Back in the States

Hi everyone,

Sorry for the long absence. I returned safely to the US at the beginning of September and have been busy with so many different plans and activities since then I've barely had a moment to catch my breath! However after two weeks of visiting at home in central Pennsylvania, a three-week whirlwind tour of the northeast, and another week or so back at home, I'm happy to say that I'm finally unpacked and rested up. Which means... it's time to start packing again!

Yes, on October 13th I will once again depart for points south, this time back to Latin America for a ten-month volunteer position based in Lima, Peru with the healthcare-rights organization Partners In Health (PIH). There, I will be designing a pilot project based on my work in Malawi, using sustainable agriculture to support people living with HIV/AIDS and tuberculosis.

Many of you may have already noticed the quotes from PIH founder Dr. Paul Farmer sprinkled throughout this website-- I've been a tremendous admirer of the work of PIH for years and it has long been a dream of mine to work with them. Their mission and philosophy has greatly informed my own, and I'm amazed this dream has come true so quickly! If you're interested in learning more about PIH, you can do so at their website:

www.pih.org

There is also an excellent book out about PIH and its remarkable founder, Dr. Farmer: Mountains Beyond Mountains. The book is very engagingly written and has recently become popular material for discussion groups, including school groups, religious groups, and community reading and book clubs. It is a tremendously empowering, and challenging, read.

While in Peru I'll have much better access to communications, including phone and internet connections, so I hope we can have a bit more interactive discussion through this website on some of the issues we've covered here. Everyone is welcome and encouraged to post with comments or questions! Additionally, I'll also be available through email on a regular basis. Hooray! It's been a somewhat brief recharge-stop here in the US, so I do hope that the increased communication will make things easier in Peru.

I'm still in the US until next Thursday, so please do get in touch with me if you'd like to chat. More organized thoughts and pictures to follow shortly.

Yours truly

Katie G

Primary Health Care

Some months ago I met a British traveler in the tea room of Livingstonia’s guest house, the old limestone mansion of the mission’s Scottish founder. Like many other tourists I’ve met in Malawi, this young man was eager to share his own personal theory on which particular deficiencies of the Malawian character were responsible for the country’s current poverty. Laziness, greed, and stupidity were his vices of choice, and he expounded upon these themes with an animation I once thought reserved to the great race theorists and social Darwinists of yore. He supported these claims with numerous examples drawn from personal experience, having already spent a full two weeks in the country.

He had, however, made a rather unfortunate choice of debate partner.

“There are more Malawian doctors practicing in England than in Malawi,” the visitor observed gleefully, tucking into a heaping plate of chicken, corn porridge, and greens the house cook had just laid before him.

“There are also more English doctors practicing in England than in Malawi,” I replied.

This seemed to derail his train of thought sufficiently to induce him to follow mine.

“Well… of course there are more English doctors in England than in Malawi,” he said, his words coming as a rapid tumble somewhere between a laugh and a stutter. “I mean, that’s only natural. I mean, that doesn’t prove anything. I mean, people here have a responsibility to look out for themselves. If they won’t do that they can’t very well expect us to come rushing in and sort out their own problems, now, can they?”

“I would argue that we who have had the privilege of growing up in wealthy countries, and will always have the unquestioned privilege of returning to them, have the greater responsibility to assist people living in poverty,” I said flatly, struggling to maintain eye contact as he attacked his chicken with somewhat excessive ferocity. “Especially since much of our wealth was originally taken from their hands.”

England, of course, was the colonial ruler of Malawi, or Nyasaland as they preferred to call it. After imposing upon their subjects an arbitrary set of national boundaries, a series of large plantation estates, a doctrine of racial and cultural inferiority, a system of national parks including Nyika, the forced cultivation of corn, and an authoritarian government based on exploitation and corruption, the British withdrew from the country in 1969, leaving the leaders of newly-independent Malawi to sort out their own problems.

“Oh come on, that’s ancient history,” he sputtered. “The point is, doctors in such a poor country should be grateful to have that kind of education. They should want to stay and better their own people. Anyway,” he added with a snort, “we certainly don’t need them in England.”

My temper was boiling and I struggled to keep my voice even. “Nobody gets to choose where they’re born. But a doctor born in England or the States can choose to spend their whole life working in an environment where they’re well-paid, well-supplied and well-supported, without ever having to defend their entitlement to those privileges, while a doctor born in Malawi has to struggle much more to get an education, works in a hospital that is understaffed, underfunded and undersupplied, and gets paid about $5,000 a year. And if he chooses to leave for the better situation available in another country, he’s considered ungrateful.”

There was a substantial pause, during which my companion ingested about half his chicken in three large forkfuls. Then he replied: “So, I guess you don’t support the war in Iraq, either, huh?”

I smiled tersely and stood to leave. “I’m also a vegetarian. Enjoy your meal.”

* * *

I understood the man’s point—it is unfortunate that so many professionals from Malawi and other poor regions of the world leave their homes for a more comfortable and secure future elsewhere. But I don’t agree that people who happen to be born in a poor country or a poor family incur some kind of karmic debt for any opportunity that allows them to alter their economic status. It’s one thing to expect a young doctor to be a competent and responsible professional; it’s another to expect him or her to be a saint.

Too often, those of us who are accustomed to conditions of privilege view the good opportunities that come to us as entitlements earned through our own hard work, while viewing the good opportunities that come to a poor person as extravagant gifts that dangle from strings—whether that person is a young Malawian going to medical school or a young American from a poor urban or rural family going to an elite university.

Speaking of which, $5,000 also happens to be the amount I received from Dartmouth College grants, to cover my project and living expenses during the eight months I will spend in Malawi: me, a healthy young person, single and with no dependents.

* * *

“There are exactly three hundred doctors in Malawi,” Dr. Maureen Stevenson remarks, looking up from the district heath report she’s reading. It’s evening, and we’re sitting together in the living room of our big house, sipping tea.

As the meaning of her words sinks in, I feel my hands grow cold around the warm mug. The statistic was already familiar to both Maureen and I, but made no less horrifying through repetition. Three hundred doctors. For eleven million people.

This grim ratio helps explain a few other health statistics outlined in the report. In Malawi one out of every five children will die before reaching their fifth year. One out of every 120 women will die in childbirth. And nearly 15% of the adult population is infected with HIV. All told, the average life expectancy for Malawians is only 35 years—one of the lowest in the world.

With such an imbalance—one doctor for every 36,000 people—the security of quality medical care for a country becomes highly dependent on a handful of personalities. And most of them are foreigners—less than 2% of Malawians graduate from high school, and Malawi’s only medical school currently has twelve students. If the doctor is out, or busy, or tired, or lazy, or stationed two hundred miles away, a health center or an entire hospital may rely on the judgment of an uncertified nurse, or medical assistant with only two years of formal training.

The mission hospital at Livingstonia serves approximately 65,000 people, stretched over 1,300 square kilometers accessible only by dirt roads and narrow footpaths. The hospital and its four rural health centers are staffed by seventeen nurses, four medical assistants, two clinical officers (similar to nurse practitioners), and exactly one practicing physician: Maureen.

No pressure.

