Malawian Hodgepodge

I usually try to write posts that have some underlying theme which require a lot of thinking (kinda shows how empty-headed I am), but there's just too many things to think about as I dive headfirst into Malawi for 4 full days (count 'em).

Why am I here? Well, as my study is on soy food products, one such product is called corn-soya blend (commonly known as CSB). It's basically a - you guessed it - blend of corn and soy flour and nutrients that can be made into a porridge when water is added. It was invented in Likuni, Malawi, and has since been adopted world-wide by UNICEF, WFP, and other NGOs as a crucial tool against malnutrition. In fact, the porridge is known as Likuni Phala (phala=porridge). From what I understand, it's commonly consumed in Malawaian homes, so why not Mozambique? Right now it's only used in feeding program in most places, especially Mozambique, but I want to also look at the potential for commercialization. In addition to touring the factories and meeting with the directors of CSB companies, I'm also checking out other soy foods producers and soybean suppliers. Oh, and my one month Mozambique visa expires soon, so that's just another reason to go out and re-enter.

Outside of my work, which has been a whirlwind and consumed most of my time, I've been blown away by the green space here and the civility of the cities. I've been in the largest city, Blantyre, and the capital city, Lilongwe. What has struck me are the tree-covered (and smooth) roads, shaded pathways, and progressive feel of the cities. Maybe I've been in Mozambique too long, but there is a sense that the infrastructure here is being looked after. In Nampula, Mozambique, some of the potholes are getting so deep that after rains you could probably go fishing. In Mozambique, the attitude is to cut down the trees - often it seems for no good reason. What has resulted is dust, in the wind, and everywhere. It's a rarity to see roads in Mozambique that don't look like the beach. There's even an exchange that Mozambicans have: Someone will say, "How's it going?", and the other will say "Poeira", which means "dust"...kind of like the conventional (and pointless, in my opinion) greeting response of complaining about the weather.

There's also the English speaking population (former British colony) and cool weather that are really making it a pleasant stay. It's amazing the different perspective you get of a country when you're not miserable from heat and unable to have meaningful conversations with anyone.

They also figured out bread here. They put Mozambique to shame, which is ridiculous considering it seems that bread makes up about 1/3 of the urban diet in Moz. They do bread and they do it big. I bought a bagel-like bread about the size of my head. Oh dear it was wonderful to dig into that. Other than that their fare is pretty uninspiring - the usual xima, chips (or who are we kidding, they're French Fries), or rice is paired with chicken, beef, or assorted meats that came from parts of an animal you don't want to hear about. That's the cheap stuff at least - that's what I go for.

I'll update you with some more later, but I just wanted to let you in on some of the happenings. (And if you were wondering, it's nice to stay at decent hotels instead of sweating or getting bit up at hostels...just don't try to book a hotel the day before your stay in the capital on the weekend when the president is getting married. Apparently 20 heads of state are here. Stupid.)

Crutches for Beggars

I don't like beggars. I don't like seeing them and I don't like dealing with them. In fact, my life would be a whole lot better without them. In economic terms, I'd say that their presence decreases my overall welfare. And, if you live in a big city, I bet you feel the same way.

I don't dislike beggars because I think they're the scum of the earth. Rather, I hate seeing the human race in that sort of condition. Beggars, and poverty for that matter, are something I want to see eradicated not just for their sake, but for mine too.

Interacting with beggars is tough, and I don't know if I've gotten any better at it. In Dhaka, Bangladesh, I was almost mugged by them. Ten hands would be grabbing my arms as I walked through the more commercial Gulshan area. Eventually, I started walking around that area altogether. In Mozambique, they are more resigned - and maybe because they have resigned to their situation. They will ask you for money, but only if you make eye contact and only if you walk close enough. It's almost as if they are calculating whether or not the potential payoff is worth the effort. As a personal rule, if you're an able-bodied individual (especially if you're a male), don't bother asking me for money. I also rule out children.

