approval.
Chapter 11. The Khaki Dinner Party
I knew it would come. I had even predicted it would come via a loyal askari: "The District Commissioner requests the honor of your presence...." There seemed to be no way out of it, short of malaria or unconscionably bad manners. Saturday I would be dining with the D.C.
Monday morning Martin and I crossed the river to visit villages in the Mtamila area. We visited two or three, but could not find a headman in any of them. It probably didn't matter, because, as I learned very quickly, the women spoke only Chiyao and they did not understand even my most basic Chinyanja. They were primarily Muslim, their tribe having been converted by slave traders from Zanzibar a century earlier. Although they now showed no clear distinction from their Christian neighbors across the lake---they are both equally poor---I'd been told they were once quite prosperous from their participation in the slave trade. Martin and I agreed that we had looked at enough villages and that we should return to Samama to finalize the support of the headman to start our work there.
When I got home I had my first visit from the Peace Corps. Jim Archer, one of two assistant directors, had arrived with an African assistant bringing some supplies for our project. I could tell he was not pleased with my luxurious accommodations, but I chose to ignore his looks rather than to apologize for my opulence.
However, he did bring a surprise or two. In addition to laboratory supplies and other equipment for our project, he brought a red, 3-speed Schwinn, with shiny chrome fenders. On the spot, Ali offered to trade me for his Raleigh. I almost took him up on the offer, especially as it looked as if the American product might not be able to endure the African terrain but I could not at this point afford to alienate my trusty cook.
He also brought a book locker, containing about a hundred paperback books. Salvation! Having already completed the dozen or so books I had brought with me, I was overjoyed. This new supply might last me another six months. The selector had done well; it was an English major's delight, all the classics I had always thought I ought to read, but never got around to: Shakespeare, Dickens, Dostoevsky, Twain, Melville, Conrad, Hawthorne, Cervantes, Flaubert, Mailer and the Bible, all in one collection. Perhaps I would emerge in two years an educated woman.
Before he left, I reported on my rudimentary progress. He appeared satisfied. "Don't hurry," he advised. "It takes time to be accepted and we don't expect you to rush into anything." I assured him that my pace had not been thunderous and wished him well on his return to the city.
At some point, midway between the District Commissioner’s chambo mousse and his beef Wellington, the giggles erupted; by the mango crepes they had crescendoed to the point that I feared loss of bladder control.
I kept picturing an advertising agency, with cameras, lights and sound crew, capturing a typical day in the "Life of a Peace Corps Volunteer"— a documentary to be used to inspire thousands more to leave their inane and self-centered endeavors to join the Corps...to sacrifice, to serve and ultimately to make this world a better place for all.
However, in my mind the plot kept altering itself to read more like a Graham Greene novel. A scene filled with elegant paradox, interwoven with metaphors of good and evil and a leit motif of how quickly one could come to resemble the other.
My choice of apparel had been easier this time. The D.C. had made it eminently clear—by word, act and innuendo—that informality was not his strong card. When I packed, I had debated whether to bring it or not, but there I was, looking at myself in the mirror, in the same light blue A-line I had worn to the spring formal with Jeff Killian. With a string of pearls and matching earrings and a white cardigan tossed over my shoulder to protect from the evening chill, it didn't look bad.
Ali gave his final inspection, aware of the importance of the event. "It is very beautiful, Miss Susan, but you must let me iron it for you because it has some wrinkles in the back," he insisted critically.
I soon realized I had not over-dressed. The first couple I met was the Oglethorpes: she in a shimmering black silk dress with a fur stole draping her shoulders, long silver earrings dangling elegantly and he in a haute couture bush outfit. The theme for men’s apparel remained khaki—all the subtle ranges of shades from slightly greenish to pure tan—long trousers substituted for shorts as part of the evening’s formality. The elegance of the occasion was further emphasized by the mandatory ascot in a staggering array of monotones.
Oglethorpe, the khaki one of the pair, quickly reminded me that he had met me at the club, adding a gratuitous comment concerning my disheveled state at the time of my arrival.
The D.C. greeted us as we ascended the stairs to his khonde. "Oh, you folks have already caught up with each other. Jolly good. It saves me an introduction."
I still was lacking an introduction to the black-silked Oglethorpe who spoke with an accent unfamiliar to my ear. She informed me that her name was Eleni and that she was Greek. "I met Oglethorpe when he was on assignment in Athens," she explained, "and I've been following him around to all these crazy places ever since."
I wondered to myself how much longer she would have to pursue him before she learned his first name.
The other guests had already arrived. The D.C. introduced the previously-met Mr. Austin, aka Public Works, and his rather mousy wife, Sarah. He, of course, did not miss his cue, "Well, Miss Jarrett, you look a shade bit better than when we first met at the club."
I praised his keen observation and pulled my cardigan over my shoulders to fend off the coolness of the evening.
The D.C. lost no time letting me know that the Police Chief, John Burden, was unmarried and without a doubt the most desirable catch in the Fort, if not the entire District. He adorned himself in much more uniform shades of khaki, perhaps, I reasoned, a by-product of his quasi-military background. His ascot was blue, which I felt might foreshadow a hint of creativity, until he commented, "You certainly look a bit more refreshed than the last time we met."
Next, the D.C. introduced two couples as his weekend guests. The first was the Nathan Broadburys, he being a Senior Magistrate in Zomba and she an organizer of the Garden Club of Zomba which, I was soon informed, had grown to over fifty members in its mere five years of existence!
Next, the Robert Kavanaughs, he a Colonel in the King's African Rifles and she a teacher at the European School in Zomba. Neither couple had been witness to my memorable arrival at the club, so were required to limit their comments to such banalities as "hello" and "it is a pleasure to meet you."
Soon, I was aware of the others in the room. White-coated, red-fezzed bombos filtered in and out with practiced unobtrusiveness. I counted at least six and wondered whether the D.C. had left any of his native troops behind to guard the Boma. A tray appeared before me. "Would the Memsab like a shandy or a gin-and-tonic?" a voice asked. By now, I was aware that these were the official drinks of the Colonies and chose the gin-and-tonic, hoping for the advantage of liquor's more rapid onset.
The D.C. appeared not to have a female companion for the evening and I wondered whether his elegant introduction to our bachelor police chief had been a ploy, for he seemed to demonstrate an unusual attentiveness to my well being.
"Now, Susan, if you don't like what we are drinking, I can have the boys fix you something else. Scotch, Vodka or even some of that American stuff, what do you call it, Jack Daniels?"..."I hope your accommodations are working out. If you have any problems don't hesitate to call on me."... "If your boy isn't top notch let me know; there are plenty of others around," adding "sometimes these Yao can be very temperamental." I assured him that everything was working out
