When I first arrived in Malawi I was really struck by all the walls and fences that there are around buildings not only in Blantyre, but also in the poorer township of Chilomoni where the Beehive Projects are based. Our administration office is on Chilomoni High St, but you cannot see the single story building from the road as it lurks behind a high brick wall and a substantial metal gate. The building is guarded 24 hours a day by guards in green trousers and white shirts who jump to attention when anyone arrives and click their heels together smartly and salute, especially if the visitor is Peter Nkarta who is our Malawian Managing Director. He likes everything to be smart and run smoothly, and expects the guards to call him 'Sir'. David particularly objects to being called 'Sir' and is working hard to persuade the guards not to spring to their feet when we arrive and to call us by our first names. We are gradually making some headway on this, but it is an uphill battle. The guard at the admin office during the day is called Peter too. He is a cheerful soul with a smile like the sun coming out on a dull day. One cannot fail to be cheered by his 'Good morning Madam!' and I cannot bring myself to tell him off for his mode of address on a daily basis, so if I am not with David I just smile and return the greeting. I have just about managed the complicated three-stage handshake that most of the young Malawian men seem to use. Our students also struggle to remember to call us by our First names, but they are getting used to it. David corrects them every time, but I am happy to answer to anything so long as it is not rude. I certainly would not choose to be called madam, but as several students have explained, 'This is our culture, it is what we expect,' so who am I to object?
Most private houses are behind walls and anyone with any money has guards. There are at least four guards at Mitsidi at any one time. It is quite a large plot of land with a dozen small houses and a large one. There are two big metal gates at the top and bottom of the property. It is part of the guard's job to open the gates and let visitors in and out, whether they arrive on foot or by car. The guards are supposed to be spread out around the grounds but in practice they are often all four chatting together right in the middle. When a car arrives and hoots at the gate one of them will run towards the appropriate gate and draw up the bolts and swing it open to let the car in. The walls around Mitsidi are hardly intruder proof, there is one wall of Hydroform blocks which is pretty robust, but the fence along the road is simply woven straw panels, the third side is the river and the fourth is not fenced at all but can be freely approached through rather scrubby bushes. The other day while we were having breakfast a rather shabby looking woman appeared out of the bushes and there was no guard to be seen anywhere! I have decided that the most boring job in the world must be to be a night guard for a smallish household that only merits one guard. Twelve hour shifts in the hours of darkness, with no one to talk to and nothing to do but open the gate when the householder comes home or let the occasional visitor in. How one would avoid sleeping on the job I have no idea!
I think that most fences are more about privacy than about security. The smaller, poorer houses tend to be fenced either with straw panels or with makeshift screens made of old cardboard boxes or cement bags. Just after David arrived we were walking home from work and we heard loud clanging sounds coming from behind a house. David said 'I wonder what on earth is going on there?' and quick as a flash he was through the gap in the cement bag fence and round the side of the house. I followed with some trepidation and I was followed by at least three women and a couple of children who poured out of the house to see what the crazy mzungu intruders were up to. We were met by two or three men who did not appear to have a word of English. David asked what they were doing and before long we were being treated to a demonstration of how to make a tin bath. The original cacophony having been caused by a man beating the flat piece of tin that was to form the curved side of the bath into shape with a large hammer. We were at the bucket makers!
We are slowly making friends with the guard at the school where our classrooms are. I don't think he has ever told us his name. At first it seemed as though he had very little English, but I think he just thinks we should try harder to communicate with him in Chichewa. Now that we return his morning greeting in the way that he has taught us he has become more communicative and I have learned that he is 68 years old and has been working for Beehive right from the beginning of the time the project has been in Chilomoni when they were building the way of the cross. The headmaster says he is getting old and that he likes a drink too much!
The Mount Soche Hotel where we go for a swim in a pool that is perfectly circular and always a clear sparkling blue, unlike our own pool which is often rather green and murky with too much dust, has a barrier rather reminiscent of a level crossing barrier that is lifted as we drive in. The guard then gives the driver a card which has to be returned upon leaving to the guard at the exit barrier. I can only think that this is to discourage car theft from the hotel car park which is right on the main road in the centre of Blantyre. There are more guards standing in the entrance who greet us very politely as we go in to buy a beer or a bottle of Fanta at a price that is probably about a quarter of their daily rate of pay. Yet the annual fee for membership of the swimming club is about £32 per annum. How much cheaper is that than a sports club in the UK? I cannot get my head around the vast disparity between the economic systems of the two lands. Malawi is so much a place of contrasts. It is possible to live very cheaply but many things that we take for granted are impossibly expensive to local people.
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