大象传媒

Mountains of the Moon

When my mother died, my brother and I found a letter from my father, who had died some fourteen years earlier. It was written whilst he was on "war duty", with the Fleet Air Arm, and he was, at the time, stationed in, or near, Nairobi. The letter was numbered "53", and was a narrative of a holiday that he and some colleagues took, during their stay in Kenya. Where the other letters, or subsequent ones went to is anyone's guess. This letter, which passed the censor, and still in its original envelope with the "censor" stamp on it, is reproduced here, with only minor edits. I still wonder what the Fleet Air Arm was doing so far from the sea, in the heart of Africa. One other "fact" we had previously learned was that the ship that deposited my father and his colleagues in Africa was reportedly sunk in the Indian ocean very shortly after. What ship that was, or the truth of the "fact" I have no way of determining. This, together with the near fatal accident whilst on holiday meant that I and my brother are lucky to be alive, as both these incidents occurred before we were even thought of!!!
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Mountains of the Moon - Chapter 1

O T C----- FX 77770 P O A/F L
P O's Mess
12.6.43

Well, at long last I have managed to get down to writing about the trip up to the Belgian Congo, so here goes.

Just how and why I wangled my way need not be entered into, sufficient to say that Maurice, my old sergeant pals, and I, formed a very pleasant little foursome for the whole of the trip.

Let me first of all describe these three.

First, there was Len, the "Old.....", one of the old school of sergeants, up from the West Country. He is broad of speech and limb, big of heart and drinking capacity, with a complexion sun-tanned and weather-beaten with a definite tinge of red, engendered by a willingness at all times and at all places to quaff as much beer as may be presented to him. Add to that a pair of piercing eyes, the colour of the summer sky and a voice loud and penetrating and imagine him as a wealthy West Country farmer, complete with a perpetual "drip", and you wouldn't be far out.

Second, the other old sergeant, is as unlike the first as may be found, for Fred is quiet, retiring, almost to a fault of making himself insignificant, and yet, strangely enough, one is always aware of his presence. Occasionally he emerges from his shell to deliver a very shrewd observation or admonition and one becomes aware that he has not been daydreaming at all, but absorbing everything and biding his time to deliver a well-directed thrust. He is small, slow and not particularly energetic, always behindhand, studious, and seems to draw great comfort from a series of pungent pipes, gazing benignly the while upon the world through thick-lensed, horn-rimmed spectacles.

The last of my three comrades, Maurice, of which much may be said and yet convey little of the true fellow. You have seen his photograph so I need say little about his general appearance; he is always spick and span, to a point of needless fussiness, to my mind, witty and popular with his fellows, athletic and accomplished.

Four more dis-similar individuals it would be hard to find, and that was probably why we had such a grand time together. Had Maurice and I been in the same section we should not have been able to go together, so our previous separation stood us in good stead.

We started from Nairobi, by train, at about 10.30 a.m., while low clouds did much to dampen our spirits. However, by lunch-time, the sky cleared and we had a wonderful view of a section of the Great Rift Valley, which extends from Palestine, right down through to Central Africa. Just on this particular part of the line, there is a thousand foot variation of altitude in a matter of minutes or only a few miles. A feature of this line throughout, it becomes more apparent when one is told that there is not one tunnel anywhere, and with numerous trestle-bridges over deep boulder-strewn ravines, it is then one realises that the K.U.R. tracks are indeed an engineering feat.

We passed close to Lake Naivasha (at an altitude of 6,300 feet), with its stretches of grassland, on which zebra, gazelle, buck and ostrich may always be seen, in large numbers, and so on, to Nakuru.

