Crossing the Nile. You can never sleep properly on an aeroplane, even when there are plenty of vacant seats, and I awoke from a patchy slumber in a somewhat disorientated state. I lifted the shade and saw we were flying over what appeared to be the biggest builder's yard in the world. This was dawn over the Sahara. There were gulleys and debris; this was nothing like Beau Geste.
I had enjoyed four and a half years at the Knutsford Guardian but knew it was time to move on. A career and life beckoned. Should I try an evening newspaper or the nationals that had offices in Manchester? None appealed. Especially as I got a job offer from Africa.
Caz, who had been a reporter at the County Express office in Knutsford, was already there, working as a sub-editor on the Uganda Nation. He sent me an airmail letter saying there was a vacancy. I sent a job application by return and the editor replied within 10 days offering me a position as a sub at 400 East African Shillings a week, which was equivalent to £20. I accepted, gave my notice, and reported to a medical officer in Manchester for jabs that included yellow fever.
Within three weeks of applying, I was on a BOAC flight from Gatwick to Entebbe Airport in Uganda. I awoke to view a disappointing Sahara beneath me and reflected for the first time that I had been hired as a sub. Thing was, I hadn't the first idea about subbing. I worried for all of two minutes. You're like that at 21.
We came in over Lake Victoria to land at Entebbe, a place I had never heard of until I got my plane ticket. This was decades before the internet. You looked places up in encyploedias and the Times Atlas in the early 1960s.
The heat hit me as I got off. Then the chaos of the arrivals hall which was a large shed furnished with collapsible tables. I got my luggage and started arguing with an immigration officer who was disinclined to let me into the country. Behind him I saw Caz, waving from behind a barrier. I pointed Caz out and the immigration chap invited him forward. Caz gave him 40 shillings and the chap gave me an entry visa and a temporary work permit. Easy what 40 shillings could buy.
As I was arriving, Jomo Kenyatta was leaving. I don't think it was anything personal. We had passed on the tarmac. Jomo waved his fly whisk in my direction before boarding a private plane for the hop to Nairobi. Because of his visit, both daily newspapers had sent journalists to cover his departure. Caz took me straight to the roof top bar to meet them and introduce me to Tusker beer. I liked both the journalists and the beer.
The drive to Kampala took about an hour along a road that was narrow but was at least tarmac. Many of the roads, I was to discover, were murram – basically dirt that became mud when it rained. This road went through bush and villages and motorists drove it as fast as their vehicles would allow with only a passing acknowledgement of statutary regulations. As we hurtled along I was given the golden rule of East African driving: “If you hit anyone or anything don't stop until you get to a police station.” Most of the locals had machetes and might use them.
What most impressed me during the ride were the colours. It was as if Van Gough had been let loose with a huge brush. They overwhelmed the senses and I recall that in my first letter home I quoted Winston Churchill who named Uganda the Pearl of Africa and decscribed it as a “beautiful garden with an exuberance of vegetation”.
We drove through the city to the Silver Springs Hotel, an old colonial building that housed reception, dining rooms and bar, and a veranda upon which was served afternoon tea at four o'clock. Guests were housed in bungalows set amidst palm trees. It also had a swimming pool with its own bar and games rooms. I thought I'd died and gone to heaven.
My room, plus all meals, cost 100 shillings a week (that's £5). Which left me £15 a week to spend on booze and having a good time. My wage at home, had been about a fiver. I really did think I'd died and gone to heaven.
My first few hours had been a mad and brilliant experience. Surely, it couldn't get any better than this (and stop calling me Shirley). Actually, it did. Much better.
I had enjoyed four and a half years at the Knutsford Guardian but knew it was time to move on. A career and life beckoned. Should I try an evening newspaper or the nationals that had offices in Manchester? None appealed. Especially as I got a job offer from Africa.
Caz, who had been a reporter at the County Express office in Knutsford, was already there, working as a sub-editor on the Uganda Nation. He sent me an airmail letter saying there was a vacancy. I sent a job application by return and the editor replied within 10 days offering me a position as a sub at 400 East African Shillings a week, which was equivalent to £20. I accepted, gave my notice, and reported to a medical officer in Manchester for jabs that included yellow fever.
Within three weeks of applying, I was on a BOAC flight from Gatwick to Entebbe Airport in Uganda. I awoke to view a disappointing Sahara beneath me and reflected for the first time that I had been hired as a sub. Thing was, I hadn't the first idea about subbing. I worried for all of two minutes. You're like that at 21.
We came in over Lake Victoria to land at Entebbe, a place I had never heard of until I got my plane ticket. This was decades before the internet. You looked places up in encyploedias and the Times Atlas in the early 1960s.
The heat hit me as I got off. Then the chaos of the arrivals hall which was a large shed furnished with collapsible tables. I got my luggage and started arguing with an immigration officer who was disinclined to let me into the country. Behind him I saw Caz, waving from behind a barrier. I pointed Caz out and the immigration chap invited him forward. Caz gave him 40 shillings and the chap gave me an entry visa and a temporary work permit. Easy what 40 shillings could buy.
As I was arriving, Jomo Kenyatta was leaving. I don't think it was anything personal. We had passed on the tarmac. Jomo waved his fly whisk in my direction before boarding a private plane for the hop to Nairobi. Because of his visit, both daily newspapers had sent journalists to cover his departure. Caz took me straight to the roof top bar to meet them and introduce me to Tusker beer. I liked both the journalists and the beer.
The drive to Kampala took about an hour along a road that was narrow but was at least tarmac. Many of the roads, I was to discover, were murram – basically dirt that became mud when it rained. This road went through bush and villages and motorists drove it as fast as their vehicles would allow with only a passing acknowledgement of statutary regulations. As we hurtled along I was given the golden rule of East African driving: “If you hit anyone or anything don't stop until you get to a police station.” Most of the locals had machetes and might use them.
What most impressed me during the ride were the colours. It was as if Van Gough had been let loose with a huge brush. They overwhelmed the senses and I recall that in my first letter home I quoted Winston Churchill who named Uganda the Pearl of Africa and decscribed it as a “beautiful garden with an exuberance of vegetation”.
We drove through the city to the Silver Springs Hotel, an old colonial building that housed reception, dining rooms and bar, and a veranda upon which was served afternoon tea at four o'clock. Guests were housed in bungalows set amidst palm trees. It also had a swimming pool with its own bar and games rooms. I thought I'd died and gone to heaven.
My room, plus all meals, cost 100 shillings a week (that's £5). Which left me £15 a week to spend on booze and having a good time. My wage at home, had been about a fiver. I really did think I'd died and gone to heaven.
My first few hours had been a mad and brilliant experience. Surely, it couldn't get any better than this (and stop calling me Shirley). Actually, it did. Much better.
The Silver Springs Hotel pool.
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