The Great Soni Prison Camp
Escape of 1962. (Nearly!)
The prelude:
As I attempt to put type to screen 47 years after the event, I would ask anybody reading this to forgive any inconsistencies or misrepresentation of dates or facts that may occur in relating this saga, the error is all mine, I apologize for my old brain, its had a hard life!
I was born in Nairobi in 1950, my dad was in the Air Force (Airframe Tech) and mum in the Army (Signals Corp) Dad did a runner when mum was 7 months pregnant with me, leaving her with my 3 year old sister and me en-route. However, all was not lost, there was a knight in shining armor on the horizon, my step father, Ron Blakeman, a wonderful gentle soul who brought my sister and myself up as his own, in spite of adding another 4 siblings to the clan. I recount this tale so that readers will understand why I went through Soni know as Blakeman, in spite of being a McMillan. (My step father never got round to adopting my sister and I)
I spent my childhood years divided between living in Nairobi and Dar es Salaam, going to various schools but was at St. Joseph’s Convent in Dar prior to Soni. I tell you this because it is important to understand that my educational standard was not by any means up to the Soni standards. I had never taken Latin, French, Algebra, Geometry or Technical Drawing. Now, I can’t speak for the other inmates there but I was under the impression when I got to Soni I was expected to have at least a basic grounding in these subjects. As you can imagine this did not bode well as far as my survival was concerned, I think Bro. Rayner saw me coming as a whipping target. I must have appeared very dense to priests and inmates alike. I remember getting caned 7 times before half term and 8 times after half term, this was my introduction to my first term at Soni and things continued along that vein for the rest of my incarceration.
As far as I recall I was interned in the summer of ’61 and ran away half way through the summer of ’62. This would mean I spent two and a half terms at camp. When I arrived in Soni I was a happy kid, having so far had a wonderful childhood, owning a menagerie of pets including bush-baby’s, chameleons, snakes and different species of birds, spending every moment I could in the bush or on the beach, wearing only my swimming cozzy and carrying my air gun (Progressing later to my 4.10, which my parents never knew about!!) brown as a berry and covered in freckles. I was a Christian, having been christened and confirmed at St. Albans Church in Dar and was quite happy to go along with the whole ‘God’ thing.
I was 11 years old when I arrived at camp with Nigel Styles (An old friend from home), whose parents drove us both up from Dar, it was his first term as well. I recall we both commented that it looked like “An OK place with nice teachers!!!......................
………………………….kudja ndani nyumbani ya simba……………………………..
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The last straw:
I recall my first caning, it happened during my first week! We were told we had to write one letter home every week and that one period (I think it was Friday evening) was set-aside for this purpose. I had written a letter to mum and dad on the Wednesday (I assumed this would count as my one letter home per week) telling them how nice the place was (boy, was I in for a shock!!!) So during the allotted time, I wrote to Nigel’s folks thanking them for giving me a lift. I was hauled before a priest (?) on Saturday morning and given the dreaded note in spite of my pleas of “I have already written to my folks Sir…I’m sorry for being such a dumb ass Sir” This was the first lesson I learnt at Soni, clemency was unheard of, honest misunderstandings did not count and last but not least, never, but NEVER plead your case or answer back, my punishment went from three strokes to six!! Forgiveness was not a virtue the priests were endowed with; cruelty was inserted in place of it.
As the weeks turned to months, I used to long for half term and end of term, not because it meant you got out for a while but rather because you got a two-week respite period prior to these occasions from being caned. The reason was simple…no black/blue/yellow bruised bums as evidence to show your folks. Crafty bastards these men of the cloth, may they all die agonizing deaths.
I wrote home as did others (mainly the new inmates, the old timers had given up) pleading my case, describing the cruelty and fear one underwent but received the standard replies, mainly, 1) Stop being such a baby. 2) Don’t exaggerate, they are priests, they would not be so cruel. 3) They had never seen any bruises. The canings themselves were bad enough, but when you got caned again on top of the bruises that had not had a chance to heal, it was excruciatingly painful. Worse still was if you got caned three times in succession, bruise upon bruise; I don’t have words to express this particular feeling, it happened to me twice. After a while I gave up and continued enduring the camp, as did the rest of the inmates. There was talk of escape, but nothing was taken seriously, we were in the middle of the bush, half way up a mountain, surrounded by wild animals, what chance would we stand?
At this juncture, I would ask the reader to bear with me as I slightly digress, it is relevant, you’ll see!! Our family holidays whilst we lived in Dar were taken in Lashoto (That’s how my folks found out about this wonderful school run by good priests) mainly because of the cooler temperatures and the numerous activities one could partake in i.e. horse riding, trout fishing etc. Whilst in Lashoto we always stayed at the Jaegerthal Hotel, later becoming very friendly with the Finger family who owned it. They had a young son called Helmut and for some reason he took a shine to me (I think it was a big brother thing) always trailing around with my brothers, sister and I in spite of not speaking any English, only German. He was a scrawny little bugger, blond haired and game for any adventure, we all got on very well with him. Well, my parents kept extolling on the virtues of this wonderful school their son was going to and encouraging the Fingers to send their son.
