THE WAY WE WERE

With acknowledgement to the late Somerset Maugham

 

The passage on a wood burning paddle steamer up the Lingalonga River was uneventful apart from an occurrence halfway into the  journey when loin clad natives lined the river bank on the port side and angrily shook their fists; some using blow pipes propelled what were presumably poisoned darts in our direction. Fortunately we were well over to the starboard side and the missiles fell woefully short. Two days later upon arrival I mentioned this to Murchison, he stated the natives along that stretch were particularly belligerent and that he intended to pacify them in the near future; he was of the opinion that supplying them with opium would do the trick.

Murchison as well as being plantation manager also acted as political officer for the region; an area the size of Wales. For two weeks we inspected the territory travelling on horse-back, all was as it should be; the natives were hard working and appeared to be reasonably content, floggings were rare and executions almost non-existent.

I dined with the Murchison’s on my last night and was glad to see they preserved the tradition of dressing for dinner even though they were the only Europeans within a hundred mile radius apart from the occasional Bolshevik undercover agent. During the meal I asked Murchison to what he attributed the success of his station? “Keep the natives occupied during their rest period” he replied, “The memsahib and I introduced them to the game of bridge some time ago, soon they were surprisingly good at the pastime but we had to abandon the project as they became too aggressive when there were disputes over bidding or revoking. They have a blade similar to the kukri, with which they can disembowel a pig in less than ten seconds, best not to dwell upon the consequences of their arguments. We have now formed them into choral societies; they are especially fond of Gilbert and Sullivan”. At the end of the meal; over a chotapeg and a cheroot he handed me large wax sealed manila envelope the contents of which would eventually, via the diplomatic bag, end up at the Foreign Office in London.

All the foregoing happened  many years ago, now trips along the Lingalonga are commonplace; the area is part of the tourist trail, instead of assailing visitors with poisoned darts the natives offer to sell them plastic replicas of shrunken heads whilst at the same time serenading them with excerpts from The Pirates of Penzance. Be warned however, should you be invited to join them for a hand or two of bridge….. Old habits die hard!

 

OLD JOKES ARE THE BEST

Our bridge session over Uncle Fred and I retired to the smoking-room; our wives to the kitchen. Uncle Fred took up his electronic Meerschaum, inserted a capsule into the bowl and switched on. Vigorous puffing induced a violet hue to the capsule and soon he was contentedly exhaling a benign moisturised vapour into the atmosphere.

“As you know some years back I spent a period in Alaska which is where bridge had its beginnings” said Uncle Fred between puffs.

I ventured to suggest that the game had its roots in America. My uncle fixed me with a scornful glare, “As any school child will tell you” he said “ Alaska has been part of America for over 100 years; they purchased the territory from Russia for about a penny an acre and a lifetimes supply of peanut butter for the Tsar and his family. Turned out to be a prudent investment: the entire Romanoff family were assassinated by the Bolsheviks a few years later”. He gingerly tamped down the glowing capsule and as I knew he would continued his discourse, “Bridge is very important to Alaskans; helps them through the long winter nights. Of course they have other winter pursuits, dog sledding, salmon fishing, and caribou and moose hunting, they are very much into outdoor activities; as Jack London would have it ‘The Call of the Wild’. After a days hunting or  mushing dogs nothing soothes as much as a few hands of bridge followed by a steaming bowl of ptarmigan soup”.

“Perhaps penguin pie” I said somewhat unwisely

“The only penguins you’ll find in Alaska are covered in chocolate, we are talking Arctic not Antarctic” said Uncle Fred.

Feeling rather stupid I asked what Alaskans did in the summer.

With a hint of a smile my uncle replied, “I really don’t know: I was only there for eleven months”.

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