Here I failed to see any familiar faces, despite a sharp lookout, so I had to be content with watching the twinkling lights, in the distance and darkness, for, as we left Nakuru, the dense blackness of the tropical night fell, like a swift-moving curtain. Whether it was travelling, or our high spirits I do not know, sufficient to say we did not stay out of bed for long. We were soon comfortably installed in our bunks; Maurice reading; Fred pouring over maps, timetables, guidebooks, etc., whilst I just looked on and passed comments from time to time. Old Len was soon well away and, tiring of reading, Maurice and I struck up a conversation until about 10.45 p.m. when we arrived at the Equator, where a stone plaque is erected to mark the place that the Equator is said to cut the station. Naturally, we two piled out, wakened Fred and shook Len; I've heard dockside labourers give vent to their feelings, but beside Old Len's fluent flow, their best efforts were but childish prattle. Had we, the station, the train, in fact everything, done what Len suggested, an immediate disintegration of the entire universe would have been the result. In short, the word Equator holds a far different meaning to us now, and forever. Maurice and I, as you may well imagine, were unspeakably shocked to the depths of our innocent young souls. So we went in search of the plaque, found and inspected it, and returned to our coach, meeting Fred and Len on the way. The latter was muttering vitriollically, struggling with wayward braces, obstinate buttons and tripping over loose shoe laces whilst Fred just sucked at an empty pipe, sayin' nowt.

A whistle blew, the train gave a jolt and the two old'uns joined us, Old Len still muttering and dripping like ten......, and so to bed.

I, for one, slept like a top, being awakened only by our arrival at a station, which proved to be Tororo (3086 feet), just over the Uganda border. Here the sun, rising behind the Leopard Rock, threw a rosy glow over one of the prettiest stations I have ever seen. In the immediate foreground, despite the early hour - it was just after 6 a.m. - there were crowds of gaily dressed native women. They were moving, with the peculiar grace of their kind, amongst plots of evidently carefully tended shrubs and luxuriant flowers, beneath spreading branches of the trees that were also ablaze with blooms. Further back was a perfectly kept lawn that fronted a row of native huts that evidently belonged to the railway workers. Behind that, were the slowly swaying fronds of an extensive banana plantation, and over all the rosy glow of the really lovely sunrise.

The arrival of our morning tea distracted our attention, somewhat, from the colourful scene, whilst our ablutions and breakfasts kept us away from the carriage windows until we were well into Uganda. When we eventually did return we all remarked upon the immediate difference between Kenya and Uganda, as presented to the traveller. In the case of the latter, everything simply forced on our attention the fertility of the land and the greater industry of its scattered inhabitants. The huts and kraals were sturdier built, cleaner and more orderly. The cultivated patches were larger, more systematic in layout and far better kept, whilst the natives themselves were cleaner-looking and definitely more intelligent. This proved to be the case throughout the country and all the stations and kraals were simply ablaze with flowers and extremely tidy and a pleasure to behold.

Frequently we passed through tracts of swamp where in the glare and heat of the sun the haze of mist gave the whole area a mysterious, almost sinister, appearance. Here, however, the heat and the effects of the recent rapid changes in altitude were just beginning to make themselves felt and we all felt very sleepy. It had been cool at 6,500 feet the previous day, icy at the Equator at 9,130 feet, at the highest station in the Empire, and now blazing hot at only 3,500 feet. However, although the others were soon dozing and continued to do so, both before and after lunch, I kept my eyes open all the time. It was not without effort, however, and so I witnessed the gradual change from tree-studded grassland to dense jungle, followed by the sudden beginning of miles of commercial cultivation that surrounds Jinja. Here we had lunch and got our first view of Lake Victoria, 27,000 square miles of water at 3,816 feet. There was a hurried exit from the restaurant car as, later, we crossed the Nile Bridge, just below the famous Rippon Falls, where there followed much clicking of camera shutters at this, the source of the Nile.

From here the track took a difficult and ever-winding trail through partial jungle, finally landing us at Kampala, at about 3.30 p.m. Here, after nearly thirty hours in the train, we were only too glad to reach our hotel, have a good bath, followed by an excellent dinner and, after one or two "snifters", we retired early to bed. Maurice and I both slept the sleep of the just and after a hearty breakfast, from which even I rose full, we were ready to start on the first leg of a journey by road of over a thousand miles.

We left at about 8.30 a.m, with a native driver and two native "boys" and were only a little way out of town when we all remarked on the nature of the roads for, contrary to expectations, they were surprisingly good. Apparently the road-repair system in Uganda is different from that employed in Kenya, for, instead of working from widely spaced H.Q's, they have Public Works Department camps (permanent kraals actually) every ten or twenty miles, each camp being responsible for a certain section of the road. In outlying districts, the tribe through whose land the road passes is then responsible for its upkeep, an annual payment being made for their services. The result is an excellent road always in good repair. When I say an "excellent road" though, I don't mean the miles of wide macadam to which we in England are used; actually a first-class country lane would be nearer the mark. However, for this part of the world that is considered to be an "excellent road".

