The First Day

My first day of work as the Apprentice to the Boss of the Banana Empire was just as wonderful as I'd hoped it would be.

I was picked up in the morning by Nacho, a Mozambican guy in his late 20's whose hair is a brassy, home-peroxide-dye-job shade of blonde and who wears a thick gold hoop with a diamond in his left ear. He works in the customs clearing area of the company, and told me all about how he has to be on-call 24/7 to free trucks full of fresh produce from the bureaucratic grip of the border.

I think Nacho was a bit shocked to see me walk out of the building, as his only instructions had been to pick up "Dona Alexandra", the way I am referred to by many a polite colleague, but which leads to the impression that I am a haughty Portuguese woman in my late 40's. Nacho didn't hide his enthusiasm that Dona Alexandra turned out to be young and laid-back. He took the opportunity to show off a bit, cranking up the radio as we drove down Avenida 24 de Julho so the passada was blaring at a disco-style volume.

About 20 minutes later, we arrived at the company headquarters with style. The company has just moved into a new office, a gigantic white warehouse alongside the EN4, the toll highway that connects Maputo with South Africa. My new boss, Hugh Marlboro*, was already waiting for me in the parking lot in his truck.

I hopped in, and we headed to our first meeting of the day, a site visit at one of the plantation blocks with the District Administrator of the jurisdiction in which this particular piece of land falls. The visit was announced at the last minute, and Hugh Marlboro had no idea what the Administrator might want. We discussed several potential scenarios on the bumpy, potholed road, past lone acacia trees and seemingly abandoned herds of goats.

Once at the plantation block, Hugh Marlboro and I went to the small packhouse structure in the middle of the property to meet with the farm boss and wait for the Senhor Administrador. The farm boss was a hefty South African, nearly as round about the middle as he was tall. He wore orthopedic socks pulled up to his knees, sport sandals, and the ubiquitous short-shorts of white farmers in these parts. He and Hugh Marlboro had an animated discussion in Afrikaans about how the ceiling of the packhouse might be modified to improve ventilation near the tanks where the workers dip the bananas in an anti-fungal bath, cut them into market-friendly bunches, and pack them into crates to be loaded onto waiting trucks. I don't speak a word of Afrikaans, but between the similarities to English and the shower of hand gestures the men were using, I was able to follow the conversaion.

After hanging about the packhouse for a while, I got the grand tour. This particular plantation block, my new boss told me, was not up to par. I could see what he was referring to - compared to the main farm that I'd visited several times, this block was downright chaotic. The banana trees were somewhat dried out and frayed-looking. The space between the trees was littered with old plant material. And the dirt road that links the plantation area to the packhouse was so poorly maintaned that we nearly got stuck several times in the thick mud left after last week's rains. Hugh Marlboro told me that he was unsatisfied, that he wanted - with my help - to identify why this particular block was lagging so far behind the other tidy and efficient plantation areas and then make the necessary changes to improve it.

Over an hour had now passed since we arrived at the planation block. Hugh Marlboro impatiently tapped his fingers on the steering wheel of his truck. "I'll wait around for a Governor," he told me, "but not for a District Administrator. This man is wasting my time. Let's go." I nodded in approval, and we bumped down the dirt road toward the highway back to town.

On the way, we took a small detour and stopped at the beautiful country house Hugh M. lives in when he is in Mozambique (he frequently spends weekends away, visiting family or on mini-holidays). The house was originally built in the 1960's, before the Portuguese fled the country, and has all the solid construction and ornate tile details that one would expect of a proper Iberian-inspired home. Hugh Marlboro purchased the house several years ago and did a massive restoration, as the place had been claimed by the elements after years of war and neglect. The outside is now a fresh sunshine yellow, and the inside is beautifully decorated with oversized furniture made of precious hardwoods, mounted heads of buffalo and kudu from Hugh M.'s time as a game safari operator, and tasteful sculptures and ceramic vases. The style of his home is impeccable, incongruous with his current incarnation as a banana farmer, and much more in line with his prior occupation as a trauma surgeon.

We sat down on a pair of brown leather couches in the living room and Maria, the maid, brought us tea and an assortment of biscuits. We engaged in pleasant smalltalk about the plantation site and the packhouse structure and the company's urgent need for a financial manager.

As tends to happen when Hugh M. and I get together to chat, the conversation soon veered from concrete work topics to abstract philosophising about personality types, relationships and the unique roles we play in life. He turned to me and said, "My dear, let me tell you something. There are thinkers in this world, and there are do-ers. My company is based on a great group of do-ers right now. They know exactly what their job is, and they go out and perform to the best of their abilities."

