Читать книгу The Warm Heart of Africa - Kevin M. Denny - Страница 7

The dust-laden net was suffocating, but the constant buzz of mosquito made my protective confinement a rewarding trade-off. My denial could no longer be denied. I tossed and turned, anticipating the pain of separation. Our training had made us one and, in fact, had molded us into a "Corps.” Now, our oneness would be shattered. The platoon, having landed, would be dispersed the length and breath of the country.

I sensed I might never see Jan again. Karonga was so remote we'd be lucky to see each other once a year. I had relied on her to get me through the tough times in training and the first few days in Africa. I hadn't even been able to make the decision to hire Ali without her prodding. I thought of her silly giggle and her quickness in reading my moods. I was going to be alone for the first time in my life.

I was going to a town even the Peace Corps Director had not seen. All he knew was that it was hot and it had fish. How would I deal with the isolation, the solitude, the boredom? What would it be like to be separated from all the others in the group, a group closer than college roommates; some closer than brothers and sisters. Would I have the strength?

In the morning we toured the Queen Elizabeth Hospital—named for a monarch who had never set foot in her protectorate. The rest of the day was spent getting ready for the Ambassador's party. Rumor had it that the new Ambassador was one of L.B.J.'s drinking buddies who made his fortune leasing oil drilling equipment, his expertise in foreign affairs having been limited to European shopping junkets and one African safari during which he had bagged the" big five". The party would be the Ambassador's first official function and the American community anxiously waited to see if his presence would bring glitter to their social life.

An American Ambassador is expected to live in a manner to convey our depth of commitment to even the smallest nation. The Ambassador's residence was secluded behind a high wall, with bits of broken glass embedded on the precipice, a deterrent to the curious and the unfriendly. A contingent of Marines saluted us at the gates. We walked up a circular driveway leading to the portico, where four Marines lined each side of the stairs, resplendent in their dress blues. The Ambassador and his wife greeted us with their Texas smiles, stopping to ask each of us our home state. Already gathered in the courtyard were overdressed men and women, mingling with professional elegance. Ambassador's parties, we were told, were the only events in the country by protocol, began exactly on time; the assembled masses awaited a sign whether the party would end exactly on time, as was also the Ambassadorial prerogative.

Our group clung together, waiting for someone to make the first move. The trouble was that we did not know the protocol. A waiter mingled among us with a tray of drinks. After a few drinks, protocol became apparent. The new Ambassador had firm intentions of bringing Dallas to Blantyre. The smell of barbecuing beef wafted through the evening air. Mrs. Ambassador proudly announced that she had arranged to have the sauce supplied in ten-gallon drums, adding that she had been worried that it would not arrive in time for our reception. Fortunately for all of us, yesterday's flight into Chilaka brought the first ten gallons of Uncle Willie's Barbecue Sauce, "The best in all of Texas!"

Shortly after, the Ambassador introduced the Assistant Minister of Health who gave a short welcoming speech. He addressed with candor the fact that his country had one of the highest infant mortality rates in the world and that efforts to provide basic services such as medications, education and clean water had been thwarted by lack of funds and trained personnel. We were a "beacon light" of better things to come.

The Ambassador spoke next. He was either intoxicated or had a speech impediment unnoticed in our brief welcoming encounter. At any rate, his welcoming words, although somewhat unintelligible, were the expected ones: the great hopes for our efforts, the admiration for our patriotism and willingness to answer President Kennedy's call, a call that his personal friend, Lyndon B. Johnson, intended to continue to all patriotic young Americans.

Several of the Marines were very pleasing to the eye. However duty must, indeed, be duty, Semper Fie! They never left their guard positions, as if in constant readiness to defend against a sneak attack of "indigenous host country nationals" on the Ambassador's cache of Uncle Willie's Famous Barbecue Sauce. Some months later I learned from an embassy secretary named Carol that Marines pulling Ambassadorial Duty in African Countries preferred the locals when uniforms were doffed. In fact, the number of "prisoners taken" was carefully tallied and awards were presented at the annual Semper Fie banquet. After the reception, ties were removed (party frocks not so) and we had our own farewell party at the training center. Cases of beer appeared, a gift of the Ministry of Health. We talked of our departures and drank until we were incapable of saying good-bye.

