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Pohutukawa--the New Zealand Christmas Tree--is a large spreading tree with gnarled trunks and branches growing to 25 meters (80ft) in height. It is a tree of Northern coastal places. Its flowers are produced in great abundance about the middle of December.
The Company Agent.
Austrian-born, Peter Wolfe, not his real name, was a dag, a wag, a rake, a roue, a bloody character--all of those things--a man whose main goal in life was to add women to his album of conquests, and he was not at all choosy about the kind of women he added. As a secondary vocation, operating out of Kenya, he represented a number of American and British electrical and radio communication equipment manufacturers in East Africa, my company being one of them.
I forget how it was Peter happened to represent us. East African agents came and went in the ‘70's. Mostly they went. When the despot dictator of Uganda, Idi Amin Dada, exiled the Asians, the people who ran things, and knocked off something like 300,000 of his own people, most of them from the educated classes, the agents fled. Around the same time, Tanzania’s president, Julius Nyerere, by flirting with Chinese communism in the guise of an experiment he called Ujamas, a concept that was supposed to meld socialism with tribal government, sent the country’s economy spiraling disastrously downward. The agents left. Shortly afterwards, the Mozambique Liberation Pront, the Frelimo, I believe it was called, had launched the war for independence against the Portuguese colonists. The agents departed. Meanwhile Peter had chosen Kenya to operate from. It was the only country in the region, he said, that, in independence, had continued a measure of political stability.
I had corresponded with Peter, but had not met him. A letter from him changed that. The Tanzanian army was about to issue a tender for 300 military-type manpack SSB radio transceivers, he wrote, but tenders would be accepted only from those manufacturers who first demonstrated the equipment to the total satisfaction of the army. My presence would be needed. Would I come? He enclosed the specifications, which, I saw, could have been written around our equipment.
I mulled over the proposal. Tanzania was broke, but governments always found money to spend on military equipment. The British company, Racal, was firmly established in the East Africa, but our equipment used the latest in CMOS integrated circuit synthesizers, which meant that it was smaller, lighter, and considerably easier on batteries--a most important characteristic in a back-carried radio. We stood a chance. A contract with the Tanzanian army could be the opening I needed to penetrate the African market.
I phoned the travel agency. An hour later I telexed Peter that I would arrive in Nairobi in ten days time.
Not having changed my mind overnight, the next morning I air freighted the demonstration equipment to Dar es Salaam via Nairobi, addressing it to the army in accordance with Peter’s instructions, to avoid taking it through the Tanzanian Customs.
On the plane, I wondered how I would feel about Peter. Hitler was an Austrian; I had served five years in World War II. But I took to him immediately. He stood about 5' 6", he was dark-haired, he was softly spoken, and he carried my suitcase to his car.
The equipment had not arrived in Dar es Salaam, Peter told me on the way to the hotel.
It should have arrived five days ago! I protested, and the demo was the day after tomorrow, had he forgotten?
Not to worry, he said, the airline had the matter in hand.
Which air line? I asked, dreading the answer.
East African.
No!
But Peter’s quiet confidence was infectious and I told myself to take it easy. There was nothing I could do about it that late in the day, anyhow.
Peter saw me checked into the hotel. He would return at seven, he said, to take me out to dinner.
The moment he left, my worry returned. I quelled it with a twenty-minute stop at the bar on the way to my room.
I forget the name of the hotel. It was a low, two-storied open-verandahed, wooden structure built around a palm and garden-filled courtyard. The waiters wore tuxedos and fans whirred over the bar and restaurant areas. My kind of place. Alas, it’s probably been modernized, which means that it will have been replaced with a glass and concrete box.
A downside to English-built hotels, however, was, and often still is, the primitive plumbing, but my quarters had been modernized to include an excellent shower and ample hot water. I shaved and showered.
A sharp rap on the door interrupted my dressing. I checked my watch. Twenty to seven. Peter had said seven. Did his early arrival mean news of the equipment, I wondered, slipping into my trousers.
It was not Peter at the door, however, but two sari-clad women, a tall one, perhaps in her mid-twenties, and shorter one, perhaps in her mid-thirties. They seemed as surprised to see me as I was to see them. The shorter one recovered first.
