What Remains

It's no secret that I love to travel. What's becoming increasingly clear to me, though, is travel's long-term dividends. Even trips that seem difficult at the time pay off in the strangest of ways.

I'm thinking of my first trip for Winrock, an around-the-world extravaganza with a prima donna videographer. Even though there were moments I'd like to forget — being told we'd not be let into Indonesia unless we ponied over $5,000 U.S., for instance, a "fee" that the prima donna videographer negotiated down from $1,500 (proving that prima donna videographers are good for something, besides shooting beautiful videos).

What I remember from Indonesia, though, is the beauty of Sumba, the smiles of the schoolchildren there, the bumpy road to Kataka School and a late-night swim in a humongous Jakarta hotel pool.

These details are all wrapped up with the sights and sounds and smells of that country, with its crazy traffic and its friendly people. They are a part of me now, just as the red clay roads and rocky peaks and singing school children of Malawi are.

I'm one grateful lady.

Rainy Season?

Rainy seasons have been arriving later in Malawi. I was prepared for torrents, but apart from a couple of downpours (one with hail and thunder), it was sunny and beautiful the whole time I was there. This was good for traveling but not so good for the crops that Malawians need to stay alive.

The maize they grind into flour that becomes nsima, a thickened porridge served with chambo, a popular fish from Lake Malawi. The tobacco that's just being transplanted now.

As I waited to board the plane on Saturday, dark storm clouds gathered and lightening flashed in the distance. Not auspicious flying weather — but a good sign for the parched ground and empty rain barrels. 

I just checked the forecast: rain is predicted every day from now till Christmas. I'm imagining the red clay soil drenched and drinking. I'm imagining the land greening and exhaling. I'm imagining the end (at least this year) of a parched Malawi. 

A Working Beach

My one-week trip to Malawi was so packed with experiences that some of them are bound to overflow into the week that follows ... and beyond. So as I sit here in front of the Christmas tree with Copper curled beside me, I think about the walk I took on the beach Saturday.

Lake Malawi is ocean-like in its long beaches, and I walked as far down as I could in one direction and almost as far as I could in the other. It was a "working beach" with only a few tourists. I saw fishermen mending their nets and women washing their clothes. I saw children carrying bowls of silvery sardines for sale. I'm squeamish about dead fish but these were beauties.

This hour-long walk Saturday was some of the only free daylight time I had during the trip, not counting the lovely hours staring out the car window at scenery as we drove from village to village. But it was so full of sights and sounds and activity that it sent me home with (almost!) a skip in my step.

A Night at the Lake

I leave Malawi today after a quick and jammed-pack trip. During the last five days I've interviewed school children, teachers and a village chief.  I've listened as staff members outlined their programs and families shared their dreams.

I've seen women knead clay and shape it into cookstoves that will provide them an income for the first time in their lives. ... children act out the perils of child labor with plays and dance ... tender new corn and tobacco plants in red soil with craggy mountains in the background ... and everywhere the energy and drive of a country full of young people.

I'm ending this trip on the humid shores of Lake Malawi, which consumes more than a third of the country's area. Tomorrow we drive back to the airport in the capital city of Lilongwe.

I'll take home what I often do from these travels — the knowledge that the world is a big place and there is more under the sun that we can possibly imagine. It's heartening to me, this knowledge. It brightens my days.

A Walker in Malawi

I haven't walked much in Malawi. There hasn't been time. But as I've bumped along unpaved roads and zoomed along paved ones (in one memorable trip catching up with the Malawian president's motorcade and pretending we were part of it), I've seen many people walking.

Walking in Malawi isn't done for one's health. It is done simply to get from one place to another. It's riding shank's mare, using one's legs for transport.

Not to in any way glamorize the poverty here, nor go back to a time when most travel was foot travel, it still does my heart good to see these peopled roads. They aren't just ribbons of vacant asphalt as far as the eye can see; they are alive and vibrant.

Today we drove through some of the most dramatic scenery I've ever seen, the southern end of the Riff Valley, with majestic views that went on forever. But the best moments were when we strolled down the road from a cookstove demonstration to see a woman's poultry business.  It was just a few steps, but it made me feel, for a moment, like a walker in Malawi.

Counterclockwise

Years ago, a friend who had visited South Africa told me that she was amazed to notice that water draining out of a sink there rotated in the opposite direction of the way it did at home.

