Tana river trips

Almost forty years ago I was between safaris and ran into a Dutch friend and neighbour in Karen, Nairobi. He said he hadn't seen me for a while and I said I'd been on safari. He immediately replied "We are setting off on a six-week safari next week - would you consider coming along?" :-)

He explained that he was in charge of a project sponsored by the Dutch government to collect enough data to make a computer model of the Tana river so they could calculate the effects of irrigation pumping and hydro-electric projects.

He showed me the brand new LandRover LWB wagon they had flown out from the UK. It had an immense roof-rack with supporting pillars down the outside of the shell to the undercarriage! I asked why they had added this. "We carry two 50kg 'bombs' on top - they have spring-loaded doors under them and when we throw them in the river these doors snap shut on the bottom and we get riverbed samples".

"Wow!" I replied. "So what have you done to uprate your suspension?" He said they had done nothing - and why did I ask? I said if he had that amount of weight up that high and went around a corner the vehicle would fall over. "Yes it did!" he answered!

Pieter and his team had already collected data down as far as Kora so we started there (after visiting George). We drove south from Kora, crossed the river at Garissa and refuelled. I had tricked out my 1968 ex-army LandRover which had long-range tanks under the front seats - with two 5-gallon cans inside the extended front bumper and bullbars and seven (!) more cans across the roof (!) then we had two 50 gallon drums in the back (!). After taking almost an hour with a very slow pump we had almost 200 gallons of petrol on board. I couldn't resist asking the (very bored) petrol pump attendant who had done the job - "Do you think we will make it to Sankuri?" - (15km) - he sighed, spat, shrugged and said, laconically, "Maybe!" 

We then headed north (15km) to Sankuri on the other bank. We were given accommodation here, in what was then a very small village with a police post and a water-pumping station. As the sun went down Pieter was sitting outside our hut working with a (very precious) Ordnance Survey map. I was walking towards him when one of the policemen started playing the National anthem on a trumpet and another policeman lowered the flag. I naturally stopped to watch and then looked aghast as two policemen came running over and started to pull Pieter away. I asked what they were doing and they said he had committed a serious crime by not standing for the anthem! I sprang to his defence and explained that because the wind had just got up he had to hold down the maps - "which we were personally trusted with by the president" so they didn't blow away and get damaged. Fortunately, any mention of the president was a powerful argument and he was released. The fact that the “President’s Award Scheme” (another story!) was emblazoned on my Landrover also helped!

The next day we drove up to a point opposite Kora to start taking measurements. Pieter had a theodolite and his Dutch friend was to hold a red and white pole in several places across the river - which was less than waist deep here. As we pulled up we could see a huge croc sunbathing on a sandbank in the middle of the river. Pieter checked it with his instruments and declared it was at least 6m long. We had hired a local boatsman with a dugout canoe in Sankuri and he was going to travel downstream with us from there but Pieter decided that he would be useful here so the pole-holder could sit in the canoe to be safe from crocodiles. As it was near lunchtime he asked me to drive back to Sankuri, load the canoe into the back of my landrover and bring it back. I set off and found the guy who was happy to comply - but shook his head when I pointed at my 4x4. "Too heavy" he said - and when I tried to lift the end of the dugout I realised it was thoroughly "waterlogged" and weighed what felt like a ton! Being young and resourceful I remembered seeing a Bedford 4x4 lorry in the police station so I went to ask if they would help us (as we knew the president!) They were very, very keen - but had no diesel fuel to use. I knew it would take too long to drive to Garissa (we had over 300l of fuel but both our vehicles were petrol) - but then one of the policemen told me the water pumping station had diesel "but they don't like us". I went and played my "friends-of-Moi" card again and liberated a jerrycan full. The police were ecstatic and got their jungle fatigues on, came down and lifted the canoe into their truck and we drove triumphantly back to Pieter. We pulled up and they carried the canoe down to the water. The boatsman then stepped into the river and waded across to the other side, splashing the water with his paddle. We watched open-mouthed and when he got back asked him what he was doing. "I am checking that the stream is deep enough for my boat to cross!" We asked why he had been splashing his paddle - "To keep the crocodiles away"!!!

On our third safari we took along a microlight aircraft to complete a photo-mosiac of the delta area of the river. All attempts to complete this had failed because clouds would form so often. Even when the crew on the ground reported the sky was clear it would cloud over again before the photo-plane could reach the site. In this photo we had just crossed the river using a ford created by the army below a broken bridge. We were the first vehicle to cross in a week!

Nigel Slade

I had the great good-fortune of working for Nigel when he was the Headmaster of Hillcrest Prep in Nairobi. He was a truly inspiring leader and I remember that I used to hurry to school and be reluctant to leave at the end of the day. It was also one of the few schools I worked at where there was never a shortage of volunteers for any extra activities - and the volunteers were often from the parents of the students. The relationship between the parents and the staff was very strong and many long-lasting bonds were formed in those days.

The physical structure of the school was quite unique. The staffroom was a converted classroom that still had a blackboard. This was often used by parents to leave messages for the staff:- "David & Alison! Don't forget you are invited to Clare & Batuk's for supper at 8!" The leaving of these notes was facilitated by the fact that the room had a door directly in from the car park. It had a second door - which led into the rest of the school - directly through Nigel's inner sanctum! His little room had three doors. The one you had just entered - which was to the right of his desk, a door to his secretary's office - which was opposite his desk and the third door - into the main part of the school, on the left of his desk! I have never, ever known a school where the staff would all walk through the Head's office several times every day! 

