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Petra
02-02-2005, 04:24 AM
I've not yet finished this book - just finished chapter one actually; so still a long way to go - but I have found it to be both horrifying and engaging.


Aidan Hartley was a Reuters war correspondent, reporting in Africa.
He is African born to English parents, and his parents were quite amazing people by all accounts.


Has anyone else read this book?


Anyway, from what I've read so far, I highly recommend it.


Here's some info and a NPR interview with Aidan:

www.thezanzibarchest.com



'We should have never come!' So said Aidan Hartley's father in his final days, rising from a bed made of mountain cedar, lashed with thongs of rawhide from an oryx shot many years before. His words spoke of a colonial legacy that stretched back over 150 years through four generations of one British family. From great-great-grandfather William Temple, who was awarded the Victoria Cross for his role in defending British settlements in nineteenth-century New Zealand, to his father, a colonial officer in Africa in the 1920s and a builder of dams in Arabia in the 1940s, the Hartleys were intrepid men who travelled to exotic lands to conquer, to build, and finally to bear witness. In The Zanzibar Chest, Hartley weaves together his family's history, his childhood in Africa and the dark world of the continent's horrendous wars, which he witnessed at first hand as a journalist in the 1990s.

After the end of the Cold War, there seemed to be new hope for Africa but again and again-in Ethiopia, in Somalia, Rwanda and the Congo, terror and genocide prevailed. In Somalia, three of Hartley's close friends are torn to pieces by an angry mob. Then, after walking overland from Uganda with the rebel army, he saw the terrible atrocities in Rwanda, arriving at the sites and interviewing survivors just days after the massacres. Finally, burnt out from a decade of horror, he retreated to his family's house in Kenya, where he discovered the Zanzibar chest his father left him. Intricately hand-carved and smelling of camphor, the chest contained the diaries of his father's best friend, Peter Davey, an Englishman who died under mysterious circumstances more than fifty years earlier. Tucking the papers under his arm, Hartley embarked on a journey to southern Arabia in an effort not only to unlock the secrets of Davey's life, but of his own. He travelled to the remote mountains and deserts of southern Arabia where his father served as a British officer. He began to piece together the disparate elements of Davey's story, a man who fell in love with an Arabian princess and converted to Islam, but died tragically.

At once a modern and a historic love story, The Zanzibar Chest is also an epic narrative charting the fates of men and women who interfered with, embraced and were ultimately transformed by twentieth-century Africa.

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=1395590



(Should this have gone in the Politics forum? I almost think that is where I should have put it. :shrug: )

Petra
02-02-2005, 10:35 AM
I'm going to share some excerpts of what I've read so far, and will probably continue to do so as I progress through the book. I'll try to keep copyright in mind. Let me know if I cross the line.


At any one time we had six wars, a couple of famines, a coup d'etat, and a natural disaster like a flood or an epidemic or a volcanic eruption, all within a radius of three hours' flight from Nairobi. You could take off at sunrise, commute to witness a battle or hear a starving man breathe his last and be back by nightfall, in time to file a story, take a shower, then hit the Tamarind restaurant downtown for mangrove crab and Stellenbosch. Or you were dropped off, watching the plane roar away in a cloud of red dust, and you were gone for weeks, out of contact and a thousand miles from help. And each time you returned home after a trip like that for a few days you were as mad as Gulliver talking to his horses.

These were the years when we hitched rides on dawn flights carrying cargoes of blood plasma, guns and baby food to bush airstrips. Flights on battered Antonovs, with the word NASDROVJE! - Cheers! - emblazoned on the nose of the fuselage. Flown by Russian crews with the Mongoloid faces of Soyuz cosmonauts from my boyhood stamp collection, their breath sour from drink, on three hundred dollars a month, with girls thrown in, running weapons in the orbit of modern African wars.


[....]


On takeoff I used to recite the Lord's Prayer over and over until I got stuck on a line like a mantra - 'deliver us from evil, deliver us from evil, deliver us from evil' - as the earth fell away. Ten minutes out from Nairobi and the great gate of clouds opened out, with the pillars of Mount Kenya to the north and Kilimanjaro to the south. Our path led over patchwork peasant lands, sequinned with tin hut roofs glinting in the sun. Further out were empty, arid plains, broken up only by smooth brown kopjes and the capillaries of seasonal streams that dissipated into stains of green against the ochre and white desert. Look down and you'd see herds of goats and camels scatter in unison like shoals of fish. Even in this modern day, out here whole grid squares on the tactical pilotage charts were half blank and marked with the words RELIEF DATA INCOMPLETE. They might as well have written 'here be monsters'. The flights themselves scared the hell out of me before we'd even landed in the eye of another crisis. 'I repeat, six souls on board, do you read...?' Often there was no answer. The pilots called Sub-Sahara's airspace 'the cone of silence'. I couldn't fully appreciate the idea until the day I entered a control tower following a battle at an airport and saw brain, hair and skull fragments all over the walls. Everytime we flew into a cloud I'd hold my breath and think of all the UFO junk we might be on a collison course with: ghost flights, alcoholic Ukrainians shifting cargo, Zimbo arms smugglers, overflying tourist charters, medevacs, drug couriers, patrolling MiGs. There was tropical weather too, in which minutes after observing clear skies up ahead one saw elevating thousands of feet up out of thin air a black storm with the head of a sledgehammer.

On those flights I'd look down from the sky at takeoffs and landings to see the silhouette of our little aircraft ripple over pulverised cities, refugee camps, the acetylene-white flashes of anti-aircraft fire and countries rich only in lost hopes and broken dreams. What comes to mind when I think of that time in my life are the words of Isiah 18, which I'd read in the Gideons Bibles I'd found in dozens of seedy hotel rooms where I'd spent so much of my life on the road; "Woe to the land shadowing with wings, which is beyond the rivers of Ethiopia...Go, ye swift messengers, to a nation scattered and peeled, to a people terrible from their beginning hitherto; a nation meted out and trodden down." That passage makes me think of my circle of friends, the journalists I knew in those years. We were the swift messengers in Africa.


There is so much to this book, and I'm only a pathetic 80 pages in!...the great stories of his family history, the descriptions of Africa and his obvious love for the land, the wildlife and the people. And the documentary of violent revolution, of terror and famine and loss, and of beauty and hope.



I'd type out more to show you his parents - his mother especially, as she is what I once romanticised for myself in my life when I was young. I never had her guts, though. What an amazing lady! And his father was quite something, too.


Anyway, as I said, I'm only 80-odd pages in. Chapter two beckons. We're about to move away from Take Me Home to Mama and into Journalist Plus Plus territory.




Oh, and really, listen to the guy's NPR interview - it's only half an hour and well worth it, right down to the last few seconds. Really.




Farren, JoeP - have you read this book? If you have, and as Africans, what do you think about it?

viscousmemories
02-02-2005, 05:22 PM
I'm not sure if it's more fitting in Politics & Law or Arts & Literature, but it definitely doesn't fit in the Reading Group forum so I'll move it here.

Ensign Steve
02-02-2005, 05:26 PM
Ooooooohhhhhh... you got booted outta the reading club. Moted!

:mock: :mocking: :haha: :giggles: :biglaugh:

Petra
02-03-2005, 09:16 PM
Ooooooohhhhhh... you got booted outta the reading club. Moted!

:mock: :mocking: :haha: :giggles: :biglaugh:

Bitch!

:ptht: