Costa Jill

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.

Chikwawa District – Kampomo Village

We meet the local Water for People (WFP) staff for orientation. Elias, Joseph and Ephrone welcome us and give us our schedule for the week. First we’ll be visiting two villages approved for a well and sanitation, but not yet installed.

A few numbers:

• 100% - Target of WFP water and sanitation facilities in 50 villages (out of 500) in the Chikwawa District - Achieved – 50%

• 400,000 - Population of the largest city, Blantyre

• 13,000,000 - Population of Malawi

• $176 (US) - GNP per capita

• 43 - Life Expectancy (half the pop. is under 15)

• 11 per 1000 - Maternal mortality (highest in world)

• 15% of pop. - Adult prevalence of HIV AIDS

• 25% of pop. – Malaria

• 50% of pop. – die before reaching 40

We drive out of the city into the dry barren bush. Malawi is in the middle of a long drought and the air is thick with acrid smoke from the constant outdoor cooking fires. Soon off the paved road, a swirl of dust mixes with smoke, making us close the windows. Now we have a choice of  breathing or sweltering in the 90+ degree heat. We watch the steady trek of people and animals up and down the road, mostly on foot, an occasional bike-rider, few cars. We don’t complain. Women in colorful cloths carry heavy loads on their heads held high, necks straight, posture perfect, most with babies wrapped on their backs.

After a couple hours the road ends. We get out and start walking. In the distance we see a gathering of women and children bending over a muddy trickle. They are either filling bright plastic containers with water or washing and spreading raggedy clothing over the dry brush. The children rush over to see these strange white people with funny hats and little silver boxes in front of their faces. They want to touch our wispy hair and mottled veiny skin. They don’t speak English though it’s the official language. Joseph translates, “You can take photos here.” The women and especially the children have rarely if ever seen white foreigners with cameras, and are amazed at the miracle of seeing themselves on screen.

We follow them for another kilometer as they carry the full containers on their heads (sometimes ten to twenty times a day), past the few skinny cows and cowherd standing in the very same bit of water, to the remote village of Kampomo. A welcoming committee waits under the only shade tree, surrounded by huts of mud and straw. We tour the village: thirsty gardens, women cooking, one remudding her hut, the arbor loos (non-eco latrines) - just holes in the ground surrounded by thatch. Joseph explains, “the children are afraid to use the loos, especially during the rainy season. Sometimes they slide in, sometimes they die.”

The drums begin and a crowd gathers quickly on the natural incline of a huge old termite nest that surrounds the tree. There are very few elders or men because of high mortality rates and strong gender inequality. Joseph speaks in English then Chichiwa. “These are the people who will bring you clean water.” The chiefs greet us with, “Mulli bwangi? (How are you?) and thank us for the coming project.

The people cheer when we answer their greeting in Chichiwa, “Diri Bweno.” (Very good). We are given chairs (the only ones in the village) to watch the celebration. The young male drummers set the beat as the women with babies tied to their backs, dance and sing. Children weave in and out of the circle. They’ve forgotten their empty bloated stomachs, mangy heads, infected mouths, crippled legs. They’ve forgotten for a moment that life is about getting enough food and water to survive the day.

As we prepare to leave, two little girls who have been following Cindi and I, latch onto our hands to walk us back to the bus. We could just lift them into the bus and take them home with us. Instead we wave, “good bye Salima, good bye Fanny,” and watch these beautiful people disappear.

With Water for People in Malawi

Water for People, an NGO (non-governmental organization, for you non-bureaucrats like me), helps people in developing countries improve their quality of life by supporting the development of locally sustainable drinking water resources, sanitation facilities and health education programs.

I’d done a little googling on Malawi, and the top spot is reserved for Madonna who adopted her latest child here and stayed at the same Malawi Sun Hotel where our group arrives en masse. We are nine staff, volunteers and water company prize winners, the latter having won the trip by either writing the best essay or donating the most money to the cause.

We spend our first weekend getting oriented to the country, the people and the plan. Malawi is a small landlocked country known as the warm heart of Africa, yet it has one of the highest population densities and its friendly people are some of the poorest in all of Africa. And that’s why WFP is here. We will spend the next four days visiting proposed and existing sites both in the Chikwawa rural program and the Blantyre peri-urban program. The sites will include installations of bore holes with simple pumps (wells), water kiosks (covered wells), and eco-sanitation (latrines). The villagers and the local WFP staff have been apprised of our visit and will be welcoming us with celebrations and meetings.

