Bud’s Tree House was in a tree not too dissimilar from this.
While my family resided in Nairobi we befriended another American family who hailed from Texas. I’ve written about this family previously in other posts. They had a son who was a couple years my senior with whom I shared some adventures. Once we attempted to climb Kilimanjaro and another time we were lucky not to be eaten alive by swarming safari ants.
Bud built a tree house way up in a very tall tree. The house his family rented was on a large plot that was situated on the side of a very steep river valley. Unlike the valley the river was tiny, little more than a nasty grey stream of slow moving puss-like liquid that smelled like a sewage treatment plant. Not all of Africa’s rivers are as the Nile.
The trees that grew on the valley sides were really tall, at least 150 feet in height. But with the exception of the top most thirty or forty feet, their branches had all been cut off by servants who removed them for use as firewood. The servants typically only cooked one thing, a ubiquitous concoction of dense white cornmeal commonly called Posho (or in some circles Ugali). They were thoughtful enough to cut the branches off about a foot or so from the trunks so that they could utilize the stubs that remained to climb up to remove the branches that remained still higher up.
These stubs were adequate to allow Bud access to the canopy foliage as well. So, over a period of a couple months, Bud managed to set himself up with some rather nice digs atop an especially tall tree. It was way the hell up there, the base of that tree’s canopy at least 100 feet above ground. The tree house had several levels with the lowest perhaps ten or fifteen feet up into the canopy. There was an intermediate level a few feet above the lower level and an observation deck set amongst the topmost branches that Bud had trimmed to accommodate it. The various components, odd bits of lumber, a few bent nails and old rope, were more-or-less attached to the tree with some, though minimal, vigor. None of these levels were, well, level, as most had a decidedly unnerving slope to contend with. I don’t know if she was aware of it or not but Bud had managed to requisition some smaller pieces of the family’s furniture to take up there as well. He even jury rigged a block and pulley setup which allowed him to bring up supplies for extended stays.
I think we’d only known each other for a few weeks when he first spoke of his treetop abode. Naturally as soon as I learned of it I had to check it out. I had no idea what I was getting myself in for.
We walked from the house down the valley side to get to the tree’s base. The first few feet up that tree were pretty easy but then, once up about fifteen or twenty feet, the lack of foliage made the height daunting. About halfway up it got really difficult to keep climbing but Bud encouraged me by warning me not to look down. As long as I kept my focus on climbing things were OK. Eventually I got to the foliage where climbing got easier as there was more things to grab onto.
And then I looked down!
It seemed as though we were up about a mile. I spent a couple hours up there checking out the different levels and admiring the view from Bud’s “Observation Deck”. The intermediate level was equipped with a canvas canopy to protect Bud from rain. He had a small bookcase up there which contained a few of his most favored titles. There were some eating utensils and a small kerosene lamp. It was great!
And then it was time to descend!
It was really hard to descend without looking down and Bud had to talk me down the whole way. When we finally made it back to the ground our fathers and about half a dozen servants were waiting. Boy was that a relief!
But then, as nightfall approached, we came up with a truly brilliant idea: “Let’s spend the night up there!”
Awesome! Spending the night atop a really tall tree obliges some logistical preparation. Bud’s mother fixed us some sandwiches and we filled a couple canteens with water. We scrounged around and managed to locate a couple old sleeping bags. Bud’s father let us borrow his binoculars. Once assembled we set about to getting all that stuff up the tree. Bud scurried up and manned the block and tackle while I stayed below to secure things into a makeshift net. After a few minutes all was where it was supposed to be.
Now it was my turn to go up that tree. It was a little easier this time because I was somewhat more familiar with layout to the branches and by that time the sun was already setting. I had to hurry because the sun sets really fast at the Equator. When I finally got to the top it was almost dark.
We talked story for a while and marveled at the night sky from the deck. We ate the sandwiches and drank some water. Then it was bedtime, time to roll the sleeping bags out on that deck. There was barely enough room for one sleeping bag let alone two, and if you rolled the wrong way you risked falling off into the night. No matter, after talking story for what seemed like a long time we descended into a deep slumber.
I awoke a few times and recall being somewhat disoriented until I remembered that I was in a tree but then realized that I had to relieve myself from atop that tree, an action not contemplated during the rigorous planning exercise that preceded our adventure. So, after some thought and trepidation, I decided to just relieve myself harmlessly into the night! Ha! Good thing it was only a No. 1 as I’d no idea how to handle a No. 2 from such dizzying heights!
