- there were at least four females on the opposing river bank. Our second was crazy as hell- we were perhaps as far away from a lone female as you would stand from a stray dog- keeping your distance, but still close enough that if you took five steps, you could pet it. She was stalking through the brush. She didn't give a damn that we were there either, which is a hella good thing, because those things are powerful. As far as size comparison, she was about as tall in the shoulder as just below my chest, and probably one and half times taller than me when she was stretched out. But it was only a glimpse. The real thrill came a few minutes later, when we saw the herd scatter and run like hell. 

We lost sight of the females just before, and saw the baby buffalo and the male lion just after. After the dust had settled and the majority of the herd was across the river, one lone, stranded and confused calf was left behind, crying oput piteously and wandering back and forth behind bushes. Perhaps a few meters away was a young, male lion, just growing in a shaggy black mane. If I said the lion wandered away in ignorance and the baby safely skipped away to it's mother, I'd b e lying to the ultimate. We never saw the male take down the calf- we heard it bleat, and we never saw male nor calf again. 

Our guide advised us to come back in a little while, as a lion hunt could last all night. I'm glad we did leave, both for the future's sake and Ms. Witte's stomach. I say the future because one of the animals we had been praying to see was a leopard. We found one only maybe ten minutes away from the scene of the hunt. He (She?) was absoloutley gorgeaus. There's a beautiful animal. We spotted it from behind a bush, and, to our joy, the driver pulled off the road, made us swear to not tell his boss, and drove closer. It was about the size of Nelly, no bigger. Just the size of a big dog. But it had a bushbutt at it's feet, and was busy ripping out intestines. Cameras blazing, I think we stayed for twenty or so minutes. 

By then we left to give the poor cat some peace (though I really think it couldn't have cared less), and eagerly sped off (back on the road) to see the results of the hunt. We rounded the corner, pulled into a clearing, and shone the headlight's beams directly onto the squirming form of a large, assumably female cape buffalo pinned down by three, tawny, muscled female lions. 

The buffalo was still alive as they tore into it's stomach. 

I tell you this because I couldn't take my eyes away- the buffalo didn't stop squirming until near the end, though we could hear another one squeling from behind a bush. I told myself quite firmly that it wasn't the baby, but the cries were coming from the direction where we'd seen it being seperated, and I noticed that the male lion was mysteriously missing. I took four videos, a hundred pictures, and happily zoomed in on bloodstained patches of fur despite my stomach of tin foil. (Not steel, tin foil. ;)

After four more safari cars pulleed up to watch, our land rover had to pull out and go look elsewhere. Everything paled after that, but it was still so, so surreal. I saw scorpio for the fisrt time today, as well as the southern cross. I keep telling  myself to accept it's real, but I'm not getting very far. A shame, because I don't want to miss any of this.

~

When we were served dinner, they offered steak. I couldn't finish the last bite without remembering the smell of blood, the crack of bone, and steady slurping/smacking sound.   

7.14.2010

  We had a morning safari today- nothing near as exciting as last night, but we saw four of the earlier pride of lions up close. Really close. Maybe fifteen feet away at most. All four females (probably the same from last night) were in napp-ish mode, lazing about in a big, open grassy field in various stages of digestion and contentment. 

One in particular was completely out- she was flat on her back, belly to the sky, forehead to ground, and jowels pulled back to expose an impressive array of ginormous (is that a word?) white  teeth. It could have been imposing, but rather she just wound up looking a lot like Nelly. Her paws even twitched occasionally.

A night safari later- dinner in five minutes. Hafta go.

~

It started off slow, and more of a nice, serene night outing than anything else. We all knew that nothing could have bested the first night, but until near the end of the night, nothing came remotely close. 

But we saw another leopard. Another BIG leopard. We ran into the pride of all seventeen lions again, and just as we were leaving, almost backed the bushes where it was. Beau-ti-ful. The one on the first night was probably about the size of a small dog- not this one. This one was maybe only a little smaller in the shoulders than the lions, and at least 200 pounds. 

My exuberant expression though, was due to the frickin' hyenas. I'd been dying to see one a little closer for a day and a half now- until tonight, we'd only seen one at a time from a distance. I have pictures of a hyena now. And I am veryveryvery proud of myself. I'm going to have to blame a large combination of both lion king and Tamora Pierce on this one, because I always thought hyenas were both fascinating and absoloutley terrifying. If I had to choose which animal I'd be most terrified to wake up to and find it standing/resting/oozing over me out of a lion, hyena, crocodile, ten-inch leech, and anaconda, I would most definantly choose the hyena. 

Dopn't get me wrong, they're beautiful in a very differant way, but they're just so...differant. The whole laugh/yip thing, the leering grin, the axe shaped head, the powerful and short legs, and the humped back- wow. I'd always not really believed the idea of something shaped like that being a scavanger, and the guide confirmed my suspiscions. Foxes, racoons, crows, and opossum are scavangers. Even bears and vultures are scavangers. But you'll never see a bear, vulture, fox, racoon, crow, or 'possum shaped like that. I only got one good picture, but I am satisfied. For the moment, anyway. I'd kill to see that again.   

7.15.2010

Why did the safaris have to end? That was absoloutley amazing, and Zambia is beautiful!  I don't have much of the energy required to write this all out for you, but I'll give you the gist.

In a nutshell: Rode in the car all damn day. Butt feels like a rubber pancake. Day over.

So, yah. Zambia. Nice place. Malawi- hmm. People. Lotsa people. Lotsa poor people who need help. Yup, will help them poor people. But first, I need a nap.Forgive me, it's back to chichewa now- I need a siesta. That might be spanish, but what the hell. Reporting out!

