Apologies to Mr MacCall Smith. This story has actually got nothing at all to do with the no.1 Ladies Detective agency, I just liked the sound of the title. It is however set in Botswana, it is about a case - a large wooden, home made, black painted double bass case christened "the Sarcophogus" and well, who knows, there may even be the odd corpse lurking about somewhere too.
I'd been learning the bass for about a year or so when Corrado the conductor of the Sinfonietta, the youth orchestra in Harare, announced that he'd been invited to be a guest conductor at a music camp in Gaberone and wondered if any of us might like to tag along for company especially since there weren't many string players in Botswana. Not being one to let such an adventure pass me by I volunteered and set about organising how to transport my grandfather's bass on the train to Gaberone. Since it would have to go in the luggage wagon this involved borrowing the "Sarcophogus" from Mr Baldock, my dear old bass teacher.
This went more or less smoothly and soon Corrado, myself and another adventurer called Philip were relaxing at Phil the cello player's mother's house in Bulawayo, waiting for the train to Gaberone which was due to leave at 3 o'clock in the afternoon. We were told that there was no hurry, and it was probably a good idea to ring the station before leaving the house, which we did several times and each time were told to stay put as the train was by no means ready to leave yet. After the umpteenth round of afternoon tea, our stomachs going glug glug, the sun low in the sky, we called the station one last time and the man at the other end said exasperatedly but good naturedly "Don't worry, it's not a problem, if the train leaves today it will be on time, and yes, you can come and wait at the station now if you like!"
Eventually we had ourselves and instruments installed on the train. I remember that I was wearing a white denim skirt with thin black pinstripes. It was an 80s relic, picked out by mum from the factory reject shop in Msasa, but I was quite fond of it. It went nicely together with my growing out perm. Later on I would buy my own clothes from the Danish Aid charity shop on South Avenue or Mapedzanhamo clothes market at Mbare, or I'd buy material from one of the 3 adjacent haberdasheries at Stortford Parade and have clothes made up by the tailors in town. But at this stage I was still relying on my mum and the factory rejects from Msasa. This is etched in my memory because when I got on the train the skirt was white and when we got out in Gabarone it was dark grey. Ever since then I have regarded with deep suspicion people who wax lyrical about the romanticism of travelling by steam train. It took several hours of scrubbing in Mr Slater's bath tub that morning to rid our pores and orifices of quantities of black soot and my skirt was never quite the same after that.
The camp was fun. The highlight was singing this west African song about Sango, the Yoruba god of lightning, taught to us by the visiting African American conductor. Sango quickly became everyone's prefered greeting word. There didn't end up being a great amoungt of string playing but Corrado had a wonderful sense of humour and we seemed to spend most of the week collapsed in fits of hysterics, at least to my memory. One is only 15 once, after all. We also did some compulsary shopping because the shops in Botswana were full of luxurious imported South African products and at that stage Zimbabwe was still on the road to socialism and had a very limited choice available. After hours of goggling and indecision I bought a tray of tinned tuna for my mother and a very advanced gadget that you could put at the end of a hose pipe to regulate the water flow for my dad, who was an avid gardener and had only ever used the thumb method of water regulation. It was soon time to pack the bass back into the sarcophogus and the tinned tuna and garden gadget and make our way to the station.
At this point a digresion is necessary. Sometime during this era my mum's car, a new, second hand yellow Datsun Bluebird was stolen, not an unusual event in itself, but it had been parked right outside the High Court, "can you *** believe it?!" she regailed endlessly to all and sundry. You remember what that was like being 15 and having to hear your mother say anything more than once? Anyway, after some time she got a phone call from a jocular police sergeant who was most pleased to tell her that not only had they found her car but they'd caught 2 notorious car thieves too. What he meant by this was that the car had driven through a police road block on the Mutare road and as it refused to stop, the police had emptied several rounds of bullets into it, killing one of the thieves and injuring the driver. A hectic but ultimately short and fruitless car chase ensued in second gear. The car was left in quite a state as you can imagine, with blood and broken glass and a burnt out gear box. And no one would have anything to do with it. They wouldn't touch it. We couldn't even get it towed. This being due to what is surely one of Sekuru Mujuru's hundred golden rules: "Avoid having anything to do with anything that may have had a dead body inside it." Perfectly sane advice one would think but white people for some reason just don't always get it.
Anyhow, before long the people at the towing company and the garage had succumbed to my mum's superior persuasive abilities and the car was back on the road, my mum happily zooting around the streets of Harare again, proudly showing off the bullet holes in the dashboard to anyone who had the stomach to look. Which takes us back to the platform at Gaberone station. A problem. The station manager refused point blank to even let us take the Sarcophogus through the gate. No amount of arguing that all that was inside was a big guitar had any effect. It looked like a coffin and it could have at one point had a dead body inside therefore under no circumstances would it be allowed onto the train. End of discussion.
Oh well, luckily Mr Slater was planning to drive to Bulawayo in a couple of weeks and he kindly agreed to take it in the back of his truck and I was eventually reunited with my bass and we lived more or less happily every after. And so now, 20 years later, at bass nerd gatherings, when the conversation inevitably turns to the difficulties of travelling with a bass, I listen and smile to myself and remember my African Adventures with the Sarcophogus and the big guitar.
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