* * *

In a situation where emergency medical care is unreliable or inaccessible—due to lack of transport, lack of money, or lack of information—preventative care becomes especially critical. And in a situation of extreme poverty and depravation, agricultural and economic development are essential components of preventative care. For many people in Khondowe—especially those burdened by the stigma of AIDS—the Livingstonia Primary Health Care center is their only safety net. Which is why the activities of the Livingstonia PHC range from distributing clothing and food to orphans, to constructing irrigation systems for farmers’ clubs, to training HIV-positive people in small business management.

My own work at PHC has given me the opportunity to wear many different hats: over the last two months, I’ve assisted with a project promoting vegetable gardens for malnourished children, compiled a pamphlet identifying locally-available foods beneficial to people living with HIV/AIDS, established four fruit tree nurseries for widows and families caring for orphans, and helped design a website for the hospital. I might go out in the morning to make compost with a village farmers’ club, then be back at PHC teaching computer classes to hospital staff in the afternoon.

I was circling back to my original objective in Malawi: developing agricultural resources that support the needs of people living with AIDS. I spoke with Mr. Freighton Malakata, my coworker in PHC’s food security program, many times about my overall goals, but eventually realized I would need to propose a specific plan to move forward.

“What about a tree nursery?” I asked him several weeks into my work at PHC. The idea had been brewing for some time, and in fact I had purchased seeds during my trip to Lilongwe in June. “We could grow nutritional, medicinal, and nitrogen-fixing trees and distribute them to HIV-positive people and the mothers of malnourished children.”

Mr. Malakata is a thoughtful and respected gentleman in his late sixties, who worked with the Ministry of Agriculture for many decades before joining PHC. He answered in his usual measured tone. “In fact, I think this can be a good idea.”

“But where could we put it?” The PHC building is wedged between the hospital campus and staff housing, with almost every square inch of land nearby occupied or heavily traversed by foot traffic. I had raised this question many times when discussing the possibility of a medicinal garden with various PHC staff, and they always answered with a sigh or a shrug.

Now, however, Mr. Malakata replied, “Perhaps we can use the PHC farm.”

This was news to me. “The PHC farm?” I asked incredulously.

“Yes,” Mr. Malakata replied slowly. “Perhaps we should go and see the place.”

* * *

The PHC farm turned out to be 30 acres of land just off the main road to Livingstonia, about a mile’s walk from PHC and the hospital. The setting was beautiful, tucked into a shallow valley cut by a stream, and the land had obviously been worked intensively at one time: evidence of terraces and ridges remained, along with several building foundations and five large hand-dug ponds.

Ten years ago, Mr. Malakata explained, this land was a demonstration farm run by PHC. It was started by another young muzungu with an interest in healthcare and agriculture, and was very productive during his tenure at Livingstonia, raising cows, pigs, goats, ducks, chickens, and several varieties of fish in its ponds. The animals were distributed at low cost to farmers’ clubs for rearing and multiplication, or harvested to feed malnourished patients at the hospital.

“But since he left,” he said, “the animals have all died. Now the ponds are just filling up with mud.”

I was taken aback. “But how could it fall apart so quickly?”

Mr. Malakata gazed at a point somewhere over my head, his tone becoming vague. “Perhaps because of lack of funds.”

That didn’t make sense to me. The maintenance costs for a pasture-raised cow or a pond full of fish couldn’t be very high. And in rural Malawi, animals are walking bank accounts—valuable assets to be cashed in when the need for money arises. If there had been as many here as the foundations suggested, this farm had once possessed a great deal of wealth.

I looked around again, imagining the land dotted with grazing animals and lush with gardens—and seeing only the dull brown sheen of the lifeless ponds and the sapling pine forest gradually acidifying the soil. This looks just like what I would have done, I thought. Just like what I would have done—and it’s already failed.

“Is anything growing here now?” I asked somewhat desperately.

“Yes,” Mr. Malakata replied slowly, “We have some chickens in that building. And Mr. Msiska is growing his coffee there.”

“So the chickens and the coffee are for the hospital?” That didn’t seem likely.

“Ah, no. The chickens we will sell. The coffee is for Mr. Msiska.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “That has nothing to do with primary health care.”

“No,” Mr. Malakata replied quietly.

Despite rumors I had heard about corruption at PHC, I had always trusted and respected Mr. Malakata. Now I felt sick at heart. “So where did all the money go? This place couldn’t just run out of funds so quickly.”

For the first time since we had arrived, Mr. Malakata met my gaze. “It is a good question,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “I was stationed at Tchalo when the farm was going.” He shook his head and sighed.

“By the time I came to Livingstonia, everything was already gone.”

* * *

The discovery of the PHC farm discouraged me more than anything I had yet experienced in Malawi. It seemed a living confirmation of everything I had heard and refused to believe about Malawians: laziness, greed, dishonesty, myopia. I searched intently for other explanations, drawing upon my background in cultural geography: Could the farm have been deliberately destroyed as an expression of dissatisfaction with its white director? No, many people assured me, he had been a kind and humble man, well-liked and understood—“just like you,” a friend said, rather disconcertingly.

But perhaps the farm managers didn’t have the knowledge needed to maintain the farm after he left? That didn’t seem likely; wealthier farmers in Malawi have long raised goats and cows. Then maybe the farm had not been appropriate to the needs of people in Khondowe? Maybe farmers here didn’t really want their own chickens or fishponds? This theory elicited only the amused chuckle Malawians use when we crazy azungus say something exceptionally foolish.

My mind was spinning. Past frustrations I had previously seen as the everyday challenges of working in a situation of extreme poverty suddenly appeared as a pattern of failure and disappointment. Rather than being a catalyst, providing a small input of advice or encouragement to help others identify and address the problems they face, I felt like a lone speck of vision and motivation, futilely struggling with an inert and overwhelming burden. What was the point of even trying, if everything was just going to fall apart after I was gone?

Watch it, warned the voice of my geography training from the back of my mind. You are treading on dangerous ground.

* * *

A bit wearily, I turned my attention to distributing the donations collected through this website for schoolchildren in Khondowe: colored pencils, tote bags, toothbrushes, and over $800 in cash. In allocating these resources, I took the advice of Michael Mavumbanya, who felt that donating to only to Nkhota School—just one of Khondowe’s many impoverished schools—would create rifts in the community. I also sought to honor the request of the Nkhota School parents’ committee, who wanted the funds to be used to develop a long-term source of income for their school.

The answer to these concerns came from Hudson Chisambo, an energetic young beekeeper in Livingstonia with a strong dedication to community development—he grew up in Nkhota himself—and a passion for beekeeping at times bordering on obsession.

“Bees are the way forward for Malawi,” he told me. “Our future is honey.”

As a card-carrying member of the Malawi Beekeepers’ Association, Hudson had the facts to back up his claim. Beekeeping had long been part of household food production in northern Malawi, he told me, but industrial buyers were currently importing large quantities of honey due to the small scale of local production. However, potential for a domestic market was great. Hudson showed me a list of Malawian food processors who had agreed to purchase and collect honey from Malawian producers who could guarantee a steady large-scale supply.

The Beekeepers’ Association had already established a cooperative in Khondowe, and the more members they could add, the more likely they were to secure a contract with a commercial buyer. The commercial price for honey in Malawi is favorable for the farmer, at around a dollar per kilogram, and honey stores and transports well. For once, the remote location of Khondowe was an advantage, its hills and forests providing the ideal environment for beekeeping.

