M-5 North

I find myself alone in the bed of a moving truck once again, watching my world blur by me. It was chilly, gray and drizzling this morning on the plateau, but as we descend the sun slits open the sky, revealing a clear and dazzling view across the severe Rift Valley mountains to the distant slip of blue that is Lake Malawi. My clothes are dried by the wind and the white sun as we meander along the curves of the lakeshore road. I am contemplative, wondering how I will manage to leave this country I have so come to love. This is one of my favorite roads in Malawi, the stretch from Nkhata Bay to my house in Chintheche. I try to memorize it as the truck winds along this curvy road cut through the green, knowing this journey will be one that I painfully miss.

The rubber trees of the Vizara Rubber Planatation are manicured and thriving, the canopy cloaking the tapped and plastic-wrapped trunks in dim shadow. Men and boys lounge under the trees, waiting for the opportunity to sell the toys in their hands—bouncing balls made from poached rubber, resembling grimy gray rubber-band collections. Others are in hiding and I can only see their grimy fuel cans marking black market diesel sale. Soon the pristine order of the estate gives way to wild rainforest, the lakeshore jungle, hosting one of Malawi’s highest rates of rainfall. The trees are towers, thick with vines that drape over the twisting road, forming a roped verdant divider between the pavement-bound traveler and the hidden villages, the firewood poacher, the monitor lizard and the black mamba, the mushroom hunter, the mosquito cloud, the hot-blooded teenagers, the charcoal burner, the jungle fever ghosts that haunt the heavy composting darkness.

Soon the shrinking jungle is tamed by the village. Mud and brick huts with thatched roofs replace the tangle of hot-growing vegetation, the surrounding properties swept clean of growth and life, a naked defense against the deadly tropical serpent. The people are here; their laundry hangs on wire lines and they lounge on their front stoops, seeking relief from the heat, snoozing or shelling beans. I flash bo thumbs up to the children—children carrying water on their heads or their little brothers on their backs, girls in torn chitenje balancing bundles of firewood, boys running home from school in their disheveled uniforms, teenaged students balancing their friends on the handlebars of their fathers’ bicycles as they frantically pedal and still try to wave at me in greeting. Between the glossy thick clumps of banana trees I can see the lake, shining silver in the noonday sun light, home of the kampango fish held up in slick sandy bunches on the side of the road by the men who hauled them up from the depths into their dugout canoes.

I watch the hills above the highway, allowing the jade and lime and glass greens to blend into one great rolling blur, wondering if these trees will last another generation as their wood is poached and burned. For now the jungle is small but healthy, unappreciated in its beauty, its majesty, its great looming danger; it smothers the mountains and towers over the subdued lake below.

The earth flattens and I find myself suddenly jogging through maize fields, the once green stalks with their jolly pink tassels now dry and blonde, the small ears of maize hardening, feebly awaiting the harvest. On the other side, cassava fields flourish, the purple-green fingers branching out from their red stems, stretching for the sun, quivering in the moving air. The lack of trees somehow makes me more aware of the sun as it heats my shoulders. Without the many shades of green the sunlight is cruel and angry-white, glaring at me from the glass surface of the lake.

I cross a bridge and assess the river below; the receding rains have left the banks hardening as the flow shrinks, the russet water still, the water plants bursting with gleeful floating blossoms. The next bridge reveals my favorite view: the lake opens the river banks to welcome the tranquil flow from the west, gently lapping at its long lost molecules, the lilies anchored tightly upstream. Net-laden dugout canoes are pulled up on the beach and dry in the sun and the heat as children run naked in the shallow water, shattering the silver sunlight scowl on the surface.

We move quickly, flying past these interesting and beautiful sights, blurring them into a rapid snapshot slideshow. Suddenly I am in my village, the last 5k, and here are my neighbors. Satisfaction settles into my stomach as I review familiar homey sights: steps carved into the red clay hill leading away from the road, a newly painted sign, a recently burned down building (Uncle Justin’s Tuck Shop), men playing bao under a tree on the roadside, a lone cow grazing on the roadside, a shaded tub full of black bananas for sale near their vendor as he naps in a wheelbarrow, groups of women sitting on the ground beneath the mango trees outside a church, a local teacher pedaling his rusted bicycle, women with heavy cloth-wrapped bundles waiting on the side of the road for a ride, children skipping their way south on the shoulder of the road to the market to buy tomatoes for their mothers. I rap on the window at my stop and jump out of the truck bed, pulling my rucksack behind me. I say thanks and goodbye and continue on foot down the dirt road beneath the blue gum trees to my front door as Zen Kitty run-leaps toward me through the tall grass to welcome me home. 

Science WIN

Most community day secondary schools in Malawi are lacking a science lab, not to mention the essential chemicals and equipment for conducting basic practical demonstrations. Yet the students are still expected to perform simple experiments during their national exams. Teachers all across this country struggle to instruct physical science and biology without the convenience of visual aid, relying on locally available resources and their own creativity or, unfortunately, succumbing to an attitude of despondency and apathy in teaching.