I was told that if he had a visitor or was making an important phonecall the door would be closed and I should walk out into the carpark and around to the main entrance to go to lessons. This didn't happen to me for weeks and then one day the door was closed and I got up to go and take a class. I absentmindedly put my hand on the doorknob - and realised that (a) the door was vibrating because he was bellowing on the other side of it "AND IT BETTER NOT HAPPEN AGAIN - BECAUSE IF IT DOES IT WON'T BE HERE BECAUSE YOU WILL BE GONE!!!" I let go of the handle as if it was redhot! Another teacher laughed at me! "That was close!" he said. "It sounds as if he is roasting one of the students!" I said. "Oh no!" came the reply, "Nigel would never talk to a child that way - it is one of the parents! They sent their child to school two days running in a non-regulation sweater!" Now bear in mind, this was a fee-paying school!! 

I struggle to put his philosophy into words partly because he didn't. But his passion for doing the best for his students was palpable. In most schools that I have worked in, at some point a member of staff will make a joke about a student, maybe imitating an accent or a mannerism. That NEVER happened in Nigel's school because we all knew subconsciously that he would tear us limb from limb! As well as being incredibly protective he also had a huge belief in the potential of his young charges. And he expected them to conform to a very high standard of behaviour. He never threatened or punished them but would show such intense personal anguish if he thought they weren't meeting his standards that they would correct themselves instantly! I vividly remember one morning assembly when he had dragged a throne onto the stage and was sitting on it with his head in his hands. The whole school filed in with everyone (including the staff) taking one look at this devastated figure and falling silent as they took their places. After a very long wait he finally raised his face and looked out at us all. "My heart is very heavy!" he whispered, followed by a long pause. At least two students (and probably a couple of members of staff) broke into tears at this display of raw grief. "This morning I looked out into the playground . . . ." another great, sad pause, more muffled sobs from us . . . . "and some of you had not pulled your socks up!" Cue more tears - and some furtive adjustments of clothing. I share his philosophies to this day - but I never had the purity of passion to hold a whole school in that magical grip!

We didn't have to keep lesson-plans but we did have to keep a diary with a brief note about what topics we covered in every lesson and we were encouraged to record reactions from any students. Nigel religiously collected our diaries every three weeks and would read every word and sometimes leave notations. If one of these ended in a questionmark then you had better make sure you wrote an answer because it would be checked on the next three-week inspection! With hindsight this was a really ingenious way of keeping his eye on his school.

Another brilliant habit was that he took every teacher out for lunch roughly once every halfterm. These one-on-one sessions were mainly devoted to non-school conversations but it was a very powerful way for him to be aware of the morale of his staff. Nigel was very well connected in Nairobi. His father had been the last governor before independence. (His official title wasn't "Governor" but in effect that was his role!) Nigel had also taught many of the leading characters in Kenya, up to and including the Vice-President! He belonged to all the best clubs and would take me to Nairobi club when my lunch-date occurred. He knew that I was very interested in the history of Kenya and that I knew people like George Adamson and Beryl Markham. He would apologise that because of my timetable we didn't have time to drive out to the Muthaiga Club because he felt we were more likely to meet notable characters that he could introduce me to there. Then we had a break because one of my classes was cancelled on the day I got the lunch call. We went to Muthaiga and en route he was wondering who we might meet (and happily reeling off a very impressive list of possible candidates). We arrived and were admitted to the magnificent Members' Bar . . . which was empty except for one, rather disreputable-looking guy leaning on the mahoghany bar with a cigarillo. We arrived at the bar with Mr X on Nigel's right and me on his left. "My dear David! I am so sorry there are no VIP's here for me to introduce you to!" he said. "Well Nigel, maybe I can do the honours! Can I introduce you to this chap behind you? Dorian Rocco?" because by some weird fluke I did know the guy - and he was a very unusual character whose father was an Italian Count who settled on 5,000 acres at Naivasha and who had worn dark make-up to infiltrate the Mau-Mau during the rebellion! I had spent three months managing the farm for his sister, Oria. Dorian said "Nigel Slade? Was your father called Humphrey by any chance?" When Nigel nodded, Dorian said "Ah! My father proposed your father for his role in the colonial government! I am astonished that we have never met!"

Nigel had many facets and the theatre was very dear to his heart. He wrote a regular drama column in the national press and he wrote a play called "Mostly Moses" which was performed while I was at the school and was an excellent production. I would heartily recommend it to to any school drama department as a project. One entertaining feature (for me) was that my oldest son was one of the shepherds. In the play they are somewhat rough, tough characters with studded leather wrist-straps and stubble. They visit the waterhole where the maidens are collecting water. "Ho Ho!" they rumble - "So what have we here?" The maidens are alarmed and shrill "Oh No! It is the shepherds! We should run away!" Which is all fine - except that at the age of ten the boys actually had higher voices than the girls!!

Tragically Nigel passed away at the very early age of 50. He was immensely proud of the fact that there were over 30 nationalities among the student population and that there was a complete spectrum of skin tones with no one shade predominating! After he had his terminal diagnosis the school put on a concert in his honour which culminated with every child in the school filing onto the stage in national costumes and then joining together to sing "We are the World" to him. I was sitting next to him - and if there was a dry eye in the house I certainly couldn't see it through the tears pouring down my leathery cheeks!

Naivasha

In 1984 I had to choose between taking a job as a cowboy on a 20,000 acre game-ranch or managing a 500 acre farm on the shores of Naivasha. I had stayed on the ranch for a couple of days. The owner had formed a relationship with a cheetah (we were not allowed to say it was a pet because of the local game laws) and when it visited it was a unique experience! My accommodation was in a bunk-house and on the first evening I smelled burning. I asked another cowboy what it was and he said they had been noticing it for a couple of days but no-one knew what it was. I got a torch and got into the roofspace - where I found a wiring junction that had come loose so one wire was arcing and had been charring the rafter. As the whole building was wooden I hate to think what might have happened! I fixed it. On another occasion, one of the cowboys used the toilet in the bunkhouse and, unknown to him, a scorpion crawled into his pants as he sat there. When he pulled them up he got a very dramatic sting. I didn't offer to fix it. The scorpion didn't survive - it was about an inch long - and when the foreman heard the news he came and poured boiling water into a crack in the floor. Two more 1 inch scorpions emerged - followed by a very irate 3 inch parent!!! The ranch had a contract to supply the Carnivore restaurant in Nairobi and I knew the owner so had a solid reference. However, the accommodation at Naivasha was on a different plane!* The farm belongs to Iain and Oria Douglas-Hamilton. Iain still works tirelessly for elephant preservation and I commend you to consider staying at their lovely camps - or just donating! Oria's sister, Mirella, is a beautiful and talented photographer, adventurer and author and I recommend all of her books! 

This is the first of her books which I read and it was very special for me (not just because it is a gripping read) because it has some pictures of her father's house - which became my accommodation!

Every morning I would wake up and look over the end of my bed, along a planted avenue of trees, across the lake - to see Mount Longonot framed perfectly on the horizon. I am sure Count Mario Rocco chose the location and orientation for this reason!





Oria is a superb cook, designer, mother, organiser . . . I would drive over to their modern farmhouse for breakfast and then start my chores. Which one day included going up in Iain's plane* to take photos (this was before Google Maps) of the fields to identify which areas needed the most fertiliser. We took my door off and ascended to about 2.000 feet. Iain asked if I was ready, I nodded and he flipped the plane by 90 degrees so I was facing straight down, out of my open door. I took a reel of images and then he levelled up so I could reload the camera and we did it again. I had no problems with this because I had done helicopter training in the army where we used to jump out of helicopters 100ft up and slide down ropes! After the second reel, and with the camera stowed, he put it into a power spin - downwards. I couldn't give any opinion of this because I was welded into my seat by what felt like 10G of force. The flesh on my face was pulled back to my ears! The wings bent upwards by what looked (out of the corner of my eye because I couldn't move my head) 45 degrees. Then we reached the ground and he faultlessly flicked into horizontal flight - at ground level. I could see the workers in the field in front of us - and hear the "SPLAT" sounds as they dived into the mud to avoid the plane. I should explain that one of his uncles was an ace fighter pilot in WWII and Iain has his genes . . . and has crashed three planes. But I guess the fact that he walked away from each one implies he is as lucky as I am! :-)

On another day I was asked to arrange a lunch at "my" house for some visitors - who turned out to be the director, locations director and casting director of the film Sheena, Queen of the Jungle. They were considering the house as a location - which it became - as the king's house in the film. After the meal the casting director asked me if I would consider signing up as an evil, cruel mercenary in the movie (you can see what a good host I was) and I agreed! To round the circle a bit more, Mirella was one of the stills photographers for the film and her very entertaining husband, Lorenzo, was another mercenary!

And to add yet another arc - 20 years later I was working very long hours (yes - we DID need long holidays) as a teacher/technician/housemaster at Ackworth School. I got home to our school house at about 11pm one evening to find that everyone had (wisely) gone to bed. I flicked on the TV and went to pour a glass of wine. Out of the darkness of the sitting room I heard Mirella's lovely voice saying something along the lines of "I have tried to fit in and in many ways I envy the simplicity of life here but because they speak a language I struggle to learn . . . ". And the tone of her voice was pitched at a discreet level so it was just loud enough for me to hear without waking anyone upstairs! I almost dropped my glass. I swung around - and there she was - on the TV, sitting in a tent in a village in the Amazonian jungle where she had been staying alone for a week and keeping a video diary!

Confessions

I used to be in the CCF when I was in school. During my first Easter as a cadet I went, as a 13 year old, to Exmoor for ten days with the aim of hiking 20 miles a day with a sixty pound "manpack" on my back. This is a kind of aluminium frame to which you strap an army duffle bag. My dad was chuffed and raced up to the loft where he had a folding wood/canvas army bed. "You can take this!!!" I didn't want the extra weight but he was adamant and I figured I wouldn't have to carry it every day. My mates thought it was hilarious as we hiked 2 miles to our campsite but I was consoled by how much more comfy I would be. As soon as it was set up I got in to try it - and the canvas ripped from end to end! 

We lived in a big old canvas tent with a separate groundsheet. It was actually quite comfortable to sleep on the groundsheet because the turf underneath us was so soggy it was like being on a water-bed!

