Into Africa

A true but cynical and somewhat irreverent account of what happened when a British fire officer was sent to Tanzania to investigate a fire in which 43 schoolchildren died.

INTO AFRICA

© Colin Mardell 2011

With sad regard for forty-three young victims of poverty and ignorance.

One sultry Friday afternoon in late June 1994, grossly uncomfortably occupied at tedious household and gardening chores in the 26^oC heat, the telephone rung.  Grateful for any excuse to take a break, I hurried to answer it.  It was Assistant Chief Officer Smith’s Personal Assistant, “Mr Mardell?”  She asked, “The ACO would like to speak with you.  I’ll put him through.”

As you might expect it is not an everyday occurrence to be telephoned at home by an ACO.  I was therefore more than a little curious what was the purpose of the call.  After a few bars of Handel’s ‘Water Music’ (or whatever the piped music of the day was), ACO Smith came on the line. 

“Good afternoon Colin.  How are you?” he asked. 

“A bit hot and bothered to be truthful.”  I replied, “But otherwise fine thank you Sir”.

“Don’t you like the heat then?”

“Not particularly Sir.  It gives me a rash”.

“You wouldn’t be interested in a trip to Tanzania for the Brigade then?”

Anybody who knows me can testify I am not a person who is frequently lost for words.  However, I have to admit there was a momentary hesitation before I said that notwithstanding my aversion to warm climates, I most certainly was interested.  I had resisted the temptation to ask if he had been joking.  As most people would guess, principal officers of one of the world’s biggest and busiest fire services rarely find the time to interrupt their busy schedule to play practical jokes on their staff.

The ACO explained that the Brigade had been approached by the Tanzanian Government via our Prime Minister (John Major) and the Foreign Office for assistance.  There had been a fire in a school and forty-three schoolchildren had died.  It had occurred a week or two beforehand and the authorities had had no success in defining its cause.  The ACO advised me to give the matter full consideration, to discuss the matter with my family and to inform him later that evening whether I was prepared to go.  Meanwhile I was to make urgent enquiries how to obtain the necessary immunisation before any trip could take place. 

“When would I be expected to leave?”  I asked.

ACO Smith replied that he was not sure of all the details at that stage but I would be expected to fly out the following week and be away for at least four or five days.  He added that he hoped to have more information from the Foreign Office within the following day or two.

Putting the phone down, I stopped for a few minutes to take it all in.  My wife was not home from work so I was unable to immediately drop the bombshell on her.  I rang the British Airways Travel Clinic who advised me that I needed to be protected against practically every dreadful disease that anybody had ever heard of.  I was later to find that this would involve sticking needles in nearly every exposed (and unexposed) part of my anatomy, and swallowing a cocktail of pills and potions. 

***

Let me explain.  At the time of these events, I was serving as a Divisional Officer in the London Fire Brigade, posted to the Fire Safety Engineering Section at Headquarters in Lambeth.  One of my particulars duties was as head of fire investigation for the brigade.  These were heavy responsibilities, but ones that I passionately enjoyed.

When, eventually, I was able to tell my wife what I had been asked to do (on her return from work), she was just as flabbergasted as I had been.  Ever the practical thinker, it did not take her long to respond by saying, “Well you’d better be back in time for our holiday”.  In the midst of all my enthusiasm, I had forgotten that our family holiday to France was only three weeks away, but as I was only expected to be out of the country for a short time, I was confident that the holiday would be safe.  Later that day I telephoned ACO Smith telling him that I would be prepared to go.

As it turned out the original estimate for departure had been a little optimistic.  The arrangements that had to be made to ensure the trip was worthwhile became rather complicated.  The Travel Clinic explained that some of the immunisations take 10 days to take effect.  Of course while waiting for this to happen there were tickets to book, arrangements for currency, insurance, accommodation and equipment.  It was also necessary to ensure that both the Brigade and I were fully indemnified against accident and illness, etcetera.  This and many other matters became the subject of the many discussions which took place between the Foreign Office and Brigade HQ over the next week or so.

These discussions included a brief advisory session at the Foreign Office; the purpose of the meeting was to counsel me through the political ramifications of the inter-governmentally arranged expedition, to answer any questions I might have and advise me of potential pitfalls.

Of course, I should have known that nothing is as simple as that.  On arrival at the FCO, I was kept waiting at the security desk for almost an hour past my appointment time.  Until, eventually a pretty but severe looking woman of about thirty years-old emerged.  “Mr Mardell?” I looked up, “Please come with me.”  After brief pause while I was issued with a ‘Visitor’ badge, I was ushered in silence through dingy corridors and a dark lift to a small office, occupied by a man in a silk tie and tailored suit.  The man, who was about forty years-old shifted some papers to one side and stood up to greet me.

“I’m Angela Withal, and this is Richard Mayhart.”  The woman said and offered me a chair after we had all shaken hands while she took a seat alongside her colleague.

For several moments, we sat smiling politely at each other, before Richard said, “Well how can we help you then?”

“I was hoping for some advice prior to my trip.”  I said.

“What trip?” replied Richard.

I briefly outlined my mission to refresh their memories, I knew they must be very busy people, but it seemed strange that an assignment sanctioned by the Prime Minister had slipped their memory.

Richard glanced at Angela and smiled knowingly.  Angela glanced back with an equally enigmatic smile raised her eyebrows and shook her head in the manner of someone just waking up.  It was obvious that they did not have a clue what I was talking about. 

I explained in greater detail and paused awaiting a response before Richard asked, “Yes, and how can we help?”

I explained that the whole excursion would be an entirely new experience for me.  Not only had I never travelled to exotic places before; but, more importantly, I had never had to go abroad as representative of the government.  Discussions with the ACO had alerted me to the sensitive nature and political dimension to the venture.  Apparently, the school was a private boarding school favoured by wealthy and important personages including government ministers; and my investigation was at the personal request of the country’s Prime Minister.

“Well,” said Richard, “I’m not sure exactly what we can say.  What do you think Angela?”

“We could probably arrange for you to be given some local currency for use during your stay.  Is there anything else we can help with?”

By this time, I was getting a bit frustrated to say the least.  “I was hoping for some practical advice about how to conduct myself.”

The pair of civil servants looked at each other once again before Richard replied.  “The best advice I can give is, firstly don’t drink the water, and; secondly, if they offer you a ride in any sort of aircraft, then refuse to get in.”

The pair smiled knowingly at each other, wished me good luck with my trip, and shook my hand before Angela ushered me back out of the building.

As I walked back across Lambeth Bridge towards my office, I asked myself what on earth the point of the meeting had been.

I spent the next week deciding what equipment it would be practical to take and what clothing I should wear.

***

I finally took off from Heathrow at 1700 hours on 15th July, four weeks after the fire and nine days before my family holiday.  It had been decided that I should spend the whole week in Tanzania, as many of the witnesses of the fire (including survivors) had been sent home, hundreds of miles away from both Dar es Salaam and the scene of the blaze.

I am not a seasoned traveller and I am bound to say that after this trip it would be a very long time before I allowed myself to be booked on a 12-hour economy class flight again.  British Airways did their best to make it a comfortable flight on the 10-hour leg to Nairobi; but what with accompanying whinging travellers and some of their screaming, vomiting children; it was not a journey to be repeated voluntarily.  Except for the first hour or two, it was dark throughout the journey.  The man sitting next to me was a Texan paramedic who spent most of the night telling me how he was going to acquire a tax-free fortune working in a Kenyan oilfield.  Although the captain occasionally gave us some information about where we were, it was difficult to have a true perception of distance or location.  This was especially true because the farthest I had travelled until that day was the Costa del Sol.

Eventually we touched down at Dar es Salaam International Airport at 0600 local time, about 15 minutes earlier than scheduled.  The business of immigration, passport control and baggage collection was over in remarkably short time and I was beginning to think that all would be problem free.  It had been arranged that ‘I would be met at the airport by representatives of the Inspector General of Police, and of the British High Commissioner’.  However, as I emerged from the baggage hall and passport control there was no one there that looked even remotely as if they represented either of those illustrious dignitaries.  I waited for twenty minutes or so, ignored by all but the dozens of taxi drivers that populate airports touting for business.  Eventually, I concluded that there must have been a breakdown in communications, so I approached one of the Policemen who patrolled the airport terminal with antiquated rifles (from my days in the Sea Cadets I identified them as Enfield 303s).  It very quickly became clear that the constable did not speak English; indeed, I was not entirely convinced he had mastered his own language either.  His stony-faced colleague, who clearly had not yet graduated from charm school, responded to my attempts at explaining who I was, by indicating the exit door with his chin, gabbling instructions to me in Swahili.  The two then proceeded to prod me outside the building with the barrels of their rifles (they clearly regarded me as a troublemaker).  I was beginning to feel more than a little abandoned, finding myself alone in a strange land at dawn on a Saturday morning where few of the inhabitants spoke English.  The persistently optimistic taxi drivers (who spoke little more English than I did Swahili) constantly vied for the opportunity to take my luggage and transport me to places that I had never heard of.  However willing these cabbies were, they were no use to me because I had been given no details of my accommodation and I had no local currency; having been assured by my ‘obliging’ contacts at the Foreign Office that both would be arranged for me.  The harassment by the ‘helpful’ cabbies only added to my bewilderment and discomfort, and all this was taking place under the watchful eye of the two policemen and I was beginning to wonder what to do next.  Eventually, I was approached by a little Asian looking man who had noticed my unsuccessful attempts to make myself understood; and after shooing away a bevy of disgruntled taxi drivers, asked in broken English and with a thick African accent, if he could help.  I explained my problem and although I am sure, he did not fully understand all I had said, he explained that he was an agent for one of the airlines and that he would try to assist. 

The man went over to two rather seedy looking characters that had been standing nearby watching events all this time.  He made hasty and lengthy explanations to them in Swahili using many gesticulations towards me while they suspiciously looked me up and down.  I was starting to question the wisdom of involving the man from the airline when they all came over to me and he introduced the men as CID policemen.  Unfortunately, they spoke hardly any English at all and all my explanations and entreaties about the Inspector General of Police were clearly falling on deaf ears.  That was until I mentioned Shauritanga, the name of the school where the fire had been.  Suddenly the two hitherto impassive policemen became animated and scurried away indicating to my little Asian friend that they would make some telephone calls, pausing only to speak to their two uniformed colleagues.  One of the CID chaps casually returned two or three times and asked me, through my airline friend, a few more questions.

The Asian man kept giving me comforting smiles and translated my words for the CID officers whenever necessary.  All this time, my two uniformed friends stood nearby appearing baffled by my Asian friend’s explanations and not a little annoyed by having their judgement questioned until the man mentioned the Prime Minister’s name.  Suddenly Mr Stony-Face leapt into action and rushed into the airport terminal almost tripping over his rifle on the way.  Policeman no 1 waited patiently until another police officer (this time a sergeant) and Stony-Face emerged from the building at a trot.  Once again, my self-appointed interpreter went into action translating my words to the sergeant, who upon hearing about my role began jabbering words of what I can only imagine were apology to me.  He then turned to his junior colleagues and gave them a withering dressing down that left them quivering like jellies.  Turning back to me, and wearing an obsequious smile that would have done justice to Basil Fawlty, he proceeded to offer heartfelt apologies for his colleagues’ behaviour. 

By about 08.00, I was sweating and not just because of the heat and humidity.  I started to make contingency plans to go to the airport bureau de change, acquire some currency, get a cab into Dar es Salaam and find a hotel.  Just then, the two ‘dodgy’ CID officers appeared, they were running towards me across the concourse looking extremely flustered.  They shouted some instructions to Basil who began to look a little nervous himself.  Suitably admonished, Basil hurriedly ushered me back inside the terminal building.  When No 1 and Stony-Face snatched up my bags, I began to think I was being arrested but they accompanied me to a room that I came to understand was the ‘VIP Lounge’.  All this was before I had opportunity to properly thank my little Asian interpreter.

Now, when I say ‘VIP Lounge’, I am not talking ‘Club Class’ here.  The room resembled the living room of a high-rise council flat in Hackney that had doubled as a crack den.  It was about 5 metres square with four mismatched sofas in various states of disrepair.  Sergeant Fawlty gestured for me to take a seat before shouting for a member of staff.  A tall man wearing a short white ‘dentist’ jacket liberally decorated in stains of dubious origin hurried out of a side door and offered his services. 

“Would you like a drink sir?”  Asked the ‘dentist’.

“Er … Could I have a cup of tea please?”  I stammered.  However, before he was able to deal with my request, Fawlty bellowed some instructions to him and departed after treating me to another of his fawning grins; meanwhile, the two CID officers stood silently by, one to each side of a door towards the runway tarmac, like guardsmen at Buckingham Palace.

