With no little bit of convincing, I finally got out of the NGO-mobile and into a tro-tro to travel south while my colleagues stayed north.

You learn more when you are on a bus.  You learn to feel the pace of a place, it’s pulse.  You learn how people interact, how boys chase and tease the girls they like, how grandmothers chastise their grandchildren, how old men like to hang out in groups and chat.  You learn what’s for sale, what people like to buy.  (I thought boiled eggs and apples – standard bus food in Malawi – were non-existant here.  They are not.  I was just looking in the wrong place.)

I think this is the same no matter where you are; Calgary, Toronto, London, Cambridge, Lilongwe, Accra…

This is not a new revelation to me, but it was a good reminder that if you really want to feel a place, get on a bus.

For the most part, coming home this time was amazingly easy.  However, 2 things continued to surprise and paralyze me for the whole time I was home: technology and choices.

On the first, there is no warning about the little ways in which technology, its adoption and new uses has advanced over a year and a half.  I came back to a prolific use of blackberries, to hands-free car phones that by voice recognition will dial a phone number and play the call over the car’s speakers, to real-time text messaging that can be displayed on a screen at the front of a room during a speech and more impressively during an AGM, to mp3 players combined with your phone that serve as mini-computers and promise to soon take over banking services.  These changes are likely not surprising to you, but to me it was an indication of how much technology had changed and the impact it has on our daily life.  These changes are gradual, they are not discussed in normal conversation and with the exception of the iPhone rarely make the news.

Technology puzzled me and made me feel a bit like my grandparents starting at some new gadget that miraculously works… but you’re just not sure how.

Choice, on the other hand, paralyzed me.  Did I want sushi or pasta or pizza or burritos or salmon?  Did I want to go out for dinner or stay in?  Did I want a cappuccino or a latte or an espresso or an Americano?  Or perhaps I fancied a tea of an equally impressive selection?  And would I like that to stay or go, tall or grande?

That’s not to say that I was unable to make choices; it just took me far longer than usual and generally left my friends exasperated.  Usually, I opted for a “I’ll have what she’s having” trusting that since I hadn’t had any of this in a year and that my friends have good taste, I’d enjoy whatever I got.

I like choices.  They inform the market; they permit us to have exactly what we want when we want it.  I think choices are generally good.  But I did wonder at the limit.  At what point does choice become overwhelming and ceases to help us find what we want and actually steer us in a different direction?  A latte rather than a cappuccino is not likely to do any lasting damage and even if you get a scone to go along with it you can walk it off.  But what about financial choices?  (Nudge by Thaler and Sunstein has something to say on this matter.  Worth reading.)

Mostly what got to me though was the stark difference between the levels of choice on sometimes rather trivial things that we take for granted (and even complain about) in Canada and that often lack of choices that I experienced in Malawi, Zambia and Ghana.  When you have mangoes, it’s because they are in season; same as oranges, tomatoes, guavas, peaches, potatoes, onions, etc.  For milk, you can have powdered milk or fresh/frozen milk.  You have the choice between Very Hot, Hot, Garlic, Ginger and Curry Masala Nali sauce (or none), but it’s all still Nali.

And my favorite contrast: Music!  More accurately, our acceptance and habits around it.  In Canada, everyone walks around plugged into their ipod/mp3 player/phone.  On a bus, everyone minds their own business, listening to their own music, swapping songs regularly to keep entertained and to fit their mood.  In Malawi (like Kenya, Zambia and Ghana) what you hear is what you get.  If your mini-bus decides to play Lucius Banda, then you’ll all be listening to Lucius Banda.  If it’s a particularly good song and a bus full of women, most of them will start singing along.  If your big coach decides to play N’Sync and Celine Dion music videos for 2 hours then you watch Celine Dion (and discover your secret love of her beautiful voice).

Neither is right nor wrong.  As soon as I got back to Canada, I plugged in just like everyone else and enjoyed ordering a grande-soy-latte-to-go-please.  But it is worth recognizing the degree of choices we have, our fortune to have them and a bit more patience with people who are not used to this degree of convenience.

