I fear I have digressed once more. I left you with my wife Annette, and myself at Vesey’s. There was a shortage of houses so we took up residence in the Abercorn Arms. The Abercorn Arms was not a place you would wish to stay for long. We managed to persuade the Red Locust Administrative Officer to let us move to the house Michelmore had built near the stream draining from Lake Chilla. Michelmore wanted I assume, to be well away from suburban Abercorn! It was a rambling brick structure of vaguely gothic appearance known in consequence as “The Cathedral”. We shared the place for a time with a vast elderly Scot known unimaginatively as “Jock” Currie. He was employed as a carpenter working in the bush. He would go off with a bag of maize meal and a pound of tea, return when the job was done, draw his wages, get drunk and stay drunk until the money was gone. During the week he was with us he was drunk, quite literally the whole time; fortunately he was an amiable drunk. We then moved to a newly completed house in the town and during our second tour to a house overlooking the lake.
My Mapping Office was a shed apart from the main building with the carpenter’s workbench near by. I really did not have much to do. I was acutely home sick. Homesickness is a curious malady, and curious because it is a malady, a physical pain as well as a mental state. The book I had on photogrammetry had been written by the person who taught me at Bristol University so the photographs were all of my home country. That did not help. There was one plate showing Bath with a number 134 bus that I had taken so often, ready to leave for Bristol. There was even one of the spot on the Cotswold escarpment where I had proposed.
The days were long. I would sit in my office working in a desultory, way with the carpenter and his assistant gossiping with assorted women who dropped by. All Africans at least all East Africans, talk loudly and at a constant decibel level. I felt miserable. I found and still find the African bush a depressing place. Africa seems so old and indifferent, not hostile but indifferent. The descending scale of the Collared Dove must be the world’s most mournful call. In the bush I feel trivial and along with the rest of mankind irrelevant. There is life but not life operating on a human time scale or to human needs. Deserts do not affect me in the same way perhaps because superficially they are lifeless. But outback Australia does not depress me either nor does the Amazon rain forest. No, the feeling is unique to the bush of East and Central Africa.
I decided Africa and locusts was not for me so I went to Gunn and told him I wished to resign after a minimum tour. Gunn said that was a pity because he was going to offer me promotion; so I stayed and 50 years on I am still working on locust problems.
There is not much more to tell about my time with Red Locust. Alastair left just before the end of my first tour. Gunn left soon after. The Council wished me to become the next Director. But the Chairman Carl du Plessis who had just retired as Director of Brown Locust control in South Africa, proposed not unreasonably that it might be as well if he acted as Director until I had gained more experience. But du Plesssis had no intention of ever standing aside and certainly not in favour of a Brit. A decade later he was still drawing his salary.
I have been promised preferment that has not occurred, a number of times but looking back in every case being disappointed has proved fortunate. Red Locust declined progressively after I left. Member countries failed to pay, operating across international boundaries became difficult, security became a problem and so on. Du Plessis did not even try to keep Red Locust as an effective organisation. I would have tried but I think success would have been impossible.
Du Plessis was ruled totally by his wife, Rockalene. She was a large imposing woman, of ostentatious religious fervour and offensive piety. Like many Afrikaans women, behind a front of treacly sentimentality she was ruthless, manipulative and tough as old boots. When the du Plessises first arrived I took them on a tour of the Rukwa. It was the end of the dry season and there were fifty or so hippo trying to survive in one small muddy pool in the bed of the Rungwa River. Without rain they would not have survived long. As we were climbing the escarpment on our way back to Abercorn we could see a rain-storm on the far side of the plain roughly where the hippos were. Mrs du Plessis turned to me clasping her hands in a girlish gesture inappropriate in an old girl standing 5 ft 10 in her stockinged feet and weighing-in at a good 14 stone, and said, “Och they are saved! I prayed for rain and there is rain! My prayer has been answered!” A few minutes later she looked down where we could see the second LandRover carrying du Plessis, and said to me, “Isn’t love wonderful?” I waited apprehensively for what might come next. She continued, “ I looked down and thought that’s my ‘usband down there!”