I work in the only real office building in Nampula, the Girassol building which houses USAID, TechnoServe, and most of the other development organizations in the city. It is also home to some nice tech shops and one of the fanciest hotels in the city. Thus, it's a prime spot for beggars. Every day I walk past them in my khakis, button-down shirt, and laptop in stow. I usually do this while trying not to look at him (we'll use "him" for brevity's sake), and every time I feel guilty. Generally, when I am confronted by a beggar, I try to acknowledge him, even if I don't offer anything. I don't know if this makes any difference to him, but maybe it does.

The kind of interaction I have in Nampula is different than most I've had with beggars elsewhere. Here it isn't a one-time thing where I can just blow them off and never see them again. I see them every day. What is my responsibility, as someone on a fellowship to research poverty? Should I give more or less than another foreigner here for a different reason? Should I take time to talk to them? Do they even want to talk to me?

Recently I was sitting in a company truck with a couple colleagues and potential partner who operates a yogurt factory. An old man who was missing his hands limped over to my window and asked for money, in more of a sad mumble than actual words. I didn't give him anything. He went around to the other side of the truck. The factory owner handed him some change. I don't know if he did that out of personal nature or in an effort to show off, but it made feel like crap regardless.

Sometimes I wonder what's the point of giving them money. I think to myself that the few coins I offer up will never change their lives. Maybe this is because I'm an all-or-nothing guy. I want to find a solution to problems, not a crutch. But it also might be because I know how hard it is to help even the moderately poor and able-bodied, much less the maimed and mired. Grameen Bank in Bangladesh has one partial solution (I don't think there's a such thing as a "full solution" when it comes to alleviation efforts) with the Struggling Members Program, which offers a $9 interest-free loan with payback to be decided by the beggar, and with coaching to come from another one of Grameen's less-poor microfinance members. I'm a little skeptical, but Grameen says it has graduated over 10% of its members.

My flatmate and colleague Andrew tried to help the young man who you see in the picture sitting outside our office building. Andrew went to the market with him and purchased a cart (or the parts needed, I can't remember) for him to get around on. Andrew said he's never seen him on it, and when he asked the young man about it, he said that he leaves it at home so his begging is still effective. Who knows the validity of his claim, but sometimes, maybe all we can hope to offer is a crutch.

CLUSA, Soy Milk, and a Second Helping of Moz

Apparently, even after three months in Mozambique, I still haven't caused enough damage to warrant kicking me out of the country. Back in Maputo after South Africa, I spent St. Patty's Day night at a restaurant/pub catching up with a lot of friends until late late. It was a coincidental going away party, since I probably won't be circling down to Maputo again. The next day I boarded a plane for Nampula, where I spent about a month in December/January doing my chicken research.

I'm a big fan of flying, at least anything less than 8 hours. It usually means the beginning of a new chapter of my life - however short it is - and that's always exciting. It might be a new semester at college, a job interview in Chicago, a weekend at Gasparilla in Tampa with all my high school friends, or, more recently, a new country on my travels. In this case I was flying to Nampula to start a 2-month consultancy position until mid-May.

Normally, I wouldn't be choosing to stay in a country for another two months after already being there for three. On my fellowship I've tried to keep my time in each country to about two months. But this project is way too cool and the organization I'm working for is covering my costs, so it was a no-brainer. For the next month and a half with CLUSA (Cooperative League of the USA), I'll be doing a feasibility study on the potential for soy food businesses in the Nampula area, and whether or not CLUSA should provide assistance and funding to emerging soy food businesses. This is actually very connected to my work with TechnoServe, when I was looking at how soybean farmers have benefited from the emerging poultry industry. In the map overlay that I did for my poultry project, you can see the various soybean projects by CLUSA and TechnoServe in light and dark blue, with their magnitude according to the circle size (red is poultry producers).

