Sunday

Sundays in my world are quiet days with a later than usual wake up, maybe even as late as 8am. A baggy clothing day; maybe throw on a hooded top, loose hat and jogging bottoms. A lazy day; maybe sit on a garden chair, reading a book or possibly sat at a table inside, writing on a laptop. Perhaps I will stick in some headphones and listen to music, from which I can allow the lyrics to force questions of theories, ideas or imaginations.

Last Sunday was different from the outset. I woke up a little earlier than usual, having gone to bed prematurely the night before. Usually there isn’t an option; the day requires a larger than typical breakfast and vast amounts of coffee, grown in the fields north of where we reside. This day however, fruit salad sliced into small cubes along with some orange juice was the request. The mangos are sweet; so sweet in fact that they make you question whether the meal could possibly be classed as healthy at all. This breakfast was the first indication that this wasn’t going to be a regular Sunday and definitely not one I’d spend worrying whether mangos are good or bad for my body. What a shame, I’d quite like to ponder that on my day of rest.

Something was up: half way through my walk around the dam, checking for little kids dipping in and out of the water with bright green, meshed mosquito nets, I felt different. Not good or bad, yet out of the ordinary, astray from routine. Routine isn’t healthy; I can’t stand the thought or people eating the same thing every evening, or brushing their teeth in the exact same way each day. The consistency of a big breakfast on a Sunday must be classed as a ‘want’ not as OCD. You think I’m in denial, right?

On my return to the lodge, having found no law-breaking children with a bucket load of fish, I was met by a small, yet large man holding an envelope loosely from his strong, outstretched arm. The letter inside included a request, signed from a good friend of ours.

The decision was simple: I accepted. Whilst changing my shoes, that feeling of unfamiliarity that had lingered around me all day returned but it was now outweighed by a strong sense of must. I loped out of the office door towards the coolness of the bar and lifted a couple of bottles out of the rusting, lukewarm fridge. As quickly as I was in, I was back out with Laura in tow, fumbling to put her shoes on and run to the car at once.

Already perched on the back of the familiar vehicle were two lodge employees who dwell at our target destination. Their faces twinned, brows falling away at the edges, eyes locked on the ground. I didn’t speak to them whilst mounting myself on the driver’s seat. With a nod of approval toward Yamikarni, the talented guide who accompanied my previous journey to Mzuzu hospital, he checked the oil and water. A circled thumb and forefinger indicated all was well. There was no room for words; his underwater sign seemed appropriate and supportive, it said all it needed too.

Pulling out of the car park and through the wooden frame of the main gates we headed to where I had been just a day earlier, checking the progress of a project. The atmosphere had changed drastically within a day. I don’t believe in all that ‘it was in the air’ talk but I’m learning to. The journey was quiet. The car held four bodies but it was lonely.

Our original destination, which was so familiar to me, was no longer necessary; a message had got to the car through the village headman that we needed to keep going along the road. I heard no such message. It could have been the unfamiliar tongue or just my lack of attention. We headed onwards. The only words muttered from the back were confirmation of directions and, although the route was a familiar one, the reassurance was welcome. My memory seemed hazy.

The way was slow, painfully inadequate for what seemed an emergency. I wanted to lighten the mood by commenting on the lack of competency of the government employees who are paid to keep the place in shape, however, it all felt so irrelevant and insignificant. The road by this point seemed endless; a familiar course which was accumulating interlocking sections as if by magic. My grip on the wheel tightened, my calves shortened when eventually there was a cacophony of colours ahead, signifying we had reached the first stop on our route. Blues, greens and yellows mixed in various patterns, used as skirts, tops and cleverly designed child holders. It was my next sense which still haunts me.

As we pulled up, I turned the ignition key towards myself and the engine juddered awkwardly to a halt. It needed to be quiet. All around us were quiet, except one. The lady was dressed in a bright green chitenge, wrapped around her young, slight frame, enveloping her to the ankles. Her haunting cries screeched through the air, engulfed by the low wall of cloud surrounding us, and echoed through the still woodland that had united in our silence. Each short burst preceded a groan and each time the breath ran out there was a delay before it all regained momentum, filling the ears and sinking to the soul. Friends and family around offered support with the gentle touch of a shoulder; others began to join her cries of desperate song. She was holding the lifeless body of her son; there was nothing to say.


The health practitioner’s records show a referral to the district hospital on 2nd January 2011. Understanding a person who does not seek help when they are ill is difficult. Deciphering a parent’s decision not to take their child to a hospital, when they have had the assistance and advice of a professional, is damned impossible.

Death in Africa is very real. Infantile death is regular and lingering. A community does not forget, yet why they will not learn from mistakes is astonishingly confusing and heart-breaking. Tradition needs to be overcome by education of the wonders of science and medication. Future generations of Africans need that knowledge to move forward; they need the capacity and open-mindedness to learn and change.

I will never forget my Sunday, nor will they.

Some things that make me laugh in Malawi

As I mentioned last time, bus journeys are very long. Don’t worry, that does not make me laugh. This country may have sent me a little crazy but I still hate sitting on sweaty buses for hours. Conveniently, there are people at every stop and bus station along the way selling items that you may need. They often have large trays which the hold above their head with straight arms so that people on the coach’s can see what they have. And they make the most vulgar sound to try and attract your attention. By blowing air between a tiny gap in their teeth, tongue thrust forward, a ‘tsck’ kind of snake hiss comes out. It’s hard to avoid turning your head, it’s like some mystic spell. Occasionally they whistle too. “Ooooh, don’t tell me he just whistled at me,” my mind wonders as I fight the temptation to turn and see what he has on offer.

The dealing is almost all done through the windows and there is no haggling. One price fits all, countrywide. Coke is 120 MK (about 50p) and the biscuits are 200MK (just under a £), it just is.

For some reason though, at every station, there are people trading goods that I wouldn’t expect. It only just clicked in my mind last week that it is actually odd, although I’ve been seeing them for months. Packs of toothpaste with complementary toothbrush are being waved in the air next to buses in the sweltering heat right now in hundreds of bus stations and stop off points all over Africa. It’s hilarious. There are shops, passing as supermarkets in every town, selling all the dental cleaning products one could need. But these guys think they’ve cornered the market. Buses, that’s where people want to buy their toothbrush. This is going to be big business, they are thinking. How often do people need to clean their teeth whilst journeying to a new destination? All the time. Of course – foolproof plan! Next stop: Dragon’s Den.

