In the beginning of the week, one of our guest speakers told us that despite being a reputable businesswoman in her community, men still frequently come to her tailoring shop to offer her money in exchange for sex.
The anger she felt at their impertinence was palpable. Yet a girl in the audience raised her hand at the end of the presentation. “Why did you refuse those men?” she asked.
In a culture where sleeping with the head teacher gets your (otherwise unaffordable) school fees paid, this girl didn’t see the point of rejecting any extra source of income. The most discouraging part about her comment is that it indicates she sees herself the same way men do: an object to be bought and sold. Why, then, would men stop trying to purchase sex from her, if she doesn’t see a reason not to trade it?
Enter Camp GLOW. For eight days, Peace Corps Volunteers in Malawi had the chance to help girls fight for their health, safety, and ultimately their lives, waging a battle against the factors promulgating the HIV/AIDS epidemic. Our mission was to provide alternatives. We taught them how to start income-generating activities, like peanut butter making and oil pressing, to encourage economic independence. We brought in representatives from the U.S. State Department to discuss post-secondary education options, both in Malawi and abroad. We gave them real-life examples of Malawian women “making it” as members of parliament, tailors, even as a bricklayer. Above all, we built up their sense of self-worth and tried, in little more than a week, to impart the self-esteem they’d barely developed across a lifetime.
Trying not to cry remained a constant challenge throughout camp. Tears might be triggered by a girl’s revelation that an uncle had raped her repeatedly. I was caught off guard in little moments, too, such as when I had to take a girl to the hospital and she didn’t know what a seatbelt was – turns out she’d never ridden in the cab of a car before.
The most meaningful moment for me, though, was the candlelight ceremony at the end of the week. In the beginning of camp, we’d run a program called the “I Can’t” Funeral. Standing around a bonfire, girls tossed scraps of paper with a belief in their inability or impossibility into the flames, allowing that paradigm to “die.” At the candlelight ceremony, the girls shared something they learned during the week and an “I Can” statement to counter the “death” of their former perceptions.
I was also impressed by my fellow Volunteers – as a staff, we really pulled together to impart a wide variety of knowledge and skills. For those of us that had arrived together in May 2008, it was a particularly special bonding moment.
I guess I can say I’ve actually gotten to enjoy many such moments over the past three months. Just before Camp GLOW started, my parents came to visit me in Malawi – even my Dad, whose idea of a good time does not usually include airline travel. The time when the trip was still under consideration for him seems so implausible because he not only took that 18-hour flight but actually brought all kinds of good energy. He was so good-natured, and he and my mom so easily relinquished control over our agenda that I was able to relax and enjoy myself as well – not something all parents accomplish when visiting their children, from what I gather.
For all that trust, I think I earned their confidence, with two notable exceptions. First, I planned a hike on the Zomba Plateau, which, true to Malawian form, was intended to be three hours, tops, and evolved into nearly five thanks to a “shortcut.” Worse than giving my dad a heart attack, we couldn’t even see anything at the top because of the haze! At least if one of us had collapsed afterwards, we would’ve been duly impressed first.
My second mistake was taking them to Nkata Bay, a popular destination on the lake for (I now realize) backpackers and 16-year-old British girls with a bit of freedom before university. Not only did Nkata Bay not have our “scene,” but it didn’t have gas, either – though I think my dad enjoyed our foray into the black market. At 9 p.m., whilst awaiting the dinner we’d ordered at 7 p.m., the lodge owner told us he’d mistakenly given away our room, and could we please move our things? Already feeling guilty, I told my parents to stay put while I, energized by a few drinks, traipsed up and down the cliff into which the lodges are built in near darkness. At least by agreeing to move to the next place over, the guy paid our food bill.
Aside from these two gaffes, the trip was pretty smooth. Of course there were a lot of tears at the airport, but those incidences served as mere bookends for the happy times in between. On our first full day, we found ourselves a couple hours south of Blantyre, face-to-face with a herd (pack?) of giraffes at Nyala Park, which we visited with Pastor Johnston, his wife Jane and their daughter Rebecca. The second day, I threw my parents into village life. My friend Patricia showed up at my house with nsima, which my mom and dad actually sampled (I supposed the other alternative was my cooking…). Besides my house, they toured the health center and watched construction on my henhouse for the AIDS group. We also met the Group Village Headwoman, who gave us a present of fresh eggs, and her husband, who showed off his pigs.
Following the fateful hike, we ferried across the Shire River in Liwonde National Park, where we spent two days on safari at Mvuu Camp. I think this was my dad’s favorite part of the trip. More hippos and elephants than we could count, rare birds and even crocodiles comprised the sightings on our twice-daily excursions. The boat safari down the Shire at sunset will always be one of my favorite memories with my mom and dad.
After Liwonde, we traveled up to Lilongwe to spend the Fourth of July – where else? – at the U.S. Ambassador’s residence for his annual celebration. On the way up, we stopped at Dedza Pottery for the infamous cheesecake and crafts.
Our Nkata Bay adventure followed the holiday, but the remainder of our trip was quickly disabused by the two nights spent at Makuzi Beach. Recommended to me by another PCV, we could not have found a better way to conclude our vacation. Our chalets opened directly onto the beach, a little restaurant served a three-course dinner each evening on an outdoor patio, and during the day we were free to lounge undisturbed on the sand. I was even treated to a Swedish massage as an early birthday present. My mom and I also took a tour (would it be my mom if we didn’t have something on the agenda?) with a local guide, who provided us the history of the area as one of the first mission sites in Malawi. Quite haunting, seeing the graves of young missionaries and their families who likely died of malaria. It was also inspiring, speaking with the young priest recently stationed there with the directive to restore the dwindling congregation.
As my dad and I gathered stones at Makuzi, I knew how blessed I was to have them visit Malawi. To be able to appreciate what I’m going through, to be able to understand and put into context this period I’ll forever be referencing – that’s one of the best gifts they’ve ever given me.
Speaking of Gift – we might not have gotten to all these places but for our driver, Gift. Our driver who, as my dad put it, drove consistently at one of three speeds: fear, fright, and sheer terror. But, after 10 minutes of spent careening through the crowded streets of Lilongwe, my dad pronounced it “worth it.”
After so much travel and excitement, it was difficult to transition back to village life. I had to essentially undergo culture shock all over again. I found myself easily frustrated, being sad for weeks at a time, feeling lonely, getting tired. I needed to have days where I didn’t leave my house; I was so annoyed at the attention I never cease to draw and mentally drained from speaking another language (or a modified version of my own) all the time.
But in returning, I also discovered my village has really become a second home to me. My neighbors missed me, and community members wanted to get projects going again.
Last Sunday, I found myself a little bored. I also needed water. So I brought my buckets to Patricia’s house and offered to go with her to the borehole. Teasingly, she grabbed a tiny pal, like one you’d give to a little girl learning to carry water for the first time, and handed it to me. I thrust it back playfully and we both laughed. I told her I was an “amayi,” a Malawian woman. So we walked to the borehole, scrubbed and refilled the buckets and carried them back on our heads. Chattering like two amayis.