It’s hard to believe that I’m sitting here now, just over
halfway finished with my service. The time has just flown by. It seems like
just yesterday I was getting on the plane in Seattle, excitement far
outweighing the nerves. This was, I felt, a sure sign of good things headed my
way and I am happy to report that this was indeed the case. I have loved
(almost) every minute of my time here and even those minutes I didn’t love I at
least get a kick out of now. Like the time I almost stepped on a cobra. Or the
time I ran into an ox cart on my bike (reason number 235 to always use a light
at night). Or the time I counted 15 adults (including me), 3 children, 4
babies, 3 chickens, 4 100L maize sacks, 3 crates of beer, a bicycle, and 5
backpacking backpacks in the back of a half-bed pickup. And found it
surprisingly comfortable. Or one of the countless, unfortunate stories that
involve me and scat of various animals. I seem to have bad luck in that
department…
Anyway. I have decided to begin a series of blog posts, quick
vignettes of what my daily life centers around. I’ve realized I haven’t
actually written much in that department (or any department, really) but I’m
hoping to get better in this next year. Promise.
Part 1: Funerals
Easter Monday I got up with the sun,
drank coffee, read some in A Sand County
Almanac by Aldo Leopold, and worked on a 1000 piece puzzle of Van Gough’s “Starry
Night.” After a quick breakfast of fruit, I wandered into my yard to begin
trying to salvage what was left of my garden. It was recently the victim of a
well-intentioned neighbor who tried to cut back the grass/weeds that had built
up in my absence. But that’s a different story.
As I stepped outside I greeted my
neighbor and was informed that there was to be a funeral “somewhere just there,
at Namasukwa’s place.” I have yet to figure out how to tell where “somewhere
just there” is since it is only ever accompanied by a vague wave of the hand in
one direction or other. So I asked him to collect me on his way to the funeral
so that I could accompany him. This way I would not only be sure of finding the right
house among the maze of footpaths but I would also be ensured of some friendly
company.
Soon enough he came over and we walked through
the maize fields, discussing the merits of maize vs. sorghum and the various
methods of planting millet. We soon reached Namasukwa’s, which was indeed “just
there.” The women were in the courtyard, chatting, laughing, and starting to
prepare the food which we would all eat after the service. The men were sitting
under a mango tree in the field adjacent, and were also chatting and laughing.
Walking over, I stooped low, slowly clapping my hands in greeting and shaking
the hands of the old men who were nearby. Pulling pumpkin leaves off the vine
as a seat, I sat down in the shade on a ridge of sweet potatoes.
Manuel began asking me questions
about funerals in America. He was surprised that we will mourn together, men
and women, and that the funerals are typically a few days after the death, not
the next day. Our chat was interrupted by the approaching church choir, dressed
in their finest white shirts, head-scarves, and chitenjes (2m bolts of fabric
that are worn like a dress). The men were wearing green silk shirts and black
pants. Though the song was in Timbuka so I couldn’t understand much, it was
very moving. Mournful, yet still upbeat and full of hope for a better day. The
song, about meeting Jesus and saying goodbye only for a short time, seemed born
of the sandy soils and mottled sunshine of the Chitipa plain. The singing and
dancing continued for some time, the sound of drums, dragging feet, and
clapping adding something bitter-sweet to death’s soundtrack.
It had now been about two hours
since I arrived, and the sun had chased the shade away. We moved into the maize
field, below a Blue Gum tree, where I began fielding questions concerning all
manner of modern/American things:
No, those moving stars are not
witchcraft. They are satellites so that we can talk on cell phones. This is how
satellites work…
Yes, we grow very much maize in
America. No, we don’t eat nsima. Yes, we are still strong and do physical work.
Yes, I will teach my family and friends how to cook nsima. I agree. They must
know so that they can eat real food.
No, we don’t eat so much goat. We
use goats mostly for milk. Momumo! (It’s true!) It makes you so strong. Even
more than milk from a cow. Yes! I would be glad to teach you. (but first I must
learn…)
The planes we see flying over every
day (indeed, we are blessed to see them) are carrying maybe 200 people. Each
person has a TV, they get tea/coffee, hot meals, and there are bathrooms. No,
the bathrooms are not a hole into the sky. Don’t worry. Yes, you can walk
around on them. They can fly from New York to Johannesburg without stopping and
it takes 14 hours. Inditu! (Indeed!)
