Where the Orphans Practice Meditation and Learn Kung Fu (Glimpse)

The man wears a wide, bark-strip hat, a long gray robe, and simple pair of sandals. He clutches a mango in one hand and crouches among a group of boys. They chat and laugh together. The man? A practicing Buddhist. The boys? Malawian orphans. Their shared language? Chinese.



China is the world’s biggest investor in Malawi, with its most obvious influence seen in massive building projects and controversial uranium mining. With this venture pattern, a place like Amitofo Care Centre seems beyond anomalous. The focus here is neither construction nor mineral extraction. No, this is a place where the chief responsibility is “to transmit the Dharma in Africa and continue the Buddha’s spiritual life,” according to the posted list of work ethics.



My friends and I stumbled down a dusty, rutted road to find Amitofo, an orphanage established by a Taiwanese Buddhist in 2005. The sprawling, manicured complex plays home to more than 200 Malawian orphans and qualifies as one of the most curious places I’ve ever visited. On our stroll through the grounds, we greeted women preparing colossal quantities of bitter greens and nsima, the traditional Malawian maize porridge. We removed our shoes and entered the temple, with its imposing gold statues of Buddha and its soft mats for the children’s regular meditation practice. We cheered on a group of boys as they showed off their kung fu moves, sliding into the splits and scissoring their hands in front of them. We passed a cluster of girls who flashed us a “V” with their fingers, that stereotype of Asian tourists. We scanned a wall of drawings, where sketches of big-eared elephants abutted anime-style superheroes. We met local and foreign staff, all of whom brought their hands to the prayer position and bowed their heads to greet us.







This orphanage was Amitofo’s first, but the organization has since built care centers in Zimbabwe, Lesotho, and Swaziland. There is a primary school on site, and another instructor works with the older orphans. Teachers follow the Malawian government’s curricular regulations — with the addition of Buddhist philosophy and Chinese language classes, of course. In their free time, the children can learn both traditional Chinese and traditional Malawian dances. When neighboring orphanages organize soccer or netball games, the Amitofo children join in. Many of the orphans have traveled abroad — 30 are currently in Malaysia to present kung fu and dance exhibitions.

Our guide, a secretary named Elven, offers us more tea after we complete our informal tour of the compound. I continue reading the list of ethics and rules. Smile and speak softly. Offer hope to others. Treat people with politeness. No killing (not even mosquitoes!). No gossip. No gambling. No intoxicants. No meat, fish, onion, garlic, or leek.

A ban on meat and fish, sure. But onions, garlic, leek? “Ah,” chuckles Elven. “These foods will expand, how you say, the desire. You understand?”

I tell him I do. But along with the rest of my surroundings, I’m still puzzling things out.

P.S. Lovely readers, Landlocked is going on hiatus for a few weeks. I’m taking off for epic travels on Saturday and won’t be posting while I’m away, but expect crazy stories when I return. Bribing border officers in Mozambique? Dodging police roadblocks in Zimbabwe? Taking tipply wine tours in South Africa? Gorging myself on German pastries in Namibia? Bungee jumping at Victoria Falls? (Just kidding, Mom!) See you in 2010.

How I Survived My First (and Second) Malawian Wedding (Glimpse)

Malawian weddings are marathon affairs. Numerous parties lead up to the day, and smaller celebrations follow the main event. But prior to Saturday, I had only heard about the revelry (and literally heard — the wedding parades honk their way through town, a train of cars parceled up in white and pink ribbon, camcorder-toting passengers pouring out the windows). I still have yet to experience the pre- and post-festivities, but this weekend I made up for my wedding deficiency by attending two (two!) ceremonies in one day. I questioned my stamina at points, but my day of wedding hopping proved an ultimate success. After seven hours, I’ve emerged with a few tips for surviving Malawian weddings. Though you could take the tack of my friends Thoko and Nkhwachi (BYOB — no alcohol is served at the nuptials), consider heeding the following advice.





1. Don’t know the couple? Don’t worry! I knew neither pair and still received gracious smiles from the newlyweds. Provided you follow tip #4, you’re golden.



