Eighty Not Out (13 page)

The rains came late in the spring of 1961 and with morning temperatures of 85 degrees Fahrenheit in the house, rising to over 105 during the afternoon, humidity was high. There was no fan in Fergus's office, now twenty-two months into his tour, and he knew his powers of concentration were poor. It was around this time that his resolve that we should not acquire any more orphaned animals was broken when a tiny royal antelope, its umbilical cord still dangling, was presented with a price tag of six shillings: one of the smallest antelope in the world, no longer common, and reputedly very hard to rear. An American game warden infuriated me by repeating while I was in the process of feeding it: ‘You sure got a rare little animal there, yeah, you sure got a rare little animal. Very delicate though, very hard to rear, even a loud noise may be enough to kill them.' The last was nonsense, as it travelled many miles with us in the Land Rover, experiencing jolts, banging doors and lurches into potholes. It appeared to be doing well, taking plenty of milk and eating greenery, and its droppings were normal, but it remained shy and did not recognise me outside its pen. When it began to weaken and refused milk, I discovered its tongue was ulcerated and I force-fed it. After two days, it was stronger and I gave it – as recommended by Cansdale for duikers – some chopped hibiscus and cassava leaves. It died in my lap shortly after. Maybe it was not the cassava leaves that were to blame, but the forced-feeding, which is never recommended – I shall never know. My admiration for the Durrells and Attenboroughs of this world, who sacrifice hours of sleep preparing warm, sterile feeds in often unsuccessful attempts to save orphaned animals, remains boundless to this day.

It is true what they say – the smell of the rain precedes, sometimes for days, the first drops; the sky changes and huge white clouds appear against a dark blue backcloth. Faint flutters of wind disturb the air, a pall of hush descends, broken only by squawks from birds skulking in the scrub – the proverbial lull before a storm. The rains came in late March, washing the red dust from leaves and freshening the air, and the tiny green shoots that had appeared soon after the fires ceased rapidly developed into mature plants. Adda returned with his two children and his senior wife, who had a bulge showing under the little missionary-inspired frill of her cloth, so gatherings near the back door were enlivened.

One of the regular callers was an old man who lived in an isolated house hidden in the bush nearby. He was paranoid about his relatives, to the extent that he would accept no help, in the belief that they intended to poison him for his savings, said to be hidden in his hovel. He was illiterate, and advice to put his money into a bank savings account was dismissed as folly – ‘All they give you is a small book, and how do you know you will ever see it again?' (Writing, as I am, after the global financial crash and the demise of a few large banks, this viewpoint seems the epitome of wisdom.) He was painfully thin, but always brought some small offering, a pawpaw, some aubergines or a corn-cob, in gratitude for the buckets of water and mugs of sweet tea that Adda dispensed. One day we heard that he was ill, so we went to visit and were shocked to see how frugally he lived. There was a pallet of cassava drying outside the hut, one rickety chair, an orange box, an enamel dish with a hole in the bottom, a bucket and a calabash. A scraggy white kitten scuttled for cover in the palm roof as we arrived with Adda, who disapproved of the mission, as translator. His afflictions were many, ranging from general aches and pains, to lassitude and a shiny swollen foot. He flatly refused Adda's advice to go to the health centre, saying he would die for sure, so we were surprised when he capitulated to an order from Fergus.

I drove him to the clinic, where Dr Wickramasingh, who was on duty, said it was a clear case of blood-poisoning, and he would have to open the foot. This was done in my presence without anaesthetic: I had never seen anything so unpleasant, nor heard such screams as a stream of pus spurted and then flowed steadily into a dish while the doctor continued probing the incision to clear away as much as possible. I feared the old man might turn violent and hold me responsible for the agony, but instead he was touchingly grateful, getting obediently into the car for follow-up trips to have his wound dressed. I sent food while he was too weak to make his own meals, and found one cause of his malnutrition: relatives in the village had brought food while he was sick, but so firmly convinced was he that they were trying to poison him, it had been thrown away.