I will buy my next toothbrush from those guys – they deserve the custom, it’s a brave business to be in.

Drinks are a funny business here too. Everything, well 95%, is sold in glass bottles. All coming from the same distributer, Southern Bottles. Talk about a monopoly. There is no other place to get your beer, coke, fanta, sprite, anything. A few weeks back the machine in Mzuzu broke down and there were no soft drinks available. A few days went by and as shops, bars and lodges slowly ran out, there was no option other than beer. Terrible predicament.

Anyway, all comes in glass bottles and therefore retailers have to return the bottles in crates to trade their next lot – or they pay for the bottles. So bottles become big business. Most places require a deposit, or you swap empty bottles with them for full, so you can take them away. Last week myself and Laura got a couple of cokes whilst out and walked off. The chap from shop recognised us about an hour later and chased us across the road to ask for his bottles back. Obviously we returned them.

“God bless you!” he declared as he shook our hands with vigour.

Seconds afterwards, we walked round the corner to find our usual friend selling dodgy DVD’s on the corner of Peoples Supermarket. Great, I wonder what he has this time. Dodgy DVD’s are the only kind of DVD’s in Malawi, so it seems. Lilongwe has one shop which does rentals but it costs a fortune and compared to these disks – there’s no value.

This guy stands, with hands in pockets, learning against the cash’n’carry wall. His eyes are on a constant lookout, for what? The police? Ok, it’s illegal but they buy from him too. In front of him is a large sack full of DVD’s and a few, neatly piled, stacks of his best disks placed on the ground. Next to these are the dodgy CD’s, you can find all your fave’s (yes, Westlife, Craig David and Bob Marley)

“Anything good?” We ask. His half smile tells us the English wasn’t his favourite subject at Primary School. Searching through the South African and Chinese imports which are almost all 20-in-1 disks, we find the ‘Bruce Willis Collection’ with all the Die Hards, ‘Army Collection’, featuring films such as Hamburger Hill and Behind Enemy Lines, and then the classic. ‘The Mr Bean Collection’. This, I can tell you, is a big seller in Malawi. They just love Mr Bean. It makes me smile that something that the British enjoyed, yet find a little outdated now, is still enjoyed so much here. Children and adults (who are lucky enough to have a TV and DVD player) join together to watch Rowan Atkinson at his best. Then watch it all again the next day. Superb.



Community Projects have been continuing in the midst of all the rains. Laura and myself have completed the renovation of an old store room at the Luwawa Maternity Unit, turning what was a smoky, dirty hovel into a clean, comfortable visitors room. It will enable the guardians of mothers-to-be to stay comfortably at the centre for the duration of their visit. We feel it’s a great addition to the ever-improving medical facilities at a rather rundown forestry station and are extremely proud of what has been done.

We are back at the school tomorrow to deliver another of our series of environmental issues lessons to standards 6, 7 and 8. This one is going to focus on the problems of litter in and around the station.

The plan is to try and get the children to think of ways to re-use items as much as possible before ‘getting rid’. Homework for them will be to create a game out of used items and bring it in to show next time. The best one is getting a 500kwacha reward, so competition will be hot!

In addition to this, one of the days next week we will spend at Nyondo road block, about 5km towards the main road from the station, trying to convince lorry drivers to help us move a 2 tonne concrete cylinder down into the station. We are going to use this as a giant rubbish bin which will be burnt weekly. I know burning rubbish isn’t totally environmentally friendly, but the state of the place is getting really bad! Anyway, it’s better than landfill, right? And there’s certainly no rubbish collection round here!
Any ideas on better strategies would be greatly received.

January 9th

Happy New Year everyone.

Keeping resolutions is always a challenge for the new year but I’m keeping to mine at the moment. Kind of. As many of you will have agreed with yourself as the clock was striking twelve on that last day of the year. I decided that health was top priority. Yes, a good healthy diet and plenty of exercise.

Exercise has not been an issue since plopping ourselves into rural Malawi. In fact you can’t help but do it. We’re walking a 12km round-trip to the closest village to the lodge and anything up to 50km a week with all of our casual walks added. Now that I’ve added a daily run to my activities I can feel the pounds falling off.

However. I do have a bit of a bad habit. It’s more of a bad tendency that appears not when I’m at the lodge but when I’m in Lilongwe. And unfortunately we’ve been in Lilongwe more than the lodge so far in 2011. So it’s just a little wobble, a slight inclination that has affected the majority of my new year’s promise.

Western food.

Ah the bliss. But to walk past a fast food joint and not order some ‘flench flies’ for ‘bleakfast’ would be devilish considering our situation. It’d be like giving Lionel Messi an open goal and expecting him to miss. Not gonna happen!

So there’s this place in Lilongwe’s old town called ‘Ali Baba’s. It’s the central African version of Big Johns. A 12 inch pizza costs about 1100MK which converts to around £5 or a burger and flench flies from 800MK. Not only does it keep our meals down in price (as African cities generally charge western prices for food anyway) but gives me the taste of warm grease that I so crave.

I don’t want to create a false image in anyone’s mind. It’s not like we get fed badly at the lodge, the range is great. We eat anything from curry to shepherds pie to beef stroganoff, all cooked to a high standard. But pizza, burgers and chips, wow. I guess we yearn for what we can’t have.

Anyway, the other reason we went to Lilongwe was to plan a fundraising concert. After the success of our arrangement at Elmwood Church last year we thought why not do the same in Malawi’s capital, with a specific project in mind. That of Mzgambuzi school which we have mentioned at various times over the last 4 months. Unfortunately, after asking, telling, and pleading with people, it seemed like a project that was never actually going to get off the ground for various reason but most importantly because we weren’t going to make much money for a school that truly deserves some input.

We took our dejected bodies round to immigration for the actual real reason we went down south to extend our visa. No receipts again, surprise.
Anyway, what else have we been up to? I have had to read back through old blogs to see what I have told and what I haven’t. Everything’s becoming a blur.

Have I told you the one about the child with the swollen body and the nurse with a hundred bags?

No it’s not a lame joke but a story from sometime within the last few weeks. I honestly have no idea when it was within my merging memory. It may have been just after Christmas. Right, so … setting. No, this story can start with some dialogue, I should change my style occasionally.

