Nurse Kunkeyani
Nurse Kunkeyani, outside the maternity unit where she works, at Kamuzu Central Hospital.
Matt Feldman PhotographyInspiring you to get out there, in the distance, and see it for yourself.
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Nurse Kunkeyani, outside the maternity unit where she works, at Kamuzu Central Hospital.
A father waits with his son in the Emergency Department of Kamuzu Central Hospital in Lilongwe.
Afternoon traffic in the Capital City neighborhood of Lilongwe.
One of many roadside produce markets seen in Malawi, this one in Ntcheu, along the road between Blantyre and Lilongwe.
Driving north between Blantyre and Lilongwe, looking west into Mozambique.
Beyond the central hospitals and district facilities of Malawi, there are “Healthy Centers.” These rural outposts serve thousands in extraordinarily resource-challenged settings. Yesterday’s visit to Migowi was to a Healthy Center, where just a handful of nurses and staff are the only healthcare providers available for a catchment area of hundreds of square kilometers.
One of the many children eager to be photographed, at the Migowi Healthy Center in the Phalombe District of Malawi.
Biking through the center of Migowi, just a few hundred meters from the Healthy Center.
Mount Mulanje, from the window of the UNICEF vehicle.
I take pictures. The Eiffel Tower. A Baltimore snowstorm. A mountain in Morocco. A glacier in Argentina. But two hours off the main road through the Phalombe District, around the base of Mount Mulanje, in the southeastern corner of Malawi, it’s a different feeling.
Seen from the passenger window of my taxi, on the way to the offices of UNICEF Malawi.
The woman behind the front desk, Olivetta, said there is violence in the city today. Police are clearing out the hawkers and touts from the main road toward the Capital City neighborhood, and people on the streets are reacting by throwing stones and resisting the police. “Don’t go there.”
Roadside meat for sale, between the city and Lilongwe International Airport. I didn’t stop, but wished I could have.
It is warm. For the first time since my departure from Baltimore, many hours and 15,994 km of flying prior, I notice the air temperature. It is distinctly un-planelike. And humid. I have arrived in the terminal of Lilongwe’s airport and am staring out the window at the lush green fields reaching to the edge of the parking lot. Taxis and shuttles board their passengers for the half hour trip into the capital city. Rather than heading to the city, I wait for my backpack, naively hoping that the South African Airways staff will somehow discover it in the empty plane and bring it to me. When they finally tell me the bag is still in Johannesburg, I find a taxi and set out for my hotel.
Preparing to travel to sub-Saharan Africa brings a host of health requirements and recommendations. Western clinics respond by offering us vaccines and pills and sprays and solutions and nets. Three sets of vials are on the counter in this photo: Meningitis, Polio and Yellow Fever. A few dollars, a few needles and a few minutes later, I’m protected from diseases – more than 10 in all – that continue to take massive toll around the globe. It’s all so easy for us. Yet for millions on the continent where I’m headed, getting such protection is anything but easy. These are some of the things we take for granted.
I love watching airports. Whether it’s planes moving around the ramps or cargo being loaded or the distant lights of incoming planes on approach to a runway, there’s so much to see. So many possibilities of people and places and machines. The aircraft in this picture had just arrived from Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, and was headed to Miami. Minutes later, a pallet carrying a massive BMW sedan would be loaded into the belly of the plane parked at the next gate, followed by the suitcases of the people sitting above.
After working in the east African country of Malawi for two weeks, an unexpected 30 hours in The Netherlands was a world of nearly polar opposites. A walk around Amsterdam, a train to Maastricht, carnival celebrations and snow. This was taken in Utrecht, in the all-too-brief minutes between changing trains, bound for Schiphol on a Sunday afternoon.