In teacher development we refuse to accept the lack of a science lab as an excuse for uninspired teaching. Instead we teach TALULAR (Teaching and Learning Using Locally Available Resources). In this program, bottle caps become isotopes, strings and sticks unite to form compasses, maize porridge serves as glue for the creation of posters, beans are utilized to teach estimation, plants are collected for realia biology lessons, and students draw in the dirt to demonstrate their knowledge. Once a teacher begins viewing his subject in this way, many creative opportunities begin to present themselves as he plans his lessons.

Still, the obstacle of exams is tough to overcome. The students may understand certain concepts, but if they have never worked with lab equipment, the chance of a passing grade for practical examination is low. Some schools try to assist their students by traveling to a neighboring school to share their resources, while some simply prepare the students with written notes and hope for the best.

At Chintheche CDSS one of our ongoing projects has been the conversion of a classroom into a science laboratory. With the goal in mind to further assist the students with their education, teachers worked with the former Peace Corps Volunteer in the area to apply for an American Ambassador’s Self Help Grant for funding to build cabinets, counters and stools, to pipe water into the building, to rewire the room’s electricity, to purchase and install sinks and other fixtures, to add glass windows, and to purchase necessary basic equipment for the instruction of sciences.

In Peace Corps we aim to work with community groups that are motivated and invested in their projects, in hopes that their ownership and interest will result in sustainability. In this sense it has been a pleasure to work with the administrative staff on this project. They barely needed me at all! It took a year and half from the time they were approved for funding to the time that the science lab opened for business but the school was facing endless challenges: extraordinary deflation, national fuel shortages, the devaluation of the Malawian Kwacha, and the transfers of three head teachers away from Chintheche CDSS. Yet the building committee managed, even under these unexpected circumstances, to see the project through. Today, students at Chintheche CDSS are learning physical science properly. I am very, very proud of my school.

After the project’s completion, staff from the American embassy visited the school for a dedication ceremony. The American Ambassador's representative cut the ribbon on the door, watched a demonstration lesson with some of our form 4 students in the lab, and gave a speech about resiliency in Malawian education and the girl child’s responsibility to study science and math. The building committee chairperson, the PTA chairperson, the head teacher, the representatives for the DEM and the Nkhata Bay District Commissioner also gave their speeches. Finally, the floor was handed over to the students, who performed brilliantly written and extremely funny skits about learning science in a laboratory. They also treated our guests to a performance of the local celebration dance, chilimika, complete with local drums.

I want to thank my predecessor PCV for assisting with the groundwork of the project. I wish you could have seen the dedication ceremony; the nervous giggling, the panic at the imminent arrival of the American Ambassador to Malawi, the chosen hot pink ribbon for the door, the lip-biting and eyebrow scrunching seriousness with which the students conducted their experiments for the visitors, the hilarious student performances, and above all else, the pride that radiated from each person there, nearly tangible in its strength.

Vacation: A Series of African Adventures

Chapter 8: See Food and Eat It

The absence of seafood and other luxury treats in my life has been depressing, so I set out to make up for its extended absence in my life while living it up on Mozambique’s generous coast. Here are a few reasons I gained ten pounds on the Mozambique leg of our vacation alone:

•  Espresso with steamed full cream milk and real, heavy-crusted and chewy substantial bread

• Prawns, grilled then soaked in garlic butter and fresh-squeezed lemon, served with fried potatoes used to soak up the full-fat mixture of juices

• Calamari rings sautéed in butter and served with colorful rice pilaf

• Clams, simmered in white wine and tomato sauce that just begged for bread dipping

• Tender strips of beef with fried egg and chippies, ketchup, mayo, peri peri hot sauce, and cabbage salad with several cold beers

• Chocolate brownies served with a dollop of real whipping cream and fresh coffee

• Grilled barracuda, drizzled with butter and lemon and served alongside coconut rice and salad

• A variety of half-liters bottles of beer, many South African wines, and local “rhum” with coke

• Banana flambé, crème brulee, and waffles with syrup

• Grilled red fish with mashed potatoes and rosemary-stewed eggplant and tomato

• Planks of calamari fried in batter with chips with brown vinegar and ketchup

• French toast with bananas, coconut, and white chocolate

• Cheese and margarine sandwiches made at 4 am and eaten on the road as we traveled

