A Series on Religion, Part 3: A Sunday at Church (Glimpse)

“You haven’t been to church yet?” Yamikani asked. She looked at me with a mix of disbelief and horror. True, I said—I’d been in Malawi almost a year but hadn’t attended a single service. “Why not?” she asked. I shrugged. “This week,” she said, “you’re coming with me.”


Yamikani at a conference. Her cap is scrawled with “Jesus,” but don’t mistake her for a proselytizer. She rarely raises the topic of religion with me, and we agree on numerous topics: improving access to contraception, encouraging girls to remain in school, spicy chips, handbags.


And so I found myself, on a breezy Sunday in July, at Yamikani’s Pentecostal church. I sat on a blue plastic lawn chair in an auditorium garlanded with gaudy drapes. Banners reading “2010, THE YEAR OF DOMINION” hung on the walls. A few people asked which church I attended in America. I told them it didn’t exist in Malawi. The answer made me feel a bit slimy, but I’ve met little success explaining my agnosticism or my confused religious heritage (a Catholic mother, a Jewish father, a lifetime of lighting the menorah as the Christmas tree twinkles in the corner).

We began by greeting each other with high fives. Nice! Way hipper than handshakes, and with recent reports of swine flu in Malawi, far more hygienic. The preacher’s stage presence was explosive. His voice boomed at the beginning and grew increasingly raspy as the sermon wore on. He beat his right hand up and down as if thumping a drum. Another man worked as Chichewa interpreter and personal sweat-mopper, chasing the preacher with a large white handkerchief. I admit, though, that I had trouble following the sermon, in which the preacher kept mispronouncing “irrevocable,” declared himself a lion, and accused another pastor of being a wizard (three days after they met, this wizard pastor died—don’t worry, though, our preacher assured us, “I did not kill him”).

My musings on wizardry were cut short, however, once it was time for personal prayers. “And if you can,” the preacher said, “you may speak in tongues.”

In what? Yamikani confirmed his words for me. Curiosity overtook skepticism and I strained to make out the voices of the congregants around me, but it was all a muddle—Chichewa, English, maybe some tongues.

As I rocked on my plastic chair, I instructed myself to be open-minded, but instinct told me this was bunk. I kept quiet, though, as the service proceeded. Near the end of the sermon, the preacher returned to the topic of witchcraft. I’ve grown accustomed to this topic during my time in Malawi. The daily newspapers carry frequent reports of witchcraft: men growing female genitalia, vindictive individuals preventing rain from falling over their neighbors’ gardens, invisible Satanists flying through the city, bewitched rats stealing money at local markets. Traditional healers set up stalls in the city center and in outlying townships, selling bottled herbs and gnarled roots. I try to stay mum when witchcraft enters the conversation, to remind myself that religion here is a blend of imported monotheism and traditional beliefs, but I couldn’t suppress an eye-roll as the preacher rehashed the topic. Then, however, he made me bolt upright.

“There is no witchcraft or sorcery—” he boomed.

Yes! Redemption! (In the rational, secular sense, of course.) Cogency!

The interpreter put his words into Chichewa.

“—that will work against me!” he continued. “In Jesus’ name, I am protected!”

I slumped back into my seat.

A Series on Religion, Part 2: Sex and the Bible (Glimpse)

Malawi’s population is overwhelmingly Christian, and conversation often turns to religion. I, unfortunately, seem unable to clamp my maw when talk swerves this way (see Part 1 of this series, in which I discuss my mother’s exit from the Catholic Church). Here is Exhibit B.

As part of my research on gender issues here, I spend time with a group of young women in Ndirande, Blantyre’s most populous township. As a foreigner in Malawi, I’m often assumed to be an expert in every imaginable field, and the women call on me to answer difficult questions. Once, as they crowded into a bedroom to compare pregnancy stretch marks, one turned to me with a solemn look on her face. “Rebecca,” she asked, “is there a medicine for this?”

During another meeting, a few of the young women asked me to confirm a Biblical detail. I hedged the question. “Interpretations vary,” I said, the consummate liberal arts graduate. Mistake. Especially because the women had just asked me about masturbation. I have no idea how this entered the conversation—the discussion was in Chichewa, and I made feeble attempts to follow along—but suddenly I found myself explaining that while some might consider masturbation a form of sex, others may not. I should have stopped here, but, again, I carried on. “Some may say only intercourse is sex, while some include…uh, other types of sex,” I fumbled. And still I didn’t shut up. “Like, uh, oral sex, or…uh—”

“Anal sex!” the matriarch of the house interrupted. The young women roared.

Oh no. How did our tame discussion about problems in Ndirande turn into this? I hastily attempted (and failed) to divert the conversation.

