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    TracyTracy
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      From Tanganyika with Love

      continued part 9

      With thanks to Mike Rushby.

      Lyamungu 3rd January 1945

      Dearest Family.

      We had a novel Christmas this year. We decided to avoid the expense of
      entertaining and being entertained at Lyamungu, and went off to spend Christmas
      camping in a forest on the Western slopes of Kilimanjaro. George decided to combine
      business with pleasure and in this way we were able to use Government transport.
      We set out the day before Christmas day and drove along the road which skirts
      the slopes of Kilimanjaro and first visited a beautiful farm where Philip Teare, the ex
      Game Warden, and his wife Mary are staying. We had afternoon tea with them and then
      drove on in to the natural forest above the estate and pitched our tent beside a small
      clear mountain stream. We decorated the tent with paper streamers and a few small
      balloons and John found a small tree of the traditional shape which we decorated where
      it stood with tinsel and small ornaments.

      We put our beer, cool drinks for the children and bottles of fresh milk from Simba
      Estate, in the stream and on Christmas morning they were as cold as if they had been in
      the refrigerator all night. There were not many presents for the children, there never are,
      but they do not seem to mind and are well satisfied with a couple of balloons apiece,
      sweets, tin whistles and a book each.

      George entertain the children before breakfast. He can make a magical thing out
      of the most ordinary balloon. The children watched entranced as he drew on his pipe
      and then blew the smoke into the balloon. He then pinched the neck of the balloon
      between thumb and forefinger and released the smoke in little puffs. Occasionally the
      balloon ejected a perfect smoke ring and the forest rang with shouts of “Do it again
      Daddy.” Another trick was to blow up the balloon to maximum size and then twist the
      neck tightly before releasing. Before subsiding the balloon darted about in a crazy
      fashion causing great hilarity. Such fun, at the cost of a few pence.

      After breakfast George went off to fish for trout. John and Jim decided that they
      also wished to fish so we made rods out of sticks and string and bent pins and they
      fished happily, but of course quite unsuccessfully, for hours. Both of course fell into the
      stream and got soaked, but I was prepared for this, and the little stream was so shallow
      that they could not come to any harm. Henry played happily in the sand and I had a
      most peaceful morning.

      Hamisi roasted a chicken in a pot over the camp fire and the jelly set beautifully in the
      stream. So we had grilled trout and chicken for our Christmas dinner. I had of course
      taken an iced cake for the occasion and, all in all, it was a very successful Christmas day.
      On Boxing day we drove down to the plains where George was to investigate a
      report of game poaching near the Ngassari Furrow. This is a very long ditch which has
      been dug by the Government for watering the Masai stock in the area. It is also used by
      game and we saw herds of zebra and wildebeest, and some Grant’s Gazelle and
      giraffe, all comparatively tame. At one point a small herd of zebra raced beside the lorry
      apparently enjoying the fun of a gallop. They were all sleek and fat and looked wild and
      beautiful in action.

      We camped a considerable distance from the water but this precaution did not
      save us from the mosquitoes which launched a vicious attack on us after sunset, so that
      we took to our beds unusually early. They were on the job again when we got up at
      sunrise so I was very glad when we were once more on our way home.

      “I like Christmas safari. Much nicer that silly old party,” said John. I agree but I think
      it is time that our children learned to play happily with others. There are no other young
      children at Lyamungu though there are two older boys and a girl who go to boarding
      school in Nairobi.

      On New Years Day two Army Officers from the military camp at Moshi, came for
      tea and to talk game hunting with George. I think they rather enjoy visiting a home and
      seeing children and pets around.

      Eleanor.

      Lyamungu 14 May 1945

      Dearest Family.

      So the war in Europe is over at last. It is such marvellous news that I can hardly
      believe it. To think that as soon as George can get leave we will go to England and
      bring Ann and George home with us to Tanganyika. When we know when this leave can
      be arranged we will want Kate to join us here as of course she must go with us to
      England to meet George’s family. She has become so much a part of your lives that I
      know it will be a wrench for you to give her up but I know that you will all be happy to
      think that soon our family will be reunited.

      The V.E. celebrations passed off quietly here. We all went to Moshi to see the
      Victory Parade of the King’s African Rifles and in the evening we went to a celebration
      dinner at the Game Warden’s house. Besides ourselves the Moores had invited the
      Commanding Officer from Moshi and a junior officer. We had a very good dinner and
      many toasts including one to Mrs Moore’s brother, Oliver Milton who is fighting in Burma
      and has recently been awarded the Military Cross.

      There was also a celebration party for the children in the grounds of the Moshi
      Club. Such a spread! I think John and Jim sampled everything. We mothers were
      having our tea separately and a friend laughingly told me to turn around and have a look.
      I did, and saw the long tea tables now deserted by all the children but my two sons who
      were still eating steadily, and finding the party more exciting than the game of Musical
      Bumps into which all the other children had entered with enthusiasm.

      There was also an extremely good puppet show put on by the Italian prisoners
      of war from the camp at Moshi. They had made all the puppets which included well
      loved characters like Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs and the Babes in the Wood as
      well as more sophisticated ones like an irritable pianist and a would be prima donna. The
      most popular puppets with the children were a native askari and his family – a very
      happy little scene. I have never before seen a puppet show and was as entranced as
      the children. It is amazing what clever manipulation and lighting can do. I believe that the
      Italians mean to take their puppets to Nairobi and am glad to think that there, they will
      have larger audiences to appreciate their art.

      George has just come in, and I paused in my writing to ask him for the hundredth
      time when he thinks we will get leave. He says I must be patient because it may be a
      year before our turn comes. Shipping will be disorganised for months to come and we
      cannot expect priority simply because we have been separated so long from our
      children. The same situation applies to scores of other Government Officials.
      I have decided to write the story of my childhood in South Africa and about our
      life together in Tanganyika up to the time Ann and George left the country. I know you
      will have told Kate these stories, but Ann and George were so very little when they left
      home that I fear that they cannot remember much.

      My Mother-in-law will have told them about their father but she can tell them little
      about me. I shall send them one chapter of my story each month in the hope that they
      may be interested and not feel that I am a stranger when at last we meet again.

      Eleanor.

      Lyamungu 19th September 1945

      Dearest Family.

      In a months time we will be saying good-bye to Lyamungu. George is to be
      transferred to Mbeya and I am delighted, not only as I look upon Mbeya as home, but
      because there is now a primary school there which John can attend. I feel he will make
      much better progress in his lessons when he realises that all children of his age attend
      school. At present he is putting up a strong resistance to learning to read and spell, but
      he writes very neatly, does his sums accurately and shows a real talent for drawing. If
      only he had the will to learn I feel he would do very well.

      Jim now just four, is too young for lessons but too intelligent to be interested in
      the ayah’s attempts at entertainment. Yes I’ve had to engage a native girl to look after
      Henry from 9 am to 12.30 when I supervise John’s Correspondence Course. She is
      clean and amiable, but like most African women she has no initiative at all when it comes
      to entertaining children. Most African men and youths are good at this.

      I don’t regret our stay at Lyamungu. It is a beautiful spot and the change to the
      cooler climate after the heat of Morogoro has been good for all the children. John is still
      tall for his age but not so thin as he was and much less pale. He is a handsome little lad
      with his large brown eyes in striking contrast to his fair hair. He is wary of strangers but
      very observant and quite uncanny in the way he sums up people. He seldom gets up
      to mischief but I have a feeling he eggs Jim on. Not that Jim needs egging.

      Jim has an absolute flair for mischief but it is all done in such an artless manner that
      it is not easy to punish him. He is a very sturdy child with a cap of almost black silky hair,
      eyes brown, like mine, and a large mouth which is quick to smile and show most beautiful
      white and even teeth. He is most popular with all the native servants and the Game
      Scouts. The servants call Jim, ‘Bwana Tembo’ (Mr Elephant) because of his sturdy
      build.

      Henry, now nearly two years old, is quite different from the other two in
      appearance. He is fair complexioned and fair haired like Ann and Kate, with large, black
      lashed, light grey eyes. He is a good child, not so merry as Jim was at his age, nor as
      shy as John was. He seldom cries, does not care to be cuddled and is independent and
      strong willed. The servants call Henry, ‘Bwana Ndizi’ (Mr Banana) because he has an
      inexhaustible appetite for this fruit. Fortunately they are very inexpensive here. We buy
      an entire bunch which hangs from a beam on the back verandah, and pluck off the
      bananas as they ripen. This way there is no waste and the fruit never gets bruised as it
      does in greengrocers shops in South Africa. Our three boys make a delightful and
      interesting trio and I do wish you could see them for yourselves.

      We are delighted with the really beautiful photograph of Kate. She is an
      extraordinarily pretty child and looks so happy and healthy and a great credit to you.
      Now that we will be living in Mbeya with a school on the doorstep I hope that we will
      soon be able to arrange for her return home.

      Eleanor.

      c/o Game Dept. Mbeya. 30th October 1945

      Dearest Family.

      How nice to be able to write c/o Game Dept. Mbeya at the head of my letters.
      We arrived here safely after a rather tiresome journey and are installed in a tiny house on
      the edge of the township.

      We left Lyamungu early on the morning of the 22nd. Most of our goods had
      been packed on the big Ford lorry the previous evening, but there were the usual
      delays and farewells. Of our servants, only the cook, Hamisi, accompanied us to
      Mbeya. Japhet, Tovelo and the ayah had to be paid off and largesse handed out.
      Tovelo’s granny had come, bringing a gift of bananas, and she also brought her little
      granddaughter to present a bunch of flowers. The child’s little scolded behind is now
      completely healed. Gifts had to be found for them too.

      At last we were all aboard and what a squash it was! Our few pieces of furniture
      and packing cases and trunks, the cook, his wife, the driver and the turney boy, who
      were to take the truck back to Lyamungu, and all their bits and pieces, bunches of
      bananas and Fanny the dog were all crammed into the body of the lorry. George, the
      children and I were jammed together in the cab. Before we left George looked
      dubiously at the tyres which were very worn and said gloomily that he thought it most
      unlikely that we would make our destination, Dodoma.

      Too true! Shortly after midday, near Kwakachinja, we blew a back tyre and there
      was a tedious delay in the heat whilst the wheel was changed. We were now without a
      spare tyre and George said that he would not risk taking the Ford further than Babati,
      which is less than half way to Dodoma. He drove very slowly and cautiously to Babati
      where he arranged with Sher Mohammed, an Indian trader, for a lorry to take us to
      Dodoma the next morning.

      It had been our intention to spend the night at the furnished Government
      Resthouse at Babati but when we got there we found that it was already occupied by
      several District Officers who had assembled for a conference. So, feeling rather
      disgruntled, we all piled back into the lorry and drove on to a place called Bereku where
      we spent an uncomfortable night in a tumbledown hut.

      Before dawn next morning Sher Mohammed’s lorry drove up, and there was a
      scramble to dress by the light of a storm lamp. The lorry was a very dilapidated one and
      there was already a native woman passenger in the cab. I felt so tired after an almost
      sleepless night that I decided to sit between the driver and this woman with the sleeping
      Henry on my knee. It was as well I did, because I soon found myself dosing off and
      drooping over towards the woman. Had she not been there I might easily have fallen
      out as the battered cab had no door. However I was alert enough when daylight came
      and changed places with the woman to our mutual relief. She was now able to converse
      with the African driver and I was able to enjoy the scenery and the fresh air!
      George, John and Jim were less comfortable. They sat in the lorry behind the
      cab hemmed in by packing cases. As the lorry was an open one the sun beat down
      unmercifully upon them until George, ever resourceful, moved a table to the front of the
      truck. The two boys crouched under this and so got shelter from the sun but they still had
      to endure the dust. Fanny complicated things by getting car sick and with one thing and
      another we were all jolly glad to get to Dodoma.

      We spent the night at the Dodoma Hotel and after hot baths, a good meal and a
      good nights rest we cheerfully boarded a bus of the Tanganyika Bus Service next
      morning to continue our journey to Mbeya. The rest of the journey was uneventful. We slept two nights on the road, the first at Iringa Hotel and the second at Chimala. We
      reached Mbeya on the 27th.

      I was rather taken aback when I first saw the little house which has been allocated
      to us. I had become accustomed to the spacious houses we had in Morogoro and
      Lyamungu. However though the house is tiny it is secluded and has a long garden
      sloping down to the road in front and another long strip sloping up behind. The front
      garden is shaded by several large cypress and eucalyptus trees but the garden behind
      the house has no shade and consists mainly of humpy beds planted with hundreds of
      carnations sadly in need of debudding. I believe that the previous Game Ranger’s wife
      cultivated the carnations and, by selling them, raised money for War Funds.
      Like our own first home, this little house is built of sun dried brick. Its original
      owners were Germans. It is now rented to the Government by the Custodian of Enemy
      Property, and George has his office in another ex German house.

      This afternoon we drove to the school to arrange about enrolling John there. The
      school is about four miles out of town. It was built by the German settlers in the late
      1930’s and they were justifiably proud of it. It consists of a great assembly hall and
      classrooms in one block and there are several attractive single storied dormitories. This
      school was taken over by the Government when the Germans were interned on the
      outbreak of war and many improvements have been made to the original buildings. The
      school certainly looks very attractive now with its grassed playing fields and its lawns and
      bright flower beds.

      The Union Jack flies from a tall flagpole in front of the Hall and all traces of the
      schools German origin have been firmly erased. We met the Headmaster, Mr
      Wallington, and his wife and some members of the staff. The school is co-educational
      and caters for children from the age of seven to standard six. The leaving age is elastic
      owing to the fact that many Tanganyika children started school very late because of lack
      of educational facilities in this country.

