The Malawi Project, Inc.

    The man was asked if he had been to the district hospital, or any of the clinics. He answered that at first his wife had rushed the boy to the African doctor, but then with a very dissatisfied voice he said, "Yes I then went to the hospital… but they told me to go back to the African doctor for I had gone there first. Madam the people tell me that you can fix my boy… his leg is getting hot, and very fat it cry’s with white water every day, look at his mouth. He is not eating for he has wounds in the mouth. Please madam…"

    The man had come to Samatha Ludick at Clinic at the Gate after all of the other help had been exhausted. Samatha continues the story,

    "Taking a look I could see he had an infected third degree burn and his little mouth was filled with blisters… his mouth didn’t worry me for it is fairly common and easy to fix, what concerned me the most was his hot swollen knee covered in cow manure mixed with powdered bark… So the first thing to do was to remove all the manure placed on by the African doctor… it was thick and had formed a hard crust… Question was a warm shower wouldn’t do… then the next best thing was to fill the laundry bath with warm water and savlon… just it soak… this took close to an hour for it was packed solid."

    "Once it was clean only then could I see how bad it was… amazing as I swiped and wiped this little lad never once gave a peep… nothing and let me tell you it looked so sore for it was raw…Thanks to all of at the Malawi Project and its supporters I had an antibiotic, silvadene, dressings, bandages, and the other items I needed to take care of this little lad."

Hearing the News that "You Are Positive"

"Malawi doesn’t have the same strictness about privacy that we have in the US," I tried to explain to my guest from America as we both stiffly watched the scene unfold before us. A nurse who was showing us around the clinic had seated us in a little testing room a few minutes earlier. And now to our shock she was giving a lady a test to see if she had HIV right there in front of us.  Several other strangers, all waiting their turn, were also crowded in the room, some sitting so close to the lady that they could have reached out and touched her as she braced herself for the results.  

The test works like one of those instant pregnancy kits. A nurse captures a drop of your blood on a pear shaped plastic card and a few minutes later-Presto!- the verdict comes in. If only one bar appears on the card that means you tested negative for the virus and you’re free. Life will go on as normal.

Two bars mean you just tested positive for HIV!

"You are positive," as they say here. You officially have the ghastly HIV virus that leads to AIDS and are staring the totality of its nightmare of horrific illness, stigma, and slow but early death right in the eye. 

All who come for testing arrive with a sense of dread, terrified that they will test positive for the virus, but most come out with a new spring in their step and hope for the future after learning that they are not infected after all. Some, though, come out devastated, having received the dreadful confirmation that their worst fears have come true: their life is over as they know it-and that it will probably be a lot shorter at that.

The last thing I wanted was to be present the moment when this lady, or anyone else, learned their HIV status, especially if it was bad news. But it would have been offensive to storm out now, practically stepping over the lady’s feet. I tried not to listen to what the nurse was saying in low tones to her, but the formal rehearsed sound of the voice was not encouraging. A quick glance at the woman’s emotionless face, skin taut over her cheekbones, dark eyes staring blankly into space, told me she was not getting the news she wanted. No, she looked like she had just received the kind of news that makes you feel like a 20-ton Mack truck has just dumped its whole load of rock on you. 

Now they were testing her a second time. And why would they do that? I suspect that you can figure that out. But these little tests are so accurate that there was little doubt her fate was sealed and the nurse confirmed this fact to me the next time we met.

They didn’t reveal to me the woman’s name and I can’t tell you any more specifics of her story. We could only speculate about what was going through her mind when she heard the news. What would this do to her marriage if she had been infected by her husband as is so often the case? How would her kids learn about this? Did she have the emotional strength to fight this with the life-prolonging drugs available these days or would this news just destroy her hope and will to go on living?

Although HIV/AIDS surrounds me in Malawi (Fourteen or more percent of the entire population tests positive for the disease and percentages for certain age groups go way beyond that.), this was my first experience witnessing someone actually facing this reality.

"You are positive."

 Society stigmatizes the disease so greatly that almost no one admits they have it even if they know. Nobody has ever told me, "I have AIDS," or "I am HIV positive."  Instead all these young people who are wasting away and dying in our community officially are being killed by other illnesses. It’s true that other diseases finish the immune deficient patients off, but the real cause, AIDS, usually lurks close by in the shadows. 

My friend and I left the testing clinic after a few minutes and went on our way, but now any easy conversation that would take our minds off of what we had just seen eluded us.  We had not counted on being witnesses to such a grave moment in this stranger’s life.  Never mind the fact that I certainly interact with HIV positive individuals on a daily basis, it’s a lot easier not knowing who they are or being forced to consider what the future holds for them.

In the Photo: The left poster explains what the test means when two bars show: "The HIV virus is present."  The right poster showing one bar says, "The HIV virus is not present." 