In the morning, Mr. Mbalume, whose title I'd come to know as Senior Director, Rural Health Services, apologized that he could not arrange the trip to Fort Johnston until the following day. The plan was that Tim and Marilyn would use the same transport, dropping off in Zomba. Therefore, the day was free. Jan was not scheduled to leave for another day or two---the Ministry being much less confident about being able to arrange transport to Karonga. Together we explored the market, trying out our Chinyanja and enjoying our time together...mostly together, at any rate, as Ali insisted on trailing behind us, "Madam, perhaps you may have packages to carry."

The night sky was pristine, moonless; each star shone out its own existence. The smell of burning wood accompanied occasional wisps of smoke that decorated an otherwise cloudless sky. Half of our group had already left. The emptiness made me vaguely thankful for my own impending departure.

As planned, Ali arrived at seven with all his possessions, a meager collection for his seventy-two years on this earth: two battered suitcases, a box of cooking utensils and a bundle of linen wrapped in a bed sheet.

"Morning, Miss Susan. Wonderful day. I am fine. Hoping you?"

"Good morning Ali," I replied from the khonde beside my own rather meager worldly possessions: two new suitcases and several boxes of bed linens, dishes and other essentials perhaps not available in Fort Johnston, "I'm fine, Ali, and am glad you are too. I have no idea what time the lorry will arrive, but I'm glad Mr. Mbalume told us it would be okay for you to ride with us."

"That is good, Madam. That way I can help you with your things, or if we have any problems, I can help," he responded, taking the first significant step towards his anticipated raise in six months.

We waited. Tea was offered at ten and we accepted. Two hours later, Mr. Mbalume arrived and explained that there was a problem with the lorry, but it would be coming "just now". Then we would then be on our way. Robinson, our intermediary, reappeared. "It is getting late. You must be getting hungry. Can I bring you something?"

Tim replied, "No thanks. Our lorry is coming 'just now.' "

I smiled. Our new language was coming so naturally. "Lorry" sounded so good, the way it rolled off the tongue. Some words are pretty and some aren't. Truck had never had any appeal to me, so cumbersome, so masculine sounding. A lorry sounded like something that could be your friend; I could never cozy up to a truck.

At two o'clock we accepted some tea, with toast and jam. Actually, Robinson never asked, he simply appeared, "Here, you must be hungry now. Not good to start a trip on an empty stomach."

We offered Ali his share but he declined, "No, Memsab, that is for you," he replied, slipping into his colonial English.

"Ali, remember I said 'No Memsabs!”

"I am sorry, Madam, I forget.”

At three-thirty, Mr. Mbalume returned, "Your lorry is fixed. It will be here soon. The driver must first stop at the Ministry of Housing to get some beds and furniture for you. It is coming just now."

Ali had told us Fort Johnston was about a three-hour drive from Blantyre. We would be lucky to arrive in daylight. We thanked Mr. Mbalume and when he left we put our heads back into our books.

The lorry arrived shortly before five, and the driver, who initially appeared to speak very little English, seized upon Ali to explain to us that he was sorry for the delay, but that we are ready "just now."

This lorry did, in fact, look quite like a truck. Its bed was filled with an assortment of furniture, tied down with straps of elastic rope cut from inner tubes. The driver nimbly danced over his load in search of space to secure our katundu. But, clearly a dilemma was brewing. Four persons would not be able to ride in the small cab. Ali immediately jumped forward, "Not to worry, Memsab, I will ride in the back. See, it is no problem," he demonstrated by deftly hoisting his seventy-year old body up onto the lorry bed, finding a niche for himself and his belongings.

I ignored his "Memsab", reckoning it may have been necessary to use it in front of the less sophisticated driver in order to maintain his own prestige.

Tim volunteered, "I'll ride in the back with Ali and there will be plenty of room for the two of you in the front." As Tim attempted to hoist himself up, the driver put a hand on his shoulder. Apparently the situation was serious enough for him to draw upon his English, "No Bwana, you cannot. It is not good. What if rain comes?"