Gunn’s intention had been that I should try to make the research more coherent. Two new scientists had been appointed, one English, one Dutch and both older than me. My plan was that I should estimate numbers during a breeding - parents, eggs, eggs per pod, hatchlings, mid instar hoppers, fledglings - with Godfrey and Claus trying to find out why numbers were changing. My part was certainly the toughest requiring me to spend the day counting in what was a semi-swamp; Harry Johnson’s “terrestrial hell”. Godfrey and Claus resented me. I was probably not very tactful but they were certainly not very reasonable. Fortunately the two of them with their wives were stationed at Kafukola in South Rukwa, which was not where the research was done. Nothing much came of this work. Claus later used my figures without either permission or acknowledgement, as the basis for his Doctorate.
I remember suggesting one evening that it might be a good idea where fire had left unburnt islands of grass, to spray a persistent pesticide around them. The locusts habitually spent the night in the tall unburnt grass and flew down to feed on the fresh green growth that sprouted after fire, during the day. Godfrey said not a word but I found out later he had put my plan into effect and written up the result.
Such acts are common in science where being first is everything and there is no copyright on ideas. Another theft of my work has made me much crosser though mainly because the theft is so trivial. I drew up a sketch map of the Wembere, a suspect outbreak area east of Tabora, by flying aircraft traverses. Several decades later I found the map, my spidery drawing could not be mistaken, with my name obliterated and another’s inserted. Who could possibly think to acquire merit by laying claim to my inaccurate, ill drawn sketch map, of an obscure bit of East Africa?
The three of us, Godfrey, Claus and myself, experienced an episode much like that in “Three Men in a Boat” where Harris disappears clutching a steak pie. We were putting up poles to mark an experimental plot somewhere in the flat featureless grass plain. The poles were long and stuck out at the back of the pick-up. Claus was driving and I was in the passenger seat. We looked out and no Godfrey could be seen to the far horizon, “Godfrey” we shouted, “where are you?” “I’m here”, said a low voice from the ground and there was Godfrey’s face just below the driver’s door. In reversing Claus had knocked Godfrey over with the end of the poles. By great good fortune Claus missed driving over Godfrey. What was ludicrous might well have been tragic.
Since field research was carried out in the Rukwa I ought to give some account of the area. The Rukwa trough is part of the Great Rift Valley system that runs from the Red Sea to Lake Tanganyika and on to Lake Nyasa. A rift valley occurs where the earth’s crust develops parallel splits and the area between either drops or is forced down. The sides up the rift usually curl up. The Rukwa trough is aligned roughly north south. It is about 50 miles across and slopes very gentle to the south, where the Rungwe Knot blocks the valley. The trough peters out gradually to the north. The western escarpment rises nearly 5000ft above the valley floor. The highest point is the Mbesi forest, a remarkable mist maintained forest of great beauty and interest. There were then giant lobelias and rare Rufus Colobus monkeys. Robin Crosse-Upcott and I once drove to the Mbesi to see the dawn. We left Muse at I think two in the morning and arrived just as the sun broke over the lower eastern escarpment. It was an extraordinary sight. The sun seemed to rise below us.
The Rukwa is a completely closed drainage system; rivers flow in but none flows out. The floor of the valley has thus become covered with a flat layer of saline soil. Flat really does mean flat. In the mid nineteen fifties the lake was quite 50 miles long but no more than 20 feet deep at its deepest point in the extreme south east. Though so shallow you could still drown. In 1939 at the outbreak of war a chap named Petkowski who was in fact German, marched up to the D C at Sumbawanga on the Ufipa plateau immediately west of the Rukwa,, and demanded to be arrested. The D C told him not to be silly but Petkowski persisted so the D C locked him up. That gave Petkowski the chance to break out and escape across Lake Rukwa. However, though the water was only knee high, a substantial wind rose generating waves that knocked Petkowski over . He survived but the African with him drowned. He left a wife who being German was not allowed a gun. So to protect her cattle she hunted leopard with dogs and a spear. A formidable lady of great charm and even when I met her, still beautiful.