Why look into the possibility of starting soy-based food businesses? Here's a few reasons:

1. All milk products and wheat flour (Mozambicans love bread) are imported here
2. The byproduct of producing soy milk is okara, which can be used to make breads in proportions up to 20%
3. Locally-produced soy flour is much cheaper than wheat flour and soy milk would likely be cheaper than imported cow's milk (the key is to get the taste right)
4. And, of course, soy is extremely nutritious, which is good for a country where 41% of children under 5 have moderate chronic and severe malnutrition

These are just some of the reasons, but needless to say, there are huge obstacles, such as the high startup capital needed to produce milk. To sort out whether these obstacles outweigh the potential, I'm doing things like meeting with potential entrepreneurs to develop their business models, pricing production machinery from South Africa, India, China, and elsewhere, and talking with street kids who sell fried doughnuts to learn about how they operate their "businesses". It's a pretty broad scope. Hopefully by the end of it I'll be able to determine the potential, but I'll certainly be able to tell you everything you might need to know about soy foods, which I know you're dying to know.

Weird, Cool, Unexpected

Ever had anything really weird but really cool happen to you? Like taking your best friend's girlfriend to the prom (guilty), but more unexpected? I just did. As the capper to my amazing SA experience, I found myself in a grocery store with two packets of Raman in my hand and caught in an endless debating between two pieces of bread, at a price difference of just over a rand ($0.12). It was a sad sight.

Then, out of the blue, a South African women with dark hair walks up to me. She says, "Can I give this to you?" A hand outstretches with 20 rand. "Why?" I asked. Saying I was confused would be as big an understatement as saying that Brett Favre comebacks are annoying. "I don't know," the woman replied, "something is just telling me that I need to give this to you." My jaw was laying on the ground. I didn't know what to say, and I'm not even sure if I said anything. With that she turned and left, and was out the door in no time. I think I said thanks, but who knows.

For the next five or so minutes, I looked really awkward, walking around the supermarket, looking for nothing in particular and just replying the scene in my head like a rejection by a girl who was out of your league to begin with (also guilty). I probably looked like I was lost. Or a little slow. I just kept asking myself, "Really?" Do I look famished and hungry? Homeless? Did she steal something out of my bag at the front and feel bad about it?

After checking out, instead of listening to my planned "This American Life" podcast on the long walk home, I just walked in silence. I thought about what had happened; how nice the people of South Africa had been to me. I thought to myself: "Wouldn't it be absurd if someone offered me a ride?" 30 seconds later, without me even trying to flag anyone down, a white BMW pulls up. "Do you need a lift?" said the female driver, just a few years older than I. My jaw had broken off at this point. This is stupid absurd. But, looking back, it was about par for the course after the amazing hospitality I received while in the SA.

To me, it's amazing the amount of impact you can have on someone for the price of $3. Not only did I immediately become a life-long fan of South Africa, but I also felt something really unexpected. I felt ashamed. Ashamed that I had never done something like that for a stranger, at least not that I can remember. Was I too selfish? Was I too busy to think about others? Or, was I in such an insecure financial position that I never considered just handing out money?

That was about two weeks ago (yes, I'm now back in Mozambique). I didn't really think about the occasion too much since then, until just yesterday. That movie Pay It Forward got in my head somehow, and while I've never seen it (I think that little kid is kinda creepy), I understand the concept. So, I took the 20 rand now converted into Mozambican meticais, divided it three ways, and added a little to make it substantial enough. And I started handing out money. It's not as easy as it looks...try it and you'll understand...but it's great fun. And even more fun to wonder what they're thinking. I already gave out one of my three sums, and I'm waiting for the next two opportunities to arise. Something will tell me when the time is right.

Hitching in Mpumalanga

Not only is Mpumalanga one of the coolest names for a province (ma-pu-ma-lang-a…I couldn’t stop saying it…was just randomly blurting out for no reason), but it is also home to some of the most beautiful landscapes I’ve ever seen. Beautiful scenery is good and fine in and of itself, but I like to experience the scenery, not just look at it. Hence, I took to hiking, mountain biking, kayaking, swimming, rock sliding, running, and hitch-hiking my way through the vast province. And I ate my way through province too, which is known for its pancakes (see the pancake filled with pork and peaches in Graskop) and biltong, the fatty dried meat that makes your veins pulse with grease.

