Somebody Almost Walked Off with All of My Stuff

Balaka, Malawi

Kwitanda, Malawi

Don’t worry. I didn’t get robbed. The title of this post is a nod to Ntozake Shange’s choreopoem, for colored girls who have considered suicide / when the rainbow is enuf.  In it, the Lady in Green tells us “somebody almost walked off wid alla my stuff…what I got to do/ I gotta get my stuff to do it to/ why don’t ya find yr own things/ & leave this package of me for my destiny”. Lady in Green calls this stuff “the anonymous ripped off treasure of the year”, her “memories”, “calloused feet”, “laugh”, “chewed up fingernails” and “poems in the pot”. Lady in Green’s stuff isn’t just stuff. It’s a euphemism for identity.

While journaling one morning, I looked down at my watch to confirm the date. August 11, 2014. Time is moving quicker than it did ten weeks ago.

I examined the sports watch/heart rate monitor I bought for $20 over six years ago. Though retrieving it from my Junk Draw of Doom (you know you have one too), this plastic and rubber watch has been incredibly handy throughout my time in Malawi. Why don’t I wear this watch more often, I genuinely thought to myself. Oh yes, I remembered, because I have a super fancy, super shiny designer watch waiting for me at home.

Nowadays, fancy watches are no longer used for telling time. Fancy watches are used to signify status. Fancy watches signify wealth. Fancy watches signify importance, as in, “I’m super important and can wear a fortune on my wrist to remind me that I have to be somewhere at a certain time because I’m so important”. Fancy watches tell people that not only are you important, but your time itself is important. Your time is expensive. Fancy watch wearers don’t wait 5 hours at an antenatal care clinic after walking over an hour on a dirt road just to see the one nurse in the village. The one nurse who, one this particular day, neglected to tell the clinician she was staying home even though she lives next door. No, fancy watch wearers don’t wait. Fancy watch wearers have appointments.

Fancy watch wearers don’t queue at a borehole to collect water for their homes. They have faucets (that don’t get shut off like they do in Detroit).

Borehole to collect water

Fancy watch wearers don’t walk. They have cars. Really fancy watch wearers have drivers.

Women leaving the ANC clinic. I am unsure if they received treatment.

Fancy watch wearers don’t carry their own medical records on a flimsy paper card titled, “Health Passport”. They have doctors with offices that keep their records for them.

Woman waiting and holding her Health Passport.

My fancy watch is not just a watch. It’s evidence of opportunity. Of possibility.

Let me be clear. This is NOT a reflection on the burden and/or privilege of First World materialism. This reflection is about stuff. Real stuff. Real stuff like status. Real stuff like access. Real stuff like privilege. Real stuff like choice. Real stuff like survival.

I visited Kwitanda last month. This small impoverished village near Balaka has stuff. It has electricity poles and cables…that aren’t connected to any homes. It has a motorbike ambulance…that doesn’t work. It has health centers… that are understaffed. It has pharmacies… that are out of stock of antimalarials.

Inoperable Motorcycle Ambulance

Kwitanda has real stuff, too. Real stuff like lack of infrastructure. Real stuff like scapegoating. Real stuff like indifference. Real stuff like classism. Real stuff like poverty.

These things, this stuff, isn’t just stuff. They’re powerful indicators of health status, educational attainment, and life expectancy. Like your zip code in the States, this stuff determines your future. To make it, you need the right stuff.

So what should we do?

It’s hard work getting people the stuff that they need instead of the stuff that gets our names on organizations and buildings. Hand soap is not sexy. National ID system? Takes too long. Waste management infrastructure? Next! An emergency response system that doesn’t require you to drive to the station to pick up the police so they can attend to your emergency (that is, if you have a car)? Well, that’s just a mouthful. Tablet computers? Yes please!

I believe VillageReach, my host organization, has found that critical balance. One of our projects, Chipitala Cha Pa Foni (Health Center by Phone), is an mHealth solution for providing women and mothers with important maternal, newborn and child health information. The project offers two services: a toll free hotline offering health information, advice and referrals and a Tips & Reminders service that sends voice or SMS messages to registered pregnant women, women of childbearing age and guardians of children under one year of age. The Kwitanda Community Health Project, the other Balaka based project, entails a multipronged approach to improving health outcomes in the Kwitanda village through health education in water and sanitation, child health, reproductive health, nutrition, and so much more.