One morning we awoke to the chatter of a
PWD
workforce in the compound; wielding scythes, they had started to flatten the area that was ablaze with the annual display of pinkish-orange Ashanti lilies. Some had fallen by the time we got out, screaming ‘STOP', but most were saved; we never heard who had issued the order, but it certainly was not David. Another incident involved the wife of a neighbour. Sounds of a high-pitched female tirade drifted over the grass, and I could see the woman, arms akimbo, haranguing one member of a work team disposed in the shade of a large tree, enjoying one of its chop breaks. His responses were strident, and I feared fisticuffs, but when his co-workers loudly voiced their support, they all stomped off towards the office block. The woman had lent money at an extortionate rate, and the man was behind in his payments. David was called in to arbitrate, and told the husband to ensure his wife ceased money-lending, if not entirely, at least to any
MFU
employee.

My own relationship with David had improved now that I wore a thin gold band of respectability, but sometimes an evil spirit prompted me to strike a wrong note, such as expressing anti-monarchist sentiments and referring scathingly to ‘Our Dear Queen' in a tone he must have found offensive. Fergus pointed out such behaviour was more suited to a teenager, and I was contrite afterwards, but used similar ploys at excruciating dinner parties in Accra, where talk inevitably turned to general disillusionment with the post-independence regime, the unreliability of servants, the insanitary state of the hospitals. I found it difficult not to doze off during the interminable afterdinner discussions, often shaming Fergus with feeble attempts to remain alert. He said I looked like an octogenarian, head dropping slowly to chest level, only to jerk up with glazed eyes and a slack smile, pretending that I had not missed a word. I attributed such behaviour to the climate, consumption of too much food and alcohol, plus overwhelming boredom.

I suffered my first attack of malaria – probably contracted at Wa where drug-resistant strains had been identified – and a bout of suspected amoebic dysentery, the latter reminiscent of the food poisoning blamed on cold chicken at Stevenson's Restaurant in Derry. While I was still limp from the experience, we planned another exploratory trip to Wa, increasingly likely to be our next posting, having been chosen as the preferred base for a bilharzia research and control project, should it get the green light.
WHO
offered Fergus a further two-year contract until the end of 1963, but refused his request to study at Danmarks Akvarium, writing: ‘The invitation was sent to you personally, so we do not feel obliged to contribute in any way towards travel costs', with the rider that any time spent there would be deducted from home leave. This was rich at a time when many staff members were flitting off to the
US
for six months' study leave on full pay
and
per diem expenses covered. Thus began my list of grievances against the hierarchy at both the regional office in Brazzaville and headquarters in Geneva.

When eventually we went on leave, plans to visit the Canary Islands were scrapped in favour of Greece, where we stayed in Athens, at that time relatively free of pollution. We visited all the tourist sites, then undertook a perilous drive along the cliff-side road to Piraeus, from where we boarded a ferry overloaded with passengers, miserable poultry tied by their feet, and numerous loudly protesting goats, to Cephalonia. The first Xenia hotel had yet to be completed and the Captain Corelli effect yet to strike. We stayed on the west side, in a small hotel perched above an almost too perfect crescent of sand fringed by dwarf conifers; the water was emerald green shading to deep lapis lazuli. It took some days to accustom ourselves to the leisurely pace of life and the siesta, which seemed to last from early afternoon through to nine at night, when signs of activity were heard from the kitchen. Food was not haute cuisine; in fact, the choice was limited to three stews: one based on goat, one on chicken and a fish mixture faintly resembling bouillabaisse, as well as a ratatouille. The pasta, which was served with everything, was glutinous.

