a short story from
The Recollections of Sir Bastionov Dash-Tope
(The Mombastard Flash)
My wife and I were staying
at Whitesands Hotel, Mombasa on the Kenya Coast living in
one of the old cottages that were no longer of a suitable
standard to be sold to guests, ever since the rebuilding and
modernisation of the rest of the hotel. It was a great
arrangement whereby we had board and lodging in exchange for
my giving three performances per week in the Hotel Bar.
Having just spent the best part of a year living in a Land
Rover on a Trans-Africa trip we were not bothered by the
piles of 'guano' dropped over everything by the large
community of geckos that also lived there. They were
carefree days spent swimming, windsurfing, sunbathing and
singing a few songs in the bar. The manager of the hotel was
a very sociable and likeable womaniser and boozer by the
name of Malcolm McLellan who looked the double of Captain
Kirk of The Starship Enterprise. He asked me one day if I
wouldn't mind doing him a favour by bringing back a dog that
he was to adopt from Mr. Paul Boresson, the Manager of the
New Stanley Hotel in Nairobi. Boresson, as well as being a
fellow manager in the same hotel chain, was a kindred spirit
to McLellan. Immensely likeable with a great sense of
humour. One of those people with an endless supply of jokes
and at his most comfortable propping up a bar. But,
unfortunately for Boresson, the Indian owner of the hotels
had decided to dispense with his services. Boresson had been
informed in the favourite Indian way by finding his letter
of dismissal on his desk upon his return from
leave. As a rule I did not have
much cause to travel to Nairobi very often, for which I was
thankful as I had lost the taste for the City despite having
lived there for many years. However, I saw no problem in
collecting the dog and I anyway felt I was in Malcolm's debt
for his generosity towards myself and my wife, so I happily
agreed. I was to travel to Nairobi
on the famous Mombasa-Nairobi overnight train. A book entitled 'The
Lunatic Express' tells the story of the building of this
great railway line from Mombasa, on the shores of the Indian
Ocean, to Port Florence (now Kisumu) on the shores of Lake
Victoria. With construction starting in 1894 and completion
in 1903, the five hundred and eighty four mile railway
stands as indisputable testament to the stupendous
achievements of the turn of the Century Engineers as it
crosses the hostile and thorny Taru desert between Mombasa
and Nairobi and then descends and scales the sides of the
Rift Valley on its way to Lake Victoria. Perhaps the most famous
story of the building of this railway, told in books and in
cinema, is that of the Maneating lions of Tsavo who
terrorised the railcamp for weeks, stealing into the camp at
night and carrying off the Indian workers and, on one
infamous occasion where the lion actually went into one of
the rail carriages, a sleeping European Rail Engineer,
dragging him through the open window. The rail building
project was delayed for precious weeks until the offending
lions were shot. 'Precious weeks' because part of the aim of
the whole project, apart from providing a convenient means
to transport whatever could be found of value in the
interior to Mombasa and thenceforth for export to the rest
of the world, all in the just and due cause of Colonial
Rape, was to beat the 'Bloody Germans' who were attempting a
similar project in German East Africa, or Tanganyika - later
to become Tanzania. The Germans lost the race but eleven
years later completed a line from Dar es Salaam to Kigoma on
Lake Tanganyika, south of Lake Victoria, which they then
patrolled with the battleship Graf von Goetzen. This ship
was the inspiration for another famous African Hollywood
Drama, 'The African Queen' starring Humphrey Bogart and
Catherine Hepburn. Lunatics, Lions and Bloody
Germans aside, the Mombasa-Nairobi overnight train is a time
machine trip into another age, albeit, nowadays, a shadow of
its former glory in Colonial times, where the passengers
board the train in the evening amid much excitement, hubbub,
baggage and bicycles and travel through the night, through
the vast Tzavo game reserve, dining in the style of a bygone
age that brings to mind visions of the Orient Express and
later sleeping soundly to the rhythmic clickety-clack of the
wheels in the cosy two berth cabins. Dinner is invariably a
riot because soup and rocking trains never go together well.
In the morning you are awakened by the breakfast gong. A
steward walks the length of the First and Second Class
carriages - Third Class passengers are not expected to use
the Dining Car - playing a small four note xylophone. The
practice of announcing mealtimes with music or rhythm is
widespread, especially at the Coast Hotels where a small
group of waiters will walk around the usually expansive
grounds and beach of the hotel playing instruments and
banging drums announcing to the guests that the dining room
is open. Breakfast on the train is
taken as the train passes through either Mariakani on the
outskirts of Mombasa, with the smell of the sea in the air
and the hilltops dotted with Palm trees, or Athi Plains and
the Nairobi National Park, where the plains are already
teeming with early morning wildlife, depending upon which
way one is travelling. I went early to the New
Stanley Hotel to check with Paul Boresson that all was well
regarding his dog. The dog in question was a large, very
well fed Black Labrador named Kama Sutra. Boresson also had
the appearance of being very well fed. He was large and
happy in his disposition. Much like his dog appeared to be.