The last time I awoke the sun had already risen and it was time to descend and return to the house for one of Bud’s mother’s excellent breakfasts. This time getting down was made somewhat more difficult because the branches were wet with the morning’s dew.
I never went up that tree again. I wonder if any remnants of Bud’s treehouse still remain after all the interceding decades.
For the entire time my family resided in Kenya it, along with the rest of East Africa, was a British Colony and part of the Commonwealth. A Union Jack flew over Government House and the realm was ruled by a colonial governor. Shortly after we left to take up residence in Rhodesia in 1962, Kenya, though still part of the Commonwealth, become an independent country. Since it’s often in the news and I know a lot of people who either live there or have relatives who do, it must be doing rather well.
They were then and still are given to driving on the wrong (left) side of the road. Although this doesn’t seem to be an issue in Kenya, I suspect that driving on the left side of the road may not be optimal given that drivers in India seem to have a difficult time adhering to any one side of the road long enough to garner an advantage. So much for thousands of years of civilization.
Back to Kenya…
Since there were no foreign community schools, my parents enrolled me in Nairobi Primary School. Because the British school system is somewhat more advanced than the US system I was obliged to be tutored over the Christmas-New Year’s holiday to catch up with my classmates. There was a compounding factor. The school year in Kenya coincided with the calendar year. So, even though I’d just started the second grade in a US school months earlier, the school year in Kenya ended just weeks after our arrival. Fortunately, unlike now, I was a quick study.
Most of my classmates were the sons and daughters of British expats who had been lured to the colonies by the prospect of inexpensive land and otherwise attractive businesses opportunities. By all appearances, most were doing rather well, far better than they would have been doing had they remained in the then still excessively socialistic UK.
School started promptly around 7:00 AM and concluded at 1:00 PM. There was a lot of emphasis on sports. In keeping with tradition, everything stopped for Elevenses (tea at 11:00 AM) when we were served tea and oversized slices of bread spread with butter and Marmite (nasty salt-laden concoction derived from an extract of yeast).
Just as was the case in the UK, things were subject to a discipline and order that was enforced with tennis shoes and cane switches. If you got out of hand the schoolmasters could whack your backside with a tennis shoe. If you were especially unruly they could ramp up the severity of the punishment by whacking your backside up to six times with a cane switch, a ritual commonly referred to as “Getting Sixies”.
Things were reasonably British, so much so that members of the royal family were given to visit from time to time. These visits occurred with some regularity. In fact the current reigning monarch, Queen Elizabeth II, while still a princess, visited Kenya in 1952 and while staying at “Treetops” learned that her father, King George VI, had passed. So most were not surprised to learn when the Headmaster announced that we were all destined to greet Her Majesty the Queen Mother the following week.
When the appointed day arrived, shortly after arriving to school, we were marched by class to a fleet of busses that had been commandeered to transport us to the Nairobi Trade Fair grounds where we would see and hear Her Majesty from a grassy field. The trip didn’t take very long. Shortly after leaving school the busses turned onto Ngong Road for the two to three mile trip to the grounds. Once there we were ushered by class to sit cross-legged on the grass. When we first arrived the sun had some ways to go before reaching its zenith. If memory serves, I think our school may have been one of the first to arrive so we had to wait for almost an hour before all the other students had assembled, long enough for the sun to ascend high enough for it to be hot, so hot that some kids started to faint.
There were kids from every school for miles around Nairobi. There were kids from primary and secondary schools. There were kids from the European schools as well as the Indian and African schools. All told, there were thousands in attendance. And there in that field we all waited patiently for Her Majesty to arrive. And all the while we’re being baked to crisps.
After what seemed like an eternity, some school master stepped up to the dais to announce that the Queen Mother’s entourage was running a “bit Late’ and commanded us to exercise additional patience and keep the ruckus to a minimum. I think this may have happened more than once.
Eventually the royal entourage turned into the grounds and we were commanded to stand up and cheer Her Majesty’s arrival. This noisy pandemonium went on for quite some time as it took a long time for the Queen Mother to get from her car to the dais. And then, as she approached the microphone, somebody called us all into action by yelling out “Three Cheers for the Queen Mum!” Hip hip hooray, etc., etc. or so it went.
Finally, after those in attendance quieted down sufficiently, the Queen Mum spoke. She didn’t have much to say and from where I was standing, she was difficult to hear. I seem to recall that she thanked us all for being there and expressed hope that we’d all do well in school. Then there was another round of “Three Cheers” after which she and her entourage left the dais. The whole address lasted no more than two minutes. I don’t remember for sure, but I suspect we may have sung “God Save the Queen” while she was there.
