Donuts! Donuts! 15 Kwacha!

I’ve always loved markets. The frantic bustle of a community coming to life through the art of haggling thrills me and I usually make a point of hitting the Saturday bonanza. Usually, I’m on the receiving end of increased prices – since I’m clearly not local – and the frantic cries of vendors distinguishing themselves, not by merchandise or value, but by the level of their voices. But not this weekend.

Madam Domasi, a neighbor to the cassava flour factory, has a small business selling lunch and snacks at the market. Always looking to supplement my meager volunteer stipend, (and the opportunity to penetrate the vendor community in search of lower prices) I managed to get a job with the Madam as a donut vendor.

Malawian donuts are slightly different from those in Canada, but the idea is pretty much the same. Dough, rolled into a donut shape is fried in oil with delicious but regrettably unhealthy results. The difference here was that we made them over a fire. Although donut making clearly wasn’t one of my natural talents, with the help of patient Madame Domasi, we soon had a basket full of donuts and were off to the market.

Initially, I set up shop on a corner lot between some clothing vendors (trousers! Yao! Yao! Yao! 300! 300! trousers!) but soon found that customers here were more interested in browsing. I needed more volume, impulse purchases, and people with the munchies. I headed for the bar.

Now, perhaps you’re thinking: “Surely Duncan, dim lighting, oak countertops, and ale on tap are not to be found in rural Malawi.” Well, you’re right. The bar was a small straw hut enclosed by a fence of high elephant grass on each side. Inside, an older woman tends to three large cauldrons of fermented maize.

If Guiness is the beer that eats like a meal, then “masese” is the beer that eats like a Thanksgiving feast. More of a porridge than a beverage, large quantities of this filling brew are sold for roughly 35 cents. I had found my donut selling hotspot.

A mzungu (westerner) selling donuts in the market was a spectacle; here it was out of control. I got as many requests for donuts as I did for chatting, tasting the local brew, and singing in the local language. I did all three (in moderation of course) and sold a lot of donuts in the process.

More than anything, it was good fun. It took me about three hours to empty my basket but queries about when I would be hawking donuts again continued throughout the week. Under pressure from the community, I ended up returning to work the following Saturday and might be back for a third if I can make it. I still need to go back for my discount trousers and my donut enterprise, “Duncan Donuts,” looks like it’s primed to be a million Kwacha idea.

The Bat

The latrine near the factory is a small, mud brick structure with a neat, rectangular hole cut into the floor. The chamber beneath is fairly large and apparently cave-like enough to have attracted an inhabitant.

The other night, a bat flew out of the hole in the floor when I came in to squat. I remember childhood stories playground friends used to tell about a snake that had once found its way into a toilet. That story hadn't ended well. Terror seized me to think about the damage that a furry, winged mammal could do. They have teeth and little claws right?!

I vowed to never return at night…

…Until the next night when digestive troubles once again had me bolting for the latrine. Out of bet! Headlamp! Toilet paper (I’m so glad I brought extra)! Off I go!

Trousers were around ankles before I remembered my furry friend below. With great effort, I paused for a few precious moments to investigate. Sure enough, as the light of my headlamp shone through the floor opening, I saw him flit about beneath. Running out of time, I frantically grabbed a piece of straw from the thatched roof and waved it through the opening. But he wouldn’t leave.

I was out of time. I dropped into my back-catcher’s stance and could do nothing but hope. There aren’t many things I really, truly, miss from home. Most of our creature comforts are surprisingly easy to do without. But this instance, as I squatted, racked with anxiety, had me truly craving a ceramic, flushing, bat-free, American Standard™.

I thought I was home-free until I sensed it. A chirp, a slight gust of wind and he was out! With unmatched agility, the creature navigated the narrow space between floor and bare hide to escape from his cave. Instantly standing at full attention, I was done; it scared the crap out of me.

I haven’t been back yet at night, nor do I plan to if I can help it. Ever.

Village Life

The village of Chikandwe is a typical Malawian village of 16 families and has been my home for the past several weeks. About 5 km from the IITA office and the main road, I feel like I have a pretty good balance between office work and rural living. I sleep on a reed mat in a mud brick house without electricity or running water and then jog to work in the mornings to internet access and colleagues who specialize in food security.
This past weekend, Malawi celebrated its 44th year as a country and I celebrated with a three day weekend at home with my host family, the Bandas.