We certainly got some miles in - but being fit meant we thought nothing of setting off to the pub in the evening. Exmoor village pubs took a relaxed view of the licensing laws in those days. I recall one evening after hours when someone said "The bobby is coming!" and all the lights went out. We heard his bicycle squeak up to the door and a loud knock followed by "ANYONE IN THERE?" To which the regulars chorused loudly "NO!" I distinctly heard the bobby say "Well that's alright then!" And he squeaked off. One day our hiking took us past the pub at noon and I saw him having a free pint at the bar. The publican later told me that if they had loud "grockles" (city folk) in then he wouldn't turn the lights off and the bobby would tell everyone to go home. From our camp to the pub was almost 3 miles by road. One evening as we set off back to camp someone moaned about the distance. A local overheard and said there was a shortcut up a track by the church. As we took it the moon clouded over and as we only had one small torch we each held onto the tail of the cape of the guy ahead and snaked our way along the narrow track hearing a stream nearby. when we crested the hill we could see the hurricane lamp that was always left out as a beacon. Next day our hike ended near the church so we were happy to use the track again - and horrified when we saw the stream was actually in a ravine, with a 30 foot vertical drop off the side of the track - that we had been totally unaware of!

We usually hiked without supervision and had to reach checkpoints where one of our officers would do a head count - and give us the reference for our next rendezvous. One day a thick fog came down and,  without any visual clues, we became seriously lost. We actually found ourselves on the edge of a cliff - and there was no such feature on our intended route! Suddenly one of our officers appeared out of the mist - furious - and pointed to a path that led us down and out of the mist. He hadn't spoken a word and had disappeared as eerily as he had come. I never did figure out how he did it.

 

I rose through the ranks to Sergeant Major and remember two occasions with great fondness. When I was 16 I used to shave the (very light) fluff off my chin about once a week. On a trip to a training camp in the Brecon Beacons I was on rising duty with the regular army Guards RSM. I was two days into my need to shave. As we set off on our rounds at 6am I was very proud of my immaculate uniform - and that I was in step with this GIANT of a man! Me, 6ft, 110 pounds (wet!) Him, 6ft 6 inches, 300 pounds (+) Each with a baton under our left arm and our right arms going back and forth to horizontal - with vigour! He flicked a glance over me and then ahead. He did it again and I was hoping for a word of approval when he bellowed "WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOUR FAICE!" (The extra "I" is intentional because it sounded as if he had made a new word) Still in step I apologised and promised to be better shaved the next day.

A year later I took a squad to Chelsea Barracks to see how the Guards lived and I had four sergeants who were then allowed to drill our squad on the hallowed drill square. I placed one sergeant in each corner and they took turns in controlling the squad until one sergeant's voice broke and the squad kept going - out of range. I was (once again) standing next to the Giant RSM and although we were as far as we could be from the errant squad I bellowed "SQUAD - HALT!!!" And they did (!) and the RSM muttered to me "Well done lad!"

Two years later, now at university and in the OTC with the interesting rank of Officer Cadet (not holding a commission so not entitled to be saluted but should be addressed as "Sir" by Other Ranks - which led to entertaining moments such as being inspected on parade and having an RSM bellow into your ear "GET YOUR F*CKING HAIR CUT -  . . . . . SIR!!!") 

In the OTC we did weekend duties - and got paid - big deal for college students - and we had the option for a two week posting with a regular regiment over summer. I signed up - with a Gung Ho buddy. Sign-up sergeant said "Do you want full-on or lazy?" Germany or Cyprus? I said "Lazy" and my buddy said "Germany". So in their infinite wisdom the powers-that-be sent him to Cyprus and me to Germany. I am eternally sorry to report that when he got to Cyprus, not only weren't they doing Gung Ho - they were actually locked down! A squaddy had been in a fight in a local bar! Meanwhile, lazy me was in Germany having a blast driving APC's and commanding a squadron!!

One Easter I signed up for a five day “Escape & Evasion” exercise. Twenty of us, ten teams of two, were “injected” into the northern end of a rectangle of army land twenty miles long and five miles wide. We had five days to reach the far end. Meanwhile a whole company of regular soldiers were released into the other end to find us. We had been briefed to move only at night and we made a burrow before each dawn. Twelve of us made it. We hadn’t washed or shaved and were painted with camo makeup. Our kit was adorned with foliage and as we emerged and walked along the hard shoulder to our rendezvous we looked rather “interesting”!!

When I was due to return from a training exercise in Germany I was issued a rail ticket from Minden to Frankfurt Airport. The timings were tight so when I heard an announcement that the train was delayed (very unusual in Germany) I knew I had a problem. Fortunately there was a large sign - in English - next to a phone on the wall saying “British Military Police helpline”. I rang. I was told “You’re in luck chum, we never chauffeur anyone less than a colonel but we have a car just setting off to collect a Judge Advocate from the airfield - get your *rse outside the gate rapido!” I complied and a squad car with MP decals, flashing lights & sirens picked me up 30 seconds later. We reached the airfield as the army transport plane was being boarded up steps. “My” car hurtled towards the plane and screeched to a halt. I nonchalantly stepped out. Everyone stared at me - then an RSM bellowed “TEN HUT” and saluted. All the troops stood to attention. I gave the RSM a return salute and said “Carry on” He said “THANK YOU SIR - AS YOU WERE!” And normal life resumed.

