Barnabas Tales

by Denzil Lawrence

  Looking round the bay for the last time we saw the sweep of low grey hills, the rocky, dark, kelp-covered foreshore, and the telephone box and lamppost at the landward end of the pier which we had battled to reach the previous day. There would be no regrets at leaving this anchorage.

  As soon as we lifted the anchors and motored from the shelter of the pier the wind and sea were fierce, but motor and sails prevailed against them until we could bear away and stop the engine. When safely past the small point at the end of Uig Bay the wind was more in our favour, and as soon as we rounded Rubha Hunish at the northern tip of Skye, it blew almost due astern. Even with shortened sails the yacht creamed along. As the day passed, still grey and forbidding, the points of the mainland loomed in turn to starboard. Between the points the Gairloch, Loch Ewe or Gruinard Bay would have offered shelter if necessary. Within our circle of vision the Minch was totally deserted, and perhaps all wise mariners had chosen to stay ashore. But with the wind astern we made excellent time into Little Loch Broom and sheltered water, and on to Ullapool in the early evening to resume land-lubberly lives.

  As often happens, the beginning was the most testing part and the preparations essential. Improvisation is all very well as an extra, but we always try to remember how unforgiving the old grey widow-maker can be.

  Another most excellent sailing holiday saw us charter a yacht in Gochek in Turkey, and sail one-way around the southern coast to Antalya. This is now much more of a holiday coast – then was very quiet.

  LYCIA - SOUTHERN TURKEY -

  Before setting off we checked the extras.

  “Have you got the snorkels?”

  Reassured, we paddled the dinghy to the one-table-per-night restaurant. The camel lifted his head, looked at us, and poker-faced turned away and walked through the trees.

  Beyond the little restaurant compound, a rough path crossed a lumpy jagged limestone surface with dry red earth between the rocks. The day was already very hot. The path crossed three small flat fields and on both sides rose steep thickly wooded hills. Ahead, beyond the second field, sea glinted across a low isthmus. The fields were dusty earth and stone, divided by low decayed dry-stone walls. A very few wisps of straw stood where they had been spared by the goats, and here and there were holes where some animal had dug to eat a bulb. Occasional figs and olive trees provided small oases of shade.

  Beside our path a line of poles carried a single overhead wire and in the third field a depression and low ring of stones marked an old well, and beyond the field were small enclosures. In the first was a real well with green water in the bottom and a broken slope used by the goats and in the next enclosure a young woman pulled water from yet another well with a rope and metal bucket. Her washing lay on a depression hollowed from a stone block. She glanced up as we passed.

  The bay was only a little further, and we passed our first Lycian tombs. They were rectangular, and about six feet high with steeply pitched roofs. Each of the long side walls had small square protuberances. The tombs were made of large blocks of stone, with the forms of thatched boxes with wooden beams protruding from each side, probably for carrying. This appeared to be a petrified wooden design and there were scores, if not hundreds, on the shore and the overlooking hillside. Elsewhere we had seen another style of Lycian tomb - a room cut into a vertical rock face with wonderful views, especially over the sea. Definitely tombs with a view.

  The shore was stony, with ruined walls running down and sometimes extending into the sea. Pottery shards lay among the stones, and a few tombs, awash and photogenic, stood in the water. We had entered in the Lycian city of Aperlae, surrounded by the remains of buildings overgrown with shrubs and maquis. The land had sunk, and the ancient quay was about a fathom deep. Swimming over, the bottom beyond was covered by sea grass with small fish lurking between the strands, while bright bold jazzy fish explored the steep edge of the old quay. The remains of waterside buildings now lie five or six feet under, the stones patterned by purple sea urchins - so shoes were essential.

  Along the quay I swam over a wall and into a small enclosure and was struck by a sudden chill and change of visibility so this must have been a cistern fed by a fresh spring from the hill. On either side of the city old defensive walls climbed the hill above and on the shore were the round ruined remains of a Byzantine church built long after the Lycians. One small twentieth century house stood at the head of the bay, and a smaller dark dwelling huddled among rocks on the hill near where the girl was doing her washing.

