No Beer At Lundazi (Part Two)

I was relaxing - if that is the right description for sitting, exhausted after a scorching five hours of Landrovering through the Central African bush - in the lounge of the Castle Hotel, Lundazi. This is truly an astonishing building, a castle built by a German between 1949 and 1952.

The heavy wooden door swung open, "Sorry, Bwana," apologised Banda, "But there is only nshima for dinner, no meat again."

This did not come as a great surprise, I had eaten little but nshima since leaving the capital, Lusaka five days before.

"Forget it, Banda," I said "I will be eating out tonight." As Banda left he looked at me as if I had a touch of the sun, he knew as well as I did that there was no restaurant within two hundred and fifty kilometres. Nevertheless I was determined to go out, but where?

The answer came when Banda introduced a short stocky African wearing an ill fitting grey worsted suit - a more unsuitable, incongruous piece of clothing for this climate is hard to imagine.

"Bwana, this is Mr Lungu, he has a message for you from Officer Bwalya." I accepted the note, bade Mr Lungu sit down and began to read the message aloud:

Dear Mr Chris,

I note your remarks about the shortage of beer in Lundazi and have made some alternative arrangements for tonight. Please collect me at my office at 1700 hours tonight with your Land Rover and driver and we will go to the border post for a drink.

Yours faithfully,


Marcus Bwalya
Officer Commanding
Office of the President (Lundazi)

p.s. No documents required.

It occurred to me that the Gods were perhaps tired of their little joke concerning five parched days in the savanna and were now prepared to smile on me.

"Wena chella Ba Bwalya mina buya na yena pa fivey". I said to Lungu, confirming my intention to join Bwalya at five.

Shortly before five Jonathan braked outside the redstone portico of the Office of the President and I stepped out of the bush battered Land Rover to be greeted by Marcus Bwalya. "Good afternoon, Mr Chris, I am so glad you could make it," he gushed, unable to disguise the politeness and courtesy of the senior civil servant.

"I wasn't doing much this evening anyway, Marcus, the lobster hadn't arrived from Durban and the hotel cabaret has been cancelled."

My sarcasm was not lost on this well dressed, well educated, lithe son of Africa. Marcus had been apprenticed to the European officers of the Northern Rhodesian Police Force and his sense of humour was noticeably British.

We boarded the Landie and under Marcus' direction, Jonathan drove north along the rutted, potholed, crevassed track to the Malawi border post.

It took us about fifteen minutes to reach the frontier which turned out to be nothing more than two brick built huts - one in Zambia, one in Malawi. At the Zambian side Marcus introduced me to the Immigration Officer, Mr Banda.

I am very pleased to know you, sir," said Mr Banda, "you are most certainly welcome and I wish I were able to offer you a cold beer but sadly my stocks are exhausted."

At this point I had to remind myself that neither Marcus nor myself had made any reference to beer. In fact, apart from "Hello, Mr Banda" we had said very little.

Mr Banda's note said:

"Dear Mr Banda,

Please allow one Land Rover
and occupants into Malawi in
search of cold beer.

Kind Regards,

Mr Banda."

It seems that Banda is a common name in this part of Central Africa and is found on both sides of the ill defined International boundary. A number of the local tribes live in groups of villages that straddle the border and passage between the two countries is quite unrestricted.

So it was that we found ourselves at the second brick built border post with our letter of introduction from Mr Banda to Mr Banda. As it turned out this Mr Banda was the duplicate of our other Mr Banda. In manner, in speech, in appearance they were perfect doppelgangers. And there they sat, each one fifty metres east or west of the border. Each one with his set of forms, his peaked cap, his rubber stamps, each upholding the dignity of his respective Nation. Each one with the power to allow one in or allow one out.

Mr Banda was more than pleased to allow us in, never once asking those questions that usually fall from the lips of Entry Officials: "Passport please, what currencies are you carrying, how long will you be staying?" On the contrary, Mr Banda preferred the more direct, practical, helpful approach.

"We have no cold beer at the border post, gentlemen," he apologised, "but if you follow that track for thirty kilometres you will arrive at a small village with a bar that is stocked with six brands of cold beer. The bar is owned by a very close fried of mine and you will be made more than welcome."

I knew I should not have asked the next question but could not stop myself. "What is his name?" I said.

"Mr Banda!" everyone chorused gleefully.

Jonathan crashed the Land Rover into first and we were off again.

The dirt track was narrow with fairly dense foliage on both sides. The road, however, had recently been graded which allowed us to make speedy progress. Just as darkness was falling we reached the village which consisted of about twenty pole and dagga huts, a school and "Banda's Bar and Restaurant".

We entered the gloom of the crowded bar illuminated only by a forty Watt electric light bulb. The Rumba music was deafening as it spewed out of a single turntable monophonic Dansette circa 1956. I was at once excited and a little apprehensive of the sheer power of the African dancing.

It seemed that everyone in the room was dancing: men with men, women with women and more conventionally (at least to Europeans) men with women. Almost everyone held a bottle of beer and more than half the women carried babies or young children on their backs safely secured in the folds of mother's chitenge.

"Mr Chris!" cried Marcus, who had moved up to the bar, "Come and meet Mr Mwale, he is also an officer of the President - the President of Malawi."

I shook hands with a tall, very black African and we exchanged greetings at the tops of our voices. Mr Mwale bought us a bottle of cold beer each and in so doing brought our long quest, our search for the Golden Fleece, to a very satisfactory conclusion. He was to buy all the beer that night - he was the only one amongst us with any Malawi currency.

The enormity of my folly was now beginning to dawn on me. I had no money, I had exported a Government vehicle from Zambia illegally, I had no passport or other documents of identification. I began to imagine my pleading with an unsympathetic Malawi Police officer, trying to convince him that I was a British subject and could I please contact my High Commissioner.

Had I drunk less alcohol such thoughts may have filled me with dread and horror, as it was, I was prepared for anything.

The local ladies began to gather round me and were now smiling and giggling at me and each other. I quickly realised that I was the centre of attraction for the night. Every one of the coal black ladies at Banda's Bar and Restaurant wanted the dubious pleasure of dancing a Rumba with me. I find it hard to remember now but I think I danced with them all, at least that is how I like to remember it!

Many hours and many beers later our Land Rover guided us, well worn and weary, back through the Malawi bush and into Zambia. Both Messrs Banda waved cheerily at us as we passed their respective border posts.

I understand that Mr Mwale visits Lundazi for a cold beer from time to time. I only hope that he receives as much hospitality as we did in Malawi.