Recap of Previous Episodes
We purchased a pig, which we christened Strawberry, late last year, with a view to breeding her and supporting the nascent Malawian sausage market. Once she'd settled in to her new home in my back garden, we hired a boar called Roy to do the dirty.
Strawberry's initial response to this long-snouted lothario was to run away, frustrating Roy's attempts to get his leg over. We responded to this by locking them in the pig house for a number of weeks, which led to nothing more than a series of friction burns on Strawberry's back, which we then had to apply special cream to.
In an effort to prove my tough Malawian credentials, I immediately declared that Strawberry had to go to the abattoir to be turned into the finest back bacon, and that I wasn't entertaining the idea of feeding something that had no useful purpose. But then Nepear said he would be very sad if we did that, and Paddy said that everyone would miss her, and thus I was out-voted.
Having failed in his duty, Roy left in January with his tail between his legs.
While initially relieved to have been left in peace, in recent weeks Strawberry has become increasingly introverted: isolating herself in her house for hours at a time; grunting less; and digging ennui-shaped holes. Pigs are intelligent and social animals, so we decided Strawberry needed some new, less forceful friends.
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| Strawberry in default pose - taken this morning |
Paddy's Pigs
I'd promised Paddy a while ago that I'd visit his village to meet his mum. When Paddy told me that his mum also had some pigs that she wanted to sell I decided that I could delay no longer. So early(ish) yesterday, Paddy, Nepear and I set off for Paddy's village in Ntcheu - a two-hour drive from Lilongwe.
The village was like every single other Malawian village I've been to. Single-room houses made out of rough, hand-made bricks. Straw roofs lined with plastic sheeting (metal sheets if you're rich) to keep the rain out. Delinquent goats and chickens roaming around. The constant smell of wood-smoke. Small children staring.
We met Paddy's mum, who Paddy tells me is now seventy. With Paddy being twenty, this means she must have been fifty when she had him. Though Paddy only has one (older) sister, he tells me that his mum had many children before him - perhaps five or six - each of whom died in infancy or early childhood. Paddy puts some of this down to the evil magic of jealous neighbours.
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| Paddy's mum, who is looking pretty good for seventy |
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| Paddy's uncle, who Paddy says he doesn't like because he keeps eating his chickens. His wife and daughter are both dead, and so Paddy's mum looks after him. He's seventy-six. |
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| Paddy with his family. Mum, right. Sister, second from left. Nephew, front. |
Turns out Paddy's dad (who died when Paddy was a small boy) had two wives - polygamy being common (although less so in recent times) in Malawi. Paddy has an older half-brother and half-sister from his father's other marriage. Like many Malawian's, Paddy's half-brother normally works in South Africa, trying to save some money, but was back home for two months to see his wife and children.
Having met everyone, admired the greenness of the maize and the plumpness of the goats, and drunk something that tasted like cardboard with the consistency of road grit, it was time to select our pigs and return to Lilongwe. Turned out that the pigs were only six weeks-old. Nepear wanted to buy one, and being Malawian and full of pragmatic common sense, he chose the largest, healthiest looking female. I, being English and weak-hearted and prone to wanton acts of senseless charity, chose the smallest, weakest, most nervous looking female. And then we bought a male, so that in time we will have a piglet farm. Hopefully.
They are very small, and very nervous. I doubt either of these things will last.
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| Three little pigs |
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