Costa Jill

Hotel Las Mercedes

Immediately upon arriving three hours late in the capital city of Managua, Bob and I get tremors of third world country glitches. The chip installed in my phone doesn’t work, but it’s a nice relief. The representative of our hotel tells us we have no reservations, but we check in anyway. We don’t actually meet up with anyone until the next morning. Everybody’s late. After breakfast Bob and I meet and greet the other two World Water Corps, Water for People volunteers. Elaine, our team leader from Denver, is an EPA employee who lives close to the home office. John is pipe fitter from Wisconsin Rapids, WI. His Midwest accent brings back sentimental memories of my Milwaukee heritage.

Dario, Nicaragua

Public Admin. Dario

We’re off to our training session with El Porvenir (the future) in the quaint colonial town of Dario, named for the famous Nicaraguan poet Ruben Dario. The group has been working hand-in-hand with WFP in Nicaragua for the last two years, though they have been in existence for more than twenty, bringing water and sanitation to isolated people in the rural campo. We split up, half in the El Porvenir tarp-covered truck and half (Bob and I included) in the tiny air-conditioned car. The meeting gives us an introduction to both groups and their on-going and future projects and our modus operandi, monitoring the water and sanitation systems already in place.

Our day drags on, as Latin American meetings do. Our American counterpart, Elaine has lots to present. She has been trained by the Water for People staff and told to pay great attention to detail since this is the first monitoring survey since WFP joined with El Porvenir. Future donations depend on it. Everything must be translated into Spanish or English and that doubles the time. After numerous breaks for meals, GPS training, computer problems, etc. we are in session for 12 hours! I’m exhausted. Our expert translator, Jimmy begins to lose his voice by the end of the day (rather night). Is this any indication of how long our surveys will last?

Training-Fermin, Cesar, Jimmy, Elaine

Elaine asks if she can train me on the PC and Excel before we retire for the night. I had planned to bring my Mac computer, but at the last minute find out the GPS stuff can’t be downloaded to Mac, and being a writer, not an accountant, I’ve never experienced the wonders of Excel. I’m so tired my eyes are crossing, and ask for a good night’s rest. “Can’t we do this in the morning?”

“Well, you know that John and I are going to Wiwili and it’s a seven hour drive. I’d rather do it tonight.”

“I’m an old morning person and my brain is mush. How about 6 or 7 am? So you can still make it to Wiwili before dark.”

But she’s a night person and only in her 30’s. “I can’t make it that early.” She frowns, “how about 8 am?” Agreed.

Seeds of Learning

We’re hauled in the back of the truck, like cattle to market, to our hostel for the night, a quaint humble place with a big surprise inside. Named Seeds of Learning, its main raison d’etre is as a children’s library and learning center. Started twenty plus years ago by an old gringo and his Nica wife, it even includes a sewing room with machines to teach the women a viable craft.

We all double up in the rooms and fall exhausted into our dreams of what tomorrow will bring.

Just a note before introducing my next volunteer experience in Nicaragua with the same group I went to Africa with - Water for People.

Edge of our road

While waiting at the airport for the flight to Managua I reminisce on these last few weeks of my busy, fulfilling, sometimes scary, never boring return to Costa Rica, before I leave on the next volunteer adventure. The heat has been overwhelming. Hottest dry season on record, but it hasn’t been dry. This should prepare me for the 100 degree weather we’ll be experiencing in the northern desert areas of Nicaragua, Our road is in the process of reconstruction (always done during dry season), but because it’s been raining almost every other day, the road has become a death trap and I get caught in its web. It reminds me of the ‘olden days’ 15 years ago when we were building our house in such a primitive area there were no electricity, paved roads and few cars.

