Kids

I remember listening to a child’s radio program as a child that always started with a song “Let the Children Come”. That song has been going through my head a lot recently, and the idea of “letting the children come” has taken on a whole new meaning to me. When I first moved into my house, there were multiple children playing outside. They found it amusing to call out my name repeatedly “Julia! Julia!” and when I did not respond, they would knock on my door. When or if I answered it, they would all run away laughing; some would return to stare at me with sheepish grins. While I cook, I have my window open, which is too high for the kids to see into, so they would climb the wall, holding onto the burglar bars in the window. They asked me what I was cooking, and would watch with awe. It was as if I was holding a new style of cooking classes for children. I can only hope that they learned something useful. At times, when little kids hanging outside my window or at my door became too much for my “personal space”, I would tease them with calling out my own name and asking who “Julia” is, or jokingly chase them away. I was worried for my sanity at times.
After living in my house for about 6 weeks now, things have gradually gotten better. I believe that the novelty of me, a strange American, has slowly worn off. I have also made friends with most of the “regulars”. One evening I was sitting on my steps playing my harmonica and kids came and sat with me. They are usually very hyper and running around wildly, but this time was different. They listened with silence. As I played, I looked into the eyes of these children and saw a love and innocence that I had not seen before.
Now, when they call my name, I answer, and they laugh. When I come home from work, the neighbour boy yells my name until I wave and acknowledge his presence with a smile. At the market yesterday, one of the little girls saw me, I took her hand and we walked hand in hand as I shopped. As I walk through town now, I always hear a faint “Julia!”; all the kids know my name now, which is better than them calling me “Azungu” (white/rich person), or Miyuki (The name of the Japanese volunteer who lived there before me). I smile and give them a thumbs-up and say “Za Bo?” and they say “Bo” (it is like “what’s up?”)

Food

There is a saying, “This is the best thing since sliced bread”. In my opinion sliced bread is the best thing. There is a very common chain grocery store called “People’s” that has a bread bakery which bakes massive amounts of bread. In the evening, People crowd in at the bakery counter, waiting for the bread to finish baking. I call this “rush hour”. When I am in town, I make it a point to buy a loaf. Bread is a treasured novelty that “Peoples” has now made available in the local towns; it can possibly be compared to the opening of a new restaurant in America – a really good restaurant.
Imagine the excitement at discovering such a simple, already cooked food: bread. Unfortunately most of the bread is white (I prefer whole wheat). I am lucky that bread is sold here in my trading center. I don’t have a “Peoples’s”, so the bread is not that fresh; they buy it in the city and bring it back to sell. I was so excited to find bread in the store, and you can understand when you consider the convenience of bread compared with the energy required to cook nsima.
The Malawian diet has very little variety, nsima is the staple food, and for side dishes they have greens, eggs, beans, or fish, and they put tomatoes and onions in everything. I can’t complain, I have enjoyed the challenge of learning how to cook and be creative with these foods. I have slowly been perfecting the art of cooking nsima; it has to be the perfect consistency so that it can be eaten with the hands. My night guard has had the privilege of testing my efforts. Unfortunately, Malawian’s have a hard time being creative when cooking; they are content to eat the same food for every meal. Of course there are those who do not have a choice and are lucky to even have food. I have realised one major difference between Americans and others: most Americans eat for pleasure whereas others eat to live. I realise that everyone must eat to live, but the mindset is very different when food is such a scarce thing.

The Wind

Strong gusts of wind wake me up. The creaking and groaning of my tin roof causes me to grab my sheets tightly, I fear that I might blow away. I hear the metal gate outside the door suddenly slam into the electrical box that is on the outside wall and I hope that it does not get damaged before I actually get electricity. The winds will last from September to the end of November. I grew up with tornados and I went to college in the mid-west where the winds are very strong, but this is somehow different. The dust swirls in the wind and gets in my eyes; the sand is deep on the roads. Riding my bicycle is difficult, it is as if I am riding on one of those run-off ramps for semi trucks on steep declines; at some points I must get off and push the bicycle. Riding into the wind makes it seem like I am barely moving, but the ride back is amazingly fast!
Through an embarrassing experience, I have learned which skirts I can wear and which ones I cannot wear. I was walking from the Public Health office to the hospital and a sudden gust of wind came and blew my skirt up and away. One of the on lookers said (in Chitumbuka) to my friend that I needed a chitenje (a wrap around piece of material that all the women here wear). I personally do not like wearing a chitenje over a skirt; it is too much; so, I will just keep to my longer skirts during this windy season.