My ancestry is pure Celtic… Irish and Scottish… reflected in my sun-burn prone skin and name. (Colleen Duncan being about as Irish-Scottish as you can get) Growing up, my sister and I practiced Irish Dance, with relative success. All of this culminated every year on a particular day: Saint Patrick’s Day. Along with our friends and parents, we moved all around town, performing jigs and reels, a cappellas and hornpipes to the tunes of the Irish fiddle, accordion and stereo, much to the entertainment of the revellers.
Last year, my Saint Patrick’s Day was slightly different. Rather than the trip to Ireland we had imagined, Brendan, his sister Tess and I rented a car and drove from Cambridge to Wales on what was an event filled journey. Not only did we navigate across the country, wind our way along increasingly narrow rock-wall lined Welsh roads, past innumerable round-abouts and over mountains, but I also learned to drive standard! It was either that or we didn’t go. So with much patience from my passengers, we made it safely to Wales, in great need of a beer, only to discover much to our surprise and the Welsh’s contempt that they don’t celebrate Saint Patrick’s Day in Wales. They have another day (I think Saint David’s?) in early march which they much prefer.
Well this year, my Saint Patrick’s Day is interesting yet again. As I write this, I am sitting in a house built into the side of a rock hill with a log table in front of me, and Lake Malawi visible through the rainforest canopy. I am alone, waiting for my friends to arrive from Lilongwe and join me for a week long training/retreat/conference. While I did not get quite the adventure of learning to drive standard in 2 hours, my travel plans today were no less eventful. I started out riding in the back of a little white flat-bed pick-up truck which ranged in speeds from crawling to 80 kph. Hoping off the back of that at the junction, I swung onto the back of a bike taxi, loaded down with backpack and bags full of food. Being so loaded down, I didn’t have the heart to really negotiate with him for the price. Off we went for the next 10km, swerving between giant mud filled pot-holes that looked like the recent artillery practice zone for the resident army force. Over a few sand dunes and we arrived at the Wheelhouse. A little hike up the hill later and I was settled in our secluded and ever-so-eccentric residence. It took a text from my sister (thank you Lalula!) to remind me of St. Patrick’s Day at all. Now beer in hand (it’s not coloured green, but it IS a Carlsberg Green beer, locally known as “green” so I think that will do) and Irish step dance music in the background, I await my friends arrival with anticipation.
Yes, you were impressive. For the record, it went like this:
We arrived at the car rental pplace, expecting that I would drive across the country to Wales that day. When we realised I couldn’t, Colleen, after about 15 minutes of deep thought, agreed to do it. So her first, her very first minute drigin standard was leaving the rental car parking lot under the watchful eye of National Rent a Car. She maanged to pull around the corner into a lot, where Tess and I threw a frisbee around as Colleen practiced. Then, across the country and through Wales (home of the cold, dark, narrow winding road).
Colleen was a star, without a doubt.
B
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