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I was able to finish everything I had to do in London in three days, and still had five days before I had to be in Oxford for the celebrations for my Tutor, which began on October 31st. So I went to Malta, largely I should note in pursuit of my quest to visit 100 countries. But the place turned out to be fascinating, both a cradle and a crossroads of civilization. There are remains of temples dating back nearly 6000 years, and the place has been ruled by Phoenicians and Romans and Arabs, until it was handed over in the 16th century to the Knights of the Order of St. John.
They flourished until Napoleon took the place over, only to be replaced by the British. British sovereignty was formally recognized in 1814, but the year before that they had sent Sir Thomas Maitland to govern the place, as they had done some years previously in Ceylon, another possession which passed to the British because of the changes brought about by the French Resolution. Incidentally, two years later, in Corfu, I realized that while Governor of Malta Maitland had also been Lord High Commissioner of the Ionian Islands – yet another British acquisition in Napoleonic times, after that less durable emperor had got rid of the Venetians who had governed the area for centuries.
I stayed throughout my time in Malta in a delightful hotel in the capital Valletta. It overlooked the harbour, providing wonderful views at sunrise, and of glimmering lights at night, and I much enjoyed too breakfast each morning on the open terrace .
On the first day I walked for hours, to explore much of what there was to see in Valletta, including the magnificient Grand Master’s Palace with its fabuous gardens. The Fine Arts museum proved to have some unexpected delights, including two superb contrasting depictions of Cain and Abel. The archaeology museum had unexpectedly delicate primitive sculptures, while the splendid Cathedral of St. John included amongst its treasures the renowned Caravaggio depiction of the beheading of St. John the Baptist. Read the rest of this entry »
In October I went on a wild life safari, for the first time if one excludes the wonderful times I had had, generally with my aunt Ena, in Yala and elsewhere in Sri Lanka. I still had a slight puritanical streak about such indulgence, and felt that, if travelling vast distances, there should also be some cultural input. So it was that I decided to go to Tanzania, salving my conscience about pure pleasure because of the historical importance of Zanzibar.
The trip turned out to be more than satisfactory in all dimensions, the exotic wild life of Serengeti and the Ngorongoro Crater, and the elegance of Zanzibar. We left a couple of days later than originally planned, since Kithsiri had fallen ill, but I thought it worth waiting since in countries where one might worry about security it seemed best to have a travelling companion. I had to admit that this was weakness, given how I had travelled extensively on my own when I was young, but I thought that at the age of 60 I should have no qualms about needing support.
Dar-es-Salaam was a charming city, from the National Museum with its vintage cars, used by various colonial plenipotentiaries, to the teeming fish market. And I was lucky to find in the cheap hotel we stayed in an enterprising travel agent who booked us what turned out to be a splendid tour to the wild life parks.
But first we went to Zanzibar, on a ferry, and found an exquisite hotel in the old Stone Town, cobbled alleys, a splendid mix of Arab and Indian architecture, ornate balconies and latticework. The former Sultan’s palace was a joy, with splendid photographs and a larger than life junk, and I found fascinating too the Anglican cathedral which had been built on the site of the slave market. You could visit there the awful cells in which the chained victims of that appalling trade had been interned. And given my interest in history from a romantic perspective, I was glad to have seen the place where Livingstone was supposed to have stayed in the course of his various exploratory journeys, and to which his body was brought by his ‘loyal companions’ (who had removed his heart where he actually died, in Zambia, and buried it beneath a baobab tree).
After just over a night and a day we flew via Dar-es-Salaam to Kilimanjoro and took a bus to Aruja where we were supposed to meet the tour company. I was a bit startled when there seemed to be no booking at the hotel that had been arranged, but we were told to go next door, and were met there by a delightful man called Richard Kilonzo Papa, who restored my confidence. He introduced us to a sweet Namibian girl called Nita who was our companion on the safari (a fourth person who was due never turned up), and to the driver/guide called Frank who seemed dour but turned out immensely helpful, and professional to his fingertips about ensuring maximum sightings. He also had an assistant who put up the tents and cooked the most delicious meals at the campsites where we stayed in Serengeti and Ngorongoro. Read the rest of this entry »