Charcoal from Biomass...

Fuel me once, shame on you… Fuel me twice, shame on who?

I used to think we had options, choices, and prerogative.  And I do.  I think the ultimate first world problem is that we have too many choices.  Too many choices: of what kind of career to chose, movie to watch, food to eat, or which specialty to coffee will satisfy our vegan palette (or whatever fad farm-to -able diet is most popular).  We live in a culture that has so many options because our basic survival is decided for us.  I am coming to learn that choice is a privilege more than a right and one that is not offered to everybody.  Or if choices are available the options are not great options, choosing the lesser of two... 

So what kind of choices do Malawians make?  In terms of fuel the option for those living in the village are both illegal.  Because of deforestation the law dictates that Malawians must not harvest firewood or make/purchase charcoal.  However, in my village electricity is not available and solar power is rare and costly.  So how do mother’s start a fire to cook for their family and purify their drinking water?  They must walk great distances to collect firewood, which is free of cost but high in labor.  Currently the law looks away from this activity, which is good for the family but terrible for the environment.  The effects of deforestation are visible and are requiring that the journey of collection go further and further to where the trees still stand.  When you enter into a family’s outdoor kitchen you find it hard to breathe because the firewood produces so much smoke, which causes respiratory issues.  Well Mama, make a different choice, use charcoal, it burns without creating so much smoke.  That sounds like a better choice.  Except it costs money.  It cost about $1 to purchase what a family would use in a week.  But that is a huge portion of a subsistence farmer’s income.  Too costly.

I think part of our job in the Peace Corps is to look to create choices.  What are the other choices that are locally available? Because they might not be right in front of us but they are there.  We look to find the fuel solution.  On a macro scale it would be to look for energy alternatives: solar, hydropower, wind turbines…you know all the renewable energy sources you learned about in grade school.  On a micro scale it is improved cook stoves or charcoal made from compost. A Peace Corps friend, Cassandra, came to my village and led a session with our HIV/AIDS support group to make charcoal from agricultural waste, mainly maize cobs and husks.  Charcoal made from biomass.  Hippie? Yes.  Does it feel like a science fair project?  Absolutely.  But, It has the potential to accomplish so many goals…less deforestation, less time collecting firewood, potential to sell charcoal without breaking the law.  It may seem small…but maybe it will allow some Malawians to make choices, to create choices, and to be fueled to choose better options. Development work, for me, is becoming less about what can be done and more about what choices can be offered.

Other titles for this blog post…Everybody plays the fuel sometimes, Too Fuel for school, Fuel’s Play, Must have been kissing a Fuel…okay…I’ll stop. 

There's a hole in my bucket

Collecting water at the well is a right, it is also a right of passage for women many places around the world. From a young age girls, in Malawi, are taught how to clean buckets, pump the water, and carry it on their head.  Before the Peace Corps I thought this act alone was a human rights violation.  And it can be if access to clean water is denied or if the journey to the well is a journey that puts women at physical danger or takes girls out of school.  Here in Malawi there are many good water sources and many dangerously contaminated sources, furthermore a community acquiring a well can be a very political issue. 

The collection of water itself is a regular daily chore and it has been happening for a long time.  I have come to see it is a social activity for the ladies…gal pals plan to collect together and then sit and chat around the well, much like office chats around the water cooler in corporate America or over coffee at giant chain (or quaint independent/hipster) coffee shop.  It can be a game for little girls “playing house” to practice with a small cup of water or a small jar.  Personally, I like to consider it a workout and fill two buckets to build my arm strength.  This is partly because the first week in the village I attempted to carry it on my head and it spilled everywhere.  I could hear the judgment in the laughter of the women and in their “pepani” (“sorry” in the local vernacular).  Recently I have grown in courage and have begun carrying it on my head, until…

The cleaning of the bucket, the pumping of the water and the execution of balancing the bucket on my head were all going according to plan.  I could tell my confidence was building as well as the strength of my head, shoulders, and neck.  I took a few steps and heard some cracking.  Followed by a few drops of water, which is not too unusual, as water usually pours over the top.  And then more cracking and more water.  Before I could do anything to change my fate, the bucket had cracked in a spiral formation and all of the cold water in the bucket washed over me.  The bucket was no longer on my head, my head was in the bucket.  All the women around the well laughed.  This time not at me but with me.  This time every “pepani” was genuine and without judgment but with commonality, this time I was relating to them because it has happened to many of them.  Before I had time to change my wet clothes a woman had already brought me a bucket of water.  

This scenario was humiliating and humbling but I have a new kinship with the women at the well.  

Lake Malawi

Life with...

I was committed to integrate and to make my time in Malawi an experience to remember, to learn before teaching, to share before taking, and to accept before rejecting.  I have been here almost a year and have already learned so much, shared many memories, and accepted the newness of a quirky culture.  Many of the lessons I have learned over this past year go back to one of my first experiences when I was in training, living in rural villages with traditional families known as “homestay”, an encounter to better understand village life.   

It was our introduction to life without.  Life without running water, life without electricity, life without toilets, life without phones, life without technology, life without furniture, life without utensils, so on and so on and so on.  Seriously, it is like living in the 1800s.  With much of my free time I have been able to read more than ever before.  I love reading Tolstoy because Russia in the 1800s feels like the future, Westerns seem like my Saturday mornings starting a fire for cowboy coffee, and adventures of minimalists abandoning everything to live off the land seems like a luxury, and Kurt Vonnegut…well he’s just a good author.  