Paul explained that just in case Kama Sutra got excited by
travelling with a stranger, he had given him a 'little
tranquiliser'. Everything seemed to have been excellently
arranged, so I settled down to a free lunch and to wait for
the taxi that Paul had organised to take myself and Kama
Sutra to the Railway Station. When the taxi arrived Kama
Sutra was dead to the world. "Er. . . how many
tranquilisers did you give him, Paul?" "Three. Well, . . he's a
big dog!" Getting the dog into the
taxi was like carrying a huge hairy corpse. I began to hear
a small, worried voice in the back of my mind. Paul, ever
cheerful, wished me a safe trip and disappeared. By the time
we reached the station Kama had opened an eye but it was
plainly unable to focus on anything. I had just under an
hour before the train left so I was not unduly
worried. Between the taxi driver
and myself we hauled Kama Sutra to the entrance to the
station platform. By this time Kama Sutra, unable to sleep
peacefully, was making an effort to stand. Well, he was but
his legs would not cooperate. I tried to give him a little
time to wake up but finally had to head for the train. I
flashed my ticket at the Ticket Inspector as I struggled
past with the swaying, wobbling dog and my
suitcase. "Where eez tha tiggett for
tha dhog?". "Eh. . ?". "Tha tiggett for tha
dhog!". "What? The dog needs a
ticket?". "Yaz". Damn. "Any particular type
of ticket?". "Yaz. Ah dhog tiggett. You
go and-ee see tha . . ehh . . Stayshun Mastah". "Well, where is the
Station Master?" "Ehh. . .In tha
ovviss". "Very funny. And . . .
where is the office . . .?" "On da
pratfoam". Kama Sutra in the meantime
had suffered a minor relapse with the lack of motion and had
settled back down to sleep. I checked the time . . . 4:10pm
and the train was due to leave at 5:00pm. I had better not
waste time. I still had to find my compartment. The system
on this train is that your name is written on a small card
outside the window of your allotted cabin. To find your
cabin you must walk along the platform checking each name
card until you find yours. In fact there was a Passenger
List at the entrance to the platform with details of the
cabin allocations but I had been too preoccupied with the
Station Master's Office and so had failed to notice
it. "Com'on Kama. Attaboy.
Com'on boy". With Kama staggering drunkenly at the end of
the leash and my suitcase in my other hand we found the
Station Master's Office. "Jambo Bwana" I began,
"Can I get the ticket for the dog here?" "Eh . . ?" "Can I get the ticket for
the dog here?", I repeated. It is normal in Africa.
Everything takes so much longer because everything that is
said has to be repeated. It is even worse on the telephone.
The absence of visual contact means no benefit can be gained
from facial expression or gesticulation. "Ehr . . you maast-ee see
tha gahd". "What . .?!" "I yam-ee seying . .you
maast-ee see tha gahd". "The guard? What
guard?" "Tha gahd for tha
t'lain". "Where will I find
him?" "Ohn tha t'lain! At-ee tha
aind". "The end? What, the end of
the train?" "Ehr . . yaz". "Com'on Kama. Attaboy.
Com'on boy". 4:20pm! I was starting to get concerned.
Dragging poor old Kama by the neck I hurried as fast as his
dead weight would allow. When we reached the Guard's Wagon I
asked him if he could please give me a ticket for the
dog. "Eh . .?!" ". . a ticket for the dog
. .!" "Ohhh . . you want-ee a
tiggett for tha dhog?". "Yes . . yes . . a
ticket". "But-ee . . . you maast-ee
. . ehh . .", his concentration was elsewhere as he dug his
finger a bit deeper up his nostril, " . . you maast-ee see
tha Stayshun Mastah". "I've just come from the
bleeding Station Master and he told me to come and see
you!" "But-ee, . . I have
knotty-goat tha tiggetts" "Oh Christ!" We struggled
all the way back down the platform again to the Station
Master's Office. 4:35pm. "The guard says I have to
get the ticket from you. He says he doesn't have
tickets" "Yez . . No . .! Tha
tiggett is-ee heeyah, but-ee . . you maast-ee see tha gahd
for tha bogs". "For the what . .
.?" "For tha bogs" "The Bogs?" What the hell
was he trying to say now? "Tha bogs for tha dhog!