And once she left it was time for us to return to our schools.
That was not the last time that my life was touched by the royals. About a year after seeing the Queen Mum, the Queen gave birth to Price Andrew, the Duke of York. And then, about four years later, while my family resided in Rhodesia, the Queen gave birth to Price Edward, the Earl of Wessex, an event of sufficient magnitude that the day was declared a school holiday. Yea! No school!
I can’t speak for you but the Queen Mum always seemed like a nice lady to me.
In early 1964 father was ordered to move his operation from Salisbury to Cairo. Since he entered the Foreign Service, he’d been assigned to administer capital projects to upgrade diplomatic facilities throughout Africa. This had been ongoing since the early fifties. When first assigned, he was one of eight Foreign Service officers so tasked. In 1964, with much of the work complete, he was the only one left.
As there wasn’t room within the Embassy compound, office space was leased in a building immediately adjacent thereto. Father employed two people, the twin sister of one of the Embassy administrative aides to serve as receptionist and a local architect. From the office windows we could see into the compound below. To the south was the Embassy building proper set in a lush garden, appropriate since that part of Cairo is named “Garden City”. At the east end of the compound was an ornate palatial residence that housed the USIS Library (during the year we resided in Egypt students would be incited to burn it down). Immediately to our east was the Marine guard quarters that were hard not to notice since the Marines were given to loudly playing volley ball at what seemed like all hours of the day (and night).
That summer was noteworthy as it was the last one I experienced before my hormones decided to kick in. That was the summer I became a teenager. The year or so before males enter puberty is perhaps the last time we get to have some control over our mental faculties. Once the hormones kick in reason is shut out of the mix and things become much more complicated.
As it was summer, I was not yet in school. Later that year I would enter the eighth grade in Cairo American College. But for the time being, it was summer and since I’d little to do, I helped out in father’s office. Basically this obliged me to periodically fetch the mail from the communications suite and purchase the occasional hot dog from the Embassy canteen. I learned to hand draft and was set to work making ink on Mylar tracings of embassy and consulate plans.
The communications suite itself was strictly off limits as within it was an array of secretive communications gear. There was a wall of lockers that served the same function as would a bank of post office boxes. I would simply go down the hall to the locker assigned, insert the key and retrieve whatever had been placed within. Though there was at least one daily world brief, none of this stuff was classified. Whenever something classified did arrive, a card was placed in the locker that obliged father to come down and sign for whatever it was in person. This didn’t happen often.
But there was an interesting stretch of days when there were several world briefs. That was during the Gulf of Tonkin Incident. As was usually the case, I ventured down to the Embassy around 10:00 AM. There was the usual pile of teletype messages neatly arranged within a folder held shut by a piece of string wrapped around two plastic buttons. There were few envelopes and the latest copy of “ENR” (Engineering News Report). What set this bundle of messages apart was its thickness. Once the folder was opened it became apparent why. The daily world brief, normally a page of two in length, was at least ten pages long. It was that long because if gave a detailed account of what had happened earlier that day in the Gulf of Tonkin.
Over the next three days, these briefs were replaced by what seemed like hourly SITREPs (Situation Reports). Most of us recall what happened. A US Navy cruiser named the Turner Joy, on patrol in the Gulf of Tonkin, reported that it was under attack by North Vietnamese torpedo boats. Most of are also now aware that there may have been little substance to the basis for the “Incident”. Some speculate that LBJ wanted to show himself to be more hawkish so that he could win the November election. At that time however, the story told by that series of SITREPs was to me quite riveting. In retrospect I’d have to say that the story these SITREPs told was just a bit too tidy to not be told according to some prewritten script. But at the time, it seemed as though the “Good Guys” had been tested and had prevailed.
Since first posting this, something occurred to me. On the second morning there were numerous SITREPs, perhaps one an hour. I remember that in at least two of them it was reported that flotillas of North Vietnamese torpedo boats were launched in what were alleged to be attacks on the Turner Joy. When this happened weapons were deployed to destroy the boats. Except for a few that managed to return to port towing other disabled boats, all were reported sunk.