• Sautéed prawns with chili, tomato, and fettuccini with garlic toast

• Grilled lobster tails with garlic mashed potatoes and endless butter sauce

*


Chapter 9: The Return

Our return travel was a whirlwind of good karma, exhaustion, cheese sandwiches, and generous drivers. In two days, we covered 1650 kilometers from Tofo Beach, Mozambique, to Blantyre, Malawi. We proved our hitch hiking determination and resiliency, while continuingly reaffirming that people in this world can be truly kind. Our great trans-nation adventure over destroyed and painfully slow roads included rides in taxis, a ferry, sedans, pickup trucks, matolas, an 18-wheeler, a mini bus, a land rover, and a Jeep Grand Cherokee. We met Mozambiquans, Malawians, Zambians, British aid workers, politicians, a banker, a teacher, trilingual truck drivers, corrupt police men and women, a hotel receptionist, confused but smiling immigrations officers, friendly taxi drivers, a Spanish cartographer, Israeli and French backpackers, employees of the Mozambiquan Ministry of Agriculture, and some very silly black market money changers. The sun was just beginning to set as we pulled up in front of our lodge in Blantyre, back in Malawi, exhausted but refreshed, dirty but happy, broke but holding the most amazing vacation memories anyone could ever hope for.

Vacation: A Series of African Adventures

Chapter 5: Arthur

We were first refused a visa at the Mozmbiquan Embassy, costing us a full day of our vacation allotment. After a truck ride, a mini bus ride, a brief motor bike ride and 2 hours at the border, however, we had in our hands authentic, oh-my-goodness EXPENSIVE tourist visas for travel into Mozambique (complete with awful sweaty head shot). While I happened to have an even $86 USD for some reason, Jon had to “wait for change” during an hour spent mostly dancing around the fact that “there is a problem with change.” We suggested that if they couldn’t provide $4, they should give us a $1 discount, a concept that horrified the immigrations officer but sent the giant blonde sunglassed German James Bond assassin next to me into childlike chuckles.

“Where are you going?” he asked me, amused either by our gall or our stupidity, “Do you have a ride?”

I looked at this giant man and wondered where he might be hiding his obligatory grenade launcher before admitting that we indeed needed a ride and that if he could get us as far as possible on the way to Chimoio we would be very appreciative. Then I shrugged at Jon, mentally asking if I had just agreed to our murders. My instincts weren’t screaming to run, run away, so I let the man lead us to his car. All of a sudden we were in Mozambique!

Turns out Giant Blonde Bond Assassin is actually an optician named Thomas who drives a beat up VW and loves gummi bears. He gave us a free ride to Tete, navigating the broken-up roads with plenty of practice, performed maintenance on Jon’s glasses, shared his gummis, and guided us to ATMs and lunch shops before heading into his office to work.

Jon and I ambled down the road marveling over and sipping from a can of coke we had purchased (in Malawi we only have bottles, and you can only take them on-the-go if you have a bottle to trade). A van picked us up and dropped us again on the outskirts of town, where we found an SUV with two young guys going almost all the way to Chimoio. The next 5 hours cemented my latest suspicion that I am indeed old and grouchy: sitting on a vibrating, pounding subwoofer the entire trip while the driver continually turned up the bass made me, to say the least, tired. They dropped us outside town and we rode into the city in the back of a quarry truck filled with gravel, triumphant and exhausted.

The next day we were out the door of our hostel at 4:30 AM. We took a long mini bus to Inchope and then waited, waited, waited for a ride. Finally we got picked up and rode in the bed of a truck about 80K, and this pattern repeated several times; us skipping down the road in short bursts of truck bed wind, riding in many vehicles without putting any substantial distance behind us. Trying to pee in the long grass had filled my undies with stickers and other plant life, my hair was matted and scary-looking from the wind, and my sunscreen-slick skin had glued on every grain of dust in the country. We realized we weren’t going to make it to our final location. We would be lucky to make Vilanculo if we didn’t get a direct ride quick.

We weren’t talking much. I was sitting sullenly on a log studying the map while Jon reapplied sunscreen and waved at the cars passing, trying in vain to get us a ride. And then, there was Arthur.

We were immediately relieved—Arthur was going all the way to Vilanculo and since he was coming from Harare and had been driving all day he was in a hurry…not to mention that fact that his luxury Land Rover had comfortable seats and AIR CONDITIONING (YES! Best ride ever!). Next, he told us that he would be travelling through Maxixe the next day if we wanted a free and direct ride there (YES! YES! Best ride ever!). The remainder of the trip to Vilanculo was peaceful and friendly, Arthur and I chatting about families and coconut plantations and Arthur’s 18 years living and working in Vilanculo while Jon caught a nap in the back. Upon arriving in Vilanculo, Arthur took us to the tiny airport for our first espresso in over a year (his treat—best ride (and best coffee) ever!). In the meantime he wanted to make some calls to figure out which backpackers lodge would be best for us to board at. Jon and I giddily slurped at our cups, mentally chatting to one another: “Can you believe our luck? Free ride and free coffee?!” “Can you believe we have another free ride tomorrow?” We were happy as the clams we fully intended on eating once we made it to the beach.

