Sunday Morning ~ Blantyre

February 25, 2018

“Nca Kwao”  adanka mdi madzi ~That is how they “do”, his home was taken by water.

~ Malawian proverb

Hi Everyone,

I needed a little explanation for this one. This proverb warns against using the rationale ––this is how it’s always done––because if one can’t change with the times he can drown when the flood comes and takes the house away. It’s not exactly poetic in it’s form but the message resounds.

The Tiyamike Women’s Group met here as usual on Friday but I wasn’t able to be here. I was anxious about that as they are always needing something in the house and I wanted to connect with them about the graduation/ fair we’re planning. Eneless had the idea of coordinating it with the International Day of the Woman and inviting the media. I loved that idea but that means we’d have to cut the class a week short, so some discussion was needed. I’d hoped to get home before the class ended and ran back here on my tea break and asked them to wait for me. I ended up not getting back until two hours after the class ended, so the women were gone but the teachers had waited for me. We decided not to cut the class short. We’d celebrate it as the International Week of the Woman instead. Endless will contact the media about doing a story. Maybe we can do a youtube video or something. We’re going to work on that.

I’d spent the week vetting final exams. I probably described this process last year, I didn’t go back to look, but the whole faculty sits in a closed room for the week going over every single exam question on every exam (there are seven in my department), a hundred questions each, and scrutinizes for punctuation, relevancy, appropriateness, spelling, succinctness, and whether it is testing for the knowledge asked for on the blueprint. It’s like being in conclave. It’s all very secret and serious. I actually find the process interesting and loved spending the week with my colleagues whom I enjoy and admire. Sitting still all week was the hardest part. We were supposed to be finished by Thursday afternoon but weren’t, so had to meet again on Friday. After the vetting was finished we had to choose lectures to teach and clinical sites to supervise for the next semester. I also gave a report on the model ward progress, a ten minute report that took an hour. Thus my no-show at the women’s group. Some of the faculty are very worried about what this new ward will mean for their lives. They already feel overworked and anticipate another responsibility and not everyone is convinced we can pull it off. A meeting is scheduled this Thursday morning with all the biggies: head of obstetrics (the guy we met with last week), the head of the College of Medicine, the matrons, the head nurses, everyone who might play a part in this, and I feel like a lot is at stake. A new young faculty member pointed out that nurses may want to get extra pay to work in this model ward because they will be expected to give a higher quality of care. I was aghast. I looked at my watch and thought, there is so much I want to say about that comment but I should have been home an hour ago. I simply said, “No one should ask for more money to give the care they are expected to give. It’s their job. That’s the whole purpose of this, to teach students (and, now, clearly other midwives) that this is how they should be practicing! It was a bit of insight into the challenges we are going to face. I invited all of them to come to the Thursday meeting to voice their concerns and look for ways to address them. No one signed up. They are already obligated to exams, lectures, skills check-offs, etc. which is their point. When are they going to have time to add on another requirement?  I expect that there will be loads of hurdles like this and it is going to take lots of hours of discussion and problem solving. My biggest worry right now is how to write the memo inviting everyone to the meeting. I’m worried about offending someone or leaving someone out. And the format! Format is very important around here. Protocol, number of copies, who’s name gets mentioned first, all that stuff scares me. Who runs the meeting comes next, but the memo is critical right now. I’ll have to spend part of today writing it and get it to Ursula early tomorrow to proofread and make corrections. Then I’ll have it copied and hand deliver it to all the parties invited. That’ll take the better part of a day. I’ll squeeze it in tomorrow between my lecture on End of Life Care and the visit to the morgue. I wanted to be more eloquent with my colleagues. I wanted to point out that we spend a fair amount of time at these meetings complaining about how terrible the clinical experience is and how hard it is to teach there. Why not actually DO something about it? On one level they think my efforts are endearing, on the other, they are burned out, feel hopeless, and don’t believe it will work. They don’t have a lot extra to give. I get it. I’m going home this year, but this is their life. Uphill all the way. Ursula whispered to me, “Don’t give up, Linda.”