VillageReach implements “innovative” public health solutions in last mile communities. “Innovative” is often code for eHealth, mHealth or multidisciplinary approaches. VillageReach does this. But most critically, VillageReach also shows that sometimes the most innovative solution is to simply give people what they need. Sometimes you need a fully staffed hotline that provides critical health information to callers. And then sometimes you just need a razor to cut your umbilical cord. Sometimes you need a text messaging system to encourage expectant mothers to deliver at a health facility instead of at home. And then other times you just need lid on your toilet.

At this point in the summer, I am preparing to present on my organizational assessment at VillageReach’s Seattle headquarters. No organization is perfect, but the folks at VillageReach are a hardworking group. As the organization grows, I feel confident that VillageReach will also continue to grow their capacity to provide the right stuff that will truly make a measureable impact on improving health outcomes throughout Malawi.

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I want to thank WDI and VillageReach for an amazing summer (or winter according to Malawi’s seasons). What I wanted out of my internship is exactly what I got— an incredible opportunity to stretch myself both professionally and personally, increase my knowledge about public health and health-related systems and challenge my assumptions about, well, pretty much everything.

This marks the end of WDI posting for this summer. To continue following my musings about international travel, as well as read some unpublished posts about my time in Malawi, subscribe to my blog For Colored Girls Who Travel ,“Like” my Facebook page, For Colored Girls Who Travel, or email me at forcoloredgirlswhotravel@gmail.com.

Zikomo! Thanks again for reading my posts!

Woman. Black. Strong. Sick.

 

Me and Nunga taking a rest.

Barely an hour into the hike, each step up the steep incline on Mount Mulanje reminded me of the weight of my backpack. Midway up the rocks, the guide, my friend and the porter who carried her pack and I all rested. On this small landing sat three small girls who waited and played with each other’s hair as the woman accompanying them spread out torn cloth to gather the firewood she collected. She climbs up here every week. Not long after we arrived, three young women fiercely and confidently stomped down that same steep incline barefooted. They were carrying large piles of firewood on their heads. Their bodies dripped with sweat and their faces were not pleased. They looked hot, pissed and ready to be done.

Gathering firewood on the mountain.

I turned to the guide and asked why these women collected the firewood given that the terrain was so severe.

“Collecting firewood is seen as a woman’s job. It doesn’t matter if they have to climb the mountain. In fact, sometimes they have to go even further up than this to find dry enough wood.”

Something doesn’t seem right about this picture. The hike I did last weekend for fun is what these women have to do every week, sometimes more, just to support their families. Here I am, with my backpack, sunscreen and bottles of water lamenting about the steepness of a hike I made the choice to do. I couldn’t help but wonder whether those pissed off looking women were pissed off looking at me.

Women coming down the mountain with firewood.

“People don’t understand that women have rights,” commented my workmate who invited me over for supper at her home last night. I asked her what the jobs were assigned to men; she informed me that their only task was to construct the house.

“That’s usually a one time thing, isn’t it?” I asked.

“Yes. One time. And when the man and woman leave the field, the man walks free while the woman carries the wood on her head, the tools in her hands and a baby on her back. When she comes home, she must start preparing the food and the man just sits.”

Our conversation continued on about gender roles in the villages and the challenges in changing cultural mindsets. We discussed the state of women’s rights in Malawi, the level of resistance to change and the impact that Joyce Banda, the recently unseated first female president had on it all. Sadly, because of President Banda’s involvement with the political scandal, Cashgate, my workmate stated firmly that women’s issues have been set back, not forward. The number of women in Parliament after President Banda’s term has decreased.

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Mercy, Esnath and Ms. Anakoma, the three women who run the lodge where I’ve been living for the past 6 weeks, have become my surrogate aunts. They criticize my hair, give me unsolicited marriage advice and make fun of my cooking. You know, what aunts are supposed to do. They also ask if I had a good day, make sure I’m eating enough (which according to them I never do), have a warm bucket of water for bathing and advise me to stay away from Malawian men. They look after me. Because of them, Balaka has become a second home.

Ms. Anakoma aka "The Big Boss"

Esnath and Ms. Anakoma found me under the tree last Sunday morning and joined me on the ground. They opened up about their health issues. Recently, Ms. Anakoma has been in the hospital. First, she contracted malaria and now is suffering from a respiratory illness and flared arthritis in her back. Esnath also recently returned from the hospital. She’s had an unknown pain in both of her sides for two weeks. The prescription she showed me was just a generic painkiller. When I asked her what they said was wrong with her, she said they didn’t know.

A few weeks ago, I told them about my upcoming trip to Zambia. “I need a holiday,” I exclaimed. They laughed and asked me a very poignant question—what about us? Neither of them had taken a holiday for well over 5 years. They work at the lodge 7 days a week from 5am-7pm. Ms. Anakoma is always on call as she also lives on the property. She takes care of her granddaughters, two bright-eyed three-year old twin girls, by herself. When she’s not doing work at her house, she’s across the property managing the lodge.