Arthur eventually set down his two cell phones. He informed us he had made reservations for us at a lodge, and I, distracted by the storm brewing outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, inquired whether he had chosen Zombie Cucumber or Baobob Beach for us, and he said, offhand, “No, you kids will stay at my old lodge. I’ll just put it on my business account.” I was so shocked I couldn’t even think to myself that this was the best ride ever. Instead, I sincerely argued against it, citing how accustomed we are to hostels, how he’s already been so generous as to provide us with transportation, how we loathe to inconvenience anyone. He dismissed me with a wave of his hand.

“I already told you I have 3 grown sons,” he reminded me. “I’m sure at some point someone has helped my kids, so I intend to help you.” I considered this, then nodded my assent as the rain lashed against his windshield.

Help us he did. Arthur gave us a grand tour of the village then set us up with a huge family-sized chalet with several beds, a hot shower, fans, and a huge rarity: quiet. He bought us butternut soup, Greek salad, calamari, prawns, beers and cocktails for dinner, then a huge breakfast and lunch the next day. He drove us to Maxixe and answered all my questions about the coconut plantations, which stretched endlessly and contrasted in tropical, seemingly electric light, against the matte blue of the clear sky. Arthur put us in touch with his friend that would meet us at the ferry on the other side of the bay, made sure we had units for our phones, and sent us on our way. It was difficult for me to say goodbye—when it came down to it, Arthur reminded me of my dad.

It was the best ride ever.

We made it across the bay with neither delay nor nausea and met with Arthur’s friend, who secured us in a taxi and gave explicit instructions in Portuguese to the driver so that we didn’t have to negotiate in our sad Spanglishportochewa language we have to utilize in Mozambique. We dined on barracuda and calamari and reflected on Arthur’s generosity and how we might someday pay forward his good deeds.

*

Chapter 6: Home

And the arms of the ocean

Were carrying me
And all this devotion was rushing out of me…
But the arms of the ocean
Delivered me

 

I am always drawn back to the sea, its magnetism weighing on me, pressuring me, whispering to me in periods of absence. I am calmed by its songs. I am rehydrated by its moist air and invigorated by its scent, the thick wet organic smell of life. And mostly, I am alive in its grasp, invigorated by the salt and the motion embracing me, stroking and soothing and welcoming me home. 

 

My need to submerge myself into the salt was urgent, unwilling to be satisfied by the dipping of my toes or a simple swim in the waves. I donned my fins and dove, immediately feeling my body relax in the water, suddenly graceful, even loaded with equipment.

 

Peri-Peri Divers took me 15 meters down to a reef, where we spent nearly an hour exploring the rocks. Huge spiny lobsters looked up at me from crevices in boulders and sting rays danced away nervously. Tropical fish sported every shade of purple and turquoise and orange, darting back and forth as the current pulled and released. I floated into a shallow cave to find giant parrot fish the color of candy, their teeth visible on their grinning beaks. A large bat fish dove in and out, greeting his beaked friends before rejoining his school, a group so thick they blotted out the sunlight when they flapped by above me. I watched schools of silver and yellow fish reflect at they turned back and forth, splitting in half to go around me then reforming seamlessly like a strange liquid creature.

 

I watched my tropical surroundings from outside of myself as my mind studied introspectively the effect the waters have on me. I could have been blind, but I would have been happy.

* 

 

Chapter 7: Mega Fauna Mega AWESOME

“Okay, jump! Jump, jump, jump!” I hold my mask onto my face and plunge off the boat into the Indian Ocean, spinning under the surface until my eyes find what they seek: a pod of dolphins, pale blue in the sunlit waters, swimming rapidly and gracefully around us. I freeze and hold my breath, watching the family. This is a lifelong dream achieved, and they are even more beautiful than I had imagined. Suddenly another comes up behind me and passes closely, allowing me to admire her exquisite form, the shattered lines of sunlight dancing along her back. She joins her brothers and sisters and the dolphins turn their noses to the depths, forming a massive column of divers that disappears below us into the blue. I float at the surface, watching them go, listening, in awe and exhilaration, to their squeals and whistles as they fade away.

Our Peri-Peri Divers “Ocean Safari” is exactly like being on safari anywhere else in Africa. You traverse the environment in a vehicle in search of rare wildlife sightings. The difference is, here, you abandon the safety of your truck to play with the elephants.

We chose Peri-Peri Divers for our SCUBA and other ocean adventures because they facilitate much of the work of the Marine Megafauna Association, a program fighting to conserve manta rays, whale sharks, and other large and abused marine life, such as sea turtles. These organizations recognize the extraordinary value in dive tourism but fight to make it eco-friendly and educational.

Thus, when we encounter our whale shark, we have been prepared for how to properly swim with him. We jump into the water and behold the giant. I marvel at how shark-like this shark actually is while reassuring my shark phobia that this giant creature gorges itself only on plankton and the smallest of small bait fish. I appreciate its meticulous white spot pattern along its back, watching as the water and the light play across it. Claire, a resident PhD student, freedives below it, like a mermaid, photographing and sexing it. When I return to the boat grinning in amazement at its grand size, she informs us that this creature is a juvenile, a mere 5.5 meters (nearly 20 feet long!) compared to the measurements often found with adults, up to 20 meters (60 feet!).