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Nothing happened for a while and I thought it had all been forgotten, however my hopes
were dashed when, at the beginning of my third term up runs little Helmut, throwing his arms around my waist and looking ecstatic, my heart dropped. His parents asked me to keep an eye on him and I promised to do my best but knowing deep down nothing could protect him from these vindictive bastards, his fate was sealed the minute he set foot in the godforsaken place.
For some reason the beginning of my third term was more difficult than usual, I was struggling with my Latin and Algebra and got caned for both in the first week. During my second term I started wetting the bed which was highly embarrassing because the mattresses on the beds were so thin the pee would go straight through onto the floor for all to see. As far as I remember the floors were painted red or green gloss so the puddle had nowhere to go. When these unfortunate accidents happened the plan was 1) Get up earlier than the other boys. 2) Mop up using your one and only towel. 3) Get to the washbasins and have a stand up wash so you did not smell! This was all well and good, however, the following night you had pee soaked pajamas and bedding to contend with. Asking for clean bedding was out of the question, it would have been a guaranteed caning violation. I found out I was not alone in this department, others had similar problems, no doubt induced by fear.
About the second week of term I heard a story about the junior kids taking a 100 word spelling test and young Helmut, who still could hardly understand English let alone write it, had only managed to write the numbers down, but no words, thus presenting his paper as neat rows of only numbers! This was greeted with laughter by some, however, I could see the dark side of this unfortunate event and sure enough, Saturday afternoon I was laying on my bed (It was the second bed, top row, next to potbellies room) and in walks young Helmet, a big smile on his face obviously pleased to see me enquiring where he might find popbelly. He was not too sure what it was all about, he showed me his note, I felt terrible, helpless and a total betrayer of his trust. I told him he was going to get caned so I explained, when he was told to bend over, to try and relax the muscles in his ass, it tended to dampen the pain if you could do it, but it was tremendously difficult. One needed many canings to perfect this art, I had got it down to a tee! OK he said, and still smiling trotted up to popbellys door and gave two sharp raps and was told to enter.
I felt physically sick. He could not have been more than 7 or 8 years old, and thin as a rake (I have seen more meat on Lester Piggott’s whip!) and so trusting and innocent. I felt like screaming with rage, I felt utterly useless and ashamed, I had let him down big time. There was one horrendous high-pitched scream after the first blow fell, then utter silence as the other two fell. He exited the room in a kind of wooden leg walk, his face was ashen and he appeared to be only inhaling air in short gulps, not exhaling at all. He walked straight past my bed without even looking at me. As he got past I saw the blood trickling down his legs from his blood-soaked backside. I jumped off my bed, picked him up and ran into the toilets with him. I pushed him as far down into the loo as I could and kept flushing the chain, soaking his lower half in cool water. He started to sob, saying something in German, I heard the word ‘mutter’ a few times but I was not much help.
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After a while he had calmed down a bit, so I pulled him out of the loo and carried him to
the dispensary, fortunately Sister Ruth was in there, she took the wee guy off me and said she would take care of him.
I just started walking down the road in-between the rugby fields towards the exit gate, I realized I was sweating profusely in spite of it being a hot afternoon, I had no shirt on, no shoes on, but I felt very cold. My brother was the same age as Helmut at the time of the beating, if that had been Niall, I swear as god is my judge, I would have found a way to kill Rayner one way or another. I kept walking and started crying. Now, I don’t know if I was crying for Helmut, for me, for the injustice, for the hopelessness of the situation, for the brutality of the place, but I was so filled with hate and furious rage, it was unhealthy, I felt unclean and ashamed for not doing anything, for not trying to intervene, but, as all the inmates will testify, once you were in the camp you were doomed! I kept walking, I don’t know for how long, I don’t know where I walked to, I do know three things happened to me that hot afternoon in the bush: 1) I was going to retaliate in the only way I knew, by kicking the system in the nuts, by escaping from this hellhole whatever the cost, by embarrassing these men of god. 2) I did not care any more what they did to me, I for some inexplicable reason felt indestructible, immune from their regime of terror. Just by having no shirt or shoes on, and for leaving the camp grounds without permission, I was in violation of 3 of their rules, all punishable by caning, I didn’t give a damn.3) That day god and I parted company and have never spoken since. If these were his representatives on earth, I wanted nothing to do with religion.