I was sat in our room (Ah, started with setting anyway), I think I was planning a way to save the world or something but our wooden door the lodge office was open and the phone was ringing. Bbrrrrriiiiiinnnnng brrrrriiiinnnng (you know how a phone rings). I got up to answer but was beaten to it by George. As I was up, I went to join Laura, who was probably on her fifth or sixth red wine (I’ll exaggerate, it makes it more interesting).

She was swaying around on her stool, keeping herself vertical by propping herself against the bar top mumbling something about how brilliant I am (ok, I’ve gone too far, I’ll stick to the facts: she’d had half a coke and was able to sit up). George came in with hands on hips and let out a small huff, before looking up, seeing us and allowing a smile to grow.

“Would you guys like a mission?” he asked
“Eeer, yeah sounds cool!”
“Ok, great.”
“Hang on, what is it?”
“There’s a child at the forestry station that needs to get the hospital in Mzimba, they need a car.”

No problem. We jumped into the Toyota and bumped and jumped our way round the dam towards the medical unit. For safety and for translation we took Olyn with us, the head watchman from the lodge. He sat in the back and we made small talk until we arrived at the dark but reasonably busy Luwawa.

We reached our first destination and pick-up point at about 8pm. The sun had set and only the moon shone down giving us some sense of direction. We could see a few people outside the health centre and pulled over to see exact what the problem was and what we could do.

We were met by a whole troop of locals waiting anxiously for our arrival. The first to greet us was the maternity unit nurse who explained the problem. We had been working with her for a few weeks prior to this story, trying to renovate one of their store-rooms. She’d been barely helpful. Coupled with the fact that she’d previously asked Laura to give her money, made her slightly less than my favourite person.

Giving her the benefit of the doubt and looking past those problems for the sake of a child’s safety, we co-operated and got the child on-board. The child was clearly in some pain and visibly showed swelling to the stomach and lower limbs. It was definitely an emergency which the nurse had identified.

So in the back we had Olyn, the child and the child’s mother. As I was about to pull off the nurse called out,
“I will come too.” Why? I thought. “I can find the emergency nurses and take the girl into the ward.” Ok, that’s quite nice; perhaps I can like her after all.

So she jumped in. Next, I felt a bump in the back. Looking in my mirror I saw a man climbing onto the back of the truck. Who in the world is that? The nurse must have seen my face in the mirror.

“Oh that is the father, he will come too.” Will he? …Ok, ok. It’s a father and his daughter is unwell, that’s fine.
“I should take a bag,” the nurse continued to announce. “Can we just go to the maternity unit?” It’s about 50 yards away, why can’t you just walk there?
“Sure, no problem.” She’s doing a good thing, if she’s staying over with the kid, she at least deserves to take her bag.

So I rolled the vehicle over the maternity unit and put on the hand-break. She’ll need a few minutes to get her things together. To my surprise she had a bag ready, Albert, the handyman/gardener fellow, brought it over for her. Great, we don’t need to wait, this is an emergency.

CLUNK! One of the back doors opened. What now? The nurse walked over to her room and opened the door. Albert joined her inside. Hmmm. It was dark so I couldn’t really see what was happening, until they returned. Each of them came back holding two black bin-bags full of stuff. Cheek! I chimed in with “I thought you said baG,” emphasising the ‘g’ and therefore singular.

“Yes.” She replied with a smile on her face as if I had made a joke but I could see my sarcasm had blown over her head. Language barrier. A couple of expletives ran through my mind. George will kill me if he see’s the Hilux over loaded on these roads. They returned back to the house and brought yet more bags AND a box. She was struggling with hers. Don’t think I’m helping you.

She was taking advantage and she knew it. It was the end of her time at Luwawa and she would be returning to Mzimba any day soon, only this trip would guarantee her things getting back. My short fuse was near its end and we had a poor kid in the back that was blown up something like that blue character from Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. Don’t laugh, that’s not funny (the child was ok in the end).

Eventually we got away. I felt like Noah, only I had too many people on board. Laura and I shared a glance. Nothing is simple here. We set off just after 8:30. Emergency obviously has another meaning in Chitumbuka.

Driving at night in Africa is something I’ve always been told to avoid. When we’re taking public transport to get anywhere we leave straight after breakfast and get on the first bus that comes along. Journeys can take what seems like a lifetime and you don’t want to travel in the dark.

Reaching the tarmac of the M1 normally brings a sigh of relief when driving. No more blinkin’ bumps. This time however was different. Ah yes, there’s no lights are there. Oh and there are those rather large falls either side of the road and high-speed turns. Forgot about those. Not a problem, we had our lights. Now if I could just figure out how to turn on the main beams, we’d be fine. I didn’t want to try while I was driving, so came up with a bright idea.

“Laur, turn on the torch and have a look for the main beam switch.” Look at me, all responsible and sensible, maybe I am growing up.

Laur agreed it was a good idea, searched for the torch and switched it on. This is where the plan fell down. I don’t think she was quite sure which symbol she was looking for and within seconds we were indicating left, and then right and the window wipers were flapping like David Seaman at a Ronaldinho free-kick.

My frustration had turned into laughter but Laura was getting quite agitated and worried for that matter. She’d noticed lights in the distance and we knew what was coming up. A truck no doubt, who probably knew how to turn on his main beams. Brainiac. The problem with Malawian truck drivers at night is that they obviously know how to turn on their main beams, but nobody has taught them the manners to shut them off to avoid blinding people coming in the opposite direction.

So picture this. A road with quite a few twists and turns, nicely sized falls either side of the single lanes, no lights, no cats-eyes, a heavy vehicle and the piercing headlights slicing their way through your retina coming the other way. Awesome.

Any dare-devils out there, you want to try it! You get a instant of about 1 second where you literally have no idea what is where, which way is up or whether you’re journey is about to come to an abrupt halt. That second feels like an age. One of those moments in a film where everything goes into slow motion and the camera swings round to give you a full 360. Cool. Then bang, another second to adjust your eyes back to the dark.

Laura was having kittens next to me and our passengers thought that was funny. That nurse better not be laughing. I laughed, Laura scowled. Sorry.

With each passing truck, I got a little more used to the sightless panic and Laura’s mumbles until we made it to the hospital. It was then that I noticed my t-shirt was stuck to my back. Perhaps it was more nerve-racking than fun. My attention again turned to the child in the back who could finally get the real medical attention that she needed.