After leaving Siphiwe and all the others in Soweto, I headed on an overnight train, on which I was pitched a poetry book by a Nigerian missionary (he was very nice, though). Over the next week, in Waterval Boven, I lived with Alwyn, his wife Reetha, baby son Luke, and quasi-neighbor Armand (he's basically part of the family). They took me in for 5 days and cooked me hot meals, gave me a bed, and let me mooch off their internet and other facilities. During the day I would rock climb on some of best climbs in Southern Africa and kayak and do other things, like hiking through the ruins of a lost civilization. I called Waterval Boven a small town, but Alwyn corrected me with "village". Conspiracy theories were big - 9/11 came up and shape-shifting reptiles in US public office was a topic of conversation.

From WB I hitched the rest of the way, first to Sabie, a pancake-laden town known for its mountain biking trails and waterfalls. Accordingly, I biked about 50 km the next day, stopping for swims at the various falls. Next I found myself in Graskop, which I planned to use as a base for a three-day hike in Blyde River Canyon, the third biggest canyon in the world. Unfortunately, the canyon was closed for "upkeep"...which sounds as ridiculous to me as it does to you. If I got caught without a permit, I could be arrested. So, instead I biked and hiked my way around the beautiful area...just a thought: don't try to hike 25 km without socks. I'm a moron.

From there I started hitching my way back south to Nelspruit and then to the border. The entire experience was extremely relaxing and liberating - definitely what I needed after being cramped up in an office. You lose your humanity. Some of my best times in the past several months came on this bout of hitchhiking. There was Alan, who bought me a Coke and then took me on a tour of the sugar factory to which he sells drives and said that if it was a week later he'd take me to the others he sold to. And there was "Hippie Dan", as I call him, who picked me up in his beat up work truck just as he was cracking a Black Label, continuing to explain to me that he tried to get a few beers in on the way home because his daughter didn't like him drinking at home. Apparently he wanted to get a cigarette or two in as well, as he was rolling them on the steering wheel as he drove. At the same time, I was holding a sheet of glass because the back was full with his tools and a couple of his black workers. I was quite lucky to catch him at the beginning of his journey. Hippie Dan also told me that he hadn't paid taxes in 12 years - the "stupid" government was too inept to come after him in his home in the hills that didn't have electricity.

It's hard to explain the freedom you feel standing in the bed of fruit truck, traveling 50 mph through the curvy roads that cut though the mountains and low-lying clouds. Wind in your hair. All your belongings in your pack. No laptop. No cellphone. No responsibilities. No idea where you will be staying once you land in the next town. At that moment, life seems to make sense. It really makes you ask yourself, "What am I doing with myself?" It makes life in the office, student loan payments, that latest report that was due, and the next project, seem pretty insignificant. For that moment, it is insignificant. I get nostalgic when I watch movies like Into the Wild, where people are just living with no worries but their bed and the next meal.

Part of me wants that life, to leave this constant obsession of thinking about my next move in life - what company to work for, which people to network with, how to target my resume. But I think the daily hassles and "career" stress that I'm sure are not unique to just me are what make this freedom so significant. If I lived like Hippie Dan (minus the job, hence even hippier) every day, I bet it would lose its luster. I think I'm the Type A crazy who needs to be busy or I get bored - I need to be producing something, having some impact. At least this is what I've found so far. Some people can change the world "spreading love and peace" and disengaging from mainstream society. That's great. I don't think I'm that guy. At least not yet. Give me some more months tramping around Africa and South America and I'll get back to you.

Shacking Up in the Slum - Pt. III of III

The next morning Siphiwe (pictured) and I met at the shebeen to go to church – his invitation. Most of his friends were there already, having a Hansa. They gave me the local handshake like we’ve known each other for years, and I didn’t really feel much like a tourist anymore. It was an odd sight: Siphiwe and me, in our clean church clothes drinking Lemon Twist, and the others in the clothes from the day before, passing a bottle of Hansa between them.

On the way to church, children tugged at the leg of my pants and women looked out from their homes, concerned that I was leaving for good. I admit that some people did just see me as a walking pile of money, but as the days went on this seemed to dissipate. People were starting to accept me.

