The following account was written by a shipmate of Eunice’s on the Durban Castle as it sailed from England to East Africa. Signing his recounted journey only “Tall Oak,” the author has been identified as Captain Charles H. Stewart of the Salvation Army. Canadian by birth and stationed in Kenya, Stewart was that same Salvation Army captain Eunice described in her December 9, 1950 letter from Gibraltar as “our Romeo between us,” and whose departure from the ship at Mombasa she laments in her December 29 letter, saying wistfully, “I can’t see why our pathways should have crossed, as it must end so futile but nevertheless it was nice while it lasted.”
The recounted journey rounds out our picture of their shared experience through the Mediterranean and down Africa’s east coast. The photos included are Eunice’s, some never before shared on the site.
AFRICA BOUND
by “Tall Oak”
The trip across the Atlantic was of the usual variety with a couple of moderate gales and daily heavy swells thrown in. The ship arrived at Tilsbury Docks nine days after leaving Quebec.
The excitement of disembarking, and the sinking feeling you get watching your luggage being hurried away to the train, to be packed into the baggage van without so much as a ticket or check, will not be forgotten (the Canadian system of baggage checking is not really appreciated until you have traveled in the old world) and you wondered if you would ever see your bags again! At the end of your journey your first thought is the luggage, so you hurry to the front end of the train but you find that wooden barriers have been set up around the baggage cars, and so you have to wait with the many others until all the baggage is placed on the platform. At the word from the Stationmaster the crowd swarms past the barriers to seek and claim what is theirs. If you have a lot of pieces – – – whew!
Later, aboard the ship for Africa, we sailed through the Channel and saw England disappear in the distance.
It was Sunday December 10th, early in the morning at about 3:00 A.M. that we sailed through the Straits of Gibraltar. The evening before a British warship had encircled us, took a look at our colours, and signaled us on our way.
It was dark when I first saw the famous “Rock.” It could be seen dimly outlined in the darkness, its jagged peak topped by tiny lights that could easily be mistaken for stars; its sprawling base sprinkled with the lights of the town like twinkling tinsel.
Even before daylight the natives were rowing their boats to the side of the ship, and soon the early morning air was filled with their cries of, “Nice necklace. You want to buy nice necklace?” “You like scarf? Scarf very cheap. You like buy?” and very soon there was brisk bidding back and forth. One thing I learned was that you never pay the first price asked. If the seller asks “ten bob” you can fairly and safely hold out until he lets you have it for four or five “bob.” I thought at first that this was taking advantage of the native, but it isn’t. The native likes to barter and knowing that he will be beaten down, he puts the price up accordingly.
As the sun came up behind the “Rock” it presented a magnificent sight! As I watched it in the growing daylight, something stirred within my heart. Here was majestic “Gib”! Something of the marvel, intrigue, and romance of it stirred me in a way that only a Britisher can be stirred. Then I thought of its blood-stained history, of the brave men who had conquered it, and those who had lost it; of the countless women and children who have looked towards the “Rock” through sorrowful eyes as they mourned their loved ones, and my soul was hushed within me. Here was a monument to the devotion and sacrifice of countless brave men and women, and I wondered as I realized that it will never be as important again.
At 9:45 A.M. the passengers were allowed to go ashore for three hours. Eagerly we hurried aboard the tender “Gibel Derif” (named after a Moorish prince who at one time conquered the “Rock”). It did not cost us anything to go ashore, but it did cost us four shillings each to get back!
After passing a policeman at the dock gates, we got into a “gari,” a horse-drawn carriage of ancient vintage, whose wheels groaned and creaked under the load as it rattled over the cobblestones. The horse slipped and snorted up the hills, so much so that I doubted whether it would make it. This little experience cost us “ten bob,” or about one dollar and fifty cents.
The town of Gibraltar is built, as one would expect, like a fortress. The walls of the buildings are very thick, two feet or more, and the streets are very narrow, about 18 to 20 feet across; not much room here for two-way traffic! Few of the streets have sidewalks and the pedestrians walk on the roads.
The stores all have iron gates and shutters, and the houses also have shutters for the windows. The prices of the goods inside the stores seem to be very reasonable, and there seems to be a good supply of merchandise.
I passed a couple of characters who were putting through a black-market deal – pesetos for pounds. They were crouched in a doorway, and as I drew near one muttered a warning to the other, but seeing that I was not a policeman they completed their deal and went on their way.
The teenagers are very loud in their conversation to each other as they walk along the streets. They almost seem to shout at each other. The language is Spanish. They all seem well dressed and well nourished.
