exclamation, "Aaah! Aaah! What is this?"
Both became instantaneously apoplectic. Mr. Ntedza was now lying back on the sofa, holding his belly as he roared with laughter. Mr. Kalindawala was amazed. "Joseph," he said to his friend, "there you are, barking like a hyena."
"Yes, but, my friend, you must always remember that you are my junior hyena," he rolled to the floor with the cleverness of his retort.
"Oh, Mr. Tim, do that again?" they asked with bewilderment and awe.
"Oh sure, but maybe someone should sing this time," Tim suggested.
They struggled to their feet and began singing a song, one they might have learned from their grandfathers at an initiation ceremony. It was a chant, praising their own fearlessness. They began to dance as they sang, taking turns singing the lead. It, too, was contagious and was done with absolute abandonment, almost as if in reverie of their days of innocence and irresponsibility. They stopped and told the bar man to come and hear this magic machine. Mr. Ntedza suggested he bring some more beers with him when he came.
Tim rewound the recorder and the chant reappeared. Again amazement overcame the room. "Ah! Ah! I cannot believe it." Mr. Ntedza was now in a fetal position on the sofa. Mr. Kalindawala was laughing so hard he appeared to stop breathing and at one point fell to the floor of the Zomba Rest House. Tim and Marilyn swayed with the infectious merriment. By then, I was so intoxicated by the beer and the atmosphere that I had forgotten all of my fears.
The insanity cascaded. The bar man and waiter joined in, eager to hear their own voices. "It is like magic," one of them roared. “There is an mfiti in the box!”
We smiled with satisfaction. Our magic music box was our gift to our fellow travelers; their mirth and wonderment their gift to us.
It was now midnight. I had to excuse myself because of my exhaustion and my intoxicated state. Mr. Kalindawala stood and bowed, suggesting, "just one more small drink." He reminded me once more of his invitation,
"At Forti I will find you," he promised. Mr. Ntedza insisted I stay for "just one more nightcap."
"Oh, I couldn't possibly," I said with twisted tongue.
Zikomos were exchanged all around and I was wished a pleasant sleep and safe journey. Holding on to the white washed walls for support, I found my way to my room and flopped into bed, filled with hopes that the lorry might fail us once again come morning.
Chapter 4. The Fort
I had heard it would happen but still couldn't believe it. Mrs. Higgins from the Ambassador's party had told me all about it. She said, "It’s almost like a miracle. I don't know how they do it. You never hear them but the instant you awaken it is always there; a pot of steaming tea. It's scary. It's almost like they read your mind while you are asleep. But, you'll learn to love it, Dearie, once you learn that it really isn't intended to be an invasion of your privacy."
I awoke. My head was throbbing as if it was an anvil and there had been an unseen hammer at work through the night. I rolled over and put the pillow over my head. The faint smell of tea soon enveloped me. There it was on the bedside table, still steaming. A bottle of Aspro had been thoughtfully added to the tea tray.
If possible, Tim looked even worse than I felt. Marilyn spoke for him: "The little party went on a bit longer after you left. I went to bed at about one and somehow Tim felt it would be rude if he did not accept their offer to have a few more drinks back in their room. Seems they were enraptured. They just never got tired of hearing themselves on that recorder."
"Tim, old boy, I'll bet your fraternity parties never prepared you for this, did they?" I teased.
"Marilyn, do you have to rattle your spoon so loudly when you stir your coffee?"
We learned by way of an askari that Tim and Marilyn were expected at the D.C.'s office at nine. I tagged along. The D.C. was a distinguished looking man, thin, dressed in a somewhat threadbare suit, at one time clearly expensive, tailored on Seville Row while on home leave. He wore an ascot rather than a necktie and rose from his desk graciously to meet us at the midpoint of his spacious office.
"Welcome. I understand you got introduced to the night life last night," he said, giving every indication that he did not ascend to the rank of District Commissioner without learning the importance of an intelligence network. "The chaps sure do enjoy their cups when they are traveling on a government voucher," he laughed sagaciously.
It was shortly before noon. Tim and Marilyn‘s furniture had been unloaded and we said goodbye, with Tim still looking as if he needed to be put out of his pain. I was now the only passenger in the cab and insisted that Ali and his wife join me. "No, Madam, it is much better for us here," he said from his perch on his bedding sack. His wife, a woman much younger than he, was shy to the point of coyness and gave no indication she could ever expect to be involved in a decision as momentous as this. All my supplication failed, "The Memsab must ride in the cab, not good for Ali," he explained. Several miles beyond Zomba, the plateau behind us now, we began to descend the escarpment. There was a panoramic view of the alluvial plain below. The forests began to dwindle. A scattering of palm trees appeared as we reached the bottom of the escarpment. It had become hot, tropically hot.
“Memsab, we must stop here and wait for the ferry," the driver explained, pulling up behind a line of cars and lorries. "Maybe, the Memsab wants something to drink?" he asked pointing to a small shop resting atop a slope. It was hot and my head still pulsated. I hadn't eaten since breakfast and it was now two o'clock. Jordan explained that Fort Johnston was still almost two hours away and we might have a long wait for the ferry.
The shopkeeper was an Indian, comfortable with travelers of all types who found their way to his riverside monopoly. "Memsab, you look very hot. Do you want something to drink?"
A quick scan of the meager offerings on his shelf made it appear unlikely that he would have anything safe to eat. "I have Coca," he says proudly. "Only place you can get. I have brother in Rhodesia who brings me every month."
Never before in my life had the thought of a Coke been more tantalizing.
My head throbbed and I felt shaky.
"I have cold one here," he said reaching under the counter to extract a green bottle of Coca Cola from a tub, covered by rags soiled with the grime of eons of enterprise. "I get ice from fisheries. Here. Very cold. You try," he said, wiping the bottle with an only slightly less rancid cloth than the one he used to cover his cooler.
"Where are you going, Madam?"
"To Fort Johnston," I responded, after draining half the bottle in a single swig.
"On ulendo, Madam?" he asked.
“No, I am going to live there.”
"Oh very good place, Madam. Too much fish!"
I accepted the offer of another Coke. The ferry could be seen from our lookout as it approached the far side of the river. "Look down there, Madam," he said, pointing to the river's edge on the far side, to the right of the ferry landing. "Hippos, Madam. This morning you can see a whole family, I think." At this point, I was able to see what looked like a boulder in the water a few yards from the reedy riverbank. A hippo stuck up its head for air and then submerged again...a stationary dark hump breaking the flow of the swift moving river. Soon, I was able to make out the entire family,