2. Arrive early. Or even on time — the wedding will probably start late. When I showed up to the first wedding ahead of schedule, I befriended a few nattily-dressed men wearing “OFFICIAL” labels affixed to their lapels. No such thing as a free lunch? Ha. A bit of pleasant conversation earned me a heaping plate of rice, meat, and relish. My still-full stomach didn’t complain when the evening meal consisted of two cold samosas, a die-sized hunk of meat, and half a plain muffin.

3. After carbo-loading, make a fool of yourself on the dance floor. Or, more precisely, in the parking lot. Here, you’ll find family and friends awaiting the couple’s arrival, shirtless drummers, and fur-clad children performing war dances. Ladies, make sure your chitenje (wrap skirt) falls off frequently — that’ll really get the guests howling. I knew some of the traditional dances, but others were unfamiliar — including one in which a single chitenje is knotted around the waists of a man and woman, locking them in choreographic, gyratory union.







4. Bring lots (and lots and lots) of small Kwacha notes. Though couples do receive gifts that would be at home in the U.S. (tableware they’ll never use and too many toasters), the wedding itself resembles a business proceeding. I zoomed out of the first wedding before the monetary donations began, but I arrived at the second with the gift-giving already underway. Four hours later, when I left, the money-fest was just ending. The MC, dressed head-to-toe in bold geometric print, summoned donors, who tossed 20 and 50 Kwacha notes into a wide wicker basket as hit Malawian songs spooled on repeat. Some notes fell to the floor and became tangled in the bride’s train. At a table to the side, three women furiously rifled through the bills and sorted them into piles. The draw can be upwards of $700, which is usually just enough to recoup the expenses of the ceremony.







5. Don’t expect cake. Though you might luck out at some ceremonies, guests at the second wedding I attended had to shell out additional Kwacha for foil-wrapped slabs the size of domino tiles. These contained not cake but sticky blocks of unidentifiable pulp (fig was our best guess).





If these tips fail, turn to those old standbys — befriend the children, admire the sumptuous attire, and estimate the intensity of the groom’s hangover.











Now go forth, merrymakers, and rejoice.

Planning Families After They’ve Already Begun (Glimpse)

An oversized spiral-bound book in her hands, Yamikani circles the dilapidated schoolroom. She shows an illustration to each of the young women, 14- to 25-year-olds seated in flimsy plastic lawn chairs. Giggles develop into hoots as the women glimpse the image. They slap each other’s arms. Yamikani joins in the laughter.

The next picture meets a more considered reaction. The women are quiet and lean forward to examine the diagram. Yamikani runs her finger across the page, pointing out the illustration’s main features.

It’s a humid Wednesday afternoon in this Blantyre township, and these women are learning about family planning. The first picture? A comical image of an underwear-clad man gaping at a woman as she stands over him and gulps down a birth control pill. And the second? A diagram illustrating the insertion and placement of an intrauterine device.





I’ve attended one other educational program in Malawi that addressed family planning. There, the message did not extend beyond abstinence and fidelity. (OK, the facilitators briefly mentioned condoms at the end of their presentation, but they told me afterwards that discussing such contraception is futile. Sex with a condom is considered artificial, they said.)

But today, the women hear it all: in addition to the pill and IUD’s, they receive information about the patch, hormone injections, vasectomies, sterilization, child spacing, and, yes, condoms. (I hold out for a demo — goodness knows this country has enough bananas for everyone to practice — but none occurs.) It is deeply refreshing to hear the women discuss these topics with such candor. It is a rush of Chichewa and I understand few details, but I can tell the discussion is animated and frank. A cell phone occasionally buzzes, and the women stir restlessly at times, but several take notes and raise their hands to ask questions or contribute opinions.

Yamikani and Mercy, the two women leading the training, say the need for such a workshop became apparent during the past year. As part of their work for Girls Empowerment Network, a nongovernmental organization that promotes gender equality, they run 10 afternoon clubs for women across Blantyre. When they launched the clubs in June 2008, few of the women had children. Eighteen months later, an astonishing number have become mothers. Yamikani didn’t have exact figures, but she estimates that she and Mercy saw more than half of their club members become pregnant.



There’s a baby corner on Wednesday. The mothers have clustered here, their sleeping infants across their laps. We begin the training with a series of lively games, and the mothers join in, their children swaddled with strips of fabric and bouncing against their backs. A few toddlers wobble around. One boy has slipped on his mother’s glittery silver heels and shuffles across the pitted, dusty concrete floor.



