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"Freedom is nothing but a chance to be better." |
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Highlights of a summer in malawi |
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Chikwawa |
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Having just arrived in Malawi a few days ago, we were anxiously awaiting the impressions that would follow from village to village. Driving from the large industrial capital of Blantyre to the small farming town of Chikwawa, we traveled upwards along a stretch of road that cut through the western boundary of the Michiru Mountains. Our ears popped as we traveled from seal-level elevations to 1500 meters. The air was cold and crisp with a fresh smell absent of the volatile mix of exhaust and burning garbage experienced in the dense, low elevation cities below us. As we approached the Shire River, the change in climate greeted us with hot and dry air. Searching like the voracious tourist I was, I caught glimpse of the first of many crocodiles I would see in Malawi. This relatively small croc was nestled along the bank of the Shire, wading in shallow water, enjoying the cool relief brought by the shade of burly reeds. The beast was visible for only a moment, but it was a moment that would remind me of the dangers that lurk in the most tranquil places in Malawi. As we passed the small town of Kanjedza along highway 1, the arid smell of burnt waste filled our lungs with repulsion. It was a distinct difference from the atmosphere in Blantyre. The low altitude of Chikwawa makes it hot even during the coolest months in Malawi. The hot air keeps the carbon waste from rising out of the town, providing one with a measured dose of pollutants. Vehicles however, are not as prolific in Chikwawa as they are in Blantyre or Lilongwe. An array of bicycle taxis throughout the town takes the place of 4 wheeled vehicles. In place of exhaust fumes, a variety of natural odors such as burnt waste, fresh and rotted carcasses, and the mild scents of the Shire fill the air. The poverty is more exposed in Chikwawa due to the absence of distractions that are more typical in Lilongwe or any other modernized city. Along Highway 1, one notices many government offices that appear abandoned, condemned, or so completely run-down one would consider this place discarded years ago. Along the steps of these buildings that display Ministry of X or Y, people languish as if they are awaiting death. I wonder to myself what thoughts they have: Perhaps the passing glimpse of white faces provides a brief expectation of something – the government sending in another NGO or observers of work that will never be done. Perhaps they snicker at us as they often do, mumbling azungu under their breath, insulted by the onslaught of outsiders into their community offering ways to “make it all better”. Much of business in Malawi is conducted by the main road. This is due to a number of logistical reasons. One is practicality – the majority of trade flows through the few large transportation routes in Malawi. Anyone coming or going from large cities have to navigate through only a few different roads. Setting up shop alongside the road virtually guarantees a steady stream of customers. Three guaranteed items you are likely to find along a roadside market are clothing, curios, and food. Along one such food market, we stopped and enquired about vegetable prices. I took advantage of this precious moment outside of the protective comforts of my hosts to mingle with the local shopkeepers. One young teen approached in confidence with his fists presented as if to fight. He danced about and swatted at the air pointing to me as if to say “you are a boxer”. I smirked and told him in the local tongue that maybe I was, and asked if he’d like to fight. With that his friends around him chuckled and the boy backed away jokingly. I asked him what kind of meat was being sold and he took my friend (Justin) and I around the kiosks to view a selection of local delicacies. Along one kiosk were the entrails of mbuzi (goat) frying in oil and the glare of sub-Saharan sun. Those intestines not frying on the grill were marinating with a mixture of musty air, glistening sunlight, and a dance of delighted flies. Strolling through the clutter of kiosks I shared glances with many individuals I would never know. Separated by thousands of miles and the circumstances of history we shared a rather inglorious reflection on the fate of humanity. An ambiguous relationship of beings that hardly understand themselves, let alone each other – that statement may help to explain the feelings I had while exchanging momentary recognition of our shared existence. The stares I received brought feelings of guilt that I knew existed, but never felt before. As if all of the wrongs of history came crashing down on this moment. Yes, we were both together sharing a moment of time – but we were also a million miles from each other. While I could see and maybe even appreciate their experience and lifestyle, I could never know it. Like an exotic theory in physics – I can see the form it takes on paper, I can appreciate what it attempts to explain, but I can never truly understand it. Of course, the same can be said for their understanding of me and my culture. My only hope is that while I feel the guilt of history reigning down on me, they can understand that it’s not my fault. While a sense of guilt governs my consciousness, pride tends to bring me back to reality. Self interest takes over my guilt and a feeling of self assurance drives me toward rationalizing their predicament as one separate from my own. While we are in one place together, it is more comfortable to separate myself from them, to remind myself that “they are different”. Any likelihood that I would take responsibility of this situation, no matter how far-off that may sound, is stricken down. There would be no Jesus Christ Superstar in Chikwawa today. Instead of a people’s prince, I feel more like the self-indulgent prince. Their perceived ingratitude will drive my contempt; their disgust will be my indifference. Today, instead of coming together, we will become more distant. The indifference of each other will divide us just as it has since the cradle of civilization. I live in a world they can not touch, yet desire – they in a world I never wish to truly know. I only wish to taste it for a moment, to awaken my sense of gratitude for all I have. To feel the pain I must have forgotten or maybe never knew. To be alive again or for the first time. |
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Reflections Through a Western Filter |