  While we swam, two gulets motored in with visitors, but otherwise the isthmus and the city were deserted. Had a city really depended on these three small fields and the enclosures? Did the Lycians live by trading or piracy or by boat building? Why did they not rebuild their quay? Were they defeated and destroyed? Darius, Alexander, the Romans, the Saracens, the Venetians, all the top dogs and sea dogs of the eastern Mediterranean have ruled and swash-buckled along these shores, but each only for a limited time.

  What can we learn from this decay and decline? In 1998 a girl draws water from an ancient well to wash in a stone Lycian bowl. This is Asia Minor - will the same change from city to bush happen in Europe in the next millennium?

  The walk back was hotter still, but the tiny restaurant had a refrigerator containing cold and welcome beer. Out 35-foot time capsule floated in the bay, reflected against the watching hills. We paddled out from a glorious transient past to a comfortable but inevitably impermanent present.

  PALM SUNDAY, MUHEZA, TANZANIA

  It started ordinarily enough, “Morning service is at 8 and I will take you” said Lawrence, the Deputy Matron. Arriving a few minutes late people thronged into the palm-strewn church which was already filled to overflowing! Declining an invitation to join the officiating clergymen we were led to seats of honour at the front with children sitting on the ground in front of us, mamas and babies behind, and men at the back. Three fans turned slowly under the high metal roof and made very little impact on the heat.

  A hymn followed welcome prayers, and then plaited palm branches were distributed. Next we all left church and processed far around the fields and the edge of the town singing hymns while clapping and waving palm fronds. Stretched out in groups we became a long raggle-taggle army of perhaps six hundred people with very fragmented hymns and to the ladies’ beautiful Sunday-best dresses was added a thin powdering of African red dust. The sun was already well up, and temperature and humidity both very high.

  Back from the procession and tightly packed again inside the church the Swahili service continued. The choir, obviously over-hot but resplendent in heavy deep blue robes sang most beautifully, usually in many parts, and led the congregation. A long Oratorio described the events of Palm Sunday and Holy Week, followed by two impassioned sermons of about 40 minutes each, then by a baptism, and finally a conversion from Islam. The rather shy young convert was escorted by six buxom middle-aged ladies who danced and gyrated round him while he looked embarrassed. These were presumably welcoming sponsors, but he managed to answer all necessary questions despite the distractions. Meanwhile the children behaved wonderfully well. After these events a communion service started with another short talk, the giving of bread and wine, and more hymns. Rather to my surprise I was called on to speak and managed a few words in English around the quotation “I was a stranger and you took me in.”

  At about midday the service ended, the congregation poured out, and many people wanted to meet us (I felt a bit as the Queen must do shaking countless hands) until we all slowly dispersed. I had never been to a 4-hour service before but scarcely noticed the time. Everything was in Swahili but this language is phonetic so with books we could follow the familiar story and the order of service. The singing was truly wonderful, the enthusiasm infectious, and I wouldn’t have missed it for anything.

  KAMPALA TO MARANGU SAFARI

  (A drive to Kilimanjaro)

  This is the story of a neurosis and the only car I’ve really loved. The year
was 1969. A high-pitched whistle developed in the engine before a long and possibly hazardous journey. I could hear it, but then I knew I had good high-tone acuity. The water pump was checked and replaced without silencing the noise. The garage owner listened and heard nothing. He politely agreed to re-check and re-service the car, but I could sense his conviction that there was nothing wrong and no whistle, and that the noise was in my imagination. But it still rang in my ears,to me signifying some part of the engine without enough lubrication. I had been invited to a conference in Dar es Salaam and my wife Bridget, our four children and I intended to go by lake and road from Kampala.

  We drove to Port Bell. Motor vessel “Lake Victoria” came in like a parody of old Africa. The decks were ruled by brisk Scottish officers showing hairy red legs beneath immaculate shorts. Each steward wore a trim scarlet fez. Our big Holden estate was hoisted up off the quay, swung aboard, and lowered into the hold. The “Lake Victoria”, a Clydebuilt floating island of efficiency, reached Bukoba that evening and Mwanza next morning.