      The married members of the staff have their own cottages in the grounds. The
      Matrons have quarters attached to the dormitories for which they are responsible. I felt
      most enthusiastic about the school until I discovered that the Headmaster is adamant
      upon one subject. He utterly refuses to take any day pupils at the school. So now our
      poor reserved Johnny will have to adjust himself to boarding school life.
      We have arranged that he will start school on November 5th and I shall be very
      busy trying to assemble his school uniform at short notice. The clothing list is sensible.
      Boys wear khaki shirts and shorts on weekdays with knitted scarlet jerseys when the
      weather is cold. On Sundays they wear grey flannel shorts and blazers with the silver
      and scarlet school tie.

      Mbeya looks dusty, brown and dry after the lush evergreen vegetation of
      Lyamungu, but I prefer this drier climate and there are still mountains to please the eye.
      In fact the lower slopes of Lolesa Mountain rise at the upper end of our garden.

      Eleanor.

      c/o Game Dept. Mbeya. 21st November 1945

      Dearest Family.

      We’re quite settled in now and I have got the little house fixed up to my
      satisfaction. I have engaged a rather uncouth looking houseboy but he is strong and
      capable and now that I am not tied down in the mornings by John’s lessons I am able to
      go out occasionally in the mornings and take Jim and Henry to play with other children.
      They do not show any great enthusiasm but are not shy by nature as John is.
      I have had a good deal of heartache over putting John to boarding school. It
      would have been different had he been used to the company of children outside his
      own family, or if he had even known one child there. However he seems to be adjusting
      himself to the life, though slowly. At least he looks well and tidy and I am quite sure that
      he is well looked after.

      I must confess that when the time came for John to go to school I simply did not
      have the courage to take him and he went alone with George, looking so smart in his
      new uniform – but his little face so bleak. The next day, Sunday, was visiting day but the
      Headmaster suggested that we should give John time to settle down and not visit him
      until Wednesday.

      When we drove up to the school I spied John on the far side of the field walking
      all alone. Instead of running up with glad greetings, as I had expected, he came almost
      reluctently and had little to say. I asked him to show me his dormitory and classroom and
      he did so politely as though I were a stranger. At last he volunteered some information.
      “Mummy,” he said in an awed voice, Do you know on the night I came here they burnt a
      man! They had a big fire and they burnt him.” After a blank moment the penny dropped.
      Of course John had started school and November the fifth but it had never entered my
      head to tell him about that infamous character, Guy Fawkes!

      I asked John’s Matron how he had settled down. “Well”, she said thoughtfully,
      John is very good and has not cried as many of the juniors do when they first come
      here, but he seems to keep to himself all the time.” I went home very discouraged but
      on the Sunday John came running up with another lad of about his own age.” This is my
      friend Marks,” he announced proudly. I could have hugged Marks.

      Mbeya is very different from the small settlement we knew in the early 1930’s.
      Gone are all the colourful characters from the Lupa diggings for the alluvial claims are all
      worked out now, gone also are our old friends the Menzies from the Pub and also most
      of the Government Officials we used to know. Mbeya has lost its character of a frontier
      township and has become almost suburban.

      The social life revolves around two places, the Club and the school. The Club
      which started out as a little two roomed building, has been expanded and the golf
      course improved. There are also tennis courts and a good library considering the size of
      the community. There are frequent parties and dances, though most of the club revenue
      comes from Bar profits. The parties are relatively sober affairs compared with the parties
      of the 1930’s.

      The school provides entertainment of another kind. Both Mr and Mrs Wallington
      are good amateur actors and I am told that they run an Amateur Dramatic Society. Every
      Wednesday afternoon there is a hockey match at the school. Mbeya town versus a
      mixed team of staff and scholars. The match attracts almost the whole European
      population of Mbeya. Some go to play hockey, others to watch, and others to snatch
      the opportunity to visit their children. I shall have to try to arrange a lift to school when
      George is away on safari.

      I have now met most of the local women and gladly renewed an old friendship
      with Sheilagh Waring whom I knew two years ago at Morogoro. Sheilagh and I have
      much in common, the same disregard for the trappings of civilisation, the same sense of
      the ludicrous, and children. She has eight to our six and she has also been cut off by the
      war from two of her children. Sheilagh looks too young and pretty to be the mother of so
      large a family and is, in fact, several years younger than I am. her husband, Donald, is a
      large quiet man who, as far as I can judge takes life seriously.

      Our next door neighbours are the Bank Manager and his wife, a very pleasant
      couple though we seldom meet. I have however had correspondence with the Bank
      Manager. Early on Saturday afternoon their houseboy brought a note. It informed me
      that my son was disturbing his rest by precipitating a heart attack. Was I aware that my
      son was about 30 feet up in a tree and balanced on a twig? I ran out and,sure enough,
      there was Jim, right at the top of the tallest eucalyptus tree. It would be the one with the
      mound of stones at the bottom! You should have heard me fluting in my most
      wheedling voice. “Sweets, Jimmy, come down slowly dear, I’ve some nice sweets for
      you.”

      I’ll bet that little story makes you smile. I remember how often you have told me
      how, as a child, I used to make your hearts turn over because I had no fear of heights
      and how I used to say, “But that is silly, I won’t fall.” I know now only too well, how you
      must have felt.

      Eleanor.

      c/o Game Dept. Mbeya. 14th January 1946

      Dearest Family.

      I hope that by now you have my telegram to say that Kate got home safely
      yesterday. It was wonderful to have her back and what a beautiful child she is! Kate
      seems to have enjoyed the train journey with Miss Craig, in spite of the tears she tells
      me she shed when she said good-bye to you. She also seems to have felt quite at
      home with the Hopleys at Salisbury. She flew from Salisbury in a small Dove aircraft
      and they had a smooth passage though Kate was a little airsick.

      I was so excited about her home coming! This house is so tiny that I had to turn
      out the little store room to make a bedroom for her. With a fresh coat of whitewash and
      pretty sprigged curtains and matching bedspread, borrowed from Sheilagh Waring, the
      tiny room looks most attractive. I had also iced a cake, made ice-cream and jelly and
      bought crackers for the table so that Kate’s home coming tea could be a proper little
      celebration.

      I was pleased with my preparations and then, a few hours before the plane was
      due, my crowned front tooth dropped out, peg and all! When my houseboy wants to
      describe something very tatty, he calls it “Second-hand Kabisa.” Kabisa meaning
      absolutely. That is an apt description of how I looked and felt. I decided to try some
      emergency dentistry. I think you know our nearest dentist is at Dar es Salaam five
      hundred miles away.

      First I carefully dried the tooth and with a match stick covered the peg and base
      with Durofix. I then took the infants rubber bulb enema, sucked up some heat from a
      candle flame and pumped it into the cavity before filling that with Durofix. Then hopefully
      I stuck the tooth in its former position and held it in place for several minutes. No good. I
      sent the houseboy to a shop for Scotine and tried the whole process again. No good
      either.

      When George came home for lunch I appealed to him for advice. He jokingly
      suggested that a maize seed jammed into the space would probably work, but when
      he saw that I really was upset he produced some chewing gum and suggested that I
      should try that . I did and that worked long enough for my first smile anyway.
      George and the three boys went to meet Kate but I remained at home to
      welcome her there. I was afraid that after all this time away Kate might be reluctant to
      rejoin the family but she threw her arms around me and said “Oh Mummy,” We both
      shed a few tears and then we both felt fine.

      How gay Kate is, and what an infectious laugh she has! The boys follow her
      around in admiration. John in fact asked me, “Is Kate a Princess?” When I said
      “Goodness no, Johnny, she’s your sister,” he explained himself by saying, “Well, she
      has such golden hair.” Kate was less complementary. When I tucked her in bed last night
      she said, “Mummy, I didn’t expect my little brothers to be so yellow!” All three boys
      have been taking a course of Atebrin, an anti-malarial drug which tinges skin and eyeballs
      yellow.

      So now our tiny house is bursting at its seams and how good it feels to have one
      more child under our roof. We are booked to sail for England in May and when we return
      we will have Ann and George home too. Then I shall feel really content.

      Eleanor.

      c/o Game Dept. Mbeya. 2nd March 1946

      Dearest Family.

      My life just now is uneventful but very busy. I am sewing hard and knitting fast to
      try to get together some warm clothes for our leave in England. This is not a simple
      matter because woollen materials are in short supply and very expensive, and now that
      we have boarding school fees to pay for both Kate and John we have to budget very
      carefully indeed.

      Kate seems happy at school. She makes friends easily and seems to enjoy
      communal life. John also seems reconciled to school now that Kate is there. He no
      longer feels that he is the only exile in the family. He seems to rub along with the other
      boys of his age and has a couple of close friends. Although Mbeya School is coeducational
      the smaller boys and girls keep strictly apart. It is considered extremely
      cissy to play with girls.

      The local children are allowed to go home on Sundays after church and may bring
      friends home with them for the day. Both John and Kate do this and Sunday is a very
      busy day for me. The children come home in their Sunday best but bring play clothes to
      change into. There is always a scramble to get them to bath and change again in time to
      deliver them to the school by 6 o’clock.

      When George is home we go out to the school for the morning service. This is
      taken by the Headmaster Mr Wallington, and is very enjoyable. There is an excellent
      school choir to lead the singing. The service is the Church of England one, but is
      attended by children of all denominations, except the Roman Catholics. I don’t think that
      more than half the children are British. A large proportion are Greeks, some as old as
      sixteen, and about the same number are Afrikaners. There are Poles and non-Nazi
      Germans, Swiss and a few American children.

      All instruction is through the medium of English and it is amazing how soon all the
      foreign children learn to chatter in English. George has been told that we will return to
      Mbeya after our leave and for that I am very thankful as it means that we will still be living
      near at hand when Jim and Henry start school. Because many of these children have to
      travel many hundreds of miles to come to school, – Mbeya is a two day journey from the
      railhead, – the school year is divided into two instead of the usual three terms. This
      means that many of these children do not see their parents for months at a time. I think
      this is a very sad state of affairs especially for the seven and eight year olds but the
      Matrons assure me , that many children who live on isolated farms and stations are quite
      reluctant to go home because they miss the companionship and the games and
      entertainment that the school offers.

      My only complaint about the life here is that I see far too little of George. He is
      kept extremely busy on this range and is hardly at home except for a few days at the
      months end when he has to be at his office to check up on the pay vouchers and the
      issue of ammunition to the Scouts. George’s Range takes in the whole of the Southern
      Province and the Southern half of the Western Province and extends to the border with
      Northern Rhodesia and right across to Lake Tanganyika. This vast area is patrolled by
      only 40 Game Scouts because the Department is at present badly under staffed, due
      partly to the still acute shortage of rifles, but even more so to the extraordinary reluctance
      which the Government shows to allocate adequate funds for the efficient running of the
      Department.

      The Game Scouts must see that the Game Laws are enforced, protect native
      crops from raiding elephant, hippo and other game animals. Report disease amongst game and deal with stock raiding lions. By constantly going on safari and checking on
      their work, George makes sure the range is run to his satisfaction. Most of the Game
      Scouts are fine fellows but, considering they receive only meagre pay for dangerous
      and exacting work, it is not surprising that occasionally a Scout is tempted into accepting
      a bribe not to report a serious infringement of the Game Laws and there is, of course,
      always the temptation to sell ivory illicitly to unscrupulous Indian and Arab traders.
      Apart from supervising the running of the Range, George has two major jobs.
      One is to supervise the running of the Game Free Area along the Rhodesia –
      Tanganyika border, and the other to hunt down the man-eating lions which for years have
      terrorised the Njombe District killing hundreds of Africans. Yes I know ‘hundreds’ sounds
      fantastic, but this is perfectly true and one day, when the job is done and the official
      report published I shall send it to you to prove it!

      I hate to think of the Game Free Area and so does George. All the game from
      buffalo to tiny duiker has been shot out in a wide belt extending nearly two hundred
      miles along the Northern Rhodesia -Tanganyika border. There are three Europeans in
      widely spaced camps who supervise this slaughter by African Game Guards. This
      horrible measure is considered necessary by the Veterinary Departments of
      Tanganyika, Rhodesia and South Africa, to prevent the cattle disease of Rinderpest
      from spreading South.

      When George is home however, we do relax and have fun. On the Saturday
      before the school term started we took Kate and the boys up to the top fishing camp in
      the Mporoto Mountains for her first attempt at trout fishing. There are three of these
      camps built by the Mbeya Trout Association on the rivers which were first stocked with
      the trout hatched on our farm at Mchewe. Of the three, the top camp is our favourite. The
      scenery there is most glorious and reminds me strongly of the rivers of the Western
      Cape which I so loved in my childhood.

      The river, the Kawira, flows from the Rungwe Mountain through a narrow valley
      with hills rising steeply on either side. The water runs swiftly over smooth stones and
      sometimes only a foot or two below the level of the banks. It is sparkling and shallow,
      but in places the water is deep and dark and the banks high. I had a busy day keeping
      an eye on the boys, especially Jim, who twice climbed out on branches which overhung
      deep water. “Mummy, I was only looking for trout!”

      How those kids enjoyed the freedom of the camp after the comparative
      restrictions of town. So did Fanny, she raced about on the hills like a mad dog chasing
      imaginary rabbits and having the time of her life. To escape the noise and commotion
      George had gone far upstream to fish and returned in the late afternoon with three good
      sized trout and four smaller ones. Kate proudly showed George the two she had caught
      with the assistance or our cook Hamisi. I fear they were caught in a rather unorthodox
      manner but this I kept a secret from George who is a stickler for the orthodox in trout
      fishing.

      Eleanor.

      Jacksdale England 24th June 1946

      Dearest Family.

