Jupiters Travels: Four Years Around the World on a Triumph

by Ted Simon

  The Indian came to sit with me later at the dinner table. He was a young, intense fellow with a shock of black hair. I listened to his story with fascination. He had left Zanzibar, he said, after the revolution, which had been very unfavourable to Asian families. His Zanzibar passport was cancelled when he left, but he had a British passport also, and with some friends he hoped to get to England. They tried first to get up through the Sudan from Kenya, but were stopped at Juba and sent back. Next they tried Uganda, but again were sent back to Kenya. He then went to the British High Commission in Kenya, presumably knowing that it was a desperate throw. They took the passport and, he says, told him, 'You won't be seeing that again.' He thought they had burned it.

  That had been in 1963. His life's dream now, he told me, was to build a raft of mangrove wood twelve feet wide and forty-four feet long (he had the drawing) with which he said he would float on the currents from the Zanzibar coast to Australia.

  I left the lodge next morning eager to know the country better. The first stretch of road was particularly beautiful. The road ran beside low mountains on the left, and then crossed them. For half an hour or so, the Great Ruaha River tumbled past me, swollen and red from the rains. Tribes of

  baboons appeared occasionally at the roadside or on the ascending rock-faces, and the country itself seemed alive with its constant changes of perspective, the rise and fall of the mountains and the gushing streams. I rode one hundred and fifty miles without seeing a single person. Sometimes I glimpsed a hut among the trees. Once I stopped, thinking that somehow or other I ought to make some contact with people, but the general silence, the overcast sky and the wetness sapped at my resolution. I fidgeted uneasily at the roadside, feeling like an intruder, watching the small settlement for some sign of life, and when none appeared I climbed thankfully back on my machine and rode away.

  The rain held off and there was even a burst of sunshine at midday when I reached Iringa. I climbed up to the town, a busy junction on the direct Nairobi to Lusaka road. With trucks and buses coming and going it seemed very lively, but on examination there was really very little there: a few shops with the barest provisions, no buildings I could see of any interest, nobody who seemed worth approaching. I ate the inevitable sambusas with a kebab and a cup of tea, and set off once more. Almost immediately came the first rain, and I packed myself into my rain gear which seemed to restrict and separate me even more from the world.

  The countryside became flat and unvarying. A few small groups of huts appeared at the roadside from time to time, each looking more sodden and dismal than the last. Now and again came a square-built shack aggressively labelled Bottle Shop. Only once did I stop at one hoping to find some life, but there was none. A counter. Warm American fizz in bottles so often recycled that the glass was opaque. Some cigarettes. And a man whose face betrayed not a spark of life or interest.

  I rode on. The rain fell harder and longer. The clouds came lower and blacker. It became ever more impossible to imagine making contact with anyone. Without the sun to ease my way and bring a smile to a stranger's face I felt utterly cut off from these dull and miserable looking people.

  My last hope was a place called Igawa. The map indicated some primitive accommodation but I could find nothing. I rode up and down the row of huts, and gave up. Well after nightfall I arrived in Mbeya at the border and went straight to the European Guest House. There were Finnish agronomists to provide me with more information about maize crops and cooperative schemes, and more Indians travelling 'on business'. I had ridden three hundred and sixty-five miles from one oasis of luxury to another. The next morning I crossed into Zambia.

  Tanzania became important to me afterwards as my first real failure. In three days and nights I had crossed an important country as big as Venezuela or the State of Maine, half as big again as France. I had learned less about it than I would have picked up from any half-decent newspaper article, and what I had learned had been by hearsay. When I finally left I was astonished to have to admit that I had not talked to a single African national there except to pay rent and buy petrol.

  In part I blamed the highway. It was too fast, too good, and took me too far away from the slow-moving people. But mostly it was because I had let the rain enter my soul.

  The first ten thousand miles of the journey are completed halfway down the road to Bulawayo from Victoria Falls. The least I can do is stop and contemplate them for as long as it takes to smoke a cigarette.

  Yesterday I came into Rhodesia, and I feel out of place. There is something weird going on here and I'm trying to get it in focus. Coming through Kenya, Tanzania, Zambia I met white men, farmers, business people, professionals who have lived their lives in Africa. Most were content to accept the inevitable and go on working under African rule. It was obvious that Africa could not belong to them and never did.