The dentist politely explained that Fawlty was going to try to find out who was supposed to be meeting me.  It eventually became clear that this man had a complete inability to communicate with his CID colleagues who had already established who I was and who would meet me, although nobody had bothered to pass this information on to me.

A half-hour later a battered white Peugeot saloon car pulled up outside.  The two CID officers shot to attention and marched to the door (to the bewilderment of the other occupants of the VIP lounge), and opened it.  A tall benign looking man entered, confused introductions took place, my bags were whipped away and I found myself in the back of the Peugeot driven at break neck speed the ten miles into Dar. 

The journey from the airport revealed for the first time the extent of the poverty experienced by most of Tanzania’s population.  Most of the buildings were run down or derelict, the roads were covered in potholes, the vehicles were all in an extreme state of disrepair and the people were dressed mostly in very poor and dirty clothing.  The driver, who was the Inspector General of Police himself (although at that stage I had no idea), did not say much on the journey, and as I did not realise that he spoke English, I did not speak a great deal either.

It was during this short journey that, in spite of 27 years with the fire service, I think I experienced terror for the first time in my life and I came to realise that obedience to traffic lights in Tanzania must be completely voluntary.  After several near misses, we eventually pulled into the forecourt of a multi-storey building, which sported a sign saying ‘The Kilimanjaro Hotel’.  This allegedly was ‘the best hotel in the city’ and where I was to become a guest later in the week.  Two men met us as we stopped and one gave me his card, which announced that he was the Commissioner of Police for CID.  The Commissioner was an absolute ringer for Mr Big from the film ‘Live and Let Die’, and displayed similar social skills.  The anonymous driver (still unknown to me as the Inspector General) made polite apologies got back in his car and drove away.  Mr Big and his colleague showed me to a room on the third floor and explained that after I had had a chance to shower, change and eat they intended to take me back to the airport and fly me three hundred miles north in a police helicopter. 

Remembering the ‘advice’ from the Foreign Office, I was a little wary at getting into a helicopter on my first day, as you might expect.  Anxious not to offend, I told them that I had to speak to someone from the British High Commission (BHC) before I could go anywhere.  Mr Big seemed a bit put out by my insistence at meeting High Commission staff stressing the need for speed as we had a long journey ahead of us.  However, I stuck to my guns and he left to try to contact someone from the BHC and returned after an hour with a young British woman called Victoria somebody or other.  Speaking with a bit of a plum in her mouth, Victoria apologised for the mix up at the airport and told me that the Foreign Office had told her I was to have arrived on the midday flight.  She handed me an envelope containing a huge wad of local currency (112,000 shillings, about £120 sterling) which looked as if I was about to spend a weekend in Las Vegas rather than in one of the world’s poorest countries.  The notes were all filthy and remained untouched in the envelope for most of my stay.

I explained to Victoria my concerns about internal air travel after the advice I had been given by her colleagues at home.  She reassured me that the Police helicopter (singular) was safe as ‘it was maintained by European engineers’.  She went on to explain that it is only the army aircraft there were problems with, and as those have all crashed now, everything should be okay.  After a few further words about my role whilst in Tanzania she made her excuses and left explaining that it was her afternoon off as the HC is closed at the weekend.  Mr Big and his colleague returned after a while and took me to lunch in the hotel restaurant (which was never going to win any prizes for haute cuisine) prior to driving me back to the airport in a similar destruction derby fashion as my journey earlier in the day.

At the airport, I was introduced to the ‘Head of the Police Air Wing’ who held the rank of Assistant Commissioner, (bear in mind that they only had one aircraft and he was the only qualified pilot) who was to be my pilot for the remainder of my stay.  We mounted a small two-seater helicopter that resembled a large dragonfly.  The pilot (whose name I am ashamed to say I have forgotten) was an extraordinary person with a wonderful sense of humour, superb English and was able to explain many things, which I had not understood until that time.  During the three-hour flight, he pointed out many objects of interest and explained their significance.  Over the next week, we became good friends and I never ceased to be amazed at his obsession with and knowledge of European Politics, which we sometimes discussed until late at night.

We flew to the National Police Training Centre at a town called Moshi in the foothills of Mount Kilimanjaro where I was given a room in the Inspector General’s Rest House.  A rest house is a place where senior police officers go to escape the rigours of their duties and are safe from attack by ungrateful citizens.  There is a rest house in each of the 12 police regions.

Whilst waiting for dinner to be prepared, the plumbing failed which prevented me from taking a bath and then later at about 1830 hours just after dark, the electricity also failed.  It was explained to me that the north of the country was currently subject to regular power cuts because there had been something of a drought, which had reduced the efficiency of a nearby hydroelectric plant across the border in Kenya.  The situation was not helped by the fact that the Tanzanian government kept forgetting to pay the bill.  This piece of information was ultimately to become quite important in the investigation of the fire.  After dinner, I retired to bed completely exhausted, as I had not slept for nearly forty hours and I expected we would be very busy the following day.

I woke at about seven and washed in the cold water that was all I was able coax out either of the taps in the bathroom.  After dressing and a short walk around the compound, during which I had been saluted several times by armed patrolling policemen, one of the staff from the rest house told me he had heated water for a bath.  I was a little embarrassed, fearing I must have given the impression that I was a rather unclean person who is prepared to start the day without a bath, anxious not to offend I gratefully took advantage of his offer.  No sooner had I finished dressing for the second time that day than I was told that breakfast was ready and I made my way to the dining room.  The plate I was handed had two anaemic looking eggs and some slices of unidentifiable meat which were identical to the ones I had eaten for my dinner the night before, all of which were floating on a sea of yellow grease.  I was later to realise that the Tanzanians (the not so poor ones that is) eat large quantities of meat at every meal and they eat up to four times a day.  At the time, I found it a little paradoxical that a country with such depths of poverty should have no obvious shortage of food, although I am certain that could not be said for everyone.

After breakfast, I was joined by a group of CID officers who were in charge of the investigation of the fire.  The Tanzanian fire service had no facilities or officers trained in fire investigation; likewise the police force, this is of course why I was there in the first place.  One of the officers was Andrew Kuwhalima, the Deputy Commissioner for CID, and he had brought with him a selection of baseball caps from which I was invited to select one.  I had remarked the previous evening that I had omitted to bring a suitable hat to protect my balding pate from the sun.  Having picked one, I was astonished to see the other policemen each take one for themselves which occasioned great amusement amongst them.  I assumed this was to prevent me from feeling self-conscious, but they may have just been taking an opportunity for a freebie.