I’m at the beach with the family looking out at the horizon watching heavy black rain clouds build. My stomach muscles tighten. Better get home before the rain starts, otherwise we won’t make it up the hill. Two minutes of heavy rain on the already graded yet still ungraveled clay road and it becomes a slushy slidy mess. We throw stuff into the two cars and gather up the kids, but it’s taking too long. The cloud gathers black quickly and heads our way. I’m in the lead as the giant droplets splatter the windshield. I turn onto the steep road, engage four wheel drive and gun it. The tires begin gathering mud the steeper the grade, but I’m still moving forward. The tires start spinning as my forward motion slows. I gear down. The car starts slurring sideways, slows, stops, reverses direction. No brakes. With no time to panic I gracefully slide backwards, picking up speed (too bad it’s in reverse). I look into the rearview mirror in time to see the side of the mountain hurtling towards me. Crash! My heart thuds in my chest. “Oh my God!” I sit totally stunned. I could have been dead! One little turn of my wheels and I would have gone off the cliff on the other side of the road.

I climb out into sucking mud to survey the damage and see the family’s car rounding the bend. Thank God they’ve seen me and stopped. The whole  back end is contracted like an accordion, but I’m still in shock and feel okay so far. We’ll have to check for the rest of the damage later. They pile out of their car gather the things they need and meet me to start the squishy trek up  to the house. Nicole and I take off our shoes which have become heavy with clotted mud and each grab a bag. Baby Luka’s on daddy’s back. Eight-year-old Sebas’s having the time of his life sliding into the ditches, jumping into puddles, covering himself in red clay.  He’s delighted, “This is the most fun I’ve had all week.”For every two steps up we slide back one. After an excruciatingly slow slog up the hill we arrive safely home exhausted and covered in mud.

In the morning, after the sun has had a couple of hours to dry things out, Jose and Nicole go down to retrieve the cars and return with both. Though mine is squished enough to make the back doors inoperable it still runs. Life is pretty stressful as I try to get ready for my Nicaragua trip. The next week it rains almost every night. This stops the road crew from putting rock down and me from getting home,  Luckily I can stay at Bob’s who’s only a mountain away. With his help we put the squished car into the body shop to be repaired while I’m gone. This morning Bob’s caretaker drives us to the airport and here we sit waiting for our delayed plane to Managua.

Over Costa Rica to Nicaragua

Here it comes. Bob and I are off to our next adventure. Tune in.

More Bird, Butterfly and Monkey Business

We could spend hours on our balcony watching the life in the canopy, one that most people will never experience. Thank you Meg Lowman, the pioneer in studying forest canopies all over the world. She was the first to construct platforms and zip-lines to sail her through one of the only unexplored parts of the world – the forest canopy. She lives and works in my hometown of Sarasota, Florida and is one of our celebrity professors from New College. She made me want to visit the upper levels of the earth. Thank you Erica and Matt Hogan of Finca Bellavista for making it happen, and thank my lucky stars for the opportunity.

The last day we descend to travel on some of the extensive trails in and around the mountain. The first, a steep heart-pounder, takes us up to the edge of the waterfall that has been the backdrop to our treetop aerie. Standing atop the massive surge of water is exhilarating yet frightening. “It’s sucking me over!” I yell over the deafening roar.

“It’s too exciting for me, let’s get out of here. Too bad we can’t fly back to our roost. Like SuperMatt, or the birds.” trumpets B. We follow the trail in sinewy curves down and along the crystal clear Rio Bellavista rippling over rocks. Eden calls. Stripping off our sweaty clothes, we frolic in the cool water.

But soon it’s time to return to the groundfloor of life. This time, while walking back to Base Camp, we get two reprieves. Tico employees continuing to extend the network of trails, greet us with a friendly “Que tal? Necesitan ayuda con su equipaje?”

“Por supuesto!” For sure. We’ll take help with our luggage. They carry it all the way back to camp while we meander back through the jungle, noticing that Erica, true to her word, has already added new signs directing us back. Now that’s service! Anyone interested in more information on this unique and wondrous Shangri-la just check into fincabellavista.net. for site plans, examples of already built tree houses, sample house plans, rentals, rules and regulations and more. Thank you for your comments and keep them coming. Keep posted for our new adventure.

At the end of February we’ll be setting out with World Water Corp, a branch of the non-profit Water for People (from my African adventure), to a remote area in Central America, El Sauce, Nicaragua. We will be monitoring water systems that have already been put in place to see how they’re functioning. Here we go again. More soon.

It’s my birthday and we’re on our way to the Treehouse with our Finca Bellavista pointer sheet in hand. Lots of instructions, directions and rules. Too many to remember. It begins:

You won’t find billboards or roadside signs that lead you to Finca Bellavista. We are not a full-service spa or a fancy hotel. You won’t find TVs in our cabinas, or electricity. What you will find is a rustic, yet comfortable retreat from the outside world to explore and enjoy on your own. We are in our infancy as a project. Though we keep our location somewhat of a secret from the outside world, we are more than happy to open our doors to you since you found us!

As per directions, we follow the coastal highway south from Dominical to the remote pueblo of Piedras Blancas and turn left at the only restaurant in town, Rancho Guiri Guiri. According to the pointer sheet, it serves the best fried chicken in the southern zone of Costa Rica, and since it’s lunchtime we decide to stop. I take the safe route and order fried chicken. B. checks out the ‘specials’ and takes a chance. “I’d like to try the tepezquintle.” This rodent-like animal has been the hunters’ favorite since homesteading days and here it is on the menu, probably illegally.

“Your horoscope this month must be telling you to take chances.” I laugh.

B. knows he’s made a mistake as soon as the cook serves us, “Whew, that smells really gamy.” And it taste that way too. He takes his medicine like a man and eats most of it. I try one bite and we chalk it up to experience.

Finca Bella Vista base camp

Back in the car we finally see the obscure sign for Finca Bellavista, follow the dirt road a few miles to the ‘base camp’ and pull into the only car parking area. There’s a community center with bathhouse, kitchen, dining area and game room surrounded by well-kept gardens and trails. We meet Erica, she shows us around and we gather our belongings for the long trek to our treehouse. Thank goodness we’re in good physical health. The trail is steep, wet, and treacherous, but the destination is worth every step. A handmade sign “Mis Ojos Treehouse”, points to a two-story wooden structure set high up among four giant rainforest trees, with just one more steep ladder-like staircase to heaven.

After showing us around and giving last minute instructions, Erica leaves us with, “dinner is served at seven back at base camp.”

She’s gone before I realize. “Oh shit. We’re gonna have to walk all the way back there.”

“And in the pitch dark!”

We’ve signed up for meals instead of cooking in the treehouse. A big mistake?

We don’t want to think about it right now. We sit on the balcony and soak in the exciting new adventure of being an integral part of the majestic jungle hundreds of feet below and above us. “We’re so lucky - or rather you are. You win stuff all the time.”

“You’re right, my son used to be the lucky one. He won almost every time he entered a contest, from dinners for two to Caribbean cruises. Guess it runs in the family.”

But luck isn’t all of it. Whether you believe in horoscopes or not, taking risks and making changes is what makes our lives rich and exciting. Last week we took surfing lessons, my low bid at a silent auction for a dog adoption group. And now here we are at Finca Bella Vista in the treetops of the Costa Rican jungle drinking coffee. In our faces, the insistent sound and sight of the waterfall intertwines with sweet and raucous birdsongs, and fluttering blue iridescent flashes of Morpho butterflies.

It’s 2010. Twenty-Ten - don’t you like the sound of that? In honor of the new decade I’m putting out of my mind that it’s been a month since posting a blog. Let’s start anew without resolutions. They just cause stress. And thus begins my recollection of a first in a lifetime experience, up in a tree house.

