[Author’s note: In 1965 I went to an Africa of bright prospects and great expectations with a Brownie Box Camera! It was just a black box with apertures and mirrors, as old as Satchel Page. I took it to Victoria Falls!
This proves how ill-equipped I was to deal with all I
would encounter there – a deadly black cobra playing dead at my feet, the
magnificence of the Falls, the beauty and vastness of the land, the kindness and
laughter of the people, the cruelty of their leaders, the irony . . .]
This proves how ill-equipped I was to deal with all I
would encounter there – a deadly black cobra playing dead at my feet, the
magnificence of the Falls, the beauty and vastness of the land, the kindness and
laughter of the people, the cruelty of their leaders, the irony . . .]
Excerpt from African Chronicles, Vol I: Chapter 8: Bulawayo
The night train to Bulawayo was vintage colonial: neat, clean, comfortable, post-Victorian. It was nothing more nor less than a story-book train. Like many features of life in Rhodesia the railway was segregated only by price of ticket. White people, and a few blacks, chose sleeping compartments but only blacks elected the open coaches. TheMinistry of Education had provided Louanne and me with a first class compartment. We had just settled into our room, about thirty minutes before departure, when we realized that our Brownie box camera was missing. I hurried back into the terminal and telephoned the hotel. The cleaning staff had already discovered the camera on a table in our room and had brought it to the front desk. The receptionist said he would dispatch someone by taxi to bring it to the train.
We opened the window of our compartment and watched for the courier. He arrived on the platform holding the camera high in his right hand, a tall thin young black man, panting hard. The train was pulling out of the station. He ran with all his strength alongside of the train, several coaches behind the one from which I was waving. He had seen me but could not keep pace with the gathering speed of the train.
By now everyone on our side of the train seemed to be part of the drama. Some were shouting encouragement to the breathless courier, while I could only look back, helpless, at his diminishing figure. Then there was general applause as the young man turned smartly and passed the camera to an outstretched arm. He stopped running and looked keenly ahead to where our section of train was bending slightly as we cleared the terminal. I waved again, “Thank you, thank you.” Soon the camera had made its way forward, hand over hand, through six or seven coaches to our own. Awash with gratitude, I could only think, “So this is Africa.”
The night train to Bulawayo was vintage colonial: neat, clean, comfortable, post-Victorian. It was nothing more nor less than a story-book train. Like many features of life in Rhodesia the railway was segregated only by price of ticket. White people, and a few blacks, chose sleeping compartments but only blacks elected the open coaches. TheMinistry of Education had provided Louanne and me with a first class compartment. We had just settled into our room, about thirty minutes before departure, when we realized that our Brownie box camera was missing. I hurried back into the terminal and telephoned the hotel. The cleaning staff had already discovered the camera on a table in our room and had brought it to the front desk. The receptionist said he would dispatch someone by taxi to bring it to the train.
We opened the window of our compartment and watched for the courier. He arrived on the platform holding the camera high in his right hand, a tall thin young black man, panting hard. The train was pulling out of the station. He ran with all his strength alongside of the train, several coaches behind the one from which I was waving. He had seen me but could not keep pace with the gathering speed of the train.
By now everyone on our side of the train seemed to be part of the drama. Some were shouting encouragement to the breathless courier, while I could only look back, helpless, at his diminishing figure. Then there was general applause as the young man turned smartly and passed the camera to an outstretched arm. He stopped running and looked keenly ahead to where our section of train was bending slightly as we cleared the terminal. I waved again, “Thank you, thank you.” Soon the camera had made its way forward, hand over hand, through six or seven coaches to our own. Awash with gratitude, I could only think, “So this is Africa.”
