FARMING IN KENYA

Press, Volume XCII, Issue 27734, 11 August 1955, Page 9

FARMING IN KENYA

Weather And Workers Both Cause Difficulty

(Specially Written for "The Press")

[By

A. LUTYENS]

• The front door swung on its hinges in the slight breeze, outside the light was fading, and- we stood listening. An hour earlier a black cloud had appeared over the Mau Plateau' a thousand feet above us. I chanced to remark that in my estimation there would not be much rain today. It became too wet to continue tractor work, and we headed homewards in gently falling rain. As we reached the house rain began falling as only it can in Africa. Inside conversation was drowned by the thunder of water falling on the cedar-shingled roof. Rain turned to hail. Hail stones the size of marbles danced above the whitened earth. For 20 minutes the merciless pounding continued, then stopped as abruptly as it had started, its place being taken by heavy sheet rain. In an hour the rain had spent itself.

We stood listening to water rushing over the top of the new dam. If the dam gave way the stock would go thirsty the following summer. On the hill in front of the house 40 acres of wheat recently sown lay crowded with its top soil in the road. Six inch gullies appeared running down the hill as if grooved by a giant comb. A small field of maize standing five feet high had been badly damaged, gaunt stems festooned with tattered leaves bore evidence of the storm,

whose ferocity had not been equalled in the living memory of the natives. The farm which lies 8000 feet above sea level was said to be above the hail belt, but in that hour we measured three inches of rain, of which half was hail. Next day as we were inspecting the still intact dam,, a tall native approached, he was wearing his best sheepskin hat and a long cloak of the same material provided his sole garment. Leaning on his stick he watched in thought. “Jambo” he greeted us in Swahili, “Tabari iacho” (how are you) we countered, and again he lapsed into thought. Knowing -he had more to say we waited. He started his story in a burst of words. Yesterday. he said, an enemy of his from the Masai village above had visited him and cast the evil eye on his maize crop; last night there had been a big storm, and his crop ruined. Today he would follow the tracks back to the village and kill his enemy. We stopped cursing the weather and pondered, half a mile down the road the farmer had measured a mere half inch of light rain, and as the natives’ sole source of food is maize ground up to form a meal, cursing his crop of maize is the same as wishing his death through starvation. “A Little Extra” The month following, I was left in charge of the farm. As the month drew to a close, pay day arrived. I had taken on a new tractor driver, a man of doubtful quality. He stopped me, inquiring after a rise in wages, to which I replied in the negative, adding that the farm could not afford it. He looked surprised. “But Bwana,” he said, “You have only to go into the large building in Nakun and produce a piece of paper to get as much money aS you wish. Please draw just a little extra for me.” M’Boga means a vegetable in Swahili and that happened to be the name suitably given to a native I set to work on painting the front gate white. He had two pots of paint to finish the job, and I had to check some cattle several miles away. The day was perfect, a warm sun producing bright colours from the forest foreground to the Aberdare mountains more than 100 miles away to the north. The cattle took only half an hour and I returned slowly to see how the front gate was progressing. Much paint had been used, on the gate a little, but mostly on the ground round about, and the native had gone. I rode over to the native compound. Just behind a small plot of maize stood M’Boga’s hut, on top of the fence sat his hat. His hat was unmistakable: it was painted immaculately white and left in the sun to dry. A trail of white paint led into the hut and half up a post supporting a wall. By the wall, in the cool of the hut, sprawled M’Boga, paint brush still clasped in his right hand, but the owner fast asleep. For the rest of the day, he worked harder than he liked; whenever I was K not about, however, he displayed his white hat with great pride. Thirty Working Natives

To farm, one has to be conversant with mechanics, veterinary diseases, and, of course, how to work the whole unit. To summon a mechanic from town, 40 miles away, costs not less than £3O, and that does not cover the price of replacements. There were 30 working natives on the farm, and to them one was doctor, banker, adviser and employer. An old native came hobbling up tq the house asking me to cure his foot. His right foot was badly swollen from a poisoned sore in the instep. A few essentials were kept in the medicine chest, amongst them a most promising looking tube on which was written, (‘Pour nettoyer les mains.” I am not conversant with French. I laid a large amount on his foot, murmuring, “Wonderful medicine.” Before I could stop the old man, he produced a most unhygenic arrow from a quiver suspended from his shoulder, and rammed the stuff home.

The next day I met him returning from a hunt in the forest, thoroughly pleased, and apparently cured. It was a fortnight later, after cutting by arm, that I applied some of the “wonderful medicine.” All around the cut my hair came out by the roots. The French dictionary proved it to be a grease remover. No doubt if I had half his faith, it would have cured me, too.