To continue, at about 11.00 a.m we again crossed the Equator, in this case indicated by a notice board. On this occasion, yours truly decided to sit on "the line", and once again there was much camera activity. Whilst this was going on, one of our number spent quite five minutes walking to and fro, muttering "one, two, three, four.........twenty four, twenty five........." and finished up with "now all you old Stripeys, pipe down". So one, at least, of our number has "Crossed the Line" a few times now. That episode over, we all piled in again, only to pull up again an hour or so later, at a native village where it seemed that the whole of the population of the district had turned out to greet us.

Here, believe it, or not, Maurice and I bought over 120 bananas for about four pence, (about two pence at 1999 money) all ripe and ready for eating. They didn't last long!! Others bought oranges for a few cents each; pineapples for about a penny and other fruits at equally low prices.

On we went, through patches of jungle and open parkland - all fertile - passing native villages galore on this part of the trip, until we reached Kiwala, at mile 85, where we had lunch, which was a picnic affair of sandwiches and lemonade at the Government Rest-house there. These Rest-houses are dotted about all over Uganda and, for a few cents per head, per day, a party may make use of the rooms, utensils, etc. They may even spend a few days, up to a maximum of a week, I believe, if they so desire. After lunch we pushed on, this time through the middle of fertile plains stretching away to what looked like rolling hills, but were actually mountains, dwarfed by distance, which stood range on range, as far as the eye could see. All through this region the superiority of the average native was very noticeable, and also the fact that the usual mode of transport for goods is on top of the owner's head. Of course, I had to see the funny side of this fact, and we all had a good grin when I pointed out a strapping buck with a huge stalk of cooking bananas on his head, wheeling a completely empty wheelbarrow. Somehow, I thought that this was carrying custom too far.

We continued through the same kind of, though ever-changing, country until, at mile 178, just as dark began to settle, at about 5.30 p.m, we reached a place called Mbarara. Here we decided to stay for the weekend to allow the driver to make a few, apparently, necessary adjustments to the old bus. Maurice, the old boys and myself were accommodated in pseudo-native huts, about fifteen feet inside diameter, with cement floors and white-washed mud walls. Comfortable beds, mosquito nets, wash-stands and dressing-tables made this a novel billet, as comfortable as could be desired. The two old boys were relegated to a separate hut to avoid any chance of us being disturbed by their snores, so all was just right.

It was here that Maurice developed a particularly nasty boil on his right forearm, so we went off to find the local native hospital, run by a Scottish doctor and one white nurse, to get his arm attended to. That done, we started back, but feeling a trifle thirsty, we decided to tarry awhile, in a place rather aptly named Banshee Tavern. You will have to wait until I get home for a full description of that place, for I won't attempt to describe it here, or its Irish manager, except to remark that our joint opinion was that the name was "typical". Further, our arrival had coincided with that of the long-delayed two month's supply of whisky, so, as everyone was celebrating, we decided to do the same. However, noting the "pace", we decided to make a break for it, only to find ourselves being whisked away to our hotel by one of the "Banshees".

No refusals were accepted, so we once again sought the bar, where, from one or two of the local people, we learnt many varied and interesting things regarding the surrounding country, the natives, their customs, and life in general. Maurice toddled off to dinner at about 8.30 pm, and was seen no more that evening, whilst I, dining with the crowd, a quarter of an hour later, had no chance to slide off.. With dinner over, we once more adjourned to the bar, where we remained, yarning until just past midnight, when our friend, the Banshee-ite, suggested we all return to the Tavern and make a real night of it. Having no experience of the local interpretation of what "making a night of it" was, I decided to toddle off to bed. Just as well perhaps, for I learned next day that that particular session lasted until just after 5.00 a.m. What an escape!!

The next morning, Maurice and I borrowed a couple of bicycles, and made the trip out to a little place called Isingiro - the home of our workshops askari - just to see how and where he lived. We thoroughly enjoyed ourselves despite a bad puncture in the bike I was on , and just missed being caught in a thorough downpour on our way back.

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