In the nineteen fifties the lake was bordered by large grass plains; North Rukwa alone covered quite 500 square miles. During the rainy season the plains became swamps. We thought that the usual situation. However, in 1962 exceptional rains caused the lake to extend over the plains and even into the bordering woodland, and it has not gone down since. There is ample evidence that the lake had not always been as we found it. What are clearly raised beaches could be seen along the escarpment, and indeed our base at Milepa was built on one. Most intriguing though is the Ilyandi Sandy Ridge that crosses the valley about 80 miles to the north of North Rukwa. This forms a dam so creating Lake Kitavi. The Sandy Ridge is obviously related in some fashion to a former state of Lake Rukwa. In geomorphology one looks for an explanation by seeking a current process that if it functioned for long enough might lead to the creation of the feature. I can think of no such process in this case.
I faced a similar conundrum many years later with the “feche-feche” of the southern Sahara. Feche-feche is level stony desert and refers to the sound tyres make when you drive across it. Feche-feche is made of small stones in a soil matrix. The stones proved to be a mixture from the surrounding mountains. What is required is a “factory” to collect the stones from many sources, grade them roughly, mix them with soil and spread the mixture evenly over hundreds of square miles. The paper Chris Hemming and I published provoked a lively correspondence but no plausible suggestions for a mechanism.
The Rukwa plains were uninhabited and were classed as a Game Controlled Area. That meant shooting was prohibited but that the area was not formally policed. Many Red Locust field officers became honorary Game Wardens. Amongst the keenest were young Afrikaans who arrived wanting to shoot anything that moved but who soon totally changed their view. The plains were full of game; elephant, buffalo, zebra, reed buck, puku, giraffe and especially topi. Nowhere else were there such great herds of topi. At the time of mating the topi would gather in one bare area covering many square miles and called by us the “topi stamping ground”. The males would spread themselves out 30 or 40 or so yards apart and just stand there. A very odd sight and very odd behaviour.
Large predators were few; some leopard and a few cheetah but lion only very rarely. The population balance, if balance there was, was not maintained by predation or by scarcity of food. My own view is that the population of game was subject to periodic catastrophic decline caused by weather – in this case perhaps by change in lake level - followed by relatively long periods of steady increase. I have often wondered whether this might be true more generally and if so what might be the implication for Darwinian selection.
The field research base was called Tumba located in North Rukwa mid way between the escarpments. Only locust people lived there. It consisted of a collection of thatched “rondavels”. These were easily built of mud using a “travelling builder”. The system consisted of a pole with an arm and a mould. The mould at the end of the arm was moved in a circle and packed with mud as it went. Doors and windows were cut out later. The whole was lime-washed, which made it more durable and also look better.
As I have said the plains became a swamp in the wet season. You could for a time get about in a LandRover but you got stuck often. You could then switch to a tractor and trailer but eventually the water would become to deep even for a tractor. To get about then we had the “Swamp Skipper”. This consisted of a two level metal box - the driver sat on the lower level and the observer above- with hollow metal drum wheels about 3 feet wide and 5 feet in diameter. In theory you could move on dry land, in swamp or even in deep water with the machine floating on the drum wheels. The Swamp Skipper had no springs so on dry land it soon shook itself to pieces. On open water the churning wheels were no match for any wind there might be; as a rule you went where the wind blew you. But it did have its uses in a swamp. The second version was driven by two LandRover engines, one for the left pair of wheels and the other for the right. It was steered like a tank by accelerating one or other of the engines. It was mechanically very unreliable. It had a habit of sheering half-shafts. That happened to me late one afternoon. With power only on one side you cannot drive in a straight line, all you can do is move in circles. We tried to progress by moving at full speed so making a tight half circle, then slowly to cover a wider half circle. By repeating this manoeuvre we progressed in a series of loops but we did not get far. The next morning I waded back to Tumba. The water was nearly up to my waist, the grass was high above my head and the mosquitoes were about in their millions. The exercise of wading caused me to develop acute pain in my upper thighs so much so that I had to lift my leg with my hands to take a step. It was one of those cases where one moment you are afraid you are going to die and the next you regret that you may not. Once I reached dry land though I was fine.
