Dhows

Look out to sea on any day on the East African coast and the chances are that you'll see at least one triangular sail, for the traditional boats of this coast have one thing in common: they all have lateen sails.

The origin of the lateen sail of the western Indian Ocean is disputed, with some experts saying that it was developed in the Mediterranean some time before 400AD while others argue that the Mediterranean seafarers copied it from the Arabs. Others suggest that the Arabs only learned to use the lateen sail after the arrival of Portuguese caravels in the Indian Ocean - that is, after Vasco da Gama's epic voyage of 1497. Whatever its origin, the Arabs of the Persian Gulf and the peoples of eastern Africa adopted it and continue to use it to this day.

The term 'dhow' is used loosely to describe any of the larger cargo boats which sail this coast but I think of it as referring to the bigger, oceangoing boats, the ones which, for hundreds of years, plied a trade between the Arabian Gulf, the western coast of India, and East Africa. They set off for East Africa from their home ports with the rise of the kaskhazi, the northeast monsoon, in November and returned with the coming of the southeast monsoon, the kusi, starting in April. They brought copperware, carpets, storage chests, salt, tiles, and food such as dates, while on their return journey they carried hardwoods, ivory and rhino horn, precious stones and gold, coconut products, mangrove poles, spices and, in the old days, slaves.

When we were children in Mombasa the Old Port used to be filled with these magnificent vessels. Sadly, today, they have disappeared.

There were several types of oceangoing dhow, largely depending on their country of origin. Mike Chetham, in his article in the November 1950 edition of Country Life in which he described the dhows which came in to Zanzibar, distinguished three, the twin-masted Omani boom (or boum), the Muscat baghlah (pictured above), and....

....the Omani bedeni. Dhows were very special - I kept this picture of a bedeni with me for years when I was at boarding school in England.

Mike Chetham's article is available to download here.

Many thanks to Tony Chetham for the two black-and-white photos
and permission to use his father, Mike's article on Zanzibar's dhows.

North Africa - 1

In the early summer of 1964 Michael Atkinson, an Etonian whom I had worked with at Bernard Mizeki, hitched up to visit me at Keele from Cambridge, where he was reading classics. He came to discuss the proposal that we should spend the three-month summer vac travelling down to Southern Rhodesia to revisit the school. We would do it overland, crossing the Sahara on one of the great highways through Algeria, then making our way through Central Africa - somehow avoiding the Congo, which was a mess - to Uganda and Kenya, after which we would follow the route we had hitched together the previous year down to Southern Rhodesia.

It was a ludicrous plan, given the time we had and the fact that we would have to be back in England by October, but we set about implementing it with innocent - or was it almost criminally careless - enthusiasm. We did little research, relying on the sort of day-to-day luck we had enjoyed on our previous expedition. We had no fixed route, no plan for if anything went seriously wrong, no insurance that would get us home if we were ill, and the only way of contacting home in an emergency would have been by telegram.

However, we agreed that to hitch the whole way might be difficult so we made it a load harder for ourselves by buying a vehicle, which I financed by asking my great uncle, Sir Stanley Reed, for £500, a very large sum in those days, which he happily gave me on condition that I wrote to him so he too could enjoy the adventure. With £350 of the money I bought an ex-War Department Land Rover which, for some obscure reason, I named Olga Omo. Within days of buying her she began emitting clouds of dense white smoke: she had a cracked cylinder block which resulted in rapid corrosion of the cylinder head gasket which allowed the cooling water into the cylinders. It was a major problem but, undeterred, I bought some extra gaskets and, on 5th July, we left Amberheath for the Dover-Calais ferry.

By the 9th we were in southern Spain where Olga broke down. Neither of us had any mechanical knowledge but a local garage fixed the problem - a minor one involving the points in the distributor - and we....

....crossed from Gibraltar to Tangiers the following day. I was ecstatic, back in Africa in a part of the continent I had not visited before, at the beginning of another great adventure which might, just might, enable me to find a job and not have to return to England.

