Eternal Reverberations

There’s a rhythm beating in my brain. It thud-thud-thuds away. When I’m in a good mood, it gets me going, charges me up, feet tapping, head nodding, fingers troddlin’ away. When I’m down, it’s a dripping tap, a banging hammer, the screech of too-long nails on a too-old blackboard. When I’m in between it beats with my walk, rotates with my legs pedalling up the hill to town, and just strings things along. But it’s there. It’s there.

Class 5-&6-combined are playing Indian drums, and Billy’s call-rhythm echoes my mind once again. In lessons, Memory is trying her best to play it on the kit, but never gets beyond three or four bars. Nicholas is strumming it on Saturday morning with the worship team. The engine of Joonas’ 125cc bike seems to be pumping it out as I ride with him to volleyball. The birds are singing it as I wake up. Sometimes I think it’s stopped, and then I go all quiet and listen. Soon I am able to tune into my pulse, and there it is again.

It’s a simple four-beat rhythm. It contains infinite variations, but always, it returns to where it came from, and it does not return void. After running from the house to town, late for work, I am breathing it…in…out…in…out…bass…snare…bass…snare…yoh…hey…vah…hey.

This rhythm is a message. This rhythm is a word. It’s the world’s premier brand-name, and it’s written on everything you see. It’s written on that Coke bottle, just behind the big C-O-C-A-C-O-L-A letters. It’s all over the sky in enormous gilded font, so that the birds are forced to fly through it or bump their beaks.

Yoh...Hey…Vah…Hey.

I meet a guy at Phoenix school. He is cold and confident. He tells me he doesn’t believe, and he says it with immense pride. My heart is about to fall, but then I listen again to his words… There…is…no…God…and hear Your rhythm echoing in his words. I see his chest rise and fall in Your tempo. In…out…in…out. He’s still part of the symphony. You’re still the Master Drummer.

Why, O why, have I not spent more time learning to dance?! My mind is dancing to this song, this ceaseless, endless, peerless beat, but my body can’t keep up. But aaaaaargggghgh it wants to! Yeah, go on and laugh at me, and I’ll join in. But I won’t stop this movement, beating time with my hands, gyrating, stamping, shouting, trying so hard to use all of me, every bit of me, to be a part of this piece.

Y…H…V…H

Can you hear it? Listen for a moment to the hum of your computer. That’s the sound of a fan blowing air…beating, beating as it was designed to beat by a designer who himself was designed by a designer. Take a few moments to breath in that same air, and breath it out. Or, if you’re in perverse mood, try not to. Go on, I dare you, just try to stop breathing His name. If you find you can’t, do us all a favour. Stop trying. Stop trying so hard to recompose yourself. You’ve been well orchestrated already, to be a part player in the symphony of everything. There’s an eternal reverberation shaking the walls of this universe. Get up and dance.

Fullness of Time

What a beautiful phrase, hey? We have such strange ideas about time, killing it, converting it to money, telling it, managing it, spending it. But time fills up, slowly, bit by bit until the time comes and then God says that time is full. And when time is full, something happens. Something good.

I started teaching the little monsters at Nyasa Junior Academy how to sing this month. Not well-behaved enough to be teachable, but not rough enough to get seriously tough with, I’ve spent the month trying to claw some order out of the anarchy that is 6&7 yr olds. I’m not sure I’m winning yet, but the honour of being invited to teach at a Muslim-run school keeps me in the game.

A friend informs me that I’m on the timetable at Phoenix school again this term, which is nice to know, because no-one actually contacted me to ask if I’d like to be. But I would, so I guess that’s ok.

Private lessons are becoming my down-time now, because I’ve been doing them for 6 months so I have some sense of what goes on in them. There’s a certain satisfaction to having every single hour of my teaching time taken by a willing and progressing student.

