The Warm Heart of Africa. Kevin M. Denny
..." "Well, well, those things do happen out here," he said in a soothing but rather condescending manner. "I am Ian Marsden. I'm the D.C. in this place, as I gather you have already surmised. Can I get you a drink? I'm sure you must be awfully dry after your ulendo. Mohammed, get the Memsab a drink, would you?" he said without directly addressing the bar man. "What would you care for? A gin and tonic perhaps? Or a shandy? Or a mineral water?"
I felt childish, foreign and intimidated. "What's a shandy?" I asked, attempting to continue my part of the conversation.
"Oh it's bloody delightful, especially after a long trip. It's a beer with lemonade and dash of bitters. You must give it a try."
"Okay, I'm game," I replied bravely.
"I guess you wouldn't be out here if you were afraid to try new things, would you now?" he laughed at his little joke. "Let me introduce you. Miss Jarrett, this is Mr. Oglethorpe, he's with Fisheries. Mr. Austin, here, is with Public Works and this is Mr. Burden. He's the Police Chief, so you'd best stay on the right side of him." Everyone echoed the D.C.'s laughter.
Each of them was dressed alike, khaki shorts with maize-colored knee-socks, and suede shoes. Their shirts were varying shades of khaki, making each appear as a defrocked colonel, if there is such a thing. The D.C. alone distinguished himself, with a maroon silk ascot.
"Well, welcome to the Fort, Miss Jarrett. I think you'll find it a very interesting place. You may not be aware of it, but you are standing in the oldest club in Central Africa. We no longer have any yachts and I doubt that we ever had any horses, given the bloody tsetse fly, but you can still get a bloody good cold drink."
"Mohammed. Is the Memsab's shandy coming?"
"Ready just now, Bwana Marsden. Just coming."
The drink tasted delightful and quenching. Mohammed advised me politely that the water for the ice had been boiled. "Not to worry," he said.
"Let me show you around," the D. C. suggested. Skulls of horned animals covered every wall. Pointing to a massive set of horns he stated proudly, "Largest cape buffalo ever shot in this country, maybe all of Africa! We'll never see another pair like it. Those days are gone, since the villagers have begun settling so densely all around the lake. And over here is our library. I'm not sure anyone has been in there in years but there are some pretty rare old books in there."
Turning to the bar man he asked, "Mohammed, have you seen any bwana go into the library in the last year?"
"No, Bwana. All too busy with drinking and palaver," Mohammed retorted.
Next, he guided me to the "game room." The sole reason for its existence appeared to be its snooker table---a billiard table of mammoth proportions in elegant condition. "You Americans don't play snooker do you? We'll have to teach you the game. Bloody good game and a good way to while away the hours in a place like this."
White-skulled, dark-horned remains of all kinds of animals, large and small, adorned every wall of the game room. Photographs on the walls celebrated bygone days of the hunt. A fan above revolved slowly. The D.C. assumed my curiosity about the snooker table and proudly explained how it had been brought to the Club in 1903 on the heads of natives, taking twenty-one days to cover the distance from Blantyre to The Fort---"Bloody feat that was!"
Returning to the bar room, Marsden continued his soliloquy, "Well, Miss Jarrett, this Peace Corps thing is new to me. I must admit, I don't know too much about it, but it sounds like a bloody good idea. You know, we liked Kennedy; seemed like a reasonable kind of fellow and the kind of chap who could enjoy a good cut up. The Africans loved him too. Last week I went on ulendo to Makangila near the Portuguese border, about as far from civilization as you can get. It was amazing, the chief himself, the old Muslim, had a picture of your President---I am sorry, your former President---on the wall of his miserable little mud and wattle hut "
The others concurred enthusiastically. "Bloody good idea, this Peace Corps. I hear we are going to give the idea a blow ourselves," Public Works joined in.
"Damn good idea. Especially with all the lazy louts we have at home sitting around on the dole. Might as well put them to use out here in the bush." As expected, everyone agreed with the D.C. on that point.
"I'm sure you are curious about your accommodations," the D.C. said. "I received a letter from one of your Peace Corps blokes in Blantyre that they wanted me to find you a place to live in the civil servant lines. To be honest, no white man or woman is going to live out there while I'm the District Commissioner. Anyway, those houses are so scarce that we have people waiting for months to get one. I've found you a little roundouval just behind the Police Station. I think you will like it and I've lined up a cook for you. Used to work for the Witherspoons. Excellent chap, really."
"Bloody good fellow," Fisheries chimed in. "Does marvelous souffles!"
"Mr. Marsden, I have already obtained a cook in Blantyre," I said, finding myself using a girlish voice, fearful that I may have offended my host.
"Oh really. That's interesting," he replied.
"Yes, he seems very good." I said, "He has a wonderful chit book and says he can cook anything."
"Yes, some of these boys are bloody amazing with what they can do in the kitchen. But, I have to remind you that some of those boys from Blantyre were spoiled and they get a bit temperamental out here in the bush where they don't have as much to work with."
"Oh, I think Ali will do well. He says he is from here and that he wants to be near his village."
"Oh, a Yao. That's interesting," the D.C. said with a mysterious lifting of his right eyebrow. "That should be an adventure for you," he added, as if I had clearly made an ill-advised choice.
I had finished my drink. The D.C. said, "I am sure you are exhausted from your trip. I will have the askari take you to your quarters. They should be able to heat up some hot water for you in a few minutes. I imagine that you will not be able to unpack all your kit tonight and that your boy will have a difficult time turning out a meal for tonight. Why don't you have your bath and I'll send one of my boys back to get you. I'll tell my cook to add another chicken to the curry...God knows he's used to doing that around here."
I begged off. I suddenly felt extremely uncomfortable. I hadn't come to Africa for the "cloob." I needed space and felt smothered. "I've brought some provisions from Blantyre and I'm really exhausted. Can we do it another time, Mr. Marsden?" I said, embarrassed by my diffidence.
"Certainly. I'm sure you must be fatigued, especially after last night," he said, reinforcing the importance of old-boy communications in the bush. "And remember Miss Jarrett, the rainy season does not come around here until November. I don't want to have to wait that long for my---what do you Americans call it---rain check."
All the faded, khaki gentleman rose to their feet to wish me good night.
Chapter 5. The Mzungu
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