We soon left to drive in a motorcade of Toyota four-wheel drive vehicles the fifty or sixty miles to the scene of the fire at Shauritanga on the other side of Kilimanjaro.  The roads that we travelled along, in common with most of the other roads in the country, were all dirt tracks that were not in very good condition.  The journey to the lush forest area where the school was located took over two hours.

***

My first impressions on arrival at the compound were of the beauty and tranquillity of a setting that was entirely incongruous with the horrific events with which the premises had become associated.  Access to the compound was through a large wrought iron gate with a pedestrian wicket.  The school consisted of a number of single storey buildings built of concrete blocks with lime rendering and all had corrugated iron roofs.  The buildings were arranged around a pretty quadrangle laid with rose beds.  The neat designs were in stark contrast to almost all other buildings I had seen since entering the country.  Although the school is co-educational for 14 -19 year olds, only the girls slept in, all the boys stayed with families in the nearby village.

Readers will, I hope, forgive me for a brief digression from the otherwise rather flippant nature of this account in order to briefly narrate a few details of the fire and the investigation.  The gravity of the motive for my presence in Tanzania dictates that appropriate respect is paid to the unfortunate victims.

Speaking to the investigating team, I asked what evidence had been gathered at the time, and immediately after the fire.  I wanted to find what physical evidence had been collected; what witnesses and or survivors there were; and what attempts at fire fighting had been made.  I quickly discovered that some photographs had been taken at the scene the morning after the fire, this seemed like crucial evidence that might assist me; however, I was later to find that these pictures were of some charred bodies in the back of a pick-up truck. 

It was exactly four weeks since the fire, and close examination of the fire scene revealed that most of the physical evidence had been removed in the intervening time.  It is doubtful if any samples I might have taken would have shown any worthwhile results given the length of time since the fire had occurred.  Examination of the building revealed that the only electricity for the room of origin (the mattress store) provided the power for the two fluorescent light fittings.  What remained of the wiring and fuse boxes gave no indication of an electrical cause.  I examined the scene taking photographs and measurements and gained a good understanding of the topography of the fire ground.  As I had suspected would be the case, there was nothing to immediately indicate what the source of ignition could have been.  The fire had been discovered by the head girl at about 2245 in the evening.  She had been asleep with the rest of the girls when she awoke finding smoke in the room and fire burning across the roof structure from the adjacent mattress store.  Nine girls managed to make their escape through a door at that end of the room in those first few seconds.  It rapidly became too hot for others to escape using the same door and due to locked doors at the far end of the room, they could not otherwise get out.  The windows were all fitted with wire grilles and four girls managed to partially break one of these away and escape the dormitory, tragically though these girls were so badly burned that they all died later.

Before I left England I had requested arrangements be made for me to interview the principal witnesses, and even though the school was now closed, the head teacher and school matron were present for that purpose.  The interviews with staff and some of the pupils were very revealing.  For the weeks prior to the fire, the school had been closed for holidays, but it had re-opened early to enable some pupils to revise for national exams.  These pupils had not all arrived on the same day but some had arrived on the day of the fire.  It was customary for pupils on arrival at the school to report to the head teacher for registration and then to go with the head girl to the storeroom at the end of the dormitory block to collect a mattress.  On the day of the fire, girls were recorded as arriving at the premises right up to 1800 by which time it would have been almost dark.  The school records were later proven inaccurate as it transpired that although forty-three children were known to have died; only the names of forty-one were recorded in the register.

On that day, there had been a power cut at about 1900, and none of the staff could categorically state that all pupils had arrived before nightfall.  It was customary for pupils to provide their own arrangements such as candles and hurricane lamps for lighting when there was no electricity.  Examination of the mattresses in an unaffected dormitory revealed they were made from polyurethane foam covered with a synthetic fibre.  This manner of manufacture of soft furnishings had long been banned in the UK because when PU foam burns it does so at an extremely high temperature gives off huge volumes of highly toxic gas including isocyanates, carbon monoxide, and hydrogen cyanide.  I took a small sample of one mattress for analysis in the UK.

After leaving the scene of the fire, and at a few moments notice, I was invited to lay a bunch of flowers at the nearby mass grave of the victims.  It was at this moment, seeing the plaque with the names of the casualties showing two question marks, that the enormity of this tragedy dawned upon me.  It was extremely moving moment and I was grateful that there were no family members present, as I doubt I would have been able to maintain my dignity.

Following those brief sombre minutes at the grave, we proceeded to the local police station to interview some of the survivors, the school night watchmen and the first police officers on the scene.  I had not been aware until then, that these night watchmen had been held in custody ever since the fire; although they had not been charged with anything.

Conducting the interviews through an untrained interpreter was a painfully slow and extremely unproductive process; however, it did reveal that nobody had gone to the assistance of the girls, partly because a rumour had started among those gathering at the gate that the fire had been started by a short circuit.  There is a belief among many people in the country, that if a fire starts under such circumstances then the whole building would be ‘live’ and anybody approaching would be struck down.  The nearest fire service is in Moshi, they were never called to this incident and they did not attend.  It is likely that even if they had attended the fire would have mostly burned out by the time they arrived.  The only fire fighting carried out was by police officers using garden hoses to damp down the ashes the following day.  No roll call was carried out following the fire and it was not fully realised how many girls had died until the debris was examined.

It was the interviews with the two prisoners that produced some of the most startling revelations.  It was safe to say that neither of the two people in custody were likely to challenge for any Mastermind trophy, but then again, the policemen were not going to be joining Mensa any time soon either.  After persistent questioning, I managed to get them to describe their duties as had been explained to them when they were employed.  Basically their duties consisted of three things:  i) Stop anybody entering the compound, ii) Stop anybody leaving the compound, and iii) If anything happens go to the end of the village and fetch the head teacher from his house.  Therefore, when the fire occurred they stopped anybody getting in to help by locking the gate, they stopped the girls from leaving by shouting at them to stay where they were, and then ran to get the head teacher.

Most of the Sunday and Monday was spent speaking to survivors and witnesses of the fire, drawing plans of the building and beginning to write my report.  Throughout this time whenever engaged in conversation by police officers they would say things like, “I think it’s arson”; “I think you’ll find it was arson”; or “Will you be able to identify the arsonists?”

