Читать книгу The Warm Heart of Africa - Kevin M. Denny - Страница 10

Jordan met me at the compound wall. He had already learned where I'd be living and had delivered my "kit". My "little roundouval" was neither little, nor round. Tin-roofed, built of white-washed brick, it was actually oval with a bedroom at either end, a sitting room in the middle and a dining area toward the rear. The back door opened to a separate kitchen, where Ali was already busy. Soon smoke curled not only from the wood stove but the water heater as well.

"Miss Susan, hot water ready in ten minutes," Ali reported, his wife having mysteriously disappeared.

"Ali, please do not trouble with dinner tonight," I pleaded.

"No madam, very easy, I am just going to cook a cheese omelet from the food from Blantyre. Tomorrow morning I will go to market."

"Here is some money, then, so you can buy things." I handed him a pound and he smiled at the confidence I had placed in him.

"Everything I buy, I write down, Miss Susan," he said with a smile that was his guarantee that he was to be trusted.

I unpacked my suitcases and examined my quarters. I looked at myself in the mirror. Tears began to well up and then ran in rivulets down my dusty cheeks. This was not what I'd expected. There was not an African living within two hundred yards of me. I felt guilty about my hot water, electricity that stayed on until eleven at night and a seventy-year-old cook who sent his wife home alone in the dark---to tend to my needs. How different would my greeting have been if I were living in a village, perhaps with a freshly-mudded and thatched hut proudly built for my arrival, with music, dancing and drinking carrying on until the morning hours? I wiped the dust and tears from my face with water that was beginning to warm.

The omelet, fried potatoes and carrots were delicious. Ali proved his mettle.

Soon I fell asleep, as a mosquito whirled annoyingly around my net-draped bed---a womb that provided, for the moment, a psychological haven from the world that surrounded me.I awoke to a knocking at the door. It was the D.C.’s askari, "Good morning, Memsab. Did you sleep well, I hope? The D.C. hopes it is your pleasure to come to his office at eight o'clock. Can I tell him that is good?"

"Certainly. Yes. Please tell him I'll be there," I replied, adjusting to the bright light of day.

Ali approached, "Look, I have some very nice fish for you, chambo." He showed me two large fishes in a bucket of water, still swimming. "One for dinner and one for now," he explained.

He served breakfast apologetically, "No tomatoes at the market this morning. I will go back again."

The chambo was filleted, fried and marvelous. The potatoes were crunchy on the outside and soft in the middle. The carrots were over-cooked, English style, but sweet and delicious.

The D.C. was dressed as the evening before, except today's ascot was green rather than maroon. "I hope you slept well."

"Wonderfully, I said, not about to admit that the sleep was miserable and the tears plentiful.

"How's that new boy of yours working out?" he asked.

"He's terrific and I've already had my first chambo. It was excellent."

"One of the joys of Mangochi!" After a pause he added, "You know you have come to a rather difficult area, don't you?" Pointing across the river and upward toward the lake he explained, "The area is predominantly Yao. They are almost all Muslims, converted by the Arab slave traders that came from Zanzibar a hundred years ago. The Yao threw their lot in with the Arabs and became their middlemen. The grandfather of Chief Makangila was one of the most bloodthirsty slavers that the world had ever seen, until we put our gunboats on the lake. His prey was the pagans and Christians on this side of the lake who were defenseless against his guns and thugs. At one point, it was so bad that almost every village from here to Nkotakota was either decimated by the slavers or abandoned for fear of their attack."

I nodded my head, but could not imagine the horror of men hunting men.

"Feelings still run high at times," he added, "but the Christians and the Muslims get along reasonably well, especially since they both know which law they must follow now," he said, once again reinforcing the importance of his office, in which he apparently served as administrator, judge, enforcer of the law and minor deity. "Miss Jarrett, do be careful. Around here it is very easy to get yourself involved in some pretty messy things without much effort. The Yao are very proud and quick to show their temper but they know who is in charge now. The Nyanja are a more docile crowd, always have been. They are pretty content if they have their daily ration of nsima and ndiwo. The biggest trouble we have with them is when the maize is harvested. They always feel that they have produced a surplus, even in the worst of years, and they turn the surplus into native beer. With this mowa they get a bit wild at time---a murder here or a rape there---but they usually just stick to their villages and dance until they pass out. They're fine until the next day, when it starts again, until the beer runs out. The shame of it is that every year there are villages that run out of maize before the next harvest and those are the difficult times. The hospitals fill up with children suffering from malnutrition. But those are the lucky ones; most never make it to the hospital. There would be plenty of food most years if the men didn't leave all the hoeing to the women and if they didn't then turn the harvest into beer. Anyway, I encourage you to find a Christian village to work in. The missionaries have done a splendid job, they really have. In one of the villages where the missionaries have been you'll always find blokes, especially younger ones, who speak enough English to help you on your way. The Yao, if they get any education at all it is at the hands of the ulemu, who just teaches them how to memorize the Koran."

I nodded again.

