4:45 PM
I have a chorus of those little African warblers chirping in front of my house now. I'm in my usual spot, sitting in my chair with my feet up and Reality [the dog] doing absolutely nothing next to me.
Ron [a British neighbour who was a chemistry teacher at the school and a bit nutty] made a comment about my beard (I shaved it off a week ago and I'm letting it grow back)" "Oh, that's coming along nicely, Paul," he said. "It's actually growing quite fast. What did you do, put manure in your shoes?" Thanks, Ron. Bad joke, Ron.
I made a trip to Whitex yesterday to buy some chitenjes [Malawian cloth] to have them made into pants - size 33", which is something I haven't been able to fit in since the mid-1980s. I bought, of all things, a pattern with a bunch of ostriches. I can't wait to see the results Friday.
Christian and Louise wrote letters to me today - each took only a week to get here. Louise still has a lot of negative attitudes about herself, but she seems to be developing more self-confidence. She said something which, for some reason, managed to bug me a little which is why I'm writing now. Her boyfriend is moving in with her in April, and that combined with what Julie wrote yesterday [she wrote that she'd found Mr. Right] has made me wonder (only a little) about how I'm going to wind up with "Ms. Right." Here are two women I was involved with and they're already at the next step in their relationship, whereas I can't even get to the first step. No part of me is looking for anything with the slightest hint of permanency with any girl around here. But on the other hand, that means another two years will go by. That shouldn't be my outlook on things, though.
Yikes! I just read over what I'd just written and it's goddam depressing! Wake up Paul - play THE song!
Postscript 2010: The song in question is Life Is a Highway by the incomparable and uniquely Canadian artist Tom Cochrane. For whatever reason, when the song came out in 1991, it instantly became my favourite song, and I doubt any other tune will ever dethrone it. "Life is a highway, I want to ride it all night long" conjured up such an immediate, urgent tingling sensation throughout my entire being that I became deliriously happy every time I played it, no matter how frequently I pressed the REPEAT button on my disc player. Living at home, I played it incessantly in the basement, much to my mother's consternation; it played during my wedding; I listened to it innumerable times while traveling across Canada; I played it over and over again while sitting in my home alone in Malawi; and softly at the end of my mother's funeral. The song is undeniably a part of my character, and while I don't play it nearly as much as I did all those years ago, there's no denying that the song still has the intended effect of making me feel good.
Living in Malawi, I did what I could to minimize the moments when I felt sorry for myself; it's actually quite easy when you're surrounded by people who are unquestionably worse off than you. At that point in my life, back in 1993, getting into a relationship was not a pressing issue, but still, companionship would have been nice. I was a little taken aback with the news from Julie and Louise (not their real names), writing to me about finding Mr. Right (for Julie) and moving in with her boyfriend (Louise). The news from Louise was particularly surprising. We were together back in September 1993 on the eve of my departure from Canada. Getting close to her was always a struggle, there was always a reluctance from her to open up. In our last hours together, she admitted to me that she'd recently begun seeing a therapist who had been helping her unearth the painful memories of being sexually abused by her grandfather. Memories she'd repressed for years. Saying goodbye to her that night made me feel as though I were letting go when she needed me most. I could not imagine the suffering she must have felt back then and the deluge of sorrow, anger, betray of trust, shame, and insecurity resulting from such abuse. As I drove away from her apartment, I questioned my own motivations for leaving my friends and family for two years. But I moved on, and so had she in a short period of time, and because it had only been three months, I couldn't help but wonder what kind of person he was, and whether or not he would show her the love she deserved.
6 PM
I'm sitting outside on the porch now with nothing much to do. I have to invigilate one more exam, then mark another, then I'm done for '93. It's freezing right now! It can't be more than 18 C and it looks as if it will rain soon.
The staff Christmas lunch is this Thursday and I managed to make something that didn't burn or make me gag. I started out by trying to make brownies Friday night but what resulted was a mix between ooh-this-will-rip-your-fillings-out toffee and bricks. So I got rid of that by crunching on it all weekend. My second time at bat was worse than the first: Granted, the peanut brittle looked okay up to a certain point, but when I added the baking soda - Ka-BOOM! The goddam thing blew up like a chemistry experiment gone horribly wrong. I then added the vanilla and peanuts and struggled to slosh it into a pan. Now normally you would expect peanut brittle to have a nice golden colour to it. But no, mine was a sinister dark brown. As one might expect, it tasted horrible but it would have made great concrete. Dammit, I knew I should have gone into masonry.
I was getting a little worried by this time. I had cooked some reasonable tasty things in the past. Yeah well welcome to Africa Paul - my measuring cup was a coffee mug. I persevered and finally came up with banana ice cream, and it's damn good. Although I don't think it'll be enough, so I'll see if I can make some of my super eggnog with the brandy I bought today on special.