~

Before I forget- we stopped at the Zambia/Malawi border for Sydney and I to use the bathroom. (Lotsa cold water on a hot day with roads shaped like swiss cheese is NOT a good combination.) If we both were not truly desperate, we wouldn't have touched those bathrooms, but as it was... I'll put kit this way for you. There were no toilets. 

I would rather have relieved myself in the middle of a 5 o'clock seattle traffic jam than have used that bathroom normally. As I said, no toilets. There was a single, pitted, dug out hole in the middle of the floor, and it smelled like... shit. No way around it. After using it, I stepped out to find Mom trying (uselessly) to persuade some random Malawian that the toilets were free. But he flat out refused not to take pay for using his public toilet. I think we argued for ten minutes before giving in and paying him 200 kwacha each. (About three US dollars) And so, thus we were joyously welcomed back to Malawi.

  7.16.2010

Why have I been skipping days? I wait at least a day before recording the said day, so the days seem to be piling up. If I stop recording all this, I'll feel crazy guilty, and the need to write something will triple. And then guilt will set in, and by the time I decide to write again, about four days will have passed and I won't remember crap anyway. I can't remember anything in ONE day, let alone four. 

But anyway, the first day back to work. We (Nick & I) selected our victims to interveiw and stalk, then spent the rest of the day trying to work through their accents and summarize 15 years of living in two paragraphs. I have to say, I think we did a pretty good job for two spoiled, bratty american teens. I'm proud, at least. Exhausted, but proud. 

I got to talk to Gina though, something that essentially made my day. Anna (Ma Fishy best friend) and Howie (My other, more manly self) as well, but I do wish I could just take their beautiful little emails with me where ever I go. It's funny how that works- Dad's emails cause me to burst into tears, Howie's make me shake my head and grin, Fish's make me want to hug the computer, and Gina's make me giddy, excited, aned usually result in me laughing or me pooring all my random thoughts, hopes, and dreams into the computer. I swear, that poor woman must think I'm erratic, selfish, spoiled, and a little over eager. I'm just grateful she actually takes the time to listen, respond, and think. I'm so lucky! 

But damn, do I miss my friends. I have stories to tell! And of course, seeing as I've been gone for a month, tv shows to catch up on, webcomics to read, gossip to hear, and Nelly kisses to wet-wipe off. I definantly miss the unreality of it all.

7.17.2010

This place as unnaturally large bugs. Unnatural. It's not right, I tell you! Gahhh... they're just nasty. Allow me to list the various repulsive, overgrown, over loud, and over populated bugs I've seen so far.

Caterpillar (Pict) - I told you about this one already, but I'll never forget it.

Butterfly - It was just fluttering around in the church in Chiwengo, about the size of my hand. 

Wasp - In the school rafters of a fourth grade classroom in Chiwengo, three inches long with an abdomen as big around as a ping pong ball. 

Cicada (Pict) - UGH. We hear them every night, and if you pass by the duplex brick wall, they just sit there. I've never seen a normal sized one, so I can't say if  it was unusually large, but it was far too close to my hair at the time to not be repulsed.

Termite (Pict) - Maybe twice as big as a carpenter ant? 

Grasshopper (Pict) (Saw TODAY) - Gahhhhh... this thing was absoloutley huggggge. I've never seen a grasshopper in detail because they're usually only about half the length of my thumb- (and I'm terrified of them) but I saw this one down to the miniature spikes on its' legs. In itself, it was actually almost pretty. Jade green, with darker green spikes, long legs, fauceted eyes, and extremely thick antennae. It was three-fourths the size of a ball point pen. 

So, yah. All I can say is that I will always, always praise God, for at least he gives me a misquito net over my head at night.

~

Aside from mammoth bugs, I can't say too much happened today. We interveiwed again, but this time with Ms. Witte. I can't say what made the differance- the fact Ms. Witte was there, or the fact that our subjects were adults this time. Whatever the case, it was MUCH easier. Though in all honesty, I was about ready to punch Nick again. 

I'm usually not this violent- my patience has a pretty good fuse, but Nick... somehow it's like the idiot is holding the sharpest pair of scissors he can find, and is holding a can of gasoline in one hand and a torch in the other. The ass. To make a long story short, he's basically using me on the majority of all the little, pointless chores- like running back and forth across the compound to get the recorder, keys, my camera, fetching our next interveiwee (is that even a word?), and asking what time it is. 

At one point I asked him if he would mind either giving Ms. Witte's keys back to her or going to get the recorder from our hut, and he looked at me straight in the eye and said "No, you can do it. I'm doing the interveiw- you don't even reallly have to be there." Bullshit- I'm supposed to work with this ass?

7.18.2010

Sunday, so we had church. We didn't go to the same place as the first time, Flood Church, but to Henry's instead. (One of Ms. Witte's COTN buddies) I don't think I've mentioned him earlier, but he's good friends with my mom and has, for the last two unnsuccesful weeks, been trying to teach me common place greetings.

Henry: Ah! Ellen! Mui bwanji! (Don't laugh at my spelling attempts. I wrote it like it sounds.)

Me: Ahhh... Uhh... Hi Henry!

Henry: Noo, Ellen, no! Dilly bwaino e kiyeno!

Me: Yup, same to you!

Henry: Nono, repeat after me! Dilly bwaino e kiyeno!

Me: Dilly.. dillydilly... dilly what?

Henry: *Laughs* Ahhh, Ellen! Practice!

