dark-horned remains of all kinds of animals, large and small, adorned every wall of the game room. Photographs on the walls celebrated bygone days of the hunt. A fan above revolved slowly. The D.C. assumed my curiosity about the snooker table and proudly explained how it had been brought to the Club in 1903 on the heads of natives, taking twenty-one days to cover the distance from Blantyre to The Fort---"Bloody feat that was!"
Returning to the bar room, Marsden continued his soliloquy, "Well, Miss Jarrett, this Peace Corps thing is new to me. I must admit, I don't know too much about it, but it sounds like a bloody good idea. You know, we liked Kennedy; seemed like a reasonable kind of fellow and the kind of chap who could enjoy a good cut up. The Africans loved him too. Last week I went on ulendo to Makangila near the Portuguese border, about as far from civilization as you can get. It was amazing, the chief himself, the old Muslim, had a picture of your President---I am sorry, your former President---on the wall of his miserable little mud and wattle hut "
The others concurred enthusiastically. "Bloody good idea, this Peace Corps. I hear we are going to give the idea a blow ourselves," Public Works joined in.
"Damn good idea. Especially with all the lazy louts we have at home sitting around on the dole. Might as well put them to use out here in the bush." As expected, everyone agreed with the D.C. on that point.
"I'm sure you are curious about your accommodations," the D.C. said. "I received a letter from one of your Peace Corps blokes in Blantyre that they wanted me to find you a place to live in the civil servant lines. To be honest, no white man or woman is going to live out there while I'm the District Commissioner. Anyway, those houses are so scarce that we have people waiting for months to get one. I've found you a little roundouval just behind the Police Station. I think you will like it and I've lined up a cook for you. Used to work for the Witherspoons. Excellent chap, really."
"Bloody good fellow," Fisheries chimed in. "Does marvelous souffles!"
"Mr. Marsden, I have already obtained a cook in Blantyre," I said, finding myself using a girlish voice, fearful that I may have offended my host.
"Oh really. That's interesting," he replied.
"Yes, he seems very good." I said, "He has a wonderful chit book and says he can cook anything."
"Yes, some of these boys are bloody amazing with what they can do in the kitchen. But, I have to remind you that some of those boys from Blantyre were spoiled and they get a bit temperamental out here in the bush where they don't have as much to work with."
"Oh, I think Ali will do well. He says he is from here and that he wants to be near his village."
"Oh, a Yao. That's interesting," the D.C. said with a mysterious lifting of his right eyebrow. "That should be an adventure for you," he added, as if I had clearly made an ill-advised choice.
I had finished my drink. The D.C. said, "I am sure you are exhausted from your trip. I will have the askari take you to your quarters. They should be able to heat up some hot water for you in a few minutes. I imagine that you will not be able to unpack all your kit tonight and that your boy will have a difficult time turning out a meal for tonight. Why don't you have your bath and I'll send one of my boys back to get you. I'll tell my cook to add another chicken to the curry...God knows he's used to doing that around here."
I begged off. I suddenly felt extremely uncomfortable. I hadn't come to Africa for the "cloob." I needed space and felt smothered. "I've brought some provisions from Blantyre and I'm really exhausted. Can we do it another time, Mr. Marsden?" I said, embarrassed by my diffidence.
"Certainly. I'm sure you must be fatigued, especially after last night," he said, reinforcing the importance of old-boy communications in the bush. "And remember Miss Jarrett, the rainy season does not come around here until November. I don't want to have to wait that long for my---what do you Americans call it---rain check."
All the faded, khaki gentleman rose to their feet to wish me good night.
Chapter 5. The Mzungu
Jordan met me at the compound wall. He had already learned where I'd be living and had delivered my "kit". My "little roundouval" was neither little, nor round. Tin-roofed, built of white-washed brick, it was actually oval with a bedroom at either end, a sitting room in the middle and a dining area toward the rear. The back door opened to a separate kitchen, where Ali was already busy. Soon smoke curled not only from the wood stove but the water heater as well.
"Miss Susan, hot water ready in ten minutes," Ali reported, his wife having mysteriously disappeared.
"Ali, please do not trouble with dinner tonight," I pleaded.
"No madam, very easy, I am just going to cook a cheese omelet from the food from Blantyre. Tomorrow morning I will go to market."
"Here is some money, then, so you can buy things." I handed him a pound and he smiled at the confidence I had placed in him.
"Everything I buy, I write down, Miss Susan," he said with a smile that was his guarantee that he was to be trusted.
I unpacked my suitcases and examined my quarters. I looked at myself in the mirror. Tears began to well up and then ran in rivulets down my dusty cheeks. This was not what I'd expected. There was not an African living within two hundred yards of me. I felt guilty about my hot water, electricity that stayed on until eleven at night and a seventy-year-old cook who sent his wife home alone in the dark---to tend to my needs. How different would my greeting have been if I were living in a village, perhaps with a freshly-mudded and thatched hut proudly built for my arrival, with music, dancing and drinking carrying on until the morning hours? I wiped the dust and tears from my face with water that was beginning to warm.
The omelet, fried potatoes and carrots were delicious. Ali proved his mettle.
Soon I fell asleep, as a mosquito whirled annoyingly around my net-draped bed---a womb that provided, for the moment, a psychological haven from the world that surrounded me.I awoke to a knocking at the door. It was the D.C.’s askari, "Good morning, Memsab. Did you sleep well, I hope? The D.C. hopes it is your pleasure to come to his office at eight o'clock. Can I tell him that is good?"
"Certainly. Yes. Please tell him I'll be there," I replied, adjusting to the bright light of day.
Ali approached, "Look, I have some very nice fish for you, chambo." He showed me two large fishes in a bucket of water, still swimming. "One for dinner and one for now," he explained.
He served breakfast apologetically, "No tomatoes at the market this morning. I will go back again."
The chambo was filleted, fried and marvelous. The potatoes were crunchy on the outside and soft in the middle. The carrots were over-cooked, English style, but sweet and delicious.
The D.C. was dressed as the evening before, except today's ascot was green rather than maroon. "I hope you slept well."
"Wonderfully, I said, not about to admit that the sleep was miserable and the tears plentiful.
"How's that new boy of yours working out?" he asked.
"He's terrific and I've already had my first chambo. It was excellent."
"One of the joys of Mangochi!" After a pause he added, "You know you have come to a rather difficult area, don't you?" Pointing across the river and upward toward the lake he explained,