      Here we are all together at last in England. You cannot imagine how wonderful it
      feels to have the whole Rushby family reunited. I find myself counting heads. Ann,
      George, Kate, John, Jim, and Henry. All present and well. We had a very pleasant trip
      on the old British India Ship Mantola. She was crowded with East Africans going home
      for the first time since the war, many like us, eagerly looking forward to a reunion with their
      children whom they had not seen for years. There was a great air of anticipation and
      good humour but a little anxiety too.

      “I do hope our children will be glad to see us,” said one, and went on to tell me
      about a Doctor from Dar es Salaam who, after years of separation from his son had
      recently gone to visit him at his school. The Doctor had alighted at the railway station
      where he had arranged to meet his son. A tall youth approached him and said, very
      politely, “Excuse me sir. Are you my Father?” Others told me of children who had
      become so attached to their relatives in England that they gave their parents a very cool
      reception. I began to feel apprehensive about Ann and George but fortunately had no
      time to mope.

      Oh, that washing and ironing for six! I shall remember for ever that steamy little
      laundry in the heat of the Red Sea and queuing up for the ironing and the feeling of guilt
      at the size of my bundle. We met many old friends amongst the passengers, and made
      some new ones, so the voyage was a pleasant one, We did however have our
      anxious moments.

      John was the first to disappear and we had an anxious search for him. He was
      quite surprised that we had been concerned. “I was just talking to my friend Chinky
      Chinaman in his workshop.” Could John have called him that? Then, when I returned to
      the cabin from dinner one night I found Henry swigging Owbridge’s Lung Tonic. He had
      drunk half the bottle neat and the label said ‘five drops in water’. Luckily it did not harm
      him.

      Jim of course was forever risking his neck. George had forbidden him to climb on
      the railings but he was forever doing things which no one had thought of forbidding him
      to do, like hanging from the overhead pipes on the deck or standing on the sill of a
      window and looking down at the well deck far below. An Officer found him doing this and
      gave me the scolding.

      Another day he climbed up on a derrick used for hoisting cargo. George,
      oblivious to this was sitting on the hatch cover with other passengers reading a book. I
      was in the wash house aft on the same deck when Kate rushed in and said, “Mummy
      come and see Jim.” Before I had time to more than gape, the butcher noticed Jim and
      rushed out knife in hand. “Get down from there”, he bellowed. Jim got, and with such
      speed that he caught the leg or his shorts on a projecting piece of metal. The cotton
      ripped across the seam from leg to leg and Jim stood there for a humiliating moment in a
      sort of revealing little kilt enduring the smiles of the passengers who had looked up from
      their books at the butcher’s shout.

      That incident cured Jim of his urge to climb on the ship but he managed to give
      us one more fright. He was lost off Dover. People from whom we enquired said, “Yes
      we saw your little boy. He was by the railings watching that big aircraft carrier.” Now Jim,
      though mischievous , is very obedient. It was not until George and I had conducted an
      exhaustive search above and below decks that I really became anxious. Could he have
      fallen overboard? Jim was returned to us by an unamused Officer. He had been found
      in one of the lifeboats on the deck forbidden to children.

      Our ship passed Dover after dark and it was an unforgettable sight. Dover Castle
      and the cliffs were floodlit for the Victory Celebrations. One of the men passengers sat
      down at the piano and played ‘The White Cliffs of Dover’, and people sang and a few
      wept. The Mantola docked at Tilbury early next morning in a steady drizzle.
      There was a dockers strike on and it took literally hours for all the luggage to be
      put ashore. The ships stewards simply locked the public rooms and went off leaving the
      passengers shivering on the docks. Eventually damp and bedraggled, we arrived at St
      Pancras Station and were given a warm welcome by George’s sister Cath and her
      husband Reg Pears, who had come all the way from Nottingham to meet us.
      As we had to spend an hour in London before our train left for Nottingham,
      George suggested that Cath and I should take the children somewhere for a meal. So
      off we set in the cold drizzle, the boys and I without coats and laden with sundry
      packages, including a hand woven native basket full of shoes. We must have looked like
      a bunch of refugees as we stood in the hall of The Kings Cross Station Hotel because a
      supercilious waiter in tails looked us up and down and said, “I’m afraid not Madam”, in
      answer to my enquiry whether the hotel could provide lunch for six.
      Anyway who cares! We had lunch instead at an ABC tea room — horrible
      sausage and a mound or rather sloppy mashed potatoes, but very good ice-cream.
      After the train journey in a very grimy third class coach, through an incredibly green and
      beautiful countryside, we eventually reached Nottingham and took a bus to Jacksdale,
      where George’s mother and sisters live in large detached houses side by side.
      Ann and George were at the bus stop waiting for us, and thank God, submitted
      to my kiss as though we had been parted for weeks instead of eight years. Even now
      that we are together again my heart aches to think of all those missed years. They have
      not changed much and I would have picked them out of a crowd, but Ann, once thin and
      pale, is now very rosy and blooming. She still has her pretty soft plaits and her eyes are
      still a clear calm blue. Young George is very striking looking with sparkling brown eyes, a
      ready, slightly lopsided smile, and charming manners.

      Mother, and George’s elder sister, Lottie Giles, welcomed us at the door with the
      cheering news that our tea was ready. Ann showed us the way to mother’s lovely lilac
      tiled bathroom for a wash before tea. Before I had even turned the tap, Jim had hung
      form the glass towel rail and it lay in three pieces on the floor. There have since been
      similar tragedies. I can see that life in civilisation is not without snags.

      I am most grateful that Ann and George have accepted us so naturally and
      affectionately. Ann said candidly, “Mummy, it’s a good thing that you had Aunt Cath with
      you when you arrived because, honestly, I wouldn’t have known you.”

      Eleanor.

      Jacksdale England 28th August 1946

      Dearest Family.

      I am sorry that I have not written for some time but honestly, I don’t know whether
      I’m coming or going. Mother handed the top floor of her house to us and the
      arrangement was that I should tidy our rooms and do our laundry and Mother would
      prepare the meals except for breakfast. It looked easy at first. All the rooms have wall to
      wall carpeting and there was a large vacuum cleaner in the box room. I was told a
      window cleaner would do the windows.

      Well the first time I used the Hoover I nearly died of fright. I pressed the switch
      and immediately there was a roar and the bag filled with air to bursting point, or so I
      thought. I screamed for Ann and she came at the run. I pointed to the bag and shouted
      above the din, “What must I do? It’s going to burst!” Ann looked at me in astonishment
      and said, “But Mummy that’s the way it works.” I couldn’t have her thinking me a
      complete fool so I switched the current off and explained to Ann how it was that I had
      never seen this type of equipment in action. How, in Tanganyika , I had never had a
      house with electricity and that, anyway, electric equipment would be superfluous
      because floors are of cement which the houseboy polishes by hand, one only has a
      few rugs or grass mats on the floor. “But what about Granny’s house in South Africa?’”
      she asked, so I explained about your Josephine who threatened to leave if you
      bought a Hoover because that would mean that you did not think she kept the house
      clean. The sad fact remains that, at fourteen, Ann knows far more about housework than I
      do, or rather did! I’m learning fast.

      The older children all go to school at different times in the morning. Ann leaves first
      by bus to go to her Grammar School at Sutton-in-Ashfield. Shortly afterwards George
      catches a bus for Nottingham where he attends the High School. So they have
      breakfast in relays, usually scrambled egg made from a revolting dried egg mixture.
      Then there are beds to make and washing and ironing to do, so I have little time for
      sightseeing, though on a few afternoons George has looked after the younger children
      and I have gone on bus tours in Derbyshire. Life is difficult here with all the restrictions on
      foodstuffs. We all have ration books so get our fair share but meat, fats and eggs are
      scarce and expensive. The weather is very wet. At first I used to hang out the washing
      and then rush to bring it in when a shower came. Now I just let it hang.

      We have left our imprint upon my Mother-in-law’s house for ever. Henry upset a
      bottle of Milk of Magnesia in the middle of the pale fawn bedroom carpet. John, trying to
      be helpful and doing some dusting, broke one of the delicate Dresden china candlesticks
      which adorn our bedroom mantelpiece.Jim and Henry have wrecked the once
      professionally landscaped garden and all the boys together bored a large hole through
      Mother’s prized cherry tree. So now Mother has given up and gone off to Bournemouth
      for a much needed holiday. Once a week I have the capable help of a cleaning woman,
      called for some reason, ‘Mrs Two’, but I have now got all the cooking to do for eight. Mrs
      Two is a godsend. She wears, of all things, a print mob cap with a hole in it. Says it
      belonged to her Grandmother. Her price is far beyond Rubies to me, not so much
      because she does, in a couple of hours, what it takes me all day to do, but because she
      sells me boxes of fifty cigarettes. Some non-smoking relative, who works in Players
      tobacco factory, passes on his ration to her. Until Mrs Two came to my rescue I had
      been starved of cigarettes. Each time I asked for them at the shop the grocer would say,
      “Are you registered with us?” Only very rarely would some kindly soul sell me a little
      packet of five Woodbines.

      England is very beautiful but the sooner we go home to Tanganyika, the better.
      On this, George and I and the children agree.

      Eleanor.

      Jacksdale England 20th September 1946

      Dearest Family.

      Our return passages have now been booked on the Winchester Castle and we
      sail from Southampton on October the sixth. I look forward to returning to Tanganyika but
      hope to visit England again in a few years time when our children are older and when
      rationing is a thing of the past.

      I have grown fond of my Sisters-in-law and admire my Mother-in-law very much.
      She has a great sense of humour and has entertained me with stories of her very
      eventful life, and told me lots of little stories of the children which did not figure in her
      letters. One which amused me was about young George. During one of the air raids
      early in the war when the sirens were screaming and bombers roaring overhead Mother
      made the two children get into the cloak cupboard under the stairs. Young George
      seemed quite unconcerned about the planes and the bombs but soon an anxious voice
      asked in the dark, “Gran, what will I do if a spider falls on me?” I am afraid that Mother is
      going to miss Ann and George very much.

      I had a holiday last weekend when Lottie and I went up to London on a spree. It
      was a most enjoyable weekend, though very rushed. We placed ourselves in the
      hands of Thos. Cook and Sons and saw most of the sights of London and were run off
      our feet in the process. As you all know London I shall not describe what I saw but just
      to say that, best of all, I enjoyed walking along the Thames embankment in the evening
      and the changing of the Guard at Whitehall. On Sunday morning Lottie and I went to
      Kew Gardens and in the afternoon walked in Kensington Gardens.

      We went to only one show, ‘The Skin of our Teeth’ starring Vivienne Leigh.
      Neither of us enjoyed the performance at all and regretted having spent so much on
      circle seats. The show was far too highbrow for my taste, a sort of satire on the survival
      of the human race. Miss Leigh was unrecognisable in a blond wig and her voice strident.
      However the night was not a dead loss as far as entertainment was concerned as we
      were later caught up in a tragicomedy at our hotel.

      We had booked communicating rooms at the enormous Imperial Hotel in Russell
      Square. These rooms were comfortably furnished but very high up, and we had a rather
      terrifying and dreary view from the windows of the enclosed courtyard far below. We
      had some snacks and a chat in Lottie’s room and then I moved to mine and went to bed.
      I had noted earlier that there was a special lock on the outer door of my room so that
      when the door was closed from the inside it automatically locked itself.
      I was just dropping off to sleep when I heard a hammering which seemed to
      come from my wardrobe. I got up, rather fearfully, and opened the wardrobe door and
      noted for the first time that the wardrobe was set in an opening in the wall and that the
      back of the wardrobe also served as the back of the wardrobe in the room next door. I
      quickly shut it again and went to confer with Lottie.

      Suddenly a male voice was raised next door in supplication, “Mary Mother of
      God, Help me! They’ve locked me in!” and the hammering resumed again, sometimes
      on the door, and then again on the back of the wardrobe of the room next door. Lottie
      had by this time joined me and together we listened to the prayers and to the
      hammering. Then the voice began to threaten, “If you don’t let me out I’ll jump out of the
      window.” Great consternation on our side of the wall. I went out into the passage and
      called through the door, “You’re not locked in. Come to your door and I’ll tell you how to
      open it.” Silence for a moment and then again the prayers followed by a threat. All the
      other doors in the corridor remained shut.

      Luckily just then a young man and a woman came walking down the corridor and I
      explained the situation. The young man hurried off for the night porter who went into the
      next door room. In a matter of minutes there was peace next door. When the night
      porter came out into the corridor again I asked for an explanation. He said quite casually,
      “It’s all right Madam. He’s an Irish Gentleman in Show Business. He gets like this on a
      Saturday night when he has had a drop too much. He won’t give any more trouble
      now.” And he didn’t. Next morning at breakfast Lottie and I tried to spot the gentleman in
      the Show Business, but saw no one who looked like the owner of that charming Irish
      voice.

      George had to go to London on business last Monday and took the older
      children with him for a few hours of sight seeing. They returned quite unimpressed.
      Everything was too old and dirty and there were far too many people about, but they
      had enjoyed riding on the escalators at the tube stations, and all agreed that the highlight
      of the trip was, “Dad took us to lunch at the Chicken Inn.”

      Now that it is almost time to leave England I am finding the housework less of a
      drudgery, Also, as it is school holiday time, Jim and Henry are able to go on walks with
      the older children and so use up some of their surplus energy. Cath and I took the
      children (except young George who went rabbit shooting with his uncle Reg, and
      Henry, who stayed at home with his dad) to the Wakes at Selston, the neighbouring
      village. There were the roundabouts and similar contraptions but the side shows had
      more appeal for the children. Ann and Kate found a stall where assorted prizes were
      spread out on a sloping table. Anyone who could land a penny squarely on one of
      these objects was given a similar one as a prize.