The presence of so many children surprises me at first. The babies coo and wail as Yamikani explains to the women about contraception, about ovulation, about HIV transmission. Mercy addresses unwanted pregnancies. I wonder about the children here. I wonder what their mothers are thinking.





But I don’t ask. Perhaps, I decide, it makes sense that these children, the reason for this training, have joined their mothers in attendance.

Into November

My most recent Glimpse post describes a family planning training I attended, run by an organization called Girls Empowerment Network. GENET has been a fantastic contact. Mercy and Yamikani, the two women who run the women's clubs across Blantyre, are eager for me to participate. They're planning a conference for December and have talked to me about holding a dance workshop or creating a dance piece. Yikes.

Saturday was one of the best days I've had in Malawi so far. My last Glimpse entry mentioned the arts festival, which occurred this past weekend. I ended up not performing (the dancers told me to show up at 7 a.m. on Sunday, which didn't sound so tasty), but I was at the festival all day on Saturday and saw a slew of fantastic (and a few dreadful) performances. Most of the dance groups were there, and members greeted me all day long. I recognized most of them, but have learned few of their names. Better get on that. Lucius Banda, one of Malawi's biggest musicians (in terms of both fame and physical size), closed the day. People danced so energetically that a veritable dust storm developed.

That evening, I went out with Mullu and James, two of my landlord's children, and then headed to a truly epic party. All of Blantyre attended. I woke up the next morning sore from dancing.

I enjoyed a beautiful moment on my way to catch the minibus today. I turned onto Naperi Road and heard a drumbeat. A group of schoolboys, dressed in uniforms the color of hospital scrubs, had gathered on the opposite side of the street. One clenched an empty water jug between his knees and slapped out a beat as the others danced. "They're doing traditional dances," a passerby told me. As I rounded the corner, the boys ran over to me. "We're dancing," they told me (in Chichewa! And I understood! Did I mention I'm taking private lessons?). I told them (again, in Chichewa!) that I can dance, too. "Beni?" they asked, which is a men's dance that mocks the movements of British soldiers. No, I told them - and they proceeded to teach me. I tossed my backpack aside and shook my shoulders and stamped my feet with them. The women selling maize and peanuts across the road hooted and laughed. We carried on a very limited, very broken Chichewa conversation. I told them which dances I knew - chisamba, chioda, marikamba. They had to run off eventually. "See you later!" I called. "Tomorrow!" they called back.

Days here are made up of tiny, life-affirming moments like these. Sometimes the frustrations and disappointments get to me, but I try to remind myself of these small wonders.

I Will Never Be Able To Shake My Rear End Like That (Glimpse)

Triza beamed at me with the pride of a fairy godmother. “You’re a real Malawian woman now,” she said, “a real African lady.” She had just bound my chitenje, the traditional fabric wrapper worn by Malawian women. I had yet to purchase my own, but Triza had an extra. It was red and black and featured large, realistically rendered elephants. I wore madras shorts underneath. I looked down at my feet and the glaringly white crisscross of my sandal tan. I felt far from a Malawian woman, far from an African lady.

After a few weeks, I had finally worked up the courage to participate in the dance rehearsals I’d been observing. As part of my fellowship project, I’m learning traditional Malawian dances from Blantyre-based troupes. Once I realized that I would look ridiculous no matter how long I waited to join, I tossed my dignity aside and decided to dance. My inaugural rehearsal was with Dance Unit, a group that pools dancers from various troupes. (The group’s name may actually be Dance Unity — I’ve heard both labels, though this may be due to the Malawian tendency to tack on vowels to the end of English words. A while ago, a young woman complimented my panties. I was halfway to tugging up my belt before I realized she wasn’t talking about my unmentionables.) I chose a few women to watch: compact, athletic Triza; lithe, exuberant Joyce; graceful, expressive Debora.







I first attempted chioda, a joyful women’s dance. The intricate footwork gave me pause, but let the record stand that I excelled at running around in a circle and clapping.



