Until next time
Almost four years ago exactly, standing in my aunt’s kitchen in Ireland, I met a woman named Florence from Malawi. I had never heard of this tiny land-locked country, nestled between Zambia, Tanzania and Mozambique. But something told me I should find out more. After some research and a whole lot of planning, I scheduled a trip here through Ripple Africa for the fall of 2020. I planned to work as a nurse and teach music to preschoolers.
Malawi closed its borders early in 2020, and time passed. The pandemic unfolded and we all wrote new stories about our reality. Now and again in 2021 and 2022, I thought of Malawi with a vague curiosity. But there were other places to explore. I felt called to spend time in Alaska, to backpack with my sister, and visit the east coast of the U.S.. And suddenly, nearly four years had passed since I met Florence.
When I returned from the United Arab Emirates in February of this year, I was left with an overwhelming feeling of “now what?” The transition home felt unusually hard; as though something else was waiting but I couldn’t quite see it. A few mornings after I returned, I woke from a dream that I was in Africa. I opened my email an hour later to find a message from Nikki, the coordinator from Ripple Africa, wondering if I was interested in coming here this year.
A week later, we spoke on the phone. When she learned of my love for photography and writing, a new possibility for my trip became clear. And while in some ways it felt like amazing synchronicity that required immediate action, it was not an easy decision. It’s not cheap to come halfway across the globe to do unpaid work. But several very fortunate coincidences later, I can still remember clicking “purchase” on my ticket, barely a month before my arrival date.
Six weeks and hundreds of stories later, I cannot believe I am leaving this place tomorrow. How I will miss the beautiful sunrises, the many brave and vulnerable conversations, the mishaps and adventures, the incredible symphony of birdsong each morning and the lulling sound of the waves from the lake at night; the overcrowded taxis, the intense afternoon sun and the familiar faces at Mwaya who have become like family. I will miss my bike that doesn’t really shift gears, but gets me where I need to go, the simple and nutritious food that comes from the farmer’s hands who grew it, my constantly dirty feet, and the groups of five to ten children who will come running from afar just to say hello. I will miss the sound of Geddis’ voice calling 'Hello Ama Hannah!' each time I arrive back to camp at the end of the day, the fish eagle’s distinct call, the ridiculous racket the monkeys make when dropping fruit on the roof of the shower, and the creaking of the bamboo in the wind outside my chalet.
I will not miss the lake flies.
I leave with more than memories. I carry the visceral experience of being welcomed into a community with open arms, and the gratitude that comes from forming relationships that are deep and genuine. Here I have been trusted with story after story, and there is no greater gift. I will carry and share each and every one with the utmost care.
I am grateful I was able to say 'yes' to this opportunity.
I feel deep in my heart that this is not goodbye, but until we meet again.
Thank you for everything, Malawi.
Taonga.
Hannah