Finally, having kept my own counsel throughout I asked the senior investigator, “What motive would there be for arson?”  He could think of none; so I asked, “Who do you suspect?”  Once again, he had no answer.  “What evidence of arson do you have?”  He shook his head.

“So why do you think it’s arson?”  I asked. 

He stuttered and stammered trying justify his assertions, but failed to convince.  Reading between the lines I was tempted to conclude that it would be politically expedient to ‘blame’ someone else rather than for the government to take responsibility for contributing to the deaths of those poor girls by not enforcing precautions by legislation.  But maybe I’m just a cynic.

On the Monday evening Mr Big (I never learned his first name) arrived at the police lodge accompanied by two ‘bodyguards’ who stood silently by listening and watching the words and actions of all those in his company.  With shaven heads and dressed in dark lounge suits, these two men never spoke audibly in my presence, and although I do not know if they were armed, they looked for the entire world as if they were.  Easily mistakable for a pair of New York gangsters, the two men were like two inscrutable ‘Mike Tyson’ bookends.  Mr Big wanted to know how the investigation was progressing, and after a good-natured exchange of views, I managed to dissuade him from notions of arson and lightning strike.

Although we had already eaten what I had believed to be my last meal of the day, Mr Big insisted on taking me out to eat, to sample the ‘local cuisine’.  Before I knew it, I was almost bundled into a Land Rover with Mr Big and the local police Inspector and driven off to an eating-house in Moshi.  Needless to say, we were closely followed by the Tyson brothers in another vehicle.  The Inspector was clearly anxious to please and after ushering us to an open-air table, he hurried off to shake some service out of an extremely nervous looking proprietor.  Meanwhile the Tyson brothers looked on impassively from the entrance

After a while, whilst waiting for our meal, I became acutely aware of the absence of other customers.  There had been a few other people (mostly men) sitting at other tables, but gradually, one group at a time they surreptitiously got up to leave without being replaced by anyone else.  Eventually, the proprietor hurriedly arrived at our table with three plates of what looked like a weak chicken stew.  The Inspector smiled broadly, gestured to my plate and explained it was a local dish made from ‘organic’ chicken.  I smiled weakly as I tentatively sampled the food.  The ingredients were all readily identifiable; there was onion, carrot, potato and the toughest chicken I have ever experienced.

“What do you think?”  The Inspector prompted.

“Very nice.”  I managed to reply after extracting some chicken masquerading as a piece of string from between my teeth.

Attempting to distract from my inability to enthuse at the food in front of me, I asked the Inspector to expand on the Tanzanian definition of an organic chicken.  He went onto describe the process of locating the appropriate bird, how it would have be raised in an entirely natural manner, humanely killed and served on the same day.  To summarise the process I gathered, you go out into the street grab the nearest chicken of indeterminate age or provenance, wring its neck and cook it.  Basically then, an organic chicken is someone else’s chicken.  This delightful cuisine was washed down with a constant supply of a Tanzanian spirit called ‘Konyagi’, which is not to be recommended for anyone who is fond of their stomach lining. 

After struggling to eat the food that was on my plate, and voicing my approval, I optimistically expected to get back in the Land Rover and return to the police lodge.  However, Mr Big immediately dashed my hopes when he insisted that we could not leave without sampling the local barbecue so he stood and led the way to the eating establishment next-door.  The ‘barbecue’ consisted of a corrugated iron structure about the shape and size of a small bus shelter.  Inside stood a man, surrounded by racks of what I came to understand were goat ribs hanging from the roof.  He was tending two barbecues manufactured from the halves of an oil drum cut perpendicularly, each filled with burning charcoal and half-covered with pieces of a shopping trolley on which he was to cremate the next part of our meal.  It was not clear to me if the sweat that dripped off the man was generated entirely by the heat or perhaps some may have resulted from nervousness as Mr Big indicated which particular rack of ribs he wanted us to sample.

Surprisingly, instead of taking a seat at the new eating-place we returned to our seats at the original one.  We sat and talked, waiting for our next course.  After a while Mr Big became inpatient and summoned one of the Tyson brothers over and jabbered something to him in Swahili.  The man trotted away towards the next-door establishment and returned to his position by the entrance a few minutes later.  After a further wait of about 10 minutes, an extremely flustered barbecue man hurried towards us carrying a large plate of ribs which he placed on our table uttering many words of what were obviously profuse apology.

Mr Big shooed him away with a flip of his hand, before gesturing to me to help myself to a rib.  Now until that point I had never eaten goat, but I must say that my first taste was not unpleasant.  Similar to lamb chops, the ribs were longer with slightly less meat; they had definitely benefitted from barbecue cooking, and were considerably less tough than the chicken.  There is no doubt in my mind that I might have enjoyed this part of the meal more if it were not for my doubts about the hygiene arrangements, and the fact that my stomach was already stretched to capacity.  Finally, reaching the last of the goat, one single rib remained.  The Inspector reached across picked up the rib and started to bite a chunk of flesh from it.

“No, no!”  Mr Big admonished.  The Inspector froze with his teeth firmly engaged in the meaty part of the rib.  “That’s the best rib of all you must give it to our guest.”

The Inspector, mortified by his faux pas, slowly removed the rib from his mouth and passed it across the table to me, uttering nervous apologies, and glancing anxiously at Mr Big.

“No, really.  I couldn’t eat another thing.  Please take it.”  I protested.

“No, I insist.”  Mr Big said, “In our country, guests are always expected to have the best cut of the meat.”

“But…”

“No, I won’t hear of it, you must have it.”

Reluctantly, I took the rib still being offered and took a bite.  All the time trying to avoid the Inspector’s teeth marks, I ate as little of the rib as I felt it politic to do; before exclaiming to both those present that it was the best meal I had eaten for a long time.  In actual fact, it probably was the best meal I had eaten since arriving in the country.  Travelling around Tanzania I think I very soon realised that East Africa was not the destination for those in search of haute cuisine.  Those who have ever peeled potatoes will recall having to cut those hard grey bits out of the damaged ones.  I think I have identified where those bits end up, yes you have it, Tanzania, because almost every potato I ate in the country was precisely that colour.

When we left the ‘restaurant’, it was nearly 11pm; and it seemed that the proprietor and we were the only people in Moshi not in their beds.  On the way back to the police lodge, it occurred to me that I had not seen any money change hands the entire evening.