The hospital was very quiet but Laura noticed that there was a light on in the office behind the reception desk. I could see the face of a man in a suit looking out from behind a computer screen. I raised my hand to get his attention. Emergency. He waved back. This is a quiet hospital in a small town, someone pulls up in the Ambulance bay and you wave. What is wrong with you!?

The nurse, assumably (is that a word? M.Word doesn’t recognise it?) trying to justify her courier service, went inside to find somebody. Eventually she returned and helped the child onto a trolley before allowing the Mzimba nurse to take it from there. You didn’t convince me lady; I could have pushed a trolley from reception to the truck. We wished the family all the best as they thanked us for the help. Olyn translated for us.

The bags and boxes were still on the back of the truck. I’m not asking you what you want me to do with them. I drove to the gate of the hospital.

“Turn right before the gate” a voice came from the back. ‘Please?’ I’m not even sure she sensed my aggravated mood. I huffed. She’ll get the message. A huff says more than a million words, right? She directed the last few turns and we pulled up in between two decently built houses on the hospital campus.

“Could you move closer?” My eyebrows raised, mouth opened and without turning my head I looked across and Laura. Could have been a mirror image.
“No,” Oops, it crept out. “I won’t be able to turn it round.” Good blag. She dealt with her bags anyway with the help of some kids. I didn’t ask if they belonged to her.

Eventually we left the hospital grounds and made our way back through Mzimba to the M1. I found the main beams and used them. Flashing the oncoming vehicle even made them dim their lights. I’ll teach them some driving etiquette before the evening’s out. We reached Luwawa safely and dropped the nurse off at the maternity unit.

“Ah ok, see you!” That was what we got. I managed a smirk.
“Err, how about ‘thank you’” Laura responded when she was out of earshot. Olyn laughed again. I think he had enjoyed his trip out. We weaved our way back through the forest to the lodge and parked up.
“Yewo.” Olyn called on his way back to his watchman’s perch. Thanks.

Our dinner had a layer of skin over what was earlier some nice gravy. I felt like I’d done a good deed yet been used at the same time.

George asked if I’d like a beer.

“Whiskey please.”

Interpretation

30th December 2010

The best thing about visiting any of the villages around the South Viphya and Perekezi Forest Reserves is meeting the children. They get such a buzz just from seeing Mr and Mrs Mzungu walking up the path, next to their mud walled, grass roofed homes, that you can’t help but stop, chat or more often just muck around with them. For the youngest ones I guess it’s like me seeing a martian walking down Handsworth Wood Road. They’ve not seen anything like us before and it scares them to death but thankfully they’re getting used to us.

Sometimes I try to put myself in their position. What’s it like to live in a mud-hut, eat nsima everyday and make my own entertainment? I grew up in a multi-cultural community, with a Nintendo, carpets, sofas and toys. Why do they never seem bored? Why don’t they moan about being hungry or bored?

Why? Because they have bagfuls of imagination.

From children at home we all hear ‘I’m bored’, ‘I’m hungry’, ‘I want …’. We make entertainment for them, teach them how to tell stories, cook for them, buy them what they ‘want’. The kids here don’t get bought what they need let alone what they want.

Yet what do I see in Malawi? Kids who can entertain themselves, kids who can cook and adults who have really learnt to tell a story. So what’s different, why is there such a gap between our countries? Education and wealth. Ok, no rocket science there.

Yet if you asked me where I would rather grow up, Malawi or England, I feel that I’d have a tough decision to make. Children here just seem more innocent, they don’t have all the issues that children at home seem to have, they just have a real good time with their mates. Worries are non-existent.

‘Ah but..’ I hear you say. ‘..but your education wouldn’t give you a firm footing for adulthood. For work life.’ So what? Maybe sometimes in the UK we lose sight of what life is all about, a force of our lifestyles and the way our country is set-up. Perhaps Malawi has got it right. The 8th poorest nation on our planet, how can they have got it right? I’m not really sure, but they’re happy here. Happy kids, happy adults, happy people. And after all, isn’t happiness really what we are all seeking?

My life is about what happens outside of work. The enjoyment I get from seeing my friends, my leisure activities and seeing the world. I work to give myself all the things that I am tempted by because I was brought up in a country that offered me things that only money could buy and now I’m used to it. I suppose I now need a car, new clothes and the latest CDs. Do Malawians want what I have? Well you don’t miss what you’ve never had, or heard of for that matter. They work to get by and do their best to enjoy the rest of it.

And for the children. Well they concentrate on having a good time, by using their imagination. I walked into the Luwawa School last week before an Environmental lesson to be met by three children sat on the floor outside a classroom. One of them was the boy from my ‘football’ picture back in September. Junior is his name, son of the village headman and carpenter at the lodge, Godfrey.

Junior and his friends were stretching out a piece of paper and doing something underneath it. Moving in for a closer look they turned and smiled.
“What are you doing?” I asked with a smile on my face. They didn’t reply to my question, just smiled back and said “Mista eminings.” The younger ones have very little English skills but I worked it out anyway. On the paper they had drawn out a football pitch, before very carefully pushing the point of their pen through the pitch hundreds of times, creating tiny holes. The aim of the game was to use the pen underneath the paper, drawing a line into the opponents goal, without allowing the pen to push up through any of the holes. It appeared they had been playing for hours and continued long after I had left. No boredom there.

As I left the school that day I walked across to the football pitch. Kids running around playing together, having a great time. Again I walked closer to see what they were doing. They had made a toy car out of wire and rubber. Others had made bow and arrows (with blunted ends!) which they were firing at the pine trees as a target. The footballers had made their own football by melting plastic bags together and moulding them into a sphere, before wrapping it with strips of rubber sliced from old tyres. None of this was made for them, none of it was bought from a shop. They were making themselves have an amazing time by using their imagination and experimenting. A fantastic example to the rest of us who rely on our TV or latest ‘toys’ to do it for us.

So who’s got it right? I can’t say we have, there’s a lot less depression here in Malawi. But they haven’t got it right either. I cannot pretend that a country with a heavy portion of poverty has no problems. And I can’t help but worry. As things change and progress, with the increased impact of the western world on Malawi and other 3rd world countries as it uses it as a market for their goods and services, the more the knowledge and expectations of these nations will change. The simple life is well done here, it’s less problematic. And while it deserves to move forward, my concern is the added issues that it will bring. I just hope it doesn’t end the happiness.



The Otherside….



