Muddling through

Today is my 111th birthday. Actually, 46th. As we awoke this morning, Matthew rolled over and muttered to me: "Happy birthday. I got you this continent." "Thank you," I murmured back. "It's all I want."

Well - that and an iced latte. As such, I took a morning taxi ride to a cushy coffee shop with shade trees, tranquility, and even free Wifi. I did not study Chichewa. I am writing for my blog, instead, as the cool air wends its way around my 46-year-old legs. The name of the place is Land & Lake Cafe, and it occurs to me that I have traded one land full of lakes, lovely Minnesota, for another with one very big lake, Lake Malawi, which we have not yet visited as a family.

(I spent a Christmas there in 2008 with three girlfriends, and I remember we played a competitive game of Monopoly near the shoreline. Thea & Lev have also been playing Monopoly daily - a strange parallel of life for such a lackluster game.)

The ride to the cafe was filled with diesel and congestion, as we joined in the morning commute crossing the river. Matthew begged me not to get the laptop stolen, so I proposed taking a car taxi rather than a moto taxi as a compromise - though I'm not sure how that adds extra security. At least I didn't walk, it being an hour away by foot. I would have enjoyed the exercise but there are trade-offs.

 

The main thing you sign up for in moving overseas is being looked at. Most people find this trying to some degree. I fall in the middle: I know it is an inevitable part of life here and I want to live here; but I don't relish the extra attention. (This attitude corresponds with my very Midwestern fashion philosophy, which is that the purpose of clothes is to not be naked. Other benefits - a chance to express oneself creatively or to send a particular message - just aren't compelling to me.)

What has surprised me is how forebearing the children have been about such pointed attention. They are not ones to seek the limelight. We've attended our very tiny church for fifteen years. There are about twenty-five people at a service, whom my kids have known for their entire lives. But can I get those punks to sing louder than a mumble during worship? No, I cannot. The reason? "It's embarressing if people are looking at us," they explain. "But literally no one is," I respond. Blank stares. Whatever. 

Them being two little white ghosts in a land of more-melatonined people naturally attracts attention. Two or three mornings a week we all walk to a market that is 2.1 km away: the same road I took today, through the heart of bustling Lilongwe. It's like visiting the Minnesota State Fair. We grip their hands tightly as we weave through crowds of people headed to work, sometimes stopping to buy an avocado, jumping back and forth across the drainage canal for the clearest path. Crossing over a bridge, a long string of people can be seen below us on the river's edge washing their clothes. Smoke from morning fires drifts onto the sidewalk. We get a lot of surprised looks; but also a lot of quiet smiles. Most white folks here have their own cars. The kids don't love the megaphones shrilly broadcasting sales-pitches in Chichewa on repeat: "Socks! 1000 kwacha! Socks! 1000 kwacha!" or "BREADBREADBREADBREADBREADBREADBREAD!" (They're awful.) It's an overstimulating experience, walking to the market, but the kids take it in stride. Their eyes and ears are always on the look-out. Once Lev spotted someone carrying a turtle. Thea greets every vendor and blind beggar that she can.

One day we took a tuk-tuk home so I was able to get a video along our route, though it was considerably less busy at noon. Come with us on a four-minute field trip! 

(It took 4 hours to upload this video. You can also find it here.)

We had another overnight stay at our tutor's house last weekend. This time Matthew had to kill a live chicken and dress it, which he did not enjoy. Then we went along to her large Baptist church in the morning. The service was 3 1/2 hours, all in Chichewa. It was hot. I should have dressed Lev in a pair of trousers, culturally, but I couldn't bring myself to do it, because I knew it was going to be both long and stifling under that tin roof. I'm not going to lie: about 3 hours in I opened a free PDF of Jane Eyre on my phone because I figured it would look like a Bible app from a distance. Jane had just discovered Mr. Rochester was blind and crippled - but still alive and now single!! Matthew rolled his eyes at me. Lev unstrapped his sandals one by one "to cool off". Thea sat attentively next to Amess and probably learned Chichewa by osmosis and received the Word of the Lord into her fertile heart. 

But what really astonished me is when Thea and Lev were called up to the front to recite John 1:12 by heart in Chichewa. They had been prepped for this the previous week during their lessons. Like suffering servants being led to their deaths, they shuffled forward and stood before 150 expectant Malawians. Everyone caught their breath... and then they did it. Thea and Lev rose to the occasion, even spoke loudly enough to be heard in the back. The congregation exploded into wild applause. Everyone really, really loved it. Right after I whispered to Lev, "Great job! You'll never have to do that again," the pastor called them back up to do it again. Lev turned white. More cheering all around.  

It's no small thing having parents who whisk you off to far-flung places like this. Sure, we're giving them access to a pool for the month, but they're having to dig deep, too. We all are. We are both mightily stretched and richly rewarded. We went from the homestay to an iftar dinner a few hours later with our Airbnb hosts, which is the daily fast-breaking meal during Ramadan, Islam's most holy month. We all sat outside at dusk and ate delicious Indian food together. The kids discovered papadam and ice-cream flavors like cardamom-pistachio, then ran around the yard with the littler kids in their white skullcaps and abayas, chasing geckos. We chatted about the trials of the Covid years, which hit Malawi hard and was little managed by the government. Their family lost eight relatives to Covid. Darkness soon fell but the conversation lingered, and it felt like friendship.

It's been interesting to be caught up in these coincident seasons of Lent and Ramadan, both of them focused on denial and expectancy. We marked Ash Wednesday just as a family, anticipating the many days we must walk in privation before Easter's miraculous abundancy. 40 to 1: this is probably an accurate ratio for life in general. You walk in the valley, it's too long and it's trying. But eventually, there are still waters. Soul-restoration. Maybe even an iced latte. 

In four days we'll take leave of this buzzing city for tea fields and rural life - another huge transition to make. In a lot of ways, we'll be starting over again. Today, on my "eleventy-first" birthday, I'm especially grateful for our hardy, open-hearted kids who simply are... up for it, and for dear Matthew, as we muddle our way as a family through it all. Being here with them is the thing I wanted most.