Accompanied and supported by our Canadian buddies…who reassured us that the weight limits were rough estimates that no one took very seriously….we stumbled into the glare of flickering fluorescent bulbs…expecting only goodbye hugs.  What we got, instead, was a lecture about how we had exceeded the weight limit for our carry on luggage.  We were incredulous.  Who actually weighs carry-on luggage??

What ensued kind of resembled a scene from the silent films of the 1920s…as we pulled socks and underwear and sheets of loose leaf paper…from bags…hoping (somewhat irrationally) that the weight of the bag would drop by eight pounds, or so.  Our not-so-friendly ticket agent from the warm heart of Africa….simply would not yield.

“Nope….still over the limit….another 11 pounds to go…” Sue and Peter never once laughed at their exasperated friends….forced to relinquish one prized possession after another.

When we seemed sufficiently contrite…and when it became painfully clear that we would likely never get below the limit…he relented.  He gave us permission to take the bags….despite the fact that they were now modestly, over the limit. Quickly, behind a pole, Sue and Peter surreptitiously stuffed the abandoned possessions back into the swollen bags.  Just out of eyesight…with devilish glee….we jammed the socks and underwear back into the carry-on.

The feeling of triumph was short-lived.  Malawi yields only reluctantly, as it happens.  The sleepy immigration officials, under ordinary circumstances…stamp the passports without even looking up.  On this particular morning, however, the officials discovered that the American Embassy mistakenly identified our departure date as November 27^th.  This kind of attention to detail is unheard of in Malawi….but clearly the stars were not in proper alignment and we found ourselves ensnared in yet another potential international incident….as we were forced to beg for permission to leave. What cruel irony.  It was when Kay promised that, when we return to do God’s work, we would abide by the understandable rules and regulations that President Bingu put in place…that we were allowed to take our leave.

On to Johannesburg….for a connecting flight to Cape Town.  Thinking that the struggles with the memorable year in Africa were coming to a close….we never suspected that there were additional trials just around the corner.  We discovered, in Joburg, that one piece of luggage was lost (and still not retrieved), we missed the connecting flight (due to Air Malawi’s late arrival) and….unbelievably…that there was yet another overzealous ticket agent….who said to me

“I suspect that your carry-on luggage is overweight.  Please step over here”.

Fees were paid and (poorer and wiser) we were allowed to leave….after even more groveling.

There are lessons to be learned with all of this and, while the big ones escape me, we are struck by the many surprises around every turn and that…one after another….we rose to the challenges inherent with each.  A point of the journey was, after all, to discover pieces of ourselves that had long lay dormant.  Who would have guessed that we could summon the courage to maneuver our way into (and out of) the maelstrom that is Malawi?

Yesterday afternoon I said goodbye to the women I’ve been teaching since February.

It seemed appropriate to end our journey together by doing the Hokey Pokey one last time. Vince was there to take pictures and video. Godknows spoke eloquently in English and Chichewa of the changes to come (an 18 year old British male volunteer will lead the class), his gratitude for my service and his hopes for the women. I told them in Chichewa that they were strong and resilient women and that I would miss them very much. In English I told them that this year I had been missing my family back in the US. I wonder if they were surprised to learn that they had become my surrogate family here in Malawi.

I asked them to write two wishes for the coming year on pink post it notes and to put the notes in a jar. Then I asked each woman to select a note (not her own) and read it in turn to the class. Their hopes ranged from building a house to starting a nursery school to starting a business to visiting South Africa or even America for the first time. Then we planted the jar of wishes on the grounds of STEKA, the orphanage which had been our classroom for 10 months in the hopes that the wishes would take root and flower.

I loved the beautiful National Wear two piece dress that they had purchased for me. It is purple with a tiny floral print, gold edging and a long twirl skirt. They even had a matching shirt made for Vince! One woman insisted on singing a song in Chichewa to honor me. Godknows interpreted for me. Another offered a prayer aloud to keep us safe on our journey home. They all asked me not to forget them. How could I ever forget them and all that they taught me?