He looked at his wristwatch, "For the first couple of days I'm sure you'll just want to settle in and get to know the place a bit. This afternoon you will be meeting Mr. Mlanga. He is the Senior Medical Assistant. We don't have a doctor here but he's bloody good. He runs the hospital, and quite frankly, although he's never been to medical school, I'd rather have him cut out my appendix than some of foreign-educated baboons I've seen come here who couldn't stand the bush for more than a month and had to get back to the big city as soon as they could. Anyway, he's expecting you and he'll show you the hospital and tell you about the people you'll be working with."

"Thanks, Mr. Marsden. I'm looking forward to seeing the hospital."

"Great. Mlanga will be expecting you about two o'clock, but he will be working on African time no doubt. Sorry I have to run. I have to get out to one of those bloody village courts and try to settle a dispute about some goats or chickens or some other ridiculous thing. Seems they have some buggers out there who still want to take on the justice part of things with their pangas.

"Thanks again," I muttered.

"Fine. Let me know if there is anything you need. Remember, although this may be Muslim territory, we still work on Fridays around here, but most of those who have Muslim boys give them half the day off. Righto, then I'm off. Perhaps I'll see you over at the Club later. And, oh, do remember, you are free to join. We have special membership rates for short-timers like yourself and I know this Peace Corps thing does not come with a lot of money. I am sure we can work something out for you."

As he accompanied me to the door, I wondered what his criterion was for "short-term." To me, two years seemed far from short. Then he asked, "Have you done some exploring around the Fort yet?"

"Not really, I'm planning to have to look around this morning."

"Well, I think you'll find the place to be in a bit of decay these days but, at one time, it was a rather grand old place. Cheerio."

I couldn't believe my ears. They still said Righto and Cheerio---just like in those old British war movies. Maybe the sun never did set on the Empire. One thing was sure, my snooker---whatever kind of English "hit-the-ball-with-a-stick" game it was---would be no more advanced when I left than it was at the moment, for I would not be joining the cloob!

I walked to the ferry and saw the Shire by daylight for the first time. It was surprisingly swift. Gigantic masses of vegetation, floating islands called sudd, drifted down the river. Teams of fisherman cast their nets from dugout canoes. Groups of villagers awaited the return of the ferry: old men carrying heavy loads on their bicycles, mothers with babies wrapped with colorful cloth on their back, and the old and infirm returning from their visits to the hospital. Children were playing everywhere. A gaggle of small boys swam and jostled each other at the river's edge. Toddlers, usurped from their position on their mother's backs or breasts, played with stones while their mothers conversed with each other, awaiting the return of the ferry.

I had not gone unnoticed. The swimming boys began their "Mzungu" chant. A barely-walking infant stared at me and then in terror broke into tears and ran in panic to the comfort of his mother. The women began to smile and laugh with each other, though seconds before the conversation had been somber.

"Moni, Amai. Muli Bwanji?" I used my flawless greeting.

The women laughed and turned their heads shyly. They returned my greeting, but also made it clear that the conversation could not go much further---they spoke Chiyao, as different from the language we'd learned as English was from Lithuanian. The universal language of infant admiration carried the moment, however. The mothers were friendly and smiling and the children soon calmed at the strange sight of a white woman. The mothers lifted their heavy loads onto their heads, their babies on their backs, and boarded the ferry, waving back, white teeth still gleaming long after the ferry churned away.

A footpath along the river carried me past the D.C.'s house, its past splendor a victim of decay and neglect. As I passed, I wondered how many ghosts of bwanas and memsabs of bygone days still haunted its decrepit halls. (Some time later the D.C. shared with me that he had no intention of spending another shilling on his residence because he was damned sure that within months of Independence there would be an African D.C. and “chickens and goats would be roaming his bougainvillea bushes”.)

Beyond the D.C.'s residence, the path opened into a broader dirt road, lined with a canopy of flamboyant trees, from which dangled huge pea-pod-shaped seeds. An ancient brick building with a metal-covered veranda occupied the far side of the road. This was the Mandala that I had heard about the night before at the club. "We're all trying to buy some of our provisions there to keep Margaret and Henry going," it had been explained to me by "Public Works.”

It was Margaret who greeted me. She and her husband had run the store for 17 years, ever since Henry retired from his civil service position. "It isn't really much," she explained, in her friendly but proper manner, "but it does keep us going. Since we really don't miss England anyway, we don't need to make enough money for home leaves."

In a way, their indifference to their homeland seemed a bit irrelevant...for they appeared to have brought England to them. One of their long shelves held an elaborate selection of jams, jellies, and preserves, the labels all proudly proclaiming their heritage..."By Appointment of Her Majesty, The Queen.” On the opposite shelf there was an equally elaborate selection of mustards, chutneys, syrups, soups, salad dressings, meat sauces, gravy mixes and heretofore-unseen-by-the-American-eye items such as Marmite and Bovril . . . Each, by its markings, gave indication that the Queen had given a special proclamation that she wanted this, and this alone, placed upon her table. A complete selection of the Monarch's favorite biscuits was proudly arranged on a facing shelf. In the corner there was a selection of wines, liquors and liqueurs, including one dust-covered gin with an actual picture of the Queen (or a Queen-like figure) seeming to give testimony that this was the chosen distillate that Her Majesty added to her tonic after her day's work was done.

