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