On the Tuesday, my hosts once again decided to demonstrate their gratitude for my efforts and thrust me into the helicopter and flew me to a place called the Ngorongoro, an extinct volcanic crater on the Great Rift Valley that is now a wildlife reserve.  The helicopter landed at the local police lodge and my bags were taken inside while I was rushed to a waiting Land Rover.  The helicopter immediately took off and disappeared over the horizon in the direction from which we had come.  The Land Rover was manned by four armed policemen two of whom seemed to have some English, although it was unlikely that the conversation was going to be too stimulating.

I couldn’t believe it.  As a child, I had read stories of great 19^th century explorers such as Burton, Livingstone and Stanley and fanaticised about visiting this e continent.  I had never been able to afford to go and indeed; even if I had, I would probably not have seen Tanzania in the way I was now able to see it.  Many people pay thousands of pounds to see what I was experiencing for nothing.  It was extraordinary.

We drove for about half an hour before arriving at the rim of the crater.  On the way, we passed a Masai tribesman wearing his customary red clothing and many rings around his neck and holding a spear.  As he watched us approach, he began that peculiar bouncing for which they are famous. 

“Why do they do that?”  I asked.

My companions all looked at each other shrugged and said, “No idea.”

The descent into the base of the crater down a narrow track with hairpin bends and precipitous drops to the side would have put any trip to Alton Towers into the shade, but none of my fellow travellers seemed the slightest bit concerned.

When we reached the bottom, I indicated to the others that I needed to relieve my bladder, as I had not been since leaving Moshi that morning and I was desperate.  The driver immediately pulled over and indicated I should go behind a nearby bush; which I did, amused to see a warthog scutter away as I approached.  Having completed my business, I meandered my way back to our vehicle spotting a couple of Thomson’s gazelles not far away.  I had no sooner mounted the Land Rover, than we were off.  In less than 100 yards, we stopped again and the policemen pointed to a pride of lions less than eight feet from the vehicle.  A cold shiver ran through me when I realised that I had been wandering around on foot without the slightest inkling that there were wild lions only a few yards away.  The rest of my freebie safari went without incident, apart from an amusing episode of ‘coitus hippopotami’ (not for the faint-hearted).  The sight of wildebeests, zebras, lions, flamingos, gazelles, hippopotami, rhinoceros and elephants, to name but a few, and all in their natural habitat was quite literally breath-taking.  Those few hours were ones I will remember for the rest of my days. 

We returned to the police lodge before dark, where to my surprise Mr Big and his Tyson brothers had arrived before me.  It occurred to me that it was unlikely that he had made the journey of 70 or so miles in his Land Cruiser, and that the helicopter had probably been dispatched to collect him as soon as I had disembarked.  Mr Big was clearly once again out to demonstrate his country’s gratitude for my efforts, in spite of my insistence that none was necessary.  He suggested that a trip to European restaurant might be nice way to spend the evening, (although I had my suspicions that he wanted to go for his own reasons rather than mine).  I stammered my appreciation and protested again that it was not necessary, to no avail and no sooner had I freshened up than I was in Mr Big’s Land Cruiser and heading out into the dusk followed by the Land Rover with the Tyson twins. 

It seemed a long bumpy journey but it was probably no longer than an hour, when we came to a large safari compound with a luxurious restaurant in one building that would not have been out of place in any holiday brochure.  A man with a European accent, whom I took to be the proprietor, met us at the door and politely showed us to our table and we were seated along with five or six other policemen, most of whom I had met at some point during my stay.  The maître’ d handed us each a menu, the items on which showed prices (in US dollars) that were way beyond my pocket.  However, here I was in a country where most of the population lived in abject poverty; where the Air Force did not have any planes, there was no fire service except in major cities and they were treating ME to an expensive meal.  To this day, I cannot recall what was on the menu; I remain too mortified by the events that followed.

In order to assuage, my guilt and demonstrate a spirit of appreciation I turned to Mr Big and said, “You must allow me to pay for the wine.”

He looked at me with a curious expression, “Wine?” he said, “You want wine?”

‘Oh God,’ I thought, ‘what have I said now?’

“Do you not normally drink wine with a nice meal in Tanzania?”  I said, forgetting for a moment that they don’t normally have ‘nice meals’ in Tanzania.

“Oh yes, yes of course.”  He hurriedly replied, and signalled a waiter who hurried away to fetch a wine list.  “I cannot allow you to pay for the wine, it would considered most discourteous.”

A few moments later, the waiter returned with the wine list and handed it to me.  When I opened it I was horrified to find a collection of about thirty French, German and Australian wines each with a price that I suspect would buy a small house in that country.  Suddenly, I had a brain wave, during one of the helicopter flights, the pilot had mentioned that they made wine in one part of the country. 

I turned to the waiter, “Don’t you have any local wines?”  I explained to my hosts.  “I understand you make wine in Tanzania, and I would really like to try it.”

The waiter looked at me with an expression that said something in between, ‘Where did they find this idiot?’, and ‘I think he might have trodden in something.’  “I’m afraid not.”  Is what he actually replied.

I turned to Mr Big and said, “Never mind I’ll just have mineral water.”

“No, no.  Please choose a wine, I insist.”

I reluctantly selected the cheapest wine on the list, which was a German Riesling and turned out to be like syrup.

At this point Mr Big raised his hand and summoned the Tyson brothers who had been waiting by the door all this time.  They trotted over and bent to hear their bosses whispered instructions in Swahili, before hurrying out of the restaurant.

The meal was lovely, easily the best since I arrived in the country, during which I proposed toasts to the victims of the fire and to their families, and also to Tanzania.  I think that the small gestures were well received, but it is difficult to tell because I am not sure that some of the policemen had any idea what I was going on about as they spoke no English.

At the end of the meal, the restaurateur showed us to the door, looking more than a little pleased to see the back of us.  Once again, I had seen no evidence of any sort of payment taking place.

On return to the police lodge, we took a seat in the recreation area that consisted of a large room with about ten chairs and a TV tuned to SKY News.  I was more than ready to go to bed by this time but my hosts kept me talking for another two hours or so, questioning me about things in the UK. 

Suddenly, at about 1am, there was the sound of a vehicle skidding to a halt in the dust outside the hut.  There followed footsteps of two pairs boots on the veranda and an urgent knock on the door.  One of the policemen opened the door to find the Tyson brothers standing there, one of them clutching two bottles of dark red liquid each about the size of a bottle of Pepsi and with the same crimped top.  The two articles were then relayed through the hierarchy of those in attendance to Mr Big who presented them to me.

