Barnabas Tales Read online

  Well Archy, that was my adventure. I should be horribly embarrassed to sing Mehitabel's song, and the chorus "What the hell Mehitabel - It's cheerio my deario that sees a lady through" makes me shudder, but my experience of the big bad world has certainly given this fellow a taste for home.

  Kindest regards to you, to Mehitabel and Don Marquis, Yours ever,Henry.

  COCOA-WATER RAFTING AND NORTHERN LIGHTS

  Iceland - Wednesday, 26th August.

  We left Raudaskrida and drove to Godafoss. The farm which belonged in year 999 to the “chairman” of the Allthing still stands. After votes for and against had been equal, he used his casting vote to decide that Iceland would become Christian. And when he returned to his farm he threw the household gods - carved pillars beside the hearth - into the river at the nearby falls which were therefore named Godafoss. A little footbridge as well as the main road spans the river below the falls, and there is even a shop. By local standards this is a tourist trap!

  Maria, our tour leader and instructor, stopped briefly at her father’s house to introduce us to her ponies. Icelandic ponies are unique and the blood-line carefully preserved - no horses may be imported and any pony that leaves the island can never return.

  We drove on to Eyjafjordur, a long inlet extending south, and along it to Akureyri, Iceland’s northern capital. Helgi’s big bus, driven by Helgi himself, parked at the botanical gardens - full of surprising flowers in full bloom. Beds of tall delphiniums formed great blue drifts, and there were many primulas we had never seen before. For somewhere just below the Arctic circle, Akureyri clearly has a kindly climate, and in the summer there must be plenty of light for both annuals and perennials. We picnicked at the gardens, explored them further, and walked into town. The church is very impressive, with a window from Coventry Cathedral. Akureyri has a university and seemed a most pleasant, clean place.

  In the afternoon we drove up a long, bleak valley - Oxnadalur - and over the watershed. At Varmahlid in the next valley we stopped at a centre for white water rafting. Any misgivings were suppressed, and we were pushed and pulled into dry suits, rubber boots, helmets, and life jackets. Next we climbed into a big van which towed two large inflated dinghies. Squeezed inside we drove up a shallow valley with a few scattered farmhouses, across a watershed and down into a second wild empty valley. Eventually we stopped at a meadow beside a small river, little bigger than the summer Wye at Glasbury.

  Two Nepalese guides run this white water rafting school - they spend half the year in Iceland and half in Nepal. We were mustered in a circle and given a talk about safety and what we should do in case of disaster.which Bridget found more alarming than anything which followed. Then we were divided into two groups and carried our boats to the edge of the river. Our guide had a few simple orders for us and our paddles - all forward, all back, right forward, left forward, right back, left back, and one where we must immediately sit down on the floor of the boat. That seemed to be all there was to know before going rafting.

  Off we went - the water was chocolate coloured from the fine fragments which glaciers grind off volcanic rock, so in the rapids and where the current swirled over rocks and falls the water was distinctly off-white. Very soon we were in a dark canyon with a few big rocks to avoid and black cliff sides. We managed to follow the guide’s simple orders to prevent collisions with the rocks or the banks. After about ten minutes both boats stopped in a quiet stretch where hot water bubbled out from rocks beside the river. The guides had brought cups and cocoa, and here was the hot water. The drinks were very welcome. On we went through further canyons with black volcanic cliffs soaring high above us, until we made a second stop just past a narrow stretch where the river ran particularly fast.

  The special attraction here was the chance to climb up a rock perched high above some deep rapids, and then leap in. The dry suits and life jackets brought people back up promptly, and then they had to swim to the bank while one of the guides stood by with a rope in case someone failed to escape the main current. Most shouted as they jumped - the other English lady squeaked loudly twice before hitting the water, and her teenage son insisted in jumping in several times. As dignified elder statesmen Bridget and I watched.

  Back in the boats we proceeded relatively sedately. The other boat had a younger crew and a wilder guide who kept trying to tip them out, with partial success. Our group were invited to float down river alongside the dinghy. Two visiting cameramen accepted the offer. They laughed and rolled and giggled with delight as they bobbing buoyantly on the surface, warm within their dry suits.