      I was touched to see that both girls ignored all the targets except a box of fifty
      cigarettes which they were determined to win for me. After numerous attempts, Kate
      landed her penny successfully and you would have loved to have seen her radiant little
      face.

      Eleanor.

      Dar es Salaam 22nd October 1946

      Dearest Family.

      Back in Tanganyika at last, but not together. We have to stay in Dar es Salaam
      until tomorrow when the train leaves for Dodoma. We arrived yesterday morning to find
      all the hotels filled with people waiting to board ships for England. Fortunately some
      friends came to the rescue and Ann, Kate and John have gone to stay with them. Jim,
      Henry and I are sleeping in a screened corner of the lounge of the New Africa Hotel, and
      George and young George have beds in the Palm Court of the same hotel.

      We travelled out from England in the Winchester Castle under troopship
      conditions. We joined her at Southampton after a rather slow train journey from
      Nottingham. We arrived after dark and from the station we could see a large ship in the
      docks with a floodlit red funnel. “Our ship,” yelled the children in delight, but it was not the
      Winchester Castle but the Queen Elizabeth, newly reconditioned.

      We had hoped to board our ship that evening but George made enquiries and
      found that we would not be allowed on board until noon next day. Without much hope,
      we went off to try to get accommodation for eight at a small hotel recommended by the
      taxi driver. Luckily for us there was a very motherly woman at the reception desk. She
      looked in amusement at the six children and said to me, “Goodness are all these yours,
      ducks? Then she called over her shoulder, “Wilf, come and see this lady with lots of
      children. We must try to help.” They settled the problem most satisfactorily by turning
      two rooms into a dormitory.

      In the morning we had time to inspect bomb damage in the dock area of
      Southampton. Most of the rubble had been cleared away but there are still numbers of
      damaged buildings awaiting demolition. A depressing sight. We saw the Queen Mary
      at anchor, still in her drab war time paint, but magnificent nevertheless.
      The Winchester Castle was crammed with passengers and many travelled in
      acute discomfort. We were luckier than most because the two girls, the three small boys
      and I had a stateroom to ourselves and though it was stripped of peacetime comforts,
      we had a private bathroom and toilet. The two Georges had bunks in a huge men-only
      dormitory somewhere in the bowls of the ship where they had to share communal troop
      ship facilities. The food was plentiful but unexciting and one had to queue for afternoon
      tea. During the day the decks were crowded and there was squatting room only. The
      many children on board got bored.

      Port Said provided a break and we were all entertained by the ‘Gully Gully’ man
      and his conjuring tricks, and though we had no money to spend at Simon Artz, we did at
      least have a chance to stretch our legs. Next day scores of passengers took ill with
      sever stomach upsets, whether from food poisoning, or as was rumoured, from bad
      water taken on at the Egyptian port, I don’t know. Only the two Georges in our family
      were affected and their attacks were comparatively mild.

      As we neared the Kenya port of Mombassa, the passengers for Dar es Salaam
      were told that they would have to disembark at Mombassa and continue their journey in
      a small coaster, the Al Said. The Winchester Castle is too big for the narrow channel
      which leads to Dar es Salaam harbour.

      From the wharf the Al Said looked beautiful. She was once the private yacht of
      the Sultan of Zanzibar and has lovely lines. Our admiration lasted only until we were
      shown our cabins. With one voice our children exclaimed, “Gosh they stink!” They did, of
      a mixture of rancid oil and sweat and stale urine. The beds were not yet made and the
      thin mattresses had ominous stains on them. John, ever fastidious, lifted his mattress and two enormous cockroaches scuttled for cover.

      We had a good homely lunch served by two smiling African stewards and
      afterwards we sat on deck and that was fine too, though behind ones enjoyment there
      was the thought of those stuffy and dirty cabins. That first night nearly everyone,
      including George and our older children, slept on deck. Women occupied deck chairs
      and men and children slept on the bare decks. Horrifying though the idea was, I decided
      that, as Jim had a bad cough, he, Henry and I would sleep in our cabin.

      When I announced my intention of sleeping in the cabin one of the passengers
      gave me some insecticide spray which I used lavishly, but without avail. The children
      slept but I sat up all night with the light on, determined to keep at least their pillows clear
      of the cockroaches which scurried about boldly regardless of the light. All the next day
      and night we avoided the cabins. The Al Said stopped for some hours at Zanzibar to
      offload her deck cargo of live cattle and packing cases from the hold. George and the
      elder children went ashore for a walk but I felt too lazy and there was plenty to watch
      from deck.

      That night I too occupied a deck chair and slept quite comfortably, and next
      morning we entered the palm fringed harbour of Dar es Salaam and were home.

      Eleanor.

      Mbeya 1st November 1946

      Dearest Family.

      Home at last! We are all most happily installed in a real family house about three
      miles out of Mbeya and near the school. This house belongs to an elderly German and
      has been taken over by the Custodian of Enemy Property and leased to the
      Government.

      The owner, whose name is Shenkel, was not interned but is allowed to occupy a
      smaller house on the Estate. I found him in the garden this morning lecturing the children
      on what they may do and may not do. I tried to make it quite clear to him that he was not
      our landlord, though he clearly thinks otherwise. After he had gone I had to take two
      aspirin and lie down to recover my composure! I had been warned that he has this effect
      on people.

      Mr Shenkel is a short and ugly man, his clothes are stained with food and he
      wears steel rimmed glasses tied round his head with a piece of dirty elastic because
      one earpiece is missing. He speaks with a thick German accent but his English is fluent
      and I believe he is a cultured and clever man. But he is maddening. The children were
      more amused than impressed by his exhortations and have happily Christened our
      home, ‘Old Shenks’.

      The house has very large grounds as the place is really a derelict farm. It suits us
      down to the ground. We had no sooner unpacked than George went off on safari after
      those maneating lions in the Njombe District. he accounted for one, and a further two
      jointly with a Game Scout, before we left for England. But none was shot during the five
      months we were away as George’s relief is quite inexperienced in such work. George
      thinks that there are still about a dozen maneaters at large. His theory is that a female
      maneater moved into the area in 1938 when maneating first started, and brought up her
      cubs to be maneaters, and those cubs in turn did the same. The three maneating lions
      that have been shot were all in very good condition and not old and maimed as
      maneaters usually are.

      George anticipates that it will be months before all these lions are accounted for
      because they are constantly on the move and cover a very large area. The lions have to
      be hunted on foot because they range over broken country covered by bush and fairly
      dense thicket.

      I did a bit of shooting myself yesterday and impressed our African servants and
      the children and myself. What a fluke! Our houseboy came to say that there was a snake
      in the garden, the biggest he had ever seen. He said it was too big to kill with a stick and
      would I shoot it. I had no gun but a heavy .450 Webley revolver and I took this and
      hurried out with the children at my heels.

      The snake turned out to be an unusually large puff adder which had just shed its
      skin. It looked beautiful in a repulsive way. So flanked by servants and children I took
      aim and shot, not hitting the head as I had planned, but breaking the snake’s back with
      the heavy bullet. The two native boys then rushed up with sticks and flattened the head.
      “Ma you’re a crack shot,” cried the kids in delighted surprise. I hope to rest on my laurels
      for a long, long while.

      Although there are only a few weeks of school term left the four older children will
      start school on Monday. Not only am I pleased with our new home here but also with
      the staff I have engaged. Our new houseboy, Reuben, (but renamed Robin by our
      children) is not only cheerful and willing but intelligent too, and Jumbe, the wood and
      garden boy, is a born clown and a source of great entertainment to the children.

      I feel sure that we are all going to be very happy here at ‘Old Shenks!.

      Eleanor.

      #6267
      TracyTracy
      Participant

        From Tanganyika with Love

        continued part 8

        With thanks to Mike Rushby.

        Morogoro 20th January 1941

        Dearest Family,

        It is all arranged for us to go on three months leave to Cape Town next month so
        get out your flags. How I shall love showing off Kate and John to you and this time
        George will be with us and you’ll be able to get to know him properly. You can’t think
        what a comfort it will be to leave all the worries of baggage and tipping to him. We will all
        be travelling by ship to Durban and from there to Cape Town by train. I rather dread the
        journey because there is a fifth little Rushby on the way and, as always, I am very
        queasy.

        Kate has become such a little companion to me that I dread the thought of leaving
        her behind with you to start schooling. I miss Ann and George so much now and must
        face separation from Kate as well. There does not seem to be any alternative though.
        There is a boarding school in Arusha and another has recently been started in Mbeya,
        but both places are so far away and I know she would be very unhappy as a boarder at
        this stage. Living happily with you and attending a day school might wean her of her
        dependance upon me. As soon as this wretched war ends we mean to get Ann and
        George back home and Kate too and they can then all go to boarding school together.
        If I were a more methodical person I would try to teach Kate myself, but being a
        muddler I will have my hands full with Johnny and the new baby. Life passes pleasantly
        but quietly here. Much of my time is taken up with entertaining the children and sewing
        for them and just waiting for George to come home.

        George works so hard on these safaris and this endless elephant hunting to
        protect native crops entails so much foot safari, that he has lost a good deal of weight. it
        is more than ten years since he had a holiday so he is greatly looking forward to this one.
        Four whole months together!

        I should like to keep the ayah, Janet, for the new baby, but she says she wants
        to return to her home in the Southern Highlands Province and take a job there. She is
        unusually efficient and so clean, and the houseboy and cook are quite scared of her. She
        bawls at them if the children’s meals are served a few minutes late but she is always
        respectful towards me and practically creeps around on tiptoe when George is home.
        She has a room next to the outside kitchen. One night thieves broke into the kitchen and
        stole a few things, also a canvas chair and mat from the verandah. Ayah heard them, and
        grabbing a bit of firewood, she gave chase. Her shouts so alarmed the thieves that they
        ran off up the hill jettisoning their loot as they ran. She is a great character.

        Eleanor.

        Morogoro 30th July 1941

        Dearest Family,

        Safely back in Morogoro after a rather grim voyage from Durban. Our ship was
        completely blacked out at night and we had to sleep with warm clothing and life belts
        handy and had so many tedious boat drills. It was a nuisance being held up for a whole
        month in Durban, because I was so very pregnant when we did embark. In fact George
        suggested that I had better hide in the ‘Ladies’ until the ship sailed for fear the Captain
        might refuse to take me. It seems that the ship, on which we were originally booked to
        travel, was torpedoed somewhere off the Cape.

        We have been given a very large house this tour with a mosquito netted
        sleeping porch which will be fine for the new baby. The only disadvantage is that the
        house is on the very edge of the residential part of Morogoro and Johnny will have to
        go quite a distance to find playmates.

        I still miss Kate terribly. She is a loving little person. I had prepared for a scene
        when we said good-bye but I never expected that she would be the comforter. It
        nearly broke my heart when she put her arms around me and said, “I’m so sorry
        Mummy, please don’t cry. I’ll be good. Please don’t cry.” I’m afraid it was all very
        harrowing for you also. It is a great comfort to hear that she has settled down so happily.
        I try not to think consciously of my absent children and remind myself that there are
        thousands of mothers in the same boat, but they are always there at the back of my
        mind.

        Mother writes that Ann and George are perfectly happy and well, and that though
        German bombers do fly over fairly frequently, they are unlikely to drop their bombs on
        a small place like Jacksdale.

        George has already left on safari to the Rufiji. There was no replacement for his
        job while he was away so he is anxious to get things moving again. Johnny and I are
        going to move in with friends until he returns, just in case all the travelling around brings
        the new baby on earlier than expected.

        Eleanor.

        Morogoro 26th August 1941

        Dearest Family,

        Our new son, James Caleb. was born at 3.30 pm yesterday afternoon, with a
        minimum of fuss, in the hospital here. The Doctor was out so my friend, Sister Murray,
        delivered the baby. The Sister is a Scots girl, very efficient and calm and encouraging,
        and an ideal person to have around at such a time.

        Everything, this time, went without a hitch and I feel fine and proud of my
        bouncing son. He weighs nine pounds and ten ounces and is a big boned fellow with
        dark hair and unusually strongly marked eyebrows. His eyes are strong too and already
        seem to focus. George is delighted with him and brought Hugh Nelson to see him this
        morning. Hugh took one look, and, astonished I suppose by the baby’s apparent
        awareness, said, “Gosh, this one has been here before.” The baby’s cot is beside my
        bed so I can admire him as much as I please. He has large strong hands and George
        reckons he’ll make a good boxer some day.

        Another of my early visitors was Mabemba, George’s orderly. He is a very big
        African and looks impressive in his Game Scouts uniform. George met him years ago at
        Mahenge when he was a young elephant hunter and Mabemba was an Askari in the
        Police. Mabemba takes quite a proprietary interest in the family.

        Eleanor.

        Morogoro 25th December 1941

        Dearest Family,

        Christmas Day today, but not a gay one. I have Johnny in bed with a poisoned
        leg so he missed the children’s party at the Club. To make things a little festive I have
        put up a little Christmas tree in the children’s room and have hung up streamers and
        balloons above the beds. Johnny demands a lot of attention so it is fortunate that little
        James is such a very good baby. He sleeps all night until 6 am when his feed is due.
        One morning last week I got up as usual to feed him but I felt so dopey that I
        thought I’d better have a cold wash first. I went into the bathroom and had a hurried
        splash and then grabbed a towel to dry my face. Immediately I felt an agonising pain in
        my nose. Reason? There was a scorpion in the towel! In no time at all my nose looked
        like a pear and felt burning hot. The baby screamed with frustration whilst I feverishly
        bathed my nose and applied this and that in an effort to cool it.

        For three days my nose was very red and tender,”A real boozer nose”, said
        George. But now, thank goodness, it is back to normal.