In large measure, we recognized, eleven long months ago, that we had grown soft and that our lives lacked grit and unpredictability. We were in search of a more authentic and less sanitized experience. We’ve accomplished most of our objectives….especially these last few days: We are in the midst of a gas crisis here, just as we are moving out of our rental home and arranging to stay with friends til we leave in 9 days.

For reasons that remain obscure, spot shortages of diesel fuel have morphed into shortages of unleaded gasoline and diesel and….in the last week…..a catastrophic national shortage of fossil fuels. Desperate to keep goods and services flowing, freight trucks and automobiles keep rolling until supplies are exhausted and are then abandoned on the sides of the road. The abandoned vehicles block the roads and snarl traffic for the dwindling number of moving vehicles.

In the absence of real information, rumors circulate quickly and with devastating effect. Young men with all sorts of containers congregate at the gas stations where a tanker was reported to have been seen. Inevitably, wealthy people pay impoverished people to stand in line at the gas stations, awaiting delivery. We know of a Malawian man who was paid to wait in line for 27 hours, only to be notified, when it was finally his turn,that the supply was “finished”. When it was recently reported that fuel was arriving by freight train, people congregated at the station. It is rumored that, for people willing (and able) to pay twice as much, gasoline can be purchased….late at night…..behind the shopping center.

The impact on the citizenry is dramatic: traffic patterns have changed and even more people walk everywhere. It is rumored that neither the police nor the ambulances have fuel either…so that the plan is to remain safe and well. People describe spot shortages of staples in the market. The ubiquitous minibus drivers have dramatically (and illegally) raised their fees for a population that has fewer and fewer options. For the two of us, every trip to town must be carefully orchestrated to run errands, go to work, etc.

For emerging markets with fragile economies, these developments can be devastating. The people understandably turn to their much beloved (recently re-elected) President Bingu, for explanation and resolution. He has asked his people to remain patient. Not a problem, it seems to us, since patience is the one commodity in Malawi that is present in wild abundance. No petrol? No problem.

Speculation about the cause of this crisis is rampant: there is a chronic shortage of foreign currency which has gotten dramatically worse since the President purchased his new personal jet….says one school of thought. It’s the deterioration of the bridge from Mozambique to Malawi and the resultant need to limit truck traffic across the border….says another. It’s a bitter political rival of the President, who is determined to make him look ineffectual says a third.

In the end, I’m discouraged that it doesn’t even matter what caused the crisis if the willingness to take it seriously and respond with a sense of urgency is lacking. In a year that saw so very much sadness that defied logic and reason it seemed inevitable that we would prepare to take our leave as a new and unexpected plague was visited upon this long suffering land.

Only one week ago, we were wondering if we were destined to be denied access to the big show: for months we were wondering how the plant and animal life was sustained with so little water. In fact, we are told, that certain plants flower more vigorously when the soil is particularly dry. We grew increasingly concerned: riverbeds were bone dry, as a consequence of several months with no measurable rainfall.

Our Malawian friends reassured us that, when the earth was ready, the skies would rumble and the rain would fall. In recent weeks, clouds gathered on the horizon and I would find Mr. Malunga; “Is the rainy season about to begin?” As only Mr. Malunga can, he would point out the “the skies, they are wanting to rain….but they are failing to do so. Exactly.”

Almost exactly one week ago, Mr. Malunga pointed out that the insects that cry for rain, were unusually noisy and that the grasshoppers were more active. “Listen”, he instructed. I heard only the usual cacophony of unfamiliar bug sounds. For subsistence farmers accustomed to reading the skies and the earth, it was an unmistakable harbinger. Like clockwork…the skies darkened and the deluge began. The first day of heavy rain was like a snow day in Denver: excited shouts to close the windows, as employees gathered to watch and hear the awesome display.

In the wake of the daily showers, we have had front row seats for the Big Show: the earth has shaken off its slumber and is vibrating with energy. The soil itself moves, as hordes of insects go about the business of gathering food and shelter. It’s the cloud of flying ants that most intrigues, as they seem destined to live their lives in frenzied activity for only 24 hours: their lifeless bodies are everywhere in the morning. The phosphorescent birds and lizards have, of course, taken note….and watch for signs of movement, as they anticipate lunch. Families of monkeys have reappeared…eating the mangoes on the mango trees that encircle the house. And the massive trees! Oh my goodness, I had no idea that such a deep green was possible! Overnight they have gone from pale, lifeless brown/green to an unnaturally intense dark, dark green.