“Nkhota has a great future in bees,” Hudson declared, an excited spark in his eyes.

Thus was born the school beekeeping project, with Hudson providing the supervision, the parents of Nkhota, Mahuwi, Manchewe, and Chakaka Primary Schools providing the labor, and the donations raised through this website providing the materials. Each school would receive instruction in large-scale beekeeping and the materials needed to construct five beehives. The parents’ committees would construct the hives under Hudson’s supervision, and would then be responsible for maintaining the hives and bringing the honey to the Livingstonia cooperative, which would assist them with processing and marketing. Each beehive could produce enough honey to pay a local teacher’s salary for two months out of the year, and the schools could also use some of the profits to construct new hives.

Michael Mavumbanya’s brother Henry, chairman of the Mahuwi School parents’ committee, volunteered his farm for the workshop. For the next two weeks his home was overtaken with the sounds of exuberant industry: men sawing, planeing, and hammering hand-hewn planks; women measuring, painting, and preparing food; Hudson running between groups offering detailed instructions and occasionally expounding further upon the virtues of honey. One of the Nkhota parents brought along his battery-powered radio, and so the work was scored to the crackly voice of Malawi National Radio, playing its usual eclectic mix of folk songs, military bands, and Malawian reggae.

* * *

For two weeks, the Nkhota School committee made the five-mile trek over steep terrain down to our workshop, often arriving before their colleagues from communities just down the road. They completed their beehives in a few days, then stayed to help the other schools. Mahuwi School sent fewer representatives, but they were tremendously dedicated, pausing for lunch only after the others yelled for them to sit down so they could say grace.

The Manchewe School committee never showed up. Only one person from the village came to help, the teenage son of a committee member. Hudson worked beside him, but by the end of the first week they had finished only one hive. I was still stewing over the PHC farm, and had no sympathy for this added disappointment. We gave the materials for Manchewe’s other hives to Nkhota and Mahuwi.

By the end of the workshop, each of the participating schools had seven new beehives. During our closing ceremony, the parents asked me to convey their sincere gratitude to all who contributed, and thanked me for organizing the funding. “Of course, this is only a start,” a Mahuwi committee member added. “You must continue to support us so we can keep up this project. We cannot do it ourselves.”

I felt my jaw tighten. Yes you can, I wanted to shout. That was what we emphasized throughout this entire workshop. That was the whole point of this project. You’ve been given enough to make it self-sustaining. How can you be so ungrateful?

As this last thought passed through my mind, I flashed back to my earlier conversation with the obnoxious tourist in the guesthouse. Suddenly, I realized what I’d been forgetting in my frustration over the last few weeks. The parents didn’t see this project as some great gift generously bestowed from on high. It was just a small and very partial step toward ensuring access to decent primary education for their children, a basic human right.

A little can go a long way in Malawi. But for most people here, after the little is gone there is still a long, long way to go.

I took the man’s outstretched hand and smiled. “I wish you the best,” I said.

* * *

I feel sad every time I walk past the PHC farm, its soils turning to acid and ponds filling with mud. I still haven’t uncovered the full story of why it fell apart, and at this point I’ve stopped asking. But I also try to keep it in perspective, remembering that selfishness and shortsightedness are pretty universal human traits, and that what I am seeing is an example of relatively powerful people taking advantage of the poor, not the other way around.

I continue to be inspired by the vision and dedication of the Nkhota School committee, and Michael Mavumbanya, and Hudson, and Mr. Malakata, and countless other Malawians I’ve met. They provide a powerful antidote to cynical dismissals of Malawians character. But that’s not the point.

Malawians aren’t saints. But they shouldn’t have to be to get decent health care or education or means of supporting their families. We call those things human rights, and all you have to do to be entitled to them is be human: quirky, eager, obstinate, passionate, loving, selfish, flawfully and beautifully human, just like all the other crazy humans running around.

Martin Luther King Jr. said that injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere, and he was right. Human rights are the concern of humans. All of them. And insisting on recognition for your own rights—and for the rights of others—is perhaps the most primary primary health care of all.

Scenes from the Road and Beyond 7/9/05

My dear friend Macdonald Harawa and (from left to right) his mother, brother-in-law, sister and nephew at home. After I left Lukwe, Macdonald, a small, energetic man, took me by the hand and led me to the head of the mission station, insisting he find a position for me in Livingstonia. Macdonald is also one of the founders of the Tewetani Women's Club, whose members run a garden that provides supplemental food for widows and orphans in their village of Vunguvungu.

The pavillion behind Macdonald's relatives is their kitchen, standing empty as their maize harvest is already used up and the cassava harvest is not yet ready. Like many poor farmers in the region, Macdonald and his family's maize crop failed this year because they could not afford to purchase fertilizer. Now, they chew pieces of sugar cane (the green stalk on the ground) to quell their hunger. The small stools on which they are seated are their only furniture.







Maureen's truck heading down one of the tight switchback turns along the back road to Livingstonia. This road, which travels gradually down the back slope of northern Malawi's high plateau, is much less scary than the main Livingstonia road. Unfortunately, the road's clay soils make it impassible during the rainy season. Even during the dry season, it's full of baked ruts and jagged stones, making it pretty demanding on a vehicle. The Malawi government has been planning to pave the road for years, but funds for the project have remained elusive.







The small village of Junju, located in the foothills of the Nyika escarpment along the back road to Livingstonia, blends in to the surrounding landscape.







Another invisible village, this one on the rolling plains of central Malawi.







The sphinx-like Mpamphala Mountain rises abruptly from the surrounding plains, a few dozen miles south of Mzuzu.







In the market town of Jenda, located about halfway between Mzuzu and Lilongwe, farmers proffer neat stacks of tomatoes, buckets of potatoes, and huge piles of cabbages to passing motorists.







An enterprising young man positioned along the highway peddles the catch of the day: mice on a stick. Of course, small mammals and insects are an excellent and frequently overlooked source of protein, and tastes are culturally subjective. For example, many rural Malawians find the concept of drinking cow's milk repulsive.


Still... Mice. Fuzzy. Eew.

Sustainability

Shortly after committing myself to a life of solidarity with the poor and downtrodden of the world, I took a three-week vacation to Lilongwe. To be fair, that wasn’t my intention. The original plan was to spend three weeks designing and planting a medicinal garden for a small village clinic along the central Malawian lakeshore—my last outstanding commitment from my work with Lieza. Upon arrival, however, I learned she had already been there and I was no longer welcome. Reeling, I continued south to Lilongwe to spend a few days visiting friends and getting my head together. There, I promptly came down with dysentery. So vacation it was.

I was back in the world of international development: ice cream, maid service, rugged 4x4s that rarely leave the tarmac.

It was a pleasant and necessary relief. The everyday indignities of the rural Malawian poor are grueling just to observe: elderly women in tattered clothes pounding maize for five or six orphaned grandchildren; tiny tots chewing sugar cane to quell their hunger; men chopping firewood with blunt axes, hoes, machetes. I had been feeling a bit exhausted, and was ready for a few days of mindless consumerdom among my countrymen.