It was late when I got back to the dorm, they were serving the evening meal so I got dressed and walked into the refectory and up to popbellies table, apologized for being late and waited to be told to report for a caning……… Nothing happened……….He just looked at me for about 30 seconds with those cold grey eyes and nodded, indicating my return had been accepted. I was shaken, I was not afraid of what could have happened, but totally shocked when it didn’t! I got my food, sat down at the table and looked round at the expectant faces of my friends. I said ”I’m going to run away”. They were all silent, they knew it was not a threat this time, I meant it…………..Mungu na kufa…………
Escape plans:
As you can imagine everybody was up for it, it would have made the Steve McQueen’s epic film look like a Sunday picnic! I decided that the following Monday would be a good time to abscond as the priests seemed to partake more liberally of their jungle juice over a weekend and may be sleeping more soundly on a Sunday night. (I hoped it would spoil their hang over sodden Monday as well) Now secrecy was the watchword of the day, if those bastards found out the culprits would have been thrashed to within an inch of their lives, or worse. I don’t know how the word got out, but every bugger knew within 24 hours! All I could do was proceed with the planning and hope they didn’t find out.
Initially, after the reality of the plan began to sink in, the escape group was narrowed down to 4 inmates.
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The gang of four were Nigel Styles, John Onraet, McDonald and myself. At this point I would like to apologize to McDonald, I can’t for the life of me remember his first name, so from now on I’m just going to refer to him as Mac. As far as I recall he was a fairly new boy, came from a good home life in Nairobi and had understanding parents.
Now I knew if we all reached our destinations I would be in for a grim ride back in Dar, Nigel, also from Dar, was not so bothered. He said his folks would understand as they were more apt to believe him than mine were. The other 2 lads were going to try and make it to Nairobi. The plan was to make it down to Mombo as a group (safety in numbers) and split up there.
Our next problem was –what to wear?- As you all no doubt remember all mufti was taken off you on arrival, you lived and died in uniform or PE gear. For some strange reason we decided uniform would stand out too much in Mombo, the people there had see Soni boys regularly so we opted for white T-shirts, uniform shorts, uniform jumper (It would be cold at night) and PE shoes and socks. Nobody had thought to mention that 4 white boys wandering about Mombo at 7.00am on a Monday morning without any supervision in itself would have looked damned suspicious!!
Now came the problem of money. Between us we had about 9 shillingi. We decided to put the word out asking for ‘escape fund contributions’. The outcome of this still brings a smile to my face, for the next few days known and unknown inmates would sidle up to one of us and slip into our hands the odd one or two shillingi, or the little guys a centi hamsini or two, their treasured tuck money, bless you all. I never got a chance to thank you guys, I do so now, from the bottom of my heart! (I’m sure the others follow my sentiments) By the time we were ready to leave we had collected in the region of 40 shillingi, bloody superb when you think about it. However, it did not stop with money, sweets began appearing with little notes, unsigned for fear they may fall into hostile hands, saying things like “For your trip” and “Good luck, these are for your journey” etc.
It was very touching and much appreciated.
We tried desperately to get a torch by had no luck, it would have been very useful on the dark mountain roads so we just had to hope for a moonlit night. Mac had a small satchel/backpack that we filled with our booty and that was it, we were set to go. Nigel came to us on the Sunday morning (D-Day) and said he was pulling out. John did likewise in the evening. I was a bit upset at the time but I understood why. The tension amongst the 4 of us was oppressive, we were all scared shitless. Firstly there was the fear of getting caught, secondly, getting out of the school compound was a massive hurdle in itself. It was patrolled at night by watchmen accompanied by 3 or 4 Rhodesian Ridgebacks, fierce lion killer dogs. (I remember them as being fierce bastards as well) If we accomplished this hurdle, what of the walk down the mountain to Mombo? There were baboons, evil sods, not averse to taking a chunk out of you! Snakes, they came out in the cool evenings, hyenas, I had heard them round the school on many an occasion at night, that’s but a few of the possible dangers. So guys, you were probably the bright ones, we were the dumb ones, Mac and I.
That final Sunday night, Mac thought we ought to attend mass, I went because he insisted in spite of my no longer talking to god. There was an air of expectancy in the church, you could have cut a chunk out if you felt like it.
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Inmates were taking sly looks at us, there were whispers and pointing, by this time I’m convinced the whole school knew. This made us feel even uneasier, we were sure we would get rumbled. As we walked out into the dark moonlit night after mass, inmates would come by us and surreptitiously touch or brush deliberately past us and whisper a word of encouragement, it felt quite eerie, literally like going to your death, as though you would never be again for this earth and farewells were in order. Strange feeling. We got back to the dorm and I looked at Mac and said, see you at midnight, he chuckled and said, “I’ll try not to over sleep”. Fat chance of that I thought, my stomach was a mass of knots……………………...Lala mtoto, lala……………………
The breakout:
Midnight came, I hadn’t slept a wink. I rose, dressed as quietly as possible, crouching down as low as I could so as not to be detected in the moonlight coming in through the windows. I squinted across at Mac’s bed but there was no movement. I crawled over to his bed and put my hand on his shoulder, he sat bolt upright fully dressed, his hair was standing on end, he looked positively mad! God, he frightened me to death.