  Since Kibwezi I have been unable to meet with Africans on level terms. Their economic and social condition was too primitive and, as I said before, the rain got in the way. We are like different kinds of fish in the same bowl, passing each other, even bumping into each other, but unable to communicate. Of course, I can always find an 'educated' African to talk to, but he does not tell me anything because to talk to me at all he has to pretend to be white. I don't even know how to begin to pretend to be black. That's how stupid I am.

  In Zambia there is a third kind of fish swimming in the bowl. The Chinese. There are shoals of them alongside the Tanzam Highway, building a new railway line to the coast. They are entirely deliberate in their apartness. When I stopped to admire their work and goggle at their slit eyes, I was waved on by the clenched fists of a man in blue overalls of a darker shade than anyone else's. Perhaps he was the 'people's representative'.

  I should love to have seen the blueprint of that railway. I am almost sure it was drawn on a scroll with brush and ink, and most delicately shaded. The proportions of the stone viaduct I saw them building had a lightness that suggested silk gowns and parasols, rather than heavy goods trains. The Chinese built their own towns, did much of their own labouring, brought in their own women. The Africans respected them, but felt no warmth towards them. Cold fish.

  If Africa has never belonged to the White Man (and will certainly never belong to the Chinese), it is also obvious that it does not belong to the Black Man either. He belongs to it. Normally unreligious people who have been here a while say that Africa belongs to God. They say that if you just stop and listen for a moment the truth appears directly. No doubt this is because people are not yet numerous enough to jam the air waves. There is still room for other messages to come through.

  Near Lusaka, two thousand miles on from Kibwezi, I rested for a few days with an English family on a small farm. They were people whose lives were consciously and completely devoted to the service of the Christian God, and in the ordinary way I would have found such company uncomfortable. In the event it was not. God entered into their life, and they spoke of 'Him' often in my presence, but it was like hearing about another member of the family whom I had not met, and nobody was surprised or upset that I didn't know him.

  Their ambition was to extend, as far as possible, their capacity to shelter people who needed or wanted to stay there a while. They were rebuilding a house that had burned down, and preparing a camp site across the river. The household, with all its children, was in a chronic state of disorder, but the grounds were well kept. They had a large and growing network of friends throughout the world, and it seemed to me that they were really intent on stimulating what was good rather than what was holy. At any rate I could see nothing but good coming from it.

  They were frequently threatened by financial ruin, but 'He' always came to the rescue. Black Rhodesian Freedom Fighters went on lethal rampages from their training camp down the road, and the farm was a refuge for frightened local Africans, but no harm came to them. The inefficiencies and shortages and contradictory policies of a newborn country made farming frustrating and scarcely profitable, but
for them all that was part of 'His' design and they took pleasure in it.

  To live in black Africa at all (and Nairobi doesn't count) you must accept a very basic existence. Most of the commonplace luxuries and certainties of the West go overboard. If you can shed your more sophisticated habits, you are so handsomely rewarded by the natural pleasures of Africa (I heard this often) that it is easy to see the hand of God at work. For some, Africa is proof positive of God's existence. Although my own God remains as elusive as ever, my experience supports the theory in a practical way. It is a mistake to worry here. Let Africa do the work, and a solution seems to follow automatically. A problem here is like that slippery Norfolk town of Diss; as you approach it Disappears.

  I used to worry about how I was going to get from Zambia into Rhodesia, considering that they are mortal enemies. No need. What you do is this; you go to Livingstone on the Zambezi, and spend an enchanted day wandering around the Victoria Falls, the old locomotive graveyard and then alongside the river, watching the hippopotamus, listening to the liquid sounds of the bottle birds and 'The Shadow of Your Smile' coming from the cassette player in a red Toyota pick-up, and talking to this fisherman who has caught several catfish and bream, and is just pulling something else out now.

  'This fish', we call Croaker,' and to prove it, as he pulls if off the hook and snaps its spines, it croaks.

