"The area is predominantly Yao. They are almost all Muslims, converted by the Arab slave traders that came from Zanzibar a hundred years ago. The Yao threw their lot in with the Arabs and became their middlemen. The grandfather of Chief Makangila was one of the most bloodthirsty slavers that the world had ever seen, until we put our gunboats on the lake. His prey was the pagans and Christians on this side of the lake who were defenseless against his guns and thugs. At one point, it was so bad that almost every village from here to Nkotakota was either decimated by the slavers or abandoned for fear of their attack."
I nodded my head, but could not imagine the horror of men hunting men.
"Feelings still run high at times," he added, "but the Christians and the Muslims get along reasonably well, especially since they both know which law they must follow now," he said, once again reinforcing the importance of his office, in which he apparently served as administrator, judge, enforcer of the law and minor deity. "Miss Jarrett, do be careful. Around here it is very easy to get yourself involved in some pretty messy things without much effort. The Yao are very proud and quick to show their temper but they know who is in charge now. The Nyanja are a more docile crowd, always have been. They are pretty content if they have their daily ration of nsima and ndiwo. The biggest trouble we have with them is when the maize is harvested. They always feel that they have produced a surplus, even in the worst of years, and they turn the surplus into native beer. With this mowa they get a bit wild at time---a murder here or a rape there---but they usually just stick to their villages and dance until they pass out. They're fine until the next day, when it starts again, until the beer runs out. The shame of it is that every year there are villages that run out of maize before the next harvest and those are the difficult times. The hospitals fill up with children suffering from malnutrition. But those are the lucky ones; most never make it to the hospital. There would be plenty of food most years if the men didn't leave all the hoeing to the women and if they didn't then turn the harvest into beer. Anyway, I encourage you to find a Christian village to work in. The missionaries have done a splendid job, they really have. In one of the villages where the missionaries have been you'll always find blokes, especially younger ones, who speak enough English to help you on your way. The Yao, if they get any education at all it is at the hands of the ulemu, who just teaches them how to memorize the Koran."
I nodded again.
He looked at his wristwatch, "For the first couple of days I'm sure you'll just want to settle in and get to know the place a bit. This afternoon you will be meeting Mr. Mlanga. He is the Senior Medical Assistant. We don't have a doctor here but he's bloody good. He runs the hospital, and quite frankly, although he's never been to medical school, I'd rather have him cut out my appendix than some of foreign-educated baboons I've seen come here who couldn't stand the bush for more than a month and had to get back to the big city as soon as they could. Anyway, he's expecting you and he'll show you the hospital and tell you about the people you'll be working with."
"Thanks, Mr. Marsden. I'm looking forward to seeing the hospital."
"Great. Mlanga will be expecting you about two o'clock, but he will be working on African time no doubt. Sorry I have to run. I have to get out to one of those bloody village courts and try to settle a dispute about some goats or chickens or some other ridiculous thing. Seems they have some buggers out there who still want to take on the justice part of things with their pangas.
"Thanks again," I muttered.
"Fine. Let me know if there is anything you need. Remember, although this may be Muslim territory, we still work on Fridays around here, but most of those who have Muslim boys give them half the day off. Righto, then I'm off. Perhaps I'll see you over at the Club later. And, oh, do remember, you are free to join. We have special membership rates for short-timers like yourself and I know this Peace Corps thing does not come with a lot of money. I am sure we can work something out for you."
As he accompanied me to the door, I wondered what his criterion was for "short-term." To me, two years seemed far from short. Then he asked, "Have you done some exploring around the Fort yet?"
"Not really, I'm planning to have to look around this morning."
"Well, I think you'll find the place to be in a bit of decay these days but, at one time, it was a rather grand old place. Cheerio."
I couldn't believe my ears. They still said Righto and Cheerio---just like in those old British war movies. Maybe the sun never did set on the Empire. One thing was sure, my snooker---whatever kind of English "hit-the-ball-with-a-stick" game it was---would be no more advanced when I left than it was at the moment, for I would not be joining the cloob!
I walked to the ferry and saw the Shire by daylight for the first time. It was surprisingly swift. Gigantic masses of vegetation, floating islands called sudd, drifted down the river. Teams of fisherman cast their nets from dugout canoes. Groups of villagers awaited the return of the ferry: old men carrying heavy loads on their bicycles, mothers with babies wrapped with colorful cloth on their back, and the old and infirm returning from their visits to the hospital. Children were playing everywhere. A gaggle of small boys swam and jostled each other at the river's edge. Toddlers, usurped from their position on their mother's backs or breasts, played with stones while their mothers conversed with each other, awaiting the return of the ferry.
I had not gone unnoticed. The swimming boys began their "Mzungu" chant. A barely-walking infant stared at me and then in terror broke into tears and ran in panic to the comfort of his mother. The women began to smile and laugh with each other, though seconds before the conversation had been somber.
"Moni, Amai. Muli Bwanji?" I used my flawless greeting.
The women laughed and turned their heads shyly. They returned my greeting, but also made it clear that the conversation could not go much further---they spoke Chiyao, as different from the language we'd learned as English was from Lithuanian. The universal language of infant admiration carried the moment, however. The mothers were friendly and smiling and the children soon calmed at the strange sight of a white woman. The mothers lifted their heavy loads onto their heads, their babies on their backs, and boarded the ferry, waving back, white teeth still gleaming long after the ferry churned away.
A footpath along the river carried me past the D.C.'s house, its past splendor a victim of decay and neglect. As I passed, I wondered how many ghosts of bwanas and memsabs of bygone days still haunted its decrepit halls. (Some time later the D.C. shared with me that he had no intention of spending another shilling on his residence because he was damned sure that within months of Independence there would be an African D.C. and “chickens and goats would be roaming his bougainvillea bushes”.)
Beyond the D.C.'s residence, the path opened into a broader dirt road, lined with a canopy of flamboyant trees, from which dangled huge pea-pod-shaped seeds. An ancient brick building with a metal-covered veranda occupied the far side of the road. This was the Mandala that I had heard about the night before at the club. "We're all trying to buy some of our provisions there to keep Margaret and Henry going," it had been explained to me by "Public Works.”
It was Margaret who greeted me. She and her husband had run the store for 17 years, ever since Henry retired from his civil service position. "It isn't really much," she explained, in her friendly but proper manner, "but it does keep us going. Since we really don't miss England anyway, we don't need to make enough money for home leaves."
In a way, their indifference to their homeland seemed a bit irrelevant...for they appeared to have brought England to them. One of their long shelves held an elaborate selection of jams, jellies, and preserves, the labels all proudly proclaiming their heritage..."By Appointment of Her Majesty, The Queen.” On the opposite shelf there was an equally elaborate selection of mustards, chutneys, syrups, soups, salad dressings, meat sauces, gravy mixes and heretofore-unseen-by-the-American-eye items