Postscript 2010: This post is an homage to Joe St. Lawrence, WUSC volunteer who was in Malawi from 1992 until 1994 and is an avid reader of my blog. Joe can cook, as is evidenced by reading his own blog, unlike me way back then, and now. Upon my arrival in Malawi in 1993, I was invited to Joe and his partner's house and he concocted a banana curry, which I found absolutely absurd but was dazzlingly surprised by its wonderful flavour.
After the welcome from Joe and others in Lilongwe, the capital, I was off to live on my own in Zomba. Living on my own was nothing new: I'd lived on my own in Canada. However, in Canada I relied heavily on whatever could be microwaved or consumed in a pub, and those were two options unavailable to me in Zomba. The first meals I scraped up for myself consisted of nothing more than maggot-infested packaged noodles with ketchup. It's no wonder I shed almost twenty kilos during my stay in Malawi.
In the end,despite my inability to make something as simple as peanut brittle using my neighbour's oven, the ice cream was a success. And as for the eggnog, I liberally poured the brandy I bought on sale and mixed it in. The end result was a surprising number of inebriated staff members in the library screaming at me to pour them some more eggnog. When you're working with a bunch of nuns, well, the end result is nothing short of hilarious. But I could have done without the flirting. I vowed to take it easy on the brandy next time.
1 PM
Just made a snowball from the ice that accumulated in the freezer. I couldn't let a December pass by without throwing a snowball through the air.
I just got paid for the first time today - over K3000! Yeehah! I just wrote a letter to JR so I'll continue in my journal another time.
Sunday, December 12, 7 AM
I've never gone to bed so late as I did last night - in Africa, that is: midnight. It was worth it, though: I watched Star Trek: The Next Generation! The pilot episode from six years ago. I couldn't believe it! J+J borrowed the video machine and TV from their school and rented the show for K7 at the PTC. Star Trek in Africa! And we had beer and pizza to boot.
The past two weeks have been the most eventful since my arrival and ironically enough I've written the least in my journal. I suppose it's because I'm so busy with all this going on around me from the gunfire to the teachers' strike (is it on for tomorrow> I still don't know) to Star Trek. Part of me wishes I had a computer to type up my thoughts more quickly but that would mean being a slave to technology, and we all know I left Canada partly to get away from that.
It's less than two weeks until Christmas and I haven't bothered to send any Christmas cards aside from one to Mike back home. Around here I sent some to Gary, J+J, Joe and Nat, Wendy and Gen. [I drew pictures on the cards, in some cases ridiculing the incompetence of the Malawi Young Pioneers, or MYP.] Assuming I don't get arrested for the slanderous depictions of the MYP (and for sending a bullet casing in the mail to Sam), I may have time for one or two more cards, but part of me is getting pissed off at the people back home. Only Phil, Mike and JR have written back to me and I've written just over 20 letters to everyone. Sometimes I get so tired of writing the same thing over and over again that I develop an aversion to writing altogether - I guess that may be another reason why I haven't written much lately.
I corrected my first end of term exam - Form 3 Algebra. Average: 35%. Assignment average: 74%. Hmmm. I wonder. I'm told this is to be expected, but it's still disappointing - the students seem to enjoy and understand in class but when the time comes for them to show their true colours, it's a different story.
Years later, I am thankful I kept all those hand-written letters from my friends and family. When I lived so far away from the ones I loved, being in a strange land captivated my curiosity for only so long; after a while, I felt a longing to be with those I'd left behind, and the joy of receiving a letter from home brought me as close as I could be to them. In the letter shown, dated 18 November 1993, my mother chronicles a postage tip from an engineer, a rare earthquake in Montreal, and Mickey Mouse's 65th birthday. Absolutely inane, but this letter, like the dozens I received from her, is a gift that I will always cherish, much more than the deodorant and Life Savers she sent along with the letter (although the deodorant was more appreciated at the time).
It looks like it's really going to rain hard pretty soon. The past few days have been eventful. let's start with Friday.
Three o'clock rolled around and it was time for me to go to the football field for volleyball. I coached the girls for a while, then made my way over to Cyrus where he was showing a bunch of girls how to play basketball. That was quite a sight: seeing a man who's never played the game teach it to 30 girls with one ball. Anyway, I joined them and as I was showing them how to do the wave, they all went bonkers suddenly and began running away from the field towards the school. It took me a few seconds to realize that they were running and screaming away from a guy holding a knife a few feet away from me.
Uh-oh.