I’ve seen some video clips of student activism at home and it breaks me down. Is this how adults felt when they shot students at Kent State? When I was in high school we kept each other safe by walking the drunkest one home. Hardly anyone had a car and our small town was easily walkable, even when we were staggering.  Girls were subject to discrimination and misogyny and I think that had long term effects on us, but physical danger seemed rare. An English teacher got a student pregnant. That was bad. I think he got fired for that (and hopefully divorced). The day after we won a cheerleading tournament my math teacher put a sign around a dog’s neck that said, “Second Place Cheerleading Tournament” and walked it into calculus class. That was pretty bad. I’d like to think he’d be fired for that now, but in 1974 everyone thought it was funny. I didn’t laugh so I guess that’s something to be proud of. When I look back, my teenage years were incredibly quaint. On senior skip day we all went to Plum Island to drink. We had to start early enough in the day to sober up for our after school jobs. We had some scruples. We weren’t protesting anything that I can recall we just thought it’d be fun to skip school a couple of weeks before graduation. Our punishment was that we couldn’t go on our class trip, which wasn’t that big of a punishment. We had already gone on our own class trip. The kids who didn’t skip went without us. It all seems so stupid in light of today’s issues. Students are walking out of school to demand that legislators be responsible and keep them from getting shot! And some are being threatened with suspension for that? How pathetic are we?  If my Malawian colleagues have heard of yet another mass murder in the states they haven’t mentioned it to me. I haven’t brought it up because I’m so embarrassed by it. If I hear any American criticize any developing country’s government for being corrupt I will lose my shit. It seems there isn’t a vocabulary to describe the barbarism of the republican party in America.

On that note, I’ll go work on my memo, make dinner for George’s colleagues who will be coming tonight and try to stay in the moment. The rains have been steady and the maize is high. We went two days without water but it’s back now and the dirty dishes have been washed. Avocados are ripe. The necklaces from paper beads are amazingly beautiful and the women are proud. And November is coming. This can’t be the way it is always done.

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning~ Blantyre

Wa njiru sagonera, mvula ndi imodzi  ~  A bad man does not live long. His rainy season is only one.

~ Malawian Proverb

February 18, 2018

Hi Everyone,

When we had the bloodsucker phenomenon here, nine people were killed in the violence. Police and government officials controlled the situation fairly quickly and the areas where the beliefs were most pervasive, calmed. If anyone was caught having anything to do with spreading the hysteria they were jailed immediately. But nine people lost their lives. They were mostly beaten to death but one was burned. I’ve never seen anyone with a gun here aside from the police at the road blocks and the guides in the game parks. They were deaths brought on by fear and misunderstanding which spread rapidly among people who were afraid for their own lives. They believed the “bloodsuckers” were out to kill them. These incidents were broadcast worldwide and it made Malawi seem like a dangerous place. That was back in October. There has been no violence since.

Yesterday, I went to Limbe, Blantyre’s sister city, to get supplies for the women’s class. I find Limbe a bit intimidating, especially on Saturday morning. It’s a center for shopping and one can find many items not available in Blantyre. I’m not sure why, but that’s the way it is, probably because of their large Indian population who excel at commerce. There have to be hundreds of stores there, small, independent, crowded shops where a tall counter a few steps in from the door separates the public from the merchandise. A heavy screen is attached to the counter and extends to the ceiling. It has a little window cut out of it and the merchants sit behind the screen to take your order. You tell them what you want and they will go back into the dark abyss to find it for you. They miraculously come back a moment later and hand you the items through the little window, then you pass them your money. They have all their inventory in their heads so can tell you instantly whether what you want is available. There are usually eight to ten people standing in the three square meters between the entrance and the counter and it’s crammed with samples of pots, plastic buckets, phone chargers, batteries, and other stuff all chained to the wall or the screen. It’s sensory overload.

I was looking for nylon twine for the women to use to make bracelets. I had gone there a few weeks ago battling the crowds and was led to one shop that had what I was looking for by a young man we found at the market. We had followed him through alleys and back roads and I could not for the life of me find that shop again. I thought there had to be another one with that twine! I went in and out of shops showing them my bracelet and asking for the same kind of twine. No, no, no. Couldn’t find any.  A young man on the street saw me going in and out of these shops empty handed and and asked what I was looking for.  I showed him the bracelet and he said to follow him. The first shop he went into had white and black twine and I bought a bunch of it. But I needed other colors, so the search continued. This young man spent the better part of an hour with me, in and out, asking in Chichewa where to go next if the shop didn’t have any. A hardware shop had some yellow and green and was selling it really cheap. I looked for landmarks to figure out how to find that place again. We’d woven in and out of sidewalk stalls where vendors were selling phone chargers, underwear, ripe avocados, plastic flip flops, underwear, tomatoes, lollipops, maize flour…on and on in the hot sun, it all looked the same to me. I knew I’d never find it again.  In one shop, out the next, I think we went to twenty or more places until we found one that had the red and gold twine I was looking for. My escort pointed behind the counter and said to me, “Look. Madam. Purple.” and there was some purple twine as well.  I laughed at how invested he was! I bought two more rolls of purple, a good color for lent. He’d watched me taking money out of my bag to pay at each place I bought something. Never once did I feel he would rob me. When I had all I needed, I handed him 400 kwacha (about 50 cents) and he thanked me and said he had to go back to work. I said, “Pitani bwino. Zikomo!”  (Go well. Thank you!)  And he laughed and trotted off to who knows where. I just do not feel unsafe here. But now I worry about my granddaughter who will go to school in the states for the first time in September. How crazy is this?