        Some of the younger marrieds and a couple of bachelors came around,
        complete with portable harmonium, to sing carols in the early hours. No sooner had we
        settled down again to woo sleep when we were disturbed by shouts and screams from
        our nearest neighbour’s house. “Just celebrating Christmas”, grunted George, but we
        heard this morning that the neighbour had fallen down his verandah steps and broken his
        leg.

        Eleanor.

        Morogoro Hospital 30th September 1943

        Dearest Family,

        Well now we are eight! Our new son, Henry, was born on the night of the 28th.
        He is a beautiful baby, weighing ten pounds three and a half ounces. This baby is very
        well developed, handsome, and rather superior looking, and not at all amusing to look at
        as the other boys were.George was born with a moustache, John had a large nose and
        looked like a little old man, and Jim, bless his heart, looked rather like a baby
        chimpanzee. Henry is different. One of my visitors said, “Heaven he’ll have to be a
        Bishop!” I expect the lawn sleeves of his nightie really gave her that idea, but the baby
        does look like ‘Someone’. He is very good and George, John, and Jim are delighted
        with him, so is Mabemba.

        We have a dear little nurse looking after us. She is very petite and childish
        looking. When the baby was born and she brought him for me to see, the nurse asked
        his name. I said jokingly, “His name is Benjamin – the last of the family.” She is now very
        peeved to discover that his real name is Henry William and persists in calling him
        ‘Benjie’.I am longing to get home and into my pleasant rut. I have been away for two
        whole weeks and George is managing so well that I shall feel quite expendable if I don’t
        get home soon. As our home is a couple of miles from the hospital, I arranged to move
        in and stay with the nursing sister on the day the baby was due. There I remained for ten
        whole days before the baby was born. Each afternoon George came and took me for a
        ride in the bumpy Bedford lorry and the Doctor tried this and that but the baby refused
        to be hurried.

        On the tenth day I had the offer of a lift and decided to go home for tea and
        surprise George. It was a surprise too, because George was entertaining a young
        Game Ranger for tea and my arrival, looking like a perambulating big top, must have
        been rather embarrassing.Henry was born at the exact moment that celebrations started
        in the Township for the end of the Muslim religious festival of Ramadan. As the Doctor
        held him up by his ankles, there was the sound of hooters and firecrackers from the town.
        The baby has a birthmark in the shape of a crescent moon above his left eyebrow.

        Eleanor.

        Morogoro 26th January 1944

        Dearest Family,

        We have just heard that we are to be transferred to the Headquarters of the
        Game Department at a place called Lyamungu in the Northern Province. George is not
        at all pleased because he feels that the new job will entail a good deal of office work and
        that his beloved but endless elephant hunting will be considerably curtailed. I am glad of
        that and I am looking forward to seeing a new part of Tanganyika and particularly
        Kilimanjaro which dominates Lyamungu.

        Thank goodness our menagerie is now much smaller. We found a home for the
        guinea pigs last December and Susie, our mischievous guinea-fowl, has flown off to find
        a mate.Last week I went down to Dar es Salaam for a check up by Doctor John, a
        woman doctor, leaving George to cope with the three boys. I was away two nights and
        a day and returned early in the morning just as George was giving Henry his six o’clock
        bottle. It always amazes me that so very masculine a man can do my chores with no
        effort and I have a horrible suspicion that he does them better than I do. I enjoyed the
        short break at the coast very much. I stayed with friends and we bathed in the warm sea
        and saw a good film.

        Now I suppose there will be a round of farewell parties. People in this country
        are most kind and hospitable.

        Eleanor.

        Lyamungu 20th March 1944

        Dearest Family,

        We left Morogoro after the round of farewell parties I had anticipated. The final
        one was at the Club on Saturday night. George made a most amusing speech and the
        party was a very pleasant occasion though I was rather tired after all the packing.
        Several friends gathered to wave us off on Monday morning. We had two lorries
        loaded with our goods. I rode in the cab of the first one with Henry on my knee. George
        with John and Jim rode in the second one. As there was no room for them in the cab,
        they sat on our couch which was placed across the width of the lorry behind the cab. This
        seat was not as comfortable as it sounds, because the space behind the couch was
        taken up with packing cases which were not lashed in place and these kept moving
        forward as the lorry bumped its way over the bad road.

        Soon there was hardly any leg room and George had constantly to stand up and
        push the second layer of packing cases back to prevent them from toppling over onto
        the children and himself. As it is now the rainy season the road was very muddy and
        treacherous and the lorries travelled so slowly it was dark by the time we reached
        Karogwe from where we were booked to take the train next morning to Moshi.
        Next morning we heard that there had been a washaway on the line and that the
        train would be delayed for at least twelve hours. I was not feeling well and certainly did
        not enjoy my day. Early in the afternoon Jimmy ran into a wall and blackened both his
        eyes. What a child! As the day wore on I felt worse and worse and when at last the train
        did arrive I simply crawled into my bunk whilst George coped nobly with the luggage
        and the children.

        We arrived at Moshi at breakfast time and went straight to the Lion Cub Hotel
        where I took to my bed with a high temperature. It was, of course, malaria. I always have
        my attacks at the most inopportune times. Fortunately George ran into some friends
        called Eccles and the wife Mollie came to my room and bathed Henry and prepared his
        bottle and fed him. George looked after John and Jim. Next day I felt much better and
        we drove out to Lyamungu the day after. There we had tea with the Game Warden and
        his wife before moving into our new home nearby.

        The Game Warden is Captain Monty Moore VC. He came out to Africa
        originally as an Officer in the King’s African Rifles and liked the country so much he left the
        Army and joined the Game Department. He was stationed at Banagi in the Serengetti
        Game Reserve and is well known for his work with the lions there. He particularly tamed
        some of the lions by feeding them so that they would come out into the open and could
        readily be photographed by tourists. His wife Audrey, has written a book about their
        experiences at Banagi. It is called “Serengetti”

        Our cook, Hamisi, soon had a meal ready for us and we all went to bed early.
        This is a very pleasant house and I know we will be happy here. I still feel a little shaky
        but that is the result of all the quinine I have taken. I expect I shall feel fine in a day or two.

        Eleanor.

        Lyamungu 15th May 1944

        Dearest Family,

        Well, here we are settled comfortably in our very nice house. The house is
        modern and roomy, and there is a large enclosed verandah, which will be a Godsend in
        the wet weather as a playroom for the children. The only drawback is that there are so
        many windows to be curtained and cleaned. The grounds consist of a very large lawn
        and a few beds of roses and shrubs. It is an ideal garden for children, unlike our steeply
        terraced garden at Morogoro.

        Lyamungu is really the Government Coffee Research Station. It is about sixteen
        miles from the town of Moshi which is the centre of the Tanganyika coffee growing
        industry. Lyamungu, which means ‘place of God’ is in the foothills of Mt Kilimanjaro and
        we have a beautiful view of Kilimanjaro. Kibo, the more spectacular of the two mountain
        peaks, towers above us, looking from this angle, like a giant frosted plum pudding. Often the mountain is veiled by cloud and mist which sometimes comes down to
        our level so that visibility is practically nil. George dislikes both mist and mountain but I
        like both and so does John. He in fact saw Kibo before I did. On our first day here, the
        peak was completely hidden by cloud. In the late afternoon when the children were
        playing on the lawn outside I was indoors hanging curtains. I heard John call out, “Oh
        Mummy, isn’t it beautiful!” I ran outside and there, above a scarf of cloud, I saw the
        showy dome of Kibo with the setting sun shining on it tingeing the snow pink. It was an
        unforgettable experience.

        As this is the rainy season, the surrounding country side is very lush and green.
        Everywhere one sees the rich green of the coffee plantations and the lighter green of
        the banana groves. Unfortunately our walks are rather circumscribed. Except for the main road to Moshi, there is nowhere to walk except through the Government coffee
        plantation. Paddy, our dog, thinks life is pretty boring as there is no bush here and
        nothing to hunt. There are only half a dozen European families here and half of those are
        on very distant terms with the other half which makes the station a rather uncomfortable
        one.

        The coffee expert who runs this station is annoyed because his European staff
        has been cut down owing to the war, and three of the vacant houses and some office
        buildings have been taken over temporarily by the Game Department. Another house
        has been taken over by the head of the Labour Department. However I don’t suppose
        the ill feeling will effect us much. We are so used to living in the bush that we are not
        socially inclined any way.

        Our cook, Hamisi, came with us from Morogoro but I had to engage a new
        houseboy and kitchenboy. I first engaged a houseboy who produced a wonderful ‘chit’
        in which his previous employer describes him as his “friend and confidant”. I felt rather
        dubious about engaging him and how right I was. On his second day with us I produced
        some of Henry’s napkins, previously rinsed by me, and asked this boy to wash them.
        He looked most offended and told me that it was beneath his dignity to do women’s
        work. We parted immediately with mutual relief.

        Now I have a good natured fellow named Japhet who, though hard on crockery,
        is prepared to do anything and loves playing with the children. He is a local boy, a
        member of the Chagga tribe. These Chagga are most intelligent and, on the whole, well
        to do as they all have their own small coffee shambas. Japhet tells me that his son is at
        the Uganda University College studying medicine.The kitchen boy is a tall youth called
        Tovelo, who helps both Hamisi, the cook, and the houseboy and also keeps an eye on
        Henry when I am sewing. I still make all the children’s clothes and my own. Life is
        pleasant but dull. George promises that he will take the whole family on safari when
        Henry is a little older.

        Eleanor.

        Lyamungu 18th July 1944

        Dearest Family,

        Life drifts quietly by at Lyamungu with each day much like the one before – or
        they would be, except that the children provide the sort of excitement that prohibits
        boredom. Of the three boys our Jim is the best at this. Last week Jim wandered into the
        coffee plantation beside our house and chewed some newly spayed berries. Result?
        A high temperature and nasty, bloody diarrhoea, so we had to rush him to the hospital at
        Moshi for treatment. however he was well again next day and George went off on safari.
        That night there was another crisis. As the nights are now very cold, at this high
        altitude, we have a large fire lit in the living room and the boy leaves a pile of logs
        beside the hearth so that I can replenish the fire when necessary. Well that night I took
        Henry off to bed, leaving John and Jim playing in the living room. When their bedtime
        came, I called them without leaving the bedroom. When I had tucked John and Jim into
        bed, I sat reading a bedtime story as I always do. Suddenly I saw smoke drifting
        through the door, and heard a frightening rumbling noise. Japhet rushed in to say that the
        lounge chimney was on fire! Picture me, panic on the inside and sweet smile on the
        outside, as I picked Henry up and said to the other two, “There’s nothing to be
        frightened about chaps, but get up and come outside for a bit.” Stupid of me to be so
        heroic because John and Jim were not at all scared but only too delighted at the chance
        of rushing about outside in the dark. The fire to them was just a bit of extra fun.

        We hurried out to find one boy already on the roof and the other passing up a
        brimming bucket of water. Other boys appeared from nowhere and soon cascades of
        water were pouring down the chimney. The result was a mountain of smouldering soot
        on the hearth and a pool of black water on the living room floor. However the fire was out
        and no serious harm done because all the floors here are cement and another stain on
        the old rug will hardly be noticed. As the children reluctantly returned to bed John
        remarked smugly, “I told Jim not to put all the wood on the fire at once but he wouldn’t
        listen.” I might have guessed!

        However it was not Jim but John who gave me the worst turn of all this week. As
        a treat I decided to take the boys to the river for a picnic tea. The river is not far from our
        house but we had never been there before so I took the kitchen boy, Tovelo, to show
        us the way. The path is on the level until one is in sight of the river when the bank slopes
        steeply down. I decided that it was too steep for the pram so I stopped to lift Henry out
        and carry him. When I looked around I saw John running down the slope towards the
        river. The stream is not wide but flows swiftly and I had no idea how deep it was. All I
        knew was that it was a trout stream. I called for John, “Stop, wait for me!” but he ran on
        and made for a rude pole bridge which spanned the river. He started to cross and then,
        to my horror, I saw John slip. There was a splash and he disappeared under the water. I
        just dumped the baby on the ground, screamed to the boy to mind him and ran madly
        down the slope to the river. Suddenly I saw John’s tight fitting felt hat emerge, then his
        eyes and nose. I dashed into the water and found, to my intense relief, that it only
        reached up to my shoulders but, thank heaven no further. John’s steady eyes watched
        me trustingly as I approached him and carried him safely to the bank. He had been
        standing on a rock and had not panicked at all though he had to stand up very straight
        and tall to keep his nose out of water. I was too proud of him to scold him for
        disobedience and too wet anyway.

        I made John undress and put on two spare pullovers and wrapped Henry’s
        baby blanket round his waist like a sarong. We made a small fire over which I crouched
        with literally chattering teeth whilst Tovelo ran home to fetch a coat for me and dry clothes
        for John.

        Eleanor.

        Lyamungu 16th August 1944

        Dearest Family,

        We have a new bull terrier bitch pup whom we have named Fanny III . So once
        more we have a menagerie , the two dogs, two cats Susie and Winnie, and
        some pet hens who live in the garage and are a real nuisance.

        As John is nearly six I thought it time that he started lessons and wrote off to Dar
        es Salaam for the correspondence course. We have had one week of lessons and I am
        already in a state of physical and mental exhaustion. John is a most reluctant scholar.
        “Why should I learn to read, when you can read to me?” he asks, and “Anyway why
        should I read such stupid stuff, ‘Run Rover Run’, and ‘Mother play with baby’ . Who
        wants to read about things like that? I don’t.”

