KASO; February 21, 2007

I'm headed to the day care center again today. We get to the clinic, I say my goodbyes to the doctors and make my way through the pediatric and adult wards – and both areas are as busy as ever.

It's a bright, sunny morning, in sharp contrast to the monsoon-like conditions that blew through the area the night before. The sun-after-the-rain makes everything seem clean and fresh. I catch sight of a few large branches that are teetering and will soon fall off of the trees that they were once a part of.

I exit through the main entrance gates of the hospital and spot a minibus – one of the few that are not white colored – and approach the three gentlemen that are chatting next to the vehicle. The trunk is open and one of the men is sitting in the back seat, speaking with the other two who are standing outside.
Inquiring about minibuses to Area 25 initially makes the conversation turn towards a 1000 kwacha taxi fee – way above the 60 kwacha fare that the minibuses charge. I laugh off the attempt of extortion and let them know I will try my chances on Kenyatta Road. They seem to agree and think my decision is a prudent one. Perhaps they thought their offer was a bit obscene?

Just as I turn and begin to walk, I hear one of the men shout and point - an approaching minibus appears with the numbers '25' etched on a wood board that lies on the dashboard of the car. I wave it down, climb in the front seat and enjoy once again one of the more popular forms of transportation in Malawi.
But this guy's horn is not working.
A wounded predator, this outfit's ability to notify potential customers of their presence is severly hampered, and thus does not manage to attract as much prey as he would like. And so, the minibus remains quite empty the first half of the drive. To the driver's good fortune, however, his colleague, the fare collector seated in the rear of the minibus, climbs into the front and manages to reconnect part of the steering wheel, miraculously repairing the horn.

They drop me off in the center of Area 25, right smack dab in the middle of the market. The walk to the day care center is pleasant, neighborhoods are different here - no pavement, no lawns to mow, no manhole covers to drop rocks down to hear the echo. Instead, streets are composed of dirt and mud, as are the yards (if not covered with planted maize). I catch sight of a satellite dish in one of the front yards - it looks out of place to me.

Lunchtime at KASO

And finally it's a left through a garden, a right turn at the brick wall and I am at KASO once again. The kids are already there, as are the volunteers. Most of the 50+ kids (there are a lot of them here today!) are in the playhouse - singing and dancing. My appearance makes them, most of whom now recognize me, jump, shrill voices echoing in the playhouse.

The hand-holding is something so universal - some of the kids tussle and vie to hold one of my hands; some are tolerant enough to share my hand even if it is already engaged - others would prefer to have it just to themselves.

For the first time since arriving in Malawi I catch sight of a plane - a small, private jet-sized one - flying overhead.

The Vital Volunteers

We head outside and play chase, and in the hot sun, many of the kids faces are soon covered in beads of sweat. The volunteers suggest a break in the shade, and I use this time to chat about numbers and parts of the face with the children in English. There's something nice about 17 kids, sitting down, looking up at you with big, beady eyes, repeating numbers and words you are teaching them.

Day care ends, and the migrations towards the paths in the maize fields commence. There's always a mad dash to cross the two lane street. Understandably, the stress level of the volunteers is heightened, the kids feel it too. But they all make their way across the street safely, walking in one direction with their heads pointed in the other in order to wave their goodbyes to the volunteers and me.

I make my way back through the neighborhood and flag down an Area 25 minibus. Front seat. The windshield is cracked so my view is slightly inpaired. No matter, all windows are open (or perhaps cannot be closed) and thus provide ample angles for views during the drive. The minibus backs into the waiting area and lurches just a bit as it hits some modestly sized potholes filled with muddy water.

The Area 25 central market is buzzing - palettes of eggs are on sale, irons and potatoes, calm, caged chickens unaware of their ultimate fate. Small stands hawk phone calls (via old land line telephones) and shoes and shoe repair - I find this curious: for all of the shoe stands I have seen, many of the people walking are often not wearing any shoes. Whose feet are all these shoes going on?