Personally, I'm proud to remember just how to say 'what's up' in Chichewa (Bobo!). I had to learn 'zikomo!' (thank you!) pretty fast, and also 'tanana' ((see you) or tanana mowa- see you tomorrow). Speaking of chichewa, I every time I go visit the COTN feeding program I feel incrediably inferior. The moment you step off your car/bus/transport of choice, it's children EVERYWHERE. 

"Azungu!" "Azungu!" "Azunguuuu!" (White person. We hear that a lot here.) And then you're immediatly assulted by an army of cute, tiny, runny-nosed little kids all yelling away in chichewa. They learned from the first day that if you say something in chichewa and wait expectantly for me to reply, I will just repeat whatever you said. And so after the first ten minutes I had with them, everytime I repeated something, they'd laugh. Bad sign, so I'm assuming that I now know a number of swear words in chichewa.

But yeah, back to Henry's church. Our loveable newlife church goes on for maybe an hour and a half at tops- Usually an hour and fifteen minutes of Wes doing what hev does best, preaching the gospel like he's exscusively on comedy central meets MTV and Oprah. (Yeah, Wes is awesome. ;) At the moment we walked in, it was evident Henry's church had a much more traditional approach. Which is fine! It was pretty cool for the first hour- it sounded like a black (this sounds racist, I'm sorry!) gospel choir. 

Everyone so happy, singing out to God and loving life. After the first hour and a half, I was all smiles, happy, cheerful, refreshed, and ready to tackle the next COTN project back at the duplex. Ehhh, no. After the first hour and a half, the sermon started. After the first hour and three quarters, the preacher switched to chichewa. And after the second hour, he announced that he was half way done.

We entered the church at nine, and came out at twelve. My spoiled little body is so accostumed to sitting in our school's squishy, springy auditorium (Newlife is hosted at Klahowya) for and hour and then some every Sunday bck home. I walked out of that church like I'd been riding western for the last five hours on an extremely fat horse. Wooden pews, long sermon, dehydrated body. Mayhap not the best combination, but we leave on Saturday (I'm not looking forward to that day, but it has it's perks. (*Coughcoughhotshowerscough*)), when my butt can once agqain spoil itself on nice, stuffed movie-theater chairs made in China.

~

No interveiws today- but as we were eating lunch earlier, one of the COTN sponsored students sat down and ate with us via Ms. Witte's invitation. We all call him Obama because he wants to be the president. His name is in Chichewa, and I'm afraid my american mouth isn't quite suited to the task of pronouncing it. The first time I saw him though, to be honest, I was a little scared. Obama (I'll just call him that for now) is a black-albino. When I say, I don't mean he's black with pink eyes, white hair, etc. 

I mean he's an albino with African features. So a broad nose, thick lips, and high cheek bones- but undeniably paper-white, with sky blue rather than brown eyes. Until here, I'd never met nor known an albino. They don't sound to look so differant, just pale. Obama, not so much. Even among azungus, he stands out by a mile. If there's any one who would be interesting to interveiw, it'd be him. But none of us can even bring it up to each other, because I can only imagine the amount that poor guy has been teased. He just doesn't look normal. (Ohhh, I sound awful, but i have to say my thoughts. I don't want to be dishonest.) He's not all to pleasing to the eye either, something that, in truth, both scared and repealed me. At least I can admit that to you. He really is a nice guy, if quiet around me. I'll write more later- I'm absoloutley exhausted. (From sitting for three hours. How's that work?)

~

Nap over and done with a while ago- I wrote a little, and then we all headed off to Yobi's (another COTN friend)  house for dinner. On our way back, normally we pass a certain gas station street corner where they regularly sell various differant random items. We usually make a game out of it. But Jeff, dead faced and completely serious, shook his head solemly and proclaimed thaty "we probably should pass on that place at night." The rest of our little medley didn't complain. 

My automatic assumption was drugs, because that's perhaps the most common back home. Prostitution didn't even occur to me until I asked to clarify my guess. When I think of prostitution, I think of the movie Taken, and I think of Amsterdam's red light district. As far as I know (knew?), Amsterdam was the only place it was publically displayed and legal, and wild west saloon's dance hall girls earned more than the prostitutes ("Soiled doves."). 

And then Ms. Witte casually mentioned one of her students' (second grade teacher, remember?) moms had been arrested for selling herself on craigslist. And Nick added how his Dad (a cop) would frequently search up women undercover for that exact thing. My curiousity stirred, I commented that I'd only heard of that sort of thing in Seattle. Wrong- Bremerton. Bremerton. I have to take that all in now.... I'm not going to lie, that snapped me out of my safe, unrealistic little bubble. 

7.19.2010

Where to start? We went to a little, poverty ridden village known as Chirambo today. It was about an hour's drive, so I brought my ipod and they rented a mini bus, which our team promptly filled to the maximum capacity with trannslators, interns, and COTN kids. As I was waiting for the bus to actually show up, I was talking to two Malawian men. 

Now I tell you that I'd never really been feeling threatened by anyone- the safari driver, yes, but only when his foot was on the accelerator. Malawians have a habit of being open and friendly to anyone they meet. You'll never truly meet a shy Malawi adult, who won't say hi to the man/woman walking past them. But the men just looked at me so strangely, and that was before they came over to talk. When they did come over, they gave me the customary handshake and "how are you?" ('First thing they'll say to you, even before "And your name is?"). One of the men gave me a hug. 

