Read Online And Home Was Kariakoo by M.G. Vassanji - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: M.G. Vassanji
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occupy a dank corner. At another location, close by, the British war dead are commemorated with a rather comically small pyramid inthe middle of a neat compound covered with loose gravel; it’s fenced and gated. There is a wall of names inside, but they are too far from the fence to be read.
A walk away is the old Karimjee Secondary School, named after the well-known family that endowed it. It was renamed the Usagara Secondary School and looks as decrepit as any of the old endowed schools in the country that were taken over by the government.
In Dar, before leaving for Tanga, I met a former student of this once-famous school, a man of Asian origin called Colonel Kashmiri. He had volunteered into the King’s African Rifles while still at school, trained at Sandhurst, England, then joined the Tanganyika Rifles. When the army mutinied on January 20, 1964, a sorry day in the history of the newly independent country, he was dispatched “to Bombay” by the rebels but actually went to England with a contingent of British officers. When the mutiny was quashed—in a day—he was called back and given the charge to place the leaders of the mutiny under arrest. He is not a large man but looks trim and fit; he says he plays squash three times a week. In the army he quickly saw the glass ceiling for an Asian—a man junior to him was made brigadier and went on to become rather glamorous. He wished to quit but agreed eventually to be transferred to head a state-owned enterprise after a lengthy entreaty from President Nyerere. It would not look good for the only Asian officer in the army to resign. And so the soldier became a businessman … or was he pushed to conform to the stereotype? Now he is a consultant, and a current project concerns inviting tenders for the construction of several harbours in the country, including Tanga. A project worth hundreds of millions of dollars. It is through one of his Tanga contacts that I have hired the services of Taju and his dubious Toyota.
It turns out that my hotel is on the northern coast of Ras Kasone, the peninsula on which the ill-fated Indian ExpeditionaryForce landed in November 1914. Five troopships faced the coast on this side and landed their Indian men where I now sit watching the sunset. The map designates it as “Beach C,” but there’s no beach in sight. What a commotion then, how calm and peaceful now, how lovely the view. In the distance lies Toten Island, inhabited in the distant past, now barren. The yacht club is visible a few hundred yards away, a number of small boats bobbing on the water. The entire peninsula is lush and green, but there is no sisal anymore. A single road leads in from the town. On the way comes the Bombo Regional Hospital, the old stone building still standing and quite impressive; it was here that the armistice to end the Battle for Tanga was signed. It’s fallen into disuse, and a new structure stands before it.
The next day Taju drives me around the coast to the tip of the peninsula, where the wealthy have their large houses and from where you look upon an infinite expanse of ocean.
( Photo Caption 5.3 )
6.
India and Africa: Of Entrepreneurs Old and New
O NCE WHILE TRAVELLING BY ROAD in western Gujarat, exploring my ancestral provenance, my companion and I stopped at a place called Droll. It was a typical Indian village of unpaved streets and make-do shops and homes. It could have been in Africa; there was, however, near the road a tall ancient gate bearing ornatery that suggested some history; it turned out that it was here that a Mughal governor on the run had stopped and killed himself in the fifteenth century. As we entered the village we asked around if there were Khojas living there, and were directed to a roadside paan-seller, who in a friendly gesture picked up two bright-green betel leaves, placed pinchfuls of various masala upon them, folded them into loose triangles, and handed us the finished paans. Only when we had the paans
A walk away is the old Karimjee Secondary School, named after the well-known family that endowed it. It was renamed the Usagara Secondary School and looks as decrepit as any of the old endowed schools in the country that were taken over by the government.
In Dar, before leaving for Tanga, I met a former student of this once-famous school, a man of Asian origin called Colonel Kashmiri. He had volunteered into the King’s African Rifles while still at school, trained at Sandhurst, England, then joined the Tanganyika Rifles. When the army mutinied on January 20, 1964, a sorry day in the history of the newly independent country, he was dispatched “to Bombay” by the rebels but actually went to England with a contingent of British officers. When the mutiny was quashed—in a day—he was called back and given the charge to place the leaders of the mutiny under arrest. He is not a large man but looks trim and fit; he says he plays squash three times a week. In the army he quickly saw the glass ceiling for an Asian—a man junior to him was made brigadier and went on to become rather glamorous. He wished to quit but agreed eventually to be transferred to head a state-owned enterprise after a lengthy entreaty from President Nyerere. It would not look good for the only Asian officer in the army to resign. And so the soldier became a businessman … or was he pushed to conform to the stereotype? Now he is a consultant, and a current project concerns inviting tenders for the construction of several harbours in the country, including Tanga. A project worth hundreds of millions of dollars. It is through one of his Tanga contacts that I have hired the services of Taju and his dubious Toyota.
It turns out that my hotel is on the northern coast of Ras Kasone, the peninsula on which the ill-fated Indian ExpeditionaryForce landed in November 1914. Five troopships faced the coast on this side and landed their Indian men where I now sit watching the sunset. The map designates it as “Beach C,” but there’s no beach in sight. What a commotion then, how calm and peaceful now, how lovely the view. In the distance lies Toten Island, inhabited in the distant past, now barren. The yacht club is visible a few hundred yards away, a number of small boats bobbing on the water. The entire peninsula is lush and green, but there is no sisal anymore. A single road leads in from the town. On the way comes the Bombo Regional Hospital, the old stone building still standing and quite impressive; it was here that the armistice to end the Battle for Tanga was signed. It’s fallen into disuse, and a new structure stands before it.
The next day Taju drives me around the coast to the tip of the peninsula, where the wealthy have their large houses and from where you look upon an infinite expanse of ocean.
( Photo Caption 5.3 )
6.
India and Africa: Of Entrepreneurs Old and New
O NCE WHILE TRAVELLING BY ROAD in western Gujarat, exploring my ancestral provenance, my companion and I stopped at a place called Droll. It was a typical Indian village of unpaved streets and make-do shops and homes. It could have been in Africa; there was, however, near the road a tall ancient gate bearing ornatery that suggested some history; it turned out that it was here that a Mughal governor on the run had stopped and killed himself in the fifteenth century. As we entered the village we asked around if there were Khojas living there, and were directed to a roadside paan-seller, who in a friendly gesture picked up two bright-green betel leaves, placed pinchfuls of various masala upon them, folded them into loose triangles, and handed us the finished paans. Only when we had the paans
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