No, Americans do not focus on one subject from
primary school until they finish university. We have so many subjects: the
biologies, the chemistries, the maths, the English, the geographies, the
histories. We even learn the Spanish, French, or maybe the German. Inditu,
university is very expensive. To my side I am not happy with the cost. I myself
owe the government nearly 60 million kwatcha. Inditu. I must pray for God’s
blessings. No, I am not worried about finding a wife with that much debt. But
yes, you can come over to my house and we can pray about it together.
No, we do not learn bible studies
in school. We don’t believe government should be involved with religion. That
is very important to us as Americans. To our side we are still Christian, but
we don’t pass laws because the bible says so. Chifukwa! (Because!) We have so
many people in America. The Muslims (no, not all are bad. Some are, but so are
some Christians), the Hindus, the Athiests (no, they do not hate God. That’s
different…), the Buddists, etc.
Yes, the Rick Rosses, the Jay Zs,
the Lil’ Waynes, the Beyonces are very much moneyed. Inditu, they mainly live
in the Californias. Some maybe live in the New Yorks. No, they are not
Satanists. Yes, they wear baggy clothes (or maybe skimpy clothes) but no, they are not
showing they love the Devil. Yes, the bible says this is not ok. But no, we don’t
throw them in jail. They have the right to choose what they wear. No, you can’t
walk around in public naked in America. To my side I don’t know Chuck Norris or
the Eminems.
No, we do not have roadblocks. The
police cannot stop you to ask for a mineral (soda), or simply to ask you where
you are going.
These questions continued for about
another two hours until the drums began to beat, calling us to the grave to
begin the burial. Upon reaching the grave we sat under another tree (palm this time)
while the women walked by, supporting the women relatives of the deceased as
they wailed and stumbled, crying and collapsing in their grief. “My brother!
Oh, my brother is dead! God help him.” “Oh my god! My in-law! You are gone!” “You
are with Jesus. Greet my brother and mother, my father and my sister. Greet
your daughter and your wife. Great them and tell them we will meet.”
Soon the wailing stops and the
service begins. There is the pastor, in his black robes and beat-up bible,
yelling his sermon to be heard above the bleating of the goats, lowing of the
cattle, and rustling of the wind. There is the sullen slumping sound of soil
dropping onto the casket, there is the laughter as the pastor makes some joke I
can’t understand. There are the women walking around taking the collection for
the family. Apa 100 kwatcha. Pepani nintamyo. (Here is 100 kwatcha [equivalent
of 25¢]. Sorry for your troubles.) I watch as the clouds blow over the clear
blue sky, detaching themselves from the Misiku hills to be washed away, diluted,
in the milky blue expanse of the plain’s roof. The wind blows, rustling the
prematurely dried maize, the palm fronds, the tinder-box grass. There are the Mafinga
hills, 40km away, that lit my night-time bike rides with fire like a full moon only a few
short months ago. They are green now, covered with a celebratory splash of
green amongst the exposed domes of rock. Funny to think how time turns,
dragging the world in circles.
The men are rising now, chatting,
laughing, smiling, and greeting one another. I see Green across the way,
sheltered in another copse of trees, and we smile, bringing our hands together
in a silent sign of respect and in greeting:
“Inditu. Nyia pa kusoba, lole
nghanite pafika.” “Indeed. I have been missing, but I’m glad to have returned.”
We walk with the other men to yet
another cluster of trees, mango again, where I collect one bowl of nsima and
one of inyani (relish – beans and pumpkin leaves). I wander through the crowds,
searching for a gathering of men which does not yet have food.
“Mwana wane! Muvyara! Ubaba wacko.
Apo.” “My child! My brother! Your father. Over there” directing me to a group
of old men squatting under the shade of the mango tree my story began under.
Everything is circular if you have the right perspective.
I return for more food and find yet
another cluster of men who have not yet received their meal of sorrow. I join
them, grabbing bits of nsima from the same bowl, rolling it into a ball and
flattening it slightly with my thumb. We dip it into the same bowl of inyani,
pinching it between our thumbs and the flattened ball of nsima. I never feel as
connected to my community as eating from a communal bowl with my hands. There
is something so personal and intimate about it that cannot be matched in any
other way. For this moment, I am a member of the community. Not a guest, not a
visitor, not a Peace Corpsi. But a true African. A true Malawian. A true
Lambyan. A true friend.
I return home with William and
Andrew, having eaten and chatted, smiled and laughed, cried and mourned. It is
now a good six hours after Andrew collected me at my house, and the funeral
meal is still in full swing. As I leave, I can’t help but think this is living.
And I draw circles in my mind.