It has been a full week, full of activity and emotions. Monday, I met with my ten fourth year students in Lilongwe and put some closure to my time with them last term. I had been feeling unsettled about the way we left each other after their postnatal exam. I never had a chance to give them feedback of any kind. I let them know I would be in Lilongwe, where they are attending classes on high risk maternity care. They all gathered during a break from their classes to meet with me and it was very appreciated on both sides. I saw a What’s App message they were sending around that said, “Madam is here! Meet in the old lecture hall!”  (Side note: I am going to miss being called Madam. I really like it.) They’ll all be going off to different clinical sites next term so I won’t be seeing them again. I gave them my feedback, returned an assignment, and we went outside to take a photo together, sharing well wishes and good lucks for the future. I felt much better. We finished up at the Peace Corps office and George and I drove back to Blantyre.

Tuesday was the capping ceremony for the first year students. Don’t ask me why they do this during the week on a day full of classes that need to be cancelled.  Monday they had a rehearsal so those classes were also cancelled. Don’t ask me why. Well, no one goes out in the evenings because there is no way to get around and it is dangerous walking, so I get that, but I would have been willing to give up a Sunday afternoon. Anyway, it was to start at 1:30 on Tuesday and I had to wear a cap, something I don’t think I’ve worn since my own capping in 1976 (which was on a Sunday afternoon). I remember parents and family being invited when I got capped. It’s a solemn ceremony, honoring Florence Nightingale, and I was very emotional at this one on Tuesday. All I remember of mine was that my father was dour and controlling and my brother took a nice photo of me which he enlarged and framed and gave me for Christmas the following year. That was nice. I think my favorite teacher gave a little speech. Anyway, at 1:30 on Tuesday a few of my colleagues and I were the only ones in the hall. The same was true at 2:00. And at 2:30. I looked at the program, glad I had nothing scheduled later in the day. It was not going to be over at 4. About 2:40 someone started the music on a laptop attached to a PA system and students carrying unlit candles came dancing in. Literally dancing. I’m not sure how many students total there are but close to two hundred, so that took awhile. Then the faculty had to go outside and dance in. Literally, dance in. I asked, “Hey, why didn’t we get a rehearsal?” worried I wouldn’t pick up on the steps, but they were pretty simple. By the time I got to the center aisle I had it down pat. There were speeches and the story of the history of the nursing cap was told by my dean, Ursula, and then she started the candle lighting ceremony to the song, Go Light Your World,  by Christopher Rice. She walked down the center aisle lighting the first candle at each row and the flame got passed from student to student. I wasn’t familiar with this song but these are the lyrics:

There is a candle in every soul

Some brightly burning, some dark and cold

There is a Spirit who brings fire

Ignites a candle and makes His home

Carry your candle, run to the darkness

Seek out the hopeless, confused and torn

Hold out your candle for all to see it

Take your candle, and go light your world

Take your candle, and go light your world

Frustrated brother, see how he’s tried to

Light his own candle some other way

See now your sister, she’s been robbed and lied to

Still holds a candle without a flame

Carry your candle, run to the darkness

Seek out the lonely, the tired and worn

Hold out your candle for all to see it

Take your candle, and go light your world

Take your candle, and go light your world

We are a family whose hearts are blazing

So let’s raise our candles and light up the sky

Praying to our Father, in the name of Jesus

Make us a beacon in darkest times

Carry your candle, run to the darkness

Seek out the helpless, deceived and poor

Hold out your candle for all to see it

Take your candle, and go light your world

I was sobbing, not just because I’m a sucker for ceremony, but I see how hard it is for these students, most of them only eating once a day because all their money has gone to pay for their school fees. And I wondered how long it would be before the system knocks the idealism out of their eyes. No parents were there. No one but faculty, the vice principal of the nursing school, and the speakers, one a new graduate and one an older nurse who’s worked for the Department of Health for decades. It was hard to hear them since the PA system was rigged to the laptop so the music blared but there was no microphone for them to use. But everyone was quiet and respectful. After the speeches the capping commenced. There were ten chairs at the front of the auditorium and ten students rose and filed to the seats. Behind them ten faculty members stood and the students handed their caps to us and we pinned them to their heads. The boys wear epaulets not caps but those were pinned on as well. It was sweet.  Then there were more speeches and prayers and finally we all danced out, faculty first.

