Dichotomy

The dichotomy that exists in a day:

A child yells out my Malawian name as I ride by on a bike smiling and waving.

A man won’t leave me alone in the market insisting I give him money.

Expectant mothers sing and dance about being healthy during their antenatal visit to the clinic.

I pass by yet another funeral on my way home from a trip to the market.

In a crowd of people, I recognize a friend, and they recognize me, and I realize this is becoming my home.

Children scream and mothers push and shove into a small room to all try and get their children tested for malaria.

My neighbor’s children dance with delight when they get to draw water for a treat.

A meeting starts 2 hours late. A meeting doesn’t happen. 

I cook a successful meal actually enjoyed by my friends and neighbors surprising them that yes, Americans can cook.

A bat flies around in my bedroom at night as I try to sleep.

Solar electricity lights up the clinic and staff houses after years without. 

In the name of being fast, patients are given less than quality care, staff take infection risks. 

The head Medical Assistant at the clinic gets up night after night, during dinner, during breakfast to care for patients who come even when the clinic is suppose to be closed and himself off work.

A fourteen year old pregnant child has extreme complications and is ambulanced to the nearest hospital.

Patients laugh and rejoice at the clinic upon trying peanut M&Ms- something they’ve never had. They yell out, “good, good, very good!”

People think it is ok to yell at me, grab my arm, and follow me around just because I am foreign and do not fully understand their language.

I engage in a compelling conversation with some teachers at my secondary school who truly care about their work and the future of their students.

I feel isolated and homesick missing American efficiency, family, and friends. 

I realize that I am just where I am supposed to be no matter how hard it is.

The morning dawns and it is so cold I can see my own breath.

The afternoon brings heat, smells of sweat, and threatens even the most hydrated. 

It has been a long day and the only available transport that arrives is a minibus with a drunk driver. Sigh.

I successfully and easily bike 25 kilometers to get mail and supplies- each time it gets easier and easier. 

My class at school gets canceled multiple times for extraneous events and then teachers wonder why students struggle with exams.

I spend a day with American friends and realize that I am becoming more comfortable and happy with my Malawian counterparts and miss their company. 

I am happy.

I am angry.

I am encouraged.

I am frustrated.

I am American.

I am becoming something new.