There are other similar maritime patterns. When fishing fleets put out to sea they often do so in what could appear to a radar operator miles out at sea as a flotilla of torpedo boats. What if the first of these flotillas was actually a fishing fleet? That might explain why the first flotilla seemed to put up so little resistance. When a second flotilla put out to sea it reportedly attempted to assist the first flotilla. That second flotilla was also engaged and most of its vessels sunk. Perhaps the second flotilla was sent out to rescue those stricken from the first flotilla and no hostile actions was intended? Since most were sunk and most of the crew members now departed, we’ll probably never know. I wonder if the official US record still describes these flotillas as torpedo boats.
In late 1963 my sister came to visit us while we were living in Rhodesia. At the time she was working for a bank and enjoyed the company of an influential circle of friends. She drove a Porsche and apparently was doing rather well, well enough to take three weeks off of work to visit Africa.
Father decided to take us all on a grand tour that started with a run through Mozambique, an extended visit to the Kruger Game Park, the Natal Coast, Pretoria, Johannesburg and Cape Town. The return trip took us to East London and Port Elizabeth.
Normally when traveling to South Africa we would have crossed the border at Beit Bridge, a small town just an hour or two south of Bulawayo, itself then a small town that served as market town and rail head for the European farmers who had settled in the region. This time we drove down to Beira, the larger of the two port cities in Mozambique, and then down the coast to Lourenço Marques (now known as Maputo).
I remember that it rained for most of the trip down the coast to Lourenço Marques. We were in for a bit of a treat when we got to Lourenço Marques. The city was host to a road rally. There were all manner of hussied up sports cars and the teams that supported them. The cars all had these cables that connected the front wheels to instruments attached to the dashboard. The teams consisted of the drivers and their navigators. The hotels were chuck full of Europeans who were either part of the rally teams or avid fans. Despite the continued rain, it was a very festive atmosphere. What’s more, my sister who was engaged to a race car driver at the time, had a very keen interest in road rallies. She knew the lingo having participated in rallies herself. Understandably, she got along very well with the other guests in the hotel where we stayed.
At my sister’s insistence, we stayed in Lourenço Marques for an extra day so that she could watch the rally and hob knob with the team members. While there, somebody turned her on to some kind of “special” local cigarette. Despite its special nature, it was perfectly legal and readily available. I don’t remember the brand or the color of the packaging, but she managed to buy a few packs prior to our departure.
After she started smoking these cigarettes, she was given to unusual behavior, the most obvious (to me) being her choice of cuisine at dinner. The last evening in Lourenço Marques the menu offered Curried Monkey Brains. I remember that she ordered and savored that dish.
Lourenço Marques was then and still is a very picturesque city. The hotel was located in an older quarter that featured a network of intimately scaled streets and Portuguese colonial edifices interlaced with wide formal avenues lined with what I’ve since learned are acacia trees. Even at the age of eleven I was left with the impression that the older colonial era buildings were especially well proportioned.
After leaving Lourenço Marques we headed to the Kruger Game Park where we spent one or two days before driving on to Durban. Whenever my sister was puffing away on these cigarettes she seemed unusually happy. Years later she would tell me that after she smoked one of these I would be transformed from an obnoxious eleven year old into a quite agreeable cartoon.
Durban (& the Natal Coast)
And then, just as we were arriving in Durban, she ran out of those special cigarettes. That’s when she started to become somewhat disagreeable and unusually short-tempered. Years later, based upon my own experiences, I’m able to speculate that whatever the active ingredient in these cigarettes was, it was either some form of cannabis or possibly narcotic in nature. So, while the rest of us thoroughly enjoyed ourselves in Durban, sister moped about in the spacious suite father booked in an ocean-front hotel.
That part of Durban actually didn’t have any ocean-front hotels per se, rather there was a Corniche with beach parks on the ocean-side and hotels on the opposite side. At one point we hired some elaborately attired Zulu tribesmen (pictured above) to cart us around on rickshaws. It wasn’t tourist season so we pretty much had the place to ourselves.
But sister still wanted some more of those Mozambican cigarettes. So she went down to the front desk and asked where they could be purchased. At first nobody knew what she was asking for but eventually one of their employees who was from Mozambique did. No, they weren’t available in Durban. By the time we left Durban for the drive up to Pretoria and Johannesburg she was getting very difficult to be around.
When we got to Pretoria we stopped by the US Embassy to see if anyone there knew how to get ahold of these cigarettes. Not only were they not sold in South Africa, although not specifically outlawed, they were frowned upon. Since my sister was quite insistent, father persuaded somebody on the Embassy staff to have somebody on the US Consulate staff in Lourenço Marques go out and purchase a carton or two and send them up in the diplomatic pouch.