        He rather likes sums, but the only subject about which he is enthusiastic is
        prehistoric history. He laps up information about ‘The Tree Dwellers’, though he is very
        sceptical about the existence of such people. “God couldn’t be so silly to make people
        so stupid. Fancy living in trees when it is easy to make huts like the natives.” ‘The Tree
        Dwellers is a highly imaginative story about a revolting female called Sharptooth and her
        offspring called Bodo. I have a very clear mental image of Sharptooth, so it came as a
        shock to me and highly amused George when John looked at me reflectively across the
        tea table and said, “Mummy I expect Sharptooth looked like you. You have a sharp
        tooth too!” I have, my eye teeth are rather sharp, but I hope the resemblance stops
        there.

        John has an uncomfortably logical mind for a small boy. The other day he was
        lying on the lawn staring up at the clouds when he suddenly muttered “I don’t believe it.”
        “Believe what?” I asked. “That Jesus is coming on a cloud one day. How can he? The
        thick ones always stay high up. What’s he going to do, jump down with a parachute?”
        Tovelo, my kitchen boy, announced one evening that his grandmother was in the
        kitchen and wished to see me. She was a handsome and sensible Chagga woman who
        brought sad news. Her little granddaughter had stumbled backwards into a large cooking
        pot of almost boiling maize meal porridge and was ‘ngongwa sana’ (very ill). I grabbed
        a large bottle of Picric Acid and a packet of gauze which we keep for these emergencies
        and went with her, through coffee shambas and banana groves to her daughter’s house.
        Inside the very neat thatched hut the mother sat with the naked child lying face
        downwards on her knee. The child’s buttocks and the back of her legs were covered in
        huge burst blisters from which a watery pus dripped. It appeared that the accident had
        happened on the previous day.

        I could see that it was absolutely necessary to clean up the damaged area, and I
        suddenly remembered that there was a trained African hospital dresser on the station. I
        sent the father to fetch him and whilst the dresser cleaned off the sloughed skin with
        forceps and swabs saturated in Picric Acid, I cut the gauze into small squares which I
        soaked in the lotion and laid on the cleaned area. I thought the small pieces would be
        easier to change especially as the whole of the most tender parts, front and back, were
        badly scalded. The child seemed dazed and neither the dresser nor I thought she would
        live. I gave her half an aspirin and left three more half tablets to be given four hourly.
        Next day she seemed much brighter. I poured more lotion on the gauze
        disturbing as few pieces as possible and again the next day and the next. After a week
        the skin was healing well and the child eating normally. I am sure she will be all right now.
        The new skin is a brilliant red and very shiny but it is pale round the edges of the burnt
        area and will I hope later turn brown. The mother never uttered a word of thanks, but the
        granny is grateful and today brought the children a bunch of bananas.

        Eleanor.

        c/o Game Dept. P.O.Moshi. 29th September 1944

        Dearest Mummy,

        I am so glad that you so enjoyed my last letter with the description of our very
        interesting and enjoyable safari through Masailand. You said you would like an even
        fuller description of it to pass around amongst the relations, so, to please you, I have
        written it out in detail and enclose the result.

        We have spent a quiet week after our exertions and all are well here.

        Very much love,
        Eleanor.

        Safari in Masailand

        George and I were at tea with our three little boys on the front lawn of our house
        in Lyamungu, Northern Tanganyika. It was John’s sixth birthday and he and Jim, a
        happy sturdy three year old, and Henry, aged eleven months, were munching the
        squares of plain chocolate which rounded off the party, when George said casually
        across the table to me, “Could you be ready by the day after tomorrow to go on
        safari?” “Me too?” enquired John anxiously, before I had time to reply, and “Me too?”
        echoed Jim. “yes, of course I can”, said I to George and “of course you’re coming too”,
        to the children who rate a day spent in the bush higher than any other pleasure.
        So in the early morning two days later, we started out happily for Masailand in a
        three ton Ford lorry loaded to capacity with the five Rushbys, the safari paraphernalia,
        drums of petrol and quite a retinue of servants and Game Scouts. George travelling
        alone on his monthly safaris, takes only the cook and a couple of Game Scouts, but this was to be a safari de luxe.

        Henry and I shared the cab with George who was driving, whilst John and Jim
        with the faithful orderly Mabemba beside them to point out the game animals, were
        installed upon rolls of bedding in the body of the lorry. The lorry lumbered along, first
        through coffee shambas, and then along the main road between Moshi and Arusha.
        After half an hour or so, we turned South off the road into a track which crossed the
        Sanya Plains and is the beginning of this part of Masailand. Though the dry season was
        at its height, and the pasture dry and course, we were soon passing small groups of
        game. This area is a Game Sanctuary and the antelope grazed quietly quite undisturbed
        by the passing lorry. Here and there zebra stood bunched by the road, a few wild
        ostriches stalked jerkily by, and in the distance some wildebeest cavorted around in their
        crazy way.

        Soon the grasslands gave way to thorn bush, and we saw six fantastically tall
        giraffe standing motionless with their heads turned enquiringly towards us. George
        stopped the lorry so the children could have a good view of them. John was enchanted
        but Jim, alas, was asleep.

        At mid day we reached the Kikoletwa River and turned aside to camp. Beside
        the river, under huge leafy trees, there was a beautiful camping spot, but the river was
        deep and reputed to be full of crocodiles so we passed it by and made our camp
        some distance from the river under a tall thorn tree with a flat lacy canopy. All around the
        camp lay uprooted trees of similar size that had been pushed over by elephants. As
        soon as the lorry stopped a camp chair was set up for me and the Game Scouts quickly
        slashed down grass and cleared the camp site of thorns. The same boys then pitched the tent whilst George himself set up the three camp beds and the folding cot for Henry,
        and set up the safari table and the canvas wash bowl and bath.

        The cook in the meantime had cleared a cool spot for the kitchen , opened up the
        chop boxes and started a fire. The cook’s boy and the dhobi (laundry boy) brought
        water from the rather muddy river and tea was served followed shortly afterward by an
        excellent lunch. In a very short time the camp had a suprisingly homely look. Nappies
        fluttered from a clothes line, Henry slept peacefully in his cot, John and Jim sprawled on
        one bed looking at comics, and I dozed comfortably on another.

        George, with the Game Scouts, drove off in the lorry about his work. As a Game
        Ranger it is his business to be on a constant look out for poachers, both African and
        European, and for disease in game which might infect the valuable herds of Masai cattle.
        The lorry did not return until dusk by which time the children had bathed enthusiastically in
        the canvas bath and were ready for supper and bed. George backed the lorry at right
        angles to the tent, Henry’s cot and two camp beds were set up in the lorry, the tarpaulin
        was lashed down and the children put to bed in their novel nursery.

        When darkness fell a large fire was lit in front of the camp, the exited children at
        last fell asleep and George and I sat on by the fire enjoying the cool and quiet night.
        When the fire subsided into a bed of glowing coals, it was time for our bed. During the
        night I was awakened by the sound of breaking branches and strange indescribable
        noises.” Just elephant”, said George comfortably and instantly fell asleep once more. I
        didn’t! We rose with the birds next morning, but breakfast was ready and in a
        remarkably short time the lorry had been reloaded and we were once more on our way.
        For about half a mile we made our own track across the plain and then we turned
        into the earth road once more. Soon we had reached the river and were looking with
        dismay at the suspension bridge which we had to cross. At the far side, one steel
        hawser was missing and there the bridge tilted dangerously. There was no handrail but
        only heavy wooden posts which marked the extremities of the bridge. WhenGeorge
        measured the distance between the posts he found that there could be barely two
        inches to spare on either side of the cumbersome lorry.

        He decided to risk crossing, but the children and I and all the servants were told to
        cross the bridge and go down the track out of sight. The Game Scouts remained on the
        river bank on the far side of the bridge and stood ready for emergencies. As I walked
        along anxiously listening, I was horrified to hear the lorry come to a stop on the bridge.
        There was a loud creaking noise and I instantly visualised the lorry slowly toppling over
        into the deep crocodile infested river. The engine restarted, the lorry crossed the bridge
        and came slowly into sight around the bend. My heart slid back into its normal position.
        George was as imperturbable as ever and simply remarked that it had been a near
        thing and that we would return to Lyamungu by another route.

        Beyond the green river belt the very rutted track ran through very uninteresting
        thorn bush country. Henry was bored and tiresome, jumping up and down on my knee
        and yelling furiously. “Teeth”, said I apologetically to George, rashly handing a match
        box to Henry to keep him quiet. No use at all! With a fat finger he poked out the tray
        spilling the matches all over me and the floor. Within seconds Henry had torn the
        matchbox to pieces with his teeth and flung the battered remains through the window.
        An empty cigarette box met with the same fate as the match box and the yells
        continued unabated until Henry slept from sheer exhaustion. George gave me a smile,
        half sympathetic and half sardonic, “Enjoying the safari, my love?” he enquired. On these
        trying occasions George has the inestimable advantage of being able to go into a Yogilike
        trance, whereas I become irritated to screaming point.

        In an effort to prolong Henry’s slumber I braced my feet against the floor boards
        and tried to turn myself into a human shock absorber as we lurched along the eroded
        track. Several times my head made contact with the bolt of a rifle in the rack above, and
        once I felt I had shattered my knee cap against the fire extinguisher in a bracket under the
        dash board.

        Strange as it may seem, I really was enjoying the trip in spite of these
        discomforts. At last after three years I was once more on safari with George. This type of
        country was new to me and there was so much to see We passed a family of giraffe
        standing in complete immobility only a few yards from the track. Little dick-dick. one of the smallest of the antelope, scuttled in pairs across the road and that afternoon I had my first view of Gerenuk, curious red brown antelope with extremely elongated legs and giraffe-like necks.

        Most interesting of all was my first sight of Masai at home. We could hear a tuneful
        jangle of cattle bells and suddenly came across herds of humped cattle browsing upon
        the thorn bushes. The herds were guarded by athletic,striking looking Masai youths and men.
        Each had a calabash of water slung over his shoulder and a tall, highly polished spear in his
        hand. These herdsmen were quite unselfconscious though they wore no clothing except for one carelessly draped blanket. Very few gave us any greeting but glanced indifferently at us from under fringes of clay-daubed plaited hair . The rest of their hair was drawn back behind the ears to display split earlobes stretched into slender loops by the weight of heavy brass or copper tribal ear rings.

        Most of the villages were set well back in the bush out of sight of the road but we did pass one
        typical village which looked most primitive indeed. It consisted simply of a few mound like mud huts which were entirely covered with a plaster of mud and cattle dung and the whole clutch of huts were surrounded by a ‘boma’ of thorn to keep the cattle in at night and the lions out. There was a gathering of women and children on the road at this point. The children of both sexes were naked and unadorned, but the women looked very fine indeed. This is not surprising for they have little to do but adorn themselves, unlike their counterparts of other tribes who have to work hard cultivating the fields. The Masai women, and others I saw on safari, were far more amiable and cheerful looking than the men and were well proportioned.

        They wore skirts of dressed goat skin, knee length in front but ankle length behind. Their arms
        from elbow to wrist, and legs from knee to ankle, were encased in tight coils of copper and
        galvanised wire. All had their heads shaved and in some cases bound by a leather band
        embroidered in red white and blue beads. Circular ear rings hung from slit earlobes and their
        handsome throats were encircled by stiff wire necklaces strung with brightly coloured beads. These
        necklaces were carefully graded in size and formed deep collars almost covering their breasts.
        About a quarter of a mile further along the road we met eleven young braves in gala attire, obviously on their way to call on the girls. They formed a line across the road and danced up and down until the lorry was dangerously near when they parted and grinned cheerfully at us. These were the only cheerful
        looking male Masai that I saw. Like the herdsmen these youths wore only a blanket, but their
        blankets were ochre colour, and elegantly draped over their backs. Their naked bodies gleamed with oil. Several had painted white stripes on their faces, and two had whitewashed their faces entirely which I
        thought a pity. All had their long hair elaborately dressed and some carried not only one,
        but two gleaming spears.

        By mid day George decided that we had driven far enough for that day. He
        stopped the lorry and consulted a rather unreliable map. “Somewhere near here is a
        place called Lolbeni,” he said. “The name means Sweet Water, I hear that the
        government have piped spring water down from the mountain into a small dam at which
        the Masai water their cattle.” Lolbeni sounded pleasant to me. Henry was dusty and
        cross, the rubber sheet had long slipped from my lap to the floor and I was conscious of
        a very damp lap. ‘Sweet Waters’ I felt, would put all that right. A few hundred yards
        away a small herd of cattle was grazing, so George lit his pipe and relaxed at last, whilst
        a Game Scout went off to find the herdsman. The scout soon returned with an ancient
        and emaciated Masai who was thrilled at the prospect of his first ride in a lorry and
        offered to direct us to Lolbeni which was off the main track and about four miles away.

        Once Lolbeni had been a small administrative post and a good track had
        led to it, but now the Post had been abandoned and the road is dotted with vigourous
        thorn bushes and the branches of larger thorn trees encroach on the track The road had
        deteriorated to a mere cattle track, deeply rutted and eroded by heavy rains over a
        period of years. The great Ford truck, however, could take it. It lurched victoriously along,
        mowing down the obstructions, tearing off branches from encroaching thorn trees with its
        high railed sides, spanning gorges in the track, and climbing in and out of those too wide
        to span. I felt an army tank could not have done better.

        I had expected Lolbeni to be a green oasis in a desert of grey thorns, but I was
        quickly disillusioned. To be sure the thorn trees were larger and more widely spaced and
        provided welcome shade, but the ground under the trees had been trampled by thousands of cattle into a dreary expanse of dirty grey sand liberally dotted with cattle droppings and made still more uninviting by the bleached bones of dead beasts.

        To the right of this waste rose a high green hill which gave the place its name and from which
        the precious water was piped, but its slopes were too steep to provide a camping site.
        Flies swarmed everywhere and I was most relieved when George said that we would
        stay only long enough to fill our cans with water. Even the water was a disappointment!
        The water in the small dam was low and covered by a revolting green scum, and though
        the water in the feeding pipe was sweet, it trickled so feebly that it took simply ages to
        fill a four gallon can.