Margaret explained, "This was the original trading post for the African Lakes Corporation. You know, Livingstone felt that trade was just as important as Christianity in the civilizing of Africa. This main part was built around 1871, I believe. The locals call it the mandala and so do we. You see, mandala actually means glasses. It seems that the first European who came out here to run it wore spectacles and the name has just stuck.

I recalled the date on the plaque at the Club and calculated that the first Mzungus had gone ten years without The Nyasa Yacht and Gymkhana Club. Now, those must have been the "bloody difficult years!"

"You must come around some night and dine with us. Do you play Scrabble? Henry and I play almost every evening after dinner. Maybe you can join us some night. We'll even allow American spellings," she added, delighted with her whimsy.

Henry appeared from the storeroom. First impressions are usually dangerous, but this one appeared safe. It was immediately clear why the Wilson's stayed at "The Fort". He appeared timid and frail, with parchment-like skin and sad drooping eyes---a man in acceptance of his own fate, a man who had gone from clerk in service of the Queen to clerk of the general store.

He was as friendly as his wife and immediately suggested that I join them for Scrabble some night. I once again expressed my enthusiasm for the idea. Mr. Wilson assured me that even though they played almost every night, they were not really experts. I was ready to believe him.

Mrs. Wilson gently instructed her newest customer on local protocol, "You have probably been told by now, we work "lakeshore hours" during the hot season. It gets bloody hot by noon. Remember, Dearie, we close from noon until four---Henry and I just go home and take a long nap after lunch---so if you need something, make sure to send your boy around early."

"Thanks, I'll remember that," I said, eager to give up the fan-cooled air of the general store for the scorching heat of the out-of-doors.

"Cheerio," Mr. Wilson said.

"Now, cheerio, don't forget about the Scrabble," Mrs. Wilson called after me.

"No, I won't," I assured her.

A row of Indian dukas lined the dusty road leading back to the center of town. Each appeared identical. Each seemed to carry the same goods: pots, pans, soap, cloth, sugar, salt and jars of candies. The expression on the face of each of the shopkeepers was identical: a practiced indifference acquired through the ages. An expression that said no European was likely to make a purchase or offer friendship. They had come to build the Kenya railroad, Mombasa to Nairobi---the famous "Lunatic Express"---and they had been unable or unwilling to leave the continent since. They were a worried lot, as well they might be, for they were the ones with the most to lose with Independence. They were in touch with their own vulnerability and acutely aware that they were tolerated but appreciated by no one, black or white. And, indeed, many Africans held the hope that the dukas and the Mercedes would be theirs following Independence.

I saw almost nothing I would ever need in any of the shops, with the exception of batteries and film. I felt no connectedness with the brown-skinned men behind the counters, who I imagined kept their wives and daughters locked up behind forbidding walls.

Africans came and went, up and down the road. I was stopped three times by young men asking, "Memsab, are you needing a cook boy?"

The post office, directly across the street from the D.C.'s office, with its bank of red postal boxes on its outside wall, was a hub of activity. Inside there were long lines at each of the five counters. The smell was dank and African; the noise loud; the activity hectic. I turned to leave, to return at a less busy time, but a woman with a baby on her back stepped from her position in line and said, "Zikomo Memsab," pushing me to the person ahead of her, a school boy who said in very correct English, "She wants you to go to the head of the queue, Madam." Like a leaf caught in the wind, I soon found myself being passed to the front of the line, in spite of my persistent protestations for equality.

The clerk greeted me, "Oh, you are the American coming to the hospital, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir," I replied, adding that I hoped to be able to open a postal box.

"Of course," he replied. "I will get the forms for you to fill out." He returned in a few minutes. Aware of the line behind me, and suspecting that the counter would undoubtedly close at noon for lunch, I suggested that I just take the forms and return back the next day when things were less busy.

"No, madam, this is something I must do," he said with officialdom and some hurt. After an additional fifteen minutes---and three separate forms each completed in triplicate, stamped and authorized with flowing signature---he said, "I must now get the Postmaster to sign this and then I will get you a key."

The line behind me waited patiently.

After several minutes the postmaster, himself, appeared. "I am happy to see you, Miss Jarrett and am hoping you like it here. I am sorry for the delay but we had some difficulty finding the key," he said proudly handing over my new key. "Mail from the United States usually comes on Tuesday and Friday, but sometimes it is delayed by a day or so. So it is best to check everyday."

"Thank you," I offered, embarrassed to hold up the line another second for chit-chat. "Thank you for all your help," I said to the clerk making my exit.

Those behind me in line smiled and gave me greetings. An old man reached out and grasped my hand. He was ancient and toothless, except for a single incisor stained brown by years of tobacco. "Thank you for coming, Memsab," he said, now holding my hand vigorously with both of his. The woman with the baby, still at the end of the line, smiled and clapped her hands, "Zikomo, Mai," she kept repeating softly.