Malawi 2004 - 2007

 A Date with the Queen

" Letter for you Paul"

" Ooo ",

It was a white envelope of unusually high quality. As I turned it over to inspect it I ran my finger lightly over the embossed royal crest and carefully raised the flap.

Me and my wife were invited to celebrate the Queen's Birthday with the British High Commissioner. I thought I might pop along and tucked the invitation away in my bag.

As the day approached I wondered who I could take as my wife. Offers to CEYCA staff to buy or hire their wives found no favour. So it was me and Mike our young VSO volunteer who approached the wide avenues and lush grass verges of area 13 - the home of the new British High Commissioner. Better park the car out of sight. It looked a bit as though Del Boy had arrived at the stately home. 

We approached the gate waving my embossed card.

" Hello, I'm Paul Hague and this is my wife Mike."

There were sniggers and I thought I heard " riff-raff " floating on the breeze. Mike's forty year old Kamuzu Banda lapel badge drew some amused attention as we passed into this bastion of democracy.

Once inside we knew we were both in the right place and out of place. We joined a queue - a test of Britishness. At the end was the new British High Commissioner. He was a tall, grey-haired, smiling man with the conservative elegance of a well-bred and privately educated diplomat. He was charmingly self-deprecating in response to my gently taunting humour, and welcoming - for probably the three hundredth time. His wife was also tall with the bearing and confidence of a county hostess . Her blond well-cut hair was more Parker-Bowles than Diana and framed a long thin face with a wide smile and good teeth. She laughed openly and easily and drank beer.

Once inside I felt as though I had successfully passed through Customs with an extra pack of fags and set about exploring the local sights. As you might expect the grounds were gently undulating, immaculately lawned, with tree-lined slopes leading to a bandstand with the Police brass band playing African tempo Trago Mills brass band classics next to a large marquee with a free bar. People were standing in small groups largely with people they already knew, chatting earnestly, nodding vigorously and occasionally throwing their heads back to guffaw loudly. I took the plaudits for my smartly suited appearance and went off to look for fun. 

Over to the side of the lawn I spied some generously upholstered middle-aged women all dressed in beautiful saturated red, green and blue African cloths. I got into best oleaginous Lothario mode, grabbed a passing glass of red wine, and slithered towards them. 

" Hello, I'm Paul Hague. I do hope you don't mind me interrupting but I just wanted to say how lovely it is to see African women wearing traditional dress rather than the European muck you find in the markets."

I had had hit the mark. The woman nearest me beamed. 

" Oh how kind of you to say so. These clothes help to hide the fat bodies of us African women."

" Oh surely not, African women ... blah, blah, blah."

You get the idea.

Well, you could have knocked me over with a feather. After this opening engagement came the introductions.

" Let introduce myself . I am Her Excellency Tandiwe Dumbutshena Ambassador for Zimbabwe, This is Her Excellency - South Africa, Zambia etc."

" Oh ... pleased to meet you."

Luckily, at that very moment the band struck up a jaunty 'God Save the Queen '.

The speeches followed. A warm-up act, The Malawian Minister, The British High Commissioner and then we were free to eat and drink as much as we could manage in an afternoon.

Tandiwe sidled up to me.

" If you like African dress so much I will buy you a shirt. Leave your address."

We swopped cards - or, at least she gave me her card and I gave her a scrap of a paper serviette. We parted the best of friends.

I spent the rest of the afternoon chatting to Scots in ostentatious kilts, helping to revive an elderly Swiss man who keeled over having overdone the wine tasting and trying to talk the BHC into giving desks to the youth centre. I left suggesting he do this once a week.

Some weeks later I was called to the telephone at work.

" This is the Zimbabwian Embassy. The Ambassador has a parcel for you to collect."

I approached the Zimbabwian Embassy in dark glasses, drove round the block a couple of times to make sure MI6 weren't following me and drove through the gate. I felt rather guilty being here whilst Mr Mugabe was being so beastly. 

Her Excellency was charming and pleased at my enthusiastic response to her gift of an eighties style African, power-shouldered, heavy cotton, coat/shirt. I thanked her, made my excuses and left, having asked her and her aid for tables for the youth centre. We have never met since - maybe next year if there is regime change.

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