The Warm Heart of Africa

By Kevin M. Denny

The Warm Heart of Africa, fifty years in the making, is the story of Susan, one of the first Peace Corps Volunteers. It is also the story of Peter, a ninety-two year old African who became her salvation. She meets him soon after attempting to quit the Peace Corps...but failing. Peter is at first reticent to talk of his past, for fear of opening old wounds. With time, he learns to trust and slowly shares his stories with Susan, beginning with, "My father was the first man to see Livingstone and he almost killed him!"

Later he tells her how Yao slave traders invaded his village when he was six, burning houses and killing the very old, the very young and the weak -- those who would not endure the cruel march to the Indian Ocean. He recalls the bitter memory of a slaver dragging his mother from his grasp to be sold for a sultan's harem, never to be seen again.

He then shares with Susan how he and his father were auctioned at the slave market of Zanzibar and crammed into an Arab dhow sailing to Yemen, to be sold once again, his only consolation being that his father was still with him. Two days in, a frigate fired a shot across the bow and Arabs began throwing their cargo into the sea in the grim hope of out sailing the frigate. Peter, too small to be of notice, watched in hiding as an ugly Arab hurled his father into the sea. Then a cannon shot from the frigate demasted the dhow, hurling him into the sea. Unable to swim, he survived by clutching the splintered mast until he was plucked from the sea by men in blue coat who brought him back to their frigate where he took his first step in his twenty-one years in the service of the Queen. As major domo to a young officer, Horace Smith-Dorrien, he would come to see battle against Zulus, Afridis, Pathans, Boers and Sepoys, before returning home to start a life in the service of God, a story he slowly and painfully shares with Susan, like him, a stranger in a strange land.

The author met Peter and was Susan.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eBookIt.com
• Release date: Apr 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781456604080

Book preview

Mom

Chapter 1. The Dignitaries Lounge

March 19, 1964

Wheels hit the runway with a thud and then a skid. Suddenly, the plane scooped skyward, like a fish eagle having plucked its prey. Gravity's pull sucked me to attention. My body became weak and heavy. I gasped for air. It could have been from the force or from the fright---most likely the force, as I was strangely without fear, at least, the fear of dying in a fiery conflagration. In fact, as we landed my mind jammed with thoughts of the snakes lingering in the lush, green patches below: black mambas, the fastest reptiles known to God or man, capable of out-running a horse; slit-eyed Gabon vipers hanging stealthily from trees, poised to strike at the top of their victim's head, death coming in a matter of seconds; cobras rising to their full height, flaring their hoods and spitting their venom, blinding their victim in preparation for the fatal attack. Again and again, the thought intruded: Susan, sometime in the eerie calm of the night, you will startle awake to a scaly-slithering, reptilian nightmare. In truth, at that moment, death by incineration held considerable appeal over death by venom.

Then, as we regained our altitude, a voice filled the hushed cabin. It was British, calm and understated, Bad show that. Seems that a rather slow-witted cow decided she wanted to graze on our runway. We'll give the fellows down below a few minutes to show the brainless creature that the grass really is greener on the other side of the tarmac, then, we'll give it another go.

I felt safe, the voice telling me that I was in the steady hands of a seasoned pilot, a pilot, I imagined, who had logged thousands of hours over Burma, the South Pacific or the European theater and who knew every bolt, rivet and toggle switch of his nearly indestructible old DC-8---the beast on the runway being merely a minor inconvenience on an otherwise routine East African flight.

By the time that we landed I had pushed my anxieties into the recesses of my mind. If snakes were indeed such an unthinkable menace, Nyasaland would be barren, littered with bones. I looked around at my fellow travelers, studying their faces---the twenty-nine of us who had survived the ten weeks of training. Were their doubts the same as mine? Was I doing the right thing? Would our T.B. project make any difference? Would I have what it takes?

I looked out the window and saw several men in tattered coveralls and knee-high rubber boots rolling the metal stairway to meet the plane. The door opened and warm air, smelling of burning wood and sweetly fragrant flowers, rushed in. Serpentine fears invaded once again. My stomach tightened, then rumbled. As we descended the stairway an official in a baggy brown suit, two fountain pens in his shirt pocket, approached, You are the Peace Corps, isn't it? he asked, pronouncing corps as if he were in search of the dead.

Indeed, after an inebriated ten-hour flight to Rome, a nine-hour whirlwind tour of the wonders of antiquity, followed by a ten-hour flight to Dar es Salaam and a six-hour layover passed in the sweltering airport, we might easily have been mistaken for corpses. To prove that I was living, I tried out my heretofore, untested Chinyanja, "Muli bwangi Bombo. Dili bwino?.... How are you? I am well."

My God, it seemed to work! His smile brightened and he replied, "Ah, dili bwino. Kaya inu! How wonderful! You speak our language, isn't it? Now let's have you queue up so we can make sure we have everyone accounted for."

Our greeting party was small but enthusiastic. The Peace Corps Director, Mr. Blackwell, himself only one week in the country, was there to meet his first-ever volunteers. Our official greeter, who introduced himself as Mr. Mbalume, expressed his apologies that the Minister of Health could not personally greet us, but hoped we would understand that he was required in Geneva to attend a World Health Organization meeting.

I stood shivering. I had made a huge mistake. Susan, you are not going to be able to pull off this off. It'll take more than you have to give. You're not the person you're pretending to be. You've got to tell them you can’t do it.

