Recently, someone asked me to describe what a typical day here in Malawi might look like. That’s a bit of a challenge since every day comes with its share of surprises. Certainly there are themes, there are patterns and there are similarities, but there are just as many unexpected interruptions.
Things like I wake up every morning to the rooster crowing outside my orange curtained window at atound 6am. I roll out from under my mosquito net, utter some sleepy “mwadzuka bwanji”s (good morning) to Stemkan, the hired help, who is usually the first one I see every morning. Then a round of “mwadzuka bwanji”s to anyone else who is up. I grab my reed mat at head to the living room, spread out my mat and start my ½ hour of morning yoga. I used to try to help in the mornings, but I’m not much of a morning person and just got in the way. Instead, I do yoga. It’s better for everyone.
After a bucket shower with water heated over a fire or hotplate and a quick breakfast of bread and tea, I get myself ready for work, grab my backpack, say goodbye to the kids and my family and head off to work. [There are many people in my family: Brenda (the mother and my bossy Malawian sister), Tears (the father and like a big brother), Stemkan (house boy, 19), Fraiser (sort-of son.. it’s complicated, 14), Johns (son, 11), Junior (nephew, 10) and Akuzike (daughter, 2).]
Tears and I used to walk to work together, but he recently got the battery for his car fixed, so now I walk alone. Sometimes, if I’m feeling lazy, I get a ride, but on most days I treasure the walk. Up the hill, past the lady selling tomatoes and home-made breads, past my favourite corner with all the little kids who get so excited every time I go by, up the hill and past Grace, a girl around 19 who’s working in her yard. On the left there is a house with a very old man who greats me every day with a big smile and clapping hands, a sign of respect. I pass some maize fields, more children, more grocery stalls and get to the main road, the only paved road in Dedza. I walk past the post office, the banks, and the bus depot. I get to work at around 7:30 or 8am. Just in time to collect my thoughts for a half hour before my days’ schedule gets upturned by one thing or another.
Sometimes these interruptions are welcome; a day spent out in the field at a farmer field school, planting potatoes or facilitating a leadership course. Maybe it’s an unexpected meeting, or a meeting that starts 2 hours late. Maybe it’s a job interview process to hire and M&E officer that the manager did not have time for and therefore asked me to do instead.
Sometimes its more disrupting than that; the regular and lasting power cuts, the vehicles that are over-scheduled for too many different places all at once, people falling sick from Malaria… Maybe I went to play netball with the local women’s team I joined only to find out they didn’t arrive to play that day. Maybe I come back home to find Brenda packing to go to Lilongwe and Tears off to Blantyre and me left to manage a house full of kids in a still foreign language.
Every day has its version of surprises.
I usually take my breakfast and dinner at home, but lunch I find for myself. It’s a good way to see the town, meet people and get to know my colleagues. I have taken to frequenting a restaurant at the bus depot. The food is not the best, but there is plenty, it’s cheap and there is always good company. Being located at the side of the bus depot, near to the town hall and sandwiched between several NGO offices, you can usually find a diverse crowd. Sometimes there are government staff, sometimes travellers looking for a bit to eat before continuing on their way, occasionally individuals working for local businesses or NGOs. Sometimes a mixed lot of all of them. It is run by a man, Henock whose wife is a headmistress and daughter is a teacher. They all live in my community, Mandala, and so we see each other in passing.
I walk home, greeting the ladies at the bus depot who comment on the way I’m dressed, the style of my hair, where I went that day, if I’ll be going to Lilongwe to buy them a present soon. If I’m accompanied by a man, I’m asked when I’m going to get married. I walk back along the main road, past the rasta boys fixing tires, the nurses coming back from their shift at the hospital. I turn left and pass the man selling fresh chips. Down the hill, waving “wawa” (hello) to my neighbours. I greet the old gentleman and his family. I turn slightly and keep going down to the corner where the kids play with their tyres and beer-carton trucks, who jump up and run over with cries of “Azungu!” every time I walk by, who one by one extend their hand for me to shake and then run away giggling. A few of them come back for second round.
I’m home. With laughter and a sigh of relief. I greet the family, relax in our living room on orange plush couches and talk about the day. Sometimes I manage to squeeze in a lesson of Chichewa. Dinner, usually of nsima, is spent talking and laughing with Brenda and Tears. We say goodnight, and I head to bed, pull my mosquito net around me, read for a bit and fall asleep, ready to get up to roosters and yoga tomorrow.