My host father, Bauleni, his wife Fonase, and their five children are wonderful people and, though they only speak Chichewa, have really made me feel at home in the village. This has strongly motivated me to learn the language and, through the help of frantic gesturing and lots of laughter, I feel my Chichewa skills are really coming along. (Although, the other day, I accidentally said: If I find the chief on the path we will stop and love one another” instead of “greet one another.” Fortunately, only my family was present.)

I participated many different aspects of village life over the weekend. One of the highlights was the “Gule Wamkulu” that I wrote about in a separate blog. With time off of work, I did my best to help out with chores of the household and errand running. The following are a few stories of different chores:

Farming – The village is situated next to a marsh and, immediately next to this, Bauleni tends fields of maize, rice, leafy greens, and small potatoes. With the rice now harvested, we set out in the morning, hoes in hand, to till the soil in preparation for planting potatoes. It felt good to be working outside in the cool morning next to the marsh. Although my 13 year-old brother Pemphero clearly out-classed me in both pace and skill, I still feel I contributed and incredulous passers-by all assured me that I was doing great.

Farming is hard work. As I look at my hands now, I count 11 blisters, blisters that I continued to try and hide from my family as I assured them of my ability to help. For the remainder of the weekend I was not allowed to wield the hoe but was given the task of planting potatoes instead. Working in the fields was hard but relaxing in the shade afterwards while eating sugar cane completed the experience and made it deeply satisfying.

Cooking – The staple dish in Malawi, as in much of Southern Africa, is nsima. Nsima is cooked from maize flour, boiled in water to produce a thick, doughy porridge that is then eaten with a relish of vegetables, beans, fish, or meat to name a few. I had repeated asked my mother Fonase to teach me how to cook it and she agreed to teach me one afternoon.

Cooking nsima is not so much complicated as it is difficult. Physically I mean. Once enough flour is added and the food begins to thicken, stirring becomes quite the workout and Fonase had to step in a few times to help out when my arms started to fail me. Embarassing though it may seem, I would challenge any tough guy to take on the weakest looking woman in the village. She would mop the floor with him.

Lunch was a smashing success but, since I am fairly physically incapable of cooking nsima, I’ve decided to stick to helping prepare relishes.

Charging the Battery – In the main house there is a wireless radio powered by a car battery and over the weekend we traveled to a nearby town to charge it. A bicycle is the chief mode of transport for just about everything here. From stacks of firewood higher than a person, to 50kg sacs of maize, to live pigs and goats, a steel reinforced bicycle carrier handles it all and the car battery was no exception. Handling a one-speed bike with a car battery attached through the dusty trails to the town about 8 km away was no easy task but, following Bauleni’s lead, we arrived safely at the town of Four Ways. The next day, with the battery charged, Malawian gospel music once again sounded from our house and the children gathered around to listen and dance.

My life in the village is vastly different from my one in Canada in so many ways yet is beginning to feel very much like a home. In the evenings, if I run home quickly enough I can jump in on the evening soccer match the kids play in the village centre. I’m pretty much the worst player on the field but we have a great time nevertheless. There should be more pick-up soccer matches in my life back in the “developed world.”

I Am a Terrible Roomate....

For those who participated in the latest quiz, my roommate is in fact a “nkhuku” or chicken. The Chichewa word for eggs is maizera and, through playing with the word and my odd sense of creativity, I named her Macy.

I write about this now with a heavy heart. It was entirely unintentional but it came to pass that I ate my roommate.

When I returned to Chikandwe, my home village near the office, I was concerned to not find Macy in my room anymore. Both her and her nest had been removed; I assumed the worst.

I asked my family if they had, in fact, eaten her but they assured me she was alive and well. Then, the next day, I spotted Macy trying to enter my room when I left the door open to brush my teeth. I breathed a sigh of relief.

Yesterday, we had chicken for lunch. Sure, the connection seems obvious now, but I didn’t think to ask of the bird’s origin until halfway through a drumstick.

-“So, did you buy this chicken or raise it yourself?” I asked.

-“We raised it,” my host father, Bauleni, replied. “This is the chicken that used to stay with you.”

The thigh bone I was suckling on almost fell out of my mouth.

-“Mnzanga!” (my companion!) I exclaimed.

-"Haha, yes," Bauleni replied. "You are eating your friend!"

Lunch, though delicious, was difficult for me to finish. I have no illusions about why chickens are raised here but I still feel terrible. I thought that because she consistently laid eggs she would be safe. Apparently not.