You’d think that the rainy season would be the perfect season for the Rain Forest Aid concert on the Osa Peninsula of Costa Rica, but hardly anyone came and most of those have gone home - the ones who could slip and slide their cars out of the parking lot. At the finale, the rain pours down on the soccer field splashing mud up to our asses. Barely audible through the pounding rain I hear, “And now, the big raffle prize! The ultimate tree house experience, a weekend stay at Finca Bellavista goes to …… Jill Green.”

“Wow! I did it.” My persistence has paid off. This obscure concert, its meager attendance dwindled by constant rain, has raised my chances of winning the big prize by a huge percentage. First I had to find the booth with the raffle box in which to stuff my ticket stub. Even the concert (dis)organizers sent me on a wet and wild goose chase. “Bellavista? Never heard of them. Try the bar tent; they oughta know.”

Pushing through the only dry crowd, I ask the bartender.

“Never heard of Bellavista, but try the booths out on the edge of what’s left of the soccer field.”

Finally I hit paydirt - a small box plastered with a Bellavista pamphlet, a smiling young couple behind it. “This must be the place offering the tree house adventure?”

“Yes.”

“I had a hard time finding you guys. Even the organizer, who lives in a tree house, didn’t know there was a tree house vacation raffle.”

“Yea. Pretty unorganized,” the guy introduces himself, “Hi, I’m Matt. You’ve got a good chance of winning.”

“And I’m Erica. Hardly anybody’s found the way over here to stuff their stubs.”

My  on-again-beau is by my side when I  deliver from the heart, “It’s for two. You wanna go with me?”

“Of course.” His grin becomes a kiss.

“How about when we both return to Costa Rica in the fall?”

“What a perfect place for a rendezvous after an extended separation,” he twinkles.

Tune in next time for the encounter.

Sean, Matt, Ruby Kim

Sunset from Jazzy's Riverhouse

Jazzy’s River House 27870310, that’s the place in Dominical, Costa Rica where the locals go for great music, food, art instruction, surf lessons, yoga, massage, theater, and friendship. Ruby Kim and Steve have opened their arms to the community for the last ten years. And they’ve added something new. Pizza.

Ruby Kim is like Old Faithful, bubbling and spouting regularly with creative new ideas. Her latest venture came about when she, Steve and friend Eduardo, who’s worked in many a pizza parlor, started the dream process.

Eduardo. “Hey, we could build one of those pizza ovens.”

Ruby K. “Like a kiln.”

Steve. “Let’s do it.”

And they did. Now it sits under a bamboo rancho all set about with Ruby’s designs: palm weavings, rock paths and driftwood benches on the Rio Baru.

Oven men Eduardo and Steve

The oven is glaring out at Eduardo and Steve in his pizza apron (the next creative adventure story), waiting for a pizza to be slid off the homemade wooden paddle into its fiery mouth. Friends and neighbors have been invited to bring the fixin’s depending on their pantries and capabilities: sauce, veggies, condiments, meat, cheese dough and firewood. We novices get cooking lessons. No, at my age, I’ve never made a pizza from scratch.

Pizza virgin Jill

Pizza virgin Nancy

Ruby, with that great smile of hers, takes one look at my platter of eggplant parmigiana, “It’s too heavy. You can’t put all that eggplant in big chunks on the pizza crust, it’ll fall through.” Then to Nancy, another first timer, “A little oil on top, flour on the paddle.”

Nancy. “The closest I’ve been to making pizza is taking them out of the box and into the oven.”

Steve. “Tell ‘em not to forget the cornmeal.”

Eduardo. “Or they’re gonna stick.”

There’s a barter system going among good friends, but Ruby Kim and Steve bear the expense of the extras and they’re not rich.

Nancy. “Put out a tip jar.”

Jill. “You gotta pay for expenses or make a little money, so we can keep coming to these great parties.”