Even from the vantage point of Lilongwe, the poverty and isolation of rural Malawi remains difficult to imagine. Lilongwe has its poor neighborhoods, of course, but they lie tucked away in the flood-prone lowlands or set back from the main thoroughfares (as they do in most centrally-planned cities of the world). Invisible, like the mud-brick and thatch-roofed houses of the rural poor, which blend seamlessly into the landscape of dry grass and baked earth from which they were devised. A passing glance from the window of one of those massive 4x4s whizzing along the paved road might yield only a view of a beautiful, if desiccated, countryside, without recognizing the village clinging to survival in its midst.

Taking full notice of the poor is invariably a time-consuming and painful experience. To really begin, just begin to understand, you have to actually go inside one of those invisible houses and spend some time in careful observation: the packed clay floor bare except for a grass sleeping mat, a bucket and a small wooden stool; the worn cloth schoolbag containing two small filthy notebooks and a pencil; the only light filtering in through the holes in the thatched roof. Then you have to imagine trying to keep your maize harvest and your malarial child warm and dry in the middle of a rainstorm—without enough blankets, with only one plastic bucket, without a change of clothes. Good reason to keep chugging by at a hundred kilometers an hour.

* * *

Despite my persistent fears that I would tumble over the ‘big edge’ of poverty into hopelessness and obscurity, muzungu privilege continued to work in my favor. Heading north from Lilongwe, I easily caught a ride with an Irish missionary, Dr. Maureen Stevenson. She had just come back from sabbatical and was returning to work at the mission hospital in Livingstonia. We were both thrilled to discover we’d no longer be lone muzungu on the plateau, and quickly became friends. Maureen invited me to live with her in the mission doctor’s house at Livingstonia—the same old colonial mansion where I’d stayed that first weekend after leaving Lieza’s place.

Malawian friends had already made housing arrangements for me in Livingstonia, a one-room dwelling—with tin roof and electricity—on the far side of the plateau. The place was tiny but sound, and—at eight dollars a month—the rent was very reasonable. In preparation for the simple, self-contained life I expected to lead there, I had done some shopping in Lilongwe, procuring such necessities as a hot plate, a plastic basin, and a bottle of Amarula liqueur.

But Maureen’s offer was tantalizing. I could stay with her for free, enjoying such extraordinary luxuries as hot water, upholstered chairs, and an occasionally functional telephone line. Maureen had a stove, a refrigerator, and a cook—all courtesy of her employer, the Presbyterian Church of Ireland, which had learned from years of experience that these conveniences help ensure that missionaries stick out their full terms of service in such a remote area. Maybe they were on to something, I thought. The possibility of hot showers and fresh-baked bread could go a long way toward my own sustainability.

So when we reached the top of the Livingstonia escarpment, we unloaded our armloads of foodstuffs and supplies into the house’s enormous kitchen, assisted by the night watchman. It had been an eventful journey: halfway up the escarpment road, we realized Maureen’s rickety old pickup had no functional handbrake. To get around the tightest switchback turns without rolling over the edge, I would run to the far side of the truck and stretch my foot through the driver’s side door to press the accelerator, while Maureen kept her own two feet on the brake and the clutch—a maneuver she called “the three-footed turn.” Muzungu privilege or not, this was still the wide wild north. We were back.

* * *

Northern Malawi in the dry season. Each daybreak arrives heralded by the crow of roosters and the crackle of morning fires. As the brilliant sun makes its lazy journey from east to west, it streams down on a vast panorama—in the north, on the forested swells of the Nyika Plateau; to the east, on the glistening waters of Lake Malawi; all around, on the patchy maize fields harassed by wayward goats. When night falls, the scattering of kerosene lamps across the plateau provide no contest to the brilliant stars suspended overhead, as I fall to sleep tucked under blankets and an immediate sky.

“It’s so beautiful here,” I used to remark periodically when I first arrived.

The setting seemed so tranquil: the ancient grandeur of the Nyika escarpment, the homesteads ingeniously assembled from natural materials, the easy pace of a landscape experienced on foot—all appealed to my environmentalist sensibilities. With a little romanticism and a squint, Khondowe appeared a timeless country idyll: man and beast and amber waves of grain, producing and reproducing in harmonic balance, their days an unremarkable passing in the ebb and flow of life. I knew of course that poverty was there, but it was a strikingly picturesque poverty, the bare patches of ground blending with the walls of mudbrick houses and the tattered clothing of children, a scene filtered through the color of earth.

Pastoral. Agrarian. Quaint.

My friends would shake their heads and laugh wearily in the typical Malawian fashion, wondering at the existence of a person who could be so blind to the suffering etched into the landscape all around her. For subsistence farmers in Khondowe, its steep fields and dramatic dropoffs are not an interesting geographical feature, but a barrier to selling their crops and sending their children to high school.

Isolated. Eroded. Unforgiving. Desperate.

Even the Nyika Plateau, now a national park closed to all but paying visitors, has its place in this landscape of suffering. Nyika was once homeland to many current inhabitants of Khondowe, but its inhabitants were forcibly removed to make room for Nyika National Park. Today, the environmental refugees from Nyika inhabit the most marginal lands around Khondowe—Nkhota, for example—increasing local pressure on shared resources like firewood and water. The escarpment looms above them now, an everyday monument to pain and memory in a difficult land.

Poverty can be hidden in so many ways. After a while I stopped paying homage to the landscape, in deference to its inhabitants.

* * *

Last year during the rainy season, a series of landslides devastated the mountainous area of Chakaka, nestled the foothills of the Nyika escarpment west of Khondowe. The landslides killed six people, displaced several villages, and wiped out the dirt road that connected Chakaka to the outside world, cutting off access to markets, medicine, and other vital materials. This year’s rainy season has triggered further landslides, damaging fields and pathways and increasing the isolation of Chakaka people.

The immediate cause of the landslides was the severe deforestation of Chakaka’s steep slopes by villagers cutting trees for firewood. On the surface, this seems like a prototypical “African environmental problem”: ignorant peasants selfishly racing to claim scarce resources for their own. In fact, the landslides at Chakaka are the kind of event that many Western environmental and development experts use to illustrate the necessity of preserving land in national parks, in order to protect Africa from the Africans.

One such ecological preserve, Nyika National Park, is situated on the Nyika Plateau just slightly uphill from Chakaka. The park was founded to sustain its unique grassland ecosystems, lush with wildflowers and herds of zebras. But far from being a model of ecological sustainability, the park has had devastating environmental and social consequences—among them, the Chakaka landslides.

I haven’t yet been up to the Nyika Plateau, but I’ve been wanting to go. The park is a popular weekend getaway for many development workers in northern Malawi, and everyone says it’s incredibly beautiful. Early Western explorers of Nyika were struck by its rolling verdant fields, which, they wrote, reminded them of Scotland. This unexpected token of home in an otherwise alien land gave the colonialists and missionaries of Livingstonia a familiar retreat, and Nyika became a favorite destination for holiday expeditions during the period of British rule in Malawi. In order to save this remarkable Anglican landscape from the mindless destructiveness of Africans, the Nyika Plateau was incorporated as a national park by the colonial government. The people living within the park’s boundaries were gradually evicted, and Nyika has been closed to all but paying visitors for the last thirty years.

Today ecotourists fly to Nyika from all over the world, assembling in convoys of Land Rovers, swathed in layers of DEET and nylon, celebrating their environmental sensibility by driving all over the pristine wilderness. The income generated by entrance fees is mostly reinvested into the park, so that more roads and more tourist camps can be built, so that more tourists will be attracted, so that more fees will be collected, presumably so that more roads can be built. In this way the preservation of the wilderness is ensured.

