Читать книгу The Warm Heart of Africa - Kevin M. Denny - Страница 5
Chapter 2. Negotiations
ОглавлениеOur accommodations proved a pleasant surprise. The Ministry put us up at its training center, in two large dorms with cooks to provide our meals and a variety of servants waited eagerly to attend to our every need. But our time in Blantyre would be short. It was twenty-four hours until that moment when we'd learn our final destinations. We all knew just enough about our new country to know that the luck of the draw could make all the difference—the difference between a city or a village; a Christian or a Muslim culture; the lake or the highlands. In some cases, it could mean the difference between survival and failure.
I took a deep breath. The Director announced that I would be going to Fort Johnston. I had no idea whether I was a winner or a loser in the draw. The name alone made me feel cheated. Others were getting to go to places with real African names like Karonga, Dowa, Nkotakota, Kazungu, and Mzimba. I was ending up with a town undoubtedly named for a missionary, explorer or British civil servant. It didn't seem like an auspicious start.
Accumulated wisdom varied as to the luck of my draw. Mr. Blackwell said Fort Johnston was hot and humid with lots of mosquitoes and malaria. Alfred Shambira, a Nyanja from the central part of the country, the local director of the Peace Corps, said that I was lucky because I would be able to get fresh fish every day, but added I would have to be careful not to swim in the lake because of the hippos, crocs and bilharzia.
I would find out for myself in a few days. I figured it gave me just enough time to research the snakes of the region and make my absolutely final decision about going.
It turned four and I was quickly aware of the significance of that hour in the tropics. "Madam your tea is ready on the khonde." One of the servants, Robinson, bowed and then retreated taking his first five steps backwards, his hands touching tip to tip in a respectful manner. He returned as I was refilling my cup. "Excuse me, Memsab, someone here to see you."
"Who is it?" I wondered out loud.
"It is the man who says he talked with you yesterday, Madam." He then added graciously,
"Maybe you cannot recall him, but he is someone I know. Can I bring him to you?"
I looked at Jan, pouting about her assignment to Karonga, so far to the north that she would have to learn an entirely new language, so remote that trips back to Blantyre were measured in terms of days, not hours. "What the hell, Susan. What's another surprise for today? Go for it," she said, raising her eyebrows, her pinky finger extended like a proper plantation owner's wife as she sipped her tea.
"Memsab, I hope I am not a trouble to you and the other Donna. I can return at your pleasure." It was rheumy-eyed old Ali, creeping forward like a cat stalking a chipmunk. He had exchanged his waiter's coat and battered fez for a flowing kanzu and a beaded cap. "Excuse me Madam, but I am too happy for you because my friend says that you are going to Fort Johnston, my home. I am too happy for you, Madam."
"Oh hello, it's you, Ali," I replied, his chiseled teeth bringing instantaneous reverie. "Moni bombo. Muli bwanji?"... “Hello, Sir. How are you?”
"Oh, Madam, your Chinyanja is too good," he said, responding, "Dili bwino. Kaya inu?"....”I’m fine. How about you?”
"Dili bwino," I said, completing the greeting, with more than a modest sense of accomplishment.
He laughed, "But, Madam, you are going to have to learn to speak Chiyao—my language—if you are going to Forti."
"Going where?" I questioned.
"Oh Madam, Forti is what we call Fort Johnston. I should have known the Memsab might not have heard that yet."
Forti still did not sound very African. "I'm afraid I don't know much about it."
"It is where I was born and my people are still there. Perhaps I can show you around the villages," Ali offered.
That is very kind of you, but I am sure there will be people there to guide me," I said, with less assurance than my response might have conveyed.
Then, Jan asked, "And Ali, what can you tell me about Karonga?"
His face wrinkled, like he'd just eaten a persimmon (at least, what I imagined eating a persimmon would do to one's face), "Oh, papani! " he replied with a look of concern. "Is that where you are going? Oh, that is too bad."
“Yea, that's what they all tell me," she replied, rolling her eyes.
"Oh, papani. It is too far. Even I have not seen it. It is too far."
Jan looked at me despondently, "I'd like to think it's just the luck of the draw, but what is it about this girl from Minneapolis that gives anyone the slightest hint she is going to be able to survive the wilds of Karonga?"
"Maybe, you will like it there," he consoled, adding, "The fish there is too good!"
Jan looked at me and sighed, "I'm beginning to pity all those poor people going to pleasant little places that don't have fish."
I laughed, "Jan, I have a feeling that you are going to love it...Karonga...nice place...the fish is too good!"
Ali interrupted the gallows humor. "Memsab ?..."
I gave him a look to let him know that such formality was not needed.
"Madam Jarrett", he continued.
"No. No. Call me Susan," I said, instinctively wondering whether this would be too informal for an elderly Muslim habituated to decades of "Bwanas,” "Memsabs" and "Donnas".
"Miss Susan," he continued, "I am very eager to see my village again. I have worked for many years in Blantyre. I would like to go back to my home. I have worked for Bwana Bradley for five years, but he has just gone home to U.K. Now I am free to work for you. You will need a cook in Forti and I would work as houseboy for you too, even though for Mr. Bradley I was just a cook," adding by way of explanation, "He had such a big house and so many big dinner parties that one bombo could not do all the work. Here, read his letter," he said taking it from itswell-worn manila envelope.
"Ali, I could never afford a cook like you. This letter says you are famous for your cooking. I simply could not afford a cook like you."
"Here, look at my chit book," he begged, placing it in my hand. The passport-sized chit book began with its first reference dated July 17, 1905:
Ali, a Yao from Mangochi, was employed by me as a kitchen boy for four years. His work was always excellent. He has excellent manners and understands proper hygiene but requires guidance because of his young age. The reason for his termination is the completion of my career and imminent return to the United Kingdom. I straightforwardly recommend Ali to anyone seeking an honest servant, willing to learn."