Wednesday was an odd pairing of Valentines Day and Ash Wednesday and there were a million things going on. Staff from both SEED and Peace Corps were here to do site visits and we all had individual meetings with them. I was madly trying to get my final exam written as it was due to be reviewed for vetting on Thursday. I wanted to go to church at 5:30 p.m. and there was a Mountain Club meeting at seven. I’d arranged to meet a friend there to exchange some vegetables from her garden for some gnocchi I’d made for her. George had conflicting meetings and a dinner with colleagues so we just decided to meet up later at home. It was pouring rain. I had very low expectations for Valentine’s Day, but that morning George handed me a gorgeous carved wooden box. In it was poetry he had written on hearts sticking up out of three colorful carved animals. It’s beautiful. The gift I am making for him is not finished and I did not think that would be a problem, fully expecting him to forget about Valentine’s Day. I figured he’d just feel bad if I gave him something. He’s always tricking me. In the meantime, I’d gotten an email from the hospital director telling me to arrange a meeting with the head of the obstetrics department regarding our model ward idea. I asked Ursula when she’d be available so I could send him some options for times to meet. I was thinking like, next week sometime. She said, “How about tomorrow morning?”  I said, “Really? You think we can do it that soon?” She said, she’d be around tomorrow, so give it a try. This just cracks me up. I thought this would be something we had to plan weeks or months into the future, but I sent him a text asking if we could meet with him after morning report on Thursday. I didn’t hear anything back. Not surprised. I figured I’d follow up on Thursday and go over to his office and try to find a secretary or something with an appointment book. I left campus at five p.m. to go to church. I had the car planning to go to the cathedral since it was on the way to the meeting at seven. It’s about a half a mile from campus and took me a half hour to get there. The traffic was ridiculous. I don’t notice it ordinarily since I walk everywhere around town, but the rain and the darkness required a vehicle. The masses here go on and on so I was planning to leave after communion, jump in the car and head to the mountain club meeting. I parked in a spot where I had an easy exit route, making sure I turned around so I could just pull out in drive. It’s hard to see in the rain and I didn’t want to have to back up and turn around after dark. I walked in just as mass was starting. There had to be three thousand people in this church. Not one empty seat and the church is enormous. After communion I ducked out with fifteen minutes to spare before the next event. It would be slow driving because of the rain, but the venue wasn’t that far away and I thought I’d get there in time. I walked into the parking area to find my car completely blocked in by fifty other vehicles. I mean I couldn’t have driven two inches. I had no idea how they all fit themselves in there! It looked like my kid’s toy box after throwing all the matchbox cars in! I didn’t even get that upset as there was nothing to do but wait. It’s not like there was any other option. I sat in the car and wrote exam questions. I’d considered going back into the church but got wet enough going to the car in the first place. It took another half hour before people started coming out and another fifteen minutes after that before I could move, which, I thought, was rather quick. And not one fender bender. Miraculous.