Hugs are fine- even if you meet someone for the first time, some of the people (usually elderly women or wives) will prefer hugs to handshakes. So I accepted his hug, feeling a slight bit odd, but nothing serious. But he wouldn't just accept the hug. The whole time when we talked, he'd put his hand on my shoulder, pat my arm, and give me more hugs. Maybe my american mind was overreacting, but I used my first pathetic exscuse when the conversation just turned to awkward silences and look-overs, and went inside to help Nick seperate rocks from a bucket of beans. The girls do it all the time- Malawi is a touchy, lovey country. Yobi too, and the younger kids and COTN teens, but he's Yobi. I was out of there. I think I'll be staying away from whoever that was in the future.

They consider rape common here- women are taught to accept it, and that they can't say no. The fact is fairly well known, and it's one of the reasons so many Africans have HIV and AIDS. And so, before I left, I got many jokes back at school to stay away from "those african boys," and even a few serious warnings and concerned looks. Something to consider in the future.... I'm fine though. I've got a whole tell-off/cuss out/slap/lock in closet routine planned out for future referance if ever happens again. (:)

After an hour's ride in  the car, listening for the whole time to native, african songs, we arrived at a tiny, extremely dusty village. Once there, we tailed a small family and helped them do chores. So I shelled maize, carried lots of water (spilled is maybe a better word! ;), hoed the fields, and washed dishes. 

Shelling maize is fun work, but painful. The proof is two blisters on Ms. Witte's hands. Maize is essentially a sweet, white corn. To get the kernals off, you twist the corn and use your thumbs to pull it off. After thirty minutes of that, it was on to carrying water- also painful work, mainly because it's hella emberrassing when the little kids laugh at two azungus carrying water. We did... I think three buckets each by the end? Something like that. 

Hoeing the fields was fun- my only regret was  that all the americans were too weak to do more than one row each. The old women we were helping (obstructing) did at least three, and didn't falter a second when she struck an anthill and ants were swarming over her bare feet. Ants terrify me- I sat on an anthill when I was little. I could barely stop shuddering as it was through Indiana Jones. So it was a nice relief when she pulled back a clod of dirt an unveiled a tiny, shivering, pathetic little bit of a doormouse. Soooo cute. If something as small, weak, and nervous looking as a dormous had succesfully survived living in a clod of dirt, we all should be fine. For a moment, anyway. And then she gave it to her son to kill and sell. Remember the mice on a stick?

Washing dishes- boring, but educatin g. They don't use soap, they use flour. They wipe flour von it, dip it in muddy water, and shove it in a bucket to dry. I will never look at our dishwasher the same way again.

~

Ah! I'm writing this a day late, but I just remembered this; so later that day, on our way back, we stopped at the ABC (African Bible college) to check in on some soccer game being played. (COTN vs. interns) So when we got there we found out one of the COTN boys had fallen backwards on his wrist, and he could barely move without being in pain. So Mom, Ms. Witte, and I volunteered to take him five minutes away to the ABC clinic. So here's what happened. 

We ventured in there, and were greeted by a Malawian receptionest who announced that all doctors specializing in bones had left ten minutes ago, so it was too bad we were late. She reportedly didn't even have a bandage. As we stood there, desperatly bartering for the poor kid's wrist, a few american doctors, freshly hired in the hospital showed up, expressed concern, and patched him up a little right at the desk. 

The doctor was from Alabama (Funny how I'm meeting more people from the US than I ever did back home), and it showed in his voice. He magically conjured a fresh roll of bandage, patted the boy on the shoulder, and sent him on his way. No what, praytell was wrong with the Malawi doctors? I'm definantly not saying that Americans (Not just Americans, actually- there was a nurse with a British accent as well) are better than Malawians in regard to niceities, but that was just messed up. (They were going to leave his wrist like that until next morning! "Messed up" is a milder word than I would've liked, but this place is apperantly conservative and nice, so whatever.) Anyway, I just had to share that with you.

7.20.2010

Yay, widows! (:D) Mtsilisa again! Oh, I always forgewt how much I like that place until I'm there. So we originally came to pop in and visit the widows, then spend all day at the feeding program. Halfway through our stay with the widows, I began to feel dizzy, so they had me stay behind. I loooove old women. I know that sounds so odd, but they have the frickin' best sense of humor, stories, and advice. I learned how to make meat pies with no meat, just soy beans. Soy-meat.  

Soybean Turnovers

Dough: Flour, water, salt, butter

1) Use a rolling pin to flatten a thick slice of dough

2) Use bottom of a margine tub or cup to cut out a circular shape

3) (Optinal) Engrave lightly (not completely penetrating) a design on the back of dough

4) Place in filling on the dough 

5) Fold the circle of dough in half

6) Pinch the open  sides of the halft circle together with fingers

7) Press the same sides together with the prongs of a fork

8) Poke light holes in the top of the pie

9) Bake for 15+ minutes until completely light, golden-brown in 350+.

Note: Add a glaze?

Possible fillings: Crushed frozen rasberries *with sugar, apple crisp filling, pear (?), strawberry, frozen blueberries, frozen blackberries, frozen blackberry/rasberry combo.

~

The feeding program went on outside where I was making scones- I didn't help serve because I wasn't feeling so smooth, but I saw the results. We hold world hunger at length- as Americans, it's not that much of a problem. So we scoff, tell ourselves the tv, documentary, or orginazation is over-exaggerating, and move it to the back of our minds. I can tell you now, it happens. Nick and Mom served. 

When I got there, about fifteen minutes late from the scones, the giant (giant as in, you could take a bath in these things) steel bowls were completely empty. A cloud of small children encircled the remaining bowls of once overflowing rice and relish, scooping out droplets of green water and scraping single grains of burned rice off the bottom of the pans. 

7.21.2010

It's Wensday, so we get to go to lake Malawi today- 'will tell later, but I only have an eensy bit of time to write down a certain topic of conversation we (Mom & I) had with Henry in the car.