We gathered up the bag of goodies and crept to one of the exit doors, I woke the inmate nearest the door and asked him to lock it behind us. He was full of gentle punches and good lucks from everybody. I stuck my head out looking and listening for the bloody dogs, silence. I motioned to Mac and we crept out across the concrete walkway and into the Canna plants. What a bloody noise they made, rustling with enough noise to wake the dead. We soon got through them, ran down past the junior classrooms and made for the rugby fields, keeping to the bushy edges, so as not to be detected by the watchmen, or more to the point, the dogs.
Once clear of the school we stopped and hunched down, listening, all was quiet, we were on our way! We were both breathing heavily, sweating in spite of the cold and pumped with adrenalin. I felt elated, scared and happy that it had begun at last, the kick in the nuts quest. We set off again talking quietly. The sounds of the bush at night were very loud, I don’t have to describe what it was like to you guys, you have all been there. I looked across at Mac in the moonlight and as I recall it now, we must have looked like a couple of little hobbits venturing out on one of their many quests. We reached the village of Soni with its few shanty huts, all was quiet, the only sound being the barking of an occasional dog. We walked through undetected and hung a left on the main Mombo to Loshoto road. We now had about 10 miles of gentle downhill gradients to negotiate in the darkness. The moon was intermittently hiding behind clouds and briefly reappearing. It was better when it was shining on the road and us, it felt safer. I would like you to imagine your walking down the mountain with us, to your left is the cliff face, covered in dense undergrowth and at most times you are unable to scale the face to climb up because its normally shear rock. To your right is the drop down into the valley below, sometimes a gentle slope but normally a sheer drop into blackness. I had driven up and down the road a few times with my parents and I recall some of the drops were thousands of feet. The condition of the road was not ideal making nighttime strolls quite tricky in places.
Cont/….6
We had been walking for about an hour when we came across a phenomenon Mac and I named the ‘light alarm’. Imagine, if you will, your in a vehicle driving up an escarpment winding through a series of ‘S’ bends firstly going left then turning right. One minute the vehicle is pointing in a direction which would take you over the edge, next minute your driving towards the rock face but always progressing upwards. or downwards if your going in the opposite direction! When one does this at night the headlights shine on to the mountainside on the opposite side of the valley when driving towards the edge and conversely disappear when rounding the ‘S’ and starting towards the rock face edging the road. (I hope that makes sense)
At first Mac and I were confused when this phenomenon occurred because all we saw was a flash of light on the mountain across the valley and then it disappeared. When the approaching vehicle is a few miles away there is no sound, its baffled by the mountains in-between. At night this is your only warning of oncoming traffic, however its not an indication of how close it is. To make matters worse if 2 or more vehicles are coming up, or down, at the same time you get multiple flashes and it gets very confusing.
We had decided that when any traffic was about to pass us we would hide because if we were spotted it was a certainty the vehicle would stop and questions would be asked. It wouldn’t take a brain surgeon to figure something was very amiss with the situation.
The ‘hiding theory’ sounded great, but where does one hide? On the left is sheer rock face, on the right possibly a sheer drop or if your lucky a gradual slope. The minute the headlights of oncoming traffic are on your bit of road directly ahead, you have one choice….JUMP!!........which is exactly what we did, about 20 times.
When I think of it, it makes my stomach turn. How utterly daft, it would have been a long drop if we had jumped in the wrong spot. As I have said, we went through this routine about 20 times, clinging onto whatever undergrowth was available on the side of the mountain whilst the vehicle lumbered past (They were mostly East African trucks) I point out this because unlike European trucks they spluttered, coughed and wheezed up the incline at a snails pace whilst Mac and I were hanging on for grim death a few feet away on the long drop side! We would hold this position until the offending vehicle had rounded the bend, its lights disappearing and silence returned. We would clamber back onto the road wheezing from the exertion and wait until our eyes had grown accustomed to the dark again, having been dazzled by the passing lights. Only twice did we get really frightened that night (for some reason jumping over the edge of the road didn’t seem to bother us!) The first occasion was about 3 hours into our journey. As I have said the night noises were quite loud but were quite reassuring once we got used to it. Suddenly, the trees and bush above us erupted in a cacophony of shrieks and screams, I assumed mainly from baboons. In my experience of the bush this will only occur when danger exists and this is a warning between species which will continues until the danger has passed. Amid this row there was a much more foreboding sound, faint at first but following above us as we progressed downhill. The best way to describe it was a low rumble (not unlike an underground train before you see it) intermittently broken by an almost bark like sound. Now I am no white hunter but in my book, it spelt Chui! (Can any hunters confirm this?) It shadowed us for about half an hour, and then disappeared as fast as it came, as did the overhead noise.
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In an effort to appear we were more than 2 people and possibly scare off whatever it was, we started shouting to each other and even, at one point, singing out loud. I don’t remember what level of bravado one has as a 12 year old kid, but I do remember us being scared shitless whilst this noise was shadowing us but once it had gone the old bullshit started….”that frightened the bugger”…”what a chickenshit pussy”….etcetera, etcetera.
