Where do men go to cry?

Though I’m not in Malawi as a clinician I get a peak, every now and then, of local hospital life. The compound is formed of too main buildings and a few smaller ones. Often in the morning one can hear loud, desperate crying that echoes from shelter that was built close to the hospital as a house of grief. Far too often a corpse is rushed there on a gernie followed my crying women. Their mourning is loud and by no means reserved. Sometimes I wonder, if they want to show their sorrow properly there and then so that they can move on with their lives as soon as possible. After a while the gathering accompanies the deceased for the last journey. Nearly always they’re ladies. Men are there mainly as drivers or play otherwise minor part.

Back home grief is often silent and somehow shameful as if emotions are to be hidden. To be strong in times of sorrow has become almost a standard.

When the former North-Korean leader died news footage showed crowds of people loudly crying after him on the streets. My heart broke as I saw them. Was it genuine or done because of fear?

I’d like to learn from Malawians on this. Cry with those who are in grief. Men included.

Girl in Lilongwe

Feeling like a hick in a big city right now. I'm not a fan of countryside living but just realized that's what I've been for the past weeks.

Lilongwe is a growing town with international dwellers. ..And that's about all I can say of it. I have a sense that the foreigners either work here or consider it a s a place to fill their stocks right on their way to visit a safari or the lake. Pretty much my strategy as well.

But it does feel good to watch TV in a long while and eat oranges. (Yeas I can be lavish.) Guess if I had friends here who knew good places to visit, would make it a whole different experience. In a way that's the case where ever you go in Malawi, or that's at least how I feel. Annoying as is can be that's also a way for people to connect. I've made good friends here thanks to needing their help and advice.

Yesterday someone asked me what I think about Malawi. My response was full of positive adjectives and none over exaggerated. Living here is not all rose pedals, but there's so much good that it helps to get through the rougher stuff.

I Heart Lake Malawi

My eyes are hurting for this beauty. 

No wonder the first missionaries tried to settle down around here.

Only downside being bilharzia, Lake Malawi is incredibly beautiful. 

Thank you God for creating it.

Fly me to the moon

This view was waiting for me couple of weeks back as I got home. 

I'm one lucky girl.

Meet my imaginary Boyfriend

It’s not easy to be a woman blah blah blah. This week I’ve read about human trafficking, domestic violence and how men in power grope very single woman they meet – just because it’s possible.

After those my own encounters seem small but nevertheless they have been from awkward to plain disgusting.  If you’re a single woman travelling around and most of the time in countries that haven’t heard of the women’s movement, you allow yourself one or two white lies.

My little white lie got big. These days it’s living a life of its own. Yep. It’s my imaginary boyfriend.

Last time today I was asked, if I’m single or not. The question came from a man who was very friendly but his motives to hear my answer were… Let’s not go there. Anyway I’ve been saved so many a times by the loveliest man in the world. (Who usually is staying in a nearby town or waits for me just around the corner.)

Meet Jayson. Lovely Brit who has even lovelier accent. He’s dark haired and has a great personality. He always laughs at my jokes and what’s even better makes me laugh. We share a passion to work in developing countries in the health sector. He is the one. And I’m not ashamed. Though if Mr. Right comes along I’m ditching Jayson.

Is it winter somewhere?

This was only two months ago.

Thank you Fia!

I met these wonderful pieces by Fia Backström last year at Stockholm's Moderna Museet. 

Guess who is missing her artsy hobbies

Then the rains came

Hope the villagers won't loose their homes tonight.

Strangers

I’ve always admired people who have the ability to be hospitable without much effort. I’ve considered it as a virtue, which I must learn since it’s not springing from me. Away from home in a strange country this thought rises to a whole new level.

I just finished reading “A thousand splendid suns”, a novel by Khaled Hosseini. (Pause and a sigh.) What an amazing story and an eye-opener. I cried during the last pages, but not as much as the characters and real life Afghans with their suffering would deserve. The story tells about people who don’t feel entirely at home, miss it or have to flee.

The next day my thoughts were filled by Bible characters who faced somewhat similar situations. I was surprised how many of them I came up with. Adam and Eve had to flee Paradise and Kain was escaping God’s wrath. Jacob escaped his brother’s anger and later he brought his huge family to a country they did not own. Joseph found himself in the middle of strangers in Egypt and later none of the Israelites were considered as Egyptians but as strangers though hundreds of years had passed.

David had to run away from Saul and later his own son as well. Daniel and his friends were forced to leave home and later the rest of Judeans followed. Even baby Jesus and his parents were refugees in Egypt since a certain king didn’t want to see little boys in his sight.

God’s attitude towards strangers is also revealing. All through Psalms and other scriptures he tells to accept strangers and treat them well. Christians are even told they’ll be judged by how they treat these people. I know I have plenty to learn with this issue. But still I find this gravity intriguing. Maybe Jesus felt like a stranger when He walked on earth. Even His own people didn’t recognise him.

Lunch time

“You arrived already! I thought it was only eleven o’clock.” Christina approaches us and gives a warm welcome. She speaks in chewa and I’m embarrassed not to understand every word. She laughs at me and says finally “Karibu” in a friendly tone. We enter the house.

It’s hot as usual around this time of the day. We sit down in the dark living room. I dream of a fan. Christina brings us cool water and juice. There’s no electricity in the house so she must have asked help from her neighbour. Again she welcomes us, but quickly disappears outside to cook the lunch she promised for us. We hear her sing and shout something to her grandchildren.

Finally it’s time to eat. She brings us water to wash our hands. Nsima is hot and burns my fingers, but I refuse to use the spoon she offers. It’s not as good, if you don’t’ use your fingers. There’s also relish and some chicken. The latter is for my friend – I haven’t eaten chicken since ’98.

After two chunks of nsima I’m full, but apparently I ate too little. Our hostess looks at me with a worried expression on her face. I have to convince her that I am truly full and that the food was delish. Both are true. Again water for hand wash. Some pictures later we’re off.

At this time of the year where ever you look there’s maize growing over a meter high by now. Maize flour and nsima, which is cooked from it, are key factors in Malawian kitchen. The popularity though spans over to the neighbouring countries. By now I know the basics on how to use the flour, but until I’ve had more practice I’ll stick to Christina’s cooking.