This is how we remember Malawi in January, when we emerged onto the tarmac….wide-eyed and visibly overwhelmed eleven short months ago. Hanging like a promise.

We’d been planning this trip for months.  We knew it would involve lots of sitting in a jeep driving through a wide, dusty stretch of Zambia.  We were right.  But what we didn’t expect was the wonderful two days we spent at the Falls, rafting down the mighty Zambezi river and hiking to the edge of Devil’s Pool (we didn’t dive in and sit on the edge of the Falls – we were too cowardly for that and somehow we figured that the Zambian or Zimbabwean Army Corps of Engineers probably had not inspected the Falls’ ledge in recent years).

By the last night of camping we were experts at setting up the tent, running to the loo in the middle of the night, and waking slightly before five to beat the crowd of campers to the tepid showers.

We also didn’t expect to meet a young Peace Corps worker from Long Island based in a remote village in Zambia. Finally Vince stumbled upon someone who not only knew that the World Series involved baseball, but who also knew that the Yankees were able to buy yet another series victory.  Vince was slow to recover.

Grocery shopping in Lusaka, the capital city, was a joy, with butter only $3.00 a pound versus over $8.00 in Malawi.   We also enjoyed browsing in two incredible bookstores (the likes of which Blantyre has never seen).

He could have been a Zambian Chris Rock, but Boyd was actually our river guide down the Zambezi.    With a heavy Jamaican lilt to his voice he commanded us to dig deeper into the waters, lean forward and pull back on those oars.   Before each “countable” rapid (we paddled through 25 on our day long trip) Boyd would map out his plan of attack.   “this next rapid is a class 5 in the middle, class 4 on the left side and class 3 on the right side.   I don’t want to take you down the middle because we could get caught in the ‘washing machine’ – a forever churning whirlpool of water ready to chew up a raft and keep it in perpetual motion.”   “When I tell you to dig in and paddle right, you guys in the front (not us or our Canadian friends, but two young men in their twenties) dig in and keep going til I tell you to ‘Hold on (to the shit line) and Ghet down!’ or “Have a nice swim and I’ll see you at the end of the rapid.”  When we were successful Boyd gleefully demanded that we “do high five!…do high five!” with our raised oars meeting high overhead in the middle of the boat.

Well, it was probably inevitable… the walls of rushing water would eventually claim one of us; each of us desperate, though, to not be the one. During our journey through “Gulliver’s Travels”…. a particularly treacherous stretch of the river,….Vince failed to get down fast enough.  We’ll never really know what distracted him….maybe the jagged rocks on the banks, maybe it was simply the wall of raging water, maybe he was anticipating the egg salad lunch….and it’s probably immaterial. Within seconds he was sucked out of the boat but clung doggedly to the line.  Boyd abandoned his steering post and reeled Vince back in by lifting the shoulders of his lifejacket up and over the side of the boat.  After he regained his composure, Vince described the experience as incredible – his total disorientation, the submersion of his body save his hands clinging to the “oh shit” line encircling the boat.   Of course Vince’s dramatic rescue put the rest of us in dire danger since Boyd couldn’t help us through the rapid as planned.  But it clearly served as a reminder….nothing short of complete and utter focus on the task at hand was required for survival.

At lunch time when the half day rafters left us to climb out of the gorge, we thanked our lucky stars that we didn’t have to make that steep vertical climb.  We were told that the trip took the younger, fitter folks 30 to 40 minutes, but the Greek middle aged woman clad in gold slippers took an astonishing two hours to make it to the top.   I still think Vince could have out whined even her!  After lunch we had 15 more rapids remaining.  During the last of a string of them called “the Three Ugly Sisters,” Boyd kept yelling at us to paddle hard to the right and dig in deeper….an unusually complex series of maneuvers.  We obeyed….assuming, as we did for most of the day, that our lives depended upon total and complete obedience.   Little did we know he had played the ultimate trick on us! When we finished the rapid and noticed that it was unusually quiet, we looked back and discovered that he wasn’t even in the boat!  He was waving to us from a rock up stream – a kind of stone throne.  We were dumbfounded and delighted.

