The Warm Heart of Africa. Kevin M. Denny
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.