Chisamba, a women’s dance that celebrates the first-born child, proved my next test. Here, Triza commended my footwork, and I even pivoted in time with the drums. Once, however, the women fell to their knees and continued the hip and shoulder convulsions, I grew less confident. (Watch the thrusts in the video, and now imagine the women kneeling.) But I felt grateful for our al fresco rehearsal space, a concrete stage under big-leafed trees — and without mirrors.

Meanwhile, I silently cursed all those past dance instructors who had pushed in my tailbone, repeating their mantra: “tuck in your butt, tuck in your butt.” That’s the last thing these Malawian dancers expected. I could see the way their eyes fell to my waist and hips. Now, my mother did endow me with something to shake (and I thank her for that), but I was neither a child of music videos nor a pioneer on the middle school freak dancing circuit. The hip isolation exercises from my modern dance classes were one thing. These gyrations were another. The dancers laughed. I laughed back.



Laughter has become a constant at these rehearsals, and I’ve appreciated the lighthearted welcome of the dancers. They’ve been quick, too, to induct me into their circle. They clench my arm and pull me onto the stage if I hesitate. In addition to the dances, they have taught me Chichewa proverbs (learn from the other man, but do not let him steal your eyes). They share their cheese puffs and pink nail polish. They let me play with their children, including one little girl named Rebecca, who has a tendency to smear her half-chewed cookies all over her face. This attracts flies, which settle on her nose to feast on the crumbs. I swat the flies away.



Last Friday, at a marathon seven-hour rehearsal, the dancers and I ate lunch together, the Malawian staple nsima (a stiff, sticky maize porridge) with usipa (tiny, salty fish, their tails torn off).





“Umadya nsima?” they asked, disbelievingly, as I rolled the mush between my fingers and scooped up a tomato. “You eat nsima?” I responded in the affirmative. One group member, Hussein, snapped a photo of me with his cell phone. I offered a title for the shot: “Azungu ndi nsima,” “white person with nsima.” The dancers hooted.

I’d hoped the Malawian meal would provide the springboard for instantaneous progress. I’m not so sure this came about, but I like to convince myself I’m improving. There’s an arts festival in Blantyre next weekend, and the dancers have been prodding me to participate. I think I might accept the offer. Wish me luck.

And To Think The Burning Piles Of Trash Once Attracted My Attention (Glimpse)

Five weeks into my yearlong stay in Malawi, I’ve been reflecting on those aspects of life I thought would remain forever foreign but have already become familiar. When my plane landed, I peered out the window and found myself overwhelmed with how tremendously different it all was — the tarmac so covered in dust I couldn’t see the asphalt, the brightly clad onlookers standing on the observation deck just to watch the jets take off and fly in, the impressive loads carried atop the heads of pedestrians, the deep purple jacaranda blossoms, the enormous quantities of firewood piled onto antiquated bicycles, the burning piles of refuse, the infants strapped onto women’s backs with vibrant swathes of fabric, the trees shaped like broccoli florets, the goats grazing by the roadside. But by now, most of these things have grown commonplace. What else barely makes me blink twice?







As an obvious foreigner, I attract a great deal of attention on the street. This attention manifests itself in marriage proposals, travel requests (“take me to your country!”), and all variety of name-calling. So far, I’ve been every member of the family (sister, baby, mama — but not yet yo’ baby’s mama), friend, girlfriend, miss, madam, customer, azungu (a respectful term for a white person), mzungu (a less respectful term), and “I LOVE YOU!” The other day, a group of university students crowded onto a bus called out their windows. “A-ZU-NGU!” they hollered. “MWASWERA BWANJI?” they asked. I was walking along a busy thoroughfare during rush hour. The bus was a good distance away. “NDASWERA BWINO! KAYA INU?” I shrieked back, my hoarse voice straining to return the afternoon greeting. The students cheered. Several pedestrians cast me surprised looks, but I continued along, delighted with my laboriously pronounced Chichewa syllables.

The singularities of Malawian transport have been growing on me as well. It’s not just the minibuses that produce disconcerting death rattles and heave any time a passenger shifts their seat. On my way to a party a few weeks back, I was picked up by four Malawian guys crammed into a puny sedan. The exhaust pipe dragged on the ground, the steering wheel was half-intact, and the side view mirrors had been rendered useless by the opaque packing tape that affixed them to the body of the car. The passengers took generous swigs out of a bottle of gin. I held my breath and hoped for the best.

