Something About Mary

A few months ago an American backpacker called Mary visited me in Chimoio as travellers sometimes do. She was tall and heavily built with her hair closely cropped similar to an American marine. She arrived with her backpack and a huge grin and was well over 70 years old.

Mary made herself at home and took a particular interest in the kitchen much to the disapproval of our domestic worker Mai Zuze who considered the kitchen her domain. Mai Zuze stood back appalled with Mary who busied herself defrosting the fridge and scrubbing the work surfaces. When Mary turned her hand to the cooking it beacame too much for Mai Zuze and she retired to her quarters simmering with indignant rage.

With Mary firmly installed in the kitchen we were soon treated to enormous dishes of mutton and chicken which she lovingly stirred into appetizing casseroles spiced with all sorts of interesting flavours. I was slightly concerned by Mary's appetite, it appeared gargantuan and so was my disbelief as I watched her pile her plate high with huge helpings of seconds and thirds. "Mary has been starving in Africa" I confided to Pat over the cell phone. One afternoon as she munched her way through a bag of twelve crispy red apples she told me a little about her life in America. She was extremely well educated and knowledgeable, a teacher who had been married to a doctor who was unfaithful.

They had produced three sons whom she detested and said her daughter in laws were evil and unbearable. Disenchanted with her life in America she packed everything up and decided to travel to Africa in search of a brand new life and a brand new family that would appreciate her and take good care of her.

In Zambia, she had camped in an African Village and befriended a young African boy in his early twenties called Adrian. Through allocating him and his family a substantial portion of her pension cheque each month she retained him as a companion or an adopted son. "Adrian will look after me when I am too old to look after myself " she assured me. I tried very hard not to look sceptical.

As my waistline thickened with all the delicious food. Mary prepared for her trip to Malawi. She called upon the services of Victor our gardener to help her negotiate shappas, show her where to shop and guide her through the market in Chimoio. Obviously Victor was generously rewarded for each day he accompanied her and this obviously did not escape the attention of our driver Albert.

One morning I bounced happily down the stairs ready to face the day. Not hearing the usual buzz of activity like land rovers trying to start and cheerful good mornings I kicked open the kitchen door to find nobody in attendance. It seemed Mai Zuze and I were the only ones present.. "Where is everyone?" I asked Mai Zuze. She was still sulking that I had let Mary invade the kitchen so turned her face to the wall and threw her hands in the air.

Questioning Albert's wife it was revealed that Victor with his over generous earnings had been persuaded to treat everyone to a party at the local beer hall as a popular Mozambican band were scheduled to play. Unfortunately for me and the horses nobody had made it home.

So, not wasting anymore time I bundled a fuming Mai Zuze into the back of the landrover to help me with the feeding, a mammoth task. On my return there was a crowd gathered to greet me. Albert and Victor had now returned. Their evening of revelry had turned into a nightmare extravaganza. Albert had been availed of his wallet, passport and driving licence.

I was summoned in to his house. Albert lay facedown on his bed sobbing uncontrollably, still dressed in his white, flashy disco gear.. His family stood solemnly by his bed their eyes downcast. I wasn't sure what was expected of me so I gave him a tentative pat on the back but had to recoil from the liquour fumes .My back rubbing did not seem to have the desired effect and Albert sobbed louder than ever, Victor stood outside holding his head. It was obvious I was meant to say something so I cleared my throat and lectured sternly.

"Well Albert this is what happens when you get so drunk. You have lost your identity in a foreign country”. His whole family began to mourn the loss of Albert's documents and I could not be heard above the wailing. I beat a hasty retreat and instructed Mai Zuze to dispense a liberal amount of dissolvable aspirin all round. 

Mary of course did not understand the full consequence of her generosity to Victor and of course who would expect her to. Misplaced kindness in Africa often leads to unintentional cruelty. The impossibility of not being able to get a passport in your own country can not be understood by people who have not experienced the situation. I really enjoyed Mary's intelligent conversation and her delicious meals but I was slightly relieved on behalf of my work force when she finally packed up, jumped on a bus with a large hamper of food and headed for Malawi never to bee seen again, or so I thought.

A month later I accompanied a friend on a lightening tour to Blantyre. We stopped at Doogles Backpackers to have a drink and a snack. As I was studying the menu board a tall figure strode past. I did a double take it was Mary. She had shaved her head entirely but was still recognizable. I invited her to join us. She arrived with a blanket over her head to keep out the evening chill. "I have lost Adrian she moaned. I paid for him to come up to Malawi and I haven't seen him for more than ten minutes. He spends no time with me at all now".

I patted her hand in sympathy as she slugged back a large glass of something really awful that smelt like surgical sprits. She offered me a sip but I hastily declined. "Mary" I enquired curiously "Have you had a lot of fun while you have been in Malawi." "Well Honey" she drawled in her rich southern accent ”If you call being laid in my tent fun, then I definitely have had it". She slapped her thigh and gave a raucous cackle leering at the young backpackers round the table.

I must conclude by telling you that most of the young men round the table made a frantic exit. I closed my mouth which was open in shock and took a cautious sip of my wine. On my return I was met by the Gorgeous Kate. Darling I informed her if I ever take up backpacking at 70 please will you institutionalize me!

If my stories make you smile please pass them on to other displaced Zimbos just like me.