Most safari groups with Peri-Peri can hope to see perhaps one of these magnificent creatures during their trip. We were lucky though; how could we not be with the immaculate conditions? Glass water and cloudless sunlight made our search easy, and in what felt like the next moment I found myself dancing below the surface with a reef manta ray, a recently discovered sub-species of manta ray closely related to the giant manta that also resides in Mozambiquan waters. This animal was plenty giant for me, with about a 3 meter wingspan. She was the very essence of fluidity and elegance, swishing and swooping and she navigated the current with natural agility and infinite strength. How can giants be this graceful? This beautiful?

We were lucky then, to have another whale shark sighting, a record-breaking petite, measuring just 2 meters, the smallest whale shark the biologists had ever spotted in these waters. Skittish in her youth, she dove before we had our masks on, shyly avoiding a human encounter.

As we turned the boat back to Tofo Beach, however, we stumbled upon yet another beautiful beast and once again leapt into the bright waters for a better look. Under the surface I couldn’t find the animal and I turned back to the boat for direction. Look down! Look down! They shouted, but all I could see as I searched maddeningly below me was the sandy ocean bottom. Then, something about the water’s movement led me to raise my eyes. I discovered the shark’s massive smirk directly in front of me, swimming toward my face. I froze in awe and respect, mere feet from a giant mouth as wide as I am tall. If whale sharks did indeed eat large fish or mammals, this one could have swallowed me whole. It glided slowly by me as if I were no more than one of its clinging remoras, and I turned to swim, respectfully keeping my distance, alongside it. We stayed there together, him meandering and me kicking my fins with all my strength to keep up, for what felt like hours.

We  disembarked elated and adrenaline-high. Even the skipper and the guide were grinning to no end as Claire whooped loudly in celebration, enthusiastically explaining how rare it is to have a safari with all of the big 3 sighted; we did that and more, plus broke a record for smallest whale shark sighted in the 10 years scientists have been working on the Mozambiquan coast. Jon and I babbled on to one another, repetitively sharing our stories of close encounters with gentle giants.

Coincidentally, the lead biologist and founder of the Marine Megafauna Association, Dr. Andrea Marshall, gave a talk that night on manta rays. It was an enthralling lecture, particularly since we had danced with a manta only that afternoon. She educated us on manta habits and health, discussed her discovery of the reef manta and the challenges of identifying and tracking mantas around the world, finally voicing a cry for the preservation of these marvelous creatures. She has been working with the government of Mozambique to legislate new laws forbidding the fishing of mantas, which are currently harvested mainly for their gills racks, which are sold to overseas markets and ground up to be used in Chinese medicine to “filter” impurities from the human body. For more information on the work the Marine Megafauna Association is doing in Mozambique and around the world visit www.marinemegafauna.org.

Vacation: A Series of African Adventures

Chapter 1: The Travel Buddy

Experience in Peace Corps Malawi proves again and again that travel is a monumental experience of stress. Moving from one place to another means possibly subjecting yourself to various pure forms of torture. I’ve spent long hours standing in the rain, shivering cold, on the side of the highway, and full days burning in the relentless white sunshine as the heat rises in waves off the pavement under my sweating Merrell-clad feet. I’ve spent hours perched on a piece of plywood serving as a sharp-edged seat in a mini bus with a roof too low to lift my head. I’ve been in truck beds so full of other human bodies that I could not take a full breath, much less move my arms. Once I was left on the side of the road in a strange town in nonelectric 9 PM Malawian darkness. I’ve been endlessly sexually propositioned, I’ve held my bladder in check for over 14 hours, and I’ve walked over 22 kilometers while unable to find a ride. I’ve spent full days standing in the aisle of a bus with blasting speakers over my head and spit-preaching churchmen yelling local language sermons in my face. I’ve been peed on by children and kicked by goats and had baskets of bloody fish spilled on my legs. I’ve been ripped off, accidentally punched, subjected to long periods of earsplitting techno music, and I’ve found myself in the midst of black market fuel exchanges.

I cite these experiences to illustrate the level of sheer frustration, anxiety, and anger that can build up within a traveler in Malawi. Mix this with the wrong travel buddy and you will find yourself wading in a mire of negativity and disgust. Mix it with the right travel buddy and you have an AWESOME series of comical and enjoyable adventures that you will remember fondly forever. A travel buddy must have the tolerance to keep by your side and keep smiling in the worst moments of pressure. You and your travel buddy must work as a team to negotiate rides, to keep one another energetic and optimistic, and to balance the give and take of conversation with stranger host drivers as you hitchhike. Your travel buddy should support you even when your decision is what forces you both to walk 10k in 105 degree noonday sun with heavy rucksacks before you finally get a pick up. Your travel buddy must be aware of surroundings as you toss your belongings into the public transportation abyss. Simultaneously, you must perform as an ideal travel buddy yourself; duties may or may not include smoothing over cuss-outs of mischievous bus drivers, singing terribly in order to improve the overall travel mood, and/or spontaneously producing delicious road snacks to share in awkward and hungry situations. 