The service was good. Being there was like gasping for air filled with hope, in an atmosphere filled with so much futility and negativity. Over the days I’d learned a bit about Siphiwe, and on Sunday we talked more. About a month ago he pretty much stopped drinking. With a sense of sadness, he is now trying to distance himself from his friends. He explained to me, “These guys (his friends), they have no hope. They don’t think they will achieve anything in their lives.” Talk with most slum dwellers in Soweto, and all you will hear is “no jobs” in refrain. But most of them aren’t looking, says Siphiwe. Instead, they expect jobs to just fall into their laps, and often jobs for which they’re not qualified.

Siphiwe is now going to church regularly and has joined a weekly Bible study group. He has recently started a small tourism outfit, after leaving another one that also operated in Motsoaledi. He had a dispute with the owners, who only wanted profit, while Siphiwe wanted it to be a community project to help the children. Siphiwe is trying to get out.

As I went to leave Sunday afternoon, I stopped by Patricia’s to say bye, just as she had vehemently demanded the night before when she was, quite frankly, hammered. Laying on her lawn, nearly passed out, she barely acknowledged me, not even getting up. This was coming from someone who had said that our simple stop by the shebeen on Thursday made her want to cry.

Three days, while not sufficient, is much more revealing than 15 minutes on a tour. You get to see people more for who they really are. Sadly, Patricia and most of the others, it seems, are just passing their days with the help of alcohol. A rare few I met, like Siphiwe, are trying to claw their way out. As Siphiwe helped me into the minibus with my bag and said goodbye, I handed him some money, unsolicited, and promised to stay in touch. Hopefully in the future I can help him in bigger ways. It’s people like him who really need our encouragement to keep moving in the right direction.

Shacking Up in the Slum - Pt. II of III

The next morning, minutes after 7:00, I was woken by blasting reggae music. I staggered out of Patricia’s and saw a huge black Miller truck at Nessie’s shebeen. But that wasn’t the source of the music. Half asleep, I bumbled over. Tobekho (with the dreads on the right), Nelito, and the other regulars had already gotten the day started with some Hansa. First, who’s up at 7 am on Saturday? And second, who’s up at 7 am on Saturday and drinking heavily?

The rest of the day I hung out at the shebeen, passing the time like anyone else in Motsoaledi would on a Saturday. I also interviewed some people, one of whom was Sandy, a gregarious woman who always seemed to be wearing a smile, and her husband Victor. Sandy operated a shebeen, a fact confirmed by the 10 or so people sitting almost silently in a room in her home, drinking – an odd sight to say the least, but typical of shebeens. Music's not necessary. I asked Victor, the inebriated electrician, how many kids he had. 33. Only four belonged to Sandy, the others to mistresses, he said with a smile. Sandy was standing right next to him. “He’s a womanizer,” she said. I remarked that she was still with him. “What can I do?”, she implored. Plus, she said, he’s “a good man.” Personally, I have no illusions that men, especially in the slums, sleep around, but that it is this blatant was appalling. I’ve heard this especially in Mozambique and now South Africa, which accordingly has the largest HIV population in the world.

Later that evening, Siphiwe grabbed me and tells me we’re going to a party. My dinner goes cold on the table. When we get there, we find a space jump and hoards of kids, grilled chicken, beer, and dessert. In no time a drink and slice of cake are shoved in my hands. I'm a big celebrity, pulled in every which way by people. Siphiwe says I have a few admirers in the group of women I talked to when I entered. And who is there? Sandy and Victor (with the blue shirt and jeans in the second picture), the latter of which is even worse than before and now basically physically harassing me. Major man crush. Siphiwe, meanwhile, drinks Coca-Cola.

That night we found ourselves at, you guessed it, Nessie’s shebeen. There was a soccer match, and I split the bottle of wine gifted to me by a neighbor. Again, amazing hospitality from the South African people. Patricia hated the strong taste, but had a second and third glass because, she said, “I can’t afford any Hansa…I have to drink this.” She talked as if it was punishment, yet she drank more than anyone else. I thought this was terribly rude, and her drunkenness seemed a bit in appropriate, especially for her age. But, this is all learning for me, so you accept things as they are. After all, I am intruding on their lives, so I'm probably not one to talk about rudeness. The whole night Siphiwe had a glass of my wine, but otherwise, nothing.