Dressed conservatively with billowing robes and hood, walking down the cobbled streets of Cambridge, past colleges that date back a few hundred years (or more), in a row with all the other graduates, I found myself thinking about this. Until I reached the central gathering point, where friends and family are gathered, and then I break the ranks to find my friends.

Formal dinners. Robes and hoods. Hoods of certain colours to depict certain achievements. Speeches in Latin. Kneeling, bowing (or curtseying). Flags proudly flying above each college. Photographers everywhere you look. Friends, family, strangers.

These are some of the sights of graduation.

In the speech, there is a part which translates to mean: this individual (who’s holding my finger) is a well-behaved, respectful, studious person and is fit to be admitted into this society. Really? Are you sure about that? Didn’t you see the time I feel off the punt into the river infront of all those German tourists? Didn’t you see our crazy parties on the lawn? Didn’t you see me run across the forbidden grass of some fancy college or climb up fire-escapes or speed through town on a bike with no helmet or lights or get a tattoo?

You’re sure? Well, alright then. Kneel, curtsey, exit into the world of Cambridge alumni.

(As much as I mock it for being a very expensive Harry Potter playground, which it is, it’s also an amazing experience and opportunity that I’ll treasure forever. Enough said)

New Years Eve is always one of those occasions that I find anticlimactic. There is so much anticipation for the space of a second that marks the difference between one year and the next. In some ways, this year is no different, but in many ways it was completely different. It stuck me, as I was dancing to some Malawian beats in a primary school room with total strangers, with girls on one side and boys on the other, full from a great meal (still spread out before us on rearranged desks) and drinking bad white wine mixed with Fanta, that this was a sharp contrast to last years New Years spent driving on snowy roads to a house far in the woods to spend a quiet and cozy new years with only a couple of friends, playing board games and having fondue. It also reminded me that a year ago, I would never have predicted a year like the one that has just past, or that I would be spending this New Years Eve like this! And in that moment, I wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else. I felt at peace with being here, with my new friends/family and with great hopes for the coming year. I still miss everyone back home, but I am happy here as well.

Arsenal: Fly Emerites!

(As a side note, I happen to have chosen to live with a family that conveniently cheers for the same British football team that I do: Arsenal.  Brenda is displaying the team spirit.)

The party started in the kitchen of the deputy head-mistress’ house, in the local primary school compound. Similar to the wedding experience (although there were only 5 women and much less stress), cookers were set up outside and set to frying whatever came their way. Salads and stewed eggplant, chickens, a delicious beef stew (which I cooked… with spice!), potatoes, rice and nsima were on menu for the night. Cooking is a very social affair here, and the 4 hours spent cooking is as much about gossip and companionship as it is about the food. When all the food was laid out on the table ready to serve, we had what looked like enough food to feed an army. I guess we invited one because it was mostly gone by the end.

With the music blaring from the school room, and people slowly arriving, I expected the party to get rolling. In Canada, people would drift in, grab a drink, grab some food, chat and wander around. This was much more structured. We waited for everyone to arrive, we sat around the room on benches moved out of the way, we had introductions, a speech, a prayer, the schedule for the evening, then one by one went up to get food and a drink.

After the meal, there were more speeches, encouraging those gathered to think seriously about their actions of the past year and to change. I had just spent the day thinking about how this experience gave me limited exposure to making public speeches (one of my personal goals). As usual, I was wrong. When all the speeches (in Chichewa, so I understood next to nothing) were through, I was asked to stand and “give encouragement.” Surprised, and not unaware of the irony of my thoughts, I stood and gave a speech (in English) with my thanks and best wishes to those gathered there. That was about as close to encouragement as I could come since I’m not sure what I was encouraging them for, but thankfully much is forgiven on both sides when the meaning is lost in translation.