Early in our service Jon and I recognized that we are mongers of one another’s positive attitudes and that we have identical travel philosophies. Our set of rules is very clear and mutually obeyed: never go backwards, always allow opportunity for a free or private ride, avoid mini buses and unsafe vehicles when at all possible…and never turn down a free beer! Teamwork is essential; we keep an eye on one another and one another’s belongings. Most importantly, and most instinctively and easily, only one person is permitted to tantrum at a time; someone is always smiling to keep the other afloat.

Jon and I have travelled together for just about two years now. We’ve kept each other safe and happy in our journeys despite split fuel lines, shady and possibly illegal transactions, rides that extend into the dark of night, 15-hour travel days, break downs, blown tires, and encounters with strangers’ bodily fluids. We’ve raced roaring thunderstorms, been stuck in the rain for hours on end, sweated endlessly on the northern lakeshore, crossed country borders, crossed Lake Malawi, climbed mountains, trekked whole sections of highway, and spent cumulative weeks aboard big buses and mini buses and coasters and trucks and in cars and semis.

Jon has seen me at my worst. He has seen me throw down my bag in sheer frustration and scream wordlessly on the side of the road. He has seen me snarling and violent in the face of a mini bus conductor that refused to let go of my arm. He held me back when I jumped viciously to the defense as a drunken man tried to hit an innocent woman. He has traveled with me when I am hat-clad and baggy pantsed and fanny-packed and greased with sunscreen. He has seen me cry, seen me sick, seen me puke, seen me 6 hours past “I gotta pee.” On this trip, as we climbed a steep hill and I labored over the rocks while wrestling with the chitenje clinging to my perspiration-damp knees, Jon looked over at me and said, “It’s surprising, but you really do sweat more than me.”

In that moment, travel buddy status was officially cemented forever.

*

Chapter 2: The Journey to the Island

Despite my extraordinary love for and preference to be on the water, I still get very seasick. I discovered this bodily flaw at 5 years old on my first father/daughter deep sea fishing trip. Since then, I’ve gotten nauseous on yachts, on kayaks, on row boats, and on cruise ships alike. I’ve been seasick while scuba diving and while on that stupid pirate ship ride at Six Flags that just goes back and forth. I’ll admit… I’ve even been seasick on playground swings.

Normally for a sea excursion a Dramamine and a sprite does the trick, making me happily impervious to vicious (or, let’s be honest, even barely-there waves).

There is no Dramamine in Malawi.

I fretted over this while watching the boat we were intending to board. The Malungu was a small and colorful double-decker boat. It had a bit of cover from the sun, and we were well early enough to claim seats.  But my mind was working out other challenges: did I choose to sit below, where fumes would be worse but perhaps it might be more stable as we crossed 70k of waves? Did I sit up top where the breeze would be fresh but it would be messy for the people below if I happened to puke? As the wind picked up and storm clouds loomed in the distance I agonized, dreading the boat trip with every ounce of my un-medicated being.

Lightning flashed in the far distance as we were approached by a mysterious man. For just two thousand kwacha extra, he told us, we could ride to Likoma Island on a private boat. On board the Jacana, he indicated, the total number on board would be seven: 3 passengers, 2 deckhands, the boat owner, and the boat captain.  We would arrive on the island long before the Malungu, which delayed at Chizimulu Island and, meanwhile, wouldn’t depart for another several hours. I was much more eager to vomit off the side of a small private boat, so we jumped on board (by which I mean we were rowed to the boat in the tiniest row boat in human existence). While we sat on the deck in strapped down folding chairs under mounted beach umbrellas we chatted with the owner of the boat, a Malawian, a Likoma Islander that had transported his 1940s vessel from England, that had once had a medical practice in Brighton. We mentioned the subject of seasickness and I was suddenly granted a tiny blue pill, a nameless article that could “possibly cause drowsiness.”

We went below and seated ourselves in the small cabin. It was only a few moments before the ruthless waves from a wicked distant storm made me green. It was only a half hour after that when I slid into what was either a medically-induced coma or a real-life experience with rufies. I woke a few hours later just to mumble-ask Jon if I was sleeping with my mouth open. He replied, with great emphasis, “Yes.” Then I fell directly back to sleep, feeling myself drool from the very back of my subconscious. I slept for 5 hours of the 7 hour boat ride then proceeded, on arrival to the island, to eat my whole dinner and over half of Jon’s before I, content and drug addled, passed out again for 10 hours straight.