The second incident happened quite a while later, it must have been about 5 in the morning. We were getting quite used at our kamikaze leaps over the side and had settled down to a nice walking tempo. All of a sudden I spotted, further down the road (I couldn’t judge the distance) what looked like 20 or 30 sets of illuminated eyes approaching us!! Jesus, I thought my heart was going to stop. My first thought was - Hyenas - I thought well ‘this is curtains!’ We stopped dead in out tracks staring in utter terror at these approaching eyes. Suddenly, they disappeared as fast as they had appeared!
We were totally baffled, what type of animals could they have been? Maybe they had turned and run because they had heard us? Maybe they had found a route upwards or downwards and because of our approach had left the road. We stood there debating our options, there weren’t many. Continue going down or turn back! Turning back wasn’t an option, so we pressed on cautiously. About 10 minutes later the fuckers were back again, but closer! I think at that moment we both suffered mini heart attacks! All of a sudden I twigged, the reason they had disappeared was because they had turned a bend in the road thus being obscured by the mountain. (Same as the vehicle lights) We just stood there frozen in our tracks, and then they disappeared again. We debated our options once more and decided to continue, whatever the consequences. We made a plan - our plan was this – when we came face to face with them, we would run at them screaming at the top of our lungs, hopefully scaring them shitless, enough to part them as we ran through the middle! – is that not the dumbest, stupidest, shit for brains plan you have ever heard in your life??? Well, it was the only plan we had at the time!
So on we went, not quite as fast as before and definitely not as confident as before. The eyes appeared and disappeared twice again, still getting closer though, and our plan seemed to diminish in wisdom with each sighting. At last on one particularly long stretch of road the confrontation approached. Then I heard…’bells!’ Mac looked at me and uttered the same word…’Bells’. The ‘ferocious animals’ were goats being herded up the mountain at night because of less traffic on the road. Relief is an understatement, I had visions of our remains being returned to our parents in bloodstained matchboxes. As we approached I realized why the goats eyes were glowing in the dark. There were two herdsmen, one at the front and one at the rear, each carrying a very poorly lit hurricane lamp presumably to warn oncoming traffic. From our initial contact with these ‘ferocious animals’ we could not make these out, it was only when we got to within about 20 feet of them that they became visible.
Well, we were overjoyed with this revelation, we would live to see another day after all! The nearest herdsman stopped and looked at us (by this time we were covered in dirt due to our many forays over the side, so as to speak) He just said “jambo, una kuja qwa wapi?” So we told him, and he accepted the explanation without further question. This could only happen in Africa as I’m sure you guys will agree, this almost naive purity, an
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acceptance of the situation without further ado. The herdsman who was bringing up the rear joined us and we gave them some sweets and they shared their water with us. We chatted away in Swahili (both Mac and I were fluent) though one was a Kikuyu, so he and I spoke for a while in his native tongue, Mac didn’t speak Kikuyu. After about 15 minutes we said our farewells and walked through the ‘ferocious animals’ (I’m glad we didn’t have to run through them screaming, it probably would have scared them shitless, poor things) Oh, the wonders of life!
There was only one more incident that happened that night that is worth mentioning, it happened so fast we didn’t have time to get scared till after the event. I mentioned the lights reflecting on the mountains on the opposite side of the valley, well in this incident there were two sets of lights indicating one vehicle coming up and one going down which confused us a bit. The fellow coming down took us completely by surprise, he must have been driving a low flying F16! The bugger appeared out of nowhere (I thought it was a car from the school after us) and before we knew it he was rounding the bend right behind us! We jumped, no cautious lowering here, we didn’t have time. I slid down about six foot, Mac went down lower than me, about eight or nine foot before he managed to stop. Top gun zoomed past us and we both lay prone, hanging on for dear life, panting, for quite a while. It took a monumental effort to get back on the road because there was nothing to grip onto, it was a rock face we had slid down.
The rest of our walk was relatively uneventful. We arrived in Mombo just as dawn was breaking into one of those glorious African sunrises, it was about seven in the morning. We had been walking for about seven hours and our legs ached….uhuru?..............
Capture:
As we made our way into Mombo we decided upon a story should some eager bounty hunter accost us! We knew there was an airport of sorts there so the story was we had got off the plane and it had taken off again with our parents on board, leaving us behind, stranded! (How weak is that, but when needs must) Satisfied we could bamboozle the most vociferous of interrogations with our cunning story, we boldly marched down Mombo high street, such that it was. Now, thinking back, how odd this sight must have looked. Picture the scene if you will. Its seven in the morning, we were probably the only white people in the whole district, small scruffy dirty children, dressed as if we were about to walk around indoors on a cool morning, not kitted up for a bloody safari, grinning at everything that we encountered and equipped with 40 shillingi and a sack full (half eaten actually) of sweets, our worldly possessions. Not very plausible!
