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Colonial
Kenya I was a District
Officer in the Colonial Service and served in Kenya for the ten years
leading up to independence. Kenya is a country of fascinating variety,
ranging from snow-capped Mount Kenya and highlands of up to 10,000 feet,
down to savannah and a tropical coast. There is also a vast area of mountains
and desert covering the entire northern half of the country and which,
to the east of Lake Rudolf, was known as the Northern Frontier District
(NFD). All administrative officers had to do NFD service sooner or later
and, when my own turn came, I was fortunate to be posted to Marsabit,
generally agreed to be the best of the NFD stations. Northern Frontier District: No persons may enter the NFD without at least ten days' supply of food and water and an adequate supply of fuel. Permits may be applied for at the Provincial Commissioner's Office, Isiolo. Upon our identifying ourselves, the barrier was raised for us by askari [a generic word for soldiers, guards or armed attendants] and thus began my 18 months in the NFD. In this region there were few sections of road in the ordinary sense of the term. Where there was a base of earth, as in desert or scrubland, there would usually be well-defined wheel tracks and the going could be quite fast; the best was the Chalbi desert north of Marsabit which was 50 miles of hard sun-baked mud as flat as a billiard table, and it could take whatever speed of which the vehicle was capable. Over lava, however, one chose what looked like the least agonizing route and the going was invariably slow; some American missionaries who came through one day from Moyale described their experience of the Dida Galgalu lava plain: "We would get going quite well on the flat but then we would come to a lava edge and have to choke down to 2 miles an hour; overall I guess we averaged about 10 miles an hour, and if you can do that - boy, you're travelling!" A hazard of all roads were dry river beds, known as "luggas". They were invariably of sand and the trick was to go through at a steady speed in second gear; if you went too fast or else used bottom gear the wheels would plough in and it might take hours to coax your way out. At infrequent intervals, and without any warning, these luggas would become raging torrents of water; flash floods caused by heavy rainfall in mountains perhaps many miles away. On one occasion one of our trucks was returning from Isiolo and came to a lugga in flood; when it showed no sign of abating the driver turned the truck round intending to go back to Isiolo, only to find that another lugga a mile or so back (which he had crossed safely a few hours previously) was also in flood. There was nothing for it but to sit it out, and he was not able to proceed for three days. Once the rains had officially started we always deemed the road to Isiolo - and most others - to be impassable, and at such times mail and supplies were brought in about every two weeks by light aircraft. A particularly bad area if there had been any chance of rain was the Hedad; this was an extensive semi-desert of scrub and black cotton soil between Marsabit and the southern end of Lake Rudolf, and run-off from the heavy rain on Mt Nyiru (9,000') to the south west and Mt. Kulal (6,000') to the north west would drain into it. Black cotton soil is the most treacherous of all: if it is at all damp - even below the surface - it will not carry the weight of a vehicle, and many a one has ventured onto a dry surface only to sink in up to the axles. One could of course get stuck simply because of a breakdown, and all drivers became masters of the art of bush mechanics. On one of my safaris we replaced a broken rear spring with a block of wood and got home without difficulty, but the best instance was recounted by one of our police officers. He had stopped to help a Somali trader whose truck had broken down with a blown cylinder head gasket and a flat battery. Having said that he didn't need any assistance, he dug a hole in the ground, put the battery in it and lit a fire on top of it. He then took off the cylinder head and replaced the blown gasket with rags well saturated in grease. He put the cylinder head back and then dug up the battery; it was so hot that he could hardly hold it, but the heat had given it just enough boost to get the engine going, and off he went as if this was an everyday occurrence. Indeed, it probably was, since some traders' trucks were in an advanced state of decomposition. It was because of conditions such as these that there was a barrier on the road north from Isiolo, nobody being allowed through unless they could satisfy the Administration that they were properly equipped and knew what they were doing. It was also standard procedure to signal all vehicle movements, giving estimated time of arrival, to their final destination and also to any intervening districts or police posts. Mount Marsabit is extensive, covering about 50 miles north-south and rising some 4,000 feet above the desert floor, itself about 1,500 feet above sea level. The boma is almost at the summit and enjoys a cool green existence surrounded by forest. The DC calculated that of the 33 inches of rainfall annually, 3 inches were due to mist condensation: indeed, at certain times of the year the mist did not lift until midday. It was a good place to come back to after a safari in the desert below. The District covered some 30,000 square miles and had a population of about 17,000, nearly all of whom were nomadic herdsmen. Rainfall on the plains was sparse, and the tribes (Boran, Gabbra and Rendille) had to be where there was grazing still to be found. Shortly after my arrival the DC sent me on a safari all round the northern part of the District. I was asked to look for new grazing areas and also to note where the tribesmen were. The safari took three days. I covered 500 miles, and the only people I saw in all that time were police, either at the two or three scattered police posts, or on one occasion a rakoub (camel-mounted patrol) on the horizon. I did see some good grazing, however, close to the Ethiopian frontier. I reported to Windy with some misgivings, because I thought that I must in some way have failed; but he was pleased and told me that he would have set out at once if I had reported seeing any of our tribesmen. The safari served two purposes: it showed me something of the vast extent of the District and also its major problem. When the Italians were driven out of Ethiopia in 1941 they left behind a large quantity of military equipment, including rifles and ammunition. Whatever the quality of Ethiopian administration in the country as a whole, it was ineffective in the provinces of Gemu Gofa and Sidamo which border on northern Kenya; certain tribesmen in the area, notably the Gelubba, had acquired these rifles and trained themselves to shoot with remarkable accuracy, even though the rifling