From the airport, after driving through the expected poverty, the modern accommodations and city center of Blantyre are shocking. We drive three blocks to the high-rise banking district with one of the local WFP staff, Ivey, to change money. She cautions us not to walk around alone, though the curfew isn’t until 9:00 pm. We look too prosperous and white.

Since shopping is known to be the number one American sport, our driver for the week, Nelson asks, “You want to visit the curio market?”

To a resounding “Yes!” Ivey offers her services. “I can tell you if something is over-priced, but bargaining is expected. Nelson and I will keep an eye on things.” We pile into our pink minivan with no idea what’s ahead. The outdoor market takes up one side of the street and includes three tiers of tables and floor cloths covered with every African curio possible; each space from one to two meters square, with at least two sellers per location. Not being a true shopper, I’m totally overwhelmed by the crowd, the jockeying for position, the loud voices - “Best deal, best price!” “Come here!” “Look at mine, first!” I escape across the street. So this is what shopping in a group tourist situation is like. Though I feel compassion for the multitude of poor sellers, I’m too put off to buy or even look.

We return to the hotel to relax, have dinner and get to know our fellow travelers. Ordering drinks, we discover we’re in a Muslim hotel and no alcohol is served. We won’t relax that way. Maybe the food will be exceptional instead. These Muslims are Indian so most of us order curry, which they’re out of. We settle for whatever and while I’m eating some strange pizza, I remember a quote from the hotel’s website with its hilarious English translations: “In its designer decadence, the cook continues to play freely with Chinese, Indian and Continental specialties with a dash of deviation.”

We’re exhausted and fall early into our mosquito-net-enshrouded beds. Tomorrow we will meet the poor people of Malawi.

honey badger

Moses is just as excited on the last run as he was on the first, especially when he spots a strange black creature with what looks like a white cape thrown over its head, back and tail. “This is the first time I’ve seen a honey badger here,” he laughs out loud. “The fiercest of hunters.” This little guy pays us no mind as he digs furiously, the dirt fanning out behind him as his head disappears down the hole and comes up with the prize, a big juicy scorpion.

And to top off our Umlani game list, in the waning daylight a lone hyena lies in wait. For what? Hendrick points at something big, high up in a nearby tree. “It’s a dead warthog.”

“How’d it get there?”

“The leopard we saw must have killed it and dragged it up there for safe keeping,” suggests Moses, “and the hyena is waiting for it to return.”

“The hyena can kill a leopard?”

“Yes, it’s one of the few big cat predators.” It might be the fiercest, but it’s certainly not the most appealing, with its large rounded ears and sloping back. Its intense gaze never wavers as we head for home. I bet on the leopard.

As dark sets in we arrive back at camp to the glow of lanterns and and frenzied excitement. Moses shushes us. A lion roars close-by, then a clatter of many hooves. Giles appears. “Stay in the boma.”

Irish Clare runs in, wild-eyed, “A lion’s attacked one of the water buffalos right here at the waterhole!”

Irish John: “now they’re stampeding!”

Giles orders, “Stay here around the fire. Don’t go to your rooms.”

He doesn’t have to worry. We eat dinner, our hearts in our stomachs along with the food, listening to the continual growling of three lions looking for a wounded buffalo, then we’re escorted to our flimsy huts by an armed guide. The lions’ grumbling  interrupts our fitful sleep. What an adrenalin-rush ending to an extraordinary week!

We are taking a limousine back to Johannesburg to see some of the South African countryside before we fly to Malawi and our Water for People tour. Jerry, our Afrikaans driver, gives us another perspective on the multi-faceted South African landscape and its people. As we drive, the dry bush lifts into mountains. The weather changes to mist then fog as we cross the divide through “God’s Eye”, other-worldly round-topped mountains above a very green river valley.

The landscape is spectacular, but I can’t say the same for Jerry. Everywhere we stop, whether park, vista, restaurant or shopping - he’s charming to the whites and surly to the blacks. I can’t take it without adding my two cents. “Well, Jerry, what do you think of eliminating apartheid?”