Bob starts right in creating his pizza. He’s a chef already. Charlie mumbles up to the paddle, slaps a glob of dough down and starts kneading. Ruby has to pressure me to let go and sling my pizza dough above my head. I’ll jump off a cliff, but neither am I brave enough to project my pizza off the paddle into the fire. I let Steve and Eduardo, the oven experts, do that.

Jungle bunnies

Lorena's games

While all this preparation and oven-watching is going on the jungle bred children of all ages are climbing trees and wrestling, laughing, monkeying around on the grass under the easy supervision of smiling Laraina. She only reels them in to color or play quiet games when they become too rowdy.

I get my pizza in the oven first as the test case. The kids are starving by this time. The oven is so hot it takes only two minutes to cook to perfection. And it’s gorgeous toasty, brown and bubbling. Cut up into small pieces we feed the little guys first. My pizza parmigiana is wolfed down by the pack. What a way to get kids to eat eggplant! And they love it. The rest of the varied and wondrous pizzas follow at five minute intervals until everyone is deliciously full of food, drink, camaraderie, sharing, fun and games. Fourteen pizzas in all come out of the oven with the expertise of Eduardo, Steve and Ruby Kim, and at least half of these are made by pizza virgins.

At the next “Sewing Circle” I reminisce, “What a fun, yummy party!”

And Ruby K brainstorms, “This could be Jazzy’s next venture.”

“Right, you could cater pizza dinners.”

“Clients could just enjoy the party, or they could learn how to make pizzas from scratch to dessert.”

“Just figure in your costs and a fair profit. It’s a great idea.”

So, I’m asking all of you Costa Rica Southern Zone tourists and residents alike, do you like this idea? If they build it, will you come???? Please pass this on and comment on my blog costajill.com or Facebook. Look for more Jazzy’s Pizza Party photos in my Facebook album. Please share this blog with your other Costa Rican friends. Or email jazzysriverhouse@hotmail.com.

Pizza virgin Janice

Nicole, Elizabeth, Nicole and kids

Ivey

Liwonde National Park, which has the best game and bird viewing in Malawi lies on the southern end along the Shire River where it enters Lake Malawi, the second biggest lake in Africa. Back on the bus, this time Ivey from the main office of WFP comes with us and brings her two young girls for the adventure. They have never seen big wild animals before and are most excited about elephants and baboons.

We are diverted from the heat, acrid woodfire smoke, and our swollen ankles (almost everyone has them now), by more Malawian tales. We ask so many questions of the staff, yet they never tire of answering, and truly enjoy passing down stories in their oral tradition.

Kelly asks, “Ivey, what was your engagement like?”

In the big cities many of the Malawi traditions have been ‘Westernized’. After dating a short time without family intervention, Ivey and her fiancé decided to follow their families’ old tradition for the engagement. ‘We gathered both families together for an engagement party. I was presented with a hen and my fiance with a cock, which we traded, symbolizing our acceptance of each other in our union. The chickens are then ritually killed, cleaned, cooked and eaten in the midst of great celebration,” Ivey smiles remembering.

The story of Nelson’s engagement and marriage takes an even more exciting twist. He and his wife Vera were brought up in separate Chiksa villages. Nelson remembers, “Both my parents were dead so my guardian uncle was sent to Vera’s village to ask for her hand in marriage to me.” He was summarily turned down for being unknown within the village. But they were too in love to be kept apart. “I took matters into my own hands, and with my uncle’s help we snuck into village in the dead of night, tiptoed into her hut and successfully stole her away, of course with her consent.” For his audacity he was penalized an extra cow for her dowry and they live happily ever after with their two daughters.

We arrive at the notorious Hippo View Lodge, a sprawling concrete complex rife with gaudily painted sculptures of hippos and birds. We’re so glad to get out of the city we love it. The gorgeous mature plantings are flowering in mass profusion.

We have enough time that afternoon to take a spin through the park which is a bit disappointing for Cindi and I because of previous extraordinary safari, but as dusk sets in we see herds of elephants and bands of baboons, which we haven’t seen before, in a totally different tropical setting of tall palm trees swaying through the mist on the river shore.

