The Zanzibar Chest: A Memoir of Love and War. Aidan Hartley
the red cover; Captain Stigand’s The Land of Zinj, eaten into a honeycomb by white ants; the spewing volcanoes of Duke Adolphus Frederick of Mecklenburg’s In the Heart of Africa; the bugs in G. D. Hale Carpenter’s A Naturalist on Lake Victoria; the slaughtered lions laid out in J. H. Patterson’s The Man-Eaters of Tsavo; and the pygmies, tattooed warriors and men with filed teeth in Sir Harry Johnston’s The Uganda Protectorate.
Mum gave us each something to plant in the garden. My eldest brother Richard’s tree was a bombax, with a knobbly trunk that grew ever so slowly. Kim planted a Norfolk pine with crazy branches inside the circle of hibiscus next to the house. Bryony’s was a frangipani, fragrant and delicate. Dad scattered the seedpods of a Red Sea saltbush that grew into blue-grey fleshy clumps along the high-water mark. Mum loved her Adenium desert roses. This plant had a few plump branches that produced pinkish or dark, red blooms above ground. But like a vegetable iceberg, underground was a massive, tuberous bulb. Much later I, too, was given a tree. I can’t recall what it was except that it was dubbed the ‘whacker’ plant because Dad ripped it up to give me a thrashing with it on the only occasion he ever beat me.
At the north end of the beach was the sandy pool, where I learned to swim at eighteen months with my armbands on, bum in the air and my eyes open underwater. When I was older I joined my brother Kim and went out with the fishermen, who taught us the names for all the fish, shells and corals. Fragments of blue ceramic and celadon washed in with every tide, reminders of Chinese traders from six centuries before. On the southern end of the village bay stood a pillar dedicated to the Holy Ghost, erected by Vasco da Gama, who had sailed from here to India in 1498. Below the beachfront mosque, surrounded by tall phallus-shaped tombs of forgotten notables, townspeople haggled over the day’s catch. In the labyrinth of houses of coral and mud and wattle lived a rich mix of cultures from all over the Indian Ocean. Bajuni fishermen, Giriamas in grass skirts balancing pots and banana branches on their heads. The ironmonger was a Hadhramauti who served ginger tea and did not let my mother pay for bags of nails. Our tailoring was done by a bearded Bohra, who had a row of men working on foot-pedalled Singers outside his shop. The newsagent was a Pakistani we called Frankenstein, because his teeth were brown from chewing betel nut. There was Archie Ritchie, an old game warden who wore a lilac-breasted roller bird on his shoulder, and his wife, Queenie, whom the village Arabs called ‘the Queen’; Terence Adamson, who had had half his jaw torn off by one of his brother George’s lions, and who taught me how to divine for water with a forked stick; Laly, who took us snorkelling; Max, a German-Irish Baron, who was captured on the Eastern Front and survived years in Siberia as a POW, when snow blew in through his cell window; Max’s wife, Anna, a Seychellois beauty whose first husband had been killed by a charging elephant; Gigi, a singer at the Dhow Nightclub, famous for her rendition of ‘Malaika’, the most famous Swahili pop song, about a man too poor to marry his girl; Gigi’s boyfriend Knut, a Dane who had been a circus clown and could walk a straight line on his hands but not his legs when he was drunk. And there was Marujin, a Catalonian marquesa whom I held in awe. She wore heavy silver bracelets up each arm that click-clacked as she glided barefoot through her dark, cool house. On the walls were tantric designs and she had a huge copper tray piled with the ivory, smooth fragments of cowrie shells. For hours I listened to her speak as she sat cross-legged on her veranda.
‘One thing we know is that we’re not Europeans. We know that, but we’re also not Africans. What we are, I don’t know, but we’re not Europeans…’ Marujin said the mind was the ‘lunatic in the house’, the cricket in the cage relentlessly chirping ‘tchya-ko, tchya-ko, tchya-ko’. She said anything we learned came to us spontaneously, when the mind was still and serene.