        However all these disappointments were soon forgotten for we drove away
        from the flies and dirt and trampled sand and soon, with their quiet efficiency, George
        and his men set up a comfortable camp. John and Jim immediately started digging
        operations in the sandy soil whilst Henry and I rested. After tea George took his shot
        gun and went off to shoot guinea fowl and partridges for the pot. The children and I went
        walking, keeping well in site of camp, and soon we saw a very large flock of Vulturine
        Guineafowl, running aimlessly about and looking as tame as barnyard fowls, but melting
        away as soon as we moved in their direction.

        We had our second quiet and lovely evening by the camp fire, followed by a
        peaceful night.

        We left Lolbeni very early next morning, which was a good thing, for as we left
        camp the herds of thirsty cattle moved in from all directions. They were accompanied by
        Masai herdsmen, their naked bodies and blankets now covered by volcanic dust which
        was being stirred in rising clouds of stifling ash by the milling cattle, and also by grey
        donkeys laden with panniers filled with corked calabashes for water.

        Our next stop was Nabarera, a Masai cattle market and trading centre, where we
        reluctantly stayed for two days in a pokey Goverment Resthouse because George had
        a job to do in that area. The rest was good for Henry who promptly produced a tooth
        and was consequently much better behaved for the rest of the trip. George was away in the bush most of the day but he returned for afternoon tea and later took the children out
        walking. We had noticed curious white dumps about a quarter mile from the resthouse
        and on the second afternoon we set out to investigate them. Behind the dumps we
        found passages about six foot wide, cut through solid limestone. We explored two of
        these and found that both passages led steeply down to circular wells about two and a
        half feet in diameter.

        At the very foot of each passage, beside each well, rough drinking troughs had
        been cut in the stone. The herdsmen haul the water out of the well in home made hide
        buckets, the troughs are filled and the cattle driven down the ramps to drink at the trough.
        It was obvious that the wells were ancient and the sloping passages new. George tells
        me that no one knows what ancient race dug the original wells. It seems incredible that
        these deep and narrow shafts could have been sunk without machinery. I craned my
        neck and looked above one well and could see an immensely long shaft reaching up to
        ground level. Small footholds were cut in the solid rock as far as I could see.
        It seems that the Masai are as ignorant as ourselves about the origin of these
        wells. They do say however that when their forebears first occupied what is now known
        as Masailand, they not only found the Wanderobo tribe in the area but also a light
        skinned people and they think it possible that these light skinned people dug the wells.
        These people disappeared. They may have been absorbed or, more likely, they were
        liquidated.

        The Masai had found the well impractical in their original form and had hired
        labourers from neighbouring tribes to cut the passages to water level. Certainly the Masai are not responsible for the wells. They are a purely pastoral people and consider manual labour extremely degrading.

        They live chiefly on milk from their herd which they allow to go sour, and mix with blood that has been skilfully tapped from the necks of living cattle. They do not eat game meat, nor do they cultivate any
        land. They hunt with spears, but hunt only lions, to protect their herds, and to test the skill
        and bravery of their young warriors. What little grain they do eat is transported into
        Masailand by traders. The next stage of our journey took us to Ngassamet where
        George was to pick up some elephant tusks. I had looked forward particularly to this
        stretch of road for I had heard that there was a shallow lake at which game congregates,
        and at which I had great hopes of seeing elephants. We had come too late in the
        season though, the lake was dry and there were only piles of elephant droppings to
        prove that elephant had recently been there in numbers. Ngassamet, though no beauty
        spot, was interesting. We saw more elaborate editions of the wells already described, and as this area
        is rich in cattle we saw the aristocrats of the Masai. You cannot conceive of a more arrogant looking male than a young Masai brave striding by on sandalled feet, unselfconscious in all his glory. All the young men wore the casually draped traditional ochre blanket and carried one or more spears. But here belts and long knife sheaths of scarlet leather seem to be the fashion. Here fringes do not seem to be the thing. Most of these young Masai had their hair drawn smoothly back and twisted in a pointed queue, the whole plastered with a smooth coating of red clay. Some tied their horn shaped queues over their heads
        so that the tip formed a deep Satanic peak on the brow. All these young men wore the traditional
        copper earrings and I saw one or two with copper bracelets and one with a necklace of brightly coloured
        beads.

        It so happened that, on the day of our visit to Ngassamet, there had been a
        baraza (meeting) which was attended by all the local headmen and elders. These old
        men came to pay their respects to George and a more shrewd and rascally looking
        company I have never seen, George told me that some of these men own up to three
        thousand head of cattle and more. The chief was as fat and Rabelasian as his second in
        command was emaciated, bucktoothed and prim. The Chief shook hands with George
        and greeted me and settled himself on the wall of the resthouse porch opposite
        George. The lesser headmen, after politely greeting us, grouped themselves in a
        semi circle below the steps with their ‘aides’ respectfully standing behind them. I
        remained sitting in the only chair and watched the proceedings with interest and
        amusement.

        These old Masai, I noticed, cared nothing for adornment. They had proved
        themselves as warriors in the past and were known to be wealthy and influential so did
        not need to make any display. Most of them had their heads comfortably shaved and
        wore only a drab blanket or goatskin cloak. Their only ornaments were earrings whose
        effect was somewhat marred by the serviceable and homely large safety pin that
        dangled from the lobe of one ear. All carried staves instead of spears and all, except for
        Buckteeth and one blind old skeleton of a man, appeared to have a keenly developed
        sense of humour.

        “Mummy?” asked John in an urgent whisper, “Is that old blind man nearly dead?”
        “Yes dear”, said I, “I expect he’ll soon die.” “What here?” breathed John in a tone of
        keen anticipation and, until the meeting broke up and the old man left, he had John’s
        undivided attention.

        After local news and the game situation had been discussed, the talk turned to the
        war. “When will the war end?” moaned the fat Chief. “We have made great gifts of cattle
        to the War Funds, we are taxed out of existence.” George replied with the Ki-Swahili
        equivalent of ‘Sez you!’. This sally was received with laughter and the old fellows rose to
        go. They made their farewells and dignified exits, pausing on their way to stare at our
        pink and white Henry, who sat undismayed in his push chair giving them stare for stare
        from his striking grey eyes.

        Towards evening some Masai, prompted no doubt by our native servants,
        brought a sheep for sale. It was the last night of the fast of Ramadan and our
        Mohammedan boys hoped to feast next day at our expense. Their faces fell when
        George refused to buy the animal. “Why should I pay fifteen shillings for a sheep?” he
        asked, “Am I not the Bwana Nyama and is not the bush full of my sheep?” (Bwana
        Nyama is the native name for a Game Ranger, but means literally, ‘Master of the meat’)
        George meant that he would shoot a buck for the men next day, but this incident was to
        have a strange sequel. Ngassamet resthouse consists of one room so small we could
        not put up all our camp beds and George and I slept on the cement floor which was
        unkind to my curves. The night was bitterly cold and all night long hyaenas screeched
        hideously outside. So we rose at dawn without reluctance and were on our way before it
        was properly light.

        George had decided that it would be foolhardy to return home by our outward
        route as he did not care to risk another crossing of the suspension bridge. So we
        returned to Nabarera and there turned onto a little used track which would eventually take
        us to the Great North Road a few miles South of Arusha. There was not much game
        about but I saw Oryx which I had not previously seen. Soon it grew intolerably hot and I
        think all of us but George were dozing when he suddenly stopped the lorry and pointed
        to the right. “Mpishi”, he called to the cook, “There’s your sheep!” True enough, on that
        dreary thorn covered plain,with not another living thing in sight, stood a fat black sheep.

        There was an incredulous babbling from the back of the lorry. Every native
        jumped to the ground and in no time at all the wretched sheep was caught and
        slaughtered. I felt sick. “Oh George”, I wailed, “The poor lost sheep! I shan’t eat a scrap
        of it.” George said nothing but went and had a look at the sheep and called out to me,
        “Come and look at it. It was kindness to kill the poor thing, the vultures have been at it
        already and the hyaenas would have got it tonight.” I went reluctantly and saw one eye
        horribly torn out, and small deep wounds on the sheep’s back where the beaks of the
        vultures had cut through the heavy fleece. Poor thing! I went back to the lorry more
        determined than ever not to eat mutton on that trip. The Scouts and servants had no
        such scruples. The fine fat sheep had been sent by Allah for their feast day and that was
        the end of it.

        “ ‘Mpishi’ is more convinced than ever that I am a wizard”, said George in
        amusement as he started the lorry. I knew what he meant. Several times before George
        had foretold something which had later happened. Pure coincidence, but strange enough
        to give rise to a legend that George had the power to arrange things. “What happened
        of course”, explained George, “Is that a flock of Masai sheep was driven to market along
        this track yesterday or the day before. This one strayed and was not missed.”

        The day grew hotter and hotter and for long miles we looked out for a camping
        spot but could find little shade and no trace of water anywhere. At last, in the early
        afternoon we reached another pokey little rest house and asked for water. “There is no
        water here,” said the native caretaker. “Early in the morning there is water in a well nearby
        but we are allowed only one kerosene tin full and by ten o’clock the well is dry.” I looked
        at George in dismay for we were all so tired and dusty. “Where do the Masai from the
        village water their cattle then?” asked George. “About two miles away through the bush.
        If you take me with you I shall show you”, replied the native.

        So we turned off into the bush and followed a cattle track even more tortuous than
        the one to Lolbeni. Two Scouts walked ahead to warn us of hazards and I stretched my
        arm across the open window to fend off thorns. Henry screamed with fright and hunger.
        But George’s efforts to reach water went unrewarded as we were brought to a stop by
        a deep donga. The native from the resthouse was apologetic. He had mistaken the
        path, perhaps if we turned back we might find it. George was beyond speech. We
        lurched back the way we had come and made our camp under the first large tree we
        could find. Then off went our camp boys on foot to return just before dark with the water.
        However they were cheerful for there was an unlimited quantity of dry wood for their fires
        and meat in plenty for their feast. Long after George and I left our campfire and had gone
        to bed, we could see the cheerful fires of the boys and hear their chatter and laughter.
        I woke in the small hours to hear the insane cackling of hyaenas gloating over a
        find. Later I heard scuffling around the camp table, I peered over the tailboard of the lorry
        and saw George come out of his tent. What are you doing?” I whispered. “Looking for
        something to throw at those bloody hyaenas,” answered George for all the world as
        though those big brutes were tomcats on the prowl. Though the hyaenas kept up their
        concert all night the children never stirred, nor did any of them wake at night throughout
        the safari.

        Early next morning I walked across to the camp kitchen to enquire into the loud
        lamentations coming from that quarter. “Oh Memsahib”, moaned the cook, “We could
        not sleep last night for the bad hyaenas round our tents. They have taken every scrap of
        meat we had left over from the feast., even the meat we had left to smoke over the fire.”
        Jim, who of our three young sons is the cook’s favourite commiserated with him. He said
        in Ki-Swahili, which he speaks with great fluency, “Truly those hyaenas are very bad
        creatures. They also robbed us. They have taken my hat from the table and eaten the
        new soap from the washbowl.

        Our last day in the bush was a pleasantly lazy one. We drove through country
        that grew more open and less dry as we approached Arusha. We pitched our camp
        near a large dam, and the water was a blessed sight after a week of scorched country.
        On the plains to the right of our camp was a vast herd of native cattle enjoying a brief
        rest after their long day trek through Masailand. They were destined to walk many more
        weary miles before reaching their destination, a meat canning factory in Kenya.
        The ground to the left of the camp rose gently to form a long low hill and on the
        grassy slopes we could see wild ostriches and herds of wildebeest, zebra and
        antelope grazing amicably side by side. In the late afternoon I watched the groups of
        zebra and wildebeest merge into one. Then with a wildebeest leading, they walked
        down the slope in single file to drink at the vlei . When they were satisfied, a wildebeest
        once more led the herd up the trail. The others followed in a long and orderly file, and
        vanished over the hill to their evening pasture.

        When they had gone, George took up his shotgun and invited John to
        accompany him to the dam to shoot duck. This was the first time John had acted as
        retriever but he did very well and proudly helped to carry a mixed bag of sand grouse
        and duck back to camp.

        Next morning we turned into the Great North Road and passed first through
        carefully tended coffee shambas and then through the township of Arusha, nestling at
        the foot of towering Mount Meru. Beyond Arusha we drove through the Usa River
        settlement where again coffee shambas and European homesteads line the road, and
        saw before us the magnificent spectacle of Kilimanjaro unveiled, its white snow cap
        gleaming in the sunlight. Before mid day we were home. “Well was it worth it?” enquired
        George at lunch. “Lovely,” I replied. ”Let’s go again soon.” Then thinking regretfully of
        our absent children I sighed, “If only Ann, George, and Kate could have gone with us
        too.”

        Lyamungu 10th November. 1944

        Dearest Family.

        Mummy wants to know how I fill in my time with George away on safari for weeks
        on end. I do believe that you all picture me idling away my days, waited on hand and
        foot by efficient servants! On the contrary, life is one rush and the days never long
        enough.

        To begin with, our servants are anything but efficient, apart from our cook, Hamisi
        Issa, who really is competent. He suffers from frustration because our budget will not run
        to elaborate dishes so there is little scope for his culinary art. There is one masterpiece
        which is much appreciated by John and Jim. Hamisi makes a most realistic crocodile out
        of pastry and stuffs its innards with minced meat. This revolting reptile is served on a
        bed of parsley on my largest meat dish. The cook is a strict Mohammedan and
        observes all the fasts and daily prayers and, like all Mohammedans he is very clean in
        his person and, thank goodness, in the kitchen.