Reading Danny’s blog encouraged me to continue with one of my own. When speaking to close friends back home via email they often comment that they are happy to hear from me as Danny is always supplying the blogs and so they find it nice to hear my perspective of Malawian life. Although we are working together pretty much 24/7, sharing the same experiences and observing the same daily scenes being played out, our opinions on what we see and learn can tend to differ immensely.

Danny made me consider the question: where would I rather grow up: UK or Malawi and, although I largely agree with many things he has said, the decision for me would be much simpler. The main reason for this, I believe, is simple: gender.

There is fun, laughter and games everywhere you look as we wander through the different villages in the area but when you look more closely one must question: where are the young girls? Other than during school hours, I rarely see a girl over the age of 8 hanging around with the other village kids, having a good time or enjoying their youth. There are constant exuberant, excited shouts and chatter of young male voices but you have to listen very carefully to hear the whisper of girls as they quietly walk past the fun-filled scenes or return from the well, a heavy pot of water somehow balancing on their head.

This continues as girls here mature. The average age of marriage for a male is 24 whereas for a girl is it 18: not due to the greater maturity of girls this age in comparison to boys but because of fewer girls having the opportunity to progress to further education, university, highly paid jobs. Girls will learn how to cook, clean and care for a family and this will be their life-long role.

I am aware there is always the exception and some girls will continue with education, maybe even get a respectable job and be a ‘professional’ but I am yet to meet such a woman in a powerful position. The vice president of Malawi, although recently fired so that ‘His Excellency Dr Bingu’ can attempt to promote his brother as the next Malawian president, is a woman, Joyce Banda. There is often talk of an ulterior motive behind Bingu choosing a woman as vice president but at least it gives some hope to the female population of Malawi and it gives me a small suggestion that maybe, just maybe things are changing.

These changes may take years and for now I sit and observe as women attempt to fulfil the expectations placed on them and never hear a word of complaint or a female voice speaking up and saying ‘this isn’t fair or right! Why can’t I play outside, further my education, be a doctor/lawyer/president!’ I do however see women crawling on the floor to bow to men; something a girl from my background struggles to understand.

I guess this is part of what a developing country is. It does not just mean it is struggling to catch up with modern technology, decent houses, roads and materialistic possessions but it is also failing to understand the importance of equality and other social ideals. I am not saying that the UK has got it right in terms of equality yet and, in some cases, have gone too far in their attempts to reach this ideal, but the struggles of many of the women of Malawi is visible to me on almost a daily basis.

What worries me is how this will change. With people, male and female, terrified to stand up and speak out, even in a democratic country, it is hard to see where the motivations for improvement will come from.

So Danny asks: where would you rather grow up and my answer has to be the UK where I had the opportunity of good schooling, university, free speech and a happy life. I am sure life in Malawi, although dreadfully depressing for some, is happy for many women. However, with my dreams and ambitions, I am extremely grateful that my youth gave me a good platform for an independent and my country and culture did not hold me back just for being a girl!

Half time

December 6th – Half-time

Our stay in Malawi will last for six months. On arrival and after a week away from mobile phones, fast internet and television I was aware that this could actually feel like a lifetime.

Yesterday marked our half way point, three months in. It has not seemed like a lifetime so far and if anything, I feel like we’re running out of time. Half time was signalled by us reaching the visa extension date stamped into our passports, indicating the need for us to leave the country. The Zambian border, just over 80km away from the lodge, would be our destination so, loading the vehicle up with coke bottles and water-proofs, we left with Patrick on a mission.

The dirt road journey was no different to any other road trip, reminding us of the variety in African life. We were met by a bright green boomslang crossing the road, then, just a little further along, by a chameleon who was attempting to camouflage into a small bush, lining the track. We came across tens of roadside traders, selling mushroom, mango and bananas before passing through small villages getting themselves ready for the rains through patching roofs and plastering walls.

Eventually we arrived at a barrier and a sign saying ‘Welcome to Zambia’. The sign was broken and a little scratched out but was, however unimpressively, doing its job. My imagination always tells me that another country will look different but looking over the rusted bar separating the nations; Zambia looked exactly the same as Malawi. Poorly built buildings and dry sandy roads.

As we parked the car and entered the boarder crossing building on the Malawian side, Patrick introduced us to the officer on duty.
“This is the gentleman who helped John.”
I greeted him in Chitumbuka, hoping that a little effort would help our operation run smoothly. Basically, we both wanted a stamp from Zambia and then to turn around and head back to the lodge with three more months available on our visa.

The procedure went unbelievably easily. We didn’t even enter Zambia. The officer on the Malawian side, a tall man with a totally emotionless face, took our payments for Zambian visas and walked off with a gangling lope. Within 5 minutes he was back, giving us a glance at Zambian visa stamps, before issuing us with another 30-day tourist visa for Malawi. We will never know whether our $100 payment for Zambian visas made it into the system or officials pockets, there were no receipts written and none mentioned either.

The media at home made me feel corruption was abundant in Africa. It’s a subject that often comes up in conversation with Malawi residents and visitors to the lodge. From what I gather, Malawi is pretty good compared to many African nations, which is a bit worrying considering what you can see on an average day even here. It’s something that comes almost as a way of life. Whether there’s more or less than in the western world, I don’t know. Perhaps they just need to learn how to hide it.


Our ‘Community Development’ role has been chopping and changing in recent weeks. Being very aware that time is against us we have had to prioritise projects to ensure we get done what we want to and don’t leave anything half finished behind.

Things are moving forward on all fronts but patience really is a key attribute at the moment. Everything is a little slow!

Our main project at the moment is converting a room at the local maternity unit in Luwawa station from a store into a visitors room for guardians of the mothers to be. The most important part of the venture is to make the whole operation accessible for the community. Whilst the funding is available to buy the necessary materials and the lodge will help by supplying the tools, our aim is to make the development community-led. We feel that it’s vital to get people involved in the work, so there is sense of ownership which we hope leads to care for the centre from the locals. This has been a problem.

The ‘real’ rains started this week and it has had a bit of an unfavourable affect on the behaviour of the Malawians. A laid back culture, they are. But when it rains it resembles something similar to England in the snow. Everything shuts down. We had arranged a work party for the visitor’s room and got our things ready, shoved on our water-proofs and headed off along the hazardous paths toward the forestry station. The paths now resemble something like a giant mars bar that has been left in the sun. Some parts allow you to sink inches into the ground, others, still solid, create a chocolaty ice rink for fun and games. It’s unpredictable and each prospective step leaves you with a tough decision of how much pressure to put through your feet. Russian Roulette for hikers.