She was a great roommate in so many ways. She didn’t make much of a mess, didn’t throw wild parties that kept me up all hours of the night, never complained, and even provided a delicious meal when she moved out. I only wish I could have reciprocated a little more positively.

Macy, I’ll miss you.

Gule Wamkulu

I didn’t know what the first word meant, but the second assured me that, whatever it was, it was big. The wife of a chief in a neighbouring village had died and people from the surrounding area were gathering to pay respects.

This was the third funeral I attended, so I figured that I at least had some idea of what to expect. Wrong. I have never seen, and likely never will again, anything like this.

Roughly 1,000 people had assembled in this small village. As my host father, Bauleni, and I arrived, the sound of drums eminated from the centre of the crowd and the cries of wailing women carried over from the home of the deceased. We were led to the cemetery, where a large crowd had already gathered, and sat amongst them on mounds of dirt still remaining from the harvest. Bauleni explained the scene to me but, with my still limited comprehension of the Chichewa language, I only partially understood. The word “njobvu” kept coming up, which I was pretty sure meant elephant, but since there are no elephants in this part of Malawi, I kept second guessing myself.

Then the elephant arrived. Not a real one, but a giant, black float carried by four figures hidden inside the legs. Preceeding the elephant were two men, presumably herders, wielding hatchets and long thin sticks with bits of red cloth tied to the ends. Each wore fluorescent yellow and pink shorts and a black executioner hoods tied around their heads with strips of pink fabric as they dashed around the elephant waving their weapons wildly.

The body of the elephant was enormous. Stuffed with what looked like either grass or cloth, the animal was about twice the height of a man. With a trunk, painted features, and sewn-on ears, it was truly a sight to behold.

Eventually, the “njobvu” arrived at the cemetery where its herders rushed to bar the way. With frantic gesturing of the long sticks, the herders brought the elephant to a halt and instructed it to sit. The burial commenced and, upon completion, the elephant rose and left not to be seen again.

Apparently, the elephant is a sign of great respect at a funeral and only appears when a prominent member of the community passes. The chief makes an offering of money to the elephant who, in turn, escorts the procession and oversees the burial.

With the burial over, it was time for the Gule Wamkulu. In a large clearing in the centre of the village stood a great tree and, next to it, a tall, slender pole resembling a flagpole was firmly planted in the ground. The crowd gathered in a great ring around this clearing with the chiefs and their guests sitting under a thatched awning at one end.

Bauleni and I sat on the ground on one side at first but were soon escorted to a series of benches on the opposite side. As the sole mzungu (white person) in attendance, it was hard to avoid drawing attention.
Then the dancers arrived. Each one of them wore masks, elaborate headdresses and costumes made of cloth and fur. The drummers set up at one end of the circle, wdarming their drum skins over small fires, as the dancers made final preparations. One by one, dancers entered the ring for their performances. Drums thundered through the clearing as each performance set a new standard for what the human body can perform with legs and rhythm. At the end of each performance, people who enjoyed the dance would rise and offer money to the dancers. Nervous does not even come close to describing how I felt with so many eyes watching as I approaches these masked dervishes. But the crowd loved it. Waves, thumbs-up, and laughter welcomed me back to my seat every time I got up to “kusupa.”

The dancers were nothing short of incredible. One, wearing a giant, red, wooden makst, had squirrel pelts sewn together for a cape, and a leopard skin draped around his torso. With each intensive thrust, fur would wrap itself around his body, exaggerating each movement to outrageous proportions.

Periodically, a different kind of dancer would enter the ring at the same time another was dancing. Wearing only a loin cloth and black executioners hood tied at the forehead and neck, these men were coated from head to toe in black mud. Wielding long sticks resembling lances, they would leap into the circle and begin to run and dance wildly, their jet black figures resembling the black riders from the Lord of the Rings. When their dances finished, they would seek out a spot in the crowd and lunge forward with their stick as the crowd dived sideways to avoid these terrifying figures.

All the while, a lone figure with a devilishly grinning satanic mask sat beneath the large pole in the centre of the clearing. When the other dancers had finished he rose to take command of the show.

He started with a strut that was ordinary enough but soon made his way back to the pole and, with a leap, began to ascend it with bare hands and feet. With the agility of a monkey, he worked his way up to the top, pausing briefly only to gesture wildly to the cheering crowd.