I had a ticket to a ceremonial dinner at Senate House in London where the guest of honour was our Honorary Colonel, the Queen Mother. I rented a tux and got the train into town - but the train was late! We were supposed to be there at 19:00 hours and it was 19:45 as the taxi approached the entrance square in front of Senate House. I said to the driver - who I had promised a big tip for going as fast as he could - "OK - now just let me out in front" meaning on the pavement rather than the formal entrance square. He misunderstood and flung his cab right up to the front door. This was the time that VIP's were due and those of my mates who were on the guard of honour outside the front door all snapped to attention and presented arms. Our adjutant opened the door of my cab and our CO leaned into the open door and put out his hand to welcome the next VIP. When he saw who was in the cab his smile froze (but stayed in place - scary) and through gritted teeth he hissed "Palmer - get out of the cab and get into the hall!!" I did - and later had the great honour of being close and bowing to the wonderful Queen Mum!

Safari Rally

The first time I met someone involved with the Rally was in the Norfolk Hotel in Nairobi. 

I love this very posh hotel because they have a tradition that you are allowed into the front bar when you come back from a safari and you are wearing bush clothes and you are covered in red dust! I have done this more than once and it is brilliant to be standing next to someone at the bar who is dressed up to the nines and is totally OK with my ragged state!!

On this particular day I wasn't dusty because I was meeting a friend so we could go across to the National Theatre where he was directing a play and I was in charge of the lighting.

As I arrived he was ending another meeting and as the members left he was discussing odds and ends with them. Just as I reached the table he was saying to the last guy to go "And are you doing the Rally again this year?" And the guy said "No - I am going to be back in the UK". I butted in and asked what "Doing the Rally" involved and the guy shrugged and said "Well if you want to be a Mud Car Driver you need a 4WD and you need to have radio skills because you have to drive the route in front of the Rally cars and you have to liaise with an overhead plane . . ." And I could tick the boxes so I took his place - for the next four years!

I started off doing local rallies with Guy, head dealer for Toyota in East Africa. I drove my LandRover loaded with spares and carried a couple of mechanics and we were on call on overnight rallies. One night we were parked by a track waiting for him to blow past. The mechanics had a bet on to see who could identify the next car by the sound of its engine - before it went past us. Every time a car approached (we were in pitch darkness) we would see the massive lights in the distance and then hear the engine and then they would bet. But one time we heard the engine - and there were no lights . . . and the car blasted past us - in total darkness - going as fast as the other cars. "That's Chris" said one of the guys. And he won the bet because when we got to the end of the rally we heard that Chris's wiring harness had come loose and shorted all the circuits except the ignition wires. Radios were banned in these local rallies and it was before cellphones. Without even a torch there was nothing they could do except drive in the dark. I still can't understand how he went so fast! He was also famous for another incident where he was running 2nd and the car in front took a jump (as per the pace notes) but landed in the middle of a washaway (which wasn't in the notes) on top of a rock which cracked his sump which killed his engine and left him on top of the rock. He and his navigator raced back to the jump to flag down the next car but when Chris saw them waving he took it as encouragement and floored it - and jumped right over their car and carried on down the track. All the other cars slowed down to go around the wreck and he finished the section with a huge lead. Tragically he died a few years later while driving from Nairobi to Mombasa at night to start a holiday. He hit the back of a broken down lorry with no lights. Hard to believe considering his amazing skills.

Guy's Toyota was modelled on the incredibly successful Ford Escort. In fact if you took the badges off you could not tell them apart. In one rally he had the same problem as Chris - except that his ignition circuit also shorted so he was immobilised. The first we knew of this was when another rally car slowed down as they went past and threw us a note saying where Guy was and what had happened. As we were not allowed into the rally route the wrong way we had to make a detour and Guy and his navigator were well on their way to hypothermia when we reached them. (This was up in the foothills of Mt Kenya) The mechanics grabbed a spare harness and got to work while I got Guy and his mate into our warm cab and gave them tea from our Thermos. Almost instantly we heard the crackling roar of the rally car (sans exhaust) coming back to life. I looked at Guy "Would you like me to drive your car home?" "Yes please!" and one of the mechanics, who used to practise pace notes with Guy jumped in beside me and we (literally) roared off. The next two sections of the route featured a distinctive road profile from up-country. At some point the road had been a single track tarmac road with sloping sides to let the considerable rainfall run off either side. Over the years the tarmac had broken up so much that no-one could drive on it any more and everyone drove on the sloping sides. However the rally car had such good suspension that once you got up to speed you could fly over the rough surface, and every time you came to a corner you could drop into the sloped side and use it like a banked curve on a racetrack. At one point a policeman appeared. Sadly they often demanded bribes and since I was certainly speeding and certainly breaking sound laws I was a ripe target. I slowed down and because the lack of a tailpipe affects the timing I kept blipping the throttle to make sure we didn't stall. He stood there, tall and stony-faced, with his hand raised until we were about 20 feet away and down to 2nd gear. Then his face lit up like a little boy who had pulled off a great practical joke and started waving madly to indicate we should get back up to speed. I didn't need to be told twice and 2nd is a great gear to take off from and we showed our gratitude with a healthy shower of gravel!! The mechanic later told me that I had done all the sections in a time that would have got me on the podium. Then we reached Nakuru which has a grand hotel owned by the Duke of Devonshire - who sponsors a lot of rallies. It was a traditional stop-off point after up-country rallies as they would serve free bacon sandwiches to all the crews. Being hungry for a bacon sandwich - and for my mates to see me driving a rally car - I loudly pulled in. It was my downfall. As I was walking back out to the car 40 minutes later, Guy arrived in our mud car. He was very happy to see me and said "Thank-you so much for your help David, I'll take it from here" as he put out his hand so we could  swap keys. We got in the mudcar and drove sadly, in silence, which was rudely shattered when Guy blew past going at least 50mph faster than us . . . . 

