as Marmite and Bovril . . . Each, by its markings, gave indication that the Queen had given a special proclamation that she wanted this, and this alone, placed upon her table. A complete selection of the Monarch's favorite biscuits was proudly arranged on a facing shelf. In the corner there was a selection of wines, liquors and liqueurs, including one dust-covered gin with an actual picture of the Queen (or a Queen-like figure) seeming to give testimony that this was the chosen distillate that Her Majesty added to her tonic after her day's work was done.
Margaret explained, "This was the original trading post for the African Lakes Corporation. You know, Livingstone felt that trade was just as important as Christianity in the civilizing of Africa. This main part was built around 1871, I believe. The locals call it the mandala and so do we. You see, mandala actually means glasses. It seems that the first European who came out here to run it wore spectacles and the name has just stuck.
I recalled the date on the plaque at the Club and calculated that the first Mzungus had gone ten years without The Nyasa Yacht and Gymkhana Club. Now, those must have been the "bloody difficult years!"
"You must come around some night and dine with us. Do you play Scrabble? Henry and I play almost every evening after dinner. Maybe you can join us some night. We'll even allow American spellings," she added, delighted with her whimsy.
Henry appeared from the storeroom. First impressions are usually dangerous, but this one appeared safe. It was immediately clear why the Wilson's stayed at "The Fort". He appeared timid and frail, with parchment-like skin and sad drooping eyes---a man in acceptance of his own fate, a man who had gone from clerk in service of the Queen to clerk of the general store.
He was as friendly as his wife and immediately suggested that I join them for Scrabble some night. I once again expressed my enthusiasm for the idea. Mr. Wilson assured me that even though they played almost every night, they were not really experts. I was ready to believe him.
Mrs. Wilson gently instructed her newest customer on local protocol, "You have probably been told by now, we work "lakeshore hours" during the hot season. It gets bloody hot by noon. Remember, Dearie, we close from noon until four---Henry and I just go home and take a long nap after lunch---so if you need something, make sure to send your boy around early."
"Thanks, I'll remember that," I said, eager to give up the fan-cooled air of the general store for the scorching heat of the out-of-doors.
"Cheerio," Mr. Wilson said.
"Now, cheerio, don't forget about the Scrabble," Mrs. Wilson called after me.
"No, I won't," I assured her.
A row of Indian dukas lined the dusty road leading back to the center of town. Each appeared identical. Each seemed to carry the same goods: pots, pans, soap, cloth, sugar, salt and jars of candies. The expression on the face of each of the shopkeepers was identical: a practiced indifference acquired through the ages. An expression that said no European was likely to make a purchase or offer friendship. They had come to build the Kenya railroad, Mombasa to Nairobi---the famous "Lunatic Express"---and they had been unable or unwilling to leave the continent since. They were a worried lot, as well they might be, for they were the ones with the most to lose with Independence. They were in touch with their own vulnerability and acutely aware that they were tolerated but appreciated by no one, black or white. And, indeed, many Africans held the hope that the dukas and the Mercedes would be theirs following Independence.
I saw almost nothing I would ever need in any of the shops, with the exception of batteries and film. I felt no connectedness with the brown-skinned men behind the counters, who I imagined kept their wives and daughters locked up behind forbidding walls.
Africans came and went, up and down the road. I was stopped three times by young men asking, "Memsab, are you needing a cook boy?"
The post office, directly across the street from the D.C.'s office, with its bank of red postal boxes on its outside wall, was a hub of activity. Inside there were long lines at each of the five counters. The smell was dank and African; the noise loud; the activity hectic. I turned to leave, to return at a less busy time, but a woman with a baby on her back stepped from her position in line and said, "Zikomo Memsab," pushing me to the person ahead of her, a school boy who said in very correct English, "She wants you to go to the head of the queue, Madam." Like a leaf caught in the wind, I soon found myself being passed to the front of the line, in spite of my persistent protestations for equality.
The clerk greeted me, "Oh, you are the American coming to the hospital, aren't you?"
"Yes, sir," I replied, adding that I hoped to be able to open a postal box.
"Of course," he replied. "I will get the forms for you to fill out." He returned in a few minutes. Aware of the line behind me, and suspecting that the counter would undoubtedly close at noon for lunch, I suggested that I just take the forms and return back the next day when things were less busy.
"No, madam, this is something I must do," he said with officialdom and some hurt. After an additional fifteen minutes---and three separate forms each completed in triplicate, stamped and authorized with flowing signature---he said, "I must now get the Postmaster to sign this and then I will get you a key."
The line behind me waited patiently.
After several minutes the postmaster, himself, appeared. "I am happy to see you, Miss Jarrett and am hoping you like it here. I am sorry for the delay but we had some difficulty finding the key," he said proudly handing over my new key. "Mail from the United States usually comes on Tuesday and Friday, but sometimes it is delayed by a day or so. So it is best to check everyday."
"Thank you," I offered, embarrassed to hold up the line another second for chit-chat. "Thank you for all your help," I said to the clerk making my exit.
Those behind me in line smiled and gave me greetings. An old man reached out and grasped my hand. He was ancient and toothless, except for a single incisor stained brown by years of tobacco. "Thank you for coming, Memsab," he said, now holding my hand vigorously with both of his. The woman with the baby, still at the end of the line, smiled and clapped her hands, "Zikomo, Mai," she kept repeating softly.
Chapter 6. Gather Hope...Ye Who Enter Here
"Very hot, Miss Susan. Not like Blantyre." I could see flames from the wood stove in the detached brick kitchen. Sweat dripped from Ali's nose. "I was very lucky at the market today," he said proudly. "They killed a cow just today. I got there early to buy the best parts. Very nice roast for tonight and then you can make sandwiches for yourself tomorrow, but I am very worried the meat will not stay good in this heat."
I knew what he was hinting, but I was already sufficiently embarrassed by my indoor plumbing, over-sized bathtub and electricity. "It will be okay if you cover it and leave it in a cool place," I replied, indicating by my omission that I had no intention of buying a refrigerator. My God, as things were, it was going to be very difficult writing home describing my Peace Corps deprivation to my friends.
After lunch I walked to the river and watched the ferry crossings and kids playing in the river. Then I sauntered toward my two o'clock meeting. The hospital was old and crowded. It had the same low-colonial-bungalow look of the other older buildings in town. Rows of benches filled the outpatient waiting area. Hungry babies cried; others were soothed at their mothers’ breasts. Toddlers fussed and whined, tugging at their mothers’ hands for attention. Grey-haired women waited patiently.
Half of the benches were still filled; clusters of other mothers