The Swamp Skipper gave you a grand view of the plains but it stirred up the mosquitoes. You needed to wear overalls, boots, gloves, a hat and still you were bitten repeatedly. But because there were no people in the plains there was no malaria.
At times I was at Tumba for a week or so with no other white person but it never occurred to me that this was risky nor I am sure was it. The safety risk or rather lack of risk, was illustrated again on the trip Annette and I made to the south at the end of my first tour to sell our Morris Oxford. We could not get a decent price in Ndola so we drove on to Salisbury. About eight at night Annette said, “Let’s stop here”. I said nothing because I wanted to get on. Annette got cross. “We just drive and drive and drive” she said emphasising each “drive” with a yank on the steering wheel – that come off in her hand with the last “drive”. As well the horn started to blow. So we did stop after all.
We had contracted to bring back what turned out to be a semi derelict Mark VIII Jaguar. The first problem was a slipping accelerator. The accelerator worked by twisting a rod not pulling on a wire, as is usual with most cars. There were in fact two rods joined by a collar and the collar was slipping. I jammed it in the “on” position so we roared up to eighty or so. I then turned off the engine and coasted until the speed had dropped to about twenty, engaged the engine, sped up to eighty again and so on. I fixed the accelerator that night but just out of Kasama the engine died. The Jag had two tanks and I had let one run dry before switching. That should not have caused a problem but the tanks were not clean; detritus had been drawn up and had clogged the carburettor. I had no tools and it was eight at night, and of course quite dark. I could see a fire in the bush so I walked to the village, appropriated a bicycle and rode into Kasama. This wasn’t in the least risky. I found a friend Jock Stein at the Club. He jumped into his LandRover, but being none too sober drove it into a ditch. We it got out though and collected the others. Our problems with the Jag were not over though. The left slave to the steering arm worked loose so the car would switch direction suddenly and without warning. Finally the brakes virtually ceased to work. There were no hills but there were many long declines leading to a narrow bridge over a gully. I approached these pumping the brake-peddle furiously to work up some pressure. I was not sorry to reach Abercorn.
I did not get on well with du Plessis. No true Afrikaaner has ever regarded the Boer war as over and du Plessis was not going to lose the latest round. I thought du Plessis stupid and idle; he thought me arrogant and British; we were both right. I suggested I might look at the last Red Locust plague and for that I should have to be seconded to the Anti-locust Research Centre in London since the records were there. Du Plessis thought that a splendid idea.
But what happened to me is neither of great interest nor of importance. Even a small remote settlement in the last days of Empire is something of both. What were the inhabitants of Abercorn like? What did they think? What did we do?
The members of the colonial administration were in the main good people but not remarkable, with the exception of Brenda Gibb, the Doctor’s wife. Brenda was a nymphomaniac, the only one I have ever known. “Known” is not a euphemism since Brenda rigidly avoided husbands. Though when Benda saw a bachelor she fancied she quite literally licked her lips. Brenda had a cap of dark hair, she was of modest height and rather boyish in appearance; she was attractive but no stunner. Brenda was a pleasant lass, in no way out of the ordinary except for her insatiable appetite for sex. We, Annette and I, used to go round to the Gibbs for an evening of bridge from time to time. Brenda did not play and might nip out for a quickie in the time it took to play three no trumps. Matters came to a head when John Gibb searching for an absent Brenda in the small hours, came upon her with one of our Field Officers Hendrick Stroh, on the fifth green, or rather brown since the putting surfaces were sand, in front of the D C’s residence. I had a graphic account of what followed from my wife who was staying with the D C’s wife at the time; the D C like me was away. John and Hendrick wrestled in the dark falling in and out of the bunkers. This resulted in a good deal of noise and the constabulary was called. Gunn had the good sense to pack Hendrick of to the Rukwa immediately. He turned up at Tumba in a distraught state, “What will my poor old Mom say? The disgrace will kill her! How can I face my folks?” I was less than sympathetic since I was suffering a much greater tragedy. George my dog had gone missing.