Mr. Mbalume collected our passports as we waited in nervous little clusters, the humidity draining the remaining body from my hair. We will expedite these through Customs for you, he said. You are our special guests. I reluctantly gave him mine. I was now a hostage without passport. Eventually, an even more official-looking gentleman, young, with perfect teeth and a perfect Oxford accent appeared. My, my. You all look so hot. It will take a brief period for you to accommodate to the climate, he said, a hint of condescension in his voice. I am Mr. Msala, Director of the Airport. Please, let me usher you into our Dignitaries Lounge.

We dutifully lined up and marched behind Mr. Msala, who appeared to be no older than any of us. We saw the sign identifying the Dignitaries Lounge and filed into the room, the Director personally guiding us to an assortment of well-worn chairs and vinyl sofas ringing the room. Soon, four white-jacketed, red-fezzed waiters appeared, carrying trays of lemonade. Our first major decision...to drink or not to drink! What to do? Refuse and risk offending our hosts? Attempt to deny our thirst as the sweat dripped from us in our now crowded and hotter-than-asphalt Dignitaries Lounge? Or risk instantaneous dysentery? Fifteen minutes on foreign soil, here we were, faced with our first, life-endangering dilemma!

Mr. Msala encouraged us to drink. Bloody long flight from Rome, you must be exhausted, he insisted, personally reaching to the tray to place the drinks in our hands. We looked at each other, each knowing what the other was thinking: Do we, or don't we?

First rule of survival, repeatedly drummed into our heads by Dr. Sloame: Never, never drink the water unless its been boiled twenty minutes and you know that it has been done exactly right! It rang in our ears like the voice of a mother warning her child never to take candy from a stranger. We quickly divided into two camps---an instant Rorschach Test. Risk-takers drank freely. The others of us feigned both gratitude and satiety, pretending to sip, as if the lemonade were sherry served at the Garden Club.

The eldest of the waiters, small, wizened and pink-eyed approached, "Memsab, it is safe to drink. I boil it myself, even the ice cubes. I have worked many years for Europeans. Don't worry, it is safe, he said in a soothing, quiet voice. My name is Ali. I am hoping maybe you will need a cook. I have my chit book and have worked for Bwana Bradley, Director of the Ministry of Works, until he went back to England last month. He has written a letter for me, Madam. He smiled, exposing filed incisors, cutting a V-shape in a perfect set of ivory teeth. Tribal marking etched his cheeks. Maybe, I can help you, Madam?" he suggested.

The old man passed quickly to another of my timid friends. I heard his soft voice, "Bwana, it is safe to drink. I boil it myself, even the ice cubes. My name is Ali. I am hoping maybe...."

Our passports having been expedited, Mr. Msala announced, Before we depart, Mr. Mbalume would like the honor of bestowing his official greeting.

I recall little of his speech, other than that he was too happy at our arrival and that the Ministry of Health was too happy to be able to wipe out T.B. and have healthy children in the village at last. He concluded saying how delighted he was that we had arrived in time to celebrate independence with them.

Perspiration trickled down my back. My hair was moist and limp, matted to my neck. Time froze and the air settled heavily on the red cement floor, that had been waxed to a high gloss---no doubt, by the same red-fezzed crew that served our drinks. Mr. Blackwell's glass was empty. Perhaps, Ali was to be trusted. It mattered little at this point as mine was now half-empty. Finally, the salutation bestowed, the door to the Dignitaries Lounge was ceremoniously flung open and we were once again in the open African air.

With effusive apologies, Mr. Mbalume informed us that our transportation had been delayed. We waited in the shade of the airport entrance. Playful boys in torn shirts and tattered shorts quickly gathered around us. We were Peace Corps Volunteers; here were the real people, at long last. It was time to communicate. Our efforts soon had the urchins rolling over on the grass, holding their bellies with laughter.

The bus, we were repeatedly assured, Is coming, just now. We waited, playing with our new friends. I wondered to myself whether I was just imagining the rumbling of my bowels or whether the lemonade had already begun to course its parasitic way through my intestines. The bus lumbered in at last. The delay was easily explained...a flat tire. Porters appeared and hoisted our luggage to the roof. We loaded our weary bodies into the bus but encountered yet another incomprehensible delay, as the driver and Mr. Mbalume engaged in animated, and, at times, heated conversation. There must have been a problem, but, clearly, we were not to have been troubled by it all.

By now the sky had pinkened at its rim. We were under way at last. The paved roads that proudly encircled the airport quickly turned to gravel. The smell of small fires, preparing evening meals, intensified as we approached the city. A few miles along, the bus began to wobble unevenly, then lurched to a stop at the side of the road. Our driver got out and walked to the rear. The hiss of escaping air told the story. He returned to the bus. I am too sorry. We have a flat. He shook his head and added the rest of the story, I told them I should not take the Europeans for lack of a spare.

His embarrassment turned to laughter as his passengers were given a second opportunity to use their prepackaged, endlessly rehearsed, Chinyanja phrases. The chorus was immediate and sympathetic: Ah! Ah! Bombo. Osadandaula. Zagwa zatha!.....Oh, Sir. Don't worry. Spilt milk is spilt milk!"

His laughter exploded. Ours cascaded. We had arrived.

Chapter 2. Negotiations

Our 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."

Chapter 3. First Encounters

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,