...although the only hippo I can see right now is made of painted stone, has his mouth wide open, and is to be perfectly honest much gaudier and less impressive than real hippos.
In the past week, I have spent a lot of time and met a lot of people in the small town of Balaka, about a thirty minute drive from where we're staying. Hopping on the minibus (public transport) and heading to Balaka each morning has become the closest thing to a work routine I've had since I got here. For the most part, I am seeking out religious leaders in the area and asking questions about their programs, their congregations, their messages, and their views on the life problems and concerns of young people in Balaka (which here pretty much means anyone between the ages of 15 and 25). My shpiel is that I am preparing for a project that will start next year (which is def. true of the larger project I'm employed by right now) and that I will be back next year to conduct the project with a questionnaire for the youth in the churches (which is true pending financial support and funding). People like to hear that I'll be back, they like that sense of continuity and they often ask me for how long I'll be here next year. I want to say 4, 5, even 6 months--ideally for the research, I would come back for at least that long. Yet there's a hitch. I love being here on one level, and can't wait to come back, and yet along with that emotion coexists so much homesickness. At the same time as I'm promising a lengthy return visit, I'm counting the days before I get back to the comfort, love, friendship, and support I have at home; and this has only been a five-week visit, and I've only been here for three of those weeks. I wonder in my heart if I really have it in me to stay for longer, to really live here and and to even more deeply enter into the experience of life here. I want it and I don't. I think it would be different after some time passed, as I would hope that real, supportive friendships would emerge in this place eventually, yet I still can't help feeling like I'm too tied to home to do what my adventurous side is working towards.
This is something that certainly can't be resolved in the short term. I can't know what it would be like to live here until I do, for something longer than a few weeks. But I do wonder, for example, how those peace corps workers and the like do it--do I simply not have the personality for it?
Hmmm.... maybe the hippo knows.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Solitary Solidarity
I’ve spent the last few days alone in Lilongwe, running errands in the morning at government offices and the print shop and trying, in general, to get our research project approved by government higher ups. There are a lot of issues involved, most of which I won’t go into, but basically our research involves HIV testing and collecting a lot of very personal, very private information from a lot of rural Malawian young women. And although the bureaucratic red tape is certainly a hassle to deal with, and has given me some stressful mornings the last few days, I completely agree with the importance of Malawi protecting their citizens in this way by making sure that foreign researchers who come in to do studies like this are abiding by a certain ethical code. The interesting thing is, all of these studies have to pass ethics committee review back in the States; but in the States, generally the ethical question is one of, “How will this study avoid doing any harm to participants?” whereas in Malawi, they are asking, “What good will this study contribute to our country and to the lives of participants?” Interesting dilemma for researchers, no?
In any case, mission is now accomplished as far as paperwork is concerned, and now we are just waiting to hear back. I am heading back to familiar human company this afternoon. But after these days of solitude, I am awaking with a few thoughts….
First of all, there is nothing more solitary than being alone surrounded by people. Truthfully, I am always (or almost always) in the company of people here, on the street, in the market, at the lodge. Yet the distance between me and these people is large, and I’m often tired from work, and it’s a lot of work for minimal gain to always be open, friendly, and outgoing. I have a few friendships here with Malawians, for which I am grateful, but they aren’t easy to navigate or maintain. And if, as I believe, the ultimate goal of all of this is relationship and relationality, how do I contribute to this when I sit alone at breakfast, lunch, and dinner and walk alone to the market and back and navigate public busses alone etc. etc. And when, during these times, what I mostly feel is the presence of my solitude, how does that in any way help me to express solidarity or relationality to the people around me?
The mind, in truth, gets weird after long periods of solitude (and I wouldn’t consider four days “long”, really, but I think this statement is still true). It gets a little paranoid. Oddly, it seems to pull away from people at a certain point, and get rusty at engaging in effective human interactions. It’s our own worst enemy at these moments—longing for connection and yet pulling away from it. I look around me on the busses, in the markets, and on the street and somehow I’m thinking: “I want to love the people around me, I just don’t think I can actually talk to them.” We are odd creatures. Thankfully, all of this is not up to us.
Because there is a third option: communion. I can be alone, and doing everything I can to distract myself from that reality (whether it’s burying my face in a book or making a lot of new friends); or I can enter the solitude, and find that actually, when I’m alone, the path to communion with the Spirit of God (which is present in everything around me) is clearer. I can sit alone on the patio at the lodge missing home, or I can sit alone at the lodge and look up at the stars, and listen to the sounds around me, and open myself up to the here and the now. It’s a subtle change, but it means everything.
From this communion, true solidarity (that isn’t just an avoidance of solitude) flows. That has happened before, even on this very trip to Malawi, and so I am assured it will happen again. And THAT sort of solidarity, relationality, and connection, that has no demands on the other to “solve” our own problem of solitude, is the refuge of true agape love for others and the world around us.
In any case, mission is now accomplished as far as paperwork is concerned, and now we are just waiting to hear back. I am heading back to familiar human company this afternoon. But after these days of solitude, I am awaking with a few thoughts….
First of all, there is nothing more solitary than being alone surrounded by people. Truthfully, I am always (or almost always) in the company of people here, on the street, in the market, at the lodge. Yet the distance between me and these people is large, and I’m often tired from work, and it’s a lot of work for minimal gain to always be open, friendly, and outgoing. I have a few friendships here with Malawians, for which I am grateful, but they aren’t easy to navigate or maintain. And if, as I believe, the ultimate goal of all of this is relationship and relationality, how do I contribute to this when I sit alone at breakfast, lunch, and dinner and walk alone to the market and back and navigate public busses alone etc. etc. And when, during these times, what I mostly feel is the presence of my solitude, how does that in any way help me to express solidarity or relationality to the people around me?
The mind, in truth, gets weird after long periods of solitude (and I wouldn’t consider four days “long”, really, but I think this statement is still true). It gets a little paranoid. Oddly, it seems to pull away from people at a certain point, and get rusty at engaging in effective human interactions. It’s our own worst enemy at these moments—longing for connection and yet pulling away from it. I look around me on the busses, in the markets, and on the street and somehow I’m thinking: “I want to love the people around me, I just don’t think I can actually talk to them.” We are odd creatures. Thankfully, all of this is not up to us.
Because there is a third option: communion. I can be alone, and doing everything I can to distract myself from that reality (whether it’s burying my face in a book or making a lot of new friends); or I can enter the solitude, and find that actually, when I’m alone, the path to communion with the Spirit of God (which is present in everything around me) is clearer. I can sit alone on the patio at the lodge missing home, or I can sit alone at the lodge and look up at the stars, and listen to the sounds around me, and open myself up to the here and the now. It’s a subtle change, but it means everything.
From this communion, true solidarity (that isn’t just an avoidance of solitude) flows. That has happened before, even on this very trip to Malawi, and so I am assured it will happen again. And THAT sort of solidarity, relationality, and connection, that has no demands on the other to “solve” our own problem of solitude, is the refuge of true agape love for others and the world around us.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
...and part 2!
Try this one on for size: staying at a hotel called Korea Garden, eating a full English breakfast, surrounded by Japanese tourists...?
I don't want all of this to give you, the reader, the impression that Lilongwe is a "cosmopolitan" place. It could hardly be called a city at all, by Western standards. But my time here has been so full of these little oddities that I feel compelled to report them.
The final one is this: last week, I and the couple I'm working with (Jenny and Gregory, plus two babies) took their visiting friend up to the lake for a few days. We hired a boat to take us to this small island just about 2 km from shore. Snorkling, eating, watching fish eagles, etc. It was awesome, I promise you. But the funny part? we were there, on this deserted-esque island, eating a lunch of nsima (traditional Malawian staple) and fish with our hands, and what should pass by but a little motor boat carrying a wealthy middle-eastern man in traditional garb with his entire collection of wives--I think about 8--with him in full head-to-toe covering.
Whoa. yes?
I don't want all of this to give you, the reader, the impression that Lilongwe is a "cosmopolitan" place. It could hardly be called a city at all, by Western standards. But my time here has been so full of these little oddities that I feel compelled to report them.
The final one is this: last week, I and the couple I'm working with (Jenny and Gregory, plus two babies) took their visiting friend up to the lake for a few days. We hired a boat to take us to this small island just about 2 km from shore. Snorkling, eating, watching fish eagles, etc. It was awesome, I promise you. But the funny part? we were there, on this deserted-esque island, eating a lunch of nsima (traditional Malawian staple) and fish with our hands, and what should pass by but a little motor boat carrying a wealthy middle-eastern man in traditional garb with his entire collection of wives--I think about 8--with him in full head-to-toe covering.
Whoa. yes?
Monday, July 7, 2008
Bollywood music in an internet cafe in Lilongwe...
...(and other bizarre phenomena characteristic of the modern age).
I think I posted something quite like this last year, as well--just blown away by the particular elements of modern, global culture that have made their way to this smallest, poorest, and rural-est of countries. The internet cafe, actually, is owned by some Indian immigrants, I think, and there are a bunch of them here. I just had pizza at a Halaal Take-Away restaurant.
The week was a full one, and throughout a bunch of opportunities came along that I'm really excited about. I've made some friends, which is something I was hoping for from the very beginning; and I was able to identify and scout out a site for a project I want to start next summer. I'll even get to take the first steps--some interviews with religious leaders in the area--before I go. It's hard to beleive that just three weeks from now I'll be heading back to the US. Feels like I just got here.
I'm happy, though. It's hard and intense every day--sleep often 9 or 10 hours at night--but it's good. Real good. More later!
I think I posted something quite like this last year, as well--just blown away by the particular elements of modern, global culture that have made their way to this smallest, poorest, and rural-est of countries. The internet cafe, actually, is owned by some Indian immigrants, I think, and there are a bunch of them here. I just had pizza at a Halaal Take-Away restaurant.
The week was a full one, and throughout a bunch of opportunities came along that I'm really excited about. I've made some friends, which is something I was hoping for from the very beginning; and I was able to identify and scout out a site for a project I want to start next summer. I'll even get to take the first steps--some interviews with religious leaders in the area--before I go. It's hard to beleive that just three weeks from now I'll be heading back to the US. Feels like I just got here.
I'm happy, though. It's hard and intense every day--sleep often 9 or 10 hours at night--but it's good. Real good. More later!
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