And then, inexplicably, came the big question—“But Rebecca, you still believe in God, don’t you?”
I handled this query better. “Let’s discuss this another time,” I said.

Across the room, I could hear the matriarch chuckle. “We need to get Rebecca to church,” she murmured.

I sighed and sank into the overstuffed couch, swatting away a fly.

Coming next: the women succeed—I make it to church.

Culture/Shock/Waves (Glimpse)

As I settle back into Malawi after a brief stint at home, I’ve been giving some thought to what surprised me about these few weeks in the United States. I don’t mean the soul-rocking stuff of true reverse culture shock, but the little things, the numerous tiny adjustments I had to make.

First, I no longer had to carry toilet paper with me, most bathrooms provided soap, and I never had to squat over a keyhole in the ground. I looked the wrong way when crossing the street. The Internet was SO BLAZING FAST. Everyone around me spoke English, and I was suddenly able to eavesdrop. I found myself constantly checking the location of my cell phone, both to make sure no pickpocket had swiped it (it’s a commonly nabbed item; I had mine stolen at a Blantyre soccer game) and out of fear I would miss a call and have to spend buckets of cash calling the person back (cell rates are astronomical here). I was jolted by the monochromatism of Portland, Ore., my 75 percent white hometown. On one of my first days in town, my mom and I drove past a man with very pale skin. As we approached from behind, I noted the man’s longish sleeves and large-brimmed hat — here was a guy clearly protecting himself from the sun. My first thought? An albino! (Malawi has relatively high rates of albinism.) No, I couldn’t believe myself either.

Then there were even smaller things, teeny-weeny surprises for which I hadn’t thought to ready myself. I’ll keep this snappy — here’s a list of things I hadn’t seen in nearly a year:

• Escalators
• Moving sidewalks
•Vending machines (what, in particular, is the deal with the iPod/camera/Nintendo dispensers?)
• Sliding doors
• Automatic faucets
• Automatic flush toilets
• Automatic soap dispensers
• Automatic paper towel dispensers
• All right, motion-activated or automatic anything (I had particular trouble navigating my library’s new checkout machines)
• Toilet seat covers
• Bike lanes
• Water fountains
• Disposable coffee cup lids
• PDA (public displays of affection)
• PDAs (personal device assistants) — I arrived in Malawi before the massive iPhone boom
• Miniskirts, short shorts, thighs in general
• Mullets
• Yarmulkes

And now I’m back in Blantyre, readjusting to plastic bags of milk (terrible design; I invariably spray milk all over the counter and often over myself), my too-soft foam mattress, the smell of burning trash, blackouts and water shortages, the incessant attention I receive for my skin color, the barefooted street children already trained at age three to stretch out their dirty and chapped hands and ask for help, mama, help. These changes are annoying, tough, painful. But as I bought a heap of perfect tomatoes on the roadside yesterday and watched the late afternoon sunlight go from blinding to soft, the leaves made somehow greener and the sky somehow bluer, the mountains sheathed in a gauzy purple blanket and the dusty horizon shimmering pink, women pumping water at boreholes and cyclists wheeling home enormous loads of firewood and children racing cars fashioned from old cartons of beer, I vowed, this time around, to lock these images in my mind, to not forget this country’s stubborn beauty when I next return home.

A Series on Religion, Part 1: Of Exoticism and Guilt (Glimpse)

From the beginning of my stay in Malawi, I knew religion would prove a sticking point. And indeed, in conversations with both Malawians and with expats, I have said many (many, many) foolish things. I try to tell myself to avoid the topic of religion, but I’ve often broken this rule — attempting to explain agnosticism, confessing I’m unfamiliar with Biblical stories, admitting I don’t attend church at home. The occasions are too many for a single blog entry, so I’m working on several posts about my religion-related mishaps. Here begins the series.

On my second day here, a German woman asked if I had been raised in the church. I should have said no, I wasn’t, and diverted the conversation (“Hey look, baboons!”). But instead I explained, in German, that my parents come from different religious traditions. My father is Jewish, I told her (“oh, I thought he looked exotic in photos,” she replied), and my mother was raised Catholic. But she left the Church, I said, because she disliked the guilt foisted upon followers.

Oops.

I spent the rest of the car trip learning that God did not intend to make his children feel guilty. And when I met the woman’s husband later that day, he gave me a shrewd look before beginning the conversation.

“So,” he said, “I hear you’re of Jewish heritage.”

I clenched my teeth. “Yes, I am,” I said. (“Can’t you see my curls?” I wanted to scream. “And hey, I’m of rebellious heritage, too!”) I stretched out my hand. “I’m Rebecca. What’s your name?”

Stay tuned as I attempt to explain Jewish weddings, discuss the Bible and masturbation, and spend a Sunday in church.