  Mwanza was dusty, with the police station in a “Beau Geste” fort. We cleared formalities and drove north to the Serengeti entrance. Big puddles confirmed recent heavy and unseasonable rain. The western entrance led to a track across black cotton-grass plains, notoriously slippery after rain. “Is the road open?” I asked. “Yes, two vehicles have gone in today, and they have not come back.” I felt only slightly reassured.

  The track was rutted, the width of a single car. Many of the puddles concealed deep holes. We edged onwards, often having to leave the track to run beside it where the ground was firmer. No game appeared. In some wet places, I had to walk forward to check the ground and find the driest route, sometimes needing a detour of up to two hundred yards. In the car such a detour had to be taken at sufficient speed through the long grass so that our momentum would take us across the wettest parts. At other times we followed the marks of previous vehicles. Driving through grass which stood well over the bonnet was a matter of feel and faith. Once, following a Land Rover’s wheel marks, the Holden’s front near side reared up. I had hit an anthill, perhaps already struck and blunted by the Land Rover. We gained a big dent on the left, but our stout, sharp, Holden chassis-crosspiece had protected the important parts of both engine and exhaust.

  The track took us further into the park, and began to climb gently. On the greasy cotton-grass soil it became harder and harder to gain enough grip to make progress. Eventually we stuck, back wheels deeply mired in black holes. We tried to gain tractions using our sacks and wire netting, and then we unloaded and tried again. I was prepared to jack up the car, but what could we use to fill the holes? A light plane flew over - we waved and it flew away.

  Some time later, a Land Rover appeared, four-wheel drive taking it forward despite worn tyres. A group of VSOs were bound for Serener Lodge. They towed us out of our holes, and repeated the favour further on when we stuck a second time.

  The ground became a little firmer, and we kept as close behind the Land Rover as we could so that they should notice if we stuck again. At one stage their driver lost his route with us following, and we both had to stop and retrace our wheel marks back through the bush between the trees until we could identify the right track. By then it was late afternoon and we were in savannah with odd patches of woodland.

  Shortly before dusk, the track ran across the side of a gently sloping hill. The Land Rover suddenly slowed to engage four-wheel drive. I was close behind and had to pull off onto a soft wet soggy surface or else collide. The Land Rover crossed a muddy area by a small stream and disappeared to the east, leaving us deeply bogged beside a single large tree.

  This was clearly our stopping place for the night. Bridget began to prepare food, and I made my worst mistake by lighting our Primus on the front of the car. The burning methylated spirits spilled, and a stream of blue fire ran along the bonnet. It only lasted for a short time, but I thought I had chosen a poor place to risk setting the Holden on fire.

  There were several dead branches under the tree, so we made a small fire as the dusk vanished. In an instant the world beyond the firelight became jet black - and any wild thing might have been watching us from just beyond the flickering light.

  The children demanded their pyjamas and slept in the back, while Bridget and I curled up uncomfortably on the front bench seat.

  With the dawn, I wondered whether we should see a circle of curious lions, buffaloes, or baboons around us, but there was no sign or trace of large or small game.

  We jacked up the car, filled the ruts, and managed to edge back onto the track. The stream was still in front of us. A small culvert had blocked and a dammed stream had made the road and its margins soft and boggy for many yards. Fortunately Colin had smuggled his sand-castle spade into the luggage, and with it I dug channels for the stream while the children played. Then we took a run at the wet patch and crossed half of it, so were back to using our sacks, the netting, and finding stones to fill holes in the mud and dirt. Our netting and sacks provided about six feet of grip each time, so fathom by fathom we worked our way forward to drier land.

  By mid-morning we were reloaded and driving forward. Half an hour later a Park’s Land Rover appeared coming the other way. None of the rangers spoke any English - but they gestured that we should go on and they would follow. We bowled along merrily until we came to a small river with a causeway and bridge, both washed away by the recent rains. Tyre tracks ran down beside the causeway, perhaps those of yesterday‘s Land Rover. This was clearly a time when plenty of momentum was needed and I accelerated into the marsh. Soon we were stationary and when I opened the door, the water level was at the door sill. Smiling rangers hitched a rope to their Land Rover and pulled us through the mud and by brute force up onto the track beyond. They then turned into the bush, waved, and drove away. Perhaps, we thought, that was a good sign.

