Across the Wide Zambezi: A Doctor's Life in Africa

by Warren Durrant

  Not all Africans exhibited the charming manners of the old lady (or, for that matter, the community sister). One such was Mr Chipembere, who was as cheeky as his namesake, the rhinoceros. He succeeded the dignified Mr Kazembe as health inspector in the district. Under the new system he was supposed to send his reports through me, so that I should at least know what was going on in my parish. (Incidentally, this included the building of the special pit latrines and protected wells I had seen the need for in Umvuma days, and were evidently in the pipe-line even then, only awaiting the conditions to install them: both local inventions which represented yet more of this country’s contributions to world health.) Mr Chipembere continued to send his reports up the vertical channels of the old system. To my request, he replied that I would not understand them anyway.

  He also appropriated one of our precious vehicles to his own personal use. This he was entitled to use for his work, but was supposed to park in its proper place outside the hospital at the end of each day. The van was more usually parked outside Mr Chimpembere’s own house, and on Saturday mornings could be seen outside the stores, as his wife did her weekly shopping. I had to bring in the guns of the provincial medical officer to get Mr Chipembere to conform, sometimes for as long as a week together, before he reverted to his old ways again.

  Then came the school health programme. It was planned to appoint a ‘health officer’ in each primary school, and one of the staff was selected for training. First aid kits were supplied by the pharmacist, but unfortunately, on the opening day, the kits were not ready. Mr Chipembere recognised my departmental responsibility in this matter, at least, and informed me on the telephone that such shortcomings ‘created a bad impression’.

  Finally, he compromised in the matter of his reports to the extent of sending me copies, at least, affording me the pleasure of collecting his most priceless effort in my experience. This one went to the secretary for health, no less, not only over my head, but that of the PMO. Its contents showed that Mr Chipembere was no more overawed by the head of the service than he was by a mere DMO. He had been to a conference of his kind in Zambia, and informed the secretary that arrangements at the Zimbabwean end ‘left much to be desired’ and ‘compared unfavourably’ with those at the Zambian end (and may well have ‘created a bad impression’, for all I remember). I wondered how the secretary (who was the man who ordered out the pensioners, and was not known to be deficient in a proper sense of what was due to him) received that on his desk. I was reminded of the ‘educated expressions’ of Mr Cudjo (another health inspector), in Ghana, and wondered whether the secretary took them as coolly as Amos.

  Committees sprang up like mushrooms overnight, which held meetings - too many of both for my liking. First was our own little government, the district health executive, of which I was prime minister, which included the district nursing officer (another new appointment), as well as the redoubtable Mr Chipembere. This met once a week; and once a month, or less often, as time went by, we called a regular little parliament: the district health team, which drew members from all over the district, including from other government departments, and even little old men of rural functions, who had to have much of the proceedings interpreted for them. All this at government expense, of course, under the formula, T and S: transport and subsistence, which with the workshops was all very good business for the Nilton Hotel. Indeed, hotels throughout the country were doing very well out of the government at that time: whether they are still, I do not know. And the minutes of all meetings were taken by the hospital chief clerk, Mr Sibanda, who always concluded his record with the ambiguous formula: ‘Having nothing to say, the meeting closed.’

  And the next level up the pyramid was the provincial meeting, which was called every three months or so at Gwelo, and included an overnight stay for delegates at the Midlands Hotel, where the conference was held. This began in generous and inclusive proportions - up to a hundred people - but was later scaled down to DMOs alone and the main provincial officers, and held in the PMO’s office: a much duller affair than the earlier occasions, which had given scope to some colourful characters, including the American lady, a sister from some remote mission, who seemed not to have used the English language from one occasion to another, to judge by the extent she indulged in it, like a thirsty traveller at an oasis, at the provincial meetings. On one occasion, I heard a stage whisper from the platform, addressed to the chairman: ‘Can’t you shut her up?’ But most colourful of all was Dr Rossi of Gokwe.