A few slips and squelches later, we arrived at the maternity unit to be greeted by the nurse. After a quick “hihihowareyouimfinehowareyouimfinethankyouthankyou” she alerted us to the fact that nobody would be coming.
“It’s raining, they will not come.”
“What do you mean? It’s gonna rain for the next three months, we need to get this done!”
She just smiled. We worked alone that day, scraping at layers of smoked black paint that currently lines the walls.

Other, more enjoyable, projects are also getting onto their feet. Through the environmental lessons we have been teaching at the school, construction of a tree nursery has started. The students have also designed posters which are to be posted around the village encouraging care for the environmental assets of the area; trees and the dam. We are also preparing to head to the capital this week to visit irrigation companies regarding our boar-hole project. Once we have that in place at Hunga Village we will then start a nutrition and farming project with the local school children, teaching the important lessons of a balanced diet and therefore balanced farming!

Hopefully it’s enough to keep us busy but not too much to leave us with unfinished business.

To end on a lighter-hearted note… talking to anyone in English that uses it as their second language can at times cause difficulties and confusion. Fortunately, Malawians, on the whole, have an excellent grasp of the language and communication is not usually a problem. There is one main error in their spoken English though which does affect the quality.

R’s and L’s can be interchanged at any point in a word without changing the meaning. For Laura, this means she now responds to ‘Laura’, ‘Raura’, ’Laula’ and most commonly ‘Raula’. I’ve taken to Laula, it has a nice ring. This issue can cause other problems; sometimes we have cully and lice for dinner, the children have head rice, and people are leading newspapers. I never knew they could walk.

The classic though is one of George’s stories. A couple of years ago a member of staff ran up to him out of breath.

“Sir, Sir. It was just on the radio. The president has announced there’s a big election coming up.”

27th November 2010

Writing up what we are doing in Malawi is becoming a more difficult task. Things we get up to out here that are becoming more routine don’t really seem worthy of writing up into a blog, it seems inane and boring.

That’s where I’m wrong. I’m missing out lots of small points which I may have added earlier on and some of them are unforgettable and definitely thinking points!

Take for instance my discussion in the bar at the lodge last week about Christmas. Sat on a wooden stool looking along the bar at three of the Malawian workers at the lodge, I brought up the Christmas topic. “What are your traditions?” “Do you give presents?” “What do you have for dinner?” I asked with wonder. I got answers to my questions and they asked theirs. I started thinking of home, including the awful lights along New Street, wishing everybody ‘Seasons Greetings’. It would be rude to say ‘Merry Christmas’ eh?

My Malawian friends didn’t understand my explanation of political correctness in the UK anymore than I do. But it was when I got onto the subject of Father Christmas that they really lost it. Explaining that we convince little children that there is a fat man with a big white beard, belly and red suit that flies around on a reindeer (which I had to compare to bushbuck for understanding) powered sleigh, handing out presents, only once he has squeezed his way down a chimney, I saw their faces freeze in amazement. I couldn’t help but pause, laugh and announce, “It’s crazy isn’t it!”

Patrick agreed “You’re crazy people man,” as he turned to his Carlsberg Green. “Why can’t you just give them presents because you care for them?”

I understood his logic and agreed with it. It was just one example of such a small thing which I think of as normal, being a big difference between our cultures.

One thing our cultures share, which I guess is the same all over the world, is a love for music. Malawians sing amazingly. The churches here echo with fantastic voices, singing for hours on end in their local language. It’s quite moving. What I find even more interesting though is their taste in western music.

Climbing onto a truck last week containing two Malawian brothers from Blantyre, to get a lift up to Mzuzu, we began a musical discussion. The brother, who was not driving, had clearly had a few bottles of Special Brew on the trip north and was in very friendly spirits. He wore a ripped Chicago Bulls jacked, pale blue, ripped jeans and no shoes, smelt like a brewery and had a clear dislike of Scania’s poor quality truck which their father owned.

His taste in western music reflected that of many Malawian males in their early 20’s. “Aaaaaah man, you look like you in Westlife. Are you in Westlife? I love Westlife!” he called at the top of his voice. His brother agreed by howling and then chuckling like a hyena.

“Yeh yeh, and you must be Craig David?” I replied, waiting anxiously for his response, half predicting his answer.

“Aaaaaah yeeeaaaah! Craig David!” He was clearly a fan. Craig David and Westlife, along with Backstreet Boys are by far the most popular acts in this part of Africa.

This fact, along with another cultural difference makes for a very interesting scene when you walk past a Malawian bar at night. Men, who get along as friends, tend to hold hands and guide each other to different places. So an evening stroll here for a western visitor can, at any time, be met by two Malawian men falling around drunk, holding hands, singing ‘I’m flying without wings!” No one raises an eyebrow. Might get a different reaction on Broad Street mind.

Time-keeping is an issue which would bug even the most laid back Brit on a first visit to Malawi. I mentioned in previous blogs that I was to start a football club and we have begun teaching environmental lessons at Luwawa School. They have been going extremely well. The football team have won all of their recent matches and the students are really excelling with their knowledge of local environmental issues. It hasn’t however been easy.

We try to do things properly when arranging sessions or lessons with the school, by visiting the headteacher and setting a specific day and time for the events. However, organisation isn’t really a positive trait of most locals. Last week our conversation with Mr Makamo went something like this;

“Is football club still ok for Tuesday?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Ok, great. What time?”

“After two.”

“Oh alright, shall we say half past then?”

“Yes, maybe, well… just after two. They will join you when they have finished lunch.”

“…right…”

This just seems to be the way. Football club actually started that Tuesday at 3:30. I have become no stranger to sitting on the side of the pitch, waiting … waiting. They will come, just when they are ready. When the first child arrives, he takes the whistle and blows it in a repeated fashion for what seems like an hour to notify the others, who come smiling but very slowly.

Last weekend I was in the forestry station when one of the guys from the senior team called me and let me know there was a game at the weekend.

“Kick off at fifteen hundred hours.”

That seemed precise enough. I was there at 2. By 5pm we finally admitted defeat, the team from Chikwa were not coming. So we trained. Why had they not come? Had anybody actually told them in the first place?