Meanwhile, the refugees from Nyika National Park struggle to make their livelihoods in places like Chakaka, Nkhota, and other remote villages invisible from the road. After being evicted from the park, they were forced on to the only unclaimed lands in Khondowe: those that were considered too marginal for settlement. The evidence of their suffering is sometimes dramatic, like the landslides at Chakaka. More often it passes quietly, like the silent sacrifice of a young mother who goes hungry so her children can have a meal.

This process goes by the name “sustainable development,” a popular development catchphrase used to promote ecological sensitivity in developing countries. The rationale for sustainable development is based on the premise that developed countries wrecked their environments during the course of industrialization, and countries that are currently becoming more industrialized should not be allowed to repeat the mistake. In Malawi, as elsewhere in Africa, the sustainable developers have promoted ecotourism as a “clean” industry, tied to environmental preservation in game reserves and national parks.

But what, exactly, is being sustained by such development?

Certainly not the people of Nyika, who were forced from their homeland on to the most marginal land in Khondowe. Certainly not the forests and streams of Khondowe, which were already heavily utilized before the arrival of the Nyikan refugees intensified the pressure—leading, for example, to the deforestation at Chakaka. Certainly not the ecosystems of Nyika National Park, now crisscrossed by dirt roads and dotted with camps for “ecotourists.”

At Nyika, as in many cases, the purpose of sustainable development is not to sustain people or ecosystems, but rather the development itself. More tourists. More roads. More camps. More tourists.

The people of Nyika were robbed of their land and forced into poverty, precipitating tremendous human and environmental disaster—all in the name of sustainability. Now their children run along the roadside in their tattered clothes, stretching out their hands to passing Land Rovers and shrieking, “Give me money!” “Give me pen!” “Give me sweets!” The ecotourists inside roll up the windows and turn on the AC, shaking their heads at the crass materialism of the poor.

* * *

Some days, I feel I am just an exceptionally slow-moving ecotourist. Living in my giant wooden house, equipped with my computer, my hot water, my bags full of groceries, I surround myself with material comforts I consider necessary for my own personal “sustainability.”

Like most other muzungus in Malawi, I choose to spend money on vacation to cities, national parks, and resorts in the name of sustainability. Like most other muzungus, I choose to eat costly imported food transported by truck or plane over long distances in the name of sustainability. Like most other muzungus, I choose to consume dozens of times more than the average Malawian does—all in the name of sustainability.

Though my standard of living in Khondowe is lower than would generally be considered comfortable by Western standards, it is still astronomically higher than that of everyone else around me. Understandably, this means I receive requests for money very frequently—from friends, neighbors, complete strangers, all with long and compelling stories and needs that require long-term solutions. But of course, just giving money to poor people isn’t an effective way of dealing with poverty. Begging leads to dependency, and dependency is inherently unsustainable, so in the long view it’s better not to give. Or so I have been told.

* * *

And so we come to the gruesome irony of sustainability: like so many other ideologies, it is simultaneously used to justify wealth for some people and poverty for others. In evaluating the true sustainability of any development, we have to ask: Sustainability for what? Sustainability for whom?

In northern Malawi, the “sustainable development” of the Nyika Plateau has deprived a few thousand people of their land and productive livelihoods, and increased population pressure on several thousand more, making it more difficult for everyone to survive. But densely settled populations do not inevitably face shortage and disaster: they can and do exist in comfortable conditions—in the cities and suburbs of my native northeastern America, for example. The people of Khondowe could be supplied by truckloads of supplemental food, firewood, and medical supplies brought in from other parts of the country, or other parts of the world for that matter. Of course, that would be unsustainable.

Even as my own rapacious culture consumes the resources of our planet at a rate unprecedented in human history, the world’s poor are denied access to many of its more worthwhile developments—higher education, telecommunications, modern medicine—because allowing them to do so would be “unsustainable.” Allowing them to do so… and people try to tell me that development isn’t just the latest incarnation of colonialism. What does it mean if the “sustainability” of my own culture is predicated on the continued subordination of people, cultures, ecosystems?

Those of us who have had the privilege of living among the comforts of the developed world have a special responsibility to attend to the needs of the world’s poor. Not as saviors, not as guardians, but as attentive and respectful servants—for that is the only way to avoid the mistakes of Nyika and so many other well-intentioned disasters.

After six months in Malawi, I believe that what we, as Westerners, must learn to sustain is our attention to the conditions of the world’s poor, and the role of our own actions in creating and perpetuating those conditions. We must sustain our commitment to seek out and listen to experiences of suffering, even though what we hear may cause us pain. And we must sustain one another in making these difficult and dignified choices, for the support we can give each other provides much greater comfort than any material possession ever could.

In the end, no indicator of development is more important than a people’s ability to choose with dignity. Nothing is so unsustainable as inequality.

Update from Malawi 6/3/05

Another spectacular sunrise over Lake Malawi, viewed from a thousand meters overhead on the Livingstonia Plateau.



Joshua Kachulu, permaculturist, soccer captain, and general rascal, at our last health training together.



Participants list concerns of vulnerable people in the community (widows, orphans, people living with HIV/AIDS) and community members who could offer support (chiefs, church elders, teachers) in this workshop on connecting community health resources, run by Joshua, Michael, and myself.



Gertrude Mkandawire (right), a volunteer for Khondowe Home-Based Care program for people living with HIV/AIDS, and Chimwemwe Nyirongo, a volunteer for Mtende Orphan Care program in Khondowe, share a moment of friendship during tea break at the health training. These two beautiful women, who are both subsistence farmers facing their own struggle to feed their families, give freely of their limited time to prepare meals, clean houses, tend crops, and give baths to people afflicted by AIDS and other chronic illnesses.

"Chimwemwe" is a common name for both men and women in Tumbuka culture. Like many Tumbuka names, it is a reflection of the parents' emotions upon the birth of their new child. These names speak volumes about the powerful love parents have for their children in this very family-oriented culture: other common names include Tiwonge ("We are thankful"), Atupele ("Cherished Gift"), and Blessings. Chimwemwe simply means "happiness." Here, Chimwemwe nurses her own daughter.



The combination of malaria, AIDS, malnutrition, tuberculosis, and a host of impoverishing factors leave many children orphaned throughout Malawi and southern Africa. Even for children whose parents are still alive, or who have guardians, resources are scarce. Necessary goods for the healthy development of children, such as high-protein foods, clothes in good repair, and soap for clothing and bathing are out of reach for many families. This young girl stays at the home of a family friend, as her own family cannot afford to feed her.



And this is part of the reason why. A recent rainfall exposes the garish red sores of Chakaka, a mountainous area that has been ravaged by landslides in recent years. The population of the Chakaka area grew dramatically after Nyika National Park (just to the right of this view) was closed to human habitation and its residents were forced out into surrounding areas. The result was increased human need for trees as a source of cooking fuel and building materials, which led to severe deforestation and a devastating series of landslides. These have cut off the villages of the area from the main road, making everything more difficult for the residents of Chakaka. Joshua is in Chakaka at the moment, leading a training on HIV/AIDS and investigating the possibility of starting a reforestation project here.



Yours truly, on the path to the village of Thunda far below. The edge behind me is not really a true big edge, but it's biggish.