  Dr Rossi was a priest as well as a doctor: I believe he was priest at Gokwe until he decided to be of more practical use to his flock, and returned to his native Argentina to train as a doctor. Now Gokwe was the largest and poorest district, not only in the province, but in the country. It must have been the size of Yorkshire: certainly a hundred miles across in all directions; and the population even then must have been nearly 300,000. I once visited Gokwe, when looking for a likely district, and I must say it cowed even my independent spirit. The Tb officer at the time, who read my mind only too well, informed me: ‘There’s lots of marriageable girls at Gokwe, if you like them with rings in their noses.’ After my visit, I described the ‘town’ itself as ‘a scout camp on the moon’.

  None of this frightened Dr Rossi: this was what he had come to Africa for. Even the absence of electric light in the whole town, with the sole exception of the operating theatre, did not affect the noiseless tenour of his way: like the locals, he got up with the sun and went to bed with it. If he wanted to read - and I imagine his reading was confined to his medical books and his breviary, or something equally devout - he used the operating theatre, when he was not using it for its usual purpose, which I am sure was pretty often. There was a club in Gokwe, used energetically by such ordinary mortals as Internal Affairs and police, but not by Dr Rossi, who neither smoke nor drank, and in his personal habits, generally resembled Field Marshal Montgomery.

  I once remarked to him: ‘You must belong to the Holy Army of Martyrs.’

  ‘I am not a martyr,’ crisply replied Dr Rossi. ‘I enjoy it.’

  But his greatest moments came when he rose before a hundred people at the provincial meetings to plead on behalf of his long-suffering district. I don’t know why it is that unfortunate circumstances give rise to amusement: who can resist a smile at the name of Hogglestock (which Trollope obviously, if unconsciously, intended to provoke) and its perpetual curate, of whom Dr Rossi was the happier equivalent? But there is no doubt but when Dr Rossi delivered his pleas in his passionate Latin voice, the name of ‘Gokwe’ never failed to be drowned in waves of vulgar laughter.

  Then Dr Rossi returned to Argentina for a year on a sabbatical of some kind. When he came back, something drastic had happened to Gokwe. His prayers had been more than answered: ‘development’ had taken place. There were no less than two banks, a garage, and a supermarket in the main square (which had never been called that before). So far from the nights being candlelit and silent, they positively throbbed with electric light, as did the air from half a dozen discos. Dr Rossi must have thought he had returned to Sodom and Gomorrah rolled into one. A profound convulsion was felt by his friends to take place in his soul. This was not what he had come to Africa for. Soon after his return, he put in for and obtained a lateral transfer to Nkayi, in the wilds of Matabeleland.

  Meanwhile, the new game of Marxism-Leninism spread its merry circle. Africans are not children, but they do retain the happy gift of reductio ad absurdum, which the Irish and Italians used to have, until they got so sad that even their trains ran on time. This being Africa, there was going to be no nonsense about all animals being equal. It is true that the jolly fashion, ‘comrade’, flourished like flying ants after rain - rather sadly displacing (for a time, anyway) the graceful old forms of baba - father, or sir; amai - mother, or madam; sekuru - grandfather, or venerable sir, etc; whose family origins imbued them with a respect devoid of all servility. And, as often as not, the insultingly familiar edge was
taken off the term by its transformation into macomrade, which roughly translates as ‘comrade sir’, as happened in Poland with pan towarzysz - lord comrade (trust the Poles not to spare the glory!). But people like our friends, the administrator and the mayor, acquired the curious title, ‘chef’, from somewhere, apparently ignorant of its origins in the kitchen.

  (Incidentally, ‘comrade’ took a temporary dip in Shabani, when some wicked European spread the rumour that it was Russian for ‘Kaffir’.)

  Then somebody got the Maoist idea that it would be a good thing for white-collar workers to do a spot of manual work.