We explored the countryside on foot, and were often invited into houses, where a member of the family, home from the mainland, spoke fair English – our Greek was nonexistent. The war, German occupation, the disastrous earthquake and current affairs were favoured topics, and there were often references to the
US
. There was almost total ignorance about the location of Ireland and its place in the British Isles. The islanders were steeped in Greek Orthodoxy but seemed tolerant of other faiths. They knew little about Africa, apart from Egypt being at the top, and showed no more than polite interest when told about Ghana. We swam in a little bay thinking we were the only people around, but when I went to get the rucksack I had left near a large rock, it had disappeared: so not all the locals were friendly. Luckily I had a spare swimsuit and hideous white floral rubber bathing cap such as seen in early James Bond films. We ate one delicious meal prepared by an enterprising young chef on another beach. The atmosphere was like a family barbecue with fresh shellfish, a giant platter resembling paella and a fish stew much superior to the one at the hotel. Of the other guests I remember only a French couple with three children: the wife wore a bikini – daring in 1961 – and, despite the children, had a figure to match. The older children were allowed watered wine at mealtimes, but the three-year-old protested rather too vehemently, ‘Je n'ai pas bu, Maman.'

After Greece, we spent a few days in Geneva, during which we were invited to a soiree by Dr Ansari, then head of the tropical diseases division, and Fergus's mentor. Urbane, and oozing charm, he was a close relative of the Shah of Iran; his wife and ballet-dancer daughter were discreetly elegant. Not wanting to be totally eclipsed, I bought an outrageously expensive pair of Swiss Bally shoes, and a black and blue checked jersey suit with a very tight skirt. Worn with the handbag made in London from Tamale crocodile skin, a Jacqmar silk scarf and the string of grey pearls Fergus had bought for me in Mayfair's Burlington Arcade, I felt the crawled-out-of-the-bush image was temporarily erased. (But when I got off the plane in Belfast, wearing this outfit, my mother was shocked by my weight loss – a mere eight stone twelve ounces, a low never achieved since.) A benign autumn passed all too quickly, followed by a skiing holiday in Verbier, which, like Cephalonia, had yet to capitulate to the forces of mass tourism. I hope something has been done in the intervening half-century about the pervasive smell of drains.

While in Europe, we took the opportunity to spend a week in Copenhagen, before Fergus left for two months at the regional office in Brazzaville, at the end of which it was hoped the Ghana government would have signed the plan of operations for the project at Wa. We saw the Danish Royal Ballet performing the young Kenneth MacMillan's
Danses Concertantes, The Burrow
, and
Solitaire
. The weather was overcast, cold and wet for most of our stay, but Sunday was brilliant and Bengt Friis-Hansen, with whom Fergus had worked in Northern Rhodesia, took us to his cottage in the country. After a long walk through the forest, we returned to a blazing fire and lunch of rye bread with a variety of pickled fish, including eels. During the days, Fergus paid informal visits to the Akvarium in Charlottenlund to assess the place and meet the staff, not least the formidable Mandahl-Barth. I strolled around the shops, in which the prices were almost as intimidating as those in Geneva; I bought my first piece of Jensen jewellery – a smooth silver brooch with a nautilus centre – a lovely silk scarf and an emerald green Robin Hood style hat for good measure. We parted at Amsterdam: Fergus flew to Brazzaville and I back to Ireland: the first of many such separations.

10

Total Immersion

M
arch 1962 saw us reunited in Rome, where icicles were hanging from the fountains. Fergus had prudently bought some fur-lined boots, but for our visit to the Villa d'Este on the outskirts of the city I wore the gunmetal winkle-pickers I had added to the black and blue jersey suit ensemble – now topped by a three-quarter-length black moleskin coat – and suffered accordingly. It was impossible to travel with clothing suited to all climatic zones, and
WHO
now limited cabin class travel for staff members to long-haul flights, so our baggage allowance was tourist class.

