Court number One.

When Monica and I started playing squash at the Lilongwe Golf Club a few weeks ago, someone said to us “Make sure you get court number 2 – as it is better that court number 1.”

So we’ve been playing in court number 2.

Until last Saturday, court number 2 was occupied. And then we understood the recommendation.

The debris that falls off the wall if you manage to hit the right spot.

The patch.

Monica in despair!

Ewen

Last week, I received an email from an old friend, telling me that a friend of ours from school had taken his life last Sunday.

Ewen was funny, truly funny. His quiet and dry humour entertained us all. His view of the world was spot on, his perceptions sharp, he would notice the little things and bring out their funny side. It is always so refreshing to be around someone like that. But more than that, Ewen was sincere and kind. And with the same subtlety of his humour, he was gentle person. He was a good friend.

He must have been so sad. And lonely. I think we all know what it’s like to be lonely, even when we are surrounded by people who love and support us. But his loneliness must have been just too unbearable. This is just too sad.

All I can think of now (forgive me for this selfish reflection) is how I would love nothing more than to sit down and have a cup of tea or a pint with him. To catch up on each other’s news. To laugh and be silly.


Come away, O human child!
to the waters and the wild
with a faery, hand in hand,
for the world's more full of weeping than you can understand...
- - - W. B. Yeats


We are all so fragile.

Rest peacefully friend.

Differences

Since my last post, I have travelled. Travelled, relocated, moved. Three weeks ago I exchanged the short days and Christmas lights of London, for the sunshine and tropical showers of Lilongwe.

But how far have I travelled?

In Kilometres – not sure, but it must be about eight or nine thousand..

In hours – well, that depends on the airline. It also depends on when you start counting from. Should I start the journey from the moment I got in my taxi? The hour waiting in the queue for the Ethiopian airlines desk? I was surrounded mostly by fellow Africans. Then of course there were the hours in the air with a short stopover in Addis before arriving in Lilongwe. And when should I count as arriving in Lilongwe? When I could see it in the distance, as we approached the runway or when we actually landed? Or perhaps a couple of hours later when I had waited unsuccessfully for my luggage, reported the missing bags, and was in the car with my mum, driving back to area 3.

Anyway, details, details – in hours – approximately fifteen.

But aside from these standard measurements how far did I really travel? How big has the change been?

I have gone from being independent back to living in my family home. I drive instead of taking the bus or tube. I sit at the same computer, listening to the same music, yet I look out the window at grass, trees, space, instead of into other people’s gardens and lives. Instead of taking vitamin C and trying to avoid a cold, I smother myself in insect repellent, hoping to avoid malaria. The internet (although PAINFULLY slow) takes me to the same places as when I sat at my desk in London. My blog hasn’t travelled – it is at the same http:// address, and my readers (all hundreds of them) may be reading it from the same place.

It is the same but different. I am different, yet the same.

But something specific has made me think about all of this. Something, that has happened at home. One of the people who work for my mum has been accused of being a witch. Neighbours have informed us that he takes their children flying at night. The two other people who work with us have acknowledged these concerns, and even the children of one of them have confirmed that they too have been taken flying – against their will, in a plane, over Mozambique, Zimbabwe and South Africa. Although witchcraft is widespread in Malawi, and many people regularly consult traditional doctors, this is a serious accusation, as he is not an official witch, and therefore these actions are grave.

So, what to make of these accusations? Has someone got something against this man? Is this small-scale McCarthyism?

Or not. The neighbours explained that this is not something we would understand as we are not Malawian, and this is not in our culture. A good friend of ours, who is Malawian, explained that this kind of problem is very real and if something is not done, it could lead to violence. Therefore action must be taken.

All this reminds me that, although I consider Malawi my home, and think of myself as Malawian, there are still (and probably will always be) huge differences between my culture and the Malawian culture. As much as I respect such beliefs and acknowledge them, I will probably never understand them.

And this thought worries me. Does this mean that I don’t really belong here? That I never will? This is the place that I love and where I feel at home.

So I must get a hold of myself and go back (once again) to the main reason for starting this blog. I am trying to develop the social scientist within me. There are people, there are communities, there are societies, there are cultures. And there is me trying to make some sense of all this, or at least a little bit of sense within myself. Cultures will mix more and more as our world becomes smaller, but they don’t have to be diluted and we don’t have to understand everything. The differences between us are good and enriching (as long as we are tolerant and compassionate).

I have travelled. To be at home, to be with family, and to do the research for my dissertation. And maybe by the end of it I will be a small step closer to understanding my place in all of this.

And I will keep writing. Malawihazel had a short break, but is back!

Happy New Year.