Vic was another driver who produced legendary stories. In one rally he was driving a Porsche. There was a ford across a river but when the two cars in front of him tried to cross they discovered the water had risen and they both destroyed their engines by taking in water. They also rushed back to warn the next car(s) and Vic also took this as encouragement and accelerated - and they watched in awe as his car flew across the top of the water! This would only work in a Porsche because the weight is at the back so the nose rises, and the floorpan is smooth underneath! Sadly for him all the other cars were stopped and the stage was cancelled.

Then we did the Safari Rally in 1983 with Guy as a private entry. Sadly he was mis-sold some av-gas as high grade fuel and blew his pistons - amazingly his crew of mechanics rebuilt the engine in half an hour after pushing it out of the parc ferme - but it blew up again! He was towed by another mud car back to Nairobi and I was following when some very stoned dudes in a VW beetle overtook me and started throwing beer bottles at Guy. Before I could react Guy used his car like a conker and simply swung from left to right on the end of the tow rope and swatted the VW away into the bush!

The next year Toyota Team Europe entered the Rally for the first time and Guy's mud cars became their local support crew. And we won!!

And the following year we came 1st and 2nd . . .

 And the next year we came 1st, 2nd and 4th . . . 

Probably the most amazing escape was down to Vic in a Lancia Martini. Insanely fast, with a very light fibreglass body, he lost it on a corner and flipped over ending up upside down in a ditch - which was exactly the same width as the car. His navigator told me afterwards they were strapped in, hanging upside down, with no way of getting out even if they got out of the straps, with avgas pouring over them from the fuel tank and a white-hot turbo behind them. I will never know why those fumes didn't explode. Another friend was on their service crew and he told me he had dropped a drop of oil onto the turbo as he was topping the car up and the oil had exploded into a foot-long spear of flame! Many parts of the rally are far from any habitation and have no audience bit (again amazingly) there was a village nearby and a bunch of guys rushed over and simply lifted the car out and turned it right way up! I was surprised they didn't just end up with chunks of bodywork in their hands, we had helped to bumpstart the car at one point and the fibreglass had become very brittle after the intense vibrations of travelling over rough surfaces at well over 100mph.

Most of the local support crews knew each other and there was a lot of camaraderie between us. Also, if all our cars had gone by and we were en route to our next duty point, if we found a car from a different team in distress we could help them out. 

One night we got to a service point well ahead of our clock and everyone else and bedded down to grab a short sleep. I decided the roof-rack was the safest place because I had seen a few scorpions on the ground. When I woke up about an hour before dawn the sky was just starting to lighten in the East and I could see that there were now at least a dozen other service vehicles lined up with ours - all emitting snores! I could also see a magnificent kopje between us and the East making a wonderful silhouette! It had an outcrop that looked like a huge beak. Wrapped in my blanket I clambered down and scrambled up the hill until I was behind it. To my delight the plane of the beak came down in a gentle slope to the ground and it was very easy to walk up and out to the end. Taking the corners of my blanket in my hands and pulling it up behind my neck to the base of my baseball cap I walked out knowing that I would appear as an un-identifiable birdman to those below. I started making a weird noise in my throat and slowly moved my arms up and down while getting louder and louder. Although I was facing 90 degrees away from the crews below - to make my outline more effective - I could hear a rising tide of comment "Wake up, wake up - there is a witch doctor on that rock up there!" I slowly reversed back off the rock, got below the skyline and trotted around to come up behind my mates, blanket folded under my arm with my cap in my pocket. I rubbed my eyes and yawned "What is going on guys?" "There is some kind of mad witchdoctor up there didn't you see it?" "Nope, just woke up." "Do you think he was putting a spell on us?" . . . .

I did the 1st and 2nd year in my trusty LandRover 

But in the 3rd year Guy asked me if I would consider driving a proto-type Toyota pick-up. With a 3l turbo-charged diesel engine . . .  I would not get paid as much - but they wanted it to have a tough test . ..  

It was awesome - I got an average of 30mpg even though we did over 100mph on dirt tracks. At one point I was asked to drive around Lake Naivasha and check which mudholes were the deepest. In my LandRover I would have waded in and out but in the beast I just smashed into them at top speed and then radioed the plane to tell our cars to keep left!

There is one part of the Rally that is always mentioned with a sigh! The Kerio Valley. I never got that assignment until the 3rd year. Then I was assigned to drive down the hairpins into the valley ahead of the rally cars and using their pace notes - at night. And I cleaned it - I did the stage in the same sort of time a rally car would take - in a pick-up! I could not understand what the fuss was about. It was one of the smoothest dirt roads I had ever driven in Kenya and the edge was very sharp with 2 foot high grass growing all along and I could skid right up to the edge. Then, 8 hours later I had to do the same route again - in daylight! And I realised that on the other side of the grass edge was a 2000 foot drop! For some reason it took me twice as long . . .