        His wife is his pride and joy but not his helpmate. She does absolutely nothing
        but sit in a chair in the sun all day, sipping tea and smoking cigarettes – a more
        expensive brand than mine! It is Hamisi who sweeps out their quarters, cooks
        delectable curries for her, and spends more than he can afford on clothing and trinkets for
        his wife. She just sits there with her ‘Mona Lisa’ smile and her painted finger and toe
        nails, doing absolutely nothing.

        The thing is that natives despise women who do work and this applies especially
        to their white employers. House servants much prefer a Memsahib who leaves
        everything to them and is careless about locking up her pantry. When we first came to
        Lyamungu I had great difficulty in employing a houseboy. A couple of rather efficient
        ones did approach me but when they heard the wages I was prepared to pay and that
        there was no number 2 boy, they simply were not interested. Eventually I took on a
        local boy called Japhet who suits me very well except that his sight is not good and he
        is extremely hard on the crockery. He tells me that he has lost face by working here
        because his friends say that he works for a family that is too mean to employ a second
        boy. I explained that with our large family we simply cannot afford to pay more, but this
        didn’t register at all. Japhet says “But Wazungu (Europeans) all have money. They just
        have to get it from the Bank.”

        The third member of our staff is a strapping youth named Tovelo who helps both
        cook and boy, and consequently works harder than either. What do I do? I chivvy the
        servants, look after the children, supervise John’s lessons, and make all my clothing and
        the children’s on that blessed old hand sewing machine.

        The folk on this station entertain a good deal but we usually decline invitations
        because we simply cannot afford to reciprocate. However, last Saturday night I invited
        two couples to drinks and dinner. This was such an unusual event that the servants and I
        were thrown into a flurry. In the end the dinner went off well though it ended in disaster. In
        spite of my entreaties and exhortations to Japhet not to pile everything onto the tray at
        once when clearing the table, he did just that. We were starting our desert and I was
        congratulating myself that all had gone well when there was a frightful crash of breaking
        china on the back verandah. I excused myself and got up to investigate. A large meat
        dish, six dinner plates and four vegetable dishes lay shattered on the cement floor! I
        controlled my tongue but what my eyes said to Japhet is another matter. What he said
        was, “It is not my fault Memsahib. The handle of the tray came off.”

        It is a curious thing about native servants that they never accept responsibility for
        a mishap. If they cannot pin their misdeeds onto one of their fellow servants then the responsibility rests with God. ‘Shauri ya Mungu’, (an act of God) is a familiar cry. Fatalists
        can be very exasperating employees.

        The loss of my dinner service is a real tragedy because, being war time, one can
        buy only china of the poorest quality made for the native trade. Nor was that the final
        disaster of the evening. When we moved to the lounge for coffee I noticed that the
        coffee had been served in the battered old safari coffee pot instead of the charming little
        antique coffee pot which my Mother-in-law had sent for our tenth wedding anniversary.
        As there had already been a disturbance I made no comment but resolved to give the
        cook a piece of my mind in the morning. My instructions to the cook had been to warm
        the coffee pot with hot water immediately before serving. On no account was he to put
        the pewter pot on the hot iron stove. He did and the result was a small hole in the base
        of the pot – or so he says. When I saw the pot next morning there was a two inch hole in
        it.

        Hamisi explained placidly how this had come about. He said he knew I would be
        mad when I saw the little hole so he thought he would have it mended and I might not
        notice it. Early in the morning he had taken the pewter pot to the mechanic who looks
        after the Game Department vehicles and had asked him to repair it. The bright individual
        got busy with the soldering iron with the most devastating result. “It’s his fault,” said
        Hamisi, “He is a mechanic, he should have known what would happen.”
        One thing is certain, there will be no more dinner parties in this house until the war
        is ended.

        The children are well and so am I, and so was George when he left on his safari
        last Monday.

        Much love,
        Eleanor.

         

        #6222
        TracyTracy
        Participant

          George Gilman Rushby: The Cousin Who Went To Africa

          The portrait of the woman has “mother of Catherine Housley, Smalley” written on the back, and one of the family photographs has “Francis Purdy” written on the back. My first internet search was “Catherine Housley Smalley Francis Purdy”. Easily found was the family tree of George (Mike) Rushby, on one of the genealogy websites. It seemed that it must be our family, but the African lion hunter seemed unlikely until my mother recalled her father had said that he had a cousin who went to Africa. I also noticed that the lion hunter’s middle name was Gilman ~ the name that Catherine Housley’s daughter ~ my great grandmother, Mary Ann Gilman Purdy ~ adopted, from her aunt and uncle who brought her up.

          I tried to contact George (Mike) Rushby via the ancestry website, but got no reply. I searched for his name on Facebook and found a photo of a wildfire in a place called Wardell, in Australia, and he was credited with taking the photograph. A comment on the photo, which was a few years old, got no response, so I found a Wardell Community group on Facebook, and joined it. A very small place, population some 700 or so, and I had an immediate response on the group to my question. They knew Mike, exchanged messages, and we were able to start emailing. I was in the chair at the dentist having an exceptionally long canine root canal at the time that I got the message with his email address, and at that moment the song Down in Africa started playing.

          Mike said it was clever of me to track him down which amused me, coming from the son of an elephant and lion hunter.  He didn’t know why his father’s middle name was Gilman, and was not aware that Catherine Housley’s sister married a Gilman.

          Mike Rushby kindly gave me permission to include his family history research in my book.  This is the story of my grandfather George Marshall’s cousin.  A detailed account of George Gilman Rushby’s years in Africa can be found in another chapter called From Tanganyika With Love; the letters Eleanor wrote to her family.

          George Gilman Rushby:

          George Gilman Rushby

           

          The story of George Gilman Rushby 1900-1969, as told by his son Mike:

          George Gilman Rushby:
          Elephant hunter,poacher, prospector, farmer, forestry officer, game ranger, husband to Eleanor, and father of 6 children who now live around the world.

          George Gilman Rushby was born in Nottingham on 28 Feb 1900 the son of Catherine Purdy and John Henry Payling Rushby. But John Henry died when his son was only one and a half years old, and George shunned his drunken bullying stepfather Frank Freer and was brought up by Gypsies who taught him how to fight and took him on regular poaching trips. His love of adventure and his ability to hunt were nurtured at an early stage of his life.
          The family moved to Eastwood, where his mother Catherine owned and managed The Three Tuns Inn, but when his stepfather died in mysterious circumstances, his mother married a wealthy bookmaker named Gregory Simpson. He could afford to send George to Worksop College and to Rugby School. This was excellent schooling for George, but the boarding school environment, and the lack of a stable home life, contributed to his desire to go out in the world and do his own thing. When he finished school his first job was as a trainee electrician with Oaks & Co at Pye Bridge. He also worked part time as a motor cycle mechanic and as a professional boxer to raise the money for a voyage to South Africa.

          In May 1920 George arrived in Durban destitute and, like many others, living on the beach and dependant upon the Salvation Army for a daily meal. However he soon got work as an electrical mechanic, and after a couple of months had earned enough money to make the next move North. He went to Lourenco Marques where he was appointed shift engineer for the town’s power station. However he was still restless and left the comfort of Lourenco Marques for Beira in August 1921.

          Beira was the start point of the new railway being built from the coast to Nyasaland. George became a professional hunter providing essential meat for the gangs of construction workers building the railway. He was a self employed contractor with his own support crew of African men and began to build up a satisfactory business. However, following an incident where he had to shoot and kill a man who attacked him with a spear in middle of the night whilst he was sleeping, George left the lower Zambezi and took a paddle steamer to Nyasaland (Malawi). On his arrival in Karongo he was encouraged to shoot elephant which had reached plague proportions in the area – wrecking African homes and crops, and threatening the lives of those who opposed them.

          His next move was to travel by canoe the five hundred kilometre length of Lake Nyasa to Tanganyika, where he hunted for a while in the Lake Rukwa area, before walking through Northern Rhodesia (Zambia) to the Congo. Hunting his way he overachieved his quota of ivory resulting in his being charged with trespass, the confiscation of his rifles, and a fine of one thousand francs. He hunted his way through the Congo to Leopoldville then on to the Portuguese enclave, near the mouth of the mighty river, where he worked as a barman in a rough and tough bar until he received a message that his old friend Lumb had found gold at Lupa near Chunya. George set sail on the next boat for Antwerp in Belgium, then crossed to England and spent a few weeks with his family in Jacksdale before returning by sea to Dar es Salaam. Arriving at the gold fields he pegged his claim and almost immediately went down with blackwater fever – an illness that used to kill three out of four within a week.

          When he recovered from his fever, George exchanged his gold lease for a double barrelled .577 elephant rifle and took out a special elephant control licence with the Tanganyika Government. He then headed for the Congo again and poached elephant in Northern Rhodesia from a base in the Congo. He was known by the Africans as “iNyathi”, or the Buffalo, because he was the most dangerous in the long grass. After a profitable hunting expedition in his favourite hunting ground of the Kilombera River he returned to the Congo via Dar es Salaam and Mombassa. He was after the Kabalo district elephant, but hunting was restricted, so he set up his base in The Central African Republic at a place called Obo on the Congo tributary named the M’bomu River. From there he could make poaching raids into the Congo and the Upper Nile regions of the Sudan. He hunted there for two and a half years. He seldom came across other Europeans; hunters kept their own districts and guarded their own territories. But they respected one another and he made good and lasting friendships with members of that small select band of adventurers.

          Leaving for Europe via the Congo, George enjoyed a short holiday in Jacksdale with his mother. On his return trip to East Africa he met his future bride in Cape Town. She was 24 year old Eleanor Dunbar Leslie; a high school teacher and daughter of a magistrate who spent her spare time mountaineering, racing ocean yachts, and riding horses. After a whirlwind romance, they were betrothed within 36 hours.

          On 25 July 1930 George landed back in Dar es Salaam. He went directly to the Mbeya district to find a home. For one hundred pounds he purchased the Waizneker’s farm on the banks of the Mntshewe Stream. Eleanor, who had been delayed due to her contract as a teacher, followed in November. Her ship docked in Dar es Salaam on 7 Nov 1930, and they were married that day. At Mchewe Estate, their newly acquired farm, they lived in a tent whilst George with some help built their first home – a lovely mud-brick cottage with a thatched roof. George and Eleanor set about developing a coffee plantation out of a bush block. It was a very happy time for them. There was no electricity, no radio, and no telephone. Newspapers came from London every two months. There were a couple of neighbours within twenty miles, but visitors were seldom seen. The farm was a haven for wild life including snakes, monkeys and leopards. Eleanor had to go South all the way to Capetown for the birth of her first child Ann, but with the onset of civilisation, their first son George was born at a new German Mission hospital that had opened in Mbeya.

          Occasionally George had to leave the farm in Eleanor’s care whilst he went off hunting to make his living. Having run the coffee plantation for five years with considerable establishment costs and as yet no return, George reluctantly started taking paying clients on hunting safaris as a “white hunter”. This was an occupation George didn’t enjoy. but it brought him an income in the days when social security didn’t exist. Taking wealthy clients on hunting trips to kill animals for trophies and for pleasure didn’t amuse George who hunted for a business and for a way of life. When one of George’s trackers was killed by a leopard that had been wounded by a careless client, George was particularly upset.
          The coffee plantation was approaching the time of its first harvest when it was suddenly attacked by plagues of borer beetles and ring barking snails. At the same time severe hail storms shredded the crop. The pressure of the need for an income forced George back to the Lupa gold fields. He was unlucky in his gold discoveries, but luck came in a different form when he was offered a job with the Forestry Department. The offer had been made in recognition of his initiation and management of Tanganyika’s rainbow trout project. George spent most of his short time with the Forestry Department encouraging the indigenous people to conserve their native forests.

          In November 1938 he transferred to the Game Department as Ranger for the Eastern Province of Tanganyika, and over several years was based at Nzasa near Dar es Salaam, at the old German town of Morogoro, and at lovely Lyamungu on the slopes of Kilimanjaro. Then the call came for him to be transferred to Mbeya in the Southern Province for there was a serious problem in the Njombe district, and George was selected by the Department as the only man who could possibly fix the problem.

          Over a period of several years, people were being attacked and killed by marauding man-eating lions. In the Wagingombe area alone 230 people were listed as having been killed. In the Njombe district, which covered an area about 200 km by 300 km some 1500 people had been killed. Not only was the rural population being decimated, but the morale of the survivors was so low, that many of them believed that the lions were not real. Many thought that evil witch doctors were controlling the lions, or that lion-men were changing form to kill their enemies. Indeed some wichdoctors took advantage of the disarray to settle scores and to kill for reward.

          By hunting down and killing the man-eaters, and by showing the flesh and blood to the doubting tribes people, George was able to instil some confidence into the villagers. However the Africans attributed the return of peace and safety, not to the efforts of George Rushby, but to the reinstallation of their deposed chief Matamula Mangera who had previously been stood down for corruption. It was Matamula , in their eyes, who had called off the lions.

          Soon after this adventure, George was appointed Deputy Game Warden for Tanganyika, and was based in Arusha. He retired in 1956 to the Njombe district where he developed a coffee plantation, and was one of the first in Tanganyika to plant tea as a major crop. However he sensed a swing in the political fortunes of his beloved Tanganyika, and so sold the plantation and settled in a cottage high on a hill overlooking the Navel Base at Simonstown in the Cape. It was whilst he was there that TV Bulpin wrote his biography “The Hunter is Death” and George wrote his book “No More The Tusker”. He died in the Cape, and his youngest son Henry scattered his ashes at the Southern most tip of Africa where the currents of the Atlantic and Indian Oceans meet .

          George Gilman Rushby:

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