Tyra, I'm Ready for My Close-Up (Glimpse)

Of all the entreaties my skin color provokes — mostly requests for marriage or money — I never thought my pallor might help me snag a modeling contract.

Not that I sought one out. (Then again, neither do I ask for the marriage proposals.) But when a white male friend, Maarten, was enlisted by a coworker for an ad campaign, a woman at the modeling agency asked if he could recruit a pal. The requirements: female (check), white (we’ve established this), tall (I’m barely 5’4”, but I still tower over many Malawians), beautiful (you be the judge).

For me, the main draw of the campaign, a series of ads for a countrywide hotel chain, was the free upmarket lodging. I would get to spend one night at a woodsy inn perched high on a plateau and another on the shores of Lake Malawi. I packed my entire (highly limited) closet — let them decide what I should wear, I figured — and embarked on this new career.



“America’s Next Top Model” it was not. On the first day, one of the models didn’t show, so the young women from the modeling agency scoured a nearby college campus for a replacement. Because they were off searching for our mystery model, the photographer’s assistant took over hair and makeup. “You don’t have any makeup?” she asked. “Not even lip gloss?” I shook my head. She slathered me with Vaseline.

Maarten and I posed together for the first photo. “Couple, smart casual, taking food from buffet,” the plan read. My “smart casual” comprised a 12-year-old dress, which I think I wore to a cousin’s Bat Mitzvah, and the $7 secondhand wedges I’d found at the market the day before. The buffet was a dessert spread, with distractingly labeled “raspberry fruits” and cheesecake with a Barbie pink glaze. Maarten and I took turns serving. “Rebecca, smile at the chocolate cake,” the photographer, Arjen, instructed. “Smile at the cake. Now smile at Maarten. No, close your mouth. No, I don’t want any teeth. Ah, ok. Now back to the cake. Smile at the cake. Smile at the cake. Smile at the cake. Beautiful.”

We were a difficult duo. Arjen kept imploring us to take it seriously, something I found difficult to do when he also instructed us to “Love the place, love the food, love each other, love everything.” To get into the scene, Maarten and I tried creating a narrative (we were a young married couple; this was our second wedding anniversary), but it quickly devolved (I was anxious about kids; I didn’t like his tie; each thought the other had grown tubby since the nuptials). I’m sure Arjen was relieved to release us once mystery model arrived.

We had another shot in the late afternoon, though: “Couple, casual clothes, looking in the distance.” It turns out looking into the distance is a real challenge. What do you do with your hands? Do you stand with legs akimbo? Or maybe one leg crossed over the other? How do you conjure up an expression of awe when the only sight around is a red “FIRE ASSEMBLY POINT” sign? “Don’t overplay,” Arjen repeated, wearier each time. “Especially you, Rebecca. Don’t overplay.”

I finally relaxed for my third and final shoot: “Two models having lunch on terrace.” We were on the lake by this time, and I had a whole fish on my plate (I poked its gluey eye with my fork; Arjen promptly reprimanded me). This was the first multiracial photo — I was paired with Aubrey, a radio journalist. We toasted glasses of wine (well, ginger ale) and held our silverware awkwardly. But conversation flowed (whenever you learn how to say “to bite” in a foreign language, you know banter has been lively) and Arjen said we looked glamorous. His assistant swore I had improved.





“So Rebecca, how did you get into modeling?” mystery model Chloe asked. I explained I’d never modeled before.“Oh, that’s always how it starts,” she responded, nodding knowingly.

Somehow, I don’t think so.

My Name is What? My Name is Who? (Glimpse)

I have never been one for nicknames. As a child, I hated the name Becky, and after meeting a whole string of Beccas I disliked (sorry), that option was out as well. My elementary school soccer coach called me Beckers and my eight grade math teacher dubbed me Jake (because of Jacobson), but neither handle survived. A high school friend mashed my first and last names to make Rebjac, and this one actually had some holding power. But I still prefer Rebecca.

In Malawi, however, I have found myself entertaining all variety of new labels and names. Mzungu/azungu (white person, less respectfully/more respectfully) tops the chart, but the name-calling doesn’t stop there. I’m also mama, mami, sister, baby, friend, girlfriend, customer, you, and all of these in Chichewa. Hardly noteworthy — every foreign young woman receives this kind of attention. But sometimes locals know my real name, and I’m always pleased with their variations. Malawians tend to spell my name “Rabecca” (my bank card even identifies me this way — every time I slide it into an ATM, the screen shouts “GOOD AFTERNOON RABECCA!”), and the confusion over L and R in Chichewa means I’m sometimes called “Labecca.” In Ndirande, the township where I’m doing my research, I often buy samosas from a young boy who calls me “Rabe” (no, not pronounced like the bitter broccoli leaf). And when I visit Mrs. Mkutu’s house, she places her two-month old grandson in my arms and announces the arrival of “Auntie Rebecca.”