This odd factoid has stuck with me through the years, so finding myself in the southern hemisphere, I decided to check it out. And yes indeed, the water does seem to be draining in a counterclockwise direction, the opposite of the way it flows at home.

Still, I thought maybe this was a fluke, so like any modern person who occasionally has access to the Internet, I googled it. Turns out, this question is one of scientific debate. While water should flow counterclockwise in the south and clockwise in the north (a phenomenon known as the Coriolis force), the direction is due more to the configuration of the sink than anything else.

In other words, perhaps I observed the Coriolis force ... and perhaps I did not.

A Day for Singing

We could hear the singing before we parked the car. The women of Chabula were greeting us in song. Their voices harmonized as they clapped in rhythm.

It was a day for singing. Later, inside Chabula's early childcare center, the teacher led his students in English recitations: the days of the week and the months of the year — followed by a rousing rendition of "If You're Happy and You Know It" in Chichewa.

Later in the day, as we conducted video interviews of anti-child-labor club members, once again I heard the sound of voices singing. It was a choir, practicing for a concert. Their harmonies will likely be caught on some of our audio recordings.  But if they're not, I have them where I need them, right up in the old noggin.

Sunset in Malawi

Last night, which seems like a week ago already, I snapped this shot of the sun setting behind some exotic foliage.

Tonight I'm in another town, another district, but I'm still holding this memory. It was a peaceful stroll before dinner, and there were insect noises and frogs croaking.

Most of all, there was this southern light, here south of the equator. It's different somehow, more brilliant, lit from within. I'm glad I was there to see it.

In the Field

This was one of those days when most of what I saw of this fascinating new country was through the window of a car. Work trips are often like that. And you know what? I'll take it!

Today was one of two days we'll spend in the capital city, Lilongwe. Tomorrow through Thursday we will be "in the field" — although all of this seems like "in the field" to me since I usually work in Arlington, Virginia.

But "in the field" also means seeing the project's work close up, and that's what makes these trips so valuable. Instead of just writing or editing stories about vegetable production groups or village savings and loans, I will actually be experiencing them first-hand, meeting the people whose lives are being changed.

In the field? Bring it on.

(Above: One of the sights I saw out my window today. You're never so far out in the field that the colonel can't find you.)

Warm Heart

Malawi is known as the "warm heart of Africa," and has so far has lived up to its name. The people are friendly and the weather is hot and muggy. The rainy season has begun, and as I write these words the storm that was brewing in the distance is now pounding the Mafumu Lodge in Lilongwe, where I just got settled.

Even on the 30-minute drive from the airport, the scenery didn't disappoint. The plains stretch out for miles with jagged-edge mountains rising from them. Trees are sparse and twisted in that way that says "Africa" to me. Women tote loads on their heads, men ride bicycles, children run barefoot along the road.

There is that great jumbling together of people and place that happens when you travel, the awareness, even in my sleep-starved brain, that the world is so much bigger than my little corner of it.

Malawi-Bound

Last night wasn't a long one for me, hemmed in on both sides by packing and writing and preparing for eight days away. But that's OK, I tell myself, since I'm about to be on Malawi Time, which is seven hours ahead of us.

Until a few weeks ago I wasn't entirely sure where Malawi was. I knew it was in southeastern Africa, but that's about all. Now I know it's bounded by Tanzania, Moazambique and Zambia; is dominated by Lake Malawi and has just commenced its rainy season.

Winrock has a wonderful project there, working to curtail child labor, which is higher in Malawi than most other places in the world. Thirty-eight percent of children are engaged in it, largely in the tobacco fields.

I will be traveling throughout the country, meeting students, teachers and others who are fighting to change this. One of them is Leonard, who was so inspired by the anti child-labor club at his school that he coaxed his friends' parents into sending their children back to school.

It's at moments like these, when I'm nervous about leaving my home and family, that I remind myself of the people I'm about to meet and the sights I'm about to see, God willing. And then I realize, all over again, how privileged I am to do what I do, how grateful I am to be able to see the world in this way.

(Look closely at the picture above. That's an elephant, a photo taken on my last trip to Africa, to visit Suzanne and Appolinaire in Benin in 2015.)

Outside In

I missed National Trails Day (June 6) but am not too late for Great Outdoors Month (all of June). The idea behind  these celebrations is to get people outside. No problem for a walker in the suburbs. I'm outside as often as possible.