Only years later did sister relate that father had been reluctant to have this done and was quite embarrassed at the time. All I can remember was that she had enough of those cigarettes to remain reasonably agreeable for the duration of her stay in Africa.
More recently while employed in the Emirate of Sharjah, I enjoyed the company of a coworker named Paulo who was born and raised in Lourenço Marques. As he is considerably younger than I, he refers to that city as Maputo. He carries with him a collection of photos of some of the more recent edifices, including some of the outstanding modernist works of Pancho Guedes. Paulo presently resides in the UK where he’s slogging through the Part 2 requirements to become an architect. He reports that though there are opportunities in the UK, the weather is dismal. He misses Mozambique where, using his words, the people are poor but everybody wears a smile. Before writing this piece, I asked him if he knew of those special cigarettes my sister had warmed to. He didn’t know and neither did his mother. It’s a pity I couldn’t remember much about them. It appears they’ve been lost to history.
This story ought to be at the end of my Africa tales since we were residing in Egypt at the time but there’s no need to start at the beginning. It’s very short. It’s raining here which means that there’s precious little Internet connectivity so there may not be enough time in a session to upload anything longer.
We’d been living in Egypt for almost a year when father got word that he was supposed to meet with another US diplomat on a ship that was scheduled to traverse the Suez Canal. The afternoon prior to the meeting we drove from Cairo to Port Said to await the ship’s arrival.
The next day we could make out the ship from the balcony of the hotel where we spent the night. As the harbor master flagged them in, the awaiting ships moved up to form the next convoy. Once settled in, it was possible for those ashore and those aboard to transfer via a harbor lighter. We took the lighter to reach the ship.
It was an English vessel although I cannot remember its name. Given the large number of Union Castle vessels then serving the east coast of Africa, I’d venture to guess that it was of that line. Once aboard we were ushered to vast sitting room within which was a lavishly stocked bar. The individual that father was to meet with appeared soon thereafter.
While there we ordered drinks and possible a bite to eat. Something impressed father about the ginger ale they served and he asked if he might purchase a case. “Certainly sir!” came the response. As we left the vessel, under father’s arm was tucked a case containing 24 small cans of Schweppes ginger ale.
Upon return to Cairo some of the cans were placed in the refrigerator to cool. Then, after waiting an appropriate period, we had some. We have ginger ale in the US but not like this. In fact the US version of Schweppes isn’t the same as the English variety. It wasn’t uncommon for kids to drink ginger ale in the US, but I suspect that kids in the UK didn’t consume the version produced there.
First off, it really had a punch! There was no doubting that you were drinking something that had some serious ginger in it. And one other thing: there was far less sugar. In short the US version was and continues to be light on the ginger and heavy on the sugar.
And then the rains came. There were two monsoons, a long one roughly lasting from April to early June and a shorter one in December. The longer monsoon could be epic.
We arrived in Kenya in late November and I recall that it rained nearly every day up until Christmas but I don’t remember it being much of a bother. Due to Nairobi’s altitude, the increased humidity didn’t make things unpleasantly hot and humid. The next April we got to experience our first long monsoon. A few times it did rain for a whole day and there were several nights during which there were torrential downpours accompanied by thunder and lightning. Towards the end of that first monsoon I witnessed a Siafu (red ants) migration (safari).
A year later though, the story took a slight twist. As was usually the case, in April the rains came. The daily patterns changed over the two month monsoon. Early on there would be a late afternoon torrential downpour for about half an hour. A fortnight after there would be a torrential downpour that would last for over an hour followed late in the evening by another downpour. Starting around May it would rain all afternoon and well into the night. That’s when things got interesting.
Father decided that we should have a dog. Dogs were kept outside to deter burglaries. As most yards were either fenced in or surrounded by high hedges, it took some doing for a burglar to gain access. If unwanted guests gained access, dogs could be counted on to either make a loud fuss or simply attack. There were stories about natives sneaking up and using a cane pole covered with razor blades to remove items from inside a home. Unlike the US it was not customary to screen windows. One of father’s coworkers, an English architect, reported that he awoke one night to see his shirt floating over his bed on its way towards an open window. He had the presence of mind to grab the shirt before it could be successfully removed, but managed to cut his hand rather badly on the razor blades attached to the cane pole. Dogs or at least a dog was a good idea.
