The beginnings of Beehive in Chilomoni lie in the building of the Way of the Cross on Michuri mountain. The reasons why I personally am here working for Beehive have absolutely nothing to do with the origins of the project. Indeed when I made my first enquiry, my first question sought reassurance that it would not be a problem to anyone that I am neither Catholic nor a practicing Christian. I wanted to be sure that the services of the Children's Centre particularly, were to be open to all members of the community in Chilomoni, whatever their creed or culture, and I was reassured on these points. However, whether I like it or not, Beehive is certainly perceived as a Catholic Organisation locally, although rather to my surprise Vince told me that on paper it is not. Many local people have been astonished to find that I am not a Catholic because they know I am a Beehive volunteer. If they ask more questions they then go on to be even more astonished, if not shocked, to discover that I do not belong to any church or other religion. It seems that it is almost unknown to be without religion here. There does not seem to be any understanding that one might be able to have a moral code or humanitarian principles based on anything other than a belief in a god of some kind. Several of my students have tried very hard to persuade me into their own way of thinking out of concern for my soul. Anyway in the interests of attempting to understand the culture in which I find myself, I first climbed the Way of the Cross when I had been in Malawi only a couple of weeks. I have returned four or five times since not least because it is a beautiful walk with panoramic views of Chilomoni in the foreground and Greater Blantyre surrounded by mountains stretching away into the, usually slightly blue and misty distance. Also it is a well signposted walk with regular reassurance that you are not lost in the Stations of the Cross, and therefore I did not feel it was too risky to go by myself in that very lonely time over Christmas when Mitsidi was virtually deserted. It is the same with the Way of the Rosary, but here there is the bonus of a whole other set of views to the other side of the mountain away from Blantyre, which are altogether more wild and beautiful. Armed with suntan lotion, a bottle of water and either a camera or binoculars, and preferably a congenial companion, I can happily while away a few hours on either path.
Yesterday was Good Friday. We had heard that on this day upwards of two thousand people walk the Way of the Cross and we were curious to see how so many could be accommodated at the top of the mountain so we decided to go. We discovered that there are two services and our information was that there is one in English at 6.30am and one in Chichewa at 8.00am. Apparently the English one attracts about 200 worshippers and the Chichewa about 2000. My interests being in local culture, and not having to get out of bed too early in the morning, we decided to leave Mitsidi at 6.30 am, quite early enough for me, and be at the top of the mountain for 8.00am. It was a gorgeous morning with the sun still quite low in the sky making long shadows, and the light a warm golden yellow. At the bottom of the mountain, cars were parked along both sides of the narrow road. Despite the 'Vending not allowed' signs there were a few people selling rosaries and orders of service etc. We began the walk up the mountain in the company of a small group of worshippers who stopped to pray at the first station. We continued a slow and steady progress. At each station there were small groups kneeling, singing and praying. We walked quietly, exchanging only smiles and nods with people we passed. There were a number of people about, but I had expected more. We reached the top shortly before 8.00am to find the English service just coming to an end. There were a few people we knew and after the service had ended we chatted a bit, and then gradually the crowd dispersed. There were five priests who went off to sit on pairs of green plastic chairs set at discreet distances from one another in the scrubby woodland, to hear confessions. One or two small groups sat singing together. It was generally quiet and peaceful. After an hour or so there were very few people left and we began to wonder what had happened to the Chichewa service. Obviously our information had not been correct, or was it just that things were operating on Malawi time? Another hour passed. The time sped by. The view becomes more interesting the more I learn about Chilomoni and Blantyre. I can pick out a lot more landmarks now, and recognizing buildings sparks off memories. Eventually we heard singing from far away and were able to pick out a huge procession of people right at the bottom of the mountain. Gradually the group snaked its way up the path, stopping to pray and sing at each station. One by one and then in small groups young boys and girls began to arrive at the top of the mountain. I guess their parents were part of the procession and they had run on ahead as children do and would meet up with their families gain at the top. At one point it seemed as though there were perhaps six adults at the top of the mountain, including me and Malcolm, with perhaps a hundred and fifty children in small chattering groups, some rolling and playing in the grass, some breaking small branches off the trees to make themselves impromptu sunshades. Occasionally an adult would remind them that this was a holy occasion and ask them to be quiet and to move away from the area where the altar was set up under a canvas roof, but as this was the main area of available shade and the sun was by now high in the sky they kept creeping back. Everyone was dressed in their best, there were many shirts and traditional dresses in bright African fabrics including some which commemorated Catholic groups or occasions, but there were even more bridesmaid's dresses from the second hand market and neatly pressed shorts or jeans and buttoned shirts.
The singing got gradually louder and louder. By the time the procession reached the thirteenth station we had been on the mountain nearly six hours, but to me it did not seem nearly that long. From this stage on we could hear what was being said through a rather raucous portable public address system and see the crowd spilling off the track and into the surrounding woodland perching on rocks or kneeling on the rough ground while the prayers were being said. I recognized one or two people from Beehive including Peter Nkata, who came and spoke to us. The only azungus I saw in the vast crowd were a family of four who were very near the head of the procession and Tony Smith whose Panama hat caught my eye as I looked down from my rocky perch at the top of the track towards the fifteenth station. Gradually hundreds of people passed our rock and crammed themselves into the space at the top. There were nuns from several orders, stout matrons in flip flops and zitenge, who had clearly found the steep hot climb as difficult as I did when I first did it in the heat of the day last October; there were respectable men in dark trousers and white shirts, some of whom sang confidently and strongly as they walked. There were groups walking together who were probably choirs. There were many women dressed in the white shirts and purple skirts and headscarves of mourning. There were couples and there were families, and everywhere there were children, tiny ones strapped to their mother's backs, toddlers being carried or encouraged by parents or siblings, crying sometimes and being quietened with snacks, which usually seemed to be little plastic pots of cold chips. Older children were everywhere, smiling, fingering rosaries, climbing rocks and trees, joining the singing, slipping away to play in small groups. When most people had passed us and joined the crowd at the top of the mountain and the first few had turned and begun to go down, Malcolm turned to me and mouthed 'Leg it?' I nodded and we got up and picked our way between the hundreds of people sitting on every available stone or flat(ish) piece of ground to regain the track and work our way back down towards Chilomoni.
Back at the car park there was mass defiance of the 'No vending' instruction. Both sides of the road were lined with local people hoping to make a few kwachas by selling doughnuts, samosas, sweet and Irish potatoes, sweets, soft drinks to the hungry crowd as they returned from the mountain. I hope they did good trade!
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