  The surface was better and firmer, and we saw that we had left the cotton-grass soil behind, apart from the thick coating travelling upon us and the car. The streams we crossed now had concrete fords, though one had more boulders than concrete, and Alison banged and cut her chin when we bounced off a rock. The morning had gone and it was afternoon.

  Seronera is the Serengeti Park Centre. We drove in and stopped by the office - a black filthy car, two muddy filthy adults, and four black children. We had booked a room to stay the previous night and not arrived. The Park Superintendent offered us accommodation, and said the quality of the track was deliberate to prevent use by commercial traffic. In the bar for drinks and food, we came under the astonished gaze of elderly blue-rinsed, coiffured Americans, clad in perfectly tailored safari clothes. Then we showered.

  I asked the Superintendent to radio Ngorongoro Lodge, where we hoped we had a booking to spend the night but had not received confirmation before leaving Kampala. However the radio operators at Ngorongoro had closed down for Sunday afternoon.

  So we decided to press on, to try to get through the park gates by the Olduvai Gorge before they shut, and so to catch up with our previous plans and bookings.

  This land was totally different. We entered a great wide, dry, gravely plain with thin vegetation. As far as we could see it was gently convex and ringed by mountains. Herds of little Thomson’s gazelles dashed off and sometimes bounded past and across our course. Soon I was doing 60 mph - the Holden was designed for long rough Australian outback roads. As the afternoon died, we reached the edge of the plain, were just in time to be let out of the park through the gate, and entered broken rocky country.

  We began to climb steeply and a gravel track stretched upwards in the headlights. Were we to have another night in the car? In the two days since entering the park we had only seen one vehicle going the other way - the parks vehicle which rescued us - and we had not overtaken anything with wheels.

  On and up we went, and the gradient eventually eased. Suddenly round a bend and without any warning the lights lit a road sign showing two children holding hand
s - surely a school and people. And soon afterwards we reached Ngorongoro Lodge. There were no rooms booked for us, but the staff found a big tent with a heater. The lodge had a dining room and food.

  Gnu was listed on the menu, but unfortunately all had been eaten, so we ordered something less exotic. One by one four children fell asleep over their suppers.

  After that there was not much more to tell. We spent the morning visiting the Ngorongoro Crater in a Land Rover, then drove down from the rim towards the east – on a long, steep, straight road almost guaranteed to burn out brakes. Beyond Lake Manyara we entered dusty Masai cattle country. Bridget was at the wheel when one young scamp fired an arrow over our heads. David declared, and nothing has ever shaken his certainty, that he saw a hippopotamus in the middle of a group of Masai cows.

  In the early evening, after passing Arusha, Bridget pointed out to me an odd corner of high white cloud. Eventually we realised it was the top of Kilimanjaro. Further on, the setting sun dropped below a bank of cloud, and lit the whole mountain. We spent the night at Marangu - from where most people who climb Kilimanjaro begin the three-day walk to the summit.

  Next day we had reached good quality tarmac, driving towards Dar es Salaam and my meeting (the first East African Leprosy Conference). The whistle was again audible! I had not heard it during the previous days of bumps and excitement. Still no one else could hear it, however I could and knew it was still there - but by now I was satisfied it did not matter. Dear old Holden! One neurosis down - how many to go?

  SANTORINI

  “How on earth do they get mortgages?” asked Daniel. We looked along the cliff edge to clinging white houses, a few cantilevered over the sheer drop. Dwarfed far below in the vast crater lay two cruise liners, a centipede of grey donkeys toiling up a cobbled path. “This is one of the great Mediterranean honey-pots.” we replied. Just behind the cliff edge, alley shops sparkled with gold and jewellery. “Rich tourists make the risk acceptable.”