As noted, windows were not screened. To keep mosquitos at bay, it was the custom to equip beds with mosquito netting. This was part of a three pronged strategy. The second involved enlisting the numerous geckos that roamed the walls near lit lamps to go after flying insects attracted to the light. The third was to light up pyrethrum coils just before retiring for the evening. Just before retiring, one had to unroll the mosquito netting from over the bed and drape it over all four corners of the bed. Invariably there would be at least one mosquito than managed to get in. For some reason they’d always buzz annoyingly around your ears, seemingly attracted to the slight heat generated by the ear’s ossicles in response to the sound of their beating wings. Perhaps they’re attracted to what they think is another mosquito? Fortunately whatever’s at work here allows those with fast enough reflexes to dispatch the little beasts.
Oh yes, the rains!
One day shortly after arriving at school, it started to rain. There were torrential downpours all day. It was raining when mother picked me up after school. It rained all evening and continued to rain all through the night. When we awoke it was still raining. It rained all the next day as well. Continuous torrential downpours to whole time. There was a second full night of torrential rain followed by another full day of rain. And then a third day. And then a fourth day. Starting on the evening of the fourth day, the torrential rain was accompanied by continuous thunder and lightning. This went on for three more days and nights!
There was standing water everywhere! Fast currents of water flowed down the streets, road and gutters. The humidity, normally not an issue, was overwhelming. Mold began to grow on things. Although we had a wringer washing machine, we had no way to dry clothing. Everything was wet. As evening fell on day six, it finally got to the dog. Remember the dog? He had a dog house out next to the servants’ kier. Normally when it rained he’d simply stay inside. It must have been wet in there as well. We awoke to see the dog standing on the roof of his house howling like he’d gone mad. This went on all night.
The next morning there was a reprieve of sorts. Although it continued to rain, it wasn’t torrential and no longer accompanied by thunder and lightning. On this, day seven, it rained all day and well into the night. We awoke to following morning to an unusual sight, the sun. Imagine that, seven full days and nights of continuous rain! And for much of that time the rains were torrential in nature.
Some events are shocking enough for us to later remember where we were when we first learned of them. You know, like the 9/11 attacks and, if you’re old enough, Jack Kennedy’s assassination.
In November of 1963 my family was living in Salisbury, Southern Rhodesia. Nowadays it’s called Harare, Zimbabwe. For much of the time we were residing there Rhodesia was a British colony but just two months prior to our departure, a group of the white landowners led by Ian Smith formed a government and declared their independence from England. Apparently, after seeing what happened with the transition in East Africa, they were concerned enough about the future of their investments to derail any attempts by the British government to do the same thing there.
In 1963 I was a student at Mount Pleasant Boys’ High School. I was in the 2nd Form, roughly equivalent to the 7th Grade in the US school system. I had a lot of schoolmates there were close friends, close enough that it was quite common for us to stay over at one another’s homes for a night or two during the holiday breaks between terms or over the occasional weekend. There was this one friend whose father was a detective in the municipal police forces. He had an older sister and brother. I was a guest of his family when I learned of the historic event. My friend’s name was Peter Ward.
The day before we’d mucked around for much of the afternoon after school but I don’t remember what we did. I do remember having dinner. Peter’s mother and sister attended to all the kitchen work while we boys and their father talked story. I don’t remember what we talked about but suspect we were making plans for an epic Saturday. I remember that we were all telling jokes and laughing up a storm. At one point just after having a good laugh, we all took a sip of our milk and then, suddenly all remembering the joke again, started laughing with the milk still on its way down. Milk gushed out of all our nostrils simultaneously. What a mess!
As there was no room for us all to fit in Peter’s bedroom, we decided to spend the night on small beds in an enclosed porch. When I awoke the brothers were already up and readying themselves for breakfast. As there was an unusual chill I asked for a sweater. I remember that they didn’t have any that fit quite properly, but after several attempts, settled on one. Peter took the rejects back to his room.
He wasn’t gone long.
An announcement blared out of the radio just as Peter was making his way back. Jack Kennedy had been assassinated. Peter ran to the enclosed porch to deliver the news.
Peter remained in Rhodesia after independence and raised a family. I think he had five children. He’s retired these days and spends a great deal of his time in Namibia. He may be a widower. As the economy in Zimbabwe is in tatters, many of those of European descent have been obliged to leave, some to Namibia where they scrape together a living as tour guides. I think that all of Peter’s children reside in the UK as does his older sister and perhaps his brother. I’ve reached out to Peter but he hasn’t responded. I suspect he’d rather just spend his retirement fishing.