He reached the top, paused, then leaned over the top of the pole so that only his stomach touched it. Perched on top like a skewered beetle in a science museum, he began flailing his arms and legs in a motion resembling a freestyle swimming stroke, drawing cries of fear end excitement from the crowd.

Finishing his stroke, he proceeded to flip upside down and, gripping the pole with only his feet, began to descend. The crowd went nuts – myself included. People from all sides rushed forward to throw money as the inverted devil slinked towards the ground.

The entire scene, from start to finish, was a spectacle I will never forget. It was a tremendously rich cultural experience and I learned the meaning of a “Gule Wamkulu” – the great dance of the Chewa tribe.

Dzaleka Refugee Camp

I’ve been putting off writing about this and it’s because I still feel like I’m reeling from it emotionally. Recalling the experience is still unsettling and, though the emotional effects will fade with time, I don’t think the memories ever will.

Two friends of mine are working for the UN in Malawi this summer and were able to arrange a visit for myself and a few other EWB volunteers to a refugee camp.I suppose I didn’t know what to expect. Most of my expectations were formed from the movie “Blood Diamond” and, when it comes to realities of Africa, I’ve found that Hollywood and the media can be of limited accuracy.

The Dzaleka refugee camp, operated by the UN High Commission for Refugees, is different. It is the only camp in Malawi but the permanence of it is staggering. I was surprised at first by the absence of fences that I assumed would be surrounding the camp. Perched on a now deforested hilltop far from any other settlements, fence or no fence, most people here won’t be leaving anytime soon.

It was originally established in response conflict in Mozambique in the 1980s and has now existed for close to 20 years. With Mozambique now at peace and the refugees repatriated, the camp continues to harbor people fleeing various conflicts in Southern and Eastern Africa, mostly from the D.R. Congo, Rwanda, Burundi, Ethiopia, and Somalia.

Perhaps the term camp is misleading. For me, the word summons images of tents and other temporary shelters yet many of the structures are very permanent. Of the approximately 10,000 people living here many have already spent many years at Dzaleka and have few prospects for the future.

Refugees have three options: they can stay in the camp; they can return to their home country; or they can try to resettle in a third country. Cases successful with the last option are exceedingly rare and, since many either cannot or are unwilling to return home, most sit and wait.

And who can blame them? Here, food stipends from the UN ensure that people can get by and a primary school funded by UNICEF offers primary school for children. There is also a small high school and students who excel here can apply for WOSK scholarships to different countries but their numbers are very few.

I think it was the stories of people that really got to me. Of the thousands at Dzaleka, I only heard the stories of a few yet each one had its own unique horrors. I met a woman from Rwanda whose entire family had been killed. A man from the DRC had a similar story. Formerly the son of a Chief, his family had been shot and his village destroyed. Somehow, he escaped into the jungle but was eventually recaptured. He spent 10 months in prison, became ill, and eventually escaped from the prison hospital and fled to Malawi. He has now been at the camp for 6 years and has mixed feelings about returning home. Though the DRC is his origin, with his family dead, there is not much of a home for him to return to. So he waits.

I feel a little differently about the experience now. A friend of mine who is working for the UN brought up a good point. If I were to burst into tears after hearing someone’s story, what are they supposed to do? Comfort me?

I’m glad that I experienced it, difficult thought it was. I think my biggest realization was that refugees exist every day of the year, long after a crisis “ends.” I was raised in a very different reality where I did not experience such hardship and, even if I cannot truly understand the plight of the people I met, I can know that it exists. There are people who have a more difficult life than I, those who suffer, and even if I choose to look away, that doesn’t mean that their realities do not exist.

Photos

Posting pictures is generally problematic, but I've been able to downsize some of them to make posting easier. Here are a few of my favourites from the past little while.







Also, I will be putting up a new quiz very soon. I had toyed with the idea of polling people's estimates on how long it would take me to get malaria but I ended up getting it before I could post. Don't worry, I'm fine. I wouldn't do it again though.

Transport to Lilongwe

Planning always has limitations. No matter how hard you try, there are always factors that cannot be accounted for. At some point you just have to run with what you have and hope for the best. Murphy had a pretty pessimistic take on this kind of approach, but I on the other hand opt to “not even worry about it” most of the time.

