to use it in front of the less sophisticated driver in order to maintain his own prestige.
Tim volunteered, "I'll ride in the back with Ali and there will be plenty of room for the two of you in the front." As Tim attempted to hoist himself up, the driver put a hand on his shoulder. Apparently the situation was serious enough for him to draw upon his English, "No Bwana, you cannot. It is not good. What if rain comes?"
Tim retreated and agreed to share the cab with us. I began to wonder if we were too easily falling into patterns that had been established long before Queen Victoria entered puberty. I also wondered what kind of magic protection from the rain Ali possesses that Tim did not. It never did dawn on our collective consciousness that the rainy season was still five months away.
The lorry lurched forward. We were off. Our knowledge of Blantyre's terrain was rudimentary at best, but it did not appear that we were heading in the right direction. The road narrowed and began to climb—an affirmation that our sense of direction was intact. The driver pulled into a small market that served one of the sprawls at the outskirts of the city.
“Mu ku pita kuti ?...Where are you going?” Tim asked.
"Oh, your Chinyanja very good, Bwana. We come here to get Ali's wife," the driver explained.
"What a manipulator!" I thought. Ali had worked the whole thing out with the driver. My cook had a very impressive network of friends and seemed to know how to use them to his advantage. The sky began to carry rose-colored hues. Any chance of making it to my assignment by nightfall descended like the sun submerging behind the mountain. The anger faded quickly; pragmatism and pride took over. Marilyn spoke my thoughts, "Gee, Susan, you are lucky to have hired such a clever fellow."
I silently agreed, wondering whether we would have to make a stop for his other wife as well.
It was dark when we arrived at Zomba. The steep plateau that provided the backdrop to the colonial town was scarcely visible. A few lights shone in the valley. We passed from the main road to a row of freshly painted brick office buildings. Our driver, Jordan, found the District Commissioner's office without difficulty.
As he left the lorry, a starched-khaki figure with red fez snapped to attention and saluted. The askari explained that the D.C. was at home but he left orders to inform him when we arrived. To us it was uncomfortable, like dropping in on the mayor and finding that he had gone home for the day and then asking they call him back to the office. Tim took command, "No. No. It's okay. We can come back in the morning. There is no need to call him tonight."
Jordan quietly let us know who was in charge, telling us that the D.C. had made arrangements for us to spend the night at the government rest house. He explained that the D.C. would meet us in the morning.
No room for negotiations on this one. Jordan quickly delivered us to the rest house---a white washed brick building, immaculate inside and out, with a staff of four or five to see to our needs. I had long since given up the notion of reaching "Forti" by nightfall. I was exhausted and the accommodations were splendid...I chose to overlook my own lack of control.
I asked Jordan what Ali and his wife would do for the night. "Not to worry, Madam," he replied, and I was confident that I truly needed not worry, as Ali did not appear to be a man without contingency plans.
Eager staff unloaded our katundu and showed us to our rooms. Soon, one of the waiters, white coat, starched and pressed to a razor edge, knocked at my door. "Madam, there are towels for your bath and we will serve you dinner in the lounge when you are ready," he said, implying that I would have to be some kind of cave dweller not to realize that a bath was a requirement prior to an evening meal in this part of the world.
“Thanks, that will be fine," I replied, adding, "I will be ready soon.”
"No hurry, Memsab," he replied. "Would you like something cold to drink?".
"Oh yes, what do you have?"
"Oh, a beer would be wonderful," I replied, fantasizing that this would be the way it would be for the next two years.
The beer was cold and after a hot shower it put me in a giddy mood. Tim and Marilyn were already in the lounge, enjoying their second round of drinks. With them were two men dressed in suits. The taller one told me that he felt very fortunate to meet me as he lived in Fort Johnston and understood that I would be living there as well. I nodded in agreement and automatically accepted the glass of beer that was offered to me. My fellow "Fortian" informed us that he was the headmaster of the secondary school and also taught mathematics. He apologized that his English was so weak, although in reality it was actually quite good. He joked that he wished he had studied it "more diligently" in school so that he could speak better. We complimented him on his English and he replied that the real problem was that he had always liked mathematics "too much.”
More beer appeared. The headmaster and his friend, a corpulent, jolly, older man approaching the zenith of his career with the Ministry of Public Work—in charge of all road construction in the Northern Region—drank rapidly and with gusto, with an apparent expectation that we would keep apace. They invited us to join them at dinner; the conversation was as robust as the beer supply.
Dinner was not completed until after 10:30, at which point our jovial fellow travelers invited us to join them in the lounge for a "nightcap or two.” I had already accepted an offer to dine with Mr. Kalindawala, the tall one, and his wife when he returned from his teaching seminar in Blantyre.
Our new friends appeared oblivious to the fact that, of the entourage of servants, only the bar man and one waiter now remained. They ordered drinks nonstop and rolled with laughter at every little joke. They wanted to know everything about America. Had we ever met President Kennedy? What did our families think about us going away for so long? Did we still have cowboys? What ever happened to our Indians? They were also eager to talk of their own country and how fortunate we were to have come in time to see their Independence.
The subject turned to music. They were familiar with Elvis Presley and Frank Sinatra, but admitted they had not heard much other American music. Tim offered to help make up for the deficit and went to his room, returning with his tape recorder.
"Ah, what is this little box?" Mr. Kalindawala asked.
"Oh, It's a tape recorder. It plays music and it can record your voice," Tim responded.
"Mr. Tim, what do you mean it can record your voice?" Mr. Ntedza slurred.
"Here, let me show you," Tim offered, placing a blank tape in the recorder. "Now, say something," he said.
Mr. Kalindawala looked at Mr. Ntedza, "You go first."
"No, you!”
A friendly argument ensued and finally Mr. Kalindawala joked to his friend,
"Well you are my senior, I guess I must respect my father."
Both men laughed, the kind of unbridled laughter seldom encountered in our sphere of the world. Mr. Ntedza, howled, slapped his knee and reached over to his friend, gripping his knee. He moved back and forth at the waist, in rhythm with his laughter and finally slumped with fatigue. His laughter was contagious and had an asylum character to it. We began to laugh, giggle, chuckle, chortle and howl with him.
Tim rewound the recorder and played back what had just transpired.
On hearing their voices, their jaws dropped in unison and they let out
