Baba

My amazing granny, Baba, died a year ago this month. I miss her incredibly, her beautiful smile, her soft face, her quick wit and readiness with an interesting fact or funny story to tell.

Even though she and Papa left this country over 40 years ago, being out here in Malawi sort of makes her feel close by. There is so much of her still around…the corks wedged under my saucepan lids; the saved tissue paper lying in my fun drawer; the bit of polystyrene anchored to my wardrobe door where my earrings hang; the lines of limericks that pop into my head; puzzling over the crossword on a Saturday afternoon…

If the internet had existed back in 1940s I’m pretty sure she would have written a blog. Here is a speech she once made about arriving in Malawi…

I was very flattered and touched to be asked to come to this amazing gathering and to say something to everybody about “the old days”, but I feel a fraud as I wasn’t there in the real old days. In fact when we left in 1967 I still felt a newcomer, a greenhorn. Not that we didn’t feel at home there - we certainly did. But apart form the fact there was still so much to learn about the country, I felt that there were so many exceptional people who had really been here a long time, some of them just after the 1914/18 war, some even longer. When Jock and I arrived in Cholo in 1948 were lucky enough to meet wonderful people right away whose accumulated wisdom and fortitude we were lucky enough to be able to draw on and try and emulate.

So - I don’t feel I can pontificate about the real old days - all I can do is describe what it was like for us. So back to the beginning: Jock and I married during the War, which against all probabilities he survived relatively intact. He wasn’t really expecting to so when he came out of the Army in 1947 it was with amazed delight that we contemplated the future, quite unfazed by the fact we were broke, jobless, homeless and had a baby son.

It was natural therefore that he should revert to Plan 1 which had been interrupted by the war and join the Colonial Service. It seems like yesterday that he came flying down the passage in my mother’s house shouting, “We’re going to Nyasaland!” I heard myself say, “Where on earth is that?” “For heaven’s sake didn’t you do geography at school?” “Not my strong point I’m afraid”. “But surely you remember that long narrow lake in the middle of Africa?” “Oh - Lake Nyasa of course – whoopee - is that where we are going?”. I was madly in love and would have followed him to the ends of the earth. In fact I thought Nyasaland probably was the end of the earth, an impression not dispelled by six days in the train from Cape Town a few weeks later, in rolling stock which must have been used in the Boer War.

However that feeling quickly dissipated when we were met at Limbe station by one of the most civilised and interesting people I have ever known. He was Maurice Hoole, D.C. Blantyre at the time. A 1914/18 war veteran with two M.Cs, a strong, gentle man who was a perfect mixture of devotion to duty and light-hearted enjoyment of life. He was our introduction to life here and set the tone of our future.

He drove us to the D.C’s house in Sunnyside, chatting amiably to put us at ease. As he ushered us into the house he said, “ Unless I’m much mistaken the first thing you‘ll want is a bath - it’s being run for you now. And the second thing you’ll want is a drink- I’m sending that to the bathroom. And by the way, you are going to be staying with me for 3 or 4 weeks so you might as well get into the habits of the household straight away- I always get into my pyjamas and mosquito boots after my bath, so feel free to do the same.”

Thus it was we sat down to our first dinner in Malawi, delicious and impeccably served, in our night clothes.

A life-long friendship was formed with this amusing and erudite man. He was old (to us) - about 50! but so attractive. I could easily have fallen for him if my affections were not otherwise engaged. He introduced us to everyone he thought we ought to know, including Cosmo Haskard (then A.D.C Chiradzulu) who also became a life-long friend and who still has perfect recall of everything to do with Malawi, names, places, topography, the sequence of events. He left Nyasaland in the early 60s to become Governor of the Falklands and now lives in Ireland.

Cosmo, then a bachelor, was responsible for two new experiences for me – one, an introduction to a Nyasaland so-called ‘road’ and the other a very successful put down by a local gentleman. Cosmo offered us the use of his pickup and a driver called Justin, to spend the day in his beloved Chiradzulu when he himself was elsewhere. The road was more like a dried up river bed complete with boulders, and had I been driving I would have certainly turned back. Later of course I learned that practically nothing is impossible if you have to get from A to B.

We spent a very enjoyable day enjoying the spectacular view, having lunch and absorbing the atmosphere. Later on I began to think we ought not to keep the baby out to late but having no watch I asked Justin if there was a clock in the house. He gave me a withering look, glanced up at the sun, examined the shadows and said with great showmanship, ”It’s ten to three madam”.

So, on with the acclimatisation process. Jock served a brief apprenticeship with Maurice in Blantyre in the D.Cs office then we went to Cholo. Some of you may remember the A.D.Cs house - I expect it has changed a lot since then. It was very basic but we thought it heaven to have our own place. It was a small square house with all four rooms leading out of each other and a reasonable khonde. There was no electricity, no running water, no telephone, and no cooking stove. The thunder-box was in the garden. The kitchen was 20 yards from the house and the ever resourceful cook had made two little walls of bricks and balanced and opened out Petrol tin across the gap. All the cooking was done here. Even bread was made, by scraping out the fire from underneath the tin and putting the dough where the fire had been, the glowing wood was then placed back on top where the saucepans usually stood, to keep up the heat and the front closed with another opened out tin. The bread was usually very good, but we did have the occasional failures!

The water was brought up the hill by the extra-mural prisoners. It was dark brown and aptly described by a friend as looking liked melted chocolate soufflé. Needless to say our sheets and the nappies were soon the same colour. The prisoners also emptied the thunder box, paying scant attention as to whether anyone was enthroned before opening up the trap door and removing the bucket.

As I think about early days the memories come tumbling back. So many funny things happened- unfortunately there isn’t time to relate them all. But we did enjoy Cholo and the friends we made. Even the rats which used to scamper about the old Cholo club have an endearing quality in retrospect. They were most in evidence during our monthly services conducted in the club by our itinerant priest Padre Hand with his collapsible alter. The ancient blue-covered sofa and armchairs were arranged in rows for the service and as the rats normally nested in the upholstery they weren’t best pleased at being disturbed

After we left Cholo, with many a backward glance, we were drawn into life in Zomba. From afar we watched with interest the building of the new club, which I remember was nick-named “St.Biddys” because of the part Biddy Hearn played in its creation.

That’s all nearly fifty years ago but still vividly in my memory. Jock would have loved to be here today, and I’ve never wished more fervently that he was still with us and speaking instead of me. But thank you for listening and thank you again for inviting me.