Sadly after the previous years when we would go back to the go-down and unload all the stuff and have some banter with the TTE crew like "Here are the 4 cans of WD40 you gave me" and they would say "Could you not just - have used them - then we wouldn't have to pay to ship them back?"

So we got a bonus. But on the last year the gates were on a chain and we were asked to hand everything through the gap and were invited to an auction the next day. None of us went. None of us volunteered the next year - and TTE never won another Safari Rally. So sad to see what bean counters can do!

Seex House

I was between digs. In a few weeks I would have "proper" accommodation but right now I had nothing. A pal suggested I should house-sit. I said I didn't know anyone with a house that needed sitting and my pal said "Look in the paper". The very next day there was an ad for a house in Karen - one of the most exclusive suburbs of Nairobi - named after Karen Blixen. Since I had just been working as an extra on the movie "Out of Africa" I took this to be a sign and called the number. 2262 - although it is over 30 years ago I remember the number as 22-seex-2. A gentleman with a lovely precise accent invited me over for an interview. The house sat on 20 acres - I later discovered that Eric was the second buyer to purchase a 20 acre plot from the Blixen estate and, when I arrived 40 years after he bought it, it was one of very few that still had the same acreage! When I drove down the long, winding drive to the house and parked near the back door a sprightly, elderly guy popped out (looking quite like David Niven) and, without any request to see my references, launched into a set of staccato instructions. "Just over here is the water tap. The water is pumped up from the river but if you need to isolate the supply you must use this tap. Here is the door between the house and the kitchen and servants' quarters. There is one key (more of this later) and you must look after it at all times. I planted this tree (he paused and pointed up at a 100ft fig tree behind me) and two others as we were building the house 40 years ago." 

So began my relationship with Eric Seex. I had never met anyone who had planted a tree that had grown so high and I was captivated. He was an accountant and had come to Kenya in the 30's and set up his own practice. He was so good that he was seduced by Cooper, Lybrand to go onboard with them to form Cooper, Lybrand & Seex. He bought the plot and built a lovely stone mansion with verandas, a gallery and a huge fireplace. 

This isn't Eric's house but has the same style

Having lived through the Mau Mau, he still had a big issue about security and insisted that the servants were locked out into their own quarters after dark. In the morning they would enter the kitchen and make a cup of tea. Then the houseboy would go around and knock on the front door. I was instructed to open the master bedroom window and throw out the key. The houseboy would take the key and go around the house and unlock the door between the servants quarters, the kitchen and the main house and bring me a cup of tea - and the key!! At which point I would declare what I would like for breakfast.

When I say 'houseboy' I am using the traditional, local term. Kariuki was at least 75 and, although he was very sprightly, it made me feel very wrong to see him scrabbling on the ground for the key. But I dared not break Eric's rules so I made a parachute. I will never forget Kariuki's face when I threw it out and he was able to wait and take it out of the air! 

Every few days I would ask for a boiled egg and the first time I did this Kariuki's face lit up again and, when I went to the dining room, I discovered a beautiful, Victorian, silver contraption like a big Easter egg on legs with a little burner underneath. My egg was inside and Kariuki showed me how to fill the little burner which had exactly the right amount of fuel to heat the water and cook the egg to perfection.

He would then take my order for my evening meal and tell me how much to give him for the ingredients. The cost averaged about £1 for a wonderful meal. One morning I ran out of ideas and said "What do you like to cook?". His face lit up! (I have said this many times and it is very hard to describe how wonderful it was to see this man's face light up!) 

"Oxtail". I said "How much?" and he said "20p". That night I ate the most wonderful feast! I had always liked oxtail soup but had never had the real thing before!

One of the other fig trees was next to the main veranda and stood over a big stone bird table which was stocked with water and seed every day. One day after school I was sitting outside having a cup of tea. There were some nondescript little birds enjoying the bird table when suddenly a pin-tailed whydah launched himself from a branch about 30 ft above. He came screaming down like a Stukkah fighter-bomber and at the very last minute flared out over the table with his wings fully extended and his foot-long tail feathers flashing behind him. The little birds hunched up looking worried but, when he landed on the lawn, they went back to work on the seeds. 

He shook his feathers, preened himself and flew up to a branch 60 ft above the table, took off and repeated the performance with even more gusto - with the same result. 

He adjusted his feathers and went right up to the top of the tree. Took off, screamed down even faster and pulled off a stall right over the table which sent some of the seeds flying. The little birds hunched up, waited and then went back to feeding. 

The whydah bird flew across to the verandah, perched on a branch about 6 ft from me and for five minutes gave me an account of his efforts (which I will never forget - and will whistle to you tomorrow if you ask me) to protect my bird table which finished with what sounded like "So I have done my best and now it is up to you!" And flew off. 

I later discovered the dowdy little birds were actually female whydahs! 