I nodded along, waiting for him to continue.

"I have a good base, Ali, but I am lonely as the only thinker in the company. I don't mean that the others aren't intelligent - that's not it at all - but I feel the need to work alongside someone who understands me, who can follow my vision and anticipate my strategies. I need someone to brainstorm with, someone who canc hallenge me and ultimately make me a better thinker."

"I understand what you are saying. You need a peer."

"That's it! And you, my dear, you are something very special indeed. Because a do-er is valuable, and a thinker is valuable, but when you come across someone who is a thinker and a do-er you must act quickly as to not lose that gem of a person."

I could feel my cheeks burning. "Thank you," I managed to say, unable to contain a wide smile.

Hugh Marlboro continued, "Ali, this sounds quite strange, but you are the person who I can most clearly see being me. It makes no sense - you are a 26-year-old American woman - but I identify something in you that reflects who I am, how my head works. You are the one who can substitute me."

"I know exactly what you mean," I said. And I honestly did. In the two years that Hugh M. and I have been working together on his expansion project, I've gotten to know him reasonably well. We've had seemingly endless work sessions in which we'd sit down with a cup of tea and he'd talk for hours, explaining to me everything that was in his head, while I dilligently took notes on my laptop and accompanied him step-by-step in the strategies he described. Many times during these work sessions, I was surprised by how similar our thought patterns were, how I could finish his sentences and anticipate his big-picture conclusions without knowing half of the details involved.

Part of what I am describing is what makes for a good consultant - the ability to adapt to a particular client's working style and way of thinking, to really get inside his head and understand the essence of his business. But with Hugh Marlboro it was a step further. We just clicked.

I recognized our affinity early on, and wondered if I wasn't deluding myself, after all Hugh Marlboro is a massively successful entrepreneur and I am a young professional who still hasn't managed to figure out just what she wants to do in life. But here he was, confessing that he saw the same inexplicable relfection-of-self in me that I saw in him. I suppose this is how most apprenticeships begin...

Hugh M. and I sat for a moment absorbing what we'd both just acknowledged. I nodded my head, not knowing what else to do.

Finally he broke the silence. "I have something I want to show you," he said, holding out a double cd case. "I just bought a fabulous classical music collection. Listen to this!" He walked over to his state-of-the-art stero system and put in the cd, skipping over the first few tracks until he found the one he was looking for. He turned up the volume and held out his arms expectantly, palms up, much like an orchestra conductor anticipating the first nearly inaudible sign of a bow drawing across a string. Hugh Marlboro took a deep breath, then dramatically sliced through the air with one hand in perfect time with the opening notes of a symphony.

"Verdi!" he said triumphantly. "I love this march."

He sat back down on the leather couch and proceeded to sing along to the opera, closing his eyes and swaying as if nobody else were around.

With Hugh Marlboro immersed in the music, I gazed out the windows of the living room and took in the scenery. The air was hazy with smoke from charcoal fires, filtering the mid-morning sun and casting an almost blue light on the countryside. A large jacaranda swelled lilac with blossoms in the yard, branches rustling in the breeze. In the distance, I could see several huts with thatched-reed roofs.

Verdi's opera became more intense, a full choir and insistent strings attesting to the pain and power of love. Scenes from the movie "Nowhere in Africa" flooded my mind, the juxtaposition of Europe's finest culture with the raw reality of the bush. I imagined myself in a Shakespeare-inspired ball gown, running out the side door and into the yard, past the flowering tree, kicking off my pointed shoes and continuing to run past thorn acacias and curious children, the soft dirt clinging to my toes.

The opera drew to a close. Hugh Marlboro looked at me contentedly and let a small sigh escape.

"Shall we go to the office, my dear?"

And so ended my first morning on the job. The afternoon was equally interesting, highlights being a meeting with a high-up government official to discuss the approval of a landing strip near the main farm block, an animated discussion about what constitutes a good manager, and high tea and a Portuguese lesson at the Polana Hotel.

Pinch me. I can't believe my job is this good.

*I finally figured out who my new boss reminds me of. He looks just like Hugh Grant, only not quite so city-groomed and metrosexual. But if you cross Hugh Grant with the Marlboro Man - poof! - you have the exact image of my boss.

And yes, all of the names of the people I work with have been changed. Maputo is small, and for those inclined to do a minimal amount of research it is pretty easy to figure out where I work; nonetheless, for the sake of my conscience, everyone has received nicknames.