On Wednesday I turned up for training. An hour wait this time and I gave up. Played with the 10 year olds instead. When the seniors did turn up for training last night, my adjusted approach now means that I don’t even ask what had happened two days earlier. I half expect it now. Though one of the defenders did let me know, “I hear that you came on Wednesday. We went drinking instead. You see, we like drinking.”

“Mmm, me too” I replied, accepting the conclusions which I had already come to. But they are keen, they are fit and genuinely they would like to be organised. It just seems the attitude is that a commitment is actually a suggestion. And a suggestion can definitely be out powered by desire, such as drinking.

The problem is, getting so used to these differences, will I begin to add them as features and take them home as personal characteristics? Turn up for football an hour late? Arrange to meet someone, not show and go drinking instead? Stop believing in Father Christmas? START LISTENING TO CRAIG DAVID!!?

We’ll have to be careful. Results could be disastrous.

November 23rd – Drama

So, last Thursday I woke up in the middle of the night and actually thought somebody had stabbed me in the chest. My first consideration was that Laura had finally had enough of me and lost control. This would not have been a real surprise but as I moved my hand onto my chest there was no hole and certainly no knife.

“Laur! Break off that mosquito coil, I think it’s poisoning me!” I manage to squeeze out under one big breath, which caused this invisible knife to sink yet further into my heart. Laura replied, groaning a mix of “What time is it?” “What the heck is wrong with you!” and “Are you ok?” all at once.

I like to blame Laura for most of my problems so the obvious response was “You put that blinkin’ mosquito coil on and I think it’s tearing my insides apart!” Anyway, I made my point and she turned off the coil but this wasn’t the end of my problems. The next morning I could not eat breakfast and by lunch time it was painful to even sip water. By the time Sunday came, I had decided enough was enough and the mosquito coil could not have been to blame, so sent Laura on a mission to surf for the answer.

So she did. The World Wide Web, answer to all queries gave us an answer. According to the symptoms I had described, the computer diagnosed a normal case of Esophagitis. Basically the web page explained that I was a muppet, had taken my anti-malarial doxycycline tablets at the wrong time a day, without food and with not enough water. Oops. So in return for being male and not reading instructions, the female part of my brain was punishing me by telling my stomach that it needed to start stewing up a load of acid and pushing it up my oesophagus. My oesophagus had responded by curling up into a ball and crying like a baby, thus creating major pain that mimicked Laura stabbing me in the chest.

On Monday I thought it would therefore be a good time for us to join a group and complete a 16km walk to a waterfall in 30-degree heat. Not being able to drink water was a slight problem, but feeling like ‘Mr Soft’ from the SoftMint adverts whilst walking around was an unrecommendable but slightly enjoyable (not to mention totally legal) high. This said, I had finally given up. I needed medical attention.

Tuesday we walked to the local dispensary and explained the symptoms and what we had read. Clearly out of his depth the health practitioner told me to make my way to Mzuzu, the capital of the north, to get further treatment. We returned to the lodge and left immediately towards the tarmac and Mzuzu. Diesel is still a problem in Malawi so we decided to get on the bus to save any fuel we could for the lodge.

Diesel was more of a problem than we thought. Sitting on the side of the road with the sun scorching down onto the top of our heads we saw no more than two buses go past within the first three hours. It wasn’t pleasant, not for either of us. But adding the fact that I couldn’t swallow water easily and then that little mud-hut shop only stocked coke (which must be more than Ph7), my day was getting worse.

So what else could happen? Well, in the distance we heard a clatter. Being just outside the forest, we presumed this was some loggers throwing some timber off or onto a truck. It happened again and this time it sounded much more familiar. All of a sudden the sky turned black and the hairs raised on the back of my neck. BABOOOM! CRASH! The clouds exploded. It began to rain. Wait, rain is not strong enough. I mean it poured, it tipped it down, it emptied itself! I say it rained, yet this wasn’t rain as I know it. This was like rain on speed. Big, immense, golf-ball like droplets where being flung to earth by a million little men with catapults, sniggering as they watched us flee to cover. They bounced from the tarmac almost as high, so that even the flabby skin under my chin was getting a shower. Within minutes the roads, the mud sidewalks and the indigenous woodland were all a part of intermingling streams that were racing downhill, each one trying to get there first. We managed to get cover under a thatched roof veranda, backed up against a mud wall but even this didn’t work as a suitable buffer between us and the rain as the drips found their way through gaps in the roof and continued to soak us!

Enough was enough and we decided that we would get on the next bus to pass whether it was heading to Mzuzu or the closer town of Mzimba from where we could change and get a further bus to Mzuzu. A small minibus approached with a cardboard sign ‘Mzimba’: it appeared full to its limits but we are quickly learning that in Africa, a bus is never full…. There is always room for 1,2,3 more bodies. Always.

We got on and managed to squeeze up next to some people, chickens and bags of maize. It was, to put it nicely, cosy. As the bus slowed down to let some people off a few kilometres down the road I think we all breathed a slight sigh of relief. But as the matola opened its doors, yes you guessed it, it was time for another three people to clamber onboard. One with a conveniently oversized suitcase, which pushed the ceiling of the bus to its limit as he perched himself onto a metal arm-rest and the case onto his lap. Laura managed a polite smile too as a teenage girl sat on her lap without a consideration as to whether it may be considered as rude or an invasion of personal space! “We’re like beans in a can!” I announced to my fellow passengers who broke into laughter. The guy whose job it is to organise passengers into this Tetris like existence sucked his teeth. For the rest of this blog I will refer to these guys as ‘Joey’s’

Driving is very much different here. At no point does a driver of a car, bus or truck think of pedestrians. Vehicles have right of way and if you are in it, tough luck. On arrival at Mzimba this opinion was proved fact. Leaving the Heinz tin to change onto another rickety excuse of a bus which was bound for Mzuzu was no less eventful than the journey to get there. Once the Mzuzu bus’s Joey had spotted us, he knew he had a catch.

“Where are you going bueno?” Bueno meaning something similar to ‘brother’.

“Mzuzu,” I said, disinterested as you must seem to survive.

Mzuzu Joey sprung into action! He had a potential mzungu passenger. Mzungu’s tend to pay a couple of hundred kwacha (less than one pound) more for their journeys. And there were two of us! So he proceeded to get the bus, which was a decent size, probably containing 30 or so seats, to back up and park under the iron sheets, so that we could get on whilst avoiding the rain and small lakes which had appeared in the bus station from a couple of hours rain. Nice move, I didn’t fancy walking out into the gun pellets. If he managed it, he had my custom.