But my two favorite soubriquets have nothing to do with my given name. The first is “azungu dala,” a name I’ve heard only twice but would continue to welcome. I was in Ndirande the first time, trudging up a dusty hill with a Malawian friend. She gently punched my shoulder, laughing and repeating the name to herself, “azungu dala, azungu dala.” I asked her to explain. “It’s like a white person, but a white person who —” she paused. “It’s like ‘mwana dala,’ someone who looks like a child but isn’t a child.” I considered this. “So I look like a white person, but I’m not one?” I asked. She wasn’t entirely sure how to answer. But I heard the same name later that week, this time while disembarking from a minibus. I’ve decided to take it as a compliment — I may look like a white person, sure, but I also take local transport and spend my time in gritty urban townships, and maybe that makes me something else.

The second moniker has even more curious origins, and may not even qualify as a nickname, but let’s run with it, ok? Several weeks ago, I tromped to the market to buy a table and chairs for my house. Lacking transport, I hired two men to carry the furniture home for me. We cut quite the spectacle — me in front, chomping on groundnuts, and the men behind, balancing heavy wooden furniture on their sweaty bald heads. As we made the last turn to my house, I greeted the cluster of women and children who gather there to sell sugarcane and fried balls of dough and cell phone credit. They looked at us with surprise and confusion. “Ndilibe galimoto!” I called — “I don’t have a car!” They hooted with laughter, and we continued on our way.



Several days later, I rounded that same corner, this time alone. I smiled and waved at an adolescent girl. “Ndilibe galimoto!” she called, then pointed at me and ran in the opposite direction. I shrugged. It’ll do.

Keeping Pace With the Porters (Glimpse)

The World Cup might be the globe’s most sensational sporting event (and how I mourned its completion yesterday, though not as much as I’d bewailed Germany’s semifinal exit at the hands of — ok, header of — Carlos “Giving a Bad Name to Curly Haired People Everywhere” Puyol), but the Mulanje Porters Race is undoubtedly Malawi’s prime athletic contest. Imagine, for a moment, 200 participants, ages 13 to 74 (though I swear some must have been preadolescent), tearing up a rocky crag, traversing a grassy plateau, and then bouncing back down the mountain, logging 25 kilometers and about 2,000 meters of elevation change. Now imagine many of these participants barefoot, or perhaps in plastic sandals or beat-up Converse All-Stars, some in boxers or cuffed golf shorts or bedraggled denim cutoffs, and several of the women (that’s right, this is not just a stag affair) dressed in skirts or even swimsuit tops. With the fastest runners clocking just over two hours, the whole occasion makes for quite the spectacle.





I attended the Porters Race this past Saturday, rolling out of Blantyre toward Mount Mulanje at 5 a.m. in a 37-year-old, sea green Mercedes. (We didn’t return with the same grace — the clutch spring broke somewhere en route, and we lurched, rather than glided, our way back to the city.) The race was scheduled to start at 6 a.m., but this being Malawi, the runners didn’t pound up the mountain until 7:45. No matter — this being Malawi, I knew half of the attendees (ok, not half) and we sized up the competitors. The event is open to foreigners (26 took part this year, though the fastest non-Malawian man and woman finished about an hour after their Malawian counterparts), and numerous people asked me if I was participating. No way, I said — I’ve tackled Mulanje my share of times, but it’s a steep beast of a mountain (and did I mention it was 6 a.m.?).

I didn’t see the action up on the plateau, but judging by the participants’ post-race injuries, the mountain didn’t spare any punches. A cadre of nurses tended to cuts and abrasions, as well as some truly gnarly wounds. Runners finished with mud-splattered legs, and many with muddy bums (I could sympathize – I tore the seat of my shorts on a Mulanje descent in March).





When the Porters Race began 15 years ago, it was exactly what the name suggests — a contest between the porters who lug hikers’ gear up the mountain. It quickly expanded, though, including women in its fifth year and drawing competitors from across the country. Now, porters rarely number among the top finishers. Saturday’s male winner is a soldier in Lilongwe and said he spent the last two months training for the race. The female winner belongs to a local athletic club. She displaced a woman who has dominated the podium, losing the race only once in the last seven years.







As impressive as the competitors proved, I had to ask what heights they could reach with proper athletic training. When I spoke with the winner of the men’s race, he said he intended to put his prize money (about $300) to better training equipment and access to facilities. He had the lean yet powerful build of a marathoner and a confident gait. I’m no fan of financially swollen sports programs (or of the swollen egos of overpaid and overhyped athletes), and goodness knows other sectors in Malawi need the attention more. But I had to wonder — what if this country had proper athletics infrastructure? Could there have been a Usain Bolt at Saturday’s race? Just askin’.