The radio show at Capital, ‘The Spirit of Music’, has now been aired 2 out of 3 times we’ve recorded it, amid controversy over the quality of my home-recordings, the hassle of actually getting a studio technician organised to record in the studio and the general lack of communication between Capital and myself. The show is pre-recorded, and features 6 or 7 tracks of ‘international music’ (i.e. what I normally listen to) tied together by a theme…God, sex, angels’n’demons, death etc. I heard it play for the first time this week, and it actually sounded ok. The miracle is that they actually played it, though, because last week they decided to scrap it at the last minute and not tell me.

Two of the young people at the church, Eddie and Reuben, have now had turns at MCing Sunday meetings and sorting the music, both fairly successfully. We have a new guitarist in church, and one of the street kids (Gray – one of many homeless kids/runaways who congregate at CPC on Sunday mornings) had his debut on the drums this week, which was really good to see. Despite my many logistical ineptitudes, the worship team training day was an awesome success, like last time.

The young people’s group at the church is finally morphing out the shape it’s been in for 5 years (all the ‘young people’ were 25+ when I arrived). The Bible studies have stopped, because they tended to turn into dusty-crusty debates where one or two older guys soliloquised for longer than any of us thought necessary. Instead we have pizza at a fast-food place (eyes right) on Wednesdays and films on Sunday afternoons.

The guys from Kalibu have largely disappeared since they had a team of attractive young ladies from Finland turn up a fortnight ago, but Yorick still drops by about once a week to take me out on the back of his new 650cc BMW.

My time is full of all these things. But these things are just filling time. In the fullness of time, through or despite every bit of energy I can chuck into Blantyre/church/my friends, God’s going to move. He is. Is he? Definitely. But where are the signs? Honestly…I’m not sure. There are a few signs in my heart, but who trusts their own heart? There are a few signs in my friends, but who’s to say they’re conclusive? I just know it.

Watch this space.

And while I’m watching, you’ll find me at the Muslim school, in the rented church building, at the fast-food joint, and on the back of the BMW.

Urban(e)

I live in a city. It is a large city, somewhere in the region of a million inhabitants, though I've never seen it on any of the 'million-city maps', so maybe just a wee bit shy of the grand ton. I'm sitting, as usual, in 'my' internet cafe, next to someone who lives in the countryside. His name is Rory, and I used to live next door to him. We are going to play football and he is giving me a lift. He has had to drive in to town specially for the occasion. I have had to step out of the office.

Visions of me with a tubby gut, jowls, pipe, paper and slippers rise unbidden before my eyes. I try to chase them away, but they return each time. I must be getting old.

Not that I don't work. It's not about working or not working. I've just finished a full afternoon's lessons, with a morning's business before that. And it's not like I'm financially complacent...I'm not making enough money to continue living this way for long. It's something else. Something about being in a crowd, about moving where other people move, about not having to fight for each fierce breath I draw, each achievement I achieve. It's about making a stand, or failing to. It's about the difficulty of being 'set apart' inside when I'm physically surrounded.

I serve a God who is set-apart, not physically, but in His being. He tells me he lives in me, and his Spirit does something odd called 'sanctification' inside me, which makes me different. 'Really?' my sceptic soul asks. 'Really-really,' my faith replies.

Ok, says my sceptic soul, I'm going to hold you to that. I'll be watching this space...

Matt walks into the the cafe. 'Let's go guys...' and we pile into the battered old Land Cruiser (memories of a former life for me) and head out to Hillview School for an evening's bladder-chasing and sweatiness. It's good to strive. It's good to sweat sometimes. It reminds us that we're alive.

Not-Malawi

The weather is cold. And wet. I sit at my own laptop, enjoying broadband access, and preparing to head off to a recording studio where we will use £700 microphones and the latest in music-recording software to capture two songs. Out of the window in front of me is a neat little backyard plot, bordered by two other neat little backyard plots. Into the distance stretch more neat little backyard plots and terraced Georgian houses. This is not-Malawi.

Being here has actually come quite easily. No reverse culture-shock, no surge of conflicting emotions at seeing old friends and enemies. I've been able to get straight down to work, preparing for and recording, along with the musicians of STORM '07, a 7-track CD here in Cardiff.