Fortunately, he seemed to be in a world of his own and didn't seem to realize anyone was around him. He knelt down where the girls had been playing and toyed with the knife in the dirt. All the girls were a safe distance from him, but Cyrus and I weren't. The guy planted the knife in the ground and walked slowly, as if in a daze, towards the girls. They screamed together and scurried all over the place, but the real threat was over with. He walked away in the bushes, I picked up the knife and tossed it in the garbage. That put an early halt to afternoon sports.
Saturday morning I went to Box 2 with Joseph and Stevenson to bring St. Mary's chess club to play in the Zomba Chess League. They were the only girls there, and they did manage to beat 2 boys out of 8 games, which I'm sure was a humiliating experience for the losers. It was fun. On the way back, I coached Stevenson on how to swear properly in English and we got tangled up in the celebration of a wedding making its way down the highway, with several dozen people cheering, singing, and dancing.
Monday, December 6, 7 PM
Had a good weekend at Gen and Wendy's. Very nice place. The army is fighting the MYP [Malawi Young Pioneers] - over a dozen people killed - Kaye [our field director at the time] told me to pack up and head for Mulunguzi. I'm not worried too much yet - I'm more worried what my mother's thinking. I hope I don't leave the country. Whoops, hamburgers are ready.
Postscript 2010: First, the man with the knife. Seeing a half-dressed person walking in a daze was not unusual in Zomba. The Zomba Mental Hospital was just down the road, and conditions for keeping the patients within the institution were not all that strict. It was not uncommon to see a patient from the hospital walking around town in their distinctive uniform, a blue and green striped outfit that reminded me of pajamas I wore in the 1970s that my mother had purchased from K-Mart. But the gentleman with the knife did not have those distinctive shorts; he wore (what was at that point) black rags. Thankfully, it was the only time something as unusual as this ever took place (the Gorilla Man was also unusual, but not in a threatening way. More on that another time).
The chess tournament was certainly a highlight for me. I was appointed patron of the chess club during our first staff meeting when Mr. Chanunka whispered to me, Do you play chess? To which I answered Yes, a few times ten years ago. Poof, he nominated me to be the patron of the chess club. The girls' confidence was not very high, but I think they (and the rest of the girls at school) were simply happy to be in a tournament. That particular tournament took place at Zomba Catholic Boys' School of all places, and the girls were absolutely giddy with excitement at being there. After the first round of matches began, Alice, a Form 3 student, approached me with a stunned look on her face and said, "Sir, I won!" She did indeed beat the pants of a boy, who was being summarily scolded by the patron of his club and shamed in front of his snickering colleagues. That part didn't make me feel good, but her victory sure did. As we left the tournament and drove through the gates of our school later that morning, at least a hundred girls from the school were waiting to cheer the chess team on. We got out of the truck and they sang their hearts out.
And finally, the dozen people killed. During that first weekend of December 1993, I was staying at the house of two other volunteers in Blantyre. I had made my way there to get the damn hole in my tooth fixed (the dentist was very thorough and asked me whether I had AIDS as her first question). By the time I was on the bus, the Malawi Young Pioneers, or MYP, were in an armed battle in key town across the country. The MYP at the time was a much-feared paramilitary wing of the ruling Malawi Congress Party, the MCP. In early December, three army soldiers had been killed and the army sought retaliation against the MYP. The MYP, on the other hand, was more than a little upset at the news a few months back that they were to be eventually disbanded. They were allegedly responsible for the disappearance and killing of thousands of Malawians in the 1970s and after. With the president and leader of the ruling MCP, Hastings Kamuzu Banda, seriously ill and recovering from brain surgery, the MYP's fate, and the country's was very uncertain.
In the end, the MYP was no match for the army. There were over 30 people killed that weekend, with clashes in Zomba where I lived and in other cities. In Blantyre where I was staying, we heard gunshots pierce the air throughout the day. our only source of information at the time was our shortwave radios, listening to BBC. But I didn't have to worry about my mother finding out about the violence. As is the case with most things like this in Africa, news hardly makes its way back home to Canada.
Postscript 2010: The song in question is Life Is a Highway by the incomparable and uniquely Canadian artist Tom Cochrane. For whatever reason, when the song came out in 1991, it instantly became my favourite song, and I doubt any other tune will ever dethrone it. "Life is a highway, I want to ride it all night long" conjured up such an immediate, urgent tingling sensation throughout my entire being that I became deliriously happy every time I played it, no matter how frequently I pressed the REPEAT button on my disc player. Living at home, I played it incessantly in the basement, much to my mother's consternation; it played during my wedding; I listened to it innumerable times while traveling across Canada; I played it over and over again while sitting in my home alone in Malawi; and softly at the end of my mother's funeral. The song is undeniably a part of my character, and while I don't play it nearly as much as I did all those years ago, there's no denying that the song still has the intended effect of making me feel good. 