You not Mr. Smith, she said, eyeing me accusingly.
I cautiously agreed that I was not Mr. Smith.
She tried to peer past me into the room. He not here? she said.
I assured her that no Mr. Smith was in my room.
No one else here? she asked, again peering into the room.
No, no one else is here, I said.
She continued to peer past me.
A suspicion dawned on me, confirmed with her next question, which was, You married?
I told her that I was married.
Your wife–she is here?
She’s in America, I answered, awaiting the punch line, which was not long in coming.
Then you like nice Pakistani woman for tonight, yes?
So!
Thank you, but no, I said.
She must have thought that I was an acrobat, for she then suggested that I could have the two of them.
I told her no again and quickly closed the door lest she make an offer I couldn’t resist, and hurried to finish dressing.
Peter was waiting in the lobby. In his car on the way to the restaurant, I told him about my visitors.
His reaction was most extraordinary. He made a squealing U-turn, to the ire of the on-coming traffic, and sped back to the hotel with a fury that alarmed me.
I’ve never had a Pakistani, he said by way of explanation, as we neared the hotel, giving me a first insight into a side of his character I would never have imagined.
We found no sign of them and I was not sorry. I had envisaged having to give up my room for the night while Peter added Pakistanis to his album of women.
The next morning we drove to the East African Airlines cargo office. The clerk triumphantly greeted us with news of the shipment. It had been off-shipped in London, he said. It would now arrive in Dar es Salaam the evening of the day after tomorrow.
But we’re scheduled to make the demo tomorrow, I reminded Peter.
Not to worry, Peter said. I’ll ring Dar es Salaam. Colonel Mabutu's a friend of mine. I'll explain what’s happened.
But ringing up Dar es Salaam from Nairobi in the days before satellites, was no ordinary thing. Peter put the call through from the telegraph office. We waited. An hour. Two hours. Anytime soon, the operator said. Three hours.
My watch said two o’clock. Our plane to Dar es Salaam was due to leave at three. I asked the telephone operator what time it was. Two o’clock, she said.
Peter, we’ve the plane to catch, I reminded him.
There’s no point in going if the equipment’s not there, Peter said. We’ll fly out tomorrow.
Now I knew why Hitler lost the war.
Three days later, on the news that the shipment had arrived in Dar es Salaam, we flew out.
I must say this for Peter, he chose nice hotels. The Dar es Salaam hotel was a one-storied version of the Nairobi hotel. A problem arose, however, when we checked in. As we had not arrived on the evening we should have, our rooms had been given to a couple of Chinese military men.
You will find rooms for us somewhere else, Peter demanded of the desk clerk.
Sorry, sir, but that is not possible. Everywhere is full. Many Chinese in Dar es Salaam at the moment.
Not to worry, I told Peter, We’ll sleep in the street.
Peter borrowed the telephone and spoke in French to someone named Yvonne. My French, which I had learned while stationed in Algiers during the war, ran to, “Villy voo promenade avec moi, mademoiselle?” Regrettably, it wasn’t up to deciphering Peter’s.
He’ll fix up something, I told myself, my confidence in him as yet undiminished, and he did. Yvonne arrived in her little Renault and took Peter home with her, and I slept on a couch under a whirring fan in the hotel lobby.
Next morning Peter took me to meet Colonel Mabutu, who greeted me warmly and apologized for my night’s accommodation. We drank tea and chitchatted.
Stuff the chitchat!--where’s the bloody equipment? I wanted to shout.
Customs hadn’t released it yet, I learned forty minutes later, but not to worry, the colonel had a friend in a high place, who would hurry things along. Meanwhile, he had rescheduled the demo for the next day. In the meantime, enjoy Dar es Salaam, he suggested.
As it turned out, I did enjoy it; it was a pleasant enough city, and for $20 slipped across the counter, the clerk found me a nice room.
The next morning we returned by taxi to Colonel Mabutu’s office.
Colonel Mabutu had been called away, his aide told us.
When do you expect him back? Peter asked.
Urgent matter, the aide said.
Did he get the equipment from customs? I asked.
Equipment...?
The radios for the demo.
Demo...?
Not to worry, I told Peter in the taxi on the way back to the hotel, I’ll go on safari. Maybe I can bag a lion.