But I'm not fooled. This is not-Malawi, and my time is a brief interval before I get back out there. A brief interval in which so much can and must be done: buying a new laptop to replace the one Malawi took, hunting around and applying for luthiery apprenticeships, researching good poetry publications to which I can subscribe, and eventually, maybe, contribute...all the rush feels a little unnatural. Life should be day-to-day. I should have time (and warmth) in the morning to get up and check in with God. The possibility of any course of action should be directly proportional to my desire to engage in it and inversely proportional to some known opponent's desire to keep me from it, rather than governed by a set of disembodied laws.

I've enjoyed being back, particularly seeing old friends and recording this album, but I am looking forward to Malawi again...

Muyenda bwino, 2007

The watering cans of heaven are at work in Malawi, and green is very much this seasons' fashion. The bedraggled vendors in Blantyre market hover protectively over their treasure trove of fruit and veg - aubergines in stark purple, pineapples and bananas in yellow, mangoes in every shade from green to red, coconuts, bird's-eyes...even the fly-covered meat in the butchery somehow feels a little fresher in this weather. But Francis and I aren't here to shop - we bee-line for our favourite little restaurant - rice and beef stew for a modest K100. We've just come from a music session at CPC, preparing for tomorrow's celebration. Fairly typical of such sessions, except that three of the musicians present were students of mine, very much fresh-faced and wanting instruction, so I was trying to hold three conversations at once while meeting the new bass-guitarist and trying to keep up a conversation with God...that's what we're pruporting to be doing in these sessions, and I like to keep up appearances ;p
So it's with a certain amount of satisfaction that we sit down on our favourite rickety wooden bench, order the only meal the venue provides, and look out over the marketplace. Saturday. Busy, despite the rain. But it's my last day in Malawi this year, and I have nothing at all to do. Like the song, my bags are packed and I'm ready to go. Christmas cards drawn up and mostly distributed... presents given...ticket bought and safe at home...lift to the airport arranged. And one afternoon to kill. It's a rare and pleasant feeling.
Let me tell you about Francis. He's odder than I am. Born in Malawi to well-to-do parents, a doctor and a manager of a secretarial business, he grew up with a hunger for knowledge, in any sphere. Sunday morning mass may have sparked his curiosity, but school was more interesting. In seceondary school he was sent to a well-respected secondary school in Zimbabwe. There three things happened. His thirst for knowledge was cultivated into a good education. His cursory interest in church developed into a full-blown love for God through a personal encounter with a famous man who died on a cross 2000 years ago. And he fell in love with Zimbabwe. But school days end, and he came back to Malawi and home. His aspirations to join the RAF didn't come to fruition, so instead he went to University in Russia. After a year, the culture shock still hadn't worn off, so he tried Kenya instead, studying business. But during that time, he received the terible news that his mother had died, early and, I think, unexpectedly. He came home for the funeral, but then retreated to Kenya, University and a world of late-night parties, drunken friendship and numbness. It was easier then trying to get on with Dad at home. And then funds ran out. By this time he was having to acknowledge that the plain-sailing he had experienced in childhood was not the norm for humanity. Things fall apart. He came back to Malawi, swallowed some pride, and began to live with his Dad again. And that's when I met him. His love for God had not abated through the ups and downs of life, and he came along to City Pentecostal Church one day, to be greeted by many there - he'd been at the church longer than I had, but had been away on his last term in Kenya. He became a guitar student of mine, and then a friend. Over rice and beef, today and in the past two weeks, his story came out.
So anyway, we were chatting. Francis is passionate about travelling, so we talked about India. The afternoon wore on. He had an engagement party (a cousin) to go to, I was planning to meet my jazz crew. But it was raining, so why get wet?
There's this not-ended feeling in me. It's like a dull pain. It's like a rainy day. It's like...it's not really like anything.
Tomorrow I will say goodbye to Rory and Charlotte, and all the staff at Fisherman's Rest. I will drive the old Land Cruiser from Fisherman's Rest to Matt and Becc Armstrong's house, where I will leave my stuff to await my return on February 7th. Then I will drive to church. There I will say goodbye to various people, friends, not-quite-friends, strangers who know me as the worship leader...I will then drive with Matthew Maramba to Chileka airport, where I will deposit the Cruiser with Horace Masaule for repairs. I will say goodbye to Matthew. I will pick up my bag, my guitar, and my faith, and board a plane bound for Nairobi. By 1030 on Monday I will be in Woodhouse Eaves...home. Home? Where the family are, anyway. This excites me. This makes me happy. Most days.
But there's this not-ended feeling in me. Should I be saying this? Wouldn't it be easier to end on the word 'happy? and skip this paragraph? No, because it wouldn't be straight, and crooked happiness isn't worth the adrenaline it uses up. This is my last blog episode 2007. Roll on 2008.