Eric's son Chris owned and ran the best restaurants (at the time - now I would vote for Seven) in Nairobi and Mombasa - the Tamarinds - and branched out with the hugely successful Carnivore based on a Brazilian barbecue. We became very good friends and he would roar up the drive in Karen and shout "Lunch?" I would scramble out, jump into his Mercedes and cling on for dear life as we shot off. Most times it was to the Nairobi Tamarind or Carnivore but once or twice we actually went to Mombasa - normally a 3 or 4 hour drive which he would do in 2! 

He told me a story about a time when he was establishing the Mombasa Tamarind and was living in a very luxurious bungalow that he had built next to it. He had a pet python, about 6 ft long. It loved to coil around the cool, green, toilet pedestal and he would often (I suspect deliberately) fail to warn guests. He said the appearance of the head slowly rising next to the guest on the 'throne' had mixed results - visitors with "loose stools" would find themselves bound and those who felt constipated would . . . . . 

One day, after the lunch service was over, he decided to play a trick on a new barman who he thought was a bit cocky. Wearing just a pair of shorts he fetched the snake from the toilet and wrapped it around his waist with the top half of its body up in the air above his head, supported by his right arm. He strolled into the bar convinced that the barman would be terrified. As the door closed behind him he saw the reflected sunlight sweep across the bar - and glint off the bottles behind the barman. The snake freaked out and swung its head up and down across the front of his body, lightning fast, three times. Chris felt the impacts but no real pain; however when he looked down there were six little holes across his chest just starting to bleed where the (luckily non-toxic) fangs had hit. He looked across to the bar to see the barman doubled up laughing!

Chris was a consummate host and would stay up into the wee small hours entertaining (well-paying) groups of businessmen in the restaurant. His lovely wife, Jane, would stay up too but, when they finally hit the sack, she would go out like a light while he was still wired! His solution was to install a state-of-the-art stereo system in the headboard above their bed and when Jane went to sleep he would put on a huge pair of headphones - and light up a joint! His taste in music was truly eclectic and went from Led Zep to Bach. One night he hit on the 1812 Overture and as it went "Dah dah dah dah - BOOM. Dah dah dah dah - BOOM" the breeze-blocks from the wall above his head flew across the room with clouds of dust. He told me that he took the joint out of his mouth, looked at it and thought - "That is some serious sh*t" Then Jane took the headphones off and pointed out to him that they now had a new view through what used to be the wall behind the bed to what used to be the restaurant office. It turned out that their accountant had been syphoning off funds from the office for four years. He had kept a meticulous record, with dates, up to his target amount. At which point he bought a couple of sticks of dynamite, from his cousin who worked in a quarry, so he could destroy the evidence. Hence the Big Bang! Now it turns out that although dynamite is very good at blowing out walls it kind of ignores paperwork. The fire brigade almost did that but when all the smoke had gone the diary was still intact. The accountant went to jail and as soon as he got out he applied for a new job and quoted Chris as a reference. Chris called him. "Are you sure you want me as a referee?" "Yes sir - I have done my time so now the books are square!"


The Carnivore was centred around a charcoal pit where racks held metal swords with hunks of various meats roasting. 

You 'buy' an empty (very hot) metal plate on a wooden platter and take your drinks to your table where dishes of vegetables will appear. Then the first waiter arrives, holding the handle of a sword with a chunk of meat impaled on it in his left hand while his right hand holds a carving knife that supports the other end of the sword. He plonks the tip of the sword in the middle of your plate and upends the sword above it. He then declares what he has brought - "Impala!" - and you say "Yes please" or "No thank-you". If you say "Yes" he carves a couple of slices onto your plate and then sets off to the next customer. If you say "No" he looks slightly offended before he sets off! 

Just to be clear, the range of offerings could include "Zebra", "Ostrich" and "Crocodile" among others and the waiters would keep bringing new offerings until you gave up and could take no more! And I was offered a job on the game ranch where this food comes from - but that's another story!

Chris was always innovating. His menus were masterpieces because each dish had a small paragraph to whet your appetite. He also invented his own snacks which were free to eat as you sat at the bar and read the menu. (He did confide in me once that they were all massively salty and he made more profit from the drinks than the food)! He bought a dhow and converted it into a hugely successful floating restaurant. He planned to commission a brand new dhow which would have huge refrigerated holds and would go up and down the coast north and south of Mombasa buying fish from local fishermen. He offered me the job of being his agent on the dhow - but I chickened out! Sadly he had 2 strokes and died in 1999 aged under 50. A great loss to the world.

Galway Bay Hookers

Many years ago we were visiting Barna and just before the Sunday lunch I found I was superfluous to the needs of the house and took it upon myself to walk down to the shore. I walked along to the harbour - 

Barna Harbour

where I saw a guy (of a similar age to myself) in oilskins attempting to get his hooker out of the harbour. Unusually, the wind was from the East and, although he had no sails up, the boat was big enough - 20 to 30 ft - that the wind could still defeat his efforts with the pole!

I trotted along the inside of the harbour wall and said "Throw me a line!" - which he immediately did and I hauled the boat very easily to the end of the harbour wall while he fended off. Just before I threw the line back he said "Come with me!" 

I said (I was dressed in very light summer clothes) 

"Have you got any spare oilskins?" 

He said he hadn't and thoughts of the imminent Sunday lunch overtook any adventurous spirit in me so I said "May Your God Go With You!" and threw him the line.

I later discovered that he owns most of Galway!! (Sigh!)

Galway Bay Hooker