The dukas were starting to open their shutters, the smell of fresh posho bubbling in the pots, fresh fruit began appearing as street side vendors set up their stalls and the general motions of a new day filled the air. We entered an Indian duka and started looking around with childish curiosity. There were great plastic bags filled with popcorn, we grabbed one of them, some fanata’s and some coke’s, some peanut honey-slabs, some biscuits and an assortment of sweets. The shopkeeper was delighted, though somewhat curious at these two scruffy little hobbits wandering round his shop. We paid him for the swag and wondered out into the sunshine to plan our next move. We were sitting on a wall just near
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the shop when Mac leapt up and disappeared back into the duka, reappearing moments
later with two packets of ‘Rex King Size’ cigarettes and two boxes of matches. Good little hobbit! Total spent so far, about 8 shillingi, a small fortune, but we were loaded!
We sat there in the sunshine, tired but happy, people watching and enjoying our real fags, rather than the tab ends mixed with grass and rolled in newspaper we had endured back in prison. So far so good, now we had to somehow get to Nairobi. Sorry, I forgot to mention, when Nigel Styles pulled out of the escape (he and I were going to head for Dar) I decided to go to Nairobi with Mac. My stepfathers brother, my uncle Bill lived there and I was sure the reception would be much more affable than the one I could expect back in Dar, besides, maybe I would be allowed to stay for a while on his coffee plantation in Kebate with my cousins, I loved the place.
We debated our options, there weren’t many. Hitchhiking, that was the way to go and that was the way we went. We wandered onto the main road between Dar and Nairobi, settled down under a large tree on the roadside and waited. It was mainly trucks that rumbled past, going in both directions. All we got at first were curious looks and a lot of waving back. If television had been around at that time one could have been duped into thinking this was a ‘Candid Camera’ stunt! I remember a large estate car, full of Indians braked sharply just after passing us, then reversed towards us stopping about 20 feet away. I thought to myself “where the hell are we supposed to sit”, all heads in the car were turned towards us and there was a lot of pointing and jabbering going on. We weren’t sure what to do, so we just stood there. After about 5 minutes it roared off again, obviously they didn’t want these two dirty little buggers in their nice clean car. A few Africans were wandering up and down the road, a few stopping to chat and pass the time of day. More concerning was the crowd of kids gathering on the other side of the road. Every time one of us got up and stuck our thumb out at an oncoming vehicle, this group across the road would all copy us, squealing with laughter and dancing about.
We had been repeating this ‘thumb thing’ for about an hour and were beginning to wonder if this master plan was such a good idea after all when a truck appeared from the Dar direction thundering towards Nairobi. Mac got up and stuck his thumb out. At first I thought it was another no-go as he roared towards us, then as he was almost alongside he hit his brakes, hard. I thought the bloody thing was going to crash, it started to fishtail down the road shuddering to a halt about 30 feet past us before reversing back. I realized why he was fishtailing, it was a truck chassis and cab, but no body was attached and the lack of rear end weight was causing this. The driver stopped, leant over and opened the passenger door and looked down at us, giving us the biggest pearly white grin I have ever seen. He was one of these very black Africans, probably Ebo. “Jambo, una quenda wapi?” he enquired in swahili and we told him. “Twende” was all he said! That was it, no 20 questions, no interrogation, just jump up and lets hit the road Jack! Praise be, we were off and more to the point, leaving Mombo because the small group of children opposite us on the road had by this time grown to a large crowd, old and young, of assorted curious onlookers including 2 very smart officious looking Indian gents, it did not bode well. It was a long wheelbase chassis and the suspension had obviously set to compensate for a large heavy body, which of course it didn’t have, resulting in an
Cont/….10
incredibly bouncy ride, even on smooth roads. The drivers name was Gugi and he was a delivery driver for the Ford truck dealer in Dar, his job was simple, drive a chassis to Narobi, collect a fully built truck and return it to Dar, He had been doing it for 4 years and loved it, he was very proud of his status in life. He was a great guy and was totally fascinated by his cargo of ‘eupi tumbili’ , I got the feeling he didn’t totally buy our story but never said so. He told us he had been born on the shores of Lake Victoria where he had been a fisherman but wasn’t happy so had gone to Dar and got a job as a shamba boy. The house owner was a mazungu who happened to be the manager of the Ford Dealership. After working for this guy for about a year, he approached his boss and asked if he could be a truck driver. It turns out his boss agreed and took him on and having got him trained used him as their truck deliveryman. He informed us that is why he had stopped because ‘mimi una penda muzungu watu kabisa!’ Let that be a lesson to us all brothers, a good deed does indeed bear fruit!
The journey from this point was pretty uneventful, the truck bounced like a bitch , the dust was thick in the cab because we had all the windows open (no air conditioning in this baby) but we were as happy as sand boys, sharing our cigarettes and goodies with our gracious host. We talked endlessly about politics, the rumors of Uhuru and Julius Nyerereys chances of success. Mac was an authority on the Kenyan problem and had a very low opinion of Jomo Kenyatta. We stopped at a few villages along the way for cups of thick condensed milk tea, posho and beans and of course more sweet things. We insisted on paying for everything in spite of feeble objections from Gugi.