Tim retreated and agreed to share the cab with us. I began to wonder if we were too easily falling into patterns that had been established long before Queen Victoria entered puberty. I also wondered what kind of magic protection from the rain Ali possesses that Tim did not. It never did dawn on our collective consciousness that the rainy season was still five months away.

The lorry lurched forward. We were off. Our knowledge of Blantyre's terrain was rudimentary at best, but it did not appear that we were heading in the right direction. The road narrowed and began to climb—an affirmation that our sense of direction was intact. The driver pulled into a small market that served one of the sprawls at the outskirts of the city.

“Mu ku pita kuti ?...Where are you going?” Tim asked.

"Oh, your Chinyanja very good, Bwana. We come here to get Ali's wife," the driver explained.

"What a manipulator!" I thought. Ali had worked the whole thing out with the driver. My cook had a very impressive network of friends and seemed to know how to use them to his advantage. The sky began to carry rose-colored hues. Any chance of making it to my assignment by nightfall descended like the sun submerging behind the mountain. The anger faded quickly; pragmatism and pride took over. Marilyn spoke my thoughts, "Gee, Susan, you are lucky to have hired such a clever fellow."

I silently agreed, wondering whether we would have to make a stop for his other wife as well.

It was dark when we arrived at Zomba. The steep plateau that provided the backdrop to the colonial town was scarcely visible. A few lights shone in the valley. We passed from the main road to a row of freshly painted brick office buildings. Our driver, Jordan, found the District Commissioner's office without difficulty.

As he left the lorry, a starched-khaki figure with red fez snapped to attention and saluted. The askari explained that the D.C. was at home but he left orders to inform him when we arrived. To us it was uncomfortable, like dropping in on the mayor and finding that he had gone home for the day and then asking they call him back to the office. Tim took command, "No. No. It's okay. We can come back in the morning. There is no need to call him tonight."

Jordan quietly let us know who was in charge, telling us that the D.C. had made arrangements for us to spend the night at the government rest house. He explained that the D.C. would meet us in the morning.

No room for negotiations on this one. Jordan quickly delivered us to the rest house---a white washed brick building, immaculate inside and out, with a staff of four or five to see to our needs. I had long since given up the notion of reaching "Forti" by nightfall. I was exhausted and the accommodations were splendid...I chose to overlook my own lack of control.

I asked Jordan what Ali and his wife would do for the night. "Not to worry, Madam," he replied, and I was confident that I truly needed not worry, as Ali did not appear to be a man without contingency plans.

Eager staff unloaded our katundu and showed us to our rooms. Soon, one of the waiters, white coat, starched and pressed to a razor edge, knocked at my door. "Madam, there are towels for your bath and we will serve you dinner in the lounge when you are ready," he said, implying that I would have to be some kind of cave dweller not to realize that a bath was a requirement prior to an evening meal in this part of the world.

“Thanks, that will be fine," I replied, adding, "I will be ready soon.”

"No hurry, Memsab," he replied. "Would you like something cold to drink?".

"Oh yes, what do you have?"

"Oh, a beer would be wonderful," I replied, fantasizing that this would be the way it would be for the next two years.

The beer was cold and after a hot shower it put me in a giddy mood. Tim and Marilyn were already in the lounge, enjoying their second round of drinks. With them were two men dressed in suits. The taller one told me that he felt very fortunate to meet me as he lived in Fort Johnston and understood that I would be living there as well. I nodded in agreement and automatically accepted the glass of beer that was offered to me. My fellow "Fortian" informed us that he was the headmaster of the secondary school and also taught mathematics. He apologized that his English was so weak, although in reality it was actually quite good. He joked that he wished he had studied it "more diligently" in school so that he could speak better. We complimented him on his English and he replied that the real problem was that he had always liked mathematics "too much.”

More beer appeared. The headmaster and his friend, a corpulent, jolly, older man approaching the zenith of his career with the Ministry of Public Work—in charge of all road construction in the Northern Region—drank rapidly and with gusto, with an apparent expectation that we would keep apace. They invited us to join them at dinner; the conversation was as robust as the beer supply.