The Big Edge

Across the far side of Lake Malawi, the sun is rising. Its first bold rays define the jagged mountain peaks of Tanzania, gild the underbellies of the pregnant cumulus suspended in this morning’s immensity of sky.

From the wooden front porch of an old colonial home in Livingstonia town, I am watching the sunrise over Lake Malawi from above for the first time. Back when I lived at Lieza’s place, my tent was wedged into an east-facing slope, and I was never up on the road early enough to catch the day’s first hour. But yesterday I left Lieza and the Lukwe Permaculture Project for the last time, struggling up the steep path to Livingstonia with all my belongings stuffed into my backpack and guitar case. I had only the full moon for light and company.

I have been awake for some hours already this morning, summoned from sleep by an impatient rooster in an hour of indisputable darkness, and barred from returning, as has been the case lately, by an unrelenting tumble of thoughts. Inside the house, my friend Stephanie Richards, a medical student from the UK on rotation at Livingstonia Hospital, is still sleeping—after all, it’s Saturday. She is only a guest in this old mansion herself, but has offered to take me in for the weekend, as I am now without a place to stay. Hopefully by Monday I’ll have found some other living arrangements, or be ready to leave Khondowe altogether.

Now that I have been fired from the Lukwe Permaculture Project—cut off, it seems, from the work and people I have come to love in these last months—I find it hard to imagine that I could stay in this area much longer. In this confused morning, my heart flutters with the tremulous uncertainty of the moment before daybreak. Today I feel no confidence in dawn.

The early morning cacophony of Livingstonia’s farmyards falls silent. As a drop, then a sliver, the great fireball slips into the world. The tall grass lining the escarpment leans eastward over the dropoff, and I too find myself pulled forward, straining to make shape of the liquid orange fire sizzling against the horizon, drawn ever closer to the edge.

The proud beauty of dawn strikes my eyes with a ferocious and unapologetic burn. Quietly, I turn away.

Sometimes, the only way forward is to take a few steps back.

* * *

The story of how I came to be fired from the Lukwe Permaculture Project, I believe, is best told backwards. Backwards, upside-down, and inside-out—since that’s how I feel when I think about it. In the free-fall of emotions I’ve experienced since leaving the Project, I’ve struggled to write about what happened between Lieza and I, struggled to be true to my own feelings while also being as fair and honest I can. Still, hindsight has a way of streamlining the truth, and the mind often makes serious distortions in the effort to provide a neatly packaged narrative.

All I can say, looking back over my shoulder, is it went down something like this.

* * *

Johnny Msiska, a young susbsistence farmer with a winning smile and one eye askew, is playing the part of a very wealthy man. He dons a neon blue knit cap and a beat-up shoulder bag to illustrate this point (northern Malawi is one of those places where items that are generally considered indicators of poverty in the West are actually symbols of wealth). He is showing off his fortune—represented by a handful of neatly stacked green leaves—by giving money for a breakfast of chips and soda to his son, played by another man a few years older than Johnny.

“Stay out all day and spend as much as you want,” the wealthy father calls carelessly as his son runs off to school.

Meanwhile, Madalitso Mkalira’s mother is praying over her. She holds the kneeling young woman’s face against her chest, bows her head and speaks in a low voice: “Oh God, you know my daughter and I are very poor people. Still, we thank you that we are not suffering from hunger, and that we have each other. Oh God, I pray you will look after my daughter at school today, that you will bless her, and bless this little food I have to give her.”

Madalitso’s mother—played by her real-life mother, as it happens—then raises the young woman’s face and regards her with a sad smile. She hands her an imaginary bundle and apologizes, “Oh my daughter, I am sorry, I don’t have fancy food for you, only this avocado and bananas. But still you will not be hungry, and try not to be ashamed.”

The scene changes and we see the two young people together at school, being quizzed by their teacher on addition. The boy who ate only chips and soda cannot concentrate and misses all the answers, while the poor girl sits quietly and gives the correct responses—much to the pleasure of the assembled audience, composed mainly of subsistence farmers. After school, Madalitso goes to join her mother selling fruit in the market. There, they meet the wealthy father and his son, who is now holding his stomach and crying.

Mrs. Mkalira and her daughter rush to help, asking the father what could be the problem. “I don’t know,” he replies anxiously, “my son is often sick in this way.” When Madalitso’s mother learns that the boy eats only chips and soda, she bows to the wealthy man, then carefully explains the importance of a diversified diet including plenty of fresh fruits and vegetables—touching on most of the key points Joshua and I covered earlier today during this course on nutrition and health. In gratitude the wealthy man buys her entire basket of avocadoes, and the audience shouts and claps with enthusiasm as the players take their bows.

Joshua and I have always included small skits like this one, or “dramas” as they’re called in Malawi, in the many training courses we’ve run over the last two months. They are immensely popular, and participants often share the stories with friends afterwards, making them a very useful way of disseminating information. The difference with this drama, and the others performed before it, is that they were written not by us, but by the members of this group—the Bale Farmers’ Club—themselves.

Next week, the Club will perform these dramas publicly at the fruit tree planting ceremony for Mahuwi School, as part of our effort to encourage the school community to use the fruit to feed their children, rather than sell it for the pittance paid by wholesale buyers. I’m unsure how successful this effort will ultimately be, but for today, we are all feeling quite proud of ourselves.

Michael Mavumbanya, chairman of the club, venerable elder, and close friend, walks to my side and places a hand on my shoulder. “This would not have been possible without you, Kathryn,” he says, smiling. I smile back and blush from head to toe.

* * *

Later in the same week, Stephanie and I meet for a walk to the waterfall at Manchewe, the dramatic plunge that forms the source of the Manchewe gorge about a mile uphill from Lieza’s place. Spending time with Stephanie is a twofold relief: it’s nice enough that we enjoy each other’s company, but lately I also need some time away from Lieza.

In the last few months, the small projects I’ve undertaken through Lieza’s organization have been remarkably successful; I’ve also made many good friends and achieved a fair amount of personal popularity in the area. But increasingly, I find the enthusiasm and energy I feel after a good day out with the farmers is met with cynical dismissal back at Lukwe. I know that Lieza has struggled for years to establish herself in Khondowe, and that her work has helped to make my successes possible. But when I try to express my gratitude for this, it seems to only heighten the feeling of hostility.

I’m explaining all this to Stephanie as we follow a narrow footpath along the rim of the gorge into the forest. A few feet to the side of the trail, the land falls away steeply, but through the undergrowth it’s not clear exactly how dramatic the dropoff is. The roar of the waterfall ahead is muted by the dense canopy around us, and overlain by the vigorous chatter of forest birds.

Thinking back to my last months at college, I remember the phrase “falling off the edge of the earth” came up constantly when I thought about my future, like some kind of real-life foreshadowing. Now, as I look to the far side of the gorge, I realize I am living in a landscape of edges: high plateaus, plunging valleys, fields steep enough that farmers have been known to fall out of them. Some of these slopes are gradual, their summits accessible by broad paths, while others are sheer walls of rock, edges of earth that one truly could fall off and never return. Big edges, in my mind.

I comment that lately, with Lieza, I feel I’m constantly creeping along a big edge, worried that I’ll do or say something wrong and set off her formidable temper, which I’ve experienced a few times already. But she seems to find my successes most threatening of all, and I’m becoming increasingly frustrated with my apparent inability to do anything right. The walk, and Stephanie’s company, are helping me gain some much-needed perspective.