was so worn and corroded that bullets could be dropped down the barrel with room to spare. Just before my arrival, the PC and DC had flown along the Marsabit-Ethiopia border in a light aircraft to see if they could sight the probable location of Gelabba hideouts; they were unsuccessful, but when the plane had landed back in Marsabit they found five bullet holes in the fuselage. The Gelubba and, further eastwards, the Boran "shifta" (a word meaning bandits) were intent solely on murder. Their chief sport was to make hit and run raids into Kenya, shooting and killing as many tribesmen as they could and then retreating back across the border. They were used to the desert, could cover 60 miles a day (on foot) and survive on the few waterholes that lay on their route. It was thus important that the tribes were kept to grazing areas as far from the border as possible. With rainfall never more than 10 inches a year, usually less and sometimes non-existent, it was always a problem to find grazing of any kind; all those virgin grasslands I had seen near the border could not of course be used. It was also desirable for the tribes to be near a police post so that a runner could report a raid, a signal be sent to Marsabit and pursuit be under way within reasonable time. It would in fact have needed an army to protect the tribes properly and patrol the 150 mile long border, but equally it was an unacceptable risk to issue rifles to our own tribesmen: this would be an invitation to civil war. We did what we could with the Kenya Police and Tribal Police, but it was not enough until... One morning we received a signal from a police post only 110 miles away that a raid had been carried out the previous night. We had a council of war as to the bandits' probable route back to the border, and a young Kenyan police inspector (Jerry Megson) and I were despatched before midday with two truckloads of askari and supplies, and we headed straight for the border 120 miles away. We parked the trucks in the lee of the Hurri Hills, which run up to the frontier, and despatched three askari in plain clothes, and who were known in the area, to make gentle enquiries. We were just in time: the "shifta" were resting up in a manyatta (small huts made of stretched cowhide, characteristic of the nomadic NFD tribes) not a mile from the border and hard by Furroli, the sacred mountain of the Boran. Jerry Megson did an admirable job in planning the assault so that nothing would be suspected until the last possible moment, and all went well. As the men were closing in, however, the "shifta" realised their predicament and opened fire. A gun battle ensued in which two of their number were killed and the rest managed to escape. That wild part of Kenya had dangers other than Ethiopian bandits. Wherever we went on safari we would take with us enough askari to provide the camp with double sentries all night; the men, too, would keep the fire going as long as possible - and not just so as to keep warm. One night in the small hours I was wakened by shouts of "Kifaru, Kifaru!" (Swahili for rhinoceros) and in one movement was crouching behind the camp bed, my rifle in my hands. Actually this rifle was more something to hold onto than an effective weapon against two tons of rhino: it was only a .22, suitable for shooting birds, and I would probably have achieved more by using it to hit the rhino over the head than by shooting at it. I could not see the rhino, but could hear it thundering towards us as it made its first charge; fortunately I also heard the most infernal racket as pots, pans, tyre levers and assorted metalware were banged together, whilst I and the others shouted and yelled. The rhino veered off, clearly not quite sure what it had come up against, but a few minutes later charged from a different direction. Upon being greeted in similar fashion it then decided that it might have better luck elsewhere. Near the summit of Mount Marsabit there was a natural spring which provided a piped water supply. One day this supply dwindled to a trickle and a police officer (Frank Church) and I, with two askari, went to investigate. There was a track through the forest, covering the mile or so to the spring, and we were well on our way when suddenly there appeared over the next rise the head of a buffalo. Buffaloes are, when stalking, perhaps the most persistent and least predictable of all East Africa's wild animals; they have been known to walk away from a confrontation with hunters and much later make a successful (and totally unexpected) charge from behind. In spite of their bulk they are masters of the art of concealment and will suddenly appear as if from behind a blade of grass. Finally, to add to the danger of this animal, a .303 bullet cannot penetrate the front of solid bone which the buffalo presents when head on. It was therefore with some trepidation that we stood, guns lowered but ready, in line abreast across the path; we hoped that one or other of our rifles might find its mark in the neck behind the forehead, once its head was lowered on a charge, but our best rifle was Frank's 10mm Mannlicher, scarcely better than the .303 service rifles in the hands of the askari, whilst I, of course, had only my trusty .22. I can see that buffalo now, as clearly as if it were yesterday, and it seemed a very long time while he and ourselves stared at each other, neither of us moving. Then he suddenly crashed off into the forest and we proceeded on our way. As we breasted the rise we saw that he had been guarding four cows. Fortunately they had had no calves with them.... Water may generally have been in plentiful supply on the mountain, but it was a very precious commodity in the District as a whole. One day, Windy pointed out on the map an area between the Hurri Hills and the Chalbi desert where the South African Army had sunk a borehole during the last war, and asked me to see if I could find it and if it was still usable. We made camp at the nearest point on the road and set off on foot at 4.00 a.m. the next day. The askari with us knew of the borehole and I asked them how far it was. The reply was "Si mbali sana: ni huko tu." ("Not very far: it's just over there.") It was difficult going because we were walking not on flat ground but through lava boulders, strewn as if by a giant's hand over the desert. After about two hours I asked again and got the same reply! I learned then that the only way to get a useful answer was to ask where the sun would be when we got there. They pointed to 45 degrees up in the sky from the east (i.e. about 9.00 o'clock). Sure enough, it took five hours to get there ("not very far"!) but we found that the sides had fallen in and it needed completely reboring. Never had camp looked so welcome as when we saw it again in the early afternoon.¦ First published in VISA issue 72A (Apr 2007). A longer version of this article was originally published in Past Historic, the newsletter of History SIG. |