Groucho's fruit flies like a banana

Marx - Time flies like an arrow. Wik is already back from the UK, which means that the longest section of my first term in Malawi is already over. And I'm only just beginning, really I am. My Chichewa language is improving, but too slowly to meet my goal of speaking fluent market Chichewa by June. My guitar and drums students are improving, particularly the drums students, but will they really be able to carry on learning and playing after I'm gone? Especially as they have no guitars to practice on? And there are untold opportunities in the schools here that I have only dabbled my big toe in - teaching music, teaching English, teaching anything. I'm still looking for a volleyball team. I've not seen Mount Mulanje, Nkhata Bay, Cape McClear, or anywhere in the north. We're a little closer to having a music leader to take over from me by next summer, but by no means there. That's not even to mention my long-term plans regarding Malawi, which have currently not got far beyond the realm of imagination (well, inspired imagination, as God has been confirming some things to me).



Driving to Chilomoni township with Alex and Paxton (musicians) today, we had a chat about the process of becoming a musician. Paxton in particular wanted to learn just about everything I knew about guitar, drums, singing, leading music, writing music and producing. Common in Malawi, and the flattery does not outweigh the sense of burden you get when you have something that everyone wants but not the time to dispense it. We realised that the biggest problem is not the lack of music teachers in Malawi...although there are hardly any. The problem is the lack of instruments. I taught myself to play guitar and drums, and when I told Paxton and Alex I could hear the mental processes grinding away...'could we also teach ourselves?' In short, no, because they don't have access to either a guitar or drum kit. There are guitars in Malawi, but they're all imported, so very expensive. The concept of caring for an instrument is about as comprehensible to a Malawian as Inuit.



There are times in my life when I would have sorrowfully shrugged off this apparently insoluble dilemma. But those nagging voices were there again, humming like mosquitos in my ear : 'nothing is impossible with God...nothing...wih God, impossible?' As it happens, Malawi is home to some very good trees which produce very good wood. Mahogany used to be common, pine is present if a little rare, and on Mount Mulanje they even grow cedars...these woods all have very good resonant qualities. Malawians are also natural woodcrafters...mostly they use their talents making cheap wooden ornaments for admiring foreign tourists to take home with them, but what if they were trained to make instruments? How much cheaper would it be to produce handmade guitars in Malawi than ship dodgy second hadn ones in from SA? How many steady jobs would it create for locals? What sort of vision for the future would it put into the community? Maybe, if the industry was succesful enough, it would do something the halt the steamroller-ride away from the arts that has narrowed our western conception of art to 'something I do in my spare time.'

(One week later...)

This week has been spent largely with Elisa Hombrecher, showing her what I do, what I love about Malawi, and a ferw of the things I hate as well (although I didn't make a point of that.) This week's extract will be from her pen, because I want you all to get another (and slightly less tongue-in-cheek, hopefully!) take on Malawi...

Drumroll . . . change of style . . . change of author: Thoughts from an impossibly short trip to Malawi by Elisa Hombrecher (aka Risa or Thomson 2 while out here)

Introductions are very imporant here and every person I have met so far has met my answer of 'I'm here for a week' with a broad grin and often tagged on that this was really not long enough. They are all right, it isn't. But it is long enough to be . . .

. . . dragged out of bed at 4am to scramble up a hill to watch the sun rise (which then failed to make it past the mountain before we headed back to bed)

. . . be packed in to a minibus with 27 other people (15 seater)

. . . shred one tyre on the way out of the drive (and watch for an hour as four guys figured out the best way to change a tyre - none had done it before)

. . . pop another tyre on the way in to Blantyre (much to the amusement of the locality we waited under the shade of a tree by the roadside for rescue)

. . . drive a pickup (I take back all I have ever said about people not needing those things and that they are a scourge to the environment, they are absolutely necessary when the road dips at a 45 degree angle and a bed of stones welcomes you at the bottom of the dip)

. . . watch elephants taking a bath in the Shire River that runs through Mvuu National Park (and get very wet in the process - I mean really, who thinks of taking a rain coat to Africa?)

You see, none of the above is more than a random collection of words that doesn't even come close to sharing the smell of the market, the happy feeling of grubbiness at the end of a long dusty day, waking up at 5am because there is something astoundingly large trying to bash it's way through the mosquito net and just feeeling content. Really content. The contentment that leaves a lazy smile on your face and makes other people look at you and think that something wonderful must have happened.

Best advice:

-come see for yourself.

-don't bother bringing a watch.

So Malawi, zikomo kwambiri.

And Ian, thank you. Muchly.