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I learned This from A Sausage Tree

 It was a hot July afternoon in the lower Rift Valley and the African sun was beating down unmercifully. We had finally found a hiding place under the forest canopy at the Liwonde Game Park. Most of the teams who had come to work during their summer vacations had returned to their respective home nations and this gave us an overnight reprieve for a short get away.

    The guide sat in the front of the Land Rover in such a way that he could scan the forest in front of us, and at the same time be able to turn and talk with us. The driver, wearing the same kind of brown khaki outfit said little. He carefully scanned the forest for danger, and for whatever they next wanted to point out to us.

   
A Tree With Sausage Links

    I listened as the guide described the animals we were seeing. He did it as though they were friends of his, and I guess in a way they were. He saw them often. He knew them well. He even knew the names many of the guides had assigned them. It was the same with the trees and the plants. After passing a herd of grazing impala we rounded a curve in the sandy dirt path. The driver slowed, then stopped. Almost immediately overhead was a very large sausage tree. Technically it is called the Kigelia Africana or Kigelia pinnata, but frankly don’t you like the name sausage tree better? There is nothing to compare with it in the states. It has giant stems from which hang long grey fruits that look exactly like long links of sausage, thus the name sausage tree. Oscar Mayer would certainly be envious!

    The guide opened his narration by telling us how these sausages grow to as much as a meter (3 feet) in length, and can weigh as much as 10 kg (over 20 lb). I was glad we were not sitting directly under the tree. That would give you a real splitting headache if one fell on you. A baboon scurried across the path in front of us and up a nearby tree where he could get a better view of us from a safe position. The guide seemed not to notice as he continued his explanation of the tree.

    He described the value of the tree to the forest animals, especially the elephants, baboons and monkeys. That was impressive.

A Pharmaceutical Library of Value

    The most amazing information about the sausage tree came later when I had the opportunity to learn of it’s medicinal values. It reads like a whose who of a pharmaceutical library.

    The sausage tree and its fruit is used to treat fungal infections, boils, psoriasis, and eczema, as well as leprosy, syphilis and skin cancer. It is also used in the treatment of dysentery, ringworm, tapeworm, post partum hemorrhaging, malaria, diabetes, pneumonia and even toothache. The Tonga tribes on the Zambezi also use its ingredients for a face cream that gives them a blemish free complexion.

There Are Vast Differences
    One is struck by a number of things when a westerner is introduced to facts such as these. The first is certainly the fact that Africa, with its unique environment, and people, are very different from the rest of the world. At first glance it looks very much the same, but down deep where it lives and breathes there are vast differences that can only be learned by spending a lot of time listening and observing.

    Two, Africa has so much to give. It is and has a wealth of value for those who will take the time to learn about it before speaking or acting.

    And third, the survival of the environment is critical to our very survival. All around us our Creator has placed the ingredients for life giving and life saving. We dare not destroy it.

    These are some of the things I learned from a Sausage Tree.

The Fishermen of Nguwo Village

        Senga Bay, Malawi … The wind was blowing in from the lake with an intensity that caused white caps to lunge on the shore as though they were locked in some sort of grudge fight. The morning sun reflected its blazing rays against the grey-blue water in order to re-create the cold of the African night into the heat of the sub-Sahara noontime. I looked north and had to shade my eyes against the sun’s reflection off of the water, before I could clearly see the oarsman in the tiny hand carved, dugout log/canoe dig another plow hole into the pounding surf. Behind it were the cheering villagers, and a larger motorized boat with 8 fisherman on board preparing to meet the next wave and advance eastward into the surf. Ahead of them were three more canoes and an equal number of bigger boats making their way into deeper waters near the round top island, and out into the higher surfs.

        My concentration was broken by two carvers who approached me near the back on the dug out canoe that lay lonely and helpless above the water line. 

I Can Make Another of Them Tonight
        "I have the mask for you bamboo," one said as though he knew me. "What mask I asked in response? "The one Mama Suzi asked me to bring to you," he replied.  I looked at the mask.  It looked like it had been carved from an old piece of driftwood that floated down the Zambezi on a 50 years journey. "It is an antique," he said.  Sure enough he indicated it was over 50 years old. I was impressed with the catch Suzi had made. "You like," he asked?  "Yes, somewhat." I responded as I tried to create a yawn on my face so as not to look too interested in buying another one, for I knew just the right smile was worth a pot of gold to him, and when he saw it he would double or triple the price. "What do you want for another carving just like this one," I asked? "Oh I think for you it will only be 4,000 Kwacha."  Pretty good price for a 50-year-old mask. That would be something less than $ 30.00 in American currency. Then he put in the zinger.  "If you like I can carve you another one just today."  A 50-year-old mask carved while you wait near the shore of Lake Malawi. Now what is wrong with this picture?