”She sounds like a complete loony,” Stephanie observes.

The trail veers toward the mouth of the gorge, and abruptly we emerge from a tangle of vines onto an outcrop of bare rock. Suddenly there is nothing but the vast expanse of sky overhead, the great plunge before us, and the resumption of forest far, far below. From across the gorge, the powerful churn of the waterfall reaches out to fill all the space inside my mind. Cautiously, we shuffle a few steps further and peer downwards. Our eyes follow the silhouettes of birds skimming the treetops a thousand feet below.

“That’s a big edge,” I gasp, and Stephanie nods. The roar of the waterfall drowns the possibility of more profound reflection.

* * *

In retrospect it seems I should have seen it coming. The offense itself was minor: I disagreed with Lieza over how we should distribute our supply of agroforestry tree seeds, arguing that Nkhota School should be included in the share. But the disagreement represented a fundamental difference in the way we view our Malawian neighbors and our relationship to them, initial assumptions that would inevitably lead us on divergent paths.

Joshua and I had become involved with Nkhota School on his initiative, not Lieza’s, and she disbelieved the Nkhotans’ claim that they constructed and operated their school independently, even after multiple people outside the school community assured me that this was the case. In her view, I was foolish and naïve to believe Malawians could accomplish such a feat on their own.

Malawians are stupid people, Lieza once told me, stupid people who need our help. Offering the Nkhotans assistance without explicit approval from her was reckless; insisting on recognition for their effort and ability to help themselves was tantamount to treason.

“Lieza, you don’t give people the respect they deserve,” I said desperately, weeks of buried frustration rising to the surface.

She looked at me as though I’d struck her. I knew I had crossed the boundary of what politeness and restraint could cover, that things were over between us.

Lieza is a forceful and passionate woman who has often chosen the more difficult road for reasons that are deeply important to her. She has chosen to work independently in an extremely isolated and unforgiving environment. She has faced cultural, political, and financial barriers to her goals, and has still met with some success. But it seems I came into her life in a moment of severe burnout, and my eagerness to see my Malawian friends as equals was profoundly threatening to her.

I know, because I know this feeling from my own experience in Paraguay. Sometimes it’s just too painful to take in the continued suffering around you and believe that the people you’re seeing could just as easily be your own mother, brother, loved one, that there is not some fundamental difference between us and them that makes it all somehow more tolerable.

“I used to think very much like you do,” Lieza said bitterly, and through the anger and accusation in her voice I felt a note of sadness, of regret.

* * *

When I arrived at Mahuwi School that same morning with three baskets of fruit tree seedlings and a bag packed for the weekend, I was two hours late for the tree planting ceremony we’d been planning for weeks. The school parents and the drama troupe from the Bale Farmers’ Club had already gone home, and classes were nearly finished for the day. I now had to face the deeply disappointed teachers and school committee, who had set aside this morning for our program and waited for me until the last possible minute.

“It’s my fault; it’s my responsibility; I’m sorry,” I apologized over and over, worried they would blame Joshua, who had been waiting for me on the road. Malawians usually take the blame in such situations, because it’s assumed they are incapable of arriving on time. I mentioned nothing of what had passed between Lieza and I, not wanting to touch off a furious round of gossip. But the teachers and committee members perceived more than I could have guessed. The school committee chairman, an older man and brother of Michael Mavumbamya, regarded me with a kind expression and spoke.

“No, we understand what has happened here,” he said, indicating my bag and cocking his head in the direction of Lukwe. “This was not your fault.” The teachers and committee conferred quietly for a few moments in Tumbuka. Then the headmaster turned to me and said, “Would you like us to go and help you collect your belongings?”

The distance from Mahuwi to Lukwe is more than five miles, over hills and streams, down steep forest pathways and slippery slopes. I looked at the people standing before me, barefoot, wearing ill-fitting clothes and worried expressions, and started to cry.

“Don’t cry, Katie,” Joshua told me, his face wrinkled with concern as I leaned on his shoulder and sobbed. “Don’t cry, or I myself will also start crying.”

* * *

In the days that followed I migrated to Livingstonia, where I watched many sunrises while lost in thought. Lieza had commanded me to leave the area, and I couldn’t imagine staying on in Khondowe without her support. But it was so wrong and so unfair; it meant leaving all the people I’d come to know in the last months with yet another set of bitter memories and unfulfilled promises. I resolved to stay in Khondowe for two more weeks to fulfill all the commitments I’d made, and postpone the inevitable decision to come.

I went back to Mahuwi School to plant the last set of fruit trees, made rounds among the farmers’ clubs to say my goodbyes, spent a few hours negotiating with local hotheads who wanted to stage a protest against Lieza. I went to see the head of the mission station at Livingstonia, who offered me his assistance in finding another position, possibly at the local Primary Health Care center. I met with friends and community leaders who urged me to stay, offering me meals and lodging in their homes while apologizing for their own lack of running water and electricity.

I spent many hours lying in bed, listening to music played much too loud. Searching for another soul struggling to keep faith alive in a chaotic and overwhelming world, I turned to Ravel, Piazzolla, Jars of Clay, and, ultimately, the Dixie Chicks.

I went on vacation with Stephanie to our favorite lakeside resort town, Nkhata Bay, where I met a few muzungus running charitable projects and drank far too much Malawi Gin. On the day we left, I was offered a position with a small organization that supports school gardens and women’s craft unions, both in Nkhata Bay and across the lake in Mozambique. The offer was tempting.

Life in Nkhata Bay would include many more muzungu comforts, including reliable phone and internet access, indoor plumbing, and electricity (equals refrigeration, equals cheese). It would mean living in a youth hostel, where I could always retreat from the inconveniences and annoyances of living in a poor country, and would entail a much less personal level of commitment to the communities I worked with. It would mean plenty of other white people around to engage in intellectual conversation, offer connection to the outside world, and cover my insecurities with praise. It would mean not having to deal with Lieza again.

It would also mean ditching Joshua, Nkhota School, and the Bale Farmers’ Club. I took stock of the situation and despaired of making the right choice.

Many questions about the viability of life in Khondowe remained unanswered. Where would I stay? What would I do, and how would I do it in a way that its impact would continue after I leave? How would I get supplies from Mzuzu up the escarpment—or would I have to settle for eating only maize porridge and beans cooked over an open fire, like most Malawians? And after the time needed for cooking and other daily chores—fetching water, collecting firewood, washing clothes by hand—would I have any energy left for anyone else?

Most frightening of all was the prospect of being lone azungu in a culture foreign to my own. I felt isolated enough in Khondowe when I was staying with Lieza and Auke. Now that I truly was isolated from muzungu society, who would guide me in community interactions and interventions? Who would I withdraw to when I needed a little First World-style pampering? Who would look after me if I became sick?

I felt myself once again teetering along a big edge, one I have approached, retreated from, and feared for years, knowing that true personal commitment to justice and equity inevitably leads to its unfathomable precipice, and the great uncertainty I now faced. What would become of me if I was to live at the level of the world’s poor, with them, among them, not just as an alien ‘helper,’ but as an interdependent friend and equal?

And, having lived in this way, how, how could I ever return to a life of casual luxury while my friends still struggle to feed their families, purchase soap, send their children to school?