  Eventually the cameramen were pulled aboard and we stopped by a steep bit of bank. There we had to heave the boats up an almost vertical slope to a track, slipping and slithering on the thin smooth rubber feet of our dry suits. At the top at last, we loaded the boats onto the trailers, and set off back to Varmahlid. One of our party was very wet and cross since his dry suit had a rent in the back.

  At the little town we visited the swimming pool. The hotel we were booked into had closed, but bus driver Helgi found us a house. It was quite small, and we had only one bathroom/loo. Still it provided what we most needed - a roof and a kitchen.and thirteen mattresses were available. The owner away was either away or displaced.

  At washing-up time that evening, one of the German lads went outside to smoke. He came in to say that he thought he could see Northern Lights. For years I have wanted to see them and when I went out - there they were. In addition to dusky twilight by the north-west horizon, there was a pale, rather fuzzy white-yellowy light high in the sky which kept changing position. I watched for nearly an hour. At times the colour had a green tinge, and for a few minutes there were curtains of light in the sky immediately above our heads. Then the lights would fade from one area, and gradually appear in another.

  Two firsts in one day are exceptional - white water rafting and the Northern Lights! So to bed, pretty tired, and slept well in my sleeping bag on a mattress on the floor.

  KIDEPO - LAST BIG UGANDAN SAFARI

  We decided to visit Kidepo Game Park in the far north-east of Uganda and on the Sudanese border. Cars should travel in pairs to this remote area, but we could not find another family ready to go. Tony Perritt nearly did so, but then a girlfriend arrived from Nairobi.

  We loaded our four children aged 2 to 8 and safari gear into and onto the big Holden estate, and set off one afternoon. Reaching Mbale before nightfall we stayed at the Mount Elgon Hotel. One of the senior government ministers was staying with a UPC party which included our neighbour on Nakasero Hill - Mr. Masters the surgeon. He was a slightly creepy Asian Ugandan, well in with all the local bosses. Next morning I found that neither Bridget nor I had brought much money. The hotel would not accept a cheque, so I paid in cash and went to Barclays DC bank in Mbale to obtain more notes ad coins. Outside waited a vast crowd because it was pay day for the local teachers. Eventually I got inside, saw the manager who knew John Baker (an old college contemporary), we had a chat and I cashed my cheque and went back to the Mount Elgon. Slightly delayed we loaded the car and set off. We intended to drive to Kidepo, stay there for two nights, and stop for a night on the way back at Soroti Government Rest-house.

  We reached the clock tower in the centre of Mbale, managed another 20 yards, and the car engine stopped in the road junction. The Holden would not re-start. Traffic circled us. We pushed the car to the side of the road and still it would not start. I went to a nearby petrol station and explained the problem. This station did not service cars, but a young Asian working on his own car came over to help. Under the bonnet he blew and tested and spat petrol and diagnosed a fuel problem. The carburettor was dismantled. The problem proved beyond him, but he took me to find an African mechanic (the Mbale “Street of Garages” was nearby) and gave me a Coke on the way. I returned with the mechanic who spoke scarcely any English. Sitting in dust and grime on the side of the road, he dismantled my petrol pump, decided that the diaphragm was faulty, a
nd sent me to buy another. Holdens (Australian-made General Motors vehicles) were pretty rare in Uganda and I don't suppose there were more than 20 all told, but 400 yards up the road in Mbale was a spares shop which, amazingly, had a Holden diaphragm. Back I went with the part but still the pump would not work. We replaced one or two other bits, my role being to take the offending original piece to the shop to ask for a replacement, buy it, and bring it back. Eventually the mechanic was satisfied and put the car together. I paid him, went to thank my friend the Asian in his battery shop, collected the children who were playing in the dust under some trees, smiled at our considerable audience, and we turned round to drive up to the Coffee Shop at the top end of Mbale for a round of cooling drinks.