The next stop was Cairo, where we stayed at the historic Mena House Hotel. I do not know how the hotel looks today, but at that time it stood on the fringe of the desert looking directly towards the Pyramids of Giza. The fertile green strip that extended from the banks of the Nile ended abruptly here – on one side of the road, palm trees and luxuriant vegetation, on the opposite side an infinity of Sahara sand. Slow, fat flies were everywhere, persistent in their attempts to settle on one's face. Furious traffic, scuttling pedestrians, honking horns, malnourished donkeys and mules, blind people and persistent touts were, like the flies, widespread. Fergus had won his battle for funding to attend a conference on all aspects of bilharziasis, as he was scheduled to read not only his own paper, but that of a colleague who had suffered a stroke a few weeks earlier.

As ‘distinguished' visitors, we were taken everywhere by minibus or saloon car. On the opening day of the conference a luncheon, hosted by the minister of health, took place in the banqueting hall of one of the ex-royal palaces, a gilded room lit by three enormous chandeliers. The menu started with shrimp soufflé, then roast goat and, in deference to Western taste, potatoes. Already feeling replete, we were startled by the arrival of two huge turkeys surrounded by piles of saffron-flavoured rice mixed with pine kernels. That was followed by slices of pink glazed gateau topped by whipped cream and marzipan strawberries, and finally fresh fruit and viscous coffee. The feast over, a tour of Prince Mohammed Ali's palaces began. The palaces were built in the late Victorian era and now housed a museum. Every object was a triumph of intricate craftsmanship, beautiful inlaid work in mother-of-pearl, ivory and wood, some with delicate silver inlay, and ceramic tiles covered entire walls. The ceilings were made of gold-encrusted carved beams with red, blue and green paint detail, interspersed with udder-like protuberances in the same colours. In the vast family room intricately carved wooden chairs lined each wall, throne-like and uninviting; however, comfort was offered by several gigantic red leather studded sofas, set among a plethora of side tables, which displayed signed photographs of most of the British royal family in art nouveau silver frames. Silk Persian rugs in fiddly floral designs almost obscured the marble floor. The next day all the delegates were taken for a private visit to the Cairo Museum to see much of the contents of Tutankhamen's tomb. The masks and animal carvings were timelessly beautiful, but the collection had a neglected aura, making us feel that many artefacts the wicked old colonials had made off with were better preserved for future generations in London and other cultural centres. That evening we were guests at a ‘traditional style' dinner in one of the best restaurants in the city. The decor represented the interior of a Bedouin tent, and the air was heavy with smoke and cooking fumes. Again there was an endless procession of dishes, most of which tasted of burned fat, and all meats, by our standards, were tough. The
pièce de résistance
was a pigeon with the head on.

We visited Memphis, where little remained but giant columns, a small sphinx and an immense statue of Rameses
II
: our guide, a cultured Egyptian woman with some French ancestry, took us to Sakkara where we trudged hotly through the desert from one tomb to another – rather dull to inexpert eyes. But then we were taken into the heart of one of the Pyramids to see hieroglyphics so perfect they might have been recently cut. Outside hordes of shouting men with camels, ponies and mules fought furiously for our patronage, beating not only each other, but their rivals' animals. A timid member of our group was in danger of being torn apart as he got out of the bus, bleating pitifully, ‘Is there some trouble?' Fergus, being tall and well built, navigated the crowd, wearing a lofty expression like one of the camels or General de Gaulle.

I attended the meeting at which, on the final day, Fergus presented the two papers to a packed hall. Most of the other papers were beyond my comprehension, so I spent a lot of time in the peaceful gardens of the hotel, reading or writing in the warm winter sunshine. One day I became aware of a small figure dodging furtively between the bougainvillea and hibiscus bushes: it was male, about twelve years old, and his opening gambit was on the lines of ‘
Pssst
, I take you in the town and you see my brother and sister', for what purpose was not specified. Terrified of being spotted by hotel staff, he departed quickly when I made it clear I had no intention of accepting his invitation.

