I have only been living with the Funsani’s for a month now, but it feels like we have been together for so much longer.  I am part of the family.  We share not just meals and a roof but our frustrations, challenges and laughter, usually at the children, usually Akuzike.  This afternoon, while heading out to the market with Brenda, Akuzike decided she wanted to be carried by “Aunty Kareene.”  She climbed on my back and was secured on with a chitenge, and off we went, Brenda and I laughing while everyone we passed starred.  Certainly, a white woman with an African child on her back is not a common sight.  Akuzike thought nothing of it.  As with most things, she is my best judge of the atmosphere of the house, so for this to be just another normal trip to the market with her mother and aunt… well if ever there was a doubt, I’m part of the household.

I walk home from work everyday along the main road that cuts through Dedza town.  After turning off the paved road, I greet Peter who is in his usual place making good looking potato fries.  I stoll past some nice maize fields and meet the first mud house where there is a little boy that comes out to shout “HELLO!!!” at the top of his lungs every time I pass.  I wander past a few little groceries selling tomatoes, a borehole with children perched on the top and on my right is the local hang-out for the teenage boys and men who play something akin to Malawian checkers every day, at every time of the day.  I continue down the hill, slippery with clay if it is raining, sticky with mud that threatens to pull your shoes off if the rain has stopped.  It is so far never dry.  The chorus of hellos, “muli bwanji?” and “azungu!” follows me down the path.  I have become a regular and a part of the community.  There is a band of children who run to greet me now.  Their leader is maybe 4, and possibly the most polite childhood leader I’ve ever seen.  He daily runs the fastest and extends his hand for me to shake before his peers come careening into us and follow his lead, each shaking my hand and saying “muli bwanji” in turn, then running before, after or with me down the rest of the hill.

At home, I meet one of the boys outside.  They take whatever I have in my hands into the house, and ask how my day was.   I walk in with a greeting of “odi?”  (sort of a hello/I’m here/Is there anyone around) and put my bag down on an orange plush chair.  I go to my room, push aside the curtain, unlock the door, and I’m home.

Indoor kitchen

I am the sort of person who appreciates having an element of stability in her life. Some people call this routine, some people call it boring. For me, it is stabilizing: it gives my day some form of order so that I can manage whatever comes my way.

Last year, my routine consisted of a late wake up to an alarm after likely not enough sleep, drinking a cup of coffee (and maybe taking one to go), and a morning bike ride through the streets of Cambridge to class or the ESD office.

This is my current routine. I wake up around 5:30am to the sounds of roosters crowing and children sweeping in the yard and the living room right outside my room. I roll out from under my mosquito net, and wander out of my room, mustering up some greetings of “Mwadzuka Buanji” to Brenda and the kids. I grab my reed mat and unfurl it in the middle of the living room. Surrounded by pink curtains letting in the morning sun and big wood furniture covered in orange plush, I do 30-40 minutes of yoga. (So I know this is not really “integrating” in the truest sense of the word, but I am awake anyways and can do very little until the kids and Tears have bathed… I tried and just got in the way… so now I do yoga to the amusement and delight of Akuzike and Johns). After yoga, and after Tears has bathed, it is time for my bucket shower, which I have come to savour. I dry myself with a chitenge, get dressed in the clothes I ironed the night before (or that morning if I have time) and have a rushed cup of tea and some bread with peanut butter. Then Tears and I say our goodbyes and walk together to work. It has been a fortunate addition to my morning that our routes coincide, and we both enjoy the company and discussions enroute. That route, which was once filled with started children and curious glances (and the echoing shout of Azungu!!) is now filled with happy “hello”s and “Muli bwanji!”s, some giggles, but more recognition. My favourite quote so far was from a little girl who said (in Chichewa) “that’s my Azungu!” I leave Tears at his workplace and continue a bit further on to Concern Universal, where I arrive at the bright and early hour of 7:15.

And so starts my morning.

About 6 months ago, I received a brilliant piece of advice from a friend, Stephanie. I was feeling sad and alone; she reminded me that there were friends waiting just around the corner… all I had to do was look up and ask for that helping hand when I needed it. It was true then, and I am reminded of her advice now.

Witnessing close friends back home moving on and off in their own direction stings a bit, and it left me feeling torn between two worlds. And so I walked home from the office yesterday, feeling heart-sick and alone, needing a hug and reassuring friend.

I picked up the phone and called Amanda. I am reminded that sometimes you find the best friends in the most unlikely places. In many ways, Amanda and I could not be more different, but perhaps because of that, we understand each other so well. She has quickly become one of my closest friends, confidantes and support while overseas. A quick chat later, the words “the life isn’t perfect or easy, but it’s ok” ringing in my head, and I was moving forward.

As I walked in the door, all I wanted to do was to curl up on my bed. But instead, Brenda was there, asking how my day was. I decided that a hug was more important than self-pity, that a being vulnerable was better than pretending. I told her the truth… it was ok, but I was feeling a bit down. She came over, gave me a hug, made me a cup of tea, gave me a donought she had just baked and we sat together on the couch together for a while. It was this moment of honesty and understanding when I knew I had found a friend.

Tears joined us soon. Together, we talked of relationships, of love, of marriage, of families and the general trials and tribulations of the heart. We listened to country music and the laments they describe. (Tears loves country music, and I’m sad to say that I actually enjoyed it.) By the end of the hour, I was smiling, spirits lifted.