The insects in my house now generate resignation rather than disgust. I sigh at the parades of ants, whip out my can of insect killer, plug my nose, and spray the six-legged offenders. I favor the ominously named DOOM, which has special formulas for crawling insects and flying insects. There’s even DOOM Fresh!, a combo formula that leaves those creepy crawlies dead and my domicile smelling juicier than an orange grove.

I would estimate that power outages have occurred more than half of the days I’ve been in Malawi. And I’m lucky to be in Blantyre, which is on the electric grid — much of Malawi isn’t. I hardly notice the blackouts anymore. Once the electricity cut as a friend and I were chatting in my kitchen. We carried on the conversation in the dark. I have, however, developed a newfound appreciation for generators. But there are times when even those don’t do the job — while checking my e-mail last week, the generator’s reassuring hum sputtered. G’bye, Internet. “What happened?” I asked. “Generator ran out of fuel,” reported my Malawian friend Robert. “Ah, I love…” I began. “Malawi,” Robert finished.

Indeed. And it happened so fast.

Navigating Blantyre

Though I've been writing weekly, I figured it was about time to give the scoop on daily life in Malawi. My Glimpse entries have given a few details of the everyday, but there's far more to say.

Daily life in Blantyre is by turns hilarious, frustrating, surprising, exhausting, sluggish, speedy, heartening — I could go on. The city is remarkably compact and I run into friends and acquaintances regularly. Life in Lilongwe would be tough without a car, but Blantyre is (usually) easily navigable by foot and by minibus. While the pace of life is generally slow (things rarely start on time, shops will take two-hour lunch breaks, people can be difficult to reach, accomplishing anything on the Internet takes ages, lines at the supermarket stretch to remarkable lengths), some tasks feel instantaneous. An informal economy means I can buy my bananas or mangoes (or metal chains or cell phones or chickens or strips of rubber or milk or kittens) on the sidewalk while walking through town — no need for a market detour.  Access has rarely been an issue, either. I've spent time at the organizations I'd contacted from the States, tagged along for an HIV/AIDS outreach program in rural Mulanje, observed interactive theater training in Zomba, and watched (and participated in!) dance rehearsals.

That brings me to the progress of my project. Progress may be an overstatement. Or maybe not — after a few initial hitches, I have a short-term plan. I began by observing the dance rehearsals of various traditional dance groups in Blantyre, and I finally worked up the courage to participate. I felt ridiculous during that first rehearsal, but I had a fantastic time. The dancers were supportive and welcoming. "Come back next week!" one called as I left. "We love you!" Though my plans to attend regularly this week were derailed by travel and a nasty cold, starting next week I'll be dancing most weekdays (thank goodness — I haven’t really gotten proper exercise during my first month in Malawi). I’m not sure I'll ever be able to shake my rear like the local women, but I'll keep at it. Many Malawian dances are gender-divided, which makes for an interesting dynamic during rehearsals (simultaneous senses of solidarity and tension). I've found some of the men's dances more compelling — they incorporate more upper-body movement than the women's dances. Think they'll let me cross the gender line sometime?

I have yet to assemble a group of young women, but I've made a bit of headway with the gender prong of my project. I observed a women’s community theater group today, and I think I'll be able to draw some ideas from the workshop. I also learned about a gender-based NGO in Blantyre that runs a number of local girls' clubs, so that should prove a beneficial contact.