“There you are,” he said, “Tanzanian wine”

I was almost lost for words.  It was completely bizarre, there I was in a timber hut, in the middle of the African bush, miles from anywhere watching Sky TV, especially strange, as most of those present did not speak English.  Moreover, in the middle of the night they had sent these two fellows somewhere to fetch two bottles of what looked like partially congealed blood just to satisfy a whim of mine.  They must have dragged some poor shopkeeper out of bed to provide them.

After expressing my gratitude to Mr Big and all those present, I went to bed after placing a bottle of wine in each of my fire-boots and padding them with dirty washing.  That you might think would have been that for one day; however, after lying in bed for about a half hour, trying to figure out if I had slipped through a time warp into some sort of parallel universe, I found myself suddenly wide-awake.  After four days of gastronomic assault, my stomach had finally surrendered.  The huge volumes of greasy meat and other poorly cooked food, followed by the rich meal at the safari lodge had at last taken effect.

I jumped out of bed and groped for the light switch only to find that there had been yet another power cut.  Thankfully, I still had my car keys with me, and on the key to my Ford Orion was a tiny light.  With the small glimmer from my key, I managed to stumble my way to the toilet; and by toilet, I am not talking any sort of modern convenience here you understand.  The closet would have been dingy even if it had been fitted with 100-watt light bulbs.  It was just a hole in the ground with two footprints and a gully to the outside.  It is at this point I must pay tribute to the foresight of my wife, who had insisted I not leave home without a container of moistened toilet tissue.  In the African bush, toilet paper does not appear very high on the shopping list, and on this occasion, a sponge on a stick, sitting in a rusty paint tin filled with something that might once have been water provided the substitute.

In the morning, when I returned to the toilet, I discovered that whichever four-legged creature whose duty it was to empty the gulley had made short work of the used Andrex.  I only hoped that it had not reached an untimely end suffering from a strangulated intestine.

Over the rest of the day, I interviewed some more witnesses and survivors who lived nearby.

On my return to Dar es Salaam, I found myself housed on the sixth floor of the Kilimanjaro Hotel, I chose not to use the lift as I had no confidence that if it ever got to that height, it would not plummet involuntarily back down again.  My room over looked the harbour which was nice and had mildew over most of the walls which was not.  However, I wasn’t complaining, at least it had a proper toilet and even some toilet paper, even though it was necessary to use about fifteen sheets at a time to guarantee effectiveness.  There was an air conditioning unit in the room and it even appeared to work.  Although when I switched it on, it took about two minutes to get to full operating capacity, and sounded as if I was sharing room with a Chinook.

On Thursday morning, I was invited to visit the Inspector General of Police, and I was driven to his Headquarters, another multi-story building but I was saved the embarrassment of refusing the lift because it was out-of-order.  The same could be said of the bottom five floors of the building, as a fire had gutted them some two years earlier.  When I reached the eighth floor, dripping with sweat and completely breathless I was shown into an office, it was then that it finally dawned on me that person I had treated like a taxi driver on my first day was in fact the Inspector General of Police. 

We had a polite, blissfully brief, but embarrassing interview, during which I asked if it was possible to visit their fire service headquarters.  I had felt that was be grossly impolite to leave the country without acknowledging my Tanzanian colleagues.  The Inspector General said he would arrange for that to happen later that morning.  Before I left, he told me that he was going to take me to dinner later that evening, and I would be picked up from my hotel at 5.00pm. 

‘Oh great!’  I thought.  “Yet another opportunity for me to embarrass myself!’

Even my visit to fire service headquarters was not a roaring success.  We pulled up outside a rundown shopping mall, and were immediately surrounded by scores of beggars of all ages and genders, and all exhibiting varieties of pitiful disability. 

“Don’t give them anything!”  My escort shouted at me.  “It will encourage them!”

To be fair the few shillings I had with me would simply have not gone anywhere in that crowd so I obeyed him but the guilt I carried for my comparative wealth remained.  At the side of the shopping mall was a three-bay appliance room similar to those in some modern British fire stations.  However, that was where the similarity ended, on the forecourt were two fire tenders that at one time had probably been used on an airport somewhere in the world; one was jacked up on blocks without wheels and the other had its doors missing.  This type of fire appliance was totally unsuitable for use for domestic fire-fighting purposes and there was no evidence of any other type around, although they may have been out at the time.  We headed up the stairs to offices that must have displayed some of the worst examples of fire risk in a high-rise building I had ever seen.  Stairs and corridors were crammed full of combustible material, doors were propped open or simply missing; and there was no evidence of any alternative means of escape.  In the UK, had I entered a building in that condition, I would have taken immediate steps to close it down.  On the fourth floor, I was shown into a room occupied by two men whose hostile expressions unmistakably demonstrated that they did not want me to be there.  It transpired that the two people were the Chief Officer of the fire service and his deputy, and neither spoke any English at all.  All my attempts at sort any sort of cultural exchange were a complete waste of time; and I left feeling that they must have thought I had only gone there to show off and patronise them.

My next visit was to the Chief Government Chemist who had visited the fire on the morning after the fire and taken samples.  There are no facilities for testing such samples in Tanzania and these had all remained undisturbed until my arrival.  I later took these samples, along with those I had taken myself, back to the UK with me where they were analysed by the London Fire Brigade’s scientific advisors, who were unable to find traces of any accelerants.  However, they were able to confirm my assumptions about the material from which the mattresses had been made.  It is true to say that it is unlikely that any of the samples taken immediately following the fire would have been of great scientific or evidential value bearing in mind the manner in which they were collected, the manner in which they had been stored and the length of time before analysis.

Before leaving the UK the Foreign Office had asked me to discuss the techniques used by the London Fire Brigade to investigate fires with appropriate people in Tanzania in the hope that in the future, some of the Brigade methodology might be used whenever it was felt necessary to investigate the cause of a fire.  The Chief Government Chemist was the person nominated to receive the benefit of this wisdom.  I only had half a day to spend with him; and by the time I left him, I had little confidence that much of what I had to say would have any impact.  Tanzania was so poor at that time, that the necessary infra-structure to conduct even the rudiments of investigation just did not exist in 98 per cent of the country.  This was brought home to me with a bang when, in order to lighten my case before going home, I offered the scientist a few of the small things I had brought with me to assist in my investigation.  These consisted of things like a Stanley knife, a half-used box of disposable gloves, some evidence bags and few other bits and pieces.  The scientist accepted them appearing moved to tears by my ‘generosity’.