We had been on the road for about 6 hours and I figured we must have been about 200 to 250 miles from Soni. We were beginning to relax a bit, Mac even had a sleep as we bounced down the dusty road. At about 3 that afternoon we approached a massive bridge over a broad river and Gugi suggested a break so we could stretch our legs and realign our spines! He pulled well off the road, we got our goodie bag and all made out way down to the riverbank. There were a hundreds of crocks swimming around, I had never seen so many, it was a sight to behold. There was a big high rock which protruded into the river shaded by a massive tree which we all clambered on to. The rock was cool to the touch and everything was heavenly peaceful as Mac and I entertained ourselves by throwing popcorn down at the crocks watching them fight each other for the odd bits.
I heard it long before I saw it and I knew immediately what it was. I had heard that sound many times in camp, Father Hamson’s dirty dusty red VW! The bastards had found us! My heart sank, I looked across at Mac, and he was crestfallen. We waited as the sound grew louder and suddenly the car was racing over the bridge about 50 feet above our heads. We held our breath, maybe he had not seen us, maybe he wouldn’t notice the parked truck………no such luck, we heard the car stop and reverse onto the bridge and stop. Hamson got out and lent on the bridge railing looking down at us. “Come on you two” he shouted down to us. The game was up, where could we go, we were shattered.
Gugi looked confused, we quickly explained what was happening and said he would not get into trouble as he was ignorant of the facts. He looked relieved but was still grinning like a Cheshire cat, bless him. As we slowly made our way back to the road Mac and I quickly decided we had to get rid of the money that was left.
Cont/….11
The logic behind this was that when we got back, had they searched us there would be some awkward questions asked as no single boy was allowed that much pocket money for tuck. We didn’t want to incriminate any other inmates, we didn’t want an inquisition where it gave them an excuse to beat the shit out of anybody for aiding and abetting. Whilst Hamson was trying to turn his car round on the road, we gave Gugi the money and most of the sweets and drinks, stuffing a few sweets into our pockets. He looked into the bag with all the loose change, gave a whoop of glee and gave us both a hug! “asanti sana, asanti sana” was all he could say. We bade our farewells to Gugi and got into the VW. As we drove away Mac and I were waving through the back window to our traveling companion standing in the middle of the road, he was waving back and still grinning, looking very happy with his recent windfall…..qwaheri rafiki……………
Return of the damned:
Of all the priests in Soni, Hamson, in my opinion, was the only decent one. He used to take us for Art and was always encouraging inmates in the subject, but most importantly, never gave me a note. I was glad he was our ‘bounty hunter’. The return trip was, in the main, uneventful with very little being said. Mac and I sat in the back seat looking dirty, dusty and very forlorn. There was one series of incidents that occurred which amused me immensely. After screaming down the road at breakneck speed for about 2 hours (we covered the return journey in half the time) we stopped at an army roadblock. Hamson got out and went to talk to the Indian Officer, the head honcho I presumed, who promptly came across to the car, stuck his head in the car window and said “you naught boys!” It made Mac and I smile, we envisaged a worse fate than that up ahead!
The roadblock incident happened twice more, each time attracting crowds of soldiers around the car, peering in to see the escapee’s. Hamson told us they had radioed up ahead as the search extended towards Dar as well as Nairobi, to call off the hunt and inform the school that we had been recaptured. Apparently our parents had been informed of our escape that morning as soon as we had been missed. I bet the priests were shitting themselves least anything tragic may have befallen us.
Mac’s mother had become quite hysterical, as I said he was from a close family. Mine on the other hand had expressed a view that we deserved severe punishment. (Can you think of anything more severe, short of a firing squad!) I guess the differing parental sentiments says it all. I was not expecting any sympathy or understanding so it was no shock to me.
We started to ascend the escarpment just as nightfall set in. I watched the lights bouncing around on the opposite valleys, reflecting on a journey that seemed to have taken place by another person during another time, it didn’t feel like me at all, it was all too bizarre.
Our arrival that night was a bit surreal, Hamson stopped the car outside the sickbay and we were ordered in with threats of severe floggings, or worse, should we be caught talking to anybody. We entered and sat on the beds not speaking, suddenly the door burst open and one of the junior kids stumbled in carrying clean pressed uniforms which he promptly dumped on the bed with wide frightened eyes staring at us. We must have looked a bit wild, we were dirty with matted hair because of all the dust, filthy clothes resulting from out kamikaze leaps, and red eyes because we were exhausted.
Cont/….12
I don’t blame the poor kid, he looked terrified. He exited as quick as he had entered, fast and without a word. Shortly afterwards sister Ruth tapped on the door and came in, she was a lovely old dear with a compassionate face and sad eyes. I guess she had seen too much brutality and evil in this place. She enquired about our health and we both said we were fine, just tired. She nodded and sweetly smiled, an understanding smile. With the medical over we were told to bath and the head would see us when we were ready. Mac and I looked at each other in a knowing way that said, without words, it was way past that,…its been a great adventure, but now we must pay. We bathed and dressed, now looking respectable, waited…………shawri ya mungu………………….