Early Thursday morning I was planning my day, figuring out how I would finish exam writing in time to get to a hardware store to buy varnish for the paper beads the women were making on Friday. As I was ironing my blouse, my phone signaled I had a text. It was Dr Bonongwe, the head of obstetrics, saying he would meet with us after morning report at 8:30. It was 7:39. Oh shit. I quickly texted Ursula and Elizabeth, praying they were available, and said I was on my way to campus. (I was actually brushing my teeth) I got dressed and ran to the office where I  met up with my colleagues and we “knocked heads”, as they say, to organize how we would approach this. I was blown away by the fact that we were actually having the meeting a mere 20 hours after I requested it, sure it was so he could say “No” to our idea.  We walked together over to his office and sat to wait (no surprise). I had a class at ten where the students were taking their mid-term exam. I figured if we had to wait a half hour I’d be fine. I didn’t expect him to spend more than a few minutes with us. He arrived about 8:45 (not bad!) and we gathered in a conference room with the three matrons of the maternity ward. We did the proper greetings and Ursula asked me to give an overview of our proposal, which I did as succinctly as possible. He had already spoken with the hospital director without us and had a lot of concerns, many of which were valid. He had no trouble expressing them, believe me. I have watched this guy rip residents a new ass hole during rounds so knew he wasn’t a shrinking violet. As he was spouting off one concern after another–––“You can’t have a country within a country!”–––and asking questions without waiting for an answer–––“And what are you going to do if there is a complication? And what will you do during school breaks? Huh? Just disappear?”–––I was having a hard time staying quiet. I wanted to answer the questions as he asked them. But Ursula quietly wrote them all down in her little notebook and when he was spent (after like twenty minutes) and she could speak, she said, “Thank you very much Dr Head of Department for raising these concerns.” and one by one she went down the list to intelligently address them. It was really a sight to see. She is amazing. I kept looking a the clock worried about my class. I didn’t want to miss any of this and it was going on way longer than I expected already. I kept wondering how people have this much time in their day to just sit down for an unexpected hour long meeting? But that’s how they do it. Without giving a word for word account of it, which went on way longer than an hour, he blurts out with, “I think this is a good idea. I think you need to do something to have more of a presence here. I just don’t want you to do it in the middle of my ward. Take ward 1A. Set up your own practice over there. We can figure out how to collaborate for complications.” I held my breath. We all did. I looked at Ursula and Elizabeth. Did he just say what I thought he said? We get a whole ward to ourselves? This was so far above and beyond anything we ever hoped to ask for I wasn’t sure I heard it right.  One of the matrons asked about the grant I submitted. I had the floor, scared to wake up from this really good dream I was having of GETTING OUR OWN WARD!!!!! I said the money I was going for would be to fund the planning meetings we’d all need to get everyone’s input about how this would work. There has to be buy-in from all parties and we know there are valid concerns we need to address. If there is money left over we can put it toward renovations needed or equipment, and by this time it was after ten and I had to leave. I apologized but said I had to go give an exam and whispered to Elizabeth, “Nail down a date for the first planning meeting. Try to get March 1st.”  Then skipped, SKIPPED! back to campus. I felt like I did the day of my divorce, sitting in court saying to myself, wait, did I just get everything I think I got?

I was fifteen minutes late for class, thinking what poor form that was since the students were nervous about the exam. I’d have to give them extra time. Turns out they were all sitting out on the grass because the maids were cleaning the classroom. So it wasn’t until 12:30 when all the exams were passed in that I could run over to Ursula’s office where we were high fiving and reality checking and saying can you believe this?? This is going to be so much better than having a corner with six beds. We can really make this a fantastic model. Yes, we will need a little more money because we have to create a delivery suite, but that’s all doable. We’ll have the postnatal beds right there! There is already a nurses station! It’s got windows! And the paint isn’t that bad! It’s a much bigger space than what we asked for. I am ecstatic. Ursula said, “You have to stay for six years.”  I laughed. ‘Then we both got serious and said, “Oh, wow. Now we have to do it.”  Ok. Ok. One step at a time. I had been losing hope, but I’m going to take this as 2018 being a year of good things to come.

And…our abstract got accepted to present this at the International Confederation of Nurses in Advance Practice meeting in Rotterdam at the end of August!  Woohoo!

On Friday the women were learning to make beads from strips of old calendars. They sat on their mats and worked and chatted. I had told them to decide on a name for their group and they voted to call it “Tiyamike Women’s Group”. Tiyamike translates to “We are grateful”.  Towela, from the Peace Corps office in Lilongwe came to see the class. I was so happy she came to see what they were doing. She spoke to them in Chichewa and told them they need to work together and plan for how to succeed as a small business. She asked them if they felt like this had been worthwhile and they all agreed it had. She bought some earrings and a bracelet and we put the money in an envelope and labeled it with the group’s name. Our first sale.

In this week of sadness and tragedy, of utter irresponsibility of our government, I’m bolstered by the activism, the goodness of so many, and positive momentum and pray this madness sees only one rainy season.

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ Salima

February 11, 2018

Hi Everyone,

Since George had an appointment Monday morning in Lilongwe, we decided to spend the weekend at the lake. There are three lake resorts on our list to visit before we leave here and of the three, we’ve been to only one, Domwe Island. We thought this would be a good chance, since we’d be driving this way anyway, to stay at the Blue Zebra, which is only two hours from Lilongwe. George called to make a reservation, hoping we’d get a “green season special”, a rate reduction for the rainy season when it’s hard to get around and the lake isn’t as appealing.  The Blue Zebra, which came highly recommended with comments from friends like, “You HAVE to stay there” was closed for renovations. Bummer. So we could either bag the lake idea for the weekend and just drive up to Lilongwe on Sunday, or since we’d already set our little minds on a weekend lounging on the lake, we could stay at a resort that’s open. We chose the latter. There are loads of little lake resorts hardly inhabited–––we have no idea how they make a living. We asked around and got a recommendation for the place we are sitting at now, a secluded retreat tucked into a hillside easily within driving distance to Lilongwe. It’s not far from the Blue Zebra (we think, we actually have no idea where the Blue Zebra is or how to get there. It’s on an island somewhere around here and they have to come pick you up with a boat. We’ll figure that out when we stay there.) This place is sweet, the price includes all meals and a boat ride each day where yesterday we watched fish eagles come at us with laser precision to capture fish that the crew tossed into the water. It was a wilder version of Sea World, but really neat.  We’ve seen lots of fish eagles sitting in trees looking around and have always wanted to see one catch a fish, so for our eighty bucks a night, voila!

There is a hotel in Lilongwe with the proper name of Kumbali Lodge, but it is known to everyone as “the place where Madonna stays”. When I asked someone familiar with Lilongwe if they could suggested a place on the lake an easy drive to the city they said, “You know the place where Madonna stays? Well, they opened second place on the lake and it’s nice.” So we gave that one a shot, and they were right! It is nice! Simple, eco friendly (which means composting toilets, no electricity or wifi, water pumped up from the lake by solar panel, and cool showers), and nothing to do but read, write, paint, and walk a little. There is no trail up the hill for a bit of a hike and it’s thick with native vegetation, so a stroll through the nearby village was all the exercise we got yesterday. I read one entire book, finished another, and chatted with other guests. That was the all we did to earn the three excellent meals we ate. Good thing we’re only staying a weekend or none my clothes would fit by Wednesday.  It has been socked in and rainy (thus the special rates) but not being a sun bather, this is fine with me. I’m happy to sit under the thatched common area looking at the lake with the balmy breeze washing over me.  It’s amazing how waterproof this thick thatch is. There are bamboo curtains that can be rolled down if the rain gets heavy and sideways, which would make it quite dark in here, but that hasn’t been necessary.

There are five other guests staying here. The individual bungalows are hidden in the hillside, and though we see little stone steps going off here and there, we can’t see the other bungalows. They all have their own toilet and shower (separate enclosures outside the bamboo rooms) so we don’t bump into anyone unless we want to. When in our perch overlooking the lake surrounded by trees it feels like we are the only people here. It’s a hike to get down to the beach and dining room, but unlike Domwe, these paths are smooth and the decent is facilitated by stone steps. There are mason-jar solar lights placed about every twenty feet. It’s more polished. I feel ridiculously pampered. I feel like we are on a romantic honeymoon about every third week. How did I get so lucky? It comes down to about a day and two thirds here, but it feels exotic and indulgent. We think we deserve it. We want to support the tourism industry. I’m good at rationalization, and really, eighty bucks a night for this? That’s one dinner out at home!

The week had been administratively busy. I am definitely not cut out to sit in an office all day. I can’t stand it. But I was applying for a grant to get the model ward off the ground and grants have deadlines so I bit the bullet and sat down to fill in the blanks. It probably would have been more efficient to do it in the evening at home, but since I get frustrated with George for woking at home all the time I vowed to complete it in the office. We are still waiting for the final approval from the hospital director, who told us he saw no problem with the idea but wanted to talk to a few of the doctors before he gave his final consent. I swallowed my disgust at that comment and, since we had already talked with the head of the department at the College of Medicine who loved the idea, hoped that closed meeting wouldn’t sabotage the whole thing. I am very leery of anyone meeting without the people who know about the project since if they have questions we aren’t there to respond and they can make up all kinds of problems, but we had to nod politely and accept this. We were told we’d be informed the following Thursday. On that Thursday, (ten days ago) I tried to find the matron who was invited to the meeting to find out if it was a go. Couldn’t find her anywhere. Called her phone, went to her office, she was nowhere to be found. Friday, late afternoon, I found her getting ready to leave for the weekend. I asked her what had transpired? She told me they hadn’t met yet, that it was postponed until the following Tuesday. Ok, glad it wasn’t a no, but a call would have been nice. I explained that I was writing a grant for seed money for the project and it was due on Thursday the 8th, so I really needed the information by Tuesday and asked if she’d call me as soon as the meeting was over so I could proceed. She agreed, we shared phone numbers, I called her cell phone as I stood there to make sure it worked, all set.  Tuesday came and went, no call. Wednesday came and went, no call. In the meantime, I’d finished writing the grant, met with my colleagues to make out the budget and I sent it off a full twenty-six hours before it was due. I went with the no news is good news theory. Thursday (grant due day) at five p.m. I got a call from the matron saying they had met, but still needed to discuss it with us further and we would be included in the next meeting. In the meantime I should not send in the grant application as they needed to be involved with writing the grant. I said, well, it was due today and I hadn’t heard from you so I sent it in. But please let me know when the next meeting is, we would love to be there. And I hung up and got ready for my women’s class on Friday. Not even giving that another thought. Not going to get frustrated. Nope. Not me.The grant is in. They didn’t call. I’ll figure out how to finesse that if we get the grant.