It started about forty-five minutes into our journey; Nick and I stuffed in the back, Jeff and Mom in the middle, Ms. Witte driving, and Henry riding shotgun. Henry was there just to take a break and relax at the lake, then to help the stupid americans barter. I was on the wrong side of the car to see it, but Nick, Mom, and Ms. Witte promptly cried out, slowed the car, and very nearly turned back around to drive back. Once calmed down a little, they said they'd seen men in masks-scary masks-just walking through the village. When the storm of questions died down, everyone turned to Henry (the native Malawian) for answers. I've written down what I remember as best as I can, but I can't remember his exact words. I'll try to just give it to you in a nutshell.

Henry said the men were called ______. These men (and much less often, women) are part of a sort of cult- it's a cult/religion in the same way freemasons' are, but a lot darker. What half of our team had seen was apperantly only a petty prank- the men (and again, women) would wander around scaring children and villagers. Their other, more obviously known activity, was their activities in the graveyards. 

Now, allow me to explain Malawi graveyards to you. Death is almost never mentioned. If you see a funeral procession go by, you say nothing. Villagers visit the graveyards once a year to clean the graves up, but other than thbat, they are almost never visited. In some places, if you are not a villager (and sometimes if you are), you have to pay  to go into the graveyard. Henry told us that the ______ occasionally gather there, and, make sacrifices. Sacrifices. 

To what, I don't know, but Henry told us that there is a rumor that a father noticed his young son being taken away. The father followed, curious, angry, and a little scared. At the point the rumor came out, people were too afraid to watch what the _____ did in the graveyard. The father hid, and watched his son be killed. Upon jumping out from his hiding place and trying to save him, he was also sacrificed.

Initition for women is harsh, usually forced sexual contact in rites. (Sounding like an Indiana Jones film yet? I'm telling you, Henry very clearly believed every word he said, and after watching Mom's, Nick's, and Ms. Witte's faces, I did too. Plus, this was all grossly fascinating.) Men usually have to break trust with friends and family, but more often have to kill. At this point, Henry stopped talking about the cult, and, with a little helpful conversation starters from Mom, launched into witchcraft. 

I certainly wasn't complaining, but Nick rolled his eyes, turned up the volume on his ipod, and returned to staring out the window with a bored, blank expression. I have no idea why he was so bored with the whole thing, but it was innntterestiiiing! (Goodness, I wish I knew more! It's such a taboo subject in most places though- voodoo in the south, witchcraft in Africa, and pretty much religous cults all over the world.) 

He started with witch doctors. Witch. Doctors. They have them here. In fact, Mom unveiled that she had a picture of a witch doctor's tent on her camera. She then showed me- five colored flags in front of the tent, for five differant spirits. Sydney (From the safari- the nurse intern fron Salt Lake City, not Andy. ;) had also mentioned in passing how some of her colleague/teachers in Lilongwe who had removed a glass vial from the... anus (no way around it. Well, his butt anyway.) of a man who went to a witch doctor to get rich. Inside the bottle, a note read "to all whom read this, this man will gain sucess and prosperity." I'm not kidding.

And so, I listened damn hard to Henry. Reportedly, there are not just witch doctors, there are differant kinds of witch doctors. I've listed the main catagories:

Herbal remedies

Herbal remedies and communication with spirits

Herbal remedies, communication with spirits, and diagnosing potions to be rich, loved, etc.

Communication with spirits, diagnosing potions to be loved, luckier, promoted, etc., and diagnosing potions which demand a heavier price- the insanity of a relative, ior the death of a close family member or friend. (IE, get rich)

So, yup, witch doctors. Interesting stuff there. I'll have to ask Chelsea more about that sort of thing- having lived in Panama for so long, she's bound to know quite a bit.

~

Lake Malawi is beeeeeautifffullllll! Goodness, it's gorgeous! We pulled up to this uber pretty resort/hotel place, walked through the building, stepped on the other side of it- and were greeted by a diverse, expansive array if food (including cheesecake!!!) and an endless field of aqua blue water, crashing into a white sandy beach. I'm not kidding you, if not for the goat and nsima on the bar, I would've thought I was in Hawaii. Not that there weren't little reminders everywhere- like the sand's texture, the lack of a tide, and the Malawian accented waiters.

Much to my delight, we were then fed cheesburgers, fries ("chips"), and cheesecake. I think my sweet tooth pretty much overruled everything else right then, and i promptly devoured the whole thing. After eating and a little bit of beach walking, we piled back in the car to go to a nearby market. More of a tourist trap than a market in my opinion, but whatever. 

Good stuff there! Thank goodness we brought Henry along, 'cuz that man can barter! So they started off giving us azungu prices- prices three times higher than what's fair, just because we didn't know any better. In all honesty I can't blame them, because I probably would've done the exact same thing in their position. Stupid azungus. Soooo, we all stocked up on little wooden trinkets for friends, family, and our own greedy pockets. I bought stuff for Faith, Chelsea, Anna, and Mazie. (Probably my four best friends, always there for me and ever dependable. And patient. Thank God.) 

On our first round through all the tents/stalls, we just looked. Then we stole away Henry on our second round and bought a whole bunch o' stuff. I'm fairly happy, but most of the things we got are pretty fragile. That's a problem because they're sitting in our bags right now, and I have the world's worst tendancy of sitting on the nearest suitcase. So here's the gist of it:

Mother/Daughter figure: GINA. The woman kept me alive- 'nuff said. 

Impala/bushbutt/acoo-somethin' figure: Mazie- she'll be happy no matter what, but this works rather nicely. 