Or course I would not truly be living at the level of the Malawian poor. The poor of Malawi do not eat pasta, use toothbrushes, listen to Debussy or B.B. King. They do not own backpacks, and they do not receive mail—they cannot afford a post office box or stamps, and neither can anybody else they know. Still the question of commitment loomed—not merely rhetorical, but one of daily consequence, perhaps for the rest of my life.

I knew I could not avoid this trial and judgment of the heart. No course lay open to me but to plunge forward, or turn back in retreat.

* * *

Daybreak. Three weeks after that first inscrutable morning, the sun is again rising over Lake Malawi. From my new home on the southeastern edge of the Livingstonia plateau, I watch as its first rays shower the earth in a warm glow, transforming the waters into a sea of crystal and light.

I’m brushing my teeth. Today is the first meeting of a three-day course Joshua, Michael, and I are leading on community health support for the poor and vulnerable. We have planned and discussed this course for months, nearly since I first arrived, and I’m thrilled that it’s finally coming to fruition.

Soon I’ll be starting my work with the Primary Health Care center and its Home-Based Care program for people living with AIDS in Khondowe. There, I’ll be able to focus more closely on the project I’ve wanted to do all along, promoting food security, independence, and dignity for AIDS patients though home and community gardens. The job will surely bring new challenges, and will introduce me to a host of new working orders and personalities. For today, though, I’m looking forward to teaching with Joshua and Michael—people I know well, and good friends.

As I move through my morning routine, I’m aware that, scattered throughout the landscape around me, the participants for this course are going through much the same motions as I am, preparing for their day—in the brick homes of Livingstonia town, farmsteads nestled at the base of the plateau, small villages distant beyond sight. I look over my notes while buttoning my shirt, readying myself for our gathering and all we hope it will bring.

First, though, comes the walk to our meeting place near Michael’s home, the five-mile trek across the plateau, down the escarpment, and through the vast rolling valleys beyond. Taking a deep breath, I survey the course before me, eyes passing from familiar landmarks and well-worn paths to unknown horizons. I fasten my sandals and set off.

Sometimes, the only way forward is over the big edge.

Nkhota School appeal

And now, friends, a special appeal to those who were moved by the story of Nkhota School:

Last week Joshua and I went back to Nkhota with thirty fruit trees, and learned that one of the school's three teachers has left the school to care for a sick relative. With the advent of AIDS in northern Malawi, as well as the high rate of diseases like tuberculosis, pneumonia, and malaria, this kind of departure is an all-too-common occurrence. As a result, some of the children who were taught by that teacher are now traveling two hours up and down mountains to go to school in Livingstonia; the rest are currently not receiving any schooling.

The school committee is actively searching for a new teacher, but it is unlikely they will find someone qualified to teach from within the Nkhota community, and bringing in a teacher from one of the surrounding towns (eg Livingstonia) means paying them a salary. (The teacher who left was a volunteer, who lived with relatives and received nominal remuneration from the community. "Salt and soap," Joshua told me, when I asked what the people of Nkhota were able to contribute to their volunteer teachers.)

Yesterday the committee secretary hand-delivered a letter from the school asking for my assistance in raising the necessary funds to support a teacher, about $50 per month. I have discussed the matter with leaders throughout Khondowe, and they all agree that the school is truly in need and the committee can be trusted to manage the money properly.

In one week I will meet with the school committee to offer the first month's salary for a new teacher, as well as assistance establishing a few beehives at the school and a partnership with the local honey producers' cooperative, as an income-generating project. But the bottom line is that no child should go without education simply because their family or community is poor, and at the moment Nkhota School needs emergency help.

Since many of you have been asking how you can help support the needs of people in Khondowe, I thought I'd offer this opportunity, which hopefully will be the first of many chances to contribute directly to established, worthwhile, and effective programs in need. For fifty bucks you can send fifty kids to school for a month. Financially and karmically, that's a pretty good rate of return.

My family has graciously volunteered to coordinate fundraising. At least, I know they will once they read this. So if you're interested in offering support, in whatever amount, please contact my mother, Barbara Greenwood, at bosakgreenwood@hotmail.com and she can send you our home address in fair Harrisburg, PA. Checks should be made out to me and mailed to my parents' address in the US. They will deposit them, and I'll withdraw the money here in Malawi. Modern technology makes this possible, but as always, love and compassion make it happen. Please don't forget to send your mailing address as well so the Nkhota kids and I can send you a thank you note.

Also, here are a few lightweight, valuable, easily packable, and (mostly) legal things to send directly to Malawi through the mail:

*Seeds! For vegetables, herbs, and fruits, as well as trees. I'm especially looking for raw nuts that could be planted (eg almonds, hazelnuts, cashews, walnuts, etc)-- you can find them at the Hanover Food Coop, for example-- and instructions on growing these trees, probably available somewhere on the internet. Medicinal herbs like lavender, sage, mint, chamomile, basil, fennel, sweet Annie (it cures malaria!), etc grow well but are totally unavailable for purchase here. If someone can provide seeds and instructions for growing vanilla, I will weep with joy. They might even grow from the dried seed pods you can find in fancy grocery stores. A few that we don't need--easily available here-- are eneric varieties of tomatoes, pumpkins, peanuts, and of course field maize; though if anyone can find seeds of the following varieties I will personally kiss your feet upon return:

Big Beef tomatoes
Favorita cherry tomatoes (the best ever; you have to try them in your own garden)
Silver Queen sweet corn
Hungarian white peppers (not sure what they're called exactly, the light-green ones)
Romaine and red-leaf lettuces, and other high-vitamin greens like chard, spinach, kale, etc.
Jewel strawberries

Best to seal them in a ziploc bag before sending to deter dampness and customs dogs. Also, we can use the bags!

*Toothbrushes! Toothbrushes, toothbrushes, toothbrushes. Dentists get them in bulk and minimally packaged in plastic sleeves, making them more compressible than that boxed nonsense you find in supermarkets for 4 dollars a pop. Proposition your local tooth-yanker and see what you can arrange. Always useful, and we can distribute them through local maternal and child health clinics.

*Vitamins. Actually, it's probably not worth it to send vitamins through the mail, but you could send money and I can buy them here. Are vitamins useful in a country with high rates of malnutrition and infectious disease? Why yes, yes they are.

*Colored pencils, stickers, and children's books are pretty much nonexistent in Malawi and would be greatly treasured for years to come. Collecting these would be a feel-good job that you could actually feel good about. Notebooks, pens, pencils, etc are available here, so it's better just to send money rather than pay for postage and I'll purchase them locally.

These items can be sent directly to:

Katie Greenwood
c/o Postmaster
Livingstonia
Rumphi District
MALAWI
CENTRAL AFRICA

(Note: boxes are charged with import taxes; padded envelopes are not. Goods are taxed based on the declared value, hint hint.)

Due to the high cost of postage and the importance of not putting local retailers out of business it's better to buy most other things here, but any other creative talents you all have could easily be turned into US-based fundraisers! After four months here I feel reasonably confident that I can direct these resources to where they are needed, so go! go! go!

And as always,

THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU!!!


Much love,
Katie



Fruit tree planting at Mahuwi Primary School.




Kids and fruit trees, kids and fruit trees; Oh my God: I have the best job in the world.