One of the most interesting places in the town of Gibraltar is King’s Chapel, which has been standing for four hundred years, having gone through all the bombardments, change of ownership, pestilence, and other calamity that make up the history of the “Rock.” For a hundred and fifty years it was the only place of worship after the British took the “Rock” in 1704.
To get into the Chapel we went down stone steps. In the Chapel there were more than fifty memorials to men who have worshiped there and helped to make the history of Gibraltar. The first one to be seen is one to Captain Edward Burke, one-time Mayor of Gibraltar who was killed by an enemy shell in 1781.
The altar of the Chapel is backed by a mural painting representing St. Francis, to whom it is thought the Chapel was first dedicated, and St. Bernard who is the patron saint of Gibraltar.
Leaving the Chapel after signing the visitor’s register, we passed the Governor’s house (H.R. the Governor and Lady Anderson) and a British tommy is on guard, pacing precisely his measured distance and ceremoniously stamping out his about turns.
There must have been a recent election in town, for on the walls along the streets are notices, “This way to booth 6,” “Votad por Hassen,” “Votad por – – –,” and so on.
Water on Gibraltar is sold to those who do not have cisterns in little wooden barrels that hold about three gallons. The cost is about fifteen cents. The main supply of water for the “Rock” comes from a huge reservoir that is filled by rainwater from a man-made catchment made of cement along one side of the “Rock.”
One is surprised upon speaking to a policeman, dressed in the traditional “London bobby” style, to discover that he is Spanish! However, as we went back to the dock, the policeman who examined our papers was English.
It was with regret that we saw the “Rock” fade into the distance as we sailed with bow pointing east toward the open Mediterranean and our next port of call.
Our next port of call was Marseilles, France. Early in the morning (of December 12th, 1950) we went ashore, this time without the aid of a ferry.
The first thing we did was to search out the local Salvation Army officer, and after receiving direction from six different French policemen we finally arrived at a big place of four stories high with the words “Armee Du Salut” painted in huge letters along the side.
The young officer could not speak English, but happily enough we had a young lady with us who had gone to school in France when she was a young girl, and after considerable mental gymnastics, she was able to remember enough French to be understood and to understand.
We learned that instead of having found the Corps, or Church Officer, we had located the Social Service Branch of the Salvation Army. This was soon evident by the many poor men and women who began to stream into the place for the noon meal. After dinner the French officer loaded us into a half-ton truck, and drove us around the town to see the sights.
The people look quite well on the whole, but like all cities in the world, there are the various classes: the well-to-do, the reasonably well-off, and the poor. There was an old pauper sitting on the steps of a building, there was the fellow who was picking up cigarette butts, and there was the fellow who eyed us hopefully while he mentally calculated how much of a “touch” we would be good for.
The traffic amazes you. Everything seems to move with reckless abandon. Canadian taxi drivers have a reputation for fast, daredevil driving, but these French – – – – – – – – ! Even the Captain drove like Jehu; squeezing the truck between two cars and a huge transport, he brought our vehicle to an abrupt stop and we found ourselves in front of the Salvation Army Gospel Book Store. Waiting to get into an auxiliary room were about twenty old men and women who, I learned, were waiting to get a little money allowance that the Salvation Army gives them each week.
Next we go to the Post Office to get some stamps. It seems that there are no sub-post offices, so one must go to the main office, so you can imagine they do quite a business. To watch the customers and the office clerks talking is a revelation, and the expressiveness of the thumb! It is amazing. Talking excitedly and rapidly, the flicking of the thumb seems to have a special significance. I was not able to ascertain just what, but they certainly make their thumbs do overtime!
Our stay in Marseilles passed very quickly and while we were still pondering the things our eyes had seen, the ship set sail for our next port of call, Genoa, Italy.
Beautiful Genoa. What an interesting place it is! Owing to an unforeseen delay we spent two days and a half in this Italian city. It is an experience well worth having.
Strange as it may seem, the outstanding place of interest is the CEMETERY! But what a cemetery! We traveled to it by street car. Street cars here are open at the ends and the people crowd into them and there does not seem to be any regulations as to how many can be carried. In rush hours the people hang on the sides and back, anywhere at all, if you can get a foot or a hand hold and hang on, that seems the rule. A few of the cars have doors but the crowd is so great that doors cannot close. Never in my life have I seen so many passengers hanging on the outside of a street car. No one seems to mind – even if the conductor cannot collect the fare!