Sentence:
Apology time! My recollection of events up to this point have I hope been quite lucid and factual. However for some reason, this bit becomes fuzzy. I am told when bad things happen a mechanism in the brain flicks a magic switch, shutting out trauma, I really can’t say, but I am having a great problem here so please bare with me.
I think the head at the time was Father Collins (I remember being terrified of him, he was an evil vindictive man) he was responsible for getting me caned many, many times for the smallest of infringements. However, whoever it was, we went into his office and stood at his desk. He was tapping something on his desk and didn’t speak for about 5 minutes, just sat there looking at us, tapping, it was like a clock or time bomb waiting to explode! Eventually he rose and broke into this venomous tirade about how we had disgraced the school, our parents, god (coming from him the sanctimonious two faced bastard!!), and anybody else he could think of. I must admit we were quaking in our boots, we were terrified of this evil being that stood before us.
I don’t remember how long this went on for, but it did end, eventually. He said to us “Both your parents have asked we take you back and after much deliberation I have decided to do so. However you must be under no illusions, you boys will receive no preferential treatment should you opt to stay. The choice is yours, stay or be expelled.”
Well, I could not believe my ears, as far as Mac and I were concerned, we would be forced to stay and be beaten mercilessly as an example to others, here was this holy Joe two faced dick giving us a choice! Well, in my book there was no decision to make. Firstly, if we were expelled, we would not be beaten because we would carry the bruises home as proof, and secondly, I had not endured the last 24 hours of the most horrendous experiences so far in my young life to chuck it all away! Thirdly, and this was the most important to me, nothing in this hell hole would change, the intimidation, the beatings, the humiliation was not going to change. Whatever I was to face at home would be infinitely better than staying in this place. I remember the rage rising inside my chest, the same rage I felt when young Helmut was beaten, I felt tall and strong. I just said, “I don’t want to remain in this place” Mac was a bit politer, he said, “I would like to go home as well sir”. I thought the bastard would explode, I’m sure we were expected to grovel, to kiss his ass for being so magnanimous, instead he got shit thrown in his face, I could have cried for joy, I had just kicked the bastards in the nuts, if only in my own small way.
…………….kufa sasa mwanaumi ya choroni…………..
Cont/….13
Farewell to hell:
After we got back to the sick bay, Mac and I just sat there looking at each other smiling! We hadn’t beaten the system, but we had certainly severely dented it. A while later we got various visits from various priests all using some daft pretense to speak to us, it was as if they had also been threatened with punishment for communicating with the unclean. I think they just wanted to see us to remember they weren’t infallible, their bloody system could be attacked from within, and that’s what I like to think anyway!
Tuesday morning breakfast was served on a tray by one of the black cooks, hell, he sure wasn’t bothered about the quarantine rules, he was very chatty. He said the cooks thought we were very brave to go down the escarpment at night, and did we see any wild animals? Well no, but we had heard them. (Do mountain goats count?) I was to leave about nine that morning, Mac at about midday to fly to Nairobi, he was really excited, his mother had rung and asked to speak to him, but was refused. He said he would be fine, his parents would understand why he had to do what he did. When it was time to go we stood and shook hands, I thanked him for coming with me, it would have been a lonely walk otherwise, he in turn thanked me for asking him to join. We hugged each other, two little hobbits that had experienced something very unique together that they would take to their graves and no doubt would spend many an hour recounting the tale of the ‘Great Soni Escape’ over campfires.
As I was driven away, I remember seeing lots of eyes peeking out at me through various windows and doors, it was very strange. The drive down was basically filled with small talk and when we reached Mombo airport Hanson said goodbye and wished me well, I did likewise, he was OK. I checked in and went and sat down to wait for the flight, the EAA DC 4 was sitting on the runway. The school had given me no money so I couldn’t buy anything to drink and I was parched. Suddenly the pilot appeared and seeing me without a drink, offered me a coke to which I thankfully agreed. He brought it over and sat down with me. (He was a South African) He had heard about the escape and wanted to know more. I was confused, why would anybody want to know about two boys running away? I told him briefly what had happened and he was amazed. When it was time to go he got up and patted me on the shoulder and said “You guys are a couple of brave buggers, take care” Again, I was confused, we had done nothing particularly brave, we only ran away. I must confess, a pilot coming across sitting down and seriously listening to me, I felt quite grown up. We boarded and gently lifted into the hot sunny air heading upwards into the blue sky, I looked down at Mombo and the hills where I was leaving hell behind, I felt only sorrow for those poor sods left behind. All evil is exposed eventually, maybe?
………………..qwaheri rafiki yango………………..
Clinton McMillan (Blakeman),
Stavanger, Norway,
28/03/09.