Lion figure: Faith. Looking at the lion five minutes ago, it looked slightly demonic; not sure what to do with it now, but I can probably get away with joking about it being a zombie-demon-lion thing.  Faith is just Faith like that.

Fish wallet: ANNA. This thing was expennnnnnsive, but i saw it and knew she had to have it. It's just Anna. And she's put up with me since kindergarden, so it's about time she earned a reward. 

Scarlet necklace: Veryveryvery pretty, cheap deal. Mom says to throw this in for Chelsea, and I agree. 'Sides, it matches her hair.

Hand/Pen holder: Me. It's beautiful. I had to buy it, but the only other person who might appreciate would be Anna. Maybe Gina too, but I already got a few expensive things for both of them and I'm a greedy being. (;p)

~

Mom just sacrificed a bracelet to Chelsea's cause, because a necklace isn't enough. Thank you much Mom. (A 100% sarcasm free answer! ;) 

7.22.2010

Not much to report- two days until we leave on our 28 hour flight. We just finished our last group project for COTN, so we're good in that regard. If I had more to report, I would, but seemingly that's not the case. 

7.23.2010

We leave for home tomorrow! Damn, that went fast! So today we basically had another tourist-ey day, but aside from being the only whites in our destination of choice, it was well worth it. Today, we went to the market. we'll probably go to the crisis nursery later, but we just got back from the most cultural, unique, smelliest, loudest market I've ever seen. We drove for maybe fifteen minutes (one of the COTN boys came with us again) before driving into the center of Lilongwe.

After we walked for maybe fivve minutes, Mom instructed me to take her hand. I didn't complain (I was already starting to get weird looks), and after another ten miutes, she instructed me to switch her hand for Jeff's. I was hesitant then, but after three seconds of persuasion I did as she asked. After a few minutes more, I was as thankful as I was with Mom. Before I few days ago, I never felt threatened. And I hadn't felt threatened since the Chirumbo trip, until I walked through that market.

The bustle, yells, and prices being cried out echoed off the very tent/stall walls, usually composed of towels or garbage bags. Not only that, but it was crowded. People everywhere. People surfing the wares, people buying bras (Ms. Witte: "Look, Jeff! It's Victoria's Secret!"), people screaming profanities, people sitting on wicker cages stuffed with chickens, people (I take that back, only men) pissing in bushes, peoplepeoplepeople. 

We essentially just wandered around aimlessly, so you can imagine a group of five azungus tailed by a sinle teenage Malawian boy drew quite a bit of attention. And, as I mentioned before, a lot of it on me. I don't know if it was because I was a white girl, wearing a slightly tight t-shirt, or because my chest is slightly larger than your avergae persons, according to my friends. Probably all three. Nick later reported that he'd seen one man actually point, and say something like "that's her!". that caused me quite a bit of alarm, so I was fairly relieved when we walked out of an alley of routinely cramped, smaller stalls. 

From there we switched to an open area of cooking stalls, a place that reminded me a lot of a dirtier, louder, smellier version of the mall food court. Having cleared that, we were ushered (it's like a fish trying to swim against the current.) along until we stood in  front of an entirely wooden bridge, fashioned of various branches and planks of wood over 30 feet of open air and a rushing, muddy river. 

It was freaking amazing. I've had adrenaline rushes before (everyone has), mainly from stepping to close to a traffic lane or coming face to face with a growling stray dog. But walking across that bridge was an entirely differant sort of rush, and I loved it. Every step sent the bridge rocking, and my eyes were essentially glued to the thin wooden planks. I'm still not entirely positive that all those planks were nailed/tied down. But damn, that was cool. 

~

I just remembered this. On our way walking back to our car, we heard the oddest, eeriest noise that I have ever heard. Like beautiful bollywood songstress meets horror movie soundtrack. I know that sounds bad, especially when I found out it was the muslim call to prayer. That got me thinking just what the places like Saudi Arabia were like. I hadn't seen people in burkas here, but I'd seen them in headscarfs around Malawi. There's a muslim school by one of the COTN houses as well. 

My extent of Afghanistan/Iraq/Saudi Arabia stretches to include whatever's on CNN, google news, or the occasional Seattle Times. The deepest pit of knowledge I hold runs from Mrs. Tresch's seventh grade humanities class, where we watched endless documentaries on suicide bombings, attempts for peace, and lots and lots of God-liness. If I had it my way everyone would be converted to a combination of buddha-ism, christianity, and pagan worship of the Earth. I can't say that too loud here 'cuz COTN is a christan organization, but that's my not-so proffesional opinion. 

Back from our trip to Lake Malawi, I mentioned that I believe in fate and Henry's eyes got huge before he shook his head and said nothing for ten minutes. How does fate interfere with christianity?  That's my maine question, but you won't find me asking that to Mom. In my opinion she's too stubborn/strong to accept that you can't change your own future. I'm too much of me to believe that I would've survived on my own this long without a little help. 

And just in case you were wondering, I have no idea what these last few paragraphs are about. It went from the culture of muslims and middle eastern countries to fate. (And I can't quite bridge the two without sounding like an idiot and taking up another  half of a page. ;)

~

Crisis nursery! Yay! I have now, officially, learned how to hold a baby. Not correctly mind you, but I can do it. I know I'm a strict baby-hater, but those poor things are. Too. Adorable. And anyone who's known me for at least a month could tell you that I'm an epic sucker for cute. Guys, puppies, clothes, food (I'm not kidding, I've crooned over a truffle before), bows, you name it. So if you throw a kid like me who turns to butter at the sight of big brown eyes in a room of African babies, you get an interesting result.