That night after a scrumptious dinner of fresh chambo, a succulent fresh water fish, and local favorites, pumpkin greens with nsima, something similar to grits but better, we hear, “Hippo! Hippo on the grounds!” I get my flashlight, follow one of the waiters and almost jump out of my skin when my bright LED light flashes on the huge hippo, jaws calmly masticating the flowers, grass and bushes on the lawn, and he’s only ten feet away. The staff tells us not to worry, “This is their evening ritual.” Once we return to the safety of the bar, the bartender disagrees with his cohorts. “Even though these big boys are somewhat tame, hippos are one of the most dangerous and aggressive animals around. Thank God you didn’t disturb them,” he laughs and shrugs.

In the morning we take a boat trip on the Shire amidst the fishermen throwing their nets from quaint dug out fishing canoes and skiffs. All around us the hippos emerge spouting loudly, sucking in air, pink iridescent ears flapping gaily, then quickly submerging.

All that’s left is reminiscing on the way back to Blantyre to start the 24-hour trip back home. Traveling with a group is a new experience for me. I’ve always shied away from tours, but this was different. We were thrown together for the common good of helping one of the most destitute countries and its people receive the basic essentials of life. We were united in that goal and became very close watching the bravery and optimism displayed especially by the women as they struggled to feed and care for their sick hungry children. There was no room for petty arguments, complaints, not so perfect accommodations. We were living like kings in comparison, coming home every evening disease free, to a toilet, hot shower, good food.

We leave each other with email addresses, phone numbers and promises to keep in touch. I resolve to check into joining WFP in Nicaragua, right next to my second home in Costa Rica. They have finished the initial stages of surveying and needs assessment and desperately need bilingual volunteers.

And that’s the end of Jill and Cindi’s Excellent African Adventure. Thank you for your comments. Watch for Chapter Two – Nicaragua. In the meantime, check in on more Slices and Crumbs of my life. Keep  in touch.

Jill and Cindi

Blantyre is the largest city in this small country bordered by Lake Malawi on its east side. The people from the surrounding villages have swarmed into the city in the last few years because of an ongoing drought. With the rivers and meager waterholes drying up subsistence farming no longer works. In the outlying villages there is still a semblance of order and community. There is little trash because everything is used and plastic (except for water containers) doesn’t get this far, but life in the peri-urban areas (a nice name for the slums) is poles apart.

Minister John Bande

We start our last day at the Blantyre District Water Board meeting. While we wait for the Minister of the district, John Bande (not related to the despot), a Christian member says a long prayer. Not being a head-bower, I study the motley group. I’m drawn to the evil-eyed stare of a proud Muslim (obviously not a head-bower either) in traditional robes and turban. No other woman would dare look him straight in the eyes. Hope I don’t run into him alone somewhere. The few women in attendance sit in the back and wear traditional wraps and headdresses in astonishingly bright designs and colors. The men are in drab Western apparel.

I realize that patience is not a virtue, but a necessity in these third-world countries. When the minister finally arrives with a guard in tow, we are introduced and go through the formalities of greeting and thanking us without the music and dancing. We leave en masse with the guard to walk through the sprawling peri-urban area outside the city center to see the water kiosks – the next step up from a hand-pump well. These are brick booths over a well with a series of faucets on the outside. Each water-bearer must pay a small fee for the clean uncontaminated water. The water manager of each area collects the fees and educates the people in care and self patrol of their kiosk to eliminate vandalism. The goal is to have at least one water kiosk every 500 meters, but they’ve got a long way to go. We walk through the tightly packed mud shacks, jumping streams of raw sewage running in gutters clogged with garbage. We see deep black water holes screaming contamination, each with a slimy rope attached to a filthier bucket for drawing water. We watch brightly colored wash flapping in the breeze, skewered raw meat black with flies, women grinding corn. It’s life in its basic form.

