Sunday Morning in Magamba, 1954

John Macintyre went to East Africa in the 1950s

1954: I'm 14 years old and living with my parents and younger brother in the house at the bottom of Lady Leed's drive in Magamba. It's a Sunday and I'm woken up by the family donkey trying to blow his insides out.

I look out the bedroom window and survey the scene. Mother is feeding the egg layers and collecting the eggs, Father is cleaning the donkey shed out. Billy the goat is having his breakfast. There really should be a sign up saying, "Stay away from the goat- he's not the social type"- but there wasn't. Twister the dog is annoying Kobi, the family tortoise. The tortoise is quite big, about the same size as a GI's tin hat. When the dog annoys him, Kobi disappears into his shell, which only heightens the dog's curiosity further. Paka the cat is sitting, surveying the goings-on from a respectable distance.

I turn my attention to a scratching noise coming from beside my bed. Bonzo, my bush baby, has woken up. I clean out his box, give him his breakfast, and then have a quick splash behind my ears before going to breakfast.

Sunday was always an exciting day for me. It was shopping day in Lushoto. It was always a day to look forward to. We had no television, and didn't even have a telephone. It was dark every night at 6 o'clock. We did have a nice big radio though, and I used to love listening to that. Journey into Space and comic stories were amongst my favourites.

After breakfast, my father would get the old Chev out the garage. If it wouldn't start, he'd get the starting handle out, a big long rod, and start it manually from the front, whilst I sat behind the wheel ready to give the pedal plenty of umphhh when it kicked in. It was an American Chevrolet, a six-cylinder job, with more power than George W. Bush when it got warmed up. There were two seats in the front and a small board seat behind them. The back was like an estate car, and all was under one roof. There were no windows in the back: the sides were open to some degree and could be covered by lowering a rolled-up canvas sheet.

After making sure that Kobi was penned in safely, off we went. We drove up passed the Magamba Gap Hotel, right at the Gap itself, and downhill all the way to Lushoto, passing the governor's lodge and Glenfarg cottage on the right. The cottage is where we lived before moving to Magamba. Sir Edward Twining, a member of the well-known tea family, was the Governor of Tanganyika at the time. He was a tight fisted colonist. At his annual Christmas parties for us kids, we were only allowed one bottle of Coca Cola each. I wonder how many drinks he had.

After turning sharp right at a U-bend in the road just outside Lushoto, we travelled down the road and arrived at the start of the tarmac, past the law courts and the boma, as the local government headquarters was known. From there we travelled down a very steep hill; the post office was on the left at the bottom.

Travel comfort shot up from one-star to five-stars as we moved ahead passed the hospital on the left and the bus station on the right. Then we passed the police station (Inspector Youssef) on the left, the local church on the right (Father Forsyth was in charge there), and down passed more shops and towards what was more or less the edge of town. We parked in the car park next to one of the biggest stores in Lushoto. It belonged to V. G. Thacker, and he sold just about everything.

People came from far and wide on a Sunday to market and shop. Even the Mlalo bus turned up, its horn, an old air raid siren, blaring away. What a performance that was. I often wondered where he got that from.

Captain Brindley arrived and parked next to us in his big posh shiny car. He only took it out when it wasn't going to rain. "MORNING, MACINTYRE," he shouts to my father.

"MORNING, BRINDLEY," replies my father.

"CAPTAIN BRINDLEY!! IF YOU DON'T MIND, OLD BOY," was the reply. Stuffed shirt, he was. My old man couldn't stand him. Nor could my mother.

First port of call was usually the meat market which was opposite V. G. Thacker's store, and next to the huge local market. The meat house was under cover. There was a long queue of local people, mainly women, queuing up for meat. Waiting for ages they were. Whenever a white person called for meat, they didn't go and wait their turn at the back of the queue. They went straight to the front of the queue, and my mother was no exception.

