Malawi 2004 - 2007

 Jason's Magic Show & Supporting Acts

The VSO teachers in Malawi are never off-duty. Go to any committee-meeting, conference or event and you can be sure to be greeted by a teacher speaking to you as though you are an errant second former. They just cannot resist organising any group of more than ten people.

So it was at the annual VSO Global Art Show in St Josephs Teacher Training Centre at Benbeke 20 km south of Dedza in beautiful forested hills. The invitation was quite specific, our homework was:

' Bring a mask for the procession, a game to play, a musical instrument and a small gift for the Sinta Claus celebration - that well-known traditional Malawian ceremony featuring Caucasian Santa's little helper Black Piet. Oh yes and an equipment list.'

My worry that I didn't find a parent to sign it was, however, unfounded. We arrived after dark, me, Donald and Ndambuki, the Kenyans, plus Josephine, a prima dona Ugandan woman who was recovering from a breakfast-time street mugging by a man with a panga-knife which cut her hand. Under cover of darkness we slipped past the pickets and merged with the crowd.

We were issued dormitory space on gym mats in a house with no electricity nor water. Josephine was not amused. There was lots of muttering from the Kenyans about whether they could get back to Lilongwe, which through this prism took on the mantle of civilised nirvana. They opted instead for drinking to forget. 

The East Africans like nothing more than a skinful of 'stout '. They spend much of their leisure time in bottle stores. This pastime plus the fact that they must send money home leaves them both legless and penniless most of the time. The last time I was in ' Bwandiras ' with three Kenyans there was almost tribal warfare as the beers disappeared faster than Iraqi dissidents and discussion turned to which tribe the next president should come from. The peace loving Malawis gradually left the bar as the volume increased. Tonight was more peaceful, however, and the nearest we came to a scene was the increasing amorosity of Jocasta, a full beamed Kenyan lugger, who ended up snoring on my mattress, driving me into the safe haven of the girls dorm (little good did that do me).

The next morning I was up with the lark. Actually it must have been before the lark because I couldn't hear one. I went for my accustomed run past the gaudily decorated Catholic church already receiving a stream of women arriving for 6.00 mass. We exchanged muttered greetings. On I ran like a latter day Tom Courtney through conifers, eucalyptus, and broad leaf forests, until I reached a deep, fertile valley surrounded by high bare mountainous outcrops (people compared it to Wales). The women were already hard at work, hoes (mattocks) in hand and backs bent. The men, if up, were strolling up and down the paths. I stopped to gaze about, when I became aware of movement down a path to my left. Round the corner came a young man carrying a spear, followed by another with a bow and arras. Excited dogs bounded around them. We nodded, both surprised by the sudden and unexpected appearance of strangely clad companions. I watched them walk briskly down another path leading towards the mountain. Within seconds several more men with cudgels, spears, bows and dogs came past waving and shouting. Soon it seemed that all paths converged at this point and all were full of traditional hunters. I contemplated remonstrating with them or lying down to block their path but felt it futile as they probably hadn't yet read that hunting with dogs had been made illegal. I watched as the spectacle converged into a scene from 'Snow White' and the men with dogs marched determinedly into the distance in single file. I swear I heard a faint 'Hi Ho '. I wanted to follow, but I knew that I would have to face the wrath of the teachers if I missed the procession.

Instead I retraced my steps only to meet the same women emerging from the church. This time I waved more enthusiastically, shouted a greeting and fell flat on my face in the mud. ' Pepani ' they said (sorry) before sniggering into cupped hands. I picked up my smeared spectacles and ran on with as much dignity as I could muster.

At 1.00 we were made to walk in a crocodile to the start of the procession. Our group was an unlikely band of Kenyans, and azungos in home made African masks, which Africans looked at with bemusement. The Gule wa nkulus (dancers), failed to show so we started on our way. The teachers were determined to sing to show the Africans how we British could party. They were treated to a mixture of Dutch carnival songs and 'The Wheels on the Bus '.

The Art show was fun. Children had made a variety of soldered wire models, two of which had little motors making propellers and the like turn. A woman offered 'Calligraphy lessons' in a classroom full of women having fun writing in their own styles with chalk on a chalkboard while Mrs M. sat with her poorly written signs and holly stencils. Local traders set up stalls with anything that would pass for art (a bit like the Turner Prize exhibition).

Outside, one of the teachers was bravely trying to explain a game, through a translator, for 100 children on the grass, whilst the inherited masks were played with, discarded and gradually dismantled. The beautifully crafted giraffe head gradually lost its ears to resemble 'Nessy '. Another example of the 'now' culture. I was surprised that none of the children seemed to want to take these treasures home.

Towards the end of the afternoon the finale approached. 'Ladies and Gentlemen, Boys and Girls' the teacher cheerily shouted. ' The TTC boys gymnastic team '.

They were surprisingly good. A mixture of tumbling, human towers, and fire blowing.

The only way to follow that was Jason and his five-ball juggling. 

Jason was a blond dread-locked laboratory technician from Nottingham, who was a competent juggler with a bit of street patter. The audience of children and women shouted loud appreciation tinged with ribald comments.

But the highlight came when Jason produced his disappearing hanky trick. You have all seen it a thousand times. hanky, hand, hand, hanky, sleeves rolled up. Hanky is pushed into hand and disappears only to emerge from someone's hat.

The place went wild. Women squealed, children fled as he approached them and people started calling him the witch from London. Fear and fascination was the order of the day and Jason was not allowed to finish until he had done the trick at least six times to ecstatic applause. The worldly Kenyans were more cerebral in their response although one did drop his cool and asked me 'is it a trick or is it magic?'

For Jason this was a magic moment indeed as it was his last weekend in Malawi. For me it was a moment of golden recollection of an evening four years ago in Cassamance with my son Joe while he entertained and amazed the animists with his own form of magic with a coin that "disappeared" in a way that left everyone baffled.

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