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World Tour II Postcards, Page 18:
Excerpts from postcards sent in LATE JUNE, 1996
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One thing I’m sad to see happen in much of the world is the loss
of cultural diversity. Wherever I go, I see us becoming increasingly alike … or more
correctly, more like us … listening to our music, watching our movies,
adopting our habits and attitudes; and much of the culture that we are
exporting is the worst of America … our selfishness where people are
customarily more giving, our cynicism where people are better spirited and
idealistic, our violence where such methods hadn’t occurred to anybody. Someday, everybody will watch CNN and think
more or less alike. As we all start speaking the same lingo worldwide over the
internet, culture becomes increasingly something that many will consider as
quaint and from the past.
In some ways, the
loss of ethnic diversity may be as hazardous for us as the loss of species
diversity. As we become more homogenous,
our collective imagination and inventiveness becomes more sterile and less
dynamic. As a traveler, cultural
totalitarianism above all else is boring.
A local woman
passing me on the path greeted me with “Hello. Good morning! I love you!
I want you to marry my daughter.”
It was clear that she didn’t know much more English than that, but
when she repeated the “daughter” part, I asked her how old was her
daughter, who wasn’t there to speak for herself. “Sixteen,” she said and it didn’t seem to concern her that I was probably older
than her daughter’s mother.
Luz Huntington was
an intern at Zero Population Growth when I met her three years ago in
These aid workers
see things only as getting worse, and some are beginning to believe that we may
be doing more harm than good by providing any aid at all to developing
countries. The incentives we create,
they say, don’t encourage the poor nations to
try to improve their own lot; and very little of the aid money actually reaches
the intended purposes. Much of it ends
up in the pockets of local officials, profiteers, or the aid workers
themselves. One person wondered how
folks he met from World Vision could ever understand the local people when they
insist upon staying in hotel rooms for $130 a night (almost an average Malawian’s
yearly income). Nobody he knew from
USAID had ever gotten out of their offices in the “new” modern part
of the capital city, used crowded, uncomfortable local transport instead of
their own vehicles or eaten at local food stalls where Malawians could
sometimes afford to eat.
The many clothes
that have been donated from
I visited a family
planning clinic called “Man to Man”, which as the name suggests focuses
upon the male side of the reproduction equation. Until recently, unfortunately, this angle has been largely ignored by aid organizations. Men have been far more resistant to the idea
of limiting the number of their children.
It’s a symbol of their manliness to have
many children, and if their wives use the pill, they worry that their wives may
feel free to be more promiscuous with other men. Even though there’s
no longer a need for more children to do farm work (since their families no
longer own a farm, and there’s an oversupply of farm laborers anyway),
old habits die hard. Even with the
astronomical HIV infection rate, population continues to grow rapidly here,
because many families have eight or ten children.
I’m staying in a room that
costs me $1.00 a night, and tonight one of the locals is preparing several of
us a huge meal of tasty Chomba fish over a fire on
the beach for about $2.00.
I nearly started a
small riot yesterday when I took a photo of a half dozen women who were walking
in formation carrying large loads of firewood on their heads. They may have big muscles, but it’s pretty difficult for them to put wood down to
come and punch me out.
Still, I will not agree
to ride in some vehicles. I’ve learned my lesson from prior experiences. One flat bed truck was so
dangerously overloaded with people today that even though they offered me
-- the foreigner -- a comfortable seat inside the front cab at twice the price,
my conscience for the others and concern for the safety of us all would not
permit me to take the ride. People on
the back were crushing others underneath and they could
easily be bounced off onto a bumpy road.
My failure to take that ride almost certainly means that I’ll miss
the weekly Lake Tanganyika ferry, causing me a major reroute of plans –
but then again, ferries suffer from dangerous overcrowding here too (as the
recent tragedy on Lake Victoria demonstrated).
You would not believe the
discomfort and danger that people are willing to tolerate here in order to
secure a ride for them selves. I’ve seen chaos, and it’s not a pretty
sight. I couldn’t
even bring myself to photograph it. Some
photojournalist I’d make!
Meanwhile,
A five-foot-long
monitor lizard was scurrying across the highway in
I’ve had to get used to being
stared at again – something I remember well from my previous African
trip. I can’t
for a moment pick my nose without someone watching; and it’s impossible
to be clandestine about taking a photograph – everybody’s an eye
open to make sure I don’t photograph them, especially the women. It seems contradictory that the women dress
in such bright colorful clothes, yet they don’t
want to be captured on film.
Nobody stares more
than the children of rural
In
According to the
village chief (an inherited position), I was the first muzungu
(white person) to visit the village that he could remember – and he has a
memory at least back to 1913 when the village began. Other muzungus,
mostly missionaries have driven past cars, but nobody actually stops.
The concept of “family”
is quite different in the local language.
Aunts and uncles are also referred to as
mothers and fathers. Cousins are referred to as brothers and sisters. Almost everybody in the village is related in some way or another. The village of Karimbera,
which is also the name of the village chief, has a little over 300 people in
it, over half of which are probably under the age of 12. Cousins often marry each other, and other
forms of interbreeding also occur.
Many of the
children appear to be suffering from malnutrition. Food is plentiful, at least in times of no
drought – like now; but the staple diet of nsima
(corn mush) does not provide adequate nutrition for children, and bloated
bellies are a common sight. They have
beans, rice, squash and some meat, mostly goat, but 80% of their calories seem
to come from some form of corn mush, prepared either like mashed potatoes,
sweetened breakfast porridge, or as a thick beverage.
They pulled out a
mattress for me, but they generally sleep on the floor on reed mats. Huge supposedly harmless spiders climbing
their walls were a little unnerving, but I slept well.
The women, no
matter the age, got on their knees when they shook the hands of men. It felt awkward to me to watch them work so
hard while I sat idle with the men drinking homemade corn alcohol.
In the evening, we
gathered in their home of mud brick and thatched roof, and sat by one kerosene lamp
with about 15 family members and ate dinner, with Christopher and me on chairs
and everyone else on the floor. They
asked me questions about life in
For bathing, they
would heat hot water for me over a wood fire, and put it in a bucket in a
circular hut where I could sponge bathe.
The toilet was another circular hut where I accidentally dropped my
camera case down a small hole in the ground.
On the Ferry M.V. Liemba,
In the end, instead
of catching the ferry in
The cabins on the
ferry are comfortable, but the decks are overcrowded
with people. Someday, this ferry ride is
bound to end in tragedy just like the one on
The lake is
beautiful. The west side is
Take care,
Peace and love,
Deano
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