The signature was pure Victorian scroll. Ali continued his sales pitch, "That was from Bwana Elliott. He was the District Commissioner in Zomba. He was too nice. He built the Blantyre-Zomba road. His wife liked me too much because I was such a young toto, and I would play with her children when I was not working in the kitchen."
"Well Ali, how old are you now?" I asked.
"Madam, in this country no one knows his age. I was about seven years old when I first went to work for Mr. Elliott and I have been working since."
A quick calculation made him well over seventy years old. His chit book was a museum piece. His references were magnificent. "I have told you I cannot afford to hire you. We are a different kind. We are not dignitaries. The Peace Corps does not give us much money and we cannot afford expensive servants."
"Miss Susan, everyone must have a cook. You cannot do all the work by yourself, and, besides, I know how to save you money in the kitchen. I know very many ways to cook goat and fish."
"But Ali, how much did Mr. Bradley pay you?" I asked out of curiosity.
"Mr. Bradley gave me twelve pounds, five shillings---but that was Blantyre and it is too expensive here just now."
"Ali, that is one quarter of my salary.”
"Madam, you must understand. I am old now. My family is at Forti. I would be very happy to be near my village. I would work for you for less."
"Papani, Ali. I just can't do it."
"Madam, I will work for ten pounds," he retorted.
I knew Ali was right. Servants were not an optional extra, but a requirement. In addition, in a strange turn of logic, the Peace Corps Director had just informed us that we would be expected to have cooks, not only as a means of employing a local, but also as a matter of prestige. "No one," he explained, "will feel you have anything to offer if you can not afford a servant." The expected salary, however, was closer to five pounds than ten. I doubted that Ali would be willing to work for less than he had proposed.
Ali, I simply cannot afford to pay you ten pounds. I am sorry."
"I will work for eight pounds a month," he said, with little hesitation.
"Ali, my friend, there is no need to continue. I will find someone in Fort Johnston."
"Madam, at Forti you will not find cooks who are honest. And a cook at Forti will be too proud to do housework too."
"I'm sorry, Ali, but five pounds is all I can pay."
"For that you will get a child or a thief, not someone like me," he said. "I am sorry. I wish I had more money to offer. I do not want to insult you, but that is all I can afford," I said.
"Madam, you know that five pounds is too little for a man with a family. I can work for seven pounds, ten shillings...but that is finish."
Robinson brought a fresh pot of tea. "Madam, I know Ali for very long time. He is very good and very safe. I know many people he has worked for. He has an excellent chit book.”
Safe? What did he mean? Certainly it would be safe to have a cook. No one at the meeting today said anything about safety. But, what would it be like for a 20-year-old girl to hire a cook her same age? My mind suddenly filled with terrors far worse than slithering snakes.
Ali did appear safe—and wise and friendly too. And, maybe he could save me money by shopping carefully. "Ali, I can give you six pounds a month but that is all," I said with finality.
"I am sorry, that is not sufficient, Madam. I have already come down from twelve pounds five to seven pounds ten. I cannot do any more. And for that I will even do laundry," he added disdainfully.
"Thank you Ali, but I cannot do any better," I said handing him back his chit book.
"I am too sad, Madam. I am sorry for spoiling your pleasure. Zikomo kwambili, Memsab. He bowed.
"Zikomo, Ali," I said, filled with doubts, ambivalence and second thoughts. We watched him walk away shaking his head slowly. He palavered with Robinson for several minutes.
The intermediary returned. "Ali is too sad that he cannot work for you. He says he would be happy to be near his home again."
I felt that I had made a big mistake. Jan confirmed it. "I sure hope I can find someone as good as him in Karonga," she said.
Robinson poured us some more tea, "Madam, he likes you too much and knows you do not have the money like the Bwanas from U.K. But, he has to live, as well. Maize is not cheap and meat is very dear now...and he has two wives to feed. He says he will work for you for seven pounds only."
I knew that I could not say no, but I reasoned softness could be taken for weakness—an inadvisable way to start an employer-employee relationship. "Tell him I can give him six pounds and five shillings, but that would have to be my absolute last offer. No more!"
He walked back to where Ali was waiting. They chatted, argued and gesticulated, while Jan and I feigned nonchalance, a technique I'd seen Daddy use on car salesmen.
Ali returned, "Madam, I could do this for no one else, but I like you and I want to be near my village. I will work for six pounds and ten shillings, but, I must ask of you two things. First, I must have Fridays off to go to mosque and, if you like my cooking and I show you how I can save you money, you will please give me seven pounds after six months."
By now Jan was caught up in the negotiations. "Don't be crazy, Susan. Don't let him get away for a few shillings a week," she whispered in my ear.
"But what if?”
"What if what? You want to hold out for one with power steering and over-drive at the same price?" Jan had become impatient with me.
I laughed, "Ali we have a deal."
Ali bowed, respectfully, without hint of subservience.
"Miss Susan, you will be happy, wait and see."
As an afterthought, I challenged, "Ali, do you know how to make beef Stroganoff?"
"Oh, yes Madam. Very good. One of my best. It was Mr. Langley's favorite for dinner parties. He was here after the Great War and gave very big parties, indeed. I can make it with goat, just as good as cow and saves money. Just wait and see."
Karonga-bound Jan asked, "Do you know how to make apple pie?"
"Oh, yes Madam. I worked for Irish lady one time, Mrs. Cunningham. She taught me how to make it with some lemon and cinnamon. Makes it very tasty, indeed."
"Golly, Jan, I'll have to invite you down for lunch one day."
Jan scowled, "Yea, we can have fish...they say the fish at Forti is too good."