The party started in earnest to the tunes of Celine Dion, N’Sync, Mandy Moore, Madonna, Shania Twain, Bob Marley and some Malawian beats (usually praising Jesus). I’m mildly ashamed that I a) recognized the artists and songs enough to tell you them now and b) was found dancing and singing along. If you go to a club in Canada, you’ll find all the girls on the dance floor, the guys standing nervously around claiming they can’t dance until they drink enough beer to find some hidden courage. Here, the men were up and dancing immediately; the women sat around, too shy to be the one to start. I decided that sitting on a bench tapping my feet to bad music was about as bad as dancing to it could be, and that I could not possibly be in a safer place to try my first “dancing in Africa” experience since Brenda and Tears were certain to tell me if I made a mistake and wives and husbands were all there. So I took Brenda (who I know dances since she sings and dances through the house all day long) and we got on the dance floor. Encouraged, a few other women soon joined us, still a safe distance away from the men. I still am not sure if I was following them, or if they were mimicking me to make me feel better.

I looked around. I was dancing along to Malawian gospel music, in a school room with a tin roof, benches pushed to the side, surrounded by strangers and a couple who had kindly welcomed me into their family, and thought “even if New Years is still anti-climatic, I will always remember this one!”

I am now sitting in our newly furnished living room on orange plush couches that look like they are straight out of the 70s enjoying a morning cup of instant coffee.

So to family and friends, old and new, Happy New Year! May it be as full of surprises and interest as mine promises to be.

My first observation is that weddings and family affairs here are no different then home. Expectations are always high, tensions between dissenting relatives are evident and a sense of frenzy followed the hostess (Brenda) around the whole day as she tried to impress and calm the mother of the bride. Food to feed an army of relatives was required, which resulted in makeshift cooking stoves being setup in the backyard on which big pots of rice bubbled away. The wedding party was late for everything, causing more stern looks and shaking of heads from the mother and aunt. I was thrown into the midst of it, cooking rice, cooking meat stew, running over to the bride’s house and back again… generally flailing around trying to help while staying out of the way… not an easy task when there are 30+ African women all crammed into a little kitchen and living area, most of whom are trying to tell you what to do.

The wedding was at the Roman Catholic Church in Dedza, making it my second mass in two weeks! Again, I understood nothing of what was said, but a wedding is a wedding, so I could follow the basics. A white dress, flowers, rings, bride’s maids and a man of honour, a proud father to hand off the bride… The one thing that was missing that was the ‘you may now kiss the bride’ moment. It is such a standard part of a wedding ceremony in Canada that the omission struck me noticeably.

After the ceremony, I was pilled into a car, and ended up in the front seat of what turned out to be the motorcade through town with the bride’s parents in the back. I was exhausted and ended up taking a blissful nap despite the honking horns of the parade.

The reception was like most receptions, complete with buffet lunch (with nsima), big tent, terrible dj and some dancing. My default when I don’t know anyone or what to do is to try my best to help, so I ended up serving wine and goat for part of the afternoon.

And then it got interesting.

Finally, guests gone home for the night, Brenda and I arrived back at the bride’s house. After a minute, I was ushered into a room with 5 other women and the bride. The bride and I were placed in the middle of the bed, the door was closed, and the older women gathered around, seated or lying at will. Brenda had told me that there was a tradition of older married women taking the bride aside to tell her in detail how to be a good wife, how to please her husband, etc. I had assumed it had already happened, and certainly I had assumed that I would not be present. I was wrong. This was it. So, covered by the puffy white dress of the bride, she and I proceeded to get a detailed description of sex, childbearing and married life. I’m half grateful that it was in Chichewa so I only understood a tenth of what was being said, but the content was clear enough. Near the end, they turned to me and asked if I had anything to add. I fumbled a “ummm… I don’t think so!?” The bride burst into tears. I would too if I had been sat down after an exhausting stressful day and told explicit sexual details by my family and how to prevent my husband from leaving me! We finished with a prayer, but it was not like any prayer. All 5 women started chanting, all saying something different, all at the same time, voices rising and falling, laughing and crying, patting the bride, holding her head, more chanting. I sat there dumbfounded. I understood nothing of what was being said, but sat, eyes closed, immobilized by the power of it all. I left exhausted but honoured to have been included and with plenty to contemplate.