For one thing, I cannot for the life of me feed one of those poor things without getting baby mush everywhere. Which didn't help matters when I started feeding the world's most distracted baby. This little girl (was it a girl? I think so, but I wouldn't know for  sure, I just fed her.) was worse than me. Or Nelly, for that matter. 

By the time I'd have the food ready, she'd be facing the other direction, staring at Jeff. Then I'd set down the spoon, turn her whole body back towards me again, find the spoon, pick it up- and she'd be in another direction, staring at Nick. I literally had to wave the spoon in front of her face to get her attention. Eventually I gave up and just sat between Nick and Jeff, feeding her from there. I probably could have cooed and tickled a little more with her, but that stuff is hard! 

Lidson (I think that's how you spell it), the COTN boy with us, suprised me. He was a happy ball of mush around the babies, and completely let down his gaurd. And much to my shock, I noticed he as well was vaguely attractive as well as completely sweet. I told you I was a sucker for cute, now I tell you I'm a sucker for guys. So pair me with a cute guy and I won't ask anything more. But on the other hand, I have absoloutley no idea how to flirt with a Malawi guy. Or any african for that matter. 

Their sense of humor is completely differant from American. If I like someone, I tend to joke around a little and see how they respond. How do you hit on a guy who doesn't know what you're talking about? A couple of nights ago Nick was teaching the residents of the COTN boys' dorms cheesy pick up lines ("Are you tired? Because you've been running through my head all day."), and reportedly a few were even writing them down. There was no way I was going to stay around and find out if they would use them, but I'm in desperate need of desperate male company. So I said nothing, just talked in a friendly manner, teased a little bit, got teased back, and limited myself to hoping/imagining that Lidsen was looking at me. (Everyone has their little crushes. ;) 

We only stayed a little while there before going to dinner at one of COTN's secretaries' houses for dinner. It was absoloutley huge. Not only by Malawi standards- no, almost big in American. And it looked American too. The floors and walls complimented each other nicely, furniture was well placed, and wall ahngings and windows were evenly spaced. The tv in the living room was the size of ours, and their kids were watching the disney channel. Disney channel. Here. That's crazy talk. I've gotten so used to seeing brick huts with four rooms at best- dirt floors, two windows total, no doors. Even Yobi's house made an impression on me, it being a little bigger than one of those home/house/trailer things, and including a back yard. Yobi's house resembled one of the mobile homes both outside and inside as well, so nothing too fancy, but very rich by their standards.

But this house was crazy nice. Not only did the secretary's family own this one, it was reportedlyt their second, and currently serving as a B&B type thing. How did they access that much money in a place where kids scrounge for single grains of rice in an empty bowl?  

7.24.2010

We leave TODAY. Ten o' clock. Damn, that went fast. Too fast, I think, but I'm also very ready to go home. A couple of days ago I got an email from Dad regarding how Nelly used to sit in front of our front door, waiting for us to walk in for the first few days. Just imagining that makes me want to throw myself at the closest wall and cry. (I'm getting softer, I think.) I've coomposed a list of all things sweet I'm shoving in my mouth the moment we get home:

1. Barbie's cocanut/chocolate cream/lemon meringue pie

2. A ginormous ball of Red Wagon blobby kettle corn

3. One-third a block of cheddar cheese

4. A mixed bag of hot tamales, chocolate chips, reeces' peices, and junior mints

5. COLD. STONE. CREAMERY.  

I swear, i'm eating it all at once. Everything. Together. I've had enough meat to satisfy me I think, but those are my big five. (SCREW buffalo, elephants, lions, leopards, and rhinos) So much to do when I get home! More iTunes songs, Eureka and GHI episodes, webcomics, blogs, friends to catch up with, etc., etc. I need more time! We leave for Canada right after this, and Chelsea already asked me to go camping with her family. Faith wants to take me to Cold Stone, and I would kill to curl up on Mazie's couch and gossip with the rest of the Shaws and a bowl of popcorn. And oh, hug attacks for Anna. Of course. I love traveling like this, seeing new things, and helping people, but I love my friends more than anything, cold stone included. I feel so bad! In just two days, I'll go from giving things to people who have nothing, to going and appreciating everything. I feel awful.

But ummm... so, yah. Today I'm kinda hungry, I guess. For the last week, actually. You know, I used to hate rice before I came to Malawi. I was eating rice krispie cereal when I was reading National Geographic at age nine, and opened the page to a picture of maggost. I dumped out my cereal after that, and rice is a little too similar for my comfort. Now I actually tolerate it. Ughhhhh. But back to today. (Was I ever even originally writing about today?)

So we got a little goodbye program from the COTN duplex kids, in which they sang and danced, and I refused to admit that my eyes were watering to Nick. ("No, it's just dirt, doofus. This place is so dusty, you'd think I'd be used to it by now. Goodness!") Straight from there we went to the airport, with only one suitcase and two carry-on. (One of the boys had been carrying his clothes in a paper bag, so we donated one of ours to the cause.) Our fragile stuff is in the luggage, which is probably an immense mistake because those wooden figures are thiiiiiin. 

Ms. Witte, Jeff, and Lidsen (Ms. Witte anfd Jeff are both staying for another... two weeks, I think?) escorted us to the airport before we all exchanged somewhat watery goodbyes. (I got a hug out of Lidson, but I can dream that it was because he didn't want me to leave, not for manners' sake. Let me have my moment. :) It took us a momet to find our terminal (Not because it's big, 'because everything was in Chichewa), and because we kept going in circles, we consulted the closest memeber of the airport staff. I don't know what she was- flight attendant/teller/tourist. She just sort of wandered around in her free time. 

