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
