I wrote last time that visiting my gardener Davison in hospital shortly after my arrival in Malawi had made me realise how privileged my life was (see “Librarian shares more Malawi memories” in the Aug. 3 edition). A tacit expatriates’ code of conduct encouraged us to recycle some of our financial benefits by employing servants on the same or better terms and conditions than were Malawian employers’ best practice.
I had arrived in Malawi in early September and had to acclimatise to a dry heat that built up unbroken until the rains came in November — October was dubbed “suicide month.”
I tried to escape my desk to eat my sandwiches at a small primary school swimming pool whenever I could: There was an open invitation to Chancellor College staff to use it. When the poolside was crowded, I drove to John M.’s apartment, a little further from Chancellor than the one allocated to Mary K., the library cataloguer I’d landed on with sunstroke.
John M. was a biologist with a dour sense of humour displayed whenever he mentioned the painters and cockroaches that came between him and his mid-day siesta. He contrasted completely with Roy, an economist with an infectious laugh, who had offered to take us to Blantyre, the country’s commercial capital, when he and his wife went on their next monthly shop.
I had noticed at the club, our main centre for socialising, that even senior lecturers were now appearing in matching jackets and shorts. I had managed to buy a white linen safari suit in England, but had not given a thought to new shorts. The two pairs I had brought with me were from my hiking days and subsequently worn while gardening in the summer.
Blantyre road
Roy gave us a running commentary the whole 40 miles to Blantyre. He told us that the Royal Engineers had cut the road through the bush to Zomba as straight as possible, climbing over several intervening hills, making it resemble a switchback. From the top of one hill you could look across the valley to the ascent to the next one.
Roy said that there were two things on the road we should be particularly aware of. If we heard some loud car-horns behind us, the president’s cavalcade was probably approaching at speed, so we should be prepared to pull over and stop. He added that cyclists were advised to throw themselves and their machines into the ditch to avoid being knocked over.
The other thing was to slow down on hilltops. If we saw black smoke belching from a “smoke lorry” about to ascend the incline ahead of us, its brakes may have been as badly maintained as its exhaust system. He’d heard that sometimes a vehicle might stop suddenly, with somebody jumping out its back to put wooden blocks behind the rear wheels. The driver would then try to rev up the engine enough to make it to the top, then stop to let the man with the blocks catch up.
The largest trucks on the road, though, were well-maintained “beer lorries” advertising Carlsberg’s Elephant lager, although doubtless carrying weaker alcoholic drinks, Coca Cola, and perhaps even Malawi gin — MGT (Malawi gin and tonic) being one of my favourite drinks.
The road ahead emerged from open countryside to a built-up area beyond a junction. “Now you can see real live ‘robots’ at work,” Roy told us, pointing to the first set of traffic lights we’d seen in Malawi, which were pitched only slightly above the level of the car roof ahead.
Shopping
In a short while, he pulled up in a car park on the edge of Blantyre, named after the Scottish birthplace of David Livingstone, whose explorations of Central Africa had led the British to declare Nyasaland their protectorate and disarm the Yao tribesmen whose guns from the Arabs had enabled them to lord it over the Chewa and lesser tribes in the area.
We all stopped for a while at a new Kandodo, which sold clothing as well as groceries. They left me there while Maggie went to a lady’s fashion store and Roy took John M. to a nearby garage selling second-hand cars. After a counter-by-counter search, I asked an assistant if they sold matching jackets and shorts and he showed me a corner where very reasonably priced sets were on sale — in my size too. I would have bought a second set if they had had them in a second colour, but decided to look again next time.
John came back looking crestfallen at the car prices he had seen. The only vehicle he liked in his price range was only three years old, but had already done 55,000 miles. He wasn’t even able to take it for a test drive as the salesman said it needed a new battery and suggested he come back next day.
Roy was not so voluble on the return to Zomba but did advise us not to stop if we got involved in an accident. We should instead report it to the nearest police station, as a curious crowd might turn into a violent mob seeking rough justice from whomever its self-appointed leader decided to blame. The safest place for a bag-snatcher caught in the act would also be the nearest police station.
The club
It was film night at the club, so I changed into my new suit and got there with just about enough time for a drink before the feature started. Some members I scarcely knew smiled at me as I sidled across to the bar. Roy joined me and we made our way to the hall.
As the lights dimmed, he whispered, “Is that the suit you bought in Blantyre? Y’know, don’t you, that those are what Malawians buy for their servants, to make sure they’re neatly dressed and to let visitors know their status in the household?” Then he added, “If you hang around afterwards the management might offer you a spare-time job,” but he had to suppress his laugh as the film was starting.
As soon as it was over, I whispered to Roy, “I don’t want to keep my cook George waiting too long — must go!” and hurried to my car.
Fortunately, the suit fitted Davison very well. I told him not to wear it while working in our garden and gave George its value in cash. Perhaps they hoped I would be shopping in Blantyre more often.
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