Sounds are amplified by the canon walls.  When we hauled our exhausted bodies out of the canyon, at day’s end, the echo was unmistakable:  “we rafting….we rafting….we rafting down the mighty Zambeeeezi……..we rafting, we rafting, we rafting down the Mighty Zambeeeezi!!!”

As we prepare to take leave of Malawi in five short weeks, the most difficult challenge has been to say goodbye to some truly remarkable people. It’s reciprocal: last week Godknows told me that he was hard at work to devise a strategy to prevent Kay’s departure….and that he was not beyond contacting President Obama to intervene on his behalf. The best relationships, it seems, are the ones that prod everyone’s growth.

We will forever remember Godknows and his fierce commitment to his homeless children. We were reminded of his compassion when we overheard him describing the circumstances surrounding his decision to adopt Nathan….his 21st child.

Nathan was estimated to be five months of age when his nude body was found on the railroad tracks, covered with ants and critically malnourished and dehydrated several months ago. The police were available to intervene that morning, and arranged for his medical care, while they attempted to locate the mother. (No mention is ever made of the father, in cases like this one). Failing to locate the parents, the police were in a familiar quandary. Godknows and his wife Helen are quickly becoming local heroes in this land that needs them…and the police made their entreaty. With scarce resources for food and wondering if there was room for a 21st child in their modest home, they anticipated….as they do regularly….that God would enable them to help this child.

Seven month old Nathan is thriving, in every sense of the word: he is happy, healthy and developmentally intact. A European couple is providing money for formula (outrageously expensive here) and Godknows, Helen and the multitude of siblings are providing the rest.

Years from now the memories of this remarkable year will inevitably begin to fade. It will be increasingly difficult to remember the name of the day guard with one shoe; the quirky behavior of colleagues in the Department of Pediatrics will likely lose its meaning and certainly its potency. President Bingu?….what was his last name, anyway? But Godknows, Helen, Nathan and the remarkable people who saw what needed to be done….and did it…simply and without asking questions….those people and their tenacious commitment to do the work that God wants them to do….those folk will live with us forever.

We just returned from the Lake of the Stars music festival, four day event which in past years has attracted thousands of Europeans, Americans and Africans to the shores of Lake Malawi.

Unlike 90% of the attendees who camped along the lakeshore, Vince and I accompanied by our Canadian friends, Sue and Peter, opted for a modest motel billed as “Palm Beach Holiday Inn Resort.” The inn itself was pleasant enough and it had three resident dogs, including a sweet boxer who seemed to be leading an idyllic life on the beach. We saved one of our breakfast sausages for “Hunter” and he became our best buddy lounging each day between our beachside chairs.

When we finally found our way to the festival one evening, we were greeted by a policeman who thoroughly searched the car, poking his fingers into every one of our goody bags and slyly took a cookie out of a package inquiring if he could have it. At least we weren’t carded and kicked out of the festival due to our advanced age!

With a good 30 to 40 minutes of dead time between scheduled acts, the young crowd busied itself drinking beer and dancing to the loud disco music which deafened our ears. Meanwhile, we lounged lazily on our blanket and awaited the main act of Lucias Banda, a Malawian legend with 15 recorded CDs to his credit. Lucias, his band and his lively dancers did not disappoint us. The band wowed the crowd while Banda’s well honed banter mesmerized us. A young white male volunteered to dance on stage with a “wild and exotic” female from Banda’s dance troupe. Hips flying and lewd gyrations pulsed to the beat of the music. Let’s just say that Vince was glad he hadn’t volunteered!

Heading back to the car about 10pm, we were asked by folks just arriving, “Are you leaving already?” It was enough for us – we left the young folks to dance on the beach until the wee hours of the morning. At least we could say we’d been there.