George really deserves a chapter to himself. He was a dog of remarkable determination, great intelligence and much character. On his licence he was classed as “town terrier”. What breeds had gone to produce George I cannot even speculate. He was brown, short haired and rather short legged, on the small side of medium but strongly made. I forget how I acquired him though I know he came from a native village in the north of the Rukwa. A few weeks after George came to live at my expense I took him for a walk to Lake Chilla and left him on the bank while I went for a swim. I was in the middle of the lake several hundred yards from shore when I felt something scrabbling at my shoulders. George reckoned that if I could keep afloat he could too. After that there was no keeping George out of water. Our Morris Oxford had a bench front seat. If I drove to the lake George would balance on the back of the seat whinnying and trembling with excitement. He would race out of the car and fling himself off the end of the diving board.
That dog I swear understood much of what you said, not just commands and tone of voice. I remember my wife and I walking down the drive with George along side and my saying in a conversational manner, “I don’t think we had better take George.” When I glanced round George was sitting in the middle of the drive looking very cross and deeply offended. When we finally left Abercorn George went to a farm. I am told when they went out on horseback hunting leopard the big Ridgebacks would drop out one by one but never George.
On the day before Stroh’s escapade I had driven to the Rukwa and taken George with me. I had taken two LandRovers, one I sent on to camp with George while I drove the other off to check on something – I forget what. George jumped out and tried to follow me and got lost. The grass was head high. There were leopard, cheetah, hyena and jackal about so I thought the chance of George surviving remote in the extreme. I was in a state of mourning when Stroh arrived. The people at Muse said they would take an evening run to where George had gone missing, and out of the grass he bounded.
The settlers included a good number of outlandish characters. I have found most of the many “characters” I have known to be fundamentally uninteresting. “Characters” come in two distinct types. There are those who are acting a part and those where the person has become the part, that is who are or have become hollow men. The former can be subdivided into those who would have us take their act to be reality and those who make no pretence that their “character” is other than an act. Churchill put on an act; the cigar, the siren suit, the V sign. Can there be any doubt that Churchill enjoyed the double entendre of the V sign? The speeches were great theatre and consciously so, but that does not mean they were insincere. Sir Thomas Beecham put on a great performance enjoyed I suspect, as much by him as by us. On the other hand, Malcolm Sargeant and von Karajan seemed to expect us to take their act as their true selves. With those who act a character there is the chance of finding the man behind the front. Ionides known and at that time quite famous as “the snake man”, stayed briefly with us. He certainly acted up the part and I was accordingly set to dislike him. But he stepped out of his part in private and then proved to be both charming and interesting.
The hollow men though are not interesting. Vesey was kindly, energetic, uncomplaining, unfailingly cheerful, and very knowledgeable about the animals, insects and birds of Africa. He was a good man. But he was not introspective and he totally lacked empathy. I suspect he started to acquire his “character” at Public School where a front I believe was then necessary for survival. The result it would seem was the inner man becoming buried beyond reach or perhaps simply ceasing to exist at all. Vesey’s death left a small gap only in my life; my death would have left no gap at all in his. The hollow men are like Dickensian characters, unchanging and defined by their eccentricity. Eccentrics are not rebels, they are licensed clowns; eccentrics are always “loveable”, rebels rarely so.
A number of the Abercorn characters were only characters in the sense that they had done something unusual, not that they were remarkable people. Peachey was a wealthy, colourless, nonentity. His story though is distinctly odd. He had entered his aircraft in the London- Johannesburg air race of I think 1932. The plane crashed at Abercorn, the pilot was killed but Peachey got away with a twisted knee. He was put into what passed for a hospital, married the girl who nursed him and spent the remainder of his life trying to sell insurance to the local blacks. I remember chatting to him about the difficulty of getting props for my production of the “Importance of Being Earnest”, in particular of getting hold of spats. “Spats, my dear fellow”, said Peachey, “I’ve got a cupboard full,” and indeed so he had.