  Next morning you ride up to the guard on the Livingstone Bridge just in case, by chance, he should feel like letting you across, but he turns you away gently with his rifle, so you ride upriver for fifty miles or so and take the ferry to Kazangula in Botswana. There they sell you a mandatory insurance policy to cover you against collisions on the six miles to the Rhodesian border. And there you go.

  I sometimes think about those two guards staring at each other from

  opposite ends of the Livingstone Bridge, and wonder whether they know each other's Christian names. They are undoubtedly both Christians.

  The weirdness begins right at the Rhodesian border. First there is this bright new galvanized wire fence, all properly erected and secured, with no bits hanging off or rusting away. Then, on the other side of the fence, you see that there are no weeds. No superfluous or inappropriate growths whatsoever. The cement is smooth, the gravel swept and free of grass, and everything has clearly defined edges. Squared off, ship-shape and in absolute shite order.

  I gaze at this model of propriety, this example of 'how it should be done' like some grubby kid on the street with his nose pressed to the squire's window. Maybe my first inkling of what it's like to be black.

  'Pull yourself together, man,' I say. 'Where's your passport. Your British passport.'

  On the other side of the fence, having entered the squire's mansion, is this office, all spick and span, but what hits you smack in the retina, what makes you want to shield your eyes lest they melt in their sockets, are these two White Men. Man, are they White! They are dazzling, like angels or something. And they are White in White. They have little White socks, and elasticated White shorts, perfectly cut to those plump White thighs and tight White tunics. I swear, once I appreciate that they are real and alive, I don't see people. I see flesh, and I know it's White right through, like pork or chicken, done up in frilly White wrappings the way it comes ready cooked from the delicatessen.

  Well, one of these amazing beings has got a gun that he is carrying against his chest, with the barrel pointing straight up past his nose. I don't know what he's got in this gun, but it could be full to the brim with instant atom bomb powder or something, because he is clutching it with both hands and walking on eggs as though a variation of one degree from the vertical could blow us all to Zimbabwe. He has a prissy prep school face that's saying 'Look at me, Daddy' and 'God, don't let me mess my pants' simultaneously, and he proceeds, transfixed, behind the counter and through a doorway like one of those toy figures on an old clocktower.

  Then the other being turns his po face to me and says:

  'Can I help you, Sir,' in a funny strained voice.

  My eyes are growing accustomed to the glare, so I face up to him quite well and offer him my papers.

  'Do you have Rhodesian Third Party Insurance, Mr. Simon?' he asks, knowing bloody well I don't.

  'No,' I say. 'Can I get it at Vic Falls?'

  'Trouble is, the road from here to Vic Falls is bad. If you had an accident you might not have a leg to stand on.' There is no horse laugh, after this uproarious remark. Perhaps the Rhodesian sense of humour is unconscious. Even while all this is going on, as I marvel at it, I am aware that but for the journey I have just made it would seem perfectly normal. This is how a white immigration office ought to be run, given a little extra spit and polish for the current emergency. Obviously I have been coloured by Africa without realizing it, and I see that all those white people I have been meeting recently, while they are not really African, have lost the edge of their whiteness, and blend more or less into the racial spectrum.

  This is what White really means. The experience continues into Victoria Falls. The butcher sells me a delicious fillet steak for a derisory price and says:

  'Surely you must believe, as I do, that we are the victims of a worldwide Communist conspiracy.'

  What we have here, I see, is a White Tribe. What are their customs? Rigid adherence to the standards of Britain before the Fall. Efficiency, cleanliness, husbandry, pro bono publico, monogamy and cricket. Like the Turkana, they believe that as long as they stick to their customs and rituals they must prevail. There is no alternative. I can easily imagine a black anthropologist visiting Rhodesia ten years ago and writing:

  'Arrogant and superior as the country he comes from, so he will remain, in my opinion, to the end of time.'

  Time is running out everywhere, but it is not only pressure from outside that threatens this culture. A woman yesterday asked me, with a satisfied smirk on her pretty face, whether I knew that Rhodesia had the highest divorce rate in the world. Adultery, the Enemy Within.