“Bueno, zakuno!” (brother, come!) he called to the driver. So he did, he reversed towards tens of people who were patiently waiting under the shelter on wooden benches. He would stop before he reached them, wouldn’t he? No is the simple answer. This resulted in ladies with children strapped to their back, young children and old men diving for safety, dragging benches out of the way before the bus screeched to a halt.

“Get in,” the Joey said.

“Pepheni!” (sorry!) I called in the direction of the scattered waiting Malawians. They laughed and called out thanks in tumbuka. To them, this was just usual business at their bus station. For me, craziness! But craziness I’m getting used to.

The three hours towards Mzuzu consisted of a leaking roof, no leg room, crying babies and a worsening pain in my chest. I started to miss home. Things I have never appreciated in the UK, things I have often grumbled about, started to seem really good. The NHS was something I was about to add to that list.

Arriving in Mzuzu, the even larger, more frantic bus station sent shivers down my spine. A guy who’d spotted us on the bus from the gate followed us and greeted our arrival in his city. “I am cheapest taxi.”

“Good, take us to your car.” He must have sensed my loss of care and energy from the window of our bus. His well kept Toyota took us to the hospital.

“6km, 1000 kwacha!”

“I’ll give you 500 hundred and maybe call you later for another ride” I mumbled,

“Ok, give me your number sir.”

“No, you give me yours. It’s no good you calling me guessing when I need a ride is it?”

He gave me his number and asked me to flash him. I think that means to give somebody your number by calling and hanging up before they answer. I kept my trousers on either way.

Mzuzu Central Hospital was, other than the new parliament building in Lilongwe which has been built by the Chinese, the most impressive building I have seen in Malawi. Not big, not flashy, but clean, well laid out and spacious. For a hospital it didn’t have that whole death feeling about it either. Myself, Laura and Yami, a guide from the lodge and all round nice guy, walked into the emergency room and asked to see a doctor.

“He is not here,” (Shock! Malawians are rarely where they are supposed to be.) “He will be here soon.”

“Look,” I replied. “I’m not being funny but it’s been a long day. We have been out for seven hours to get here. You say to me ‘soon’ … is this a ‘5 minutes soon’ or a ‘Malawian 5 hours soon’”

“I don’t know, he should be here.” She replied whilst looking the other way. Yami interrupted and spoke in a calm, quiet and very soft tumbuka. He turned to us and said “We can take a seat.” Assuring, maybe.

Eventually we were called into the doctors room. I sat down and explain my symptoms. I added the fact that we’d done some of our own research and that my doxycycline could be to blame. As with many doctors, this guy decided that I was just a ‘normal and stupid being’ and that there was no way that as an untrained person, Laura or myself could have identified a problem and diagnosed it accurately.

So he sent me to the Radiology department for a chest x-ray, with a note on a scrap piece of paper saying Aspiration Pneumonia.

“Pneumonia!” “Am I going to die!?”

“There absolutely to chance it’s pneumonia, this is ridiculous!” Laur replied.

I hoped not, but went for the x-ray and got it back within a minute to take back to the doctor.

Returning to the emergency department and my not so friendly Malawian doctor I felt as though the whole trip was a waste of time. I was going to get treated for pneumonia, which I was 90% sure I didn’t have, and keep these horrible symptoms which had not only taken food from me, but beer also, for almost a week!

I handed the x-ray to my new friend who snatched it out of my hand and held it up to the light. My ribs looked just like the ones on pictures of normal skeletons. This was reassuring, and although I did not know what I was looking for, my eyes were locked on the picture of my insides.

“Hmm, I will need to discuss this with my colleague. Just wait outside” he announced. A second opinion … that might help.

As we waited in the lobby, next to a guy who had seemed to have destroyed his shoulder and another who had cut his toe, I sat cautiously, with no idea of what would happen next. I had lost faith in the doctor, the receptionist didn’t care, and the journey from Mzuzu to Lilongwe was looking like a forgone conclusion, so that I could get some ‘proper’ advice. Until…

A mzungu doctor walked through the door. Not just a mzungu doctor, but one with an English accent! “Alright mate?” he calmly asked.

‘Much better for seeing you!’ ran through my head as my lips muttered “Erm, kinda!”

I quickly ran through the symptoms of my problem with my fellow countryman before he began asking the question “Ah, are you taking any..”

“YES! Doxycyclene!” I called in a sort of excited ‘you know what you’re on about’ voice.

Dr Mzungu turned to his colleague and motioned to hit him over the head with the chest x-ray. “What did you take one of these for, you Muppet!?” he joked. We all laughed. He continued to explain my difficulties almost word for word as we had read them on the internet search. Gastritis was the diagnosis. Relief is not quite a strong enough word.

Dr Saviour wrote down a few things I needed to get from the chemist, Omeprazole and some Magnesium Trisulphate. Through my ignorance, I had never heard of either of them but the sounded right and therefore I was happy.

“You’re chest looks fine by the way.” Dr Knight in Shining Armour noted as he walked out of the office with a cheeky little wink that suggested ‘You’ll be fine!’ He had just told us that he was actually based in Blantyre, Malawi’s largest city in the south. He was only up in Mzuzu for two days each year, this was one of them and it was after working hours. My luck was definitely in!

So we left and I got my tablets. Only one thing had left me disappointed from the day,

“No beer, no smoking, no spicy food … for another week.” None of those actually came to matter, as I couldn’t swallow for the 5 days following.

I am all well now but the one thing I have taken from the experience is how lucky I am to live in a country with a good health service. I have since learnt that the gentleman who I first saw at the hospital was probably no more than a health practitioner and not a doctor but his diagnosis was wildly incorrect. It can’t be helped to think of how many others are misdiagnosed daily. How many lives does it cost and why?

Well the truth is that healthcare in Malawi is improving rapidly. There is a training school for doctors in Blantyre and more are qualifying. Unfortunately vast amounts of them move abroad as pay is hugely increased, with South Africa and the UK usually being the destination. I have heard a fact bounded around and whether it is true now or not, it certainly used to be.

‘THERE ARE MORE MALAWIAN DOCTORS IN MANCHESTER THAN MALAWI.’

Something to think about.