The Egyptians were just as accomplished as the Russians or Chinese in evading questions: they even managed to prevent us from visiting a local village, despite it being on the official list, to inspect its irrigation system, and see an active transmission site on the outskirts of Cairo. One of the doctors, on learning it took seven years for a medical student to qualify in Britain, told me proudly that in Egypt the time taken was a mere four. We sensed that Egypt was just as great a dictatorship as other better-known ones. Some of the people we met were outspoken in private, telling us that citizens were not normally allowed to leave the country, but that if they decided to emigrate they might do so, taking out only the equivalent of £500, thus sacrificing their wealth as well as their nationality, and risking repercussions on any remaining family members. Parents were not permitted to send children overseas for schooling.

Scheduled to fly to Accra via Timbuktu by United Arab Airlines – known as Misrair – we checked in at ten in the morning. It was already very hot, and the airport flies were of a larger and more persistent type than average. I had a cold at the feverish raging sore throat stage, and both of us were tired after the frenzied activities of the week. Hours passed during which a periodic announcement would be made that our flight would be boarding soon; more time would elapse, then a further delay with the promise of a meal, for which vouchers were distributed. After another long interval the vouchers were taken away and we heard that we would be boarding after all, and food would be served on board the aircraft. My main preoccupation was a desire for early oblivion; the thought of food was repugnant but a cold drink would have been welcome. By late afternoon Fergus's efforts to get me one produced a lukewarm Fanta, and he was toying with a plate of pasta of the Cephalonia variety.

On take-off we held hands tightly as always, while I counted more seconds than usual before we were airborne, allowing time to reflect on what percentage of accidents occur either at take-off or on landing.
UAA
and its pilots had an unenviable reputation, and we had met pilots from other airlines whose views were unprintable. On a list of notoriously dangerous runways, Cairo featured, as did Athens and one in the Canaries, at which there was a subsequent disaster. But soon we were cruising and the skyline softened through shades of orange, through turquoise to indigo, and I thought of the distances between oases, the bizarre rocks in the Hoggar region, the nomadic Tuareg people about whom we had read, and the vastness so many brave travellers had managed to cross. As we neared Timbuktu the pilot told passengers to resume their seats and fasten seat belts, and some obediently did so, but a number continued to stroll around chatting to their friends, ignored by cabin stewards. On landing, once the doors were opened, even though it was the middle of the night, the temperature was hotter than any we had experienced in Cairo. Many got off and were replaced by women carrying unwieldy cloth-bound bundles too large for the overhead lockers, and a noisy, inebriated football team returning to Lagos after victory in Mali came on board.

At Accra we were met by the Austrian representative for
WHO
; well used to the exhausted, embittered state in which many of his colleagues reported back on duty, he took us straight to the government guesthouse to recover. The next day Fergus dashed around retrieving the car, getting it taxed, insured and relicensed before we took the road back to Kintampo again.

We stayed two nights only in the guesthouse, where Gilbert, Grace and Charity had spent the New Year. A new fridge had been installed, there was a clean checked tablecloth, and the mosquito nets had been replaced. David Scott, by then on his penultimate tour in Ghana, had been replaced by Dr Grant and his wife, both Ghanaian, who now occupied the director's house, and were hospitable in every way. We shared the guesthouse with a newly recruited Polish doctor: he was not shy in talking about the state of his own country, but undiplomatic in his criticism of Ghana and its inhabitants: ‘These people are so fucking lazy and unreliable.'

Our cat, now in rude health and with a few more battle scars, had settled with Luciano's family and tolerated child company well; his relationship with their cook, however, was guarded. They gave a dinner party to mark our imminent departure to Wa, which was regarded by many as being too remote for a family. Much time was taken up by old acquaintances coming to ‘greet' us, including the old hermit who brought me two dozen eggs – a very generous gift. The Kofi brothers were already installed at Wa and Adda, who had been on paid leave during our absence, was soon to join us there.