Esnath

Esnath doesn’t live on the property, but she’s also always on call. She manages the money, books the reservations, helps distribute meals, and checks in all the guests. She has two sons, ages 11 and 14. She leaves them in the morning sleeping and comes home at night to them sleeping. She never sees them. I told her that made me sad for her, particularly since she’s been spending so much time with me. She said that her kids are used to not seeing their mom, but the look on her face let me know that she too felt great sadness about the situation. She was recently advised at the hospital to drink 4 liters of water per day. When I asked her yesterday how much water she drank, she said barely 1 liter. I pointed at the kitchen sink and gave Esnath my stern aunty look, a look I’ve been perfecting since I was 13 years old (I have 7 nieces and nephews). She immediately grabbed a cup of water, ran it under the faucet and began to drink. “Jude”, as she always endearing calls me, “I am failing to drink enough water”.

Mercy

Mercy, the cook, is about my age. She single-handedly cooks for every guest at the lodge for every single meal with the dullest knives in history. Some days, it’s just me for breakfast (very peaceful and roomy). Other days, like today, the small dining area is filled with over 40 people. Right after she prepares breakfast, she begins cooking lunch; right after lunch she prepares dinner. Everything is deliciously and laboriously made from scratch so cooking takes ALL DAY. Sometimes she cooks on the stove in the kitchen at the same time she’s cooking on firewood outside. She does this all herself.

It’s no wonder the health of these women is failing.

A few days before our chat under the tree, I was cooking with them in the kitchen, my normal evening routine. On this night, they were having a go at me about not being married and whether I would be able to take care of their sons (which they’ve volunteered “to give me”). When I told them that I wouldn’t be cooking for their sons every day, bowing before I serve them food and allowing them to eat first, they joked on about how American women are lazy and can’t work when they’re pregnant. I laughed with them even though clouding the joke was the rising maternal mortality rates that plague Malawian women (and US women as well) and their own personal health struggles.

It doesn’t matter if you work at a lodge or live in the village; there is an unbalanced and unfair burden put on women in Malawi. Though I prefer to stay away from sweeping generalizations, I would also state that this burden is carried by women of color around the globe. Black women, well, we’re a special case. There’s an assumption that we’re strong and resilient. Not only can we handle the burden, we welcome it.

Herein lies the danger of the “strong black woman” trope. It is a weapon of illness disguised in positivity. “Strong” is not a compliment. It’s a stereotype that allows others to assign black women an unfair load. It justifies the abuse and neglect of black women and creates no room for them to be vulnerable and need help. It’s a stereotype that destroys. Check your newspapers. Check your offices. Check your classrooms. The strong black woman virus is everywhere.

I’ve been a victim of this stereotype countless times. But like the women at the lodge, I am a perpetrator of it as well. The myth of the “strong black woman” is killing us, and at the same time it’s precisely what we cling to for survival.

So what next? Well, that’s the part they don’t teach us in school. Health issues for women of color still remain on the margins. Did you know that a black woman in the United States is four times more likely to die from childbearing than a white woman? Maybe. This is what we call “health disparities,” a platitudinous field of study with which I have no interest. It’s a survey of statistical facts comparing one group to another, telling us information we already know. We already know the barriers to racial health equity; the list hasn’t changed for decades.

But do you know why a black woman continues to die more frequently from childbearing- the deep rooted historical structural factors, cultural articulations, political propagandizing and economic reinforcements that lead to this burden of disease. I’m not talking about the Social Ecological Model, the overused and misunderstood theory that posits that behavior influences and is influenced by interrelated factors, from intrapersonal characteristics to public policy. Though the framework has potential to unleash real change into changing the structural mechanisms that create the disproportionate disease burden put on marginalized people, I’ve only witnessed it fool people into believing they understand something that they don’t. Knowledge is power. The appearance of knowledge is dangerous.

What they do teach us in school is to look for these strong black women (you’ll find this directive coded as “soliciting community champions”). They tell us to find the person in the community who is already overinvolved, overworked and overburdened and ask them to support our own projects and research agendas. But what they don’t teach us is to dig deep into the complexity of marginalized groups. Complexity cannot fit on a PowerPoint slide. Integrated analyses cannot be graded on a rubric. Nuance is not a budget line.

I return to Michigan in less than a month and, for better or for worse, the stories of these women will not fade from my consciousness. As I reenter life in the States and become bombarded with racial and gender prejudice once again, my own “strong black woman” struggles will added to the mix.