As I walked away, the words to one of my favourite songs rang in my head: “Whenever I’m down, I call on you my friend; A helping hand you lend, in my time of need.” In the most unsuspecting of times and places, I opened up and found a friend. I felt a sense of belonging as relief and love swept over me.

That night, we celebrated the new year as a family with fanta, chips and a dance competition. When the plans were announced, Johns looked at me and asked “Is Colleen going to be watching!?” to which I replied, “No way! I’ll be dancing with you!” followed by rounds of giggles from the kids. Well I tried to dance, but was shown up by Akuzike who shook her booty like I’ve never seen before (and if you’ve seen a 2 year old shake her booty, you know it’s the most adorable thing in the world). Johns proceed to astound us with his moves, straight out of an African hip-hop music video. Frasier, like any shy and awkward 14 year, took a while to warm up, but by the end even he was swaying to and fro in time to the beat. And Stemken won the competition. In Brenda’s words “he didn’t have many moves, but he gave it his whole heart.”

And with this conclusion to the day, I fell into an exhausted sleep, full of laughter and love for unexpected friendships and helping hands.

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.

This was my first Christmas away from home. In the days leading up to it, I walked around with a big cloud (of snow) over my head as I read about the news of snow storms and cold from back in Canada, only to be shocked by the bright sun of Africa as soon as I stepped away from my computer. Christmas is not always an easy time for my family. I’m pretty sure it’s not an easy time for anyone’s family. Expectations are high and usually two 20-something independent daughters return back from university in a blur of emotion. I don’t envy my parents. But spending this Christmas away from home has made me realize like never before how special and important my family and friends really are. I cannot thank you enough for your love, for your patience and for all the memories I carry with me.

It is with these longing thoughts for home that, on Christmas Eve, I boarded my first of 3 mini-buses from Dedza to Zomba on what would be a trying adventure ending in me despising mini-bus drivers and a journey that should have been 2 hours taking 6 (at best).

In November, Alynne, Amanda, Garret, Mike and I boarded a plane and headed for Africa after spending over a month living together. None of us went home for Christmas. So we decided to make our own Christmas here, meeting in a place called Zomba somewhere in the middle-ish of Malawi (still not 100% where it is). I arrived in Zomba, cursing bus drivers, and met Mike with a big hug. The Grinch’s heart would not have burst more than mine. I really needed a hug, and so did everyone else as they arrived after equally gruelling trips. Rounds of hugs later and our spirits were rising. They rose even more as we pilled 7 people into a cab and drove up a big mountain called the Zomba Plateau to a place aptly called the “Trout Farm.” Yep, there is a trout farm on the top of a mountain in a pine forest with log cabins somewhere in Malawi. It is times like this when I shake my head in awe and once again fall in love with another piece of this country.

We didn’t have dinner planned for Christmas Eve, so we ended up trekking a short distance to what turns out to be a 5 star glitzy resort overlooking the valley. After a big gulp at the price tag and a round of “well, it’s Christmas…” we stepped out onto the balcony of the restaurant to see a sunset and lightning storm lighting up the mountain range opposite us. Reunited with good friends, a buffet dinner like none I’d had before, a glass of wine, and much laughter… I was in heaven. Dinner, complete with salads, spices and apple pie, a jazz band and some Christmas crackers, lasted 4 hours. My bad mood had thawed with the first hug, but now I was filled with the Christmas spirit. Phone calls home to family completed my day with a big smile, and I fell into an exhausted and happy sleep.

Straight out of "White Christmas"

The requisite ridiculous toques

Milk and Cookies for Santa

I woke early the next morning to find Amanda already busy starting a fire to make coffee. (I love that I have friends that are as needy of this wonderful beverage as I am.) I had brought along a little present for everyone from the Dedza Pottery, just to make sure we all had something to open come Christmas morning. And I brought along the presents that had been sent my way from family back home. (Again, THANK YOU!) I have never seen other people so happy or excited to watch someone else open presents. The new underwear in a Nalgene bottle (curtesy of my sister) was a hit, as were the candies that got shared around and letters read aloud.

Then breakfast started in earnest. Amanda and I had devised a Christmas menu of French Toast, peanut butter, maple syrup, fresh peaches and coffee for breakfast. Apparently Garrett has discovered his calling as a French Toast chef and should pursue it as a career if all else fails.

Our Kitchen, complete with inquisitive duck

Good morning world (with great hair!)

Full from breakfast, we wandered down the mountain, through rainforests, pine forests, devastating clear-cutting of this forest, and into town.

We had to pick up the remainder of the supplies for our Christmas dinner including a live chicken. Chicken and veggies purchased, we shoved the chicken in the trunk of a cab (sorry… but what else are you supposed to do!?), shoved the 5 of us in the cab, and started back up the mountain. The dinner menu is as follows:

• Guacamole and crackers for appetizer

• Grilled chicken – prepared by Amanda and Garrett much to the amazement of us city folk
• Eggplant sautéed with green beans, onions and garlic
• Garlic mashed potatoes
• Tasty Soy Pieces (it’s what they’re called!) in fresh tomato, onion and garlic sauce

I made some mulled wine from the crappy box wine and remaining peaches and apples, and we crammed onto two tiny beds with chocolate bars and wine in hand to watch Love Actually, wearing down the precious battery power on several computers.

I miss home, I miss the snow and I miss family and friends. But if I had to spend a Christmas away from home, I can’t think of a better way to do it.

Merry Christmas! Happy Holidays!