The Chini Club

The Chini Club pool was so-called because it was below the Mombasa Club, 'chini' meaning 'below' in KiSwahili - this picture courtesy Tony Chetham. Before the coming of the Florida Club and the pool at the Oceanic Hotel, it was the only place on the island of Mombasa to which we could easily cycle for a swim - swimming in the sea off the island wasn't a good idea as the waters were the home of some rather unfriendly sharks.

At centre right is the covered area where drinks were served, and the changing rooms are in the white building to the right

The pool was built out on a coral platform and looked up to the old Portuguese Fort Jesus, at that time a prison. A wall, topped with broken glass, ran along that side to prevent access from the beach.

We loved it there. It was very private, the water was warm, and the pool was often almost deserted. The only disadvantage was that we had to have an adult with us.

I have no idea why Richard and I are wearing masks here! As far as I can remember, although the pool was filled from directly the sea and was, therefore, salt water, sea life wasn't common in the pool, though its sides did become quite slimy.

There were occasional events there: this picture, probably 1959 or 1960, was taken during one of the Club's galas. The view behind me is across the entrance to the Old Port to the reef at English Point.

Move to Cranham

In 1955, when she was eleven and had passed her 11+ examination, Gill progressed to the High School for Girls, Denmark Road, Gloucester, but the relatively easy school journey from Estcourt Road changed in 1960 when her parents bought Cranham Close, a large house with an extensive garden which included a tennis court. 

The house was situated on the outskirts of the small village of Cranham, about six miles from Gloucester by the shortest route. It had originally been two cottages but by the time the Rogers moved in it had been converted and extended to make a very fine family home.

The house fronted onto the main A46 road from Stroud to Cheltenham. To get to school, Gill and her sister Pauline caught the bus from outside the house to the Brockworth junction where the bus then went in to Gloucester. When that bus was taken out of service, Gill either commuted in to Gloucester with her father or caught a different bus - but she had to walk much further.

This picture was taken from an upstairs window at the front of the house, looking across the main road to Cranham Woods. It was a beautiful place to live but its location meant that many of the things Gill used to enjoy, such as after-school activities, were curtailed.

School Reports

My mother kept all sorts of odd things, many of them in the old Arab chest, including a muddle of family papers. Occasionally, I dip in to it and find something I didn't know was there - like a small package which contains my first school reports.

The earliest is from the Junior European School in Dar-es-Salaam, dated 5th April 1950. At the time I would have been just over five so, since my birthday was 2nd January, this is my first school report. One of the lessons is 'Handwork & Art' - I assume 'Handwork' is crafts.

The next report is also from the Dar-es-Salaam school and is dated 9th August 1950, which must have been just before we moved to Mombasa. In it I am described as 'inclined to be slow' and to 'worry unduly'. Mmm, yes, Mrs Walker, you were quite right about the worrying: I still do.

Some but not all of my reports from my next school, the Mombasa European Primary, are in the package.  This is the last one, dated December 1953. I'm not sure what 'Vernacular' was, unless it was the use of the spoken, as opposed to written word.

In a yesterday's post in which I described my time at the Mombasa European Primary School, I quoted my mother's story about my being enrolled by my father, who gave my age wrong, resulting in my being placed in a higher class, much to my distress. All my MEPS reports have my name as 'Jonathon', so it seems likely that my age wasn't the only thing my father got wrong.

The second page of Mrs Dalgleish's report states that I had 'gained in confidence'. Again, a teacher has put her finger on one of my weaknesses, a lack of self-confidence. The report also  records that I was awarded the Progress Prize - a photograph of me receiving the prize at the end of the term is also in yesterday's post.

Mombasa European Primary School

My mother, in her "Life', records my joining the Mombasa European Primary School in 1950 as follows: "Jonathan started school as soon as we got to Mombasa, but the first day he came home in tears. Dad had told Miss Foat, the headmistress, that Jonathan was six and he had been put in with six year olds, and he was only five. I went to the school with him the next day and sorted things out.

