There and Back Again

April 9th,
Too much to say. Many times this past week I've been reminded of Bilbo Baggins, my mind and body "spread thin like butter over too much bread". My place in this world seems to be becoming more clear. But this world unfortunately is not. More than any other place, I've seen the stratification of people as a wide gulf between those that have and those that don't. It's so difficult to be open and present in the tiny sofa-sized apartment of a 17-year old boy who's positive because of a tainted blood transfusion for his heart condition. With no family to speak of he now raises his 12-year old brother by himself. The smell in his dank clay structure couldn't overpower my complete feeling of helplessness, I could only sit there and smile, trying to bring some kind of warmth to a boy that shouldn't ever have to deal with frequent agonizing pain and insurmountable odds. To hold back tears as I write this I think of the smile that painted his face when Finn mentioned that the boy would be able to sing for his track on the concept album. He just glowed. His name is Madalitso, which means 'blessings'. There are things here that I don't know how to process.

Another man by the same name also echoed this feeling I've been trying to suppress about my own role here in Malawi. He's been working as a translator for Finn during some of the narrative collections and is currently a translator for the documentary crew filming a piece on William Kamkwamba. You may have heard of 'The Boy who Harnessed the Wind', an amazing story of a boy who built from a picture and junk parts a few working windmills producing electricity and pumping water for his family and village in a rural Malawian village. This elder Blessings was a teacher when he met and encouraged William in school and now has the opportunity to facilitate a broader telling of his story. But in spending time with Blessings at his home something he said struck the heart of me. 'These men from America come here and make a movie and then leave Malawi and don't come back... but for what'. I can feel the distrust, the difference between how he relates to Finn and how he relates to me. Maybe it's a matter of spending time with someone and getting to know them but I can't help but think that the camera will always make me something I'm not. Or maybe I am...

The difficulties of the lens has grown so that I feel torn, stretched between a human being here to see and share and relate, and an idea. A multitude of ideas actually. The idea that I'm capturing a part of the people I want to share. Commodifying and exploiting, for what purpose is open to numerous opinions. That I have come and will go potentially to never return shades a different light than this is my home that I work for. I'm not someone that is talking or giving music but I'm taking with the assumed gurantee that I'm planning to give back later. I'm still choking on the truth he sees, the weight of trying to comprehend the mashing of two cultures. The reality of my task is settling. I feel the compulsion of an artist that wants to help smacking into the expense of some westerner 'coming to the rescue' of a situation that is more complex than words or moving pictures can relate.

My being an 'other' has become increasingly clear. The language barrier alone creates a dissonance between me and the people, except those educated few that I feel can confidently understand both my words and the context. In a way, I've become increasingly bound to Finn to navigate through so many daily instances. His linguistical abilities(Chichewa, Portugese, French) are a blessing but highlight my inability to be natural with people, unable to communicate or be real, to inquire or to share. To look someone in the eyes and smile sends only the message the receiver wants to receive. We go to the market to buy fruits and vegetables and to approach a stranger we're overcharged as much as 400%. Finn bargains down to the delight of Malawian onlookers who smile and laugh at the fact that we azungu end up paying almost double what we're told we should pay. Maybe that's the upcharge of history. Maybe that's the price of someone else's greed. I feel dirty and deflated walking back to the car while brooms and pirated dvds and stolen hubcabs are shoved in my face. I'm an opportunity, I get it. I still feel like a jerk putting on my sunglasses as I try and ignore the stink of burning trash and desperation.

The next minute I'm sitting in the welcoming home of a woman that gave herself the nickname of Finn's 'African Grandmother' because of identical names and no doubt a sign of the sweet and endearing woman exuding gentle wisdom before me. Hilda shows Finn, Andy and myself the proper way to make nsima and prepare some relish. She calms me effortlessly, just spending time in a small kitchen stirring boiled maize. We listen to her story of infection and subsequent diabetes, about the children she teaches and the HIV presentations she is in charge of, we talk about the market and her family, we discuss President Bingu's wedding that is to take place this weekend and how we're fleeing the capital to miss the congestion disaster a stadium wedding will pose. I'm here. I'm well. I'm looking forward to coming back next week and spending some more time with her, listening to her stories, working up some more nsima, maybe a mini-Chichewa lesson.I came here to share and augment the work of Finn and I have no doubts in my ability to do this. There are those moments that level me. There are those moments that shake my core and dissolve any stability I've manage to culture over the past 25 years. Then there are moments when I'm sitting on the couch of the former Minister of Lands witnessing part of a life that has survived wrongful imprisonment, 30 years of exile, the death of three children to HIV, and a breaking of political silence that prompted Africa to listen. I'm in the presence of greatness. Sacrifice. I have dreams. Rather, I have responsibilities. Time will tell. Many may listen... but who will do?