Elias (WFP) at Kiosk

Kiosk

A group of aggressive boys huddled together yell at me for taking their photo. This is not like the villages. I’m close to meltdown, The sun’s too hot, the stench too strong, my ankles too swollen. I opt out of the final latrine tour. I’ve had it. Too much pain, dirt, and sickness to bear.

One by one, a crowd of little children gather around the bus to stare, giggle and point at the lone white woman. I feel like a monkey in the zoo. Things get out of hand as a gang of older boys saunters by chanting, “Azungu, Azungu, Azungu!” and I become frightened. Nelson appears and shoos them away translating, “They’re saying Whitey, Whitey.”  Now I understand being a minority, being the oppressor not the savior.

Tomorrow we’re off to L’lwonde National Park, spending our last day and night being tourists. We all need a break.

Zachi and Ng’ombe Villages – Chikwawa District

Nelson is a wonderful storyteller. We take turns sitting next to him in the front seat of the bus to listen to his lively Malawian tales. One of my favorites, though not based in fact, gives a real understanding of why the people of Malawi are just emerging from the darkness of poverty and disease.

Nelson

Nelson’s body language is as much a part of his story as his words. I paraphrase. “Malawi declared independence from Britain in 1964. Hastings Banda, who had already been educated as a medical doctor, was sent to Britain for leadership training. A conspirator from Ghana searched out Banda, murdered him, took his identity and returned to Malawi as president. The original Banda’s parents saw photos of their alleged son and cried foul. They were brought before the new president to make amends. Instead the mother said, ‘Take off your left shoe,’ which he did. ‘You are not my son,’ she cried. ‘He lost his toe in a childhood accident.’ The president, in a rage for being made a fool of, beat and imprisoned the real parents. He became ‘President for Life’ over a complete police state for the next thirty years until his demise in 1994.”

We arrive in Zachi to rousing greetings then walk with the women and children in the burning sun for what seems like forever (but is only a kilometer) to see their water hole. And hole is the right word – it is at least eight feet deep and so steep-sided the children are afraid to climb down. The water seeps in so slowly that a small bowl must be dipped in over and over to fill one bucket. It takes many trips to get enough water for cooking and drinking with maybe the dregs leftover for washing clothes.

Ednafred

When we return we are again given chairs of honor under the one shade tree. The woman chief, Ednafred, greets us with, “Zikomo gwambiri!” thanking us and presenting two young masked boys dressed as chickens for a traditional dance. They scratch, jump, squawk and peck in perfect rhythm with the crazed-eyed drummer until other dancers encroach on the costumed boys. A fight breaks out as the drummer throws down his sticks, and bodily tries to clear the stage. We breathe a sigh of relief when the women restore order then take to the dance floor themselves. Though Malawi has strong gender inequality most of the men are dead or gone from the primitive villages, and the women take over.

We arrive in Ng’ombe to view a village with both a well (bore hole with hand-pump) in the village center and new sanitary latrines. The people look cleaner, healthier, happier. “Water For People now focuses on how to make sanitation a productive or income-generating activity that people are really interested in. Families with an “ecological sanitation” (eco-san) latrine—a specific type of toilet that creates compost out of feces and fertilizer out of urine—can either sell their fertilizer or use it to produce higher-quality produce themselves.” Joseph shows us the thatched arbor loos and the clay brick latrines. “The people are educated in construction and use first, and become more accepting of the eco-sans if they are separated from their huts.”

Everyone is gathered in the square as one of the school girls shows us how the pump works. Here the women and children gather to chat and play while they fill their containers with clean water. One of the few men, trained by WFP, demonstrates making a sealed concrete top for the eco-san. Joseph announces, “The incidence of cholera has dropped by 50% in Ng’ombe since the additions of the pump and latrines!” Everyone cheers, gives thanks and the dancing begins.