"Richard and I used to walk up around 12 noon every day to the school pulling red wooden fire engines on string, Richard with his and I pulling Jonathan’s." The school was only a short distance from the house, along Cliff Avenue, and, from what my mother wrote, the school, certainly for five-year olds, closed at midday.

This picture shows me in MEPS uniform which consisted of a tie in white, black and yellow. We also had a piece of coloured ribbon sewn along the top of our breast pocket to show which house we belonged to. If my memory serves me, the houses were named after early explorers - Livingstone, Speke*. I can't remember which one I belonged to but my ribbon was red. On our feet we wore takkies - plimsolls - and an important item was a stretchy belt which was done up with an S-shaped metal snake.

My mother wrote that, "Jonathan had a good grounding at the school...." but my recollection is that I kept my head down in class and did as little work as possible. My mother used to call me a "dreamer".

Nor did I shine at sports, which is probably why the only athletic photo of me is in the obstacle race, when I recall vividly that I could not, just could not get a bite from that bloody bun. I may not have been any good at sports but that did not prevent me from joining in the football game which was played during morning break, when it seemed that all the boys ran onto the school pitch and chased a single soccer ball across its hard, dry, dusty surface.

There are only five photos in the family albums which relate to my brother and my times at the school. I presume that either Richard or I are somewhere in this picture of the school choir: I have no memory of singing in the choir.

I do, however, have vivid memories of the vital role I played in this play which I think was based on the story of Hiawatha. My friend from next door, Hamish Bain, suitably bearded, is at left, in the role of the white man, while Carol Miller, right, was Hiawatha. At one point, in order to impress the natives, Hamish had to raise his flintlock and shoot a bird out of the air. I provided the 'bang' as I had a clever little cardboard bang-making machine which had come free with the Topper, the comic which came out from England each week - Richard had the Beano.

At the prizegiving ceremony at the end of 1953 I received a prize for making good progress in my lessons.

One other memory of the school is that, each morning, we all paraded in front of the long veranda that ran along the outside of the classrooms for the raising of the union jack. It was quite a privilege to do the raising, and one day towards the end of 1953 I was given the honour. At the time I didn't understand why but shortly afterwards I was told by my parents that I was leaving the school.

*Tony Chetham has kindly corrected me: there were three houses, instituted in 1953, Mackinnon (red), Wavell (green) and Livingstone (blue).

The University of Keele

The University of Keele was one of the 'new' universities created after the Second World War. It was built in the grounds of Keele Hall, which was used as the administrative centre, and was entirely residential. It offered four-year undergraduate courses all of which started with a common Foundation Year designed to widen students' horizons. In addition, undergraduates took three courses in subjects which they did not have at 'A' level while also following the two subjects which they had come up to take as their joint honours degree.

One of the advantages of the course structure was that it was relatively easy to change main degree subjects: I had not enjoyed the Maths, Physics and Chemistry taken at 'A' level.

My trouble was that, having spent the previous months in Southern Rhodesia and travelling around Africa, I found it exceedingly difficult to settle down to academic work. I found many of the Foundation Year lectures tedious and, since there was no registration at the beginning of each, quickly gave up attending. I don't think my attendance at the other subjects was particularly good either.

This is Horwood Hall where I had my room. I hated being cooped up on the campus with the petty rules that were applied - for example, men had to be out of the women's halls by eight in the evening and there was a campus curfew on weekday nights. The nearest town, Newcastle-under-Lyme, was a half-hour walk and 'bus ride away, and wasn't very exciting. Entertainment on Saturday nights was a 'hop' in the Students' Union building, often to a live band, but the beer was cheap so I spent most of my time in the student bar. I did do one or two useful things: I was a member of the Rag committee and I was able to play for both the university soccer - for which I was fixtures secretary - and rugby teams since the former's matches happened on a Saturday and the latter on a Sunday, and both gave further opportunities to drink. Most of all, I pined to be back in Africa.