  Refreshed, we drove down the main road again, passed the clock tower, and the engine failed at the self-same spot. When I opened the bonnet, petrol poured over the carburettor and onto the engine in an alarming fashion. At this moment a Land-Rover stopped and an English voice asked me if I played cricket for Makerere, so I said “Yes” and he towed us to the garage he used, halfway up the nearby garage street. The problem was a trivial one since the float had been bent and the carburettor was flooding. The garage manager, an Asian, with many smiles refused payment.

  We set off again, got lost in Mbale, and found we had been going the wrong way. We bought a large bunch of bananas. By now it was lunchtime and I was expecting further trouble. I thought of our choice of roads north – one was a bus route for some of the way and relatively well frequented – the other was a wilder mountain road. We decided to take the better one, visit Soroti to cancel our night’s reservation, and if the car ran well as far as Soroti we would press on towards Kidepo. The road was very pleasant. We went through a mango-growing area – good mangoes were magnificent – and crossed an arm of Lake Kyoga. Soroti Town was a scattering of buildings widely spread across a slight rise under some rocks. We found a deserted Government Rest House and left a message. The car had behaved well, so on we went towards Moroto on the way to Kidepo.

  First we travelled on a fair tar road through settled country with some valleys. After 40 miles or so we saw a jagged mountain ahead and began to climb towards it. This mountain would have suited very well for a Western movie, with huge vertical stacks of rock. Our road climbed to a saddle between two halves of the mountain, and turned a corner cutting off the view back to Soroti. Dropping into Karamoja on the other side we came to a village of primitive huts with naked men, and almost naked women. The women wore a few skins as a sort of skirt. The men generally carried small three-legged stools, and some had a cloak thrown over their shoulders but were otherwise totally naked. These were very tall thin people with tremendous presence and dignity, so that a stark naked skinny man walking along a road looked like a haughty graceful aristocrat. The Karamajong looked down on the rest of the world – their main values were cattle and fighting. Related to the Masai they were always turbulent and until a few years previously a special permit had been necessary to enter the area at all. Rabid nationalists said that this was so British wives could go and goggle at the naked men!

  The first village was rather dirty and scrappy. Beyond it the land fell to a great plain covered with thorny shrubs and seamed by dry river valleys. On the horizon rose the fine triangular Moroto Mountain and the road pointed straight towards it. Everything was sharp and crisp with perfect visibility. Our road went on and on, yet the mountain seemed to stay as far away as ever. Then we realised it had become a trifle larger, and a few glints became visible at its base. Inch by inch it grew. We passed two or three Karamajong men with spears who ran off into the thorny scrub. Spears indicate poachers, and a car could well mean Police.

  Shortly before the town we passed a number of shanties and crossed a bridge over a dry stream. We filled up with petrol, checked oil, water and tyres, and decided we'd had enough travel for one day and would stay the night. The Government Rest-House looked like a schoolhouse. There were a number of bedrooms, a small lounge, and a tiny dining room. Moroto Town, as the centre of a large District, also had a court house, a police and army camp, a few dukas, and a small group of government houses and villas. There was a hospital and also a football pitch, but practically nothing else. Two streets ran parallel, but most of the town was along one single street. At night a policemen walked up and down this street outside our Rest-House carrying a rifle. We went for a walk, explored a little, and then had tea for the children. After they had been put to bed between nice clean sheets in a tidy little room, Bridget and I went for supper. The full moon had just risen over the peak of Mount Moroto and lit up the countryside.

  We had supper and went to sit in the lounge for coffee. By this time a few Africans had come into the lounge to have a drink - this was apparently the only bar in town (probably the only legal one for a large distance). One very tall thin Karamajong in western clothes came over to talk. At first we had a somewhat confused conversation since I did not recognise him as a medical student at Makerere - I had lectured to him, but he had not worked on my wards. He told us about the country, and gave us his father's address (his father was a chief in the north) in case we broke down en-route.

  Next morning I had a chat with Dr. Varies. He had been one of our House Physicians and was then posted to the hospital at Moroto. He did not have a car and I should think he felt very isolated. His fiancée was in Kampala, but he said he was contented and happy.