But let us go back to the cemetery. No doubt a good number of the 1,000,000 who are buried thre got there via the crowded street cars! The cemetery is really three cemeteries in one: Protestant, Roman Catholic, and Jewish. But the part which is the attraction is the Roman Catholic section. In this section are hundreds of marble statues, single statues, group scenes, worth millions of dollars. The beauty of the carvings far exceeds anything that I have seen. The grace and form of the figures is hard to understand unless it is seen. To properly describe them would take the understanding of a true artist, which of course I am not. But this I will endeavour to do: I will try to give some idea of the splendid workmanship that has been put into the hundreds of superb monuments.
Each one tells a story, a story of the tragedy surrounding the death of the one remembered, or a story of the thoughts of the loved one left behind. A grieving mother knocking on the door of Eternity. The last look at the face of a departed loved one by the sorrowing wife and courage failing her. The beautiful, and I say beautiful with its full meaning, statue of an angel is something to behold. The fine curves of the body are delightful, the expression on the face is a masterpiece. The wings are exquisitely carved in minute detail, giving a lifelike appearance of actual feathers.
The representation of Christ on the Cross is astounding; the Cross actually looks like wood, although the whole monument is carved in one piece from solid marble.
The last kiss of farewell to a dying bride. The mother listening at the door of Eternity dressed in intricate dress and shawl all realistically carved from solid marble, even to the embroidering on the dress and the fine crochet work on the shawl, are to say the least amazing. But we must go on. All graves are numbered, and many of the monuments have photographs of those buried hanging on them. To see all that is to be seen of this cemetery would take days, so we had to leave as we wanted to go to the next point of interest, the Cathedral.
Arriving at the Cathedral we find that it is a huge building jammed in between other buildings in the heart of the city. The outside is not so impressive but inside is a very different story. There is a huge altar in the rear centre, flanked by two smaller altars. All the altars are richly decorated. Behind the main altar are the choir seats, beautifully carved from solid oak, and each one has some significant scene of inlaid wood on the back. There are two hundred and fifty choir seats, and none of them are visible to the congregation during the services. The expert singing of an unseen choir must be a real inspiration.
Everywhere on the ceiling, wall panels, and in between are mural paintings of Holy scenes, and in between the wall panels are statues that must have taken a vast amount of time and labour and much money to complete.
The city of Genoa has one skyscraper, built on the orders of Mussolini who, at the same time, ordered the building of Genoa’s fine dock. On the top of the skyscraper is a cafe, and from the cafe you can get an excellent panoramic bird’s eye view of Genoa.
Genoa is a city of big buildings; there does not seem to be any small individual houses. The people that live in the city proper live in huge apartment blocks. Any ordinary houses there have been located outside the city.
Leaving the skyscraper building, the elevator man called our attention to another man who seemed to be a janitor, and putting his hand on the janitor’s shoulder said, “Si, si, he Americano.” At once I was interested and said, “You came from America?” But before the janitor could answer, our friend the elevator man said, “Si, si, he Americano, he five years Sing-Sing!” I was not just too sure of the implication. After meeting our “Americano” friend, we caught Car Number 52 which took us along the sea shore. This too is well worth seeing.
The jagged rocks, the colourful Mediterranean, the splendidly constructed walks, the places of historic interest, the display of fine paintings, and the sight of the artist at work, the interesting growth of tropical trees, all united together to give us a most interesting afternoon.
In Genoa nearly every building is a work of art; they are mostly huge buildings with great pillars, some with carved figures on the outside, others with colourful paintings.
The City Hall is what I consider to be of true Italian style. It is magnificent. The Council Chambers has nothing to compare with it anywhere in Canada, excepting perhaps the Parliament Chambers, for craftsmanship and beauty. Carved oak doors, furnishings that are worth many fortunes, and again tremendous paintings on the ceilings and walls.
Of course, there is the other side of Genoa. The narrow back streets, the open black market in American cigarettes, nylons, pens, watches, etc. The vendors shouting their wares, the seller of roast chestnuts (they taste very good), I even saw sparrows for sale as food!
Just a word about the washing. This seems to be hung anywhere at all, from one window to another, across a building, across the fifteen-foot wide street. As there are no back yards, the women must hang their washing wherever they can put it, and it does present an odd sight to a stranger to see sheets, socks, underwear, and so forth hanging out of the most unexpected places.
The visit to the Old City Gates and the house where Christopher Columbus was born was very interesting, and I thought, what a pity the house could not be inspected.