But Great Outdoors Month is a good time to ponder the great divide between outside and in, between natural light and its artificial cousin, between the elements and our shelter from them.

Thinking back to Benin,  open doors, the colorful cloths hung where screens would be. There the line between outside and in is far more blurred than it is here. There people sleep on their little verandas in the hot season. They cook outside, eat outside and often wash their clothes outside, too. They do not need a Great Outdoors Month. 

Not to romanticize this, though. The Beninese are in a constant battle to keep their houses clean and dust-free, not an easy proposition with unpaved roads and meager sidewalks. They live with a degree of discomfort most of us cannot imagine.

Still, in so many ways, including this one, they remind me of simple truths we seem to have forgotten. One of them is this: That before we became creatures of climate-controlled comfort, we lived in tune with the wind and the rain and the sun. We belonged to our world in a way we don't anymore. And it's good to remember that.

Posture of Africa

The motions of weeding are simple: Reach, grab, pull and throw to the side. The question is whether you perform this operation standing up, kneeling or sitting down. Given the buggy nature of the territory, given the topography of my garden (the weeds are scattered across a wide area rather than concentrated in one patch), I decided the other day to weed while standing.

This entailed not just standing, of course, but bending and straightening. And bending and straightening. And bending and straightening. And ... you get the picture: Now I can barely bend or straighten at all!

Which brings to mind not just the weakness of my flesh but also the posture of Africa. My visit last winter was brief but long enough to see that the average Beninese spends much of his or her time bending over to wash clothes, sweep or tend a fire.

The Africans I met have no need of exercise classes or Fitbits. No "Absession" or "Buns, Hips and Thighs" for them. They walk to the pump, tote the water, pound the yams. They bend and crouch and stoop all day long. And when they wake up the next day, they have no trouble getting out of bed — if they have a bed to get out of, that is.

Election Day

In Benin, West Africa, more than four and a half million people were expected to cast votes in the parliamentary elections held last Sunday.

Land borders were closed during the election, and Suzanne has been on "steadfast," which is another way of saying "lock down." She can't leave her post, which in her case this year is the capital but which for many Peace Corps volunteers is a tiny village.

I read that yesterday an observer from the African Union declared Benin's elections to be "transparent" though with some "organizational challenges." I can only imagine. Benin has been independent only since 1960, and there are coups and one-party elections in its not-so-recent past.

A reminder of what fair elections mean to all free people — and a reminder of the marvelous and somehow workable chaos of that beautiful country.

Remembering the Colors

Too cold for me here. I'm going back to Africa. Not just for the hot sun and the balmy breezes, but for the colorful, always-summery cotton fabrics.

No more wool sweaters, high turtlenecks, thick socks. No more layers. I'll live in the land of eternal heat with a pagne to cover me. Before I visited Benin, I never knew how versatile two meters of cloth could be, how from them you can fashion a headscarf, a skirt, a towel or a baby sling.

Because I visited during the dry season, the African landscape was mostly brown. The color came from the clothes. Not just the women's but the men's too. Bold patterns, bright hues, unusual combinations — I was filled with joy just looking at a street corner or a market, seeing the swirl of colors gathered there. And remembering them now warms me up completely.

Chutes, No Ladders

Metro delays this morning, temperature in the teens.  Time for a virtual vacation. Today's trip is to  Tanougou Falls, which the locals (and all French-speaking, I believe) call chutes.

We pulled up tired, dusty, minds still reeling from Parc Pendjari and the close-up view of baboons, elephants and what turns out to have been a young cheetah. Our van was almost snagged on the rutted, rocky road to the small restaurant and souvenir stand that guards the entrance to the falls.

We were immediately surrounded by a staff of willing guides. It was a short walk to the first falls, picturesque but small. Many eager hands to lead the way. But no, said the guides, this was just the beginning. There's another chute ahead, up and over those boulders.

One of our party said no go, her knees were sore. I waited a bit, sized up the endeavor. There was a scramble over rocks that were under water, but the more I looked the more I thought I could do it. "Tres facile," said one guide. "Be careful," said another.

When I nodded yes, Mr. "Tres Facile" took one hand and Mr. "Be Careful" took another. It was perfect. The push toward adventure, cautiously approached. Each step was carefully chosen and pointed out: "Ici ... ici ... tres facile ... be careful."