Behind us, an Indian man (Indian, not Native American) was trying to find our same terminal. It was possibly one of the funniest things I saw that morning- his accent was so incrediably thick and fast, we could barely make out independant words. The poor Malawian flight attendant was taking as long as she could afford to understand him, then she replied just as fast and just as accented. I think they went back and forth for about five minutes before she gave up and just pointed.  

Now then, allow me to tell you about the Malawi internation airport. First off, it's tiny. Second, securirty is a joke. They walked us through the metal detector, ran our bags through the conveyor belt thing (No one even glanced at the screen), and then patted us down. That was it. Yup, free to get on the plane with anything. I should've bought those wooden letter openers back at the lake- they probably wouldn't have given a damn. Some little girl in front of me had a squirt gun in her backpack. 

So after security, we came to a tiny little rest place where we waited for about an hour and a half for our plane to arrive. One of the first things I tend to judge on when I visit a new place is by the restrooms. From the holes in the ground at the Malawi border to the Hilton restaraunt, it's the first place I check up on. And this will sound weird, but that airport had the most pathetic flushing toilets. I've seen pathethetic toilets (You can't beat a cement hole in the ground), but as far as flushing ones go, this was possibaly the worst. It gave a depressing little gurgle, then almost seemed like it burped, then nothing. Try again. Press the handle, hold the handle, wait ten seconds, another gurgle. It wasn't plugged, just... pathetic. Stupid toilet. So my overall impression pof the airport wasn't too great. 

After about an hour of waiting, a miniature army of british boys in their late teens pretty much took the remaining seats. Nick grumbled about their accents pretty much the whole time, and I just there pretending I wasn't eavesdropping. I don't know what it is about their accents that fascinates me, but they just do. I would be lying if I said a few of them weren't attractive,  but a little out of my league. I think Nick has by now guessed my pathetic little obsession between Andy, the safari trip, and today, but he hasn't said anything, thank God. As an old lady I'll still be traveling Europe, spending my free time in public places hiding a voice recorder. (Creepy, right?) I don't think it's just English accents either, because I still fondly recall the Russian and German exchange students with perfect clarity. Italian goes without saying, and my coisin Caroline has the oddest, prettiest voice I'[ve ever heard, having lived in Switzarland for the majority of her life. 

So so far my day has been uneventful. Seeing as I filled most of this space with meaningless babbling, I think I'll report out for now.

7.25.2010

Americans are spoiiiiiillllleddddd!! We arrive in D.C, and the first thing I throw myself on is a Gharadelli (It's been so long, I don't even know how to spell it!) chocolate stand, where I immediatly stacked up on twenty dollars worth of milk chocolate dripping with mint and caramel. I think I had a few Lindts (I STILL CAN'T SPELL IT!!!) in there too, burt I didn't exactly savor them. I unwrapped them, inhaled, took another deep breath, swallowed, and moved onto the next one. 

~

FAST FOOD. This will sound repulsive, but I have eaten nothing but Wendy's and MacDonalds all damn day. I have it down now.

*Walk into closest small shop- take Borders, for instance*

Me: Exscuse me? *Barely waits for employee to turn around, launches into question* Do you know if there's any ice cream, fast food, or candy store of any sort here? 

Employee: Uh... yeah, I think. No ice cream (Me: *immediatly groans inside*), but there's a smoothie place past Dunkin' Donuts, I think. About a two minute walk away. No candy stores persay, but we have Hershey's here (I would've even taken Hershey's there, I was so desperate. I didn't though.), and there's a Wendy's along terminal two.                

The employee lied. The smoothie place was five minutes away, and I ran. Then again, the employee in question had probably never bought smoothies there, looking at the prices. I'm used to bargaining! If she did, she might have warned me or something, because they were all wheatgrass sort stuff. Nassssttttttyyyyyy. I've been satisfied for the moment though, never fear. (;)

If found Wendy's easily enough.

9/11/10

And so ends my Malawi trip, 2010. Would I go back? No, not to Malawi, I don't think, but Zambia struck me between the eyes. It is life changing. Subtle maybe, but it's there. Nick has evened himself a little more out, and Mom is quicker to be gracious. I have absoloutley no idea how I've changed, but I am a lot more appreciative.(And I now tolerate white rice and like scrambled eggs, among other things. x) I cried to be home, stuffing my head between the immense pillow of ivory matted fur on Nelly's neck, and pretty much kissed the ground of our refridgerator. 

And it's soooooo nice to be able to email Gina and the rest of my friends in just 20 yards. O.o To get wifi in Malawi, you had to walk (normally at night), stumbling our way across a pitted, black surface with a single low-watt flashlight for about three minutes. It was absoloutley terrifying, but not at the same time. xD But yes, I had a good time. :] I'd reccamend it to kid-loving people-persons. 

But the bad news.... I have the travel bug. I need to move, to go, to explore. There's a program for students I hear that sends you around internationally, so I think I'll go look into that. ;p If you liked this, keep youer fingers crossed for another journal next summer! :D If not, please email me with suggestions and comments. ( seamist10@wavecable.com ) Feel free to ask me questions there as well. (Please? ;) These are my direct thoughts channeled into paper (without 19/20ths of the smiley faces, unfortunatly.), so I'm sorry if you found it at all vulgar, inopropriate, dry, and harsh. 

~

My apologies for spelling errors, long, rambling, hormonal paragraphs, and continious P.O.ed derogitory comments on Nick's behalf. He really is a nice guy, we're just... too siblingey. xD And goodness, I'm sorry for the wait! D: Love you all, (Even Nick. ^w^) and please email me with any questions or comments!! 

Love, Erin