I can really see why so many people start their own projects here. It’s so much easier to just do it than jump through all the ever-moving hoops. I could see raising money to start our own maternity center and set our own protocols and manage it the way we wanted, and we’d all live happily ever after. There are hundreds if not thousands of little projects around the country like that. It’s really quite easy to just build your own hospital. If you’ve got the money, no one cares what you do. It’s even easier if you toss a little to the local chiefs. But that’s not sustainable and I have no desire to go that route.

One of the guests staying here is a consultant for UK AID and has tons of experience with NGOs and work in developing countries. He’s from London and we’ve had a great time talking with him this weekend. In the course of our conversations, the getting to know each others where are you froms, etc. he said, “Oh, you’re from Maine. I’ve been to Maine.”  And the conversation continued, etc etc etc, later in a lull I asked what had brought him to Maine, and Bethel at that? He said he had a good friend who lives outside of Boston, British but married to an American teaching in a small town high school. They’d gone up to Bethel to ski. I asked which town outside of Boston? Always curious when someone says “outside of Boston”. He said, “It’s a tiny place, maybe you’ve not heard of it, it’s called Maynard.”  Ok, I laughed for several reasons, not only because that’s where I grew up, but because his prelude was how I always describe the town…you’ve probably never heard of it….Then I asked, “Have you actually been there?” And he said, “Oh, yes. Many times. He lives on Bent Ave.”  Which happens to be two streets down from my little dead end street. Bent Ave was on my paper route. I can’t wait to ask my friends who are still there if they know him. What a hoot.

So that was the excitement for the weekend. Fish Eagles swooping around us and meeting someone who’s been to Maynard Massachusetts. In a little while we’ll head up to Lilongwe, I’ll meet up with some students in the morning, do some business at the Peace Corps office, then the five hour drive back to Blantyre. The women’s group will meet without me tomorrow morning, but it’s gotten into a comfortable routine and I left Chimemwe with all the instructions to set it up. I feel like pretty soon he’ll be teaching the class himself.

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~  Blantyre

February 4, 2018

Ukaipa nkhope, dziwa nyimbo ~  If you get an ugly face, learn how to sing.

~ Chewa Proverb

Hi Everyone,

We’ve had four classes now for this women’s group and I am impressed with them! They’ve made some cool jewelry and are learning some more complicated techniques for woven bracelets. These are good because they can get the materials locally, they are lightweight, and easy to sell because people––both men and women–– wear several of them at a time. They still need practice and refining, but I am happy to see their determination. Eneless spent time on Friday teaching entrepreneurial skills and they were attentively taking notes. She taught them how to open a bank account and how to figure out how to price things in order to make a profit. It made me see the other side to bargaining for a better price when I’m in a craft market.  It was pretty basic, but a start, and I’ve shown some of their creations to my friends and colleagues to promote the craft fair we are going to have at the graduation. I’m pretty sure we can make enough money to buy them some supplies to do this on their own. We might need another eight weeks to refine their skills if we are to send the stuff to free trade markets outside this country, but we’ll see. I’m pleasantly shocked at how fast they are learning. Chimwemwe, the gardener, sat in on Friday’s class. He was making bracelets like mad and was helping the women who were struggling with the knots.  He said he would love to sell these but doesn’t think he could make enough money to feed his family. I asked him why it was that mostly men made the crafts here? Most of the tailors are men, all the jewelry makers are men, and there are so few tourists that the market is very small to make a living out of it. The only way women without education can make a living, and a meager one at that, is to be a maid. And to do that she has to leave her children alone, with the older ones taking care of the younger ones. That means the girls can’t go to school. So if the women could learn to do these crafts, they can do it at home and they don’t have to leave the young children. That means the school aged girls can attend school. He listened. He said he had never thought of it that way. I told him I was happy for him to sit in on the class, but my goal here is to help the women learn a way to support themselves. “Yes, yes!” he agreed, but I had a little sense that there was some jealousy there. It’s a struggle for everyone, I know.