I could hear my mother, tut tutting at the meat that the man was offering her. She wanted to have a look at all the cuts before choosing one for herself. Meanwhile, all these people, genuine local people, stood waiting in the long queue, expressionless. I used to stand watching all this. I felt a bit uncomfortable. Somehow, it didn't seem right to me. I bet they don't do it now.

A walk round the open-air and highly colorful local market was always fascinating. It sold everything you could possibly think of. There were several table stalls, but mostly ground stalls. Fruit was in abundance: mangos, pau pau, green bananas as well as ripe ones. I really miss the freshness of the fruit. There was even small livestock up for sale. I used to buy my lucky charms in the market, like elephant hair bracelets, worn around your wrist for good luck. I still have some that I have kept all these years. My brother and I used to buy pen knives and all sorts of things. I wanted to buy a panga, but my old man said no.

I saw all sorts of things in the market. One time, I saw a very tall man. He must have been about 7' 6" tall. He had some sort of an orange, sheet type thing wrapped around him, and a walking stick nearly as tall as he was. Occasionally, I'd see African men wearing shoes made from the treads of car tyres. Those shoes would last a lifetime.

Whilst my parents went round the shops, my brother and I would go to a small hill not far from the market, where we local kids had a sort of sledge run on the grass embankment. Constant use had made the grass very shiny, and good sledging speeds were possible. We had a lot of fun on that hill.

After shopping we pulled up in front of V. G. Thacker's to fill up with fuel. Father Forsyth pulled in behind us on his big motorbike. He did all his rounds on that bike. I liked Fr. Forsyth. Sometimes he would take me for a ride, and we would roar through Lushoto and up the steep hill to the boma at the big U turn I mentioned earlier, turning right at that point, and travelling down the back road passed Lushoto which came out near the Lawn's Hotel on the Mombo-Lushoto road. We turned right at that point and went back into Lushoto along a very straight and long road. Two long straight roads through Lushoto as I remember with a slight curve in the middle somewhere by the church. I loved Lushoto.

About half twelve we would make our way to the Lawn's Hotel for drinks and lunch. The old social touch you know. We kids weren't allowed in the bar nor were the local people, something else that didn't seem quite right to me. If I kept my mouth shut, I was allowed into the snooker room next to the bar to watch my father play snooker against his regular Sunday partner, a refugee from Poland. A lot of refugees lived in the area at that time. My father was of the opinion that some of them probably had something to hide.

The Polish gentleman was an ex-cavalry officer in the Polish forces and was quite friendly with us. He spoke a little English and every time he hit the white ball to pot a red, he would shout "SAUSAGES" A nice chap.

We left the Lawn's at about 1500 hours and called on Bernard Schommler , a German who had a garage on the outskirts of Lushoto near my old school, which is now the Institute of Judicial Administration. After picking up a few spare parts, we headed home.

Driving out of Lushoto, you come to a point where there is a very steep pathway from the roadside down to the town via the rear of the boma. We used to see the local people walking along this shortcut from the market to Magamba. It used to amaze me how the local women, walking bare footed, could carry such large and heavy loads on their heads all the way up this steep track and onto the road. If it was raining, some of them would use a banana leaf as an umbrella.

Sometimes on the way back we would get held up behind the Mlalo bus. A colourful spectacle to say the least, top heavy, swaying about like an out of control tiger moth, certainly way overloaded. I expected it to keel over on some of the bends. We passed him at the Gap when he stopped to off load passengers, a moment that was preceded by a very loud demonstration of how the air raid siren worked.

When we arrived home the dog was pleased to see us, but the goat stared at us with an air of indifference. I went to see how Bonzo was getting on. Later on it was dinner, followed by a game of cards, and then to bed with Bonzo. My bush baby was a grand little fellow. It broke my heart when he eventually died. I took him out the back and buried him. I even put up a little cross with Bonzo written on it. I couldn't stop crying as I tried to say a little prayer for him.

Story & Photos, © J. A. Macintyre

Return to Memories | Go to African Photos