However, I stuck with it, seeing Gill Rothwell during the Christmas and Easter vacs and hoping that something would change - which it did when I had a visit from Michael Atkinson, one of the VSOs I had met at Bernard Mizeki, early in the summer term of 1964.

Cowries

Cowries, particularly the tiger cowrie, Cypraea tigris, have always been my favourite seashell. They are neat, compact and most of them are beautifully patterned.

We used to collect tiger cowries in the flat, sandy area off Mombasa's beaches just below the level of low tide. The one on the left of the picture is typical of those that grazed in the areas of sea grass, which were easy to swim over; when we saw one, we duck-dived to pick it up. It was found on a day when a group of us went out to the Two Fishes south of Mombasa.

More exotic tigris shells could be found in different environments. The one on the right was found with Tony Chetham on the coral wave cut platform near what was commonly called 'The Elephant', a wreck off the seafront of Mombasa Island - see Kevin Patience's article on the MEPS website here.

These cowries, one of the many Monetaria annulus subspecies, litter some East African beaches, with wide colour variations in the shells. To the right are two specimens of red coral.

Years later we started to find a very different cowrie on the west coast of Scotland. This is the European or Spotted Cowrie, Trivia monacha. It only occurred on certain beaches and, being less than a centimetre long, was difficult to find. To give a sense of scale, the white bits in the picture are grains of sand.

When we returned to Tanzania in 2012 we found the coast stripped bare of its lager and prettier shells, except in one or two places. In one, cowries were still abundant - we found three different species in a short morning's walk - but we didn't pick them up and keep them. They were spectacularly beautiful. This is the black humped cowrie, Cypraea mauritia. I would never have been able to identify it had I not stumbled upon Shaun Metcalfe's document of his father, Kit's researches into cowries, downloadable at the MEPS website here.

A website which gives some idea of the huge variety of cowries is here.

Home Leave 1952/53

My father's contract with the African Mercantile entitled him to three months 'home' leave every three years, and my parents decided that we should 'enjoy' the experience of a winter leave at the end of 1952. We sailed southbound on the Durban Castle, with my mother and Richard getting off at Beira and proceeding by rail to....

....Southern Rhodesia, to Bulawayo where my mother's sister, Christian Vigne, lived with her two daughters, whom my mother had never seen, while my father and I continued on the ship. At Durban I was impressed by the huge shark that swam alongside the ship while it was docked, and by the Zulus pulling rickshaws. My mother and Richard rejoined us at Cape Town, after which we called at St Helena, Ascension and the Canaries before arriving in England.

My parents took part of a flat in Fulham, in Hurlingham Court, overlooking the Thames close to Putney Bridge. The leave was extended into 1953 when a problem was identified on one of my father's lungs which required treatment by a London specialist. When the spring term started, Richard and I walked across Putney Bridge to attend a small private school as day boys.

While we were there my parents took me down to visit a school in Sussex. At the time I didn't understand the significance of this. Soon after, we returned to East Africa by air, using a service run by Hunting-Clan. The flight was by Viking, a 27-seat 'plane which was not particularly good for long-distance flights - it took three days to Nairobi via Malta, Wadi Halfa, Khartoum, Juba and Entebbe.

Amberheath

I returned to England to my parents home at Three Oaks, a small village just to the north of Hastings. 'Amberheath' had a large garden which my father spent his mornings maintaining, and it was close to a 'halt', a voluntary stop on the Hastings to Ashford railway, which enabled my mother to commute up to London to a job she had with the Association of Unionist Peers, a Conservative group, where she took their minutes and did their typing.

As well as a bedroom each, Richard and I had the use of a large attic room which we filled with African souvenirs - the Masai shield and spears had been a present to my father from the African Mercantile's African staff when he left Mombasa.

Each lunchtime my father walked a hundred yards or so to the Three Oaks Hotel, a pub which, being on a quiet, rural back road, was never particularly busy. I enjoyed accompanying him and, as a result....