As a small boy I had a string of fevers, but my parents were offhand about medical treatment. My mother had seen the inside of hospitals only to give birth and I grew up, barefoot and in shorts, to believe Dad’s superstitions that visiting a doctor might make an illness more critical rather than cure it. At home our first-aid box had been stocked with Mercurochrome, antiseptic powder, universal Chinese eye ointment, a few stuck-together bandages, and a blue bottle of milk of magnesia. Aspirins were rare, while antibiotics were banned. Home cures and local remedies were warmly approved of: hot cooking oil for earache, hot brine for a stomach ache and a poultice of pawpaw and honey for jigger worm boils, cuts, thorns or sea urchin spines in our feet. If we had fever Mum plucked leaves from the neem trees in our garden for hot infusions. When Charo suffered a stroke that paralysed one side of his body, Dad took him to a witch doctor who buried him alive for half an hour, with very positive effects. For me, only malaria had led to a visit to the dreaded Dr Zoltan Rossinger, a Viennese Jew who had escaped Hitler. The doctor charged Africans nothing and all others the normal price – except for Germans, from whom he demanded double.
My brother Kim and I spent a lot of my time with an old man named Mohamed. Polio had stunted one of Mohamed’s legs, which dangled useless and childlike, and he eked out a pittance hawking shells to the growing number of white tourists. He sat all day long on his coconut mat in town, resplendent among the mother-of-pearl of nautiluses, triton conches and the pink, pouting lips of spider shells. We sat cross-legged listening to him, as he told us stories about storms on the ocean, dugongs and the Glory of the Seas, rarest among all shells. As he spoke he paused to expertly spit quids of red betel nut juice for dramatic emphasis, or roll a fresh nut into a pan leaf and tuck it into his cheek to chew.
Some days, he would take us down to the beach where fishermen caulked their careened boats while buyers haggled over beached shark carcasses. The sand glittered with mica. It was the same beach from which Mohamed’s slave ancestors had been herded aboard dhows bound for Arabia. On land, he lurched about on crutches but out on the ocean from his outrigger canoe he flipped into the sea and swam like a merman. We used to hand-line in the waters beyond Vasco da Gama’s pillar, staring into the water, yanking the line, hoping for brilliant reef fish to bite. Mohamed tied his line to a horny big toe and dozed off, springing alert at the slightest nibble.
Once my brother pulled out a fish with a domed forehead and a sailfin. Mohamed gave it his Swahili name, filusi, fine to eat and very special. In English it is the coryphene. In Spanish it is more beautifully known as the dorado, meaning ‘gilded’, because of its iridescent gold flanks. Mohamed seized hold of the fish and told us to watch closely. As the dorado suffocated its pigment, sheathed with a patina of stippled green, was transfigured for a brief instant like a beam of sunshine on a church mosaic. Mohamed held the fish as its strength drained away. With it, the light in the dorado’s brilliance faded. When the process was complete, Mohamed picked up his knife and sliced open her belly, removed the guts and tossed the body to the bottom of the canoe, where it turned the colour of tarnished lead.
My mother decided it was time for us to be educated outside Africa with its revolutions and wars. My siblings were taken out of their Kenya schools. I remember the time they first left by plane to go to boarding school in England. They had to swap their African uniforms of gingham shirts and khaki shorts for thick socks and grey felt blazers that made them look cold even before they were out of the equatorial sunshine. They went on ahead to Europe and my mother followed with me. We settled on a small hill farm in Devon. It was a rugged, pagan spot: a thatched longhouse of whitewashed cob, a great barn with timbers like a ship, views over Dartmoor, oak and elm woods, blackthorn hedges, clover pastures, a millpond and a stream, granite troughs and rookeries. This was modern England, but our neighbour on one side still ploughed with horses, stooked his hay with a pitchfork and was unable to write apart from sign his name on a bank cheque. On the other side of us was the poet Ted Hughes. After we met him one day in the fields, Mum said he ‘looked like a man who has been struck by lightning’.
We had sheep, cattle, horses and a black dog called Bruce. My eldest brother Richard attempted rearing pigs but he grew to know each porker by name so he couldn’t face sending them to the butcher. I kept ducks and chickens, goats, rabbits and guinea pigs. Lambing started when it was still cold and muddy in spring as the first crocuses poked through the snow. May carpeted the wood floor with bluebells. In summer wildflowers dusted the meadows and we fished for trout in the little streams and the pond. Richard helped Mum run the farm. He ploughed and harvested and made hay, helped by a labourer who had a hook where his hand should have been. Richard was so strong he could pitchfork a bale of straw high onto a trailer. In autumn