So there we were: Graham, Mafayo, and I. Two white guys, an entrepreneur, and 140 kgs of cassava flour at the side of the road trying to hitch a ride the 300 or so kilometers to Mafayo’s customers in Lilongwe. Hiring private transport was far too expensive for such a small load so we decided to test the waters with alternative transportation methods. The only thing we could really plan on was a learning experience.

A couple of hours passed before a suitable truck came along. We agreed on a price and piled into the cab while the cassava flour rode in the back with an ever increasing number of other hitchhikers. It’s pretty common for drivers to pick people up for a fare in Malawi and we were doing so every few kilometers. It was only when we encountered a police roadblock outside of the next major town that I learned this is illegal.

We were able to continue to Kasungu, the next major town, where the truck was supposed to report to the police station. The truck had not been planning on going past Kasungu so our plan hadn’t been too dismantled by this development. The only issue was that we somehow had to get 140 kgs of flour from the police department to the bus station.

No worries. “Musadandaule” in Chichewa. Mafayo and I headed off to the bus station to hire a minibus that could pick up the flour while Graham waited at the police station with the truck. We found transport and shortly after we were headed back to the police station. We arrived to find that Graham, the truck, and the flour had disappeared. I called Graham and found out they had waited for a police officer to turn up but eventually left when no one did. He was back at the bus station with the cassava flour.

But instead of the bus turning around and heading back, we were soon traveling well out of town and back out on the main road. In a long, circuitous arc we were traveling around to the far side of the town and I, only catching snippets of the rapid dialogue in Chichewa, had no idea what was going on. I asked my traveling companion.

Mafayo: “Oh, this vehicle is also in trouble with the police.”
Me: “So, we’re running from the police?”
Mafayo: “Yes. We are running from the police.”

Okay, so maybe not quite the brazen, siren blaring, high speed, stunt ridden pursuit you might be thinking of (don’t worry mom), but the situation was nevertheless a little exciting. I, for one, had definitely not planned on fleeing the law when we began our day. In the end, we found Graham and the flour, reached Lilongwe and the customers safely, and returned home without having to post bail.

Most importantly, we learned a lot about what works and what doesn’t with transporting cassava flour and have since found a private vehicle for deliveries.

The Insect Witch

Malawi is predominantly Chirstian but witchcraft and animist beliefs still play a role in some places.

A few nights ago, Mafayo was explaining how his business got started. The plot of land he cleared was originally a forest that was feared by many in the community. Witches lived there.

Mafayo was undaunted by this. He cleared about a hectare of forest and enough space for a new, more direct, road to the trading centre. From what he said, people are very appreciative of his efforts to rid the community of the evil that lurked nearby.

I asked Mafayo if he feared the witches. Surely, they would exact some kind of vengeance on him for the destruction of their home. “God is greater,” he replied. “Witches can only harm the body, not the soul.”

We continued talking about traditional beliefs and how… Suddenly, Mafayo jerked from his seat and stripped off his shirt. “Something bit me,” he said. There, just at the edge of the glow of the fire, a centipede no shorter than 6 inches scurried away.

“And we were just talking about the witches,” Mafayo laughed while lifting a heavy stone. “But God is greater.”

Splat.

Funeral

This was difficult for me to write about but I felt it was important. I apologize for writing two consecutive posts on heavier topics.

Earlier this year at UBC, a group of activists placed hundreds of tiny white crosses in the grass on a main campus boulevard to raise awareness about HIV/AIDS. A sign described the horrific effects of the virus and presented some of the staggering statistics, primarily in Sub-Saharan Africa. The image reminded me of photos I had seen of the white crosses in graveyards from the World Wars and it stuck with me.

An estimated 1 in 5 people in Malawi have HIV/AIDS. Life expectancy is currently 39 and is projected to drop to 33 by 2010. These numbers, combined with the image from UBC, made me feel like I was heading into a war zone. But statistics do not always accurately communicate realities and Malawi feels like anything but a war zone. With the exception of billboards and flyers distributed by various organizations, HIV/AIDS is largely invisible here. It is rarely discussed and, after a while, I began to wonder if I had been misled by the numbers and little white crosses.

I attended a funeral last week in Chisemphere. A young woman, age 30, died of AIDS. I didn’t know her, but it was still hard. There is something about the crying family, the gathered community, and the echo of the choir in the morning that statistics will never quite convey: the real crosses have names on them.

A vast amount of foreign aid in Malawi is directed towards combating the virus. People are becoming increasingly aware and testing and treatments are free throughout the country. The virus has taken its toll and, though not quite a war, people are fighting back. I just wish that they wouldn't have to add another cross on the lawn at UBC.