And before long we were there, Tanougou Falls. A perfect bowl of a setting, water deep enough to swim in. Gorgeous chute, angling, spilling, gleaming. Idyllic, except for one problem — I had to get back.

But I did, of course, thanks to Mr. Tres Facile and Mr. Be Careful, who were rightly rewarded for their toil.

The Toughest Job You'll Ever Love

Now that I've visited Suzanne in Africa I can attest to this slogan. Peace Corps volunteers do not live lives of luxury. Many of them settle in villages without running water or electricity; they get around on foot, bike, moto or bush taxi;  they eat a lot of rice and beans.

But their lives are rich in time and, surprisingly, in books. I visited two Peace Corps work stations with libraries to die for. One even had a ladder to reach the topmost shelves. There was a sizable collection of fiction (I read Purple Hibiscus by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie and was plunged into the world of a young Nigerian girl), a rich travel section (I picked up a crazy little book called The Emperor of Ouidah by Bruce Chatwin and devoured it a few days before we visited Ouidah ourselves), even non-fiction and memoir (I read Infidel and Nomad, both by Ayaan Hirsi Ali).

I already knew from Suzanne's experience how much she's read the last two and a half years, and other volunteers said the same. But the greatest proof is this: I read eight books in less than three weeks. It would take me three months to read that many books at home.

Of course, I was on vacation, I took long bus rides. All of this is true. But something else is true, too. I had scant Internet access. And books, shelves and shelves of books, flowed in to take its place.

Living on GMT

There's a reason why I'm eating a turkey sandwich at 6 a.m. It's lunchtime in Benin!

I taste the tart lemonade I found at one of the local supermarches along the drowsy lanes of Haie Vive. I hear the revved motors of the zemidjahns as they halt at Place des Martyrs. I see Suzanne dashing out to buy beans and rice.

She will have been up six hours already, have walked 45 minutes to her office near Etoile Rouge, have made phone calls and finalized arrangements for an upcoming business trip; she will have spoken with at least several friends who beeped her to say good morning, in the Beninese style.

Travel gives us many gifts, and one of the best is perspective, shaking us out of routines and habits, reminding us it's a big old world. In this regard jet lag is a willing accomplice. It's a souvenir of our wanderings, our body's way of saying not so fast — you were really there, you know, living on Greenwich Mean Time, just six degrees above the equator.

(Street meat in Cotonou. No thanks!)

Bye-bye, Benin!

Most people in Benin speak a couple of languages, but whether they're saying farewell in Bariba or Fon or French they usually add an Americanism at the end. "Bye-bye!" they say, with a funny little vocal uptick at the end.

I started this post a couple of days ago, but the Internet key wasn't working and for a while I wasn't working very well either (the country requires an iron stomach!) and then ... it was time to go.

But not without a final adventure. The zem drivers that took Suzanne and me to the airport decided to take a dirt road. Yes, a dirt road, in the city, to the airport. They were bumping and skidding and sliding so much that I gave up saying "doucement" and started exclaiming "Oh, my God!"

"What if we'd had an accident my last few hours in the country?" I said to Suzanne as we dismounted the bikes and took off our helmets.

"People here say that Benin doesn't want to let you go," she explained, only partially in jest. And yes, I could see that. It is a place of magic and chaos and unruly good cheer.

But I did leave — boarded the big silver bird, flew back to this clean, orderly place, where there are cars and hot showers and flush toilets.  

I won't stop thinking about Benin, of course, and I"ll write about it plenty. But for today, for now, it's bye-bye, Benin.

Sur La Plage

For the most part, Benin turns its back on the beach. Many Beninese can't swim, and few people fish. There are a few hotels along the coastline in Cotonou but for much of Benin's oceanfront, beaches are trash-strewn and deserted. What a marvelous natural resource untapped and unclaimed!

As my visit here winds to a close I wanted to spend a couple days at a real beach resort, so we came to the Auberge de Grand Popo, which is sur la plage (on the beach) and within spitting distance of Togo.

The trash, it will always be with us. But it doesn't matter much here. The natural beauty of the place overwhelms it. We went to sleep last night to the sound of surf, and I'm listening to the waves as I write this post. It's palmy and shady and gorgeous. But don't take my word for it. See for yourself!