  As I finish my cigarette a figure is walking in my direction, on the other side of the road, an African wearing a cloth hat and a white coat like a tent buttoned at the neck. The country stretches for ever all around, open, empty plain, as it was through Tanzania and Zambia. Two thousand miles of empty land. I would not have believed there was so much space left in the world. The road is asphalt, and very hot. The African is barefoot.

  'Where are you walking to?' I ask him. T am going to Bulawayo to look for work.' He asks me where I have come from, and says: 'Oh my goodness! You are very clever Sir.'

  Bulawayo is a hundred miles away. When I think of walking barefoot to Bulawayo my own achievement seems less spectacular.

  From Bulawayo to Salisbury the impression persists. The farms are beautifully managed. The cities run like clockwork. 'We will not let go. African rule would be a disaster. They would massacre each other in no time. Everything would be in ruins. Anyway it's too late now. Who would buy our property? We will stick it out. We'll win through in the end.

  Someone will come to our aid. Britain. South Africa. Someone. They can't let us down.'

  From Umtali to Melsetter a road runs through the mountains along the Mozambique border, famous for its beauty. Halfway along is the Black Mountain Inn, known throughout Southern Africa. It has recently changed hands. The new owner, Van den Bergh, is a Dutchman who worked in Indonesia and has retired from business. He and his wife are taking a chance coming here, but they wanted a change of life.

  'You'd never believe the bigotry round here. Not in the towns so much, but in the fringe rural districts and among the Afrikaaners. There's a farmer they call "Baas M'Sorry". He brings his labour in from Malawi under contract - a lot of them do. When his new batch arrives, he puts each one in a jute sack and weighs him. Then he arranges the feed according to their weight. Like cattle.

  'He wears those big snake boots, you know, knee high leather boots, because there are snakes in the fields. If he comes across a cheeky Mundt - that's a
Kaffir who answers back - he steps on his foot and grinds with the heel of his boot until the fellow says "Baas M'Sorry".

  'You know there's a law now that blacks are supposed to be called African Gentlemen and African Ladies. "African Ladies", says this feller. "There's no such thing. Just Kaffir bitches." '

  Van den Bergh's stories come pouring out like a vaudeville routine. He hasn't met anyone for a while who would understand.

  'When we first arrived we went to get meat for us and the servants. "Oh," they said, "for them you want boy's meat," and they produced this chopped-up bone and gristle and sinew. It was cheaper than meat for the dog. We thought "We can't give them that" so we bought them steak. After a while there was a mutiny because we weren't giving them the proper meat.'

  Things are a bit risky around here, especially at night. There are raids across the border, both ways.

  'The police are in here every night getting drunk. The army's the same. I'm afraid the Rhodesian whites are too flabby. If they ever came up against a really motivated black army, well they'd get rolled up.'

  So what's going to happen?

  'The blacks will get independence eventually - but it'll take about ten years.'

  The Inn is a lovely place, in far better taste than anything else I've seen, set among flowers and lawns. The Van den Berghs seem like the right sort of people to have there too. It's sad to think of the fate hanging over them. I think his forecast is too optimistic. In Chipinga, the next town, a businessman called Hutchinson, who says his grandfather was governor of the Cape Province, agrees with me.

  'My date is 1980’ he says. 'There'll be African Government by then.' His arguments are convincing. He seems to be in touch. What Africans think, I have no idea. I keep hoping that chance will throw me among them as it did in Kenya, but it does not happen. They appear before me only as servants, figures performing menial functions. All I hear is Yes Sir, No Sir, Three bags full, Sir. They inhabit some other world that I can't get in focus. On my way back to Fort Victoria I stop at a black village on the Tribal Trust Territory. The site has some magic. There are huge, smooth rocks piled on each other, like symbols of power and protection, with sheltered patches of ground among them. I'm not very far from Zimbabwe itself, and there is a kind of sorcery in the land, but all I see are endlessly outstretched hands, begging. One dumpy lady runs frantically to fetch her big copper pot and balances it on her head, in the hope of getting a posing fee, I suppose. Her haste is such that she gets it on wrong and has to stand with her head crooked to keep it up there. The anxiety on her face is comical and leaves a bad aftertaste. No, Lady, that's not what I came for.