African Meanderings - Part 5

The day before we were due to go back to the UK John and I drove in to Dar es Salaam to buy a few presents. It was a 35 km trip and once we were off the dirt road from Helen’s, we came to tarmac. Along a straight stretch, we came to some roadworks which had red and white rails and oil drums around a 100 m long trench. It also had a “Stop-Go” sign, which said “STOP”, so we did. However, it was lunchtime and there was nobody to be seen. We could see for miles and the road was clear, so we drove on. Just as we neared the end of the works, an African policeman jumped out from behind a bush and waved us down. He came up to my window, and I wound it down. After a very smart salute, he said, “Excuse me Sir, but did you not see that STOPOO sign back there?” I replied, “Oh sorry officer, I’m blind, I didn’t see it.” To our astonishment, he said, “Oh sorry Sir, I didn’t realise. Off you go!” With that, he gave another smart salute and waved us on. It wasn’t until we reached Dar es Salaam that we stopped laughing. I still wonder, how long it took for him to realise, and the penny to have dropped.

Dinner on the beach in front of Helen’s home at Ras Kiomoni. © Duncan Smith

Too soon, it was time to leave Africa and return to England. John was sorely disappointed that it hadn’t been possible for us to go hunting and he would have to forgo his hunting “trophy”. Helen had arranged a small farewell party for us the night before we were due to fly home. We sat on the beach in front of her home. Night fell, and we gazed up at an inky black sky, peppered with billions of pulsating stars. Guests included a young white hunter, Terry Irwin, his very gloomy wife and her parents. Two of Helen’s oldest friends whom she’d met on arriving in Africa in 1948, and Dimitri, a grizzled old Greek who managed a 5,000-hectare sisal estate next to Helen. He feasted on life in every shape and form and lived life like an 18-year-old on steroids. Finally, Hemingway who’d forgiven us and seen the funny side of his fall from grace!

We dined on steak, and lobsters, fish and prawns, fresh from the sea. We drank ice-cold beers, brandy and ruby red port. The Indian Ocean sighed gently on the beach beyond the tall coconut palms that surrounded Helen’s home. A full moon eased itself from the depths of the sea and pale blue phosphorescence lit the surf which tossed scattered sapphires onto the sand.

Dimitri. © Duncan Smith

Three hours later we were all very mellow and Dimitri, who was very drunk, turned to me and slurred, “You have good time Duncan, did you. Yes?” I said, “Yes, John and I’ve really enjoyed ourselves. The only disappointment, Dimitri, was that he wanted to go hunting, but we never got around to it.” Dimitri stood up so fast that he knocked over his chair and turned to John shouting, “We go now and kill from my farm, yes? Come!” “Yes,” John exclaimed and leapt from the table and followed a stumbling Dimitri to his Landrover. I quickly gave our apologies to my aunt, who happily waved us away, smiling broadly through a haze of booze.

Dimitri drove like a man possessed, weaving from one side of the road to the other. Soon we reached his dilapidated house, and he yelled out for one of his workers to drive his car, then disappeared inside. After much crashing and swearing from within, he emerged triumphant with two ammunition belts over his shoulders, a shotgun in one hand and a powerful rifle in the other. His weather-beaten face had a demonic look, and the corners of his mouth were edged with foam. We took off at a horrendous speed towards his sisal estate, bouncing along the profoundly rutted tracks that crisscrossed his land.

His Landrover roof had two square “trap doors” cut into it that opened, enabling people to stand up and look out. Dimitri yelled non-stop over the roar of the engine and the loud protestations of complaining car springs as we lurched from pothole to pothole. “You go stand, look and shine spotlights. See game. Tell me. We stop. You shoot! Yes?”

“OK” we shouted back, holding on for dear life, our legs shaking like coiled springs and our heads sticking out of the lurching Landrover. “You forget guns!” Dimitri shrieked. “You forget take spotlights too, you stupidies! How expect you see animals, eh?” We bent down and meekly collected our weapons and lights. John took the shotgun, and I took the rifle. With spotlights in hand, we returned to our jolting posts.

To be continued in Part 6. Getting exciting now eh!

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