In homestay we sat on reed mats with our “families” eating the traditional food, of this impoverished place, with our hands.  It was a good introduction into what life looks like for subsistence farmers living in chronic poverty.  I was set on having this experience bring my values and beliefs into action, of loving others through shared experiences and integrating as best as I could.  So on the second day in homestay I woke up free from jet lag and ready to dive in.  My host mother served hot, rice porridge and she offered me a spoon in the local vernacular and expressive gestures..  (Internal Scoff, A Spoon?  Do I look like a rookie?)  No, I am determined to integrate.  I graciously declined…I’ve got this, I said in English with an overactive smile and waving my hands.

The porridge was hot and running through my fingers.  Difficult to eat with my hands.  But I was determined.  I kept with it.  I should probably mention I can be stubborn.  And slowly reaching defeat I looked up to see my host mom (23), host sister (8), and host brother (3) all using spoons.  I looked like a savage and a fool.  I realized that I was trying to integrate for myself not for others.  It was then I realized I needed to follow and not lead on my own.  I needed to observe before participating. I needed to ask questions, I needed to learn my own limitations, and I needed to be humble.  And most certainly I needed to accept a spoon when offered a spoon. 

If I am unable to live in humble conditions with humility (and the ability to be laughed at and laugh at myself) I will only see this Peace Corps experience as life without.  And I will miss the Life with…

Life with adventure, Life with compassion, Life with growth, Life with generosity, Life with peace and sometimes Life with SPOONS!

Sister Act 3: African Habits.

Oops…I accidentally joined the women’s choir at the village church. Accidents happen, right?  Or is this fate?  Or Whoopi Goldberg’s next movie? You decide. 

I was sitting, on a reed mat, outside my neighbor’s “nyumba” (house) and this cheerful and plump Mama greeted me and asked that I go with her.  Why not?  So I am walking with her and follow her into the church.  At this point another woman joined us and they began singing.  One by one about a dozen women came in and the voices grew stronger and stronger.  But we…yes we.  Weren’t just singing.  We were dancing too.  This was no average church choir with white and blue haired ladies.  This was a group of women that sang from somewhere deep within, from their soul.  Their colorful voices matched their African patterns that they wore as skirts or head wraps or baby carriers.  Their years of fieldwork, fire starting, wood collecting, child bearing and rearing, nsima preparing, and ground sweeping, were reflective in their movements and in their call and response songs.  The dancing was a mix between a P90x regimen, a Vegas nightclub, a jazzercise at the local Y, and a doo-wop background dancer, with additional farm mocked movements.  Now I know why there aren’t any Curves for Women here (other than the obvious economic reasons) the women have found a safe place to exercise and be free.  The words to sing and dance are synonymous in the local vernacular.  It is well known that I can’t sing…at all…but dance…okay!  I have finally found a choir I can handle.  We danced and sang for over an hour while sweat was layering the room, along with the laughter and smiles and awkward hugs because although I may be white as can be…can hold my own on the dance floor…or in this case, on the church floor. 

So this Sunday I will be joining the ladies in front of the church.  I will resume my spot in the front right, trying to blend in.  You will know which one is me because I will standing about 6 inches taller than the other women and about 20 years younger, and trying to be like my sisters not just as an act, as an act of solidarity.

Oh Happy Day!

Hunger Season

The three seasons of Malawi are: Hot & Wet, Cool & Dry, and Hot & Dry.  Two of these seasons (Hot & Wet and Hot & Dry) combine to create a parallel season, known as, Hunger Season.  When I first heard of Hunger Season I was not sure what to think, it sounded like the prequel or sequel to Hunger Games.  Now it has begun, it is very serious.  Food is sparse, sparse food and water for the better part of 4 months to come.   The traditional meal here is Nsima (C-Ma, a staple food patty made from maize meal that you eat without utensils but with your hands) and a relish or two.  Relish can be a vegetable, meat, or legume.  Now that Hunger Season is upon us the traditional meal is just Nsima. Our market (I use the term loosely because it is just a tree with ladies selling produce) usually sells, on a rotational basis, the following: tomatoes, onions, beans, cabbage, pumpkin leaves, sweet potatoes, bananas, and on a good day avocado.  Last week at the “market” the only produce to be found were tomatoes.  As I asked where the other women selling the other goods were the response was, “ In Kameme we have a relish problem.” Nsima is very filling but has little to no nutritional value, which means vitamin and mineral deficiencies are on the rise.  For the severely malnourished children food supplements are provided by the Health Center and all children under 5 are given Vitamin A shots.  Malnourishment makes common diarrhea a potentially life threatening condition, the solution is a new vaccine called the Rotavirus, which provides immunity against the leading cause of diarrhea, for children, in Malawi.  But these solutions, although necessary, only patch up a complex problem.  On a personal level I am only inconvenienced by Hunger Season because I can bike to the Boma and pay an increased amount for nutritious goods.  But the subsistence farmers have no choice but to wait it out.  Wait for the rains to come and hope that the next harvest is good. Storing food is a problem without canning, dehydration, and refrigeration; food security is food insecurity.   The solutions without macro development of large scale irrigation projects, canning factories, or country-wide electricity are reduced to the increase of kitchen gardens that can be watered year round (so long as the water table stays at a conducive level), food drying practices with proper food storage, and food diversification with nutrition education.  Change needs to be fostered by the people, which is difficult when farming practices here seem to be as age old as religion.

Hearing people bless the food before meals is evidence of the farm-to-table connection.  Asking not only for the hands that prepared the food be blessed but additionally that the land be blessed and replenished.  Grace is a good reminder to be conscientious of the mind, body, and land relationship and this Hunger Season I am very mindful of hunger and the dependency of that relationship.

Grace be with you and also with the hungry.