Out of the silent hours

Sorry this has taken so long.

Since Elisa's episode, things have been settling down here in Malawi. Well, I'm getting used to the mayhem, anyway. Wik and Sue spent 2 further weeks handing over to Rory and Charlotte, and when the time ran our, Wik stayed another week to finish the job. Quite a rush. I mostly stayed clear. Rory and Charlotte are now fairly well esconced at FR, and I'm really enjoying having them around. They are a very amiable and selfless couple.

During Wik's last week, 2 of their church friends who are on placements in Tanzania and Zimbabwe respectively came to visit for 10 days. Max and Tom cut quite a swathe through Blantyre with their matching blond shocks of hair and nonchalant attitudes. Several epic games of Backpacker ensued, the most epic occurring during the overnight stay of the Africa Quest team, who were just beginning their 40 hour drive from Nsanje to Zambia.

Work has continued to be quiet and methodical since October began. I'm no longer taking on any more students before Christmas, so the pressure to fill every hour has dropped. Plans for the Christmas party and Christmas cantata are proceeding largely without me, although my jazz group are booked to play light backing music at the dinner.

My career as a radio star has just begun in a flash of glory. Glen runs a weekly program on Sunday mornings for Capital Radio here, and has been badgering me to do a show on music. I eventually gave in and planned an interview/talk show looking at the spirituality of music, with a focus on young people. Capital Radio were very friendly, and so Noel Maere, Robinson Kalengamaliro and myself discussed the Malawian music scene, gospel music (here that means Christian music, not Arethra Franklin), why we use music to praise God and whether the didjeridoo should be classified as a percussion instrument or a woodwind one (OK, one of those things we didn't discuss...spot which). We'd cunningly devised a series of music tracks to be interspersed through the talk, which we brought in on CD and flash disk and left with the sound engineer. Fine, he agreed, we were all set and our recording would be played the next day. Listening back, we were somewhat surprised to hear that none of the tracks we had planned, given the engineer, and even announced, were part of the program - they'd been switched with alternative music. The sound engineer had obviously misunderstood our requests but been too shy to ask. Cringe. I'm live on national radio announcing the wrong name of songs, purporting to be an authority on music.

Anyway, they've invited me back, so that's alright. Maybe I entertain them with my idiocy.

Davina Darmanin was the second to take me up on my offer of an expenses-paid holiday in Malawi. She arrived 12 days ago and left an hour ago. During her time she spent 4 days at Bangula orphanage where she was recruited to inject premature babies with antibiotics, visited the bottom of Mulanje mountain, fell in love with the Shire River, took a guided tour around Hope Village, put up with my driving and the driving of the Blantyre populace, came down with suspected jardia, and took a lot of photos.

My percussion class at Phoenix has come to a teary end for this term. Stds 5 and 6 performed their self-written pieces in assembly, and then we had a pool party to finish the term. They think they won't see me again til April, but I'm going to be back as Father Christmas next Friday.

And the music team have their day away at Fisherman's Rest next Saturday, the 8th. We have visiting speakers coming to speak on the practicalities of playing with a group of musicians, Kerry Halliwell covering 'Why Worship?' time for prayer, time to jam, time to swim, time to see antelope, and lots of good food.

I'm pulling toward Christmas and being back with family and friends now. I'm at home 24-30th Dec, mid-Wales for New Years, Cardiff most of January, and then back out here in early Feb. Will see many of you then,

Ian

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.