....got to know the landlord's family: the young man on the left - sadly, I can't recall his name - was the same age as me and could drive a car, so we spent time together. One Saturday he suggested we go to a dance at the Rye Grammar School, which he had just left having been head boy there.

The head girl had been Gill Rothwell and I was introduced to her at the dance, after which we spent the rest of the evening together. Gill became my first proper girlfriend. Here the local 'halt' came in useful as I could travel by rail to Rye to see Gill.

She was the daughter of the headmaster of the Rye secondary modern and I found I had a fair amount in common with him as he was an examiner for the Cambridge overseas 'O' and 'A' level exams, which the students at Bernard Mizeki took.

Gill had finished her 'A' levels that summer and, in the October, went up to a domestic science college in Manchester, while I set off for the University of Keele in Staffordshire.

The Long Grass Whispers

The Long Grass Whispers is the first of four books by Geraldine Elliot, each containing a collection of short stories which are interpretations of the traditional tales of the Ngoni people of Malawi. They were told to the author by an old man who had heard them from his grandmother, tales which were told when the people gathered round the fire after a long day and wanted distraction from the fears of the African night.

They are tales of the wild animals the people knew, lovely stories, simple yet filled with wisdom. I was read them by my mother, and I read them to my children. One of the characters, Njobvu the elephant, is depicted on the cover of the first book, but....

....the real 'hero' is kalulu the rabbit. Kalulu wasn't a rabbit - there are no wild rabbits in Africa - but a hare, and the stories of his trickery were exported with the people who were carried to the New World as slaves, where he became known as Br'er Rabbit.

The book was first published in 1939 but mine is the 1949 impression. It was followed by Where the Leopard Passes (1949), The Hunter's Cave ( 1951) and The Singing Chameleon (1957) - I have them all.

This is the inside cover of The Long Grass Whispers. The sticker shows that it was bought at Christian Vigne's bookshop in Bulawayo in what was then Southern Rhodesia. Christian was my mother's older sister, and my mother visited her with my brother Richard on their way from Kenya to England in 1952.

Visiting Ships

The African Mercantile's ships' agency side looked after the interests of a number of different lines. The 'Joint Service' included the Clan, Hall and Harrison Lines, while others included the Bank Line, the Scandinavian East Africa Line, and the French national line, Messageries Maritime. I always thought the best-looking ships were the Clan Line ships - picture shows the Clan Shaw.

When we first moved to Mombasa, my father was responsible for AMCo's ships' agency. His job was to look after all a ship's needs - so he went on board immediately a ship came in to see the captain and ask his requirements - but his main job was to oversee the unloading of the ship as quickly as possible and then to fill her 'down to her marks' - that is, so she was down to the Plimsoll line, as fully loaded as she could legally be.

My father's favourite line was the Harrison Line, in which his father had risen to be captain. Richard and I were often asked aboard ship, at least in part because my parents were extremely hospitable to all the captains, many of whom they came to know very well. The visit shown in this picture was particularly special. We are seen here on the SS Defender, our grandfather's old ship.

When we left the ship my father would often be given a bottle of something special which he had to hide as we went through customs. Another small 'thank you' came from some of the Clan Line captains who would give him a box of fresh kippers: my father did like kippers, if not quite as much as a Yarmouth bloater!

Some Harrison Line ships had heavy-lifting derricks and we would go down to Kilindini to watch them offload something unusual - like the huge Garrett locomotives that pulled the trains on East African Railways. Picture shows one of these ships, the Adventurer, from one of the paintings which Harrisons used in their annual calendar. The locos were so heavy that, as they were hoisted out over the wharf, the whole ship listed.

We would also go down to the docks to watch animals being loaded, destined for zoos in Britain. The conditions in which some of the animals were transported....

....would not be acceptable today. The crew had to care for their special cargo and this resulted in some interesting incidents, like when a hippo was being given a bath and escaped, rampaging round the ship. I also have vivid memories of a crate of ostriches being lifted onto a ship when the end of the crate opened and the three birds fell to the ground, killing them all.