the smallest calf, hovering near her mother at the shoreline.
Africa was before me.
"Memsab, you look hungry. You must have a somosa. Very good. My wife makes fresh every day."
He held a plate, covered by a dainty circle of mesh, with small beads decorating the edges. The beads, with their weight, dangled over the edges of the plate, insuring the integrity of its hygienic seal. He lifted the cover and several flies escaped. He swatted them away with his free hand, "Memsab, you must try. Very good, very safe."
I succumbed. The somosa was delicious. I finished two more of the spicy Indian pastries, watching the hippos frolic as we awaited the return of the ferry.
There was no room for us on the next crossing. I found a flat stone by the river and leaned back, letting my face enjoy the full heat of the equatorial sun for the first time. Soon a swarm of boys from a nearby village surrounded me, giggling and dancing around me in their many-times patched shorts, finding me a far greater curiosity than the hippo across the river.
As we crossed the swift-moving Shire on the barge-like ferry, with its noisy diesel engine and steel cable preventing its down-river drift, Jordan spoke, "Hippo can be very dangerous. Good in water but very dangerous when they come on land. Steps on gardens and kill many peoples."
Twenty minutes further up the road, beyond a cluster of mud huts, I spotted the lake. I felt as excited as Livingstone must have been when he first "discovered" it in 1859.
"No. No." Jordan explained, "That is not the lake. That is just the small one. The lake is still coming."
We then passed through a stretch of deserted land. Jordan told me it flooded too often to build houses but that it was a good place for cows to graze in the dry season. It had a prehistoric feel. With a little imagination one could picture Australopithecans, walking upright for the first time, carrying stones in their now freed-up but still in adroit hands, while lions lurked behind the acacia trees and leopards roamed the foothills, fire yet to have been invented.
Once again, villages appeared. The clamor of a vehicle moving down the road, a plume of dust trailing, sent the ubiquitous hordes of children into fits of jumping and screaming. Once they spotted me riding in the cab, the inevitable chant began. "Mzungu!....Mzungu!....Mzungu!" There was no escaping it. I looked at my pale skin, speckled pink from the sun. I was the Mzungu.
Abruptly the dirt road gave way to asphalt. "We are here, Madam. This is Fort Johnston," Jordan explained. Large flamboyant trees canopied the road into town. The prehistoric look of Africa had disappeared. Jordan stopped the lorry at the only crossroad. Ahead was the swiftly moving river with mountains beyond. An impressive brick landmark lay ahead---Victoria Clock Tower---an intact monument to "Pax Africana". Several old cannons adorned the riverbank, a reminder that peace came with guns as well as with bibles to this land ravaged by the slave trade for decades before the arrival of the white man.
The town's post office was on the right with the District Commissioner's office on the left. An askari snapped to attention upon the arrival of a Government lorry: "Bwana Marsden not here now. Office is closed. You can find him at the cloob. He is waiting for you," he said with another stiff salute as we turned to leave.
"Jordan, what is the cloob?" I asked
"It is where the bwanas go for drink after work. It is just near." Obviously Jordon knew my new town as well as he had known Zomba. He led me to a building nestled behind the post office. He stopped short at the brick wall surrounding the building and its cracking and decaying tennis court. I approached and read on the discretely lettered sign: The Nyasa Yacht and Gymkhana Club. Beneath it, in still more distinguished gold lettering, was added, "Founded in 1881.”
I was greeted at the door by the inevitable starched and khakied guard with a faded red fez, who saluted, clicking his heels. I didn't know whether I was supposed to return the salute but was impressed with the clicking of his heels and straightness of his military posture. "I am trying to find the District Commissioner," I explained.
"Just follow that way," he said, directing me through the door he guarded so faithfully.
I edged through the entranceway, my eyes adjusting to the darkness. "I am looking for the District Commissioner," I explained once again, this time to those who might inhabit the dark oasis. As my eyes began to accommodate, I could make out a figure approaching. "Oh, and you must be Miss Jarrett," he said, adding, "We were hoping to see you yesterday," in a tone that made me begin to wonder whether I had broken etiquette by not calling ahead.
I tried to explain, "Well, you see I had to spend the night in Zomba because ..." "Well, well, those things do happen out here," he said in a soothing but rather condescending manner. "I am Ian Marsden. I'm the D.C. in this place, as I gather you have already surmised. Can I get you a drink? I'm sure you must be awfully dry after your ulendo. Mohammed, get the Memsab a drink, would you?" he said without directly addressing the bar man. "What would you care for? A gin and tonic perhaps? Or a shandy? Or a mineral water?"
I felt childish, foreign and intimidated. "What's a shandy?" I asked, attempting to continue my part of the conversation.
"Oh it's bloody delightful, especially after a long trip. It's a beer with lemonade and dash of bitters. You must give it a try."
"Okay, I'm game," I replied bravely.
"I guess you wouldn't be out here if you were afraid to try new things, would you now?" he laughed at his little joke. "Let me introduce you. Miss Jarrett, this is Mr. Oglethorpe, he's with Fisheries. Mr. Austin, here, is with Public Works and this is Mr. Burden. He's the Police Chief, so you'd best stay on the right side of him." Everyone echoed the D.C.'s laughter.
Each of them was dressed alike, khaki shorts with maize-colored knee-socks, and suede shoes. Their shirts were varying shades of khaki, making each appear as a defrocked colonel, if there is such a thing. The D.C. alone distinguished himself, with a maroon silk ascot.
"Well, welcome to the Fort, Miss Jarrett. I think you'll find it a very interesting place. You may not be aware of it, but you are standing in the oldest club in Central Africa. We no longer have any yachts and I doubt that we ever had any horses, given the bloody tsetse fly, but you can still get a bloody good cold drink."
"Mohammed. Is the Memsab's shandy coming?"
"Ready just now, Bwana Marsden. Just coming."
The drink tasted delightful and quenching. Mohammed advised me politely that the water for the ice had been boiled. "Not to worry," he said.
"Let me show you around," the D. C. suggested. Skulls of horned animals covered every wall. Pointing to a massive set of horns he stated proudly, "Largest cape buffalo ever shot in this country, maybe all of Africa! We'll never see another pair like it. Those days are gone, since the villagers have begun settling so densely all around the lake. And over here is our library. I'm not sure anyone has been in there in years but there are some pretty rare old books in there."
Turning to the bar man he asked, "Mohammed, have you seen any bwana go into the library in the last year?"
"No, Bwana. All too busy with drinking and palaver," Mohammed retorted.
Next, he guided me to the "game room." The sole reason for its existence appeared to be its snooker table---a billiard table of mammoth proportions in elegant condition. "You Americans don't play snooker do you? We'll have to teach you the game. Bloody good game and a good way to while away the hours in a place like this."
White-skulled,