The Hot Sun, and The Pounding Surf
    I shooed them away and turned my attention back to the fishermen who go out to the fishing fields every morning, sit in the hot sun throughout the day, and bring in the nets of some fish every evening as the sun nears the western horizon. There were still boats moving out into the surf from the fishing village and it would continue for another hour. Probably 50 to 60 boats in all it appeared from my vantage point south of the village. I did not want to take too many pictures as some of the fishermen were from across the lake in Mozambique and were not here legally. A picture could be a point of contention here, unlike the freedom we feel to snap photos nearly everywhere else in the country. It is different when you get near the border. The civil war that crushed so much of the life out of Mozambique must have made it a different place. I haven’t gone there yet. Why should I? For now I will just spend a little more time in Senga Bay down near Nguwo Village and try to capture the intensity of watching men in carved out logs challenge wind, surf and waves every day in order to carve out of living deep in the sub-Sahara.

The Struggle of This Land
    In so many ways the struggle of these fishermen is the struggle of this land. Not enough resources. Waves too high. Storms that seem to never end. Yet, they continue, and they continue to succeed against all of the odds. Their perseverance is inspiring. But for how long can they continue? When will the world see their plight and come to save them? How long can they struggle against the waves? How long?

    "Don’t pay me anything. Life is not about making money; it’s about helping." With these words Singini Bandawe shrugged off my attempt to compensate him for the fuel and wear and tear on his vehicle that he had expended for me that morning. 

    I had just met Singini a few hours before. Some friends had told me he was the man who could help me find a place to stay for my planned month-long visit to Mzuzu.  As owner of the Kaka Motel, a rundown establishment on the northern edge of the city, Singini has developed a reputation for helping foreigners who come to his community. He welcomes them all, whether they be Chinese developers who are coming at the forefront of that country’s expansion of influence across Africa, or German tourists who pass through for just a few days or weeks, or Britons who have lived for decades in Malawi and have made the country their home.  Singini does what he can to make all strangers feel welcome

A Powerful Impression Immediately
    Some people you meet strike a powerful impression from the get-go and Singini Bandawe is that type. As his assistant led me through a narrow corridor into his boss’s office I could tell at once that the chain-smoking white-bearded figure seated there was a man who had his story.  He warmly welcomed me as soon as he ended his latest phone call and the delightful qualities shared by so many of his generation of Malawians began to come to the fore, qualities that have given the country’s its reputation as "the warm heart of Africa": friendliness, exuberant inquisitiveness about the world, respect for all kinds of people, and generosity to any who need a helping hand. In addition to these qualities Singini possessed the self-confidence of an established businessman and an awareness of the outside world that came from his personal experience of having travelled all around the globe. 

    Immediately he began quizzing me about what kind of place my family needed and went on to describe five houses that he had in mind for me to see. As soon as he could make the necessary arrangements a guide arrived in a Mitsubishi Pajero to take me to see the houses. This exercise involved picking up owners at different locations to show us their houses, often several miles apart in the various districts around the city. As the hours passed and his vehicle clocked up more miles moving between different locations in the Mzuzu area, an unease started growing within me as I considered how much Singini would expect for this service. With fuel now over $4.50 per gallon and Singini sacrificing his car and driver, was this not just another way to make some extra cash off a gullible white person as so often happens to me and other azungu here? I simply didn’t have the extra money on me and was too far from home to risk emptying my wallet here.

Now The Real Test
    Several hours later it was time to find out. Singini was waiting on me, a big grin dominating his face, as we pulled up outside his motel. He keenly listened to my report of the trip. It was time to put the dreaded question to him: "How much do I owe you."

    His answer made me ashamed of even asking the question, let alone of my earlier suspicions. "I don’t look at life that way. You see, people have helped me a great deal in my days." Pointing to the car I had ridden in that morning and an identical one beside it. "Do you see those two Pajeros standing there? They were just given to me for free!  People have given me so much in my life. When I was younger I hitchhiked across England, Scotland, and Wales and people just took me in. They didn’t know who I was.  They just knew I needed help and so they helped me. Now I’ve committed my life to that same principle. Life is not about making money. It’s about helping each other out." 

     I could only respond by mumbling a few limp words in a feeble attempt at thanking this gentleman. "Take these.  They’re delicious," Singini changed the subject, gesturing to two bags of yellow round fruits local to the area that he had had picked for me. Now a little boy was holding them up to me. 

Contemplating What I had Learned
    While driving away, I mused that the spirit of people like Singini Bandawe is what keeps people coming back to-or staying in–Malawi.  Other countries have better game parks, facilities, and other comforts, but visitors who come to know this country seem to get addicted even if it lacks much of what is available elsewhere. 

    My trip took me further north, where I spent some time with other Malawians on the shores of Lake Malawi, and two days later it was time to say Goodbye to them as well.  Unlike Singini these impoverished villagers had practically nothing to live on, eking out a hand to mouth existence off the sandy soil of their area.  Their world was near the bottom of the food chain even by Malawian standards.  Still, it didn’t surprise me to see them load our car down with dozens of pumpkins as we prepared to leave.  "Your wife must see what pumpkins taste like from this district," they insisted.