All advantage gained from our pre-dawn start was lost when we reached Yeji and joined an impatient crowd of foot passengers, lorries and cars waiting for the broken-down ferry, which was stuck on the opposite side of the river. Sucking oranges rather than depleting our supply of drinking water, we stayed there all morning, while the noise, dust, heat and smells escalated. When all hope of reviving the engine had been abandoned, a hand-hauled winch system went into action and the ferry reached our side of the river. Doubts about the safety of the winch were loudly voiced – particularly where heavy vehicles were involved – but eventually foot passengers and cars were allowed on board. We were relieved to land on the north bank after the short, jerky crossing. The rest of the journey to Wa was uneventful, apart from a burst tyre, which, had it not been for Fergus's inspired driving, would have landed us in a dried-out river bed: this left us with no spare tyre.

It was almost dark when we reached the Water Supplies resthouse, where we were met by a disagreeable young German who grudgingly agreed that our reservation was valid. Later we learned that his detestation of the British was notorious. The caretaker, when he shuffled on duty, was more amiable: he lit the lamp immediately, produced some discoloured ice cubes, covered the table with an ancient chequered cloth, and set two places with bent cutlery. I produced some bread, margarine, sardines and two bottles of warm Tusker beer; with fresh pawpaw and lime to finish, it was quite a balanced meal. We lay in a huge tepid bath and scraped the hardened red dust from the interstices of our skin before collapsing on the usual lumpy mattress under a stained, much-mended mosquito net.

Next morning we went to inspect the house that had been allocated to us. The setting was delightful in a large overgrown garden, which owed its design to some long-departed European. The bungalow, built to German design early in the century, had a large central living room, two huge bedrooms and a bathroom. The kitchen was joined to the house by a walkway roofed with rusting sheets of corrugated iron. On the floor of the main room, below holes in the ceiling, were stalagmites of bat droppings, the broken shutters were caked with the nests of mud-wasps, and the mosquito netting was torn in many places. The lavatory pan was encrusted, its seat broken; the chain that dangled from a rusted cistern had lost its handle. The bath and handbasin were also coated in grime. Fergus, prompted by a pervasive smell, made an outside inspection, which revealed that the soil pipe led to a septic tank beside which was a damp area with a meringue-like frothy topping.

I sat down on one of the hard
PWD
chairs and cried; Fergus was grimly silent. As we were to be stationed there for at least three years, it was important neither to offend local sensibilities, nor adopt an attitude that might be interpreted as colonial; at the same time it was essential to make clear to the appropriate authorities that the house was unacceptable, and failure to provide suitable housing was a breach of contract. The appropriate authority was the district commissioner, who was sympathetic, admitting that Karel and Marta Sin – against whom we had played the tennis match at Kintampo – had also rejected the house and now lived in the only acceptable alternative. Goodwill was expressed, and he promised that repair work would start immediately; in the meantime, the only solution he could offer was for us to stay in the weekend retreat house that the founder of the
MFU
s had built in the 1920s at Dorimon, a small settlement near the Black Volta, roughly thirteen miles from Wa.

At Wa there was a branch of the
UTC
, the Love All Canteen Bar and Restaurant, and a scattering of Lebanese stores where – in addition to candles, sugar, tins of tomato paste, Blue Band margarine, sardines, pilchards, matches, needles and coarse thread – brilliant cotton cloths, mostly printed in Holland, and a choice of top quality English woollen suiting was sold. A large market was held once a week, when a pig would be slaughtered for the benefit of the small non-Muslim population – this market would be the main source of our household supplies, so we stocked up before we left for Dorimon.

The Black Volta forms the border between Ghana and Burkina Faso, known before independence as the Gold Coast and Volta respectively. Dorimon, in addition to its scattering of dwellings, had a mud-built mosque and a marketplace. The population was small, with only about thirty adult males, some of whom were from the Lobi tribe, which had its roots in the Ivory Coast, and were not very advanced. The retreat house was sited on a slight hill overlooking the dam just outside the village; it was a traditional thatched round-house with separate quarters for the resident caretaker and visiting servants. A relic from the days of Empire, unlike the bungalow, it had not been allowed to deteriorate, having been kept scrupulously clean by the willing, if somewhat dim-witted, Da, who had been blinded in one eye by a spitting cobra.