  This did not go down very well with the people concerned. ‘White collar’ in Africa means just that, and on his first day, your African clerk turns up in white collar and tie and long trousers. Let the Murungu (white man) dress as if he were out shooting in the bundu: in town, the educated African dressed for town; and in these garments, he does not anticipate any task which requires him to shed them. His parents did not save their hard-earned dollars to send their little boy to school for any pick and shovel nonsense. (Strangely enough, the women were not included in this barbaric plan, although they do most of the manual work in Africa - perhaps for that reason; or the experimenters were rightly afraid of the Women’s League.)

  Nevertheless, in the first (and last) experiment, volunteers were called for. Volunteering in Africa tends to take a military form - the three ‘U’s’, well-known to British soldiers - and the administrator’s people (as he was running the show) outnumbered the others. The administrator, himself, incidentally, confined his participation to turning up in his Land Rover and instructing Mr Sango, of the Public Works Department, who was directing the actual work, to ‘carry on’, in an officer-like manner (the administrator, I mean; not Mr Sango). There were only two volunteers from the medical department: myself, probably looking for material for letters home (or ‘England’, as I should say, as Terry was now encouraging me to call Zimbabwe ‘home’); and Phineas, the mortuary attendant - an unpopular job, usually held by foreigners such as Malawians or Mozambicans (like him), who felt insecure about their position in the country. Needless, to say, we got nobody from the private sector.

  In short, we were supposed to dig a ditch to carry a water-pipe to a school, and again needless to say, I was the only white man in the line. It was Saturday morning. We were working beside the Selukwe road, and from time to time, Europeans, on their way to fishing, would pass in their vehicles, and they must have wondered what the government doctor was doing, swinging a pick in a gang of blacks, with another black man standing over him - a position that used to be filled by ‘Dutchmen’ - and what the doctor had done to get there. As they preserved a discreet silence on the subject, I do not know, although I told the story with great glee in the club afterwards.

  Work started as usual at 8am, and by nine o’ clock, the workers were feeling hungry. None of them except myself had had breakfast, rather expecting the government to provide. The voluntary principle is not a part of African culture: helping your neighbour build his house, yes; but as an abstract concept, no. Mr Sango looked unhappy. As the only one with any access to food, I volunteered to go back to the hospital for bread, which I duly did, although Rhoda, the cook, parted with it very unhappily, not surprisingly - she had to account for it. And to round off the morning’s activities (which ended at twelve midday, sharp), Mr Sango, the good fellow, gave them all doro (or maize beer) at a local tavern.

  All in all, the experiment was voted not a good thing. I don’t know what was said in the councils of the local soviet, but it was never repeated.

  Alas, an idealistic effort of my own also fell flat. There used to be a saying (no doubt, still is), WAWA - West Africa wins again - which could be extended to the whole continent, as I have more than once shown in these pages.

  The rural hospital at Lundi, seven miles outside town, seemed to be outliving its purpose. It started life as the original African hospital, but when the new black wards were built at the main hospital, some time in the fifties, it fell into a sort of sleepy desuetude. Twenty miles out in the country, it would have been another thing. In short, more than half the beds were empty.

  It was an irrational tradition, which I unthinkingly continued, for the doctor to visit the place once a week; when apart from my usual activities, I would deposit a certain quantity of reading matter, including the Spectator and the Sunday Telegraph, which were sent out to me. If this sounds like caviare to the general, I should explain that any African peasant who can read will read anything like a hungry man: I have even seen them studying the chairman’s annual report of Barclay’s Unit Trusts, I’d thought I’d thrown away. At Umvuma, when I got rid of some old books (mostly dictionaries), the nurses formed a rugby maul round them: at Shabani, I donated them to the African library. And any music too was welcome. When I replaced my LPs (which I usually did on UK leave, few being obtainable in Rhodesia or Zimbabwe), I would give them to Anderson to play on his old record player. I used to wish Smithy would pass his kaya with a United Nations delegation, while Anderson was listening to a Mozart piano concerto, and be able to talk about the most cultured as well as the happiest Africans - and make me minister of health, maybe; or, more acceptably, double my pension from high-power to low-power microscopic size. (Though that is not fair to Smithy: it was Mugabe who shrunk the dollars.) But all this is not the idealism I am referring to.