Pill Bottle Tick Tock

Malarone.

That daily dose of malaria protecting goodness. If you have a prescription for it in your name, you know you’re traveling far, most likely somewhere hot, most likely somewhere remote, most likely somewhere poor.

96 tablets. Enough for my entire stay in Malawi. Two days before. Seven days after. Every single day in between.

When I took the first pill in Seattle, my container was nearly full. Looking at it was daunting. Each pill meant another bucket bath, another night under a dusty insecticide treated mosquito net that will produce unprecedented sleep inhibiting allergic reactions, another conversation that will take twice as long because of language barriers, another look at an iPhone that will never ring. Each pill represented another 24 hours that will be at least 6 hours ahead of everyone who loves me. Twenty-four hours of having to adjust, negotiate, learn, relearn, unlearn and compromise. Time, needless to say, moved slowly. Each day, each pill, just never seemed to make a dent in the pile.

But as my workmate says when I present a new idea about changes to the organizational structure and work processes (my main internship task), “change is hard, but we can get used to”.

It wasn’t until a few days ago when I tossed my second can of Deet in the trash that I realized that time had escaped me. I grabbed my pill bottle to find less than half remaining.

Where did the time go?

Looking at the container now, I find myself a bit saddened. There seems to be a different script narrating my nightly pill-taking ritual. Each pill flushed down the back of my throat means one less picture I’ll take, one less walk through the market, one less conversation with the ladies in the kitchen who greet me so excitedly and make fun of my American cooking, one less fruit I’ll discover, one less moment in “the bush” that recalls stories my mother told me about her childhood growing up in Jamaica.

This was Tuesday's dinner. I'm not a fussy eater and the kitchen ladies at the lodge feel strongly that I'll never get married by just boiling veggies and putting salt on it. But hey, it was filling, yummy and cost about 10 cents. You can't beat that!

Don’t get me wrong. I’m excited to go back home. I’m looking forward to seeing my friends, reuniting with family at a cousin’s wedding that will take place just 3 days after I land, falling back into my normal routines, enjoying fast and reliable internet powerful enough to stream the new season of Orange is the New Black, cutting these darn braids out of my hair to free my afro, preparing for my half marathon and most importantly, getting a serious pedicure (these dirt roads are not kind).

But something happened between seven weeks ago and now. Now the thought of leaving tugs at me a bit and I wonder about the futures of the people I’ve met like Mercy. She’s the lodge cook who has a severe burn on left leg that left her with only three toes and whose knives in the kitchen are so dull, I struggle to cut a cucumber when I use it. How she’s able to prepare ANY food is far beyond my understanding. She told me today that she has a fiancé who lives in Blantyre, a commercial district almost three hours away. Quickly after telling me this, she advised that I should pray to God to send me a nice husband. I wonder if she’ll leave Balaka and her post at the lodge after they get married. I wonder how many children she’ll have.

Me and Mercy, the lodge cook

I’m curious about the lodge guard whose name I do not know. Turns out he’s actually a trained high school biology teacher who just wasn’t selected for the limited open positions in the government schools. He has a 5-month-old baby and just works here to make ends meet until he finds a better job.  Balaka is very rural and the lodge is a 15-minute walk from the main road. As you can imagine, there’s not much to do as a guard here so he passes the time reading a small worn down Bible. He told me one Sunday that sometimes he doesn’t go to church and prefers to read the Bible to know God.

Guard cooking his lunch at his post

I think a lot about Nunga, my new best friend in Lilongwe, a recovering alcoholic (2 years sober now) who currently runs a support group called “Overcomers” at her church every Saturday and dreams to build clinics in Malawi that will help adolescents with mental illnesses and drug additions.  I wonder what will happen to her kids, who I met one night when we had dinner together at her house, and whether their interests in bugs and animals will sway them in a different career path than she hopes for them. I wonder if she’ll tell them her story.

Me and Nunga after church.

I wonder about one of the driver’s daughters, who despite his disapproval, continues to pursue a career in journalism and was recently accepted into a university for a journalism degree. I wonder how he’ll manage to pay the school fees, since saving money is extremely difficult and not commonly practiced here.

This is not a reflection to portray how little people have and how much I have in comparison. This is not about guilt. This is not a reflection to sort out what I could do to impact these people’s lives. This is not about charity. This is not a reflection that ends saying that these people who have so little, somehow find a way to be so happy. This is not a fairytale.

