An island paradise — but Amin’s victims saw only the crocodiles

Press, 2 December 1978, Page 14

An island paradise — but Amin’s victims saw only the crocodiles

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HAZEL KENNY

President Amin claims to have thrown a great many Tanzanian soldiers into the Kagera River where they were eaten by monstrous crocodiles. I do not know the accuracy of this statement, but I do know the Kagera. We once spent three all too short davs on an island in the middle of the river.

We were returning from a 3000-mile trip around Kenya, Uganda, and Tanzania. a farewell gesture to East Africa. It had been “East Africa’’ for administrative purposes under British rule and it had been possible to drive from one to the other without even a border post, but they’ were three separate countries now. Before reaching Kampala we diverted to stay with Toni Nuti. Toni was a middle-aged Italian woman who owned a small island in the middle of the Kagera River. It had been given to her father by a Chief of the Bunyoro Tribe. The Kagera is a tumbling river, turbulent, fastflowing. To cross to the Island one stood on the bank and rang a bell. A little cage was winched across: one by one we crouched in the little box and were winched across also. I hoped the bottom would not fall out — not that a crocodile would have had time to snap me up. 1 would have tumbled down stream too fast and probably joined them lower down on the mud fiais. Toni lived alone with two servants, her animals, the river, which swirled all round her home, and her paying guests. Weary businessmen and harassed administrators and their families often came down from Kampala, and there were always the lucky tourists who had heard of Toni and her island through the grapevine. (Africans at that time, and for the two years we remained after Independence, were not interested. They took their country for granted, but even three generations could not breed out the wonder of Africa from the European.} We were the only guests — at least J

thought we were, I went to sit down on a settee in the dimly-lit veranda but a shriek from Toni froze me in mid-action. Cuddled against a cushion on the settee was a Klipspringer. Klipspringers are one of the smaller antelope, and not often seen. Rock dwellers, they jump from rock to rock, landing with all four feet neatly together, like mountain goats. The plains and bush antelope leap in the air and bound, hind legs stretched out behind, front legs tucked up. Klipspringers have short wiry coats with bristles. Some of the

bristles had embedded in the skin and festered. It was a pretty sick little animal. Toni acquired animals, effortlessly. They might be sick, abandoned, given to her, strayed, or even rescued from the river. Only three really belonged to her. A big, good-natured Labrador, a pert little mongrel, and Susie Morris — the rest were held in trust pending return to the wild. Susie Morris was a dikdik, the smallest of all the African antelope — probably the smallest of any antelope. A tiny dainty

little thing with legs like match-sticks, minute little feet, and great melting eyes. White hunters have found themselves unable to shoot dik-dik, even when short of food. Baby dik-dik are difficult to rear. I have had friends who, even with advice from the vet., vitamins, and a careful diet, could not bring their mnr. of antelope to maturity. A Game Warden ”—■» this orphan to his children, presumably as a last

resort. The children named it “Susie” and fed it on the things they liked best themselves — Coco-Cola, biscuits, squash, bananas, even tea. Anything they got Susie shared. Against all logic she thrived. When the Morris family left for England they gave Susie to Toni; threafter she was known as “Susie Morris.” Toni manged to wean her off her peculiar drinking habits and on to milk and vegetation. She could not wean her off a

love of biscuits — cream biscuits for preference, although chocolate biscuits were even better.

The banana addiction came in useful for when Toni ran out of food for animals she fed everything, including birds and dogs, on bananas. The island was lush, and beautiful, approximately a quarter-mile wide and about half-a-mile long. At one end there were a lot of rabbit hutches; rabbits were useful food. In times of stress Toni crossed to the mainland and shot a buck of zebra. She was the only person I know who could make a zebra steak not only edible but delicious, or a young warthog taste like pork.

Sometimes in the evening an old hippo came up from the water to graze; if disturbed he was liable to charge back to the river, scattering rabbits and hutches in all directions. It was possible at times to look out of a bedroom window at dawn and see a couple of hippo, two dogs, and a few antelope all peacefully occupying the somewhat rough and ready lawn.)

As well as Susie Morris and the two dogs, there were three reedbuck with gentle faces and juicy wet black noses; some little duiker (small antelope); the klipspringer; a few caged birds, and three teen-age Kavirondo crane. All the animals, as well as the cranes, were given the freedom of the island. The birds and cranes were due

to leave for natural surroundings anyday. The mature Kavirondo Crane is the national emblem of Uganda — at least it was. Perhaps President Amin has had other ideas. It is a colourful bird with a lovely golden crown at the back of its head and a red wattle, but the young birds are drab ugly ducklings.

There had been an Impala buck, too. The Impala is one of the most beautiful of Africa’s wonderful collection of antelope and gazelle. Rufus coloured, shading to fawn and cream, the male has a fine spread of lyre-shaped horns. If they lock horns in battle sometimes they cannot get free, and that can have tragic results.

Toni’s Impala had a tragic end also. She found an American visitor shaking a handkerchief at the buck and daring it to charge: The bewildered creature would put its head down and run a few steps, uncertain what to do, but getting more irritated and worried each time. The gallant picador would skip behind a tree or into a bush. Toni said: “OUT.“ The guest protested he was booked for the week. She produced his cheque, clamped it in his hand, and replied “Pack.” Then, with tears running down her cheeks, she shot the innocent and magnificient animal. She couldn’t keep it; it would now be unpredictable and might attack a guest at any .time. Impala have lethal tips to their horns. When we were there

Toni was worried about economies. Tourists were busy staying away and many Europeans had left. (Even then the Tanzania/Uganda border was not a very friendly place.) The Congo (Zaire) had celebrated its independence with a blood bath and the Zaire-Uganda border was also jittery.

The Bhutu of Rwanda Burundi (a little country now divided in two) had risen against their overlords, the tall and picturesque Watusi. and had clogged the river with their bodies. The Watusi

were the seven-foot warriors whom Hollywood loved to film in all their fighting regalia.

The Bhutu were small dark men whom the Watusi kept in serfdom. But the Watusi had grown careless in their arrogance and the Bhutu had multiplied in their servitude. The Bhutu threw off their bondage — and the Watusi with it.

On our way to Kampala we drove past 200 Watusi refugees living in pitiful hovels at the side of the road. Dressed in bits of European cast-off clothing.

dependent on the bountv of the new Ugandan Government, the ‘•Mighty’’ had indeed fallen. We drove hv quickly. They were sullen and bewildered, resentful, and liable to throw stone.'

The wind brought a io of change — not only tc the British.

Toni died of natural causes some time afterwards. Perhaps it was just as well. I don’t think Toni Nuti and Idi Amin would have seen eye to eye.

I wonder what happened to her little island paradise on the Kagera river.