  In the town of Shabani, as in all African towns, were a number of homeless beggars, who hung around the bus terminus, living on, and in, God knows what - certainly under the sun and the rain and the cold of winter. From time to time, one of these ragged, half-starved creatures would be admitted to the hospital, suffering from Tb, pellagra, and what-not, and sometimes all together. After they were bathed, clothed, and cured, arose the problem of what to do with them. If, or when, they drifted back to the bus terminus, sure enough they would reappear in the hospital in six months’ time, if only in the mortuary. I decided to give these people a permanent sanctuary at Lundi hospital, and even bragged about my plan at the provincial meeting, and invited other districts to send their huddled masses there too.

  Alas, in case after case, I was to discover, like Dr Patel at Samreboi, it had all been a disastrous failure. After a week or two, the beneficiaries disappeared. Three square meals a day, a clean warm bed, decent clothing, to say nothing of the Spectator and the Sunday Telegraph, were not enough to compensate these town mice for the bright lights of the bus terminus. The country life was JUST TOO QUIET.

  Then word came that the provincial governor was coming to town, and would meet the local worthies and loyal citizens. The venue was to be the assembly hall of the largest mine township. For fairly obvious reasons, I did not anticipate a plumed hat and tea on the lawn: less obvious to the reader will be the fact that the governor, as well as representing the head of state, was a cardinal party gauleiter. And, for good reasons, I was the only white to turn up - I was by now the only one left in the town in government service, or, at any rate, head of department. Jock, needless to say, felt no obligation in the matter. (In any case, his department was still officially Belingwe.) Nor was any obligation felt by any of the private sector. Nor should they. You can’t mix loyalty with politics and expect it to stay in place.

  What occurred was more like the Munich Bierkeller than anything on a lawn. The hall was lined by the party Jugend, and the loyal citizens stood in patient rows, with myself as prominent in the front one as the proverbial sore thumb. We faced the stage, on which was a table, the usual supply of water, and a row of chairs, none of which was intended for the likes of me.

  After the usual hour’s wait, beyond the laughingly appointed time, the governor entered, followed by his entourage, including our friends, the administrator and the mayor (who had not yet received their marching orders): all the by now familiar local slave-figures, who seemed to have been painted black in Moscow; the totalitarian look or smell being as typical as the more wholesome Chu
rch of England one referred to some time before. The governor shook his fist in the black power salute, and shouted: ‘Pamberi ne Zanu!’ (Forward Zanu - the Party), and the loyal (or prudent) citizens shook theirs and replied : ‘Pamberi!’ - all except the doctor, that is, who began to look like a sorer thumb.

  The governor spoke, ‘rousing the meeting to enthusiasm’ (or a good imitation of it), with lots more ‘Pamberis’ and as many ‘Pasi ne dissidents!’ (Down with dissidents, which referred to Mr Nkomo and his friends, their leader not then having kissed and made up with the leader of Zanu), to which the loyal citizens echoed: ‘Pasi ne!’ I continued to stick out as before.

  Before long, the governor (who would have needed to be pretty short-sighted not to) had noticed me. He came down from the stage, especially for my benefit (which did not flatter me a bit), and started dancing up and down in front of me, and shouting ‘Pamberi!’ at me, which moved me no more than the echoing ‘Pamberis’ around me. I stood with my hands crossed over my flies and stared through his boiling eyes, thinking, not so much of England, as of my late father, a man of independent spirit, and what he would have thought and done.

  The ancestral spirit came to my aid - with a bit of my native cheek thrown in. I calmly looked at my watch and informed the man next to me - a reasonable chap, with whom I had had some conversation before, and whose ‘Pamberis’ were not so enthusiastic as to prevent him from hearing me - that I had that old excuse, a critical case at the hospital. I then walked away, without saying ‘bye-bye’ to the governor. The party youths at the door looked very black, in more ways than one, but let me through, tamely enough.