On the return trip I did not obtain such tablets and spent the better part of the trip puking on the boat deck, but that is beside the point.

*

Chapter 3: Likoma Island

The third passenger on the Jacana happened to be the owner of a new and, therefore, underrated lodge on Likoma Island. Using coy tactics he talked us out of our reservations at a rivaling lodge and into his (okay…let’s be honest here. I am a Peace Corps Volunteer; for the record, all it takes to convince me to stay at your lodge is a bit of a monetary discount and perhaps a lower exchange rate.) Thus we landed at Ulisa Bay Lodge, home of Malawi’s only semi-true beef stroganav.

Later, we hiked the 3k into town, where we spent Palm Sunday touring Malawi’s first Anglican church. The building was in exquisite condition, reminiscent of the Spanish cathedrals and missions I have toured in southern California and Spain. I admired the antique stained glass and the simple carved depiction of the virgin, appreciating the beauty and dedicated poured into what, on European standards, is a simple church. On Malawian terms, though, this was an ornate and extravagant building. My attention wasn’t kept by the architecture, however. Children watched us carefully from behind pillars, adorned with palm frond jewelry and crosses, grinning at us, anxiously waiting to see if we would pay them any attention.

The people on Likoma Island were just as I would expect after spending so much time with Malawians. They were hospitable and warm, colorful and friendly. The children, who so often served as our guides as we hiked meandering trails between coves and through villages, were the most respectful and well-behaved I had encountered in Africa.

*

Chapter 4: A Walk in the Dark

Looking up from underneath

Fractured moonlight on the sea
Reflections look the same to me
As before I went under
And it’s peaceful in the deep cathedral where you cannot breathe
No need to pray, no need to speak

 

We did a last torch check before back rolling off the edge of the small boat and spinning momentarily in the illuminated bubbles, surfacing once more into the liquid moonlight.

 

“It’s just like taking a walk in the dark,” our instructor reminded us. I took a last look overhead to the stars then we released and sank into the depths of Lake Malawi. He was right, I realized, descending 17 meters but finding the same shining darting blue fish, the same sandy lake bottom, the same mounds of Rift Valley rocks, stacked as though tossed from a collapsed building, the same sensation I always feel below the surface of calm, of peace, of splendor.

 

We floated calmly, using our lights to explore the reef, spotting blue crabs wedged into crevices, giant kapango hunting in the shadow, predatory dolphin fish darting across the sea floor, and small spotted cat fish bristling their whiskers at our invasion of their home.

 

We settled onto the floor for a time, kneeling with our backs to one another. With our lights extinguished my eyes could adjust to the dark, staring out through my mask at the shapes around me, which were suddenly clear even at our depth. The reef, there, the fish moving to my side, the moonlight, dancing, on the ceiling high above. I could see.

 

Yet, I closed my eyes. My body could do this work for me, alive and tingling in the water. Without my vision I could feel the miniscule pull of the current, feel the pressure change long before the strain built in my ears, feel the presence of the life around me. I could hear the whine of a distant boat and the measured breathing of my dive partner. I could sense the change in my body’s buoyancy as I consumed the air from my titanium tank and control my depth changes more easily than I ever could before. I could breathe better than I ever could on land.


I emerged back into the waves, rejuvenated, awake, ecstatic. On the boat ride home we skimmed over the glass surfaces of coves so white with moonlight they resembled ice until the motor chewed the water into snow.

 

April 13, 2013

It takes two days then several hours to travel to Megan’s house. She met me at the road, muddy and hot from her 4 hour hike, and we negotiated a ride deep into the Chitipa bush, where it immediately began to rain. The storms continued for the next four days, pausing only long enough to breathe a white wet mist over the jagged valleys of the village. I was happy huddled in a cloud.

I travelled to Megan’s site, Msuku, to conduct a workshop for her teachers on recognizing and teaching to various learning styles. We had a brief reprieve from the roaring rain during the lesson, a stroke of luck, and we put the teachers through assorted activities, familiarizing them with the different types of learning before we assign them lessons. They critique one another’s teaching styles, always laughing.

We had planned to hike the great mountains, visit the tailor, tour the village during my stay. Instead we shied away from the deluge, drinking coffee and chatting and napping, roasting fresh maize and cooking beans from Megan’s garden. I was content behaving like a housecat, resting, eating, hiding from the rain, emerging from sleep for brief human interaction before heading to bed early. After months of heat at my site I was thrilled to be able to rest in the cool weather. Speaking over the roar of the rain, we chatted for hours, graded exams, and enjoyed our calm and quiet girl time.

When the time came for me to depart the only car in town had dropped its 4 wheel drive, so we happily dove back into the living room, continuing our coffee and blanket lifestyle for another night. The next morning, though, I dragged myself up at 5, awaiting my ride. The Primary Education Advisor was leaving the village and had generously agreed to take me along. I was sad to be leaving Msuku, but it turned out I didn’t need to be, as the truck promptly got stuck in the mud only meters from Megan’s house. I was having another adventure.