Tha dhog . . maast-ee . . t'lavehwl . . in ehh . . ah . .
spayshule bogs. Spayshule - onry for dhogs". "A Box !!" I yelled,
finally understanding. " The dog must travel in a special
box?" "Ehhh . . yaz, and-ee tha
gahd is-ee tha wan with tha bogs". "Well why didn't you
bloody well say that in first bloody place.
Goddammit!" Shit! 4:40pm. "Com'on Kama. Attaboy.
Com'on boy". At least Kama was starting
to wake up a bit by now but he still couldn't go in a
straight line and every now and then one of his legs would
give out and he would take a dive. If only I could leave him
guarding my suitcase I might have a chance because every
time we stopped moving he collapsed and drifted off to sleep
again. We reached the Guard's Wagon for the second time.
This time there was nobody in sight. 4:45pm. I still didn't even know
where my cabin was. "Come on Kama, let's go
and find our cabin". The Guard's Wagon was the
very last carriage of the train. Still half carrying, half
dragging Paul Boresson's well fed, well doped up dog and my
suitcase we made our agonisingly slow way towards the front
of the train, checking all the little name cards outside
each window. I was beginning to get that panic feeling
because I hadn't seen my name yet and there was only one
more carriage left before the big Diesel-Electric Engine at
the front. "COME ON KAMA BLOODY
SUTRA, FOR CHRIST'S SAKE. WAKE UP, GODDAMMIT!" 4:55pm! We're going to run out of
platform soon. Please, please . . don't
let some incompetent twit leave my name off the
list!! There! Yes . . there it is
. . I see it . . MY NAME. It was the second compartment of
the first carriage! 4:57pm. "Well, Kama Sutra. It is
my considered opinion that we are being unduly messed about
here so, . . . its now or never . . . and bugger the bloody
Bogs!". I threw my case through
the door, bundled Kama in after it and locked all three of
us in the toilet until the train had left the sation. By the
time we had passed Kenya Breweries and the Industrial Area
outside Nairobi I felt safe enough to leave the toilet and
so, leaving Kama contentedly dreaming once more, I went to
check out the cabin. In the past when I had
travelled on the Mombasa-Nairobi train my family had been
living in Mombasa and I used to travel First Class up to
Nairobi to boarding school. The First Class cabins contained
two bunk beds, a small wardrobe and a sink in the corner by
the window with running water available and with a fold down
cover so that it could be used as a table at other times.
The cabins were arranged in pairs with connecting doors so
that families could occupy two adjacent connecting cabins
and Parents were able to maintain a degree of privacy whilst
still being able to keep an eye, or at least an ear, on
their children. The beginning and end of
school term was a joy for those children who lived in
Mombasa because we all got to ride on the train without
parents to spoil the fun. It was pure, utter joy to have
dinner in the grown-ups Dining Car as we watched the African
plains trundle by - the train travelled at a very stately
pace, rarely exceeding 35mph - and then by the time we had
returned to the cabin, the steward had prepared the bunk
beds with sheets and blankets. There was always a mad
scramble because everyone always wanted the top
bunk. However, in the interests
of economy I was now travelling Second Class. Second Class
cabins contained six bunk beds and nothing else. It is
unusual for white Europeans to travel in any class other
than First so I was not surprised at the mixture of Africans
and Asians occupying five places. I asked if anyone in the
cabin was Muslim. No, none of them was Muslim. Good. No Muslims. Not that I have anything
against Muslims, you understand, but the Muslim religion
forbids them to come into physical contact with dogs. I
returned to the toilet and collected my suitcase and Kama.
In the same situation in England I am positive my appearance
with a large dog and my obvious intention to bring it into
the cramped cabin would have elicited some haughty,
complaining comment or at the very least exasperated sighs,
huffs and puffs and looks. But in this instance everybody
just shifted around a bit and made floor space for Kama
Sutra. By the time we all woke up
the next morning the cabin was thick with dogstink and
general African B.O., so I left the dog there in the cabin
and disappeared off in search of fresh air and the Dining
Car. When I returned to the cabin after breakfast it was
just in time for the Ticket Inspector. "Where eez tha tiggett for
tha dhog?". Oh no, here we go again! "Er. . ticket .
.?" "Is that-ee your
dhog?" "Erm . . er . . yes .
." "Do you hav-a-tigget for
tha dhog?" "No. You see . . well . .
er . . I tried in Nairob. . ." "It is-ee okhay . . . I
cahn-ee lite a tiggett for roo . . just-ee now". After all that fuss with
'gahds and bogses', chasing up and down the platform at
Nairobi, he just wrote out a ticket and I paid him. Simple!
Job done! When we arrived in
Mombasa, with Kama Sutra now well rested and hopefully back
to normal, we set off to find a taxi. As we passed the gate
I heard it again, "Where eez tha tiggett for
tha dhog?" I said nothing. I just showed him the
ticket.