Village Life

The Chisemphere trading centre consists of a cluster of shops a few kilometers from the main road. Beyond this, the area is instantly rural with small clusters of thatched roof houses and fields stretched out along dirt paths for kilometers in all directions. My previous conception of rural Malawi was mainly a montage of images sewn together from World Vision photos and shocking TV commercials painting a deprived and almost horrid existence. Everyone always looked so depressed!

My time in the village directly challenged this. I find it difficult to brand anyone as being “poor.” Sure, the number of people with flat screen TVs is exceedingly low here, but did we ever really need them in the first place? Are the children that wave to me on their way to school really the same crying children from the TV commercials? As a volunteer, can I really judge anyone’s life, declare it deficient by my western standards, and seek to “develop” them?

Though often masked by the warmth of the people, I began to discover some very real challenges faced by the community. I realized one, several days after I arrived in Chisemphere, when Mafayo and I were visiting cassava farmers in the area. We were walking along a small path when we emerged in a clearing on a small hill. It was a field of maize, withered, and knee high. I asked Mafayo about it.

“Yes,” he replied. “These are failed crops. These people will suffer from hunger.”

It hit me pretty hard. Perhaps in the nearby group of houses lived the same people the media had previously urged me to pity. But when I later met them I realized that the images had failed to communicate something important. There is a sense of humanity, resiliency, and richness of life here that I think is sometimes forgotten when we talk about “poverty.”

Cassava Flour in Chisemphere

After three weeks in the field, I am back at the IITA office frantically trying to catch up on emails, reports, and blogging. I know I’ve fallen a little behind on posting but I have plenty of stories from the field and will do my best to write about them while I am back. Thank you to everyone who participated in the Chichewa word quiz while I was away. For those of you who guessed Ntochi, you’re right! Now you can purchase bananas without difficulty throughout the country.

I have been working with cassava flour production at a small factory in the town of Chisemphere, about three hours north of Lilongwe. Currently, market demand for cassava flour is strong for a number of reasons: it can be used as a partial substitute for wheat flour in baked goods - making it more economical with the rise in wheat prices – and it can be used as a maize substitute in nsima, the staple dish in Malawi. Despite this market, the number of processors remains few. To my knowledge there are only two cassava flour producers in Malawi at this time, one being Mafayo Lungu in Chisemphere.

The potential positive effects of flour production are. Mafayo’s factory can provide employment in the community, a local market where farmers can sell cassava, a supply of food in the hunger season, and a means of eventually sending his one-year-old daughter Lusungu to school. However, despite the positive environment, Mafayo’s business still faces many challenges. My work over the next few months will be focused on supporting his business to become profitable and self-sufficient in the long term. If we can achieve this, there is potential for further market growth leading to increased incomes and food security in rural Malawi.

There are many opportunities for supporting the value chain. Fortunately, I working directly with Graham Lettner, an EWB long-term volunteer here until March, so any initiatives can continue after my placement ends. The cassava harvest will begin in earnest next month and so ideas and preparations are in full swing. Yehbo!

Chichewa and Value Chains

Not wanting to sit idle while I waited for work to begin, I set out on the streets of Lilongwe to practice my Chichewa (the local language) and do some research on how the local markets function. Malawians are tremendously friendly people and literally almost everyone I pass is keen to assist with directions, greetings, and getting me on the fast track to fluency in Chichewa. Whether or not I ever get there is a different story but the journey is always accompanied by new friends and lots of laughter. For those of you playing along at home, I've set up a Chichewa word-of-the-week quiz! Pang'ono pang'ono mudzalakhula Chichewa!

Markets are the bustling epicentre of the city and how they work defines the livelihoods of much of the urban population. However, they are only the end of a longer chain of interactions and processes that stretch all the way back to the producers and their livelihoods. These Value Chains have become the focus of much attention in poverty alleviation strategies. By supporting and strengthening existing value chains, or pioneering new branches of existing ones, organizations have tremendous potential to have significant and sustainable impact. A strong value chain for any product can mean increased stability and opportunity for the rural poor.