I returned to my hotel, showered, and changed readying myself for my evening excursion with the Inspector General.  Shortly before the allotted time, I walked down to the lobby; and at exactly 5.00pm an extremely large shiny black saloon car pulled into the forecourt, an immaculately dressed policeman stepped out, opened the back door and out stepped the Inspector General.  I stepped forward and shook his hand and he ushered me inside before taking a seat himself.  Once again, we set off at break-neck speed northwards along the coastal road from Dar, and after about a half hour, we stopped at a beautiful beachside restaurant.  Inside we shown to our table overlooking the Indian Ocean, and although we were under cover the glazed front walls had been slid aside allowing us to enjoy the warm gentle breeze from the sea.  Mr Big, the pilot, and two or three other officers I had had dealings with over the week were already seated.

The Inspector General spoke really good English, and the evening went really well, the meal was fantastic and I managed to get back to hotel without once insulting anyone or embarrassing myself, I think. 

I had spent many hours during the week sitting at a laptop computer compiling a preliminary report for the Tanzanian Prime Minister, John Malecela, and with more than a little difficulty managed to get it printed by the hotel secretary (fortunately they were running the same software as me).  The night before, as the Inspector General dropped me off at the hotel he explained that I would be picked up from the hotel again at 10.00am the following day. 

On the Friday morning, I dressed in my brigade uniform for the first time since my arrival and once more waited in the lobby for the car.  The sight of me in my uniform caused something of stir and people stopped and stared as they passed, some people even came out of the gift shop and pointed.  Eventually, I was collected from the hotel and driven to the Prime Minister’s office.  The Inspector General of Police was already there when I arrived.  While we were sitting in the anteroom waiting for the Prime Minister to see us, I stopped for second and once again thought, ‘What on earth am I doing here?  Am I dreaming?’

I presented my report to the Prime Minister and spent nearly three quarters of an hour explaining why I had concluded that the most likely source of ignition was a naked flame from a candle or hurricane lamp.  I explained that the cause was not the only thing that had led to the deaths of the poor girls and that there were many other factors involved, including the absence of even the most rudimentary fire precautons.  I undertook to send a detailed supplementary report, which would include recommendations to help prevent any recurrence; and after a few official photographs, made my exit and returned to my hotel.

Left to my own devices for the rest of the day and evening, and after having changed back into less conspicuous clothing, I took a short walk around Dar.  I found nothing in the way of shops; most of the retail industry being conducted from blankets laid on the floor.  Therefore, my search for a souvenir led me back to the hotel gift shop.  The shop’s wares consisted mainly of ebony carvings.  An old man sat cross-legged on the floor whittling figures from pieces of wood as his chippings flew in all directions.  I bought a small intricate carving for myself with some of the money that had been given me by Victoria, put the rest of the notes in a UNICEF collection box at reception and returned to my room.

After dinner in the hotel restaurant, I decided I had earned a drink and made my way to the hotel bar and ordered a glass of ‘Simba’, a local lager-like beer that was barely palatable.  As I sat sipping the cold liquid, I looked around at the other people in the room. There was no one obviously British or American and was about to give up on the idea of conversation.  It was then that I was approached by the ugliest woman I have ever set eyes on; as she neared, she opened her mouth and smiled revealing a set of teeth that resembled a badly kept graveyard.  After establishing that I was English speaking, she boldly set out to sweet-talk me into buying her a drink, which I reluctantly did.  The woman took this as a hint that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her and settled down to interrogate me about my life-story, showing a complete disinterest to any of my answers; she was obviously a prostitute.  Now, I have never used a prostitute; not that I have anything against them; but if I were ever to find the need to use one, I hope I would be able to find one that did not look like someone whose face had been set on fire and then put out with a cricket bat.  I made my polite excuses and hurried back to my room, hoping that visions of the woman’s face would not foil my attempts at sleeping. 

At 3am the following morning, a police driver drove me to the airport, where he undertook to fast-track my way through passport control and the checking-in process, which indeed he did, after fleecing me for $25 ‘departure tax’ (about two months wages for a police constable).  He also attempted (without success) to get my home address from me (so he could ‘visit’ when he came to the UK).  I caught the London bound flight from Dar at 0500 hours on that Saturday morning and arrived home 28 hours before leaving for my family holiday.

It had been an extraordinary week, during which I had had little spare time; I had been exposed to stark contrasts of beauty and ugliness, poverty and privilege, honesty and corruption, tragedy and comedy all of which had a profound and lasting effect on me.  I made some nice acquaintances and I was made to feel extremely welcome by some of the nicest people I have ever met, and patronised and resented by some of the nastiest.

Postscript (i): A picture of me shaking hands with the Prime Minister appeared on the front page of a national newspaper the day after my departure.  The Foreign Office forwarded me a copy.

Postscript (ii): One bottle of the Tanzanian wine broke on the journey home and some of my clothes had to be thrown away as a result.  The second bottle, my family ‘sampled’ about six months later, it defied description.

Postscript (iii): About six years later, after I retired, one of my former colleagues attended an international conference on fire in Tanzania, and asked what had happened as a result of my report into the fire.  The whole of the Tanzanian delegation denied any knowledge of the report.  It had never seen the light of day.

 

Reviews

[Samuel Dickens]

How very sad that your substantial efforts and subsequent report were apparently for naught. In light of that nation's extreme poverty, it's no surprise, however. The conditions at the school were just shocking and almost guaranteed an eventual catastrophe. (I know a bit about fire safety, having attended several schools on it in the US Navy)
I found the story very well-written, informative, and entertaining. (humorous, too) Being a John Cleese fan, I understood your Fawlty Towers references, but some of the abbreviations, I did not. For the sake of us uninitiated, you might at first mention of ACO, FCO, etc, spell them out in parentheses.

[Marian]

quite a good story :)

[EMF]

What can I say? This story does not merit being this short. It should be worked up into a full book. It's too good. The overall theme is tragic, but you manage to hit just the right balance between humour, tradgedy and respect that the story merits. I laughed out loud in places. Rare. I was also deeply moved by the circumstances. Having had some experience of the old FO, I know just how efficient they can be. Perfect summation. As you have with Africa.
I can hear the authors voice throughout. Calm and indignant.
This is the best piece I have read on WC. It deserves to be more widely seen.