Dinner was not completed until after 10:30, at which point our jovial fellow travelers invited us to join them in the lounge for a "nightcap or two.” I had already accepted an offer to dine with Mr. Kalindawala, the tall one, and his wife when he returned from his teaching seminar in Blantyre.

Our new friends appeared oblivious to the fact that, of the entourage of servants, only the bar man and one waiter now remained. They ordered drinks nonstop and rolled with laughter at every little joke. They wanted to know everything about America. Had we ever met President Kennedy? What did our families think about us going away for so long? Did we still have cowboys? What ever happened to our Indians? They were also eager to talk of their own country and how fortunate we were to have come in time to see their Independence.

The subject turned to music. They were familiar with Elvis Presley and Frank Sinatra, but admitted they had not heard much other American music. Tim offered to help make up for the deficit and went to his room, returning with his tape recorder.

"Ah, what is this little box?" Mr. Kalindawala asked.

"Oh, It's a tape recorder. It plays music and it can record your voice," Tim responded.

"Mr. Tim, what do you mean it can record your voice?" Mr. Ntedza slurred.

"Here, let me show you," Tim offered, placing a blank tape in the recorder. "Now, say something," he said.

Mr. Kalindawala looked at Mr. Ntedza, "You go first."

"No, you!”

A friendly argument ensued and finally Mr. Kalindawala joked to his friend,

"Well you are my senior, I guess I must respect my father."

Both men laughed, the kind of unbridled laughter seldom encountered in our sphere of the world. Mr. Ntedza, howled, slapped his knee and reached over to his friend, gripping his knee. He moved back and forth at the waist, in rhythm with his laughter and finally slumped with fatigue. His laughter was contagious and had an asylum character to it. We began to laugh, giggle, chuckle, chortle and howl with him.

Tim rewound the recorder and played back what had just transpired.

On hearing their voices, their jaws dropped in unison and they let out a high pitched exclamation, "Aaah! Aaah! What is this?"

Both became instantaneously apoplectic. Mr. Ntedza was now lying back on the sofa, holding his belly as he roared with laughter. Mr. Kalindawala was amazed. "Joseph," he said to his friend, "there you are, barking like a hyena."

"Yes, but, my friend, you must always remember that you are my junior hyena," he rolled to the floor with the cleverness of his retort.

"Oh, Mr. Tim, do that again?" they asked with bewilderment and awe.

"Oh sure, but maybe someone should sing this time," Tim suggested.

They struggled to their feet and began singing a song, one they might have learned from their grandfathers at an initiation ceremony. It was a chant, praising their own fearlessness. They began to dance as they sang, taking turns singing the lead. It, too, was contagious and was done with absolute abandonment, almost as if in reverie of their days of innocence and irresponsibility. They stopped and told the bar man to come and hear this magic machine. Mr. Ntedza suggested he bring some more beers with him when he came.

Tim rewound the recorder and the chant reappeared. Again amazement overcame the room. "Ah! Ah! I cannot believe it." Mr. Ntedza was now in a fetal position on the sofa. Mr. Kalindawala was laughing so hard he appeared to stop breathing and at one point fell to the floor of the Zomba Rest House. Tim and Marilyn swayed with the infectious merriment. By then, I was so intoxicated by the beer and the atmosphere that I had forgotten all of my fears.

The insanity cascaded. The bar man and waiter joined in, eager to hear their own voices. "It is like magic," one of them roared. “There is an mfiti in the box!”

We smiled with satisfaction. Our magic music box was our gift to our fellow travelers; their mirth and wonderment their gift to us.

It was now midnight. I had to excuse myself because of my exhaustion and my intoxicated state. Mr. Kalindawala stood and bowed, suggesting, "just one more small drink." He reminded me once more of his invitation,

"At Forti I will find you," he promised. Mr. Ntedza insisted I stay for "just one more nightcap."

"Oh, I couldn't possibly," I said with twisted tongue.

Zikomos were exchanged all around and I was wished a pleasant sleep and safe journey. Holding on to the white washed walls for support, I found my way to my room and flopped into bed, filled with hopes that the lorry might fail us once again come morning.