This reflection is about realizing that everyone has a story that began before I met them and will continue long after I leave. My interactions with them and the relationship we develop will more than likely become a distant emotionless memory with the passing of time. They may forget me and I them. I am confident, however, that we’re learning from each other, even if it’s just in this moment. I hope that creates powerful ripples in each of our lives that push us to be more understanding, patient and open to differences. This reflection is about possibility.

I’m not sure how one makes the transition from counting pills each night to this; how does one go from worrying about their future to worrying about others’? I’ve never stayed abroad this long before to cycle through these stages. There’s something to be said about it, though. Maybe one day I’ll figure out what that is.

Lights. Camera. Action?

by Jodi-Ann Burey

Last Saturday, I woke up, ate breakfast, scrubbed my clothes and hung them on the line. But this wasn’t just a normal Saturday morning in Balaka. This particular Saturday was my live TV debut! My workmate’s wife, who is a local TV host and editor, invited me to be on a program at Luntha TV. I had no prep and had no idea why I was asked to be on the show besides the fact that I don’t speak Chichewa and the station had been looking for a way to incorporate more English into the lunch hour program.

Luntha TV Entrance

I arrived at the station about 30 minutes before show time. Everyone seemed relaxed. No one seemed worried that the clock was ticking and their guest had no clue what was to happen next.

The producer, Kisswell, eventually introduced himself to me. When I didn’t understand his name, he started blowing kisses in the air saying, “Kisswell. Muah. Muah. Kisswell. I kiss well.” Harmless, of course, even funny now that I look back on it, but in the moment the feminist and New Yorker in me starting rising in my gut like a hot flame. Luckily for both of us, my anxiety about being on the show spared him my wrath. Five minutes of prep and he left me in the hallway to wait for my segment.

5 minutes.

15 minutes.

25 minutes go by.

Kisswell comes out of the studio and sits next to me. He informs me that they’ve experienced a technical glitch after the first segment and the IT guy is out of the office. I was relieved and disappointed at the same time. My debut had been cancelled.

Fast forward to today…

Despite the fact that it is NOT the rainy season, it’s been raining here all week. I tell people it’s because Balaka is crying since I’m leaving the district for good on Friday. It’s gloomy and rainy and certainly not the right conditions to motivate me to dress up and look pretty in the morning. I throw on some plain Jane clothes, no make-up and prance out of the lodge with my hair looking as it did when I got out of bed. I get to work, set up my computer and start typing away. My workmate enters the office to break the news that his wife has me scheduled for a live interview with her in 3 hours. The debut is back on!

Trying to do SOMETHING in the mirror.

Getting ready for TV!

Needless to say, I am not prepared. But I know her and feel more comfortable chatting with her on live TV than with some guy named Kisswell. We’re friends. I’ve eaten at her house. Her kids fall asleep in my arms! I will even be going to a wedding with her this weekend!

Moments before our interview, she asked me to talk about the importance of young girls delaying marriage and learning more about the goals that they want out of life. This is a heavy message to give and I would have preferred more prep time to develop a responsible framing strategy. I felt apprehensive to get on TV and wag my First World fingers at young Malawian girls about not getting married and having babies too soon.

I decided to focus on the benefits of being in school. Each additional year a girl spends in school helps to improve her health outcomes and the health decisions that she makes for her family. Each additional year a girl spends in school she discovers more about herself, can decide her own goals and learn more ways to achieve them. I told them that who I thought I was before I came back to school is completely different from the person I am today.

I stopped and waited for the host to translate my message into Chichewa. She turned back to me and asked about my experiences in Malawi.

I spoke about my hike up Mt. Mulanje last weekend and admitted that although I am not a hiker, I wanted to do something that would challenge me. I related it back to setting a goals and working hard to achieve something that many may not expect.

I stopped and waited for the host to translate my message into Chichewa.

She asked if I had anything else to add.

I added that I understood the value and importance of having a good role model, but these girls don’t need to wait for a role model to do something different. They should feel confident to be their own role models, set goals for themselves and pursue their dreams, because there are other girls watching what they do.

I stopped and waited for the host to translate my message into Chichewa.

She thanked me. The TV monitor faded to black. My segment was done.

Saturday’s glitch was supposed to happen, I think. Because of it, my friend and I were able to have a girl power hour (okay, 10 minutes). It was incredible.

Balaka is so tiny, I’m sure a lot of people in the district will see the program. I don’t know if what I said will have an impact on anyone. I hope it will. But even if it doesn’t, I did walk away feeling more confident about my ability to encourage others to pursue their dreams. After all, isn’t that exactly what I’m doing now?

Me and Mphatso at the end of our segment!