“Had to happen.”

That’s a generic answer, but as the day progresses I see his bent. To the blacks: “Hurry it up, boy. I want my coffee right away. Can’t you make change? Don’t argue with me.” Even when they weren’t.

To the whites including us: “Isn’t this marvelous. You’re so kind. Can I help you?” Obsequious. Too bad we have to spend eight hours with this guy. But it’s our reality check. Now I see why it took until 1994 to break apartheid. And it still goes on. Guess it’s time to move on from our fun touristy vacation safari to a completely different adventure – saving not animals but people.

Umlani in Shangaan - the mother tongue spoken by most of the rangers and trackers - means place of rest, but we don’t get much of that. The day starts at 6 a.m. with a gentle knock on the rondavel’s bamboo door and a wake up call for coffee and rusk (a rough equivalent to biscotti) around the fire before leaving on the first of two game drives. We return to a beautiful buffet of fresh fruit, muffins, and yogurt with staff taking orders for a full English breakfast if still hungry. Now’s the chance for that rest, whether drinks on the sundeck overlooking the water hole, a nap, sunning by the pool, or a visit to the treehouse out in the wild alone. If really adventurous and/or romantic, you can reserve it for the night.

Our gourmet lunch is served at the bar/sundeck overlooking the animal parade to the water hole, while we get to know the other guests. Jane and Douglas are the middle-aged safari addicts. This is there eighth trip and second to Umlani. The other returning trekker is the only bachelor in the group, a contemplative guy, Pete. The two honeymooning couples, one from the UK, the other from Ireland, are both named John and Clare, (thank God their accents are different at least). I question the other young couple from the UK, Alf and Alice, “On your honeymoon, too?” They shake their heads no, but Alf chuckles suggestively. They’ve just reserved the treehouse for the night.

After the usual ‘what do you do?’ conversations, these hip young couples engage us in intelligent funny conversations, not saying “fuck” every other word, nor are their heads down, fingers texting like their American counterparts. There are no working cell phones, and the internet is down more than it’s up. The only nod to technology is all the fancy camera equipment. The cliché ‘breath of fresh air’ works for both the environment and the people. Though Cindi and I are two old single American women we’re totally accepted as being pretty hip ourselves.

After the evening game drive the lanterns lead us to the reed boma where we gather around the fire with cocktails to enjoy Giles’ wild animal stories until the drums sound for dinner. The chef appears like a witch doctor in native turban to announce the menu for the evening meal. It’s always a delectable and uniquely South African dish: whether bobotie, a combination of minced beef, curry, raisins and egg; oxtail stew or lamb kabobs. The meal ends with liqueur of choice and a different homemade dessert every night.

As exhaustion sets in, we set off for bed alone, but Giles follows with a torch, “in case a leopard lies crouching in the shadows.” We twitter good night and turn to the flickering lanterns illuminating the bed now covered with delicate mosquito netting straight out of Dinesin’s Out of Africa. I dream of cuddling lion cubs until awakened by the sound of huge hooves crashing through bush right up to the flimsy wall of the hut. With a loud crunching a large animal, probably one of those quick-charging water buffalo, settles down a few feet from the bed. Brave independent Jill is too afraid to get up and see what it is. Sleep eventually takes over.

We sit in the Treehouse the next day. Moses has dropped us off for a few hours this morning. After our night visitor we have decided on a day trip. Even if no animals wander to the waterhole below us I am full in an Eckhart Tolle moment.

But they do. A herd of impalas materializes in the distance mimicking the lights and darks, browns and greys of the bush. They emerge step by delicate step toward the water, dozens of lithe dancers heads high, noses turning on the wind. They drink in momentary safety, trip back and forth and drift in a loose but alert formation back into the bush.

A couple of warthogs blunder in from the other direction, slurp up a drink and trot away in total contrast to the impalas. Two strong-bodied kudos watch a brown snake eagle perch on a gnarled branch. We’ve already scared away the young turtles he was looking for. Seeing nothing he soars away.

Cindi and I sit on different levels of the tree meditating in the utter absence of human sounds and sights. We could be in any era of history from the beginnings of time, but humanity re-emerges. The lorry picks us up for our last game drive.