Genoa is a beautiful city and the remembrance of ancestors and historical figures is amazing. Throughout the city there are monuments to church men, statesmen, and others. Without a doubt Genoa is a “Monumental” city, no matter which way we view it.
Out in the open Mediterranean again, we passed the volcanic island of Strombo[li], and we could plainly see the volcano erupting about every twelve minutes. A few hours later we passed the tip of Sicily to our right, and through the darkness we could see Mount Etna’s glowing crater, and the sullen red glow of molten lava flowing down the mountain side. There were three distinct spots of intense heat to be seen near the top of the mountain.
It was the following day before we reached Port Said, at the entrance to the Suez Canal, and as took place at Gibraltar, the vendors came over quickly in the merchandise laden boats, to sell to all and sundry. One big tycoon set up a number of temporary stores on the ship’s dock, and others sent their wares up to the passengers in baskets attached to strings. One traveling through these areas for the first time soon learns that the prices asked for are always inflated at 100% or more, and that it is not wrong to beat them down to half of what they ask, or less! Unless you do so, they will take you for a ride every time.
As soon as the ship was nicely tied up, an energetic fellow clambered on board with a black sack and shouted, “This way for Gilly, Gilly, Gilly, Gally Man!” He turned out to be a very good magician, and he made quite a hit with his chickens and eggs and disappearing cubes. After gaining the interest of his audience, he suddenly stopped entertaining and asked for a collection. He didn’t seem very happy over the amount he received, so he did the same tricks over again. The name “Gilly, Gilly” seems to come for the magicians habit of saying “Gilly, Gilly” somewhat after the same manner as western magicians say, “Abra cadabra” or “Hoka ponkus honka wonkus” as they wave their hands over their gimmicks.
Walking through the streets of Port Said one must have a heart of flint, and the patience of Job, for about every fifty feet you are accosted by street sellers with their insistent demands to examine and buy their wares. They sell a great variety of necklaces, bangles, nic-nacs, wallets, purses, bracelets, carved ornaments, something in a bottle – “good for the women” – probably fifteen nights in Paris perfume that might be substituted for an insecticide. One has a feeling of relief at getting back to the ship away from the insistent cry, “You like to buy?”, “It costs nothing to look” “Here, you feel, it cost you nothing”, “Hi! Mrs. Simpson, good for you Mrs. Simpson.” They seem to call every white woman “Mrs. Simpson.” I could not find out why, but thought that seeing a king of England married a Mrs. Simpson they consider every white woman would be flattered to be called by her name.
The Suez Canal is a military base, and our journey along was interesting from a panoramic view point. The Canal is the result of the faith of one man, Ferdinand De Lesseps, who sparked the idea of a connecting waterway between the Mediterranean and the Red Sea. It took ten years to complete, and cost about thirty-eight million, five hundred thousand pounds sterling, or about $112,900,000 at the present rate of exchange. The depth of the Canal is forty-five feet and its width one hundred and fifty feet. The length of it is one hundred and fifty miles. Ships are restricted to the speed of six miles per hour, because a large ship sets up a heavy wash at more than seven knots an hour, which breaks down the Canal walls. 1876 was a year of complete crisis for Khedive Ismail, known as Ismail the Magnificent, the incorrigible spendthrift who ruined Egypt, and he sold the Egyptian shares to the Canal for three million, nine hundred and seventy-six thousand, five hundred and eighty-two pounds sterling. Disraeli saw that the Suez was the key to India, and lost no time in closing the deal. This gave England a controlling interest in the Suez. What prosperity Egypt has to-day is the result of the British interest.
There has been raised a magnificent monument to the memory of the Frenchman, Ferdinand De Lesseps, the man responsible for the life-line to the East.
We traveled the one hundred and fifty miles through the Canal during the night, pulling over to the side and tying up for about two hours to let nine freighters pull by. The Canal law is that north-bound shipping has the right-of-way, and all other ships must come to a complete stand-still until the north-bound ships are past; this again is because of the excessive wash that would be created by two ships passing in narrow water, and the havoc that would be cause if two ships collided and sank while in the Canal.
The “Red Sea” looked delightfully “Blue” and the coast of Egypt looked bleak and sandy as we headed for our next point of interest.
At Port Sudan we met the Fuzzy Wuzzy’s as they came aboard to unload the cargo. It would have interested the ladies to have seen some of the hair-do’s. Mud and cow-dung is the chief medium for fixing a hair wave.
As we arrived at Port Sudan late in the evening, the natives worked all night unloading and loading cargo, chanting in unison as they worked.