I'm excited to develop a daily routine. Waking up without a plan can be exhausting. I've found ways to fill my time, but my days have had little regularity. I go to the market, looking for vendors who have sold to me before — if they recognize you, you can often ask for a discount. I bought cucumbers from quite the character yesterday. He told me his name was Forest (Foster? Faster? Something with an F) Fantastic, and that if I come back, he'll offer me a good deal on gingerroot. (Speaking of odd names, I met a security guard named Sixpence the other week.) I'm tentative about bargaining — while it's expected at the clothing markets, produce prices are more firmly set. But I do sometimes. Yesterday I dropped the prices of bananas (bought a really lovely bunch) and tomatoes. Actually, the prices of the latter simply dropped when I looked skeptically at the pile of five tomatoes. "100 Kwacha," she said. "Ah, 80 Kwacha," she conceded. (It's 160 Kwacha to the dollar.) I should have bought one of the huge baskets on the way back to Blantyre from Zomba last weekend — about 15 tomatoes for 50 Kwacha. The vendors stack the produce into impressive piles. Though this means you have to inspect the undersized or bruised vegetables relegated to the bottoms of the mounds, it makes for a wonderful tableau. We've moved into mango season here — six or seven for a dollar. There are both the standard green-skinned ones you see in the U.S., as well as petite yellow-skinned mangoes, stringy and very sweet. I'm yet to buy any exotic produce, but I'll hopefully be able to collect some from my yard soon. There’s a masuku tree right outside my door, and guavas and granadillas grow a few steps away. Panashe, the 11-year-old Zimbabwean girl who lives in the guesthouse adjoining mine, usually gets to the ripe fruit first, but maybe I'll convince her to share.

How else do I fill my days? I hang out with eight-year-old Nigel (see my last Glimpse entry) and six-year-old Eme. I run errands. I take cold (sometimes lukewarm!) showers. I've met various people involved with dance or gender work here, including a British dancer, a women’s drama group, and the head of a Malawian theater organization. I scratch mosquito bites. I read. And read and read. I walk. A lot. I wither in the heat. I try to do a better job of handwashing my clothes than I did in Romania (no major detergent streaks yet, so it seems I've improved). I listen to the BBC (I bought a radio last week, which has revolutionized my news awareness). After developing a bit of a Ben Franklin early-to-bed, early-to-rise pattern in Lilongwe, I've eased up on the early wakeups and bedtimes. Never mind the burning piles of trash on the roadside, the name calling I receive (I'm every family member you could imagine — baby, sister, mama), the ramshackle huts in Blantyre's townships, the tailors on the sidewalk working at their old-fashioned sewing machines, the minibuses that remind me more of rickety rollercoasters than of any road vehicle — one of the most challenging adjustments has been the early nightfall. It's dark (and I mean dark, nighttime dark) by 6 p.m. The compound where I live has a generator — a real stroke of luck, because power shortages can occur daily. It's frustrating, though, to have to hurry home by sunset. It's not safe to walk around alone at night, and I dislike reliance on taxis. I live a few hundred feet from Mustang Sally, a popular bar, and I've had to get rides or find a group of guys to walk with me.

But I shouldn't overstate that nuisance. During daylight, Blantyre is a safe city, and a bit of caution and planning at night is all that's necessary. The nightlife scene is low-key (though I have taken a few 3 a.m. cab rides home). I’ve been mostly to bars with mixed Malawian/expat scenes, but Thoko has promised to show me some of the local dives. I miss Oregon microbrews with a fierceness only a Portlander could feel. It's all Carlsberg here, all the time — the only Carlsberg brewery on the African continent is located in Blantyre. Ok, there's Chibuku as well (traditional gruel-like African beer made from maize). I have yet to try it, but I have plans to make it. Stay tuned.

What else? After informal lessons with Eme and Nigel, I'm beginning proper Chichewa classes soon. At the moment my vocabulary is limited to soccer cheers, greetings, and food names (I taped labels on everything in my kitchen today). I did, however, succeed in delivering this sentence to Nigel yesterday: "Ndinadya mbuzi ku Zomba." Turns out I wanted this sentence: "Ndinadya nyama ya mbuzi ku Zomba." The latter translates to "I ate goat meat in Zomba" (true). The former indicates that I consumed an entire goat (not true).

I also learned the phrase "vuula akugwa" yesterday — "it's raining." It did indeed rain, a harder rain than we've had so far. The rainy season has been a mere tease so far, but it'll hit soon. I'm looking forward to it. Even today, the little bit of rain cleared the dust (all right, and turned much it to mud). The purple jacaranda flowers have fallen, so we need the color the rains will bring. The flamboyant trees in the yard have started to bloom. I'm especially excited for the green (miss you, Oregon).

And that's life, I suppose. There's more to it, of course, but this entry has meandered long enough. If you've got questions about Malawi, ask! I'm curious to know what interests people outside this little sliver of a country.