Africa

It wasn’t until years later, when we found our beautiful little ship, the Saga Ruby, we were able to enjoy being ‘on’ the sea as opposed to being ‘in’ the sea. On occasion we were at sea for six days on the trot; it was these days that were of such special significance. The whole outside wall of our cabin was glass which slid open on to a balcony. I would sit there for hour after hour, drinking coffee and watching the sea. Suddenly a small school of flying fish would break the surface and wing their way ahead of the ship. Dolphins would come and play in the prow for ages, jumping over the waves. Such a beautiful, graceful freedom.

A couple of years after Gwynne dashed me out to the exposed reef and through the waves to let me float free in the beautiful immensity of the Indian Ocean, he himself was to suffer his own considerable trauma.

He was, by profession, a bush pilot, so it was that feeling of the need to be free, he understood so well, without having to explain or vocalise it in any way. He was working for a French company in Southern Sudan ferrying the workers back and forth from their camp on the border with Kenya to where they were building a huge canal, called the Jonglei Canal. Its purpose was to divert the White Nile away from its natural course through the Sudd swamp, and join it again about three hundred kilometres north; thereby increasing the water available for agriculture a hundredfold.

Although The Sudd can be looked upon as a nuisance, it is a vast ecosystem in its own right. The implications of depriving it of such a vast quantity of water so quickly surely can’t have been thought through properly. It was the lack of thought, or sheer stupidity, that, arguably, gave the Southern Sudanese Freedom fighters the right to stop the canal being built. It was, for this reason, Gwynne, his pregnant wife, little son and fellow pilots were captured. Apart from his wife and child, who later had to be abandoned to be found by the following army, the others were held hostage in the bush for more than a year. They only just survived by catching grubs and insects. The small amount of water they were given was filthy and stale. They were all very, very ill and at times close to death.

Finally, a ransom was negotiated and they were released. The reason why this episode in Gwynne’s life comes into my story is because, just before he was captured, he had spotted and bought a small, all-terrain vehicle. He thought it would be ideal for me. He could NOT have been more right. I have used that vehicle, and ones like it, to this very day. When I’m in it, I literally can go anywhere. It’s very fast so I can speed along any beach at about thirty miles an hour. It can swim out to the reef at low tide. It floats, so deep pools make no difference. I can fly out through the tall grass on the savannah plains in amongst the herds of game. As long as I don’t get too close they don’t gallop away. They don’t know what I am, so they just stand and stare. I can climb over huge boulders, I can pick my way through dense woods, or through forests of tall majestic oak trees or beach or pine. It’s rather like an upturned bath only wider. It has six balloon tyres; three either side, all driven simultaneously by a small motorbike engine. It’s steered by two levers that brake one side or the other. The only trouble with this one, my first one, is the engine would suddenly decide to stop, and nothing, nothing would persuade it to start again.

For some reason, best known to herself, my little wife, who looks after me as though I’m made of the thinnest porcelain imaginable, doesn’t let me drive alone in the car. The buggy is another matter entirely. All she’d ask, ’Have you got enough petrol?’ I’d say, ‘Yes, and I’ll be some time, I don’t know how long.’ That’s all.

So it was on one occasion, I set out, on my own, down from the house in the Valley, on to the plains below. In those days the plains were full of all sorts of game, Thompson gazelle, Grant, Kongoni, Zebra, prancing Impala, all the plains game. Way, away I went,further and further; it was so beautiful; compelling. I stopped and turned off the engine. I was ‘there’, complete, listening to the silence. The sound of the soft breeze wafting gently through the tall brown succulent grass, the sweet smell of fresh hay, the munching of the animals all around. I felt part of the whole, I was part of nature.

I don’t know how long I was there, but it must have been an hour or two. I began to think I should get back. I reluctantly turned the key to start the engine. It didn’t take. I turned it again, still it didn’t fire. I opened the choke; still nothing. I wasn’t worried yet; I waited a bit, I tried again, nothing, again and again, still nothing. The battery started to show signs of strain. There was nothing I could do, I just sat there, I was marooned. What was I to do? I looked all around me in a different light; instead of the beauty I’ve just described, I saw nothing for miles around; there were no roads anywhere near, why would anyone come this way. I knew I’d eventually be missed, but where would they begin to look for me? I just sat in a stunned stupor. I stared ahead, empty of thought.

Then slowly in my gaze, on the horizon, there seemed to be a figure. I went on staring. It was a figure, it was a Maasai, his skin covered in red ochre, his hair braided with fat and ochre, falling to his shoulders. He was carrying his long sharp spear and wooden knobkerrie, his long knife in its red leather sheath around his waist. He stopped right in front of the buggy, threw the blunt end of the spear into the ground to lean on, he said, ‘Sorba (hello).’ I said ‘Sorba.’ He said, ‘Habari (How are things).’ I said in Swahili, ‘I can’t start my engine.’ ‘Ah,’ he said and continued in Swahili, ‘let me look.’ I lifted the cover off the engine, we both bent over looking into it, like two men anywhere in the world, ‘Ah,’ he said again. He pulled his spear out of the ground, turned it around, and carefully threaded the long sharp blade down to a little screw on top of the carburettor. He gave it a small, gentle turn and said, ‘Jarribu (try it).’ I turned the key and the engine burst into life.

Without another word, he got into the buggy next to me and pointed with his spear where he wanted to go. After a little while we approached his Manyatta (a collection of rounded huts made of dung). A crowd of little children, all completely naked, poured out of all the huts, screaming with laughter, running to greet us. They were laughing so much they could hardly stand up. As the Moran stood up to get out, the children, still doubled up with laughter, formed an orderly little queue. They moved one by one, towards the Moran, bowed their little heads, while he gently laid the flat of his hand on each one. We shook arms goodbye, and amid gales of laughter, from jumping, waving, naked little black bodies, I sped off into the fast approaching gloom.

I was slightly worried about my reception. Dusk was just beginning to come down. I’d been away quite a long time. I drove into the parking area and up to my chair. I transferred out of the buggy, into the chair and gingerly pushed myself on to the veranda. Everyone was there, merrily chatting away. I got a warm greeting from all the family, and a kiss from My little wife, ‘Hello, hello, have you had a lovely time?’ ‘I’ve had a wonderful time.’

This moment, and its reaction was very significant. It meant I was getting back my independence. No one was trying to take away my independence, but inevitably, I’d become mollycoddled and it was now up to me, to show I could stand on my own two feet, so to speak.

It must have been on this visit to my family in the Valley, we were driving into Nairobi when an incident took place with a traffic policeman. A new flyover had been built over our usual road, to relieve the incredible volume of traffic that had come about since we were last here. I made a stupid mistake and started to come down off the flyover into the oncoming traffic. Very quickly I realised the mistake and backed up, but two or three cars had to weave their way around me. Only a couple of minutes from joining the dual carriageway, a policeman stepped forward with his arm up in the air and the other vigorously waving me to the side. He was furious, ‘What do you think you were doing?’ he shouted in his thick Kenyan accent, ‘You could have caused a grave accident,’ ’I’m very sorry Officer, you see the last...’ ‘No, no, no, no,’ he shouted waving his finger in my face.‘Do not make excuses to me’, then pointing to his badge on his cap, ‘You have not got a leg to stand on.’ I paused and said, ‘Do you know Officer, you’re absolutely right.’ He stood back and puffed up, ‘So... I am right.’ ‘Yes Officer, I’m very sorry, I shall never make that mistake again.’ He paused and half shouted, ‘OK, this time I will let you go, but if I ever have to stop you again, I will throw the book at you, now go.’ I went.