The remaining trip was a battle; we dug and pushed the truck through the slick ruts in the road and slipped and slid around the flooded hairpin curves. At times vision was completely obstructed by clouds before they broke apart to reveal eerie misty dripping jungle. In clear moments the road was balanced on sheer cliffs, the bottom of the steep drop-offs hidden by fog. I wondered, as we battled through a narrow swampy area at the top edge of a bottomless green canyon, why I was excited rather than afraid. Do I not value my life? Does my adrenaline simply overcome any potential for fear? Or I am simply unafraid of death?

It took the entire morning to fight our way out of Msuku and back to civilization. We stopped at the primary school and used buckets of water and handfuls of grass to wash the truck (God forbid someone on the road see that we have been driving on a dirt track!) and then with a last delay through the booming marketplace we were rolling smoothly over the highway, southbound.

I pondered Megan’s location—a day’s travel from the closest real town, two days from any city. Sometimes there aren’t cars leaving for days, and the trip out and back is very expensive due to the conditions. The cheap alternative is to hike, 4 hours at a rushed pace or more in the rain or wind. She is very isolated, living in a very challenging situation. She is Peace Corps Hard Core.

Still there is something to be said for beautiful and lonely Msuku; it is peaceful, it is cleansing. It is so high in the mountains that climbing even small hills winded my low-elevation lungs and the scenery is amazing—huts 20 meters away as the crow flies are impossible to access without a full day’s travel due to the steep forested valley below the chicken coop. The hills are glossy with wide banana leaves and are deep green with fresh growth. The people are friendly and fiercely caring of Megan, and the community is rich and healthy, flourishing in isolation. I left rested and calm, pleased to know that such a wonderful place exists in this world.

March 11, 2013

It is rainy season. It is the season of the mosquito swarm, the season of the happy cow, of flourishing bright rice paddies, of colorful umbrellas and laughing wet children and pink-tasseled maize. It is the season of glowing green hills, tall grasses, and creeping vines, thick with the scent of crushed leaves. It is the season of hookworm, of overflowing pit latrines, of cholera and dysentery. It’s the season of floods, of hellish thunder, of ferocious wind, of dangerous lightning strikes and painful horizontal tempests, of slick and sun-glossed mornings after nights of disconcerting storms.

I’m in Karonga, perched on the rack of a bicycle as I am taxied down the highway. The fields below are flooded, the villages below are flooded; people wade out their front doors with baskets on their heads, barefoot and knee-deep in rain water while their children splash and scream and play naked in the underwater walkways. The rivers are bursting, roaring, angry brown, flattening young maize stalks and burying toppled trees.

Yet now the sun is shining, beating silver on the great pools, and villagers are laughing as always, unaffected, accustomed to this annual disaster of the lowlands of the northern rice country. They carry on with their daily tasks, pushing bicycles through the mirror-muck, bending over rice fields, gathering skirt hems in hand to keep them dry, herding cows to higher ground. Pedaling and pointing, my bicycle taxi driver laughs as we pass a collapsed brick and mud building, viewing it not as a disaster but a comical blunder. The owner will simply rebuild.

The air is sweet today, shimmering with sun, and the swollen land is somehow beautiful. I am finally, finally touched by a rain-cool breeze after so many months of wet unabashed heat. I spread my arms wide as we glide down the road, stretching open my fingers to better catch the wind.

In this moment, I feel a familiar elation, an overwhelming happiness, my own violent flood of joy. I had hoped Peace Corps service would quell my wanderlust. I was hoping it would saturate me with adventure until I wanted no more, until I could be satisfied to stay still. If anything though, my time in Malawi has cemented me in my wandering ways, proving that I can not only tolerate it, but that I thrive in my nomadic lifestyle.

I enjoy my adventures. I like watching the fields roll by outside the window of a shared taxi with Malawian dance music pounding. I like teetering on the edge of the world in a battered pickup with the great wide lake 2000 feet below, spread like a single piece of shining satin. I like seeing the kids dance in celebration of the first rains as the mud grows and moves beneath their feet. I like being able to walk endless kilometers with my belongings on my back, unafraid of sweat and dirt and bugs and people. I like hitchhiking, joining a stranger driver for hours of friendly chatting or awkward comments as I travel someplace new. I like trying new foods I’ve never sampled, seeing places I’ve never seen before, and doing things I’ve never done. I love the thrill of the new. I will not survive without it.

My bike taxi turns off the highway and onto a slime-slick rocky dirt road, and we bounce through the ruts as the lake, the Tanzanian mountains, and another blue-black growling storm loom before us. I disembark, a little more sun burnt, a little more windblown, legs tingling as circulation is restored, teeth dry and lips chapped from smiling. I pay my bike taxi fare, adjust my baseball cap, and glance at the approaching rain clouds.

My adventures…they are just beginning.