  We set off early next morning and turned due north. In comparison to this new country Moroto seemed like a busy metropolis. We drove across a vast hot dry thorn-covered plain towards a smaller mountain and saw nobody whatsoever and only a few shoots of cultivated green until we were about halfway to the mountain. Then we passed a school surrounded by a fence. A man ran out and waved. In this desolate waste, it would have been unthinkable to drive past. A schoolboy came out, and asked us to take him north. He spoke quite good English and was going to Kotido - a village marked on our map on a side road just off our route. This side road appeared to go onwards past Kotido to rejoin our road.

  We pressed on, the mountain grew larger, and we left it behind. We reached the Kotido turn and looked for sign of his village. There was no trace. It seemed inhuman to put this lad down at a signpost by a thorn bush in the blazing heat, so we turned left. Kotido was much further than I expected, but at last we passed two or three herdsman with cattle. Then we saw the village – a few rectangular buildings standing on slightly higher bare exposed ground. We drove up and dropped our lad near the centre. There was a school and quite an impressive church, both looking solid and fairly new, but the whole village lacked any softening by trees, bushes, or even grass. We asked our passenger if we could go straight on rather than back to the road as our map suggested we could, and he said yes. We had not passed another vehicle since leaving the outskirts of Moroto. It was a Sunday, and driving into Kotido we had passed a column of children and youths making for the church, in step and in ranks.

  We left Kotido on a suspiciously small track. Almost immediately we met another column of Sunday walkers head-on, this one not quite so formal. They split and slowly, smiling, we drove down the centre of the column between two ranks of men and women, boys and girls, all tall, haughty, neat, and I suppose also going to church. It was an extra-ordinary sensation. Our track became worse and we ground on slowly, expecting to meet the “main” road any time. The country was broken but terribly dry with inhospitable thorny scrub. We stopped in the centre of the track on a down slope in case I had trouble starting again, and ate our lunch. In the middle of this we heard a car and a Mercedes appeared at the bottom of the hill. It came up, the driver enquired whether we were all right, and then went on – the first car since Moroto.

  After lunch the car started properly, and we continued carefully. The drifts across the road were very rough but we managed to cross them, and in those places where the road had been washed away we followed tracks through the bush whi
ch by-passed the damaged parts. We saw two more vehicles and felt this road to be relatively congested. After what seemed like many miles during which I cursed our map, we rejoined a main road, but it ran in an unexpected direction. After first going the wrong way, we discovered that this “main” road took a great loop south to avoid a valley. We turned around, the country grew wilder and wilder, and we reached another village. This had a Mission, a dispensary, and quite a lot of huts. Karamajong sat around stark naked on their stools. Ladies herded cattle, children played naked in the dust, and the whole had a Biblical air of simplicity. There was no petrol but a police post. We continued into a ridge of hills across our path. The road swung west and crossed two dry rivers without bridges. These rivers had steep banks and flat sandy floors. We had to go gently down, but keep enough speed to carry the car sufficiently up the far bank for the back wheels to grip. I suppose in principle we might have gone backwards. Front wheel or four wheel drive would have been better.

  Beyond the end of these hills, the country became greener. We reached a Park Entrance and Barrier with an African who had a hand net and a fly swatter to check vehicles going the other way for tsetse flies. Three cars came out from the park as we went in.

  We drove through acacia scrub and almost immediately met a herd of most beautiful giraffe. We crossed a disused airstrip and entered a wide rectangular meadow with park buildings at the upper corners. The grass was green and quite lush. Bandas stood at one corner and looked down a gentle slope to a rolling valley bottom. Jackson's Hartebeeste and Waterbuck grazed below the bandas, and regular low hills stood across the valley. There was a dining room with attached kitchen in a banda which was a little larger than the accommodation huts. We were the only visitors. A Scot was building a deep-freeze room, preparing for the day when a proper lodge would be built and the accommodation would stop being self-service. There was a small shop and post office.