Culture Shock in Malawi

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I don't usually write about the days where we spend hours on the road. The scenery is always beautiful, and the towns we pass through are full of things to look at, but a lot of our time on the truck is spent sleeping, reading, listening to music or waiting for our next toilet stop, so there's never enough going on to justify me writing anything. Each driving day is much the same as the last.

That all changed today.

I don't know what time it was when the brakes slammed on and bags, bottles of water and people all flew forward in the back of the truck. I pulled my headphones out, and a child's high pitched cries replaced my music. It wasn't a continuous, steady sort of crying, but lots of cries released in short, staccato bursts. One of the girls in the group said, "Someone's been hit!" and for a few seconds the world narrowed, where all I knew was that nobody could survive a hit like that. It was one of those terrifying moments that seemed to last forever, but really it was only a couple of seconds before we saw our driver, Paul, on the side of the road with his hand on the shoulder of the boy who had run out in front of our truck.

A man came over and began remonstrating with Paul in Swahili, and just as the situation was diffused and they shook hands, a second man ran down the path from a village. More words were exchanged, and then he turned to the boy, who couldn't have been more than six, and slapped him hard across the face. You know that feeling when you're on a roller coaster and it's crawling slowly up the first hill, then it crests the top and your heart just plummets? It was like that.

I couldn't believe what I'd seen. I felt shocked, but then the man hit the boy again and sent him sprawling onto the floor. Anger overtook shock, and I took a step towards the door of the truck before remembering that I was in Africa, not England. A grown man was beating a crying child on the floor and I couldn't do anything to stop that from happening. No matter how sick it made me feel, there are places in Africa where that sort of behaviour is acceptable, and this was obviously one of them.

The crying boy managed to get to his feet and run back up the path, and his father exchanged further words with Paul whilst other locals gathered around to watch the incident play out to its conclusion. I just sat down on the other side of the truck and stared out of the window, not really seeing anything. Witnessing something like that was genuinely upsetting, and one of the biggest shocks I've had since leaving England.

Paul explained to us later that he had told the father not to hit the boy, and to just make it clear to him that he needed to be careful on the road. The father had apologised, and had told Paul that he was raising his son alone after his wife had died. He had been so frightened by the thought of losing his only child that he had just lashed out at him. I spent all afternoon replaying the scene in my head and feeling awful for the little boy, so to hear that it wasn't just mindless cruelty made it easier.

Still, it wasn't a good start to our time here and the father's explanation wasn't quite enough to wash away the sour taste that the experience left in my mouth. Malawi, you've got to pull something good out of the bag now and really impress me.

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