Sunday mornings I write before church then come home and finish what I started. St Pious is the church I go to, a half hour walk into a rather poor section of Blantyre.  It’d be a blue collar neighborhood if they were identified by collar colors. It’s a simple church; the pews have no backs and the windows are plain louvers with rebar for security. The parishioners are segregated, women on one side, men on the other. The walk there is hazardous in some spots as the dirt path on the side of the road is washed away and the road is very narrow and minibuses take up all the space. But I like the church. I love the setting once you get inside the wall, a sprawling area with several school buildings and community hall in addition to the church. Soche Mountain looms up in the background. I like the music. There is something spiritually comforting there. The sermons are similar to ones I hear in other churches but the setting is what I like. My biggest complaint there is that the primitive paintings on the church walls all depict a white Jesus and apostles. Mary is pretty pale as well. I go to the English mass at eight o’clock and the sermons are understandable but take some effort. Their accent is difficult sometimes.  But the people are welcoming and I feel comfortable there. There is no social time afterward, everyone leaves right after mass, though it takes some time getting out of the church, it’s usually that crowded. People talk as they are leaving. The youth groups sometimes sell things outside to raise money; last week it was pineapples. I got four of them for about $1.50.

I go almost every week when we’re home and I don’t think we’ve had the same priest two weeks in a row. I’m not sure if they are all stationed there or if they have a lot of visiting priests, but last week was memorable. First of all the priest was quite tall, much taller than average Malawians. He was strikingly handsome with wire rimmed glasses and chiseled features. His voice was beautiful, a deep bass that would have been easy to listen to if he were reading a telephone book. His English was perfect and the accent very easy to understand. I immediately assumed he was educated in some English speaking country. I can’t decide if his sermon was really exceptional, if it was just what I wanted to hear, or if it was just his voice or his looks, but it was riveting. The sermon was about how not to lose hope. I guess that’s poignant in these times but there was something about the way he delivered this message that was striking. He made hanging in there sound like it was a fun thing not a chore.  Again, I could have just been looking for someone to say this to me in a certain way, but it went right to my marrow. I’d been getting discouraged with the lack of progress with the model ward, not sure what the outcome of this women’s class would be, and worrying so much about the type of country my grandchildren will inherit, I wanted someone  to tell me it’s all going to be alright. In a way I could believe it. I was attentive to hearing about the suffering people have endured and where they found the strength to get through it without giving up. I listened to every word instead of thinking about what I needed to do during the week. It’s rare for me to be focused on a sermon like that.  When he was finished, he stood silently at the lectern, in what I thought was a moment of reflection, and then started singing in the most beautiful clear low voice, “This little light of mine…” and when he finished that line he stopped and waited and the congregation sang back, “I’m gonna let it shine…” then they were silent.  He waited, then repeated, “This little light of mine…”  they sang back, “I’m gonna let it shine..” and we went through the whole song that way. I was covered in goosebumps, which was refreshing since it was a million degrees in there, and thought, “Aha! So this is how a cult works.” Really. I felt like I would have followed him anywhere. It was inspiring.

So maybe it was the positive attitude I gleaned from that, not sure, but the hospital director FINALLY met with us on Monday and was positive about our idea of the model ward. He said he didn’t see any problems with it but still needed to talk with a few others like the deputy director (who is a nurse and sympathetic to us), so we are hopeful this will get a lift off the ground now. I’m finishing writing a grant to get some seed money for it. It’s given me a little injection of energy and vision for the project again. So, thank you Fr. Handsome with the beautiful voice.

Today at the end of mass we sang Kumbaya, a song I hadn’t heard at mass since 1975. At first I chuckled, since the only time I have heard that word in the past several decades is for people to use it to mock “touchy feely” gatherings and I guess I’ve sort of bought into the negative connotation. I wondered what the word actually meant, so looked it up when I got home. Come by here. It’s a pretty song. I like it.

Love to all,

Linda