Value chains are tremendously complex systems and I still have much to learn. I spent a few days visiting different markets, warehouses, and mills around Lilongwe learning about rice, fish, and potato value chains. All of the information on transportation, costs, value added by processing, and storage, provide valuable insight into how value chains function for some of the major commodities in Malawi. But the urban environment only shows one end of the value chain and the cassava flour market is still in comparative infancy. On Monday I will be heading north to visit a cassava flour producer for two weeks to learn about the rural beginning of the value chain for cassava and look for opportunities to strengthen the links in the chain.

Adapting to Malawi

Everything towards the end of April seemed to be moving very quickly. I was cramming for finals while frantically trying to pack and less than 12 hours after my last final I found myself at the airport headed towards training in Toronto. Pre departure training also afforded few breaks. Twenty-three other Junior Fellows heading to Ghana and Malawi all crammed into a house while we engaged in a week of intensive training. Case studies, presentations, role playing, question periods, and reflections made it one of the longest but most valuable weeks of education I’ve ever had.

I think the biggest thing I learned from pre-dep is that how I think is more important than what I know. Overseas, there are no easy answers and the traditional learning environment where we are used to having an instructor present facts isn’t always present and may be incorrect when it is. It is more important to be able to ask critical questions and frame a thought process that will allow one to be effective in any situation. In a foreign environment, little is certain and circumstances can change very quickly. To be effective and create lasting change we need to be able to adapt.

I have now arrived in Lilongwe, the capital of Malawi, and the pace of life has slowed considerably. Unfortunately, my initial placement with CADECO and TearFund in water and sanitation did not work out and so adapting is exactly what I am doing. The new initiative that TearFund had planned for this summer is not quite ready to begin so, in order to maximize my effectiveness in Malawi, I was partnered with a different organization in the agriculture sector.

The International Institute of Tropical Agriculture (IITA) has been working on improving the market for cassava (a kind of tuber – similar to a potato) in Malawi. Cassava is ideal for the conditions of the region. It is very drought resistant, requires few nutrients, and can remain in the ground for up to three years – a tremendous form of food security. However, the crop itself is vastly overshadowed by the production of maize and cassava has little comparative market value. IITA is working to help pioneer new market opportunities for processing cassava into starch (for adhesives) and flour to improve incomes for farmers and increase food security in rural areas.

However, my jump to agriculture happened only very recently, and since my boss at IITA has been out of the office for the past week, my specific role will not be finalized until tomorrow. Things sometimes move slowly, and in the meantime I will have to be patient and adaptable.

Engineering in Development

After a somewhat tumultuous exam period and frantic final preparations, I feel like I finally have an opportunity to write a little. I am thrilled to be at the beginning of what is certain to be a tremendous opportunity for learning and impact in the complex world of international development. But first, a little background on who I am, where I’m going, and some of the reasons for it.

My name is Duncan, and I have just finished my third year of civil engineering at UBC. This summer I will be traveling to the southern African country of Malawi with Engineers Without Borders as a part of their Junior Fellowship program in international development. The program is designed to send university undergraduates to Africa to help alleviate extreme poverty, gain relevant on the realities of poverty and field work, and share experiences and knowledge with both students and the general public following their placement. Ultimately, the goal is to have as much impact as possible, both in Canada and overseas, on reducing global poverty.

Often the first question that I’ve been asked about the summer is about what I will be building. Ironically, as both an engineer and a member of Engineers Without Borders, I will likely not be building any of the traditional infrastructure one would expect. As part of EWB’s approach to development, we partner with existing organizations, such as non-government organizations (NGOs), instead of running our own initiatives. As volunteers, our role is to bring a fresh perspective, provide additional skills and knowledge, and help facilitate the development of both the organizations and the communities they work with to ensure that our efforts foster sustainable growth long after our departure. Sometimes this does involve dealing with very technical issues, but there is a far greater need for assistance in providing access to simple, existing technologies and working with and improving existing systems. By working with these existing conditions instead of a new initiative, projects can be more effective in both the short and long terms.

People are at the focus of all development work, and human development ultimately needs to be driven by the local population. As a foreigner with very little understanding of local contexts, I can only serve to help facilitate the transfer of relevant skills and abilities that people can use to improve their livelihoods. To sum it up with an adaptation of a popular expression:

Give a man a fish and he will eat for a day

Teach a man to fish and he will eat for a lifetime

Teach a man how to teach a man to fish and

his community will eat for a lifetime

So it is with lofty aspirations for long-term change that I find myself, mere hours out of my last final exam, beginning a week of pre-departure training in Toronto and contemplating how I can be most effective when working with an issue as complex as extreme poverty.