That evening, while I was sitting alone at a table in the bar, I was joined by Yvonne. Peter, she said, he is in his room, yes?
Well... err... why, hello, Yvonne. Pardon my manners. You will join me in a drink? I said.
A white wine, she said, ordering it herself from the waiter.
Peter, she said, he is in his room, yes?
I think he stepped out, I said.
She peered at me over her glass.
I think no, she said.
She finished her wine and stood.
You tell Peter, he comes to my place, I kill him dead, she said.
I loved her accent.
When he came to the hotel next morning, I said to him, Peter, Yvonne was here last night.
He blanched. You told her I’d gone back to Nairobi, I hope?
No one told me you had gone back to Nairobi, Peter, I answered. Now, when is something going to happen? Have you contacted Mabutu?
Four days later we ran the demo, which was successful. On the way back to the hotel, Peter asked the taxi driver to drop him off at a residence on the edge of town.
Peter, I said, before you leave this bloody taxi, we need to discuss getting out of here.
I’ll meet you in the hotel bar at seven, he said.
The airline office was three blocks from the hotel. There was a flight back to Nairobi at eight that evening, I learned.
Was it likely to be on time? I asked.
The flight was on time, I was told.
I made two reservations.
Back at the hotel I showered and changed, and at a quarter to seven, phoned the airline. Is the flight to Nairobi on time? I asked.
The flight was on time, I was reassured, at which I checked out of the hotel and waited for Peter in the bar.
At ten past seven, after leaving him a message, I hailed a taxi.
The plane was expected momentarily, the pleasant young attendant woman told me, checking my luggage through and handing me the boarding pass.
The terminal’s clock, which presented 24-hour time, was one of those digital affairs that drop down numbered flaps in the manner of a Roladex file. It displayed the time, 19:36. My watch read 7:35. Close enough. Now, where was Peter?
19:55. No plane. No Peter.
20:05. No plane. No Peter.
20:20. No plane. No Peter.
Excuse me, Miss, is there news of the plane?
Any time soon, sir.
Thank you.
21:58. No plane. No Peter.
Excuse me, Miss, is there news of the plane?
No plane today. Tomorrow. Now we close. She started shutting up shop.
Then may I have my luggage back, so I can return to the hotel?
Very sorry, sir. The luggage room is locked. Tomorrow.
But–
Outside, rain pelted the street, growling and forking fire. The taxi stand waited empty. A departing airport minivan ignored my frantic wave.
Thunder cracked and roared. An army of giant cockroaches swarmed back inside with me. I settled prone onto a wooden bench-type seat. Covering my face and arms with a days-old newspaper to keep the pesky flies off, I drifted into sleep wondering how I could safely go about murdering Peter.
Half-waking sometime in the night, I peered at the airport clock. 27:31. I closed my eyes.
I opened my eyes. 27:31.
So now I knew what was different about Africa–it worked to a different time.
A steamy dawn came at 30:30 and the airport woke up. Fifteen minutes later, East African Airlines opened its counter. I presented my boarding pass for the previous night's flight.
You missed your flight? she said.
It never left, I stated.
Ah, she said. It never left.
She tap-tapped on her keyboard. You have no luggage?
They took it last night.
Ah, yes. They took it last night. She handed me a new pass. Nairobi. The flight leaves at 08:10.
I glanced at the terminal clock, intending to make a smart-aleck remark about it, but she had turned her attention to a man behind me.
31:30. A jet whined to a stop before the terminal. The PA system announced that the flight to Nairobi would board in 30 minutes. Passengers should proceed to immigration immediately. I stood.
I glanced out the entrance and there was Peter, unwinding from Yvonne’s little Renault, quite alive.
Approaching, he said, Ah, there you are!
I waited while he checked in. A workman toting a step ladder stopped under the terminal’s clock, climbed its steps, and flipped the digits back to 07:41. I checked my watch. 7:40. Close enough.
Peter, back at my side, said, I’ve a friend who should be here in a moment. She'll be returning with me to Nairobi. You’ll not mind if I sit with her, no?–Ah... there she is. You ever had a Hungarian?
No, I said, I’ve never had a Hungarian.
The best yet, he said.
end
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