Over-romantic prose.

I resist the urge to put my iPod on so that I can fully soak in the sounds of rural Malawi. Like most developing countries (that have extensive history nonetheless)there's the rhythmic scrape, scrape, scrape of a twig-broom scratching against the packed down earth--only here the earth is a rusty red.

A diesel truck pulls out of a driveway onto a dirt road--it's potholes filled with broken bits of red brick. Once the truck is gone I can hear computers and battery packs beeping on and off as power from 3 different power centers in Malawi decide who's going to be providing the power (if any) this morning.

Again, as if I can ever escape it, the pre and postmature crowing of the rooster curdles the gentle din of rural sounds.

Children in a valley play something with rocks and sticks--a mix between hockey and soccer but without the competitiveness associated with those sports. No, they are laughing, oo-ing and ah-ing, cheering and bemoaning all in time with the dull crack of the rocks hitting sticks.

Because we're in the mountains there's lots of wildlife--invisible birds with distinctive voices communicating something we'll never understand. I wish I could fly. A bird's eye view of Malawi.

I'm sitting rather regally on a high-wall that surrounds our property, straddling it's double-brick width expanse about 20' from the hard ground below. Somewhere down there I hear the soft, deep voices of 2 Malawian men--by the sounds of it discussing the tales of someone very amusing. I like listening to them talk and I like it even more when they laugh--in the deep, hearty, open-mouthed, head-back kind of way that reminds me of their North American counterparts.

A people can travel so far and for so long and walk through so much incredible history yet generations later they still share the same laugh with their ancestors. I guess the same could be said for their crying--but I've yet to hear or see that. There's always so much laughter here, and I think the sorrows are too great for many tears. A losing battle really.

I can still hear the children in the valley--laughing tiredly.
A cool, mountain breeze laced with smoke from rubbish fires blows through the leathery leaves on the trees as it blows past my face. I don't have my Jumbo 16 Hatari fan here--yet the universal smell of burning garden waste still haunts me.

The feeling like people dislike me still haunts me too--no matter how far away from my home town, my high school, or my demons I fly. Because demons pack light and are rarely caught by airport security.

Someone starts to play the piano and it's out-of-tune melody drifts typically over the lawn and to me straddling the wall. It's one azungu intrusion I appreciate.
My stomach is on the verge of adding it's voice to this Malawian cacophony--but the power is still off and all I want is tea. Oh, the dilemma!

A woman walks by with a baby strapped to her back with a bright-yellow acrylic shawl and I can't help but smile. She's carrying a huge aluminum bucket of water on her head while the baby pinned on her back looks anxiously up at the pail of water perhaps antisipating getting a little wet. But despite her load as a woman--she looks up at me and smiles, practically glowing. I laugh at myself because I know how ridiculous I look on this wall. She laughs back--and we have an understanding that I look like an idiot but that's ok. I also get the feeling that we both wish we could communicate with each other. Smiles and awkward laughter will have to do for now. And surprisingly, for me, it is sufficient.