There were no restrictions about going ashore, so we went off the ship to see the dock buildings. These are very well made of stone and comparatively new, having been built during the last war by the British. We took a more detailed look the following morning.
The town of Port Sudan is across the harbour from the dock, and native boatmen will row you across for two piastre, or about seven and a half cents one way. It was here that we saw our first camels, and heard native Swahili spoken. As Swahili is the language that I have to learn, it was of great interest to me.
The natives in general do not seem to be very clean about their persons. It makes one wonder to see a native take his morning wash by filling his mouth full of water, tilting his head well back, then blowing the water straight up into the air and letting the water fall back on his face!
The natives lie down wherever the notion strikes them – on gravel piles, wood piles, or right on the side-walk, pulling their filthy rags about them as they go to sleep.
The currency situation in Port Sudan we found “grim.” The post office would not accept English pounds or half crowns, nor South African money. However, they would accept English shillings and two shilling pieces. It is only in one and two shilling pieces and Egyptian money that they will do business, so being short of the right money, we did not spend much. I found one opportunist who said he would change our English ten shilling note for eight shillings.
On the way back to the ship we met a “holy man” of striking appearance. All sorts of paraphernalia hanging from his waist, hair bushy and wild looking, twisted stick in his hand, and fixing us with his hypnotic eyes, lifted up his hands and voice crying, “Is God good? God is not good.” This he repeated twice and shuffled on his way.
We waved good-bye to Port Sudan at about 3 P.M. and headed south and west to Aden. It was the afternoon of Christmas Eve before we anchored in Aden harbour, and we went ashore by launch for forty-nine cents return.
Aden is really in three parts. There is the dock area, Arab town, and crater town, or Aden proper.
The rock is volcanic in origin and there is no grass or growth of any kind, except a few trees that have been cultivated at great labour and no little cost. The rain-fall is very meagre, a fraction of an inch on the average of every seven years. The drinking water is distilled from the sea at a special plant, and piped twelve miles to the town.
The populace is a mixture of Arab, Central African, and Jew. However, most of the Jews have left since the riots of the last Arab and Jewish war in Palestine.
Most of the natives wear turbans and are clothed in very colourful materials. They all seem to think that white people possess an unlimited supply of money which they should hand over to them on request. Life is made miserable by the persistent cry of boys and girls, and guides (self-appointed) for “buckshee.” If one had hired them as a guide one would not mind giving them a little but they latch on to you without being asked and stick out their hands for a tip. Some get quite angry if they are refused a tip.
The Arabs are not a thrifty people and appear to be shiftless. They live in “shacktown” buildings, with goats and dirt everywhere. Some of the natives are not much better, and sanitary conditions simply do not exist.
We visited the town well (where the water came from I do not know) but a little, dirty, native boy who had been asking for “buckshee” said, “You throw money in water I dive in for it.” I looked at the dirty, I should say filthy, native boy and wondered how the people drawing water from the well would like that – then I looked at the water in the well, and decided that it wouldn’t make much difference!
Walking along the streets dozens of natives tried to steer us into cheap shops where, according to them, were piled bargains especially for us.
The sun goes down very quickly here, so we made our way back to the ship, which was anchored to huge buoys in the harbour, and arrived by launch in time for supper.
After supper we sang Christmas carols, and a party from the shore came in a launch to serenade the passengers aboard the ships in the harbour. The carols were well sung and much enjoyed.
The ship sailed from Aden later in the evening and we were on to the high seas for Christmas day.
Christmas morning a party of missionaries, who were outward bound to their missionary appointments, went around the ship singing carols to the crew and passengers. Special meetings were held for the children and the grown-ups. The ship’s company provided special fare and entertainment and each child received a Christmas present.
During the days that followed we passed over the equator, and those who had not crossed the “Line” before, and wanted to be so, were initiated by Father Neptune who sat on his royal throne beside his queen and pronounced sentence on the “land lubbers.” With the aid of his conspirators, the “bears,” he provided a lot of entertainment for the other passengers.
The “land lubbers” were “slapped in the face with a kipper,” given a “tonic” by the ship’s doctor, pasted with paste, then thrown into the swimming pool.
The things done were varied according to the charges laid against them. Later, each one initiated was presented with an official certificate of initiation.
We landed at Mombasa the 29th [of] December 1950, forty days after leaving Quebec. After having a few weeks in Nairobi, I have been appointed to Kolanya, an inland section of Kenya some 650 miles from the coast, where I commence my work among the natives. The nearest post office is Myanga. At some future date I may have an opportunity of telling you about the work among the native Africans.