My compatriot, Pamela, and I are stranded at the Tanzanian/Malawian border. Utterly fed up, filthy, famished, and stuck in the searing heat we seek shelter under the shade of a nearby Acacia tree as we ponder our limited options. That being said, I considered ourselves lucky to find a basic unsecured wooden hut with two sleeping cots close to a bus stop and I use the term loosely. We sleep with one eye open uncomfortably on our backpacks so they aren’t stolen and try not to think about surreptitious snakes, scorpions, rats, and horny local men. In the morning, we require a total transformation upon crossing the border.

Malawi’s president is an autocratic octogenarian and a very old-fashioned male. He dictated every woman in the country must wear ankle-length skirts. So we whipped our sarongs out of our packs and wrapped them over our shorts which were nicely paired with well-worn, dusty hiking boots. The next bus from the Malawian border is days away and as the heat of the day sets in, our situation is desperate and without consultation, Pamela hails down a passing military jeep. Luckily, the driver doning civilian clothing, had no hesitation in taking on two blonde attractive hitchhikers with no fashion sense and agreed to take us as far as he could. Naturally, I am paranoid about being kidnapped and sold into sexual slavery in the Middle East somewhere never to be heard from again, but he’d have to take on both of us and besides, what choice did we have?

Allen is a very accommodating tour guide as we stopped at Mt Livingstone for panoramic views of Lake Malawi and learned the origins of the term “Dr Livingstone I assume”. Next, we encountered an initiation ceremony and then stopped at several roadside stalls where we bought wooden artifacts and crafts. At dusk, we arrived at an army base and after saluting rituals, Allen was admitted in by security officials with no identity checking. He escorts us to a house that is very modern by African standards. ‘I have an official function tonight and I would be delighted to invite you both to accompany me’, requests Allen. ‘Of course, that would be lovely’, we reply like excited school girls. We must’ve smelt as bad as we looked as Allen suggests we have a shower but remembers the water system is broken. ‘I’ll arrange to get it fixed’, he said purposefully as he left.’ An army of personnel came and went, laden with clean linen, towels and food. A military truck arrived and four soldiers climb onto the roof and after a lot of banging and clanking one of them advises us the hot water has been fixed. It is becoming very apparent that we have become VIPs via association so when Allen returned we interrogated him about his status and obtained a confession he is the highest-ranking officer in the Malawian Air Force and trained at Sandhurst.

That evening, amongst a sea of black faces, our two white faces marveled at the unmistakable soulful, rhythmic, pulsating African beat that everyone enjoyed. Not wanting to offend anyone we agreed to dance with anyone who asked and that adage “White men can’t dance” also applies to white women, but I managed to bust out my best moves anyway. It isn’t long before we are ushered to a sumptuous smorgasbord of food spread along the side of the swimming pool. Once we had our fill of food, Allen approached us and said ‘let me introduce you to the Minister of Defence’. ‘He is the President’s right-hand man and it is his birthday today’, Allen proudly informed us. Pam and I exchanged furtive glances in an unspoken realisation this is his ostentatious birthday party, whilst rest of nation live in poverty. We are led to a large man who remained on his ‘throne’ for the entire evening. ‘Sir, may I introduce Adrianne and Pamela, they are the daughters of the Australian Minister of Defence’. I feel the blood rising over my face at this unexpected lie of Allen’s. Both of us have blonde hair which I suppose is a very convincing claim we are sisters, however, I did wonder what the local punishment is for badly dressed imposters. We shake the Minister’s hand, wish him a happy birthday, exchange pleasantries, and pray he won’t ask any questions that would expose us as potential spies. We promised to pass on our regards to Daddy and continued with our sister act.

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