GOD OF HUNGER
*
JOHN COUTOUVIDIS
First published in 2011
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*****
This book contains detailed research material,
combined with the author's own subjective opinions, which are open to
debate. Any offence caused to persons either living or dead is purely
unintentional. Factual references may include or present the author's
own interpretation, based on research and study.
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 by John Coutouvidis
CONTENTS
(The following passage is quoted directly from a reader’s report)
‘God of Hunger is a fascinating and imaginative novel which take us to different settings and allows the reader to view the story through the eyes of different sets of characters, seeing the unfolding history of the end of colonial Africa from the points of view of the Greek and Polish communities as well as other expatriates, in a period when German rule had given way to British, which in turn was about to be replaced by native independence. The struggle of the non-Africans to find a role for themselves and continue the colonial system by subtler means seems to be the message of the novel, and their struggle a microcosm of twentieth-century world history.
The book tells the tragic life story of Theo Kokopoulos. Theo is the son of Kostas Kokopoulos, an ambitious expatriate Greek who has lived in Tanganyika since the 1920’s, having been part of the great migration that followed the end of the First World War. We first meet ‘KK’, as he is known, on the verge of independence, as he angles for position in the new government, hoping to nudge it towards a Soviet-style Socialist utopia. The narrative follows his son, Theo, through his upbringing, in which he finds himself torn between his power-hungry, anti-Semitic father and Misha, a survivor of the Holocaust. In a sense Theo seems to represent the vulnerability of the post-war world, torn between two conflicting directions. In the end, neither side gains full control, as he contracts cancer; despite moving to London for specialized treatment, Theo dies.
In this opening part we are treated to a bravura display of historiography, as the events of the main narrative are woven into the world events of the twentieth century: the demise of Austria-Hungary and the Ottomans, the Greco-Turkish conflict, the rise and fall of British Southern Africa, the emergence of apartheid and the imprisonment of Mandela. The breadth of reference is striking- even Blackadder Goes Forth is quoted at length.
The focus shifts away from the Greeks, simultaneously dividing between Polish expatriates and the Tanganyikan natives moving for independence. It becomes clear fairly quickly that the author is just as interested in the Poles as in the Greeks, and although he seems to have shot many of his European historical bolts in the first part, he has plenty left. He weaves a compelling tale about a family of Polish émigrés. The lives of Marisha’s lovers mirror Theo’s in some ways; they have a passionate devotion to hunting game, as well as men.
The symbolism maintains its intensity when we return to ‘KK’. In a strange, idiosyncratic and ambiguous manner, his death and the bizarre scenes in which he is mummified seem to represent the fate of the European enterprise in Africa.
In conclusion, God of Hunger is an extraordinary work of literary fiction. Obviously it isn’t aimed at a popular readership. It is idiosyncratic, complex and makes fairly significant demands on the reader. But it is very intelligent, erudite, and manages to compel the reader’s involvement from the very beginning. The sense of history is grandiose without being grandiloquent; a quality which it owes to its basis in well drawn human characters. I recommend this novel highly.’
God of Hunger takes its title from the street name of Tanganyika’s First Minister and Tanzania’s first President, Julius Nyerere: Mungu wa Nja. The father of the nation, who is justly lauded for creating unity out of a variegated tribal polity, but was responsible for the gross impoverishment of his country.
The book may be read as a string of ancient Anatolian stone worry beads twirled in remembrance of the dead; souls alleviating God’s hunger. The stones are inscribed with names as they appear in chapter headings. As characters, all are drawn from lithomancy.
The beads are strung onto Tanganyika; the thread that binds them together. Having been superseded in 1964 by Tanzania, the country of the book belongs entirely to mythology.
Tanganyika emerged out of German East Africa in 1918 after the defeat of the Central Powers.
It was the Germans who invited the Greeks to their colony to work on the railways inland from Dar-Es-Salaam, on the Indian Ocean, to Mwanza on Lake Victoria and Kigoma on Lake Tanganyika, retracing the slave route from Ujiji, where Stanley found Livingston, to the coast. Whence again, from Tanga, to Moshi beside Kilimanjaro and Arusha beneath Mount Meru.
Greeks, as foremen, were employed on the French construction of the Suez Canal and after its completion in 1869, transferred their skills to the building of Germany’s colonial railways. They were later offered land and settled in Tanganyika to make their living in growing coffee at altitude, or sisal on coastal plains.
In 1921, when Ataturk, in the course of creating modern Turkey, defeated Greek forces intent on resurrecting Byzantium, many exiles from Anatolia joined their kinsmen in Tanganyika, a Mandated Territory under British governance.
To this entity were sent, in 1942, Poles; mainly women and children, the remnants of a massive forced exodus, in 1940, from Eastern Poland which was occupied by the Red Army under the terms of the Secret Protocol of the Nazi Soviet Pact of August 1939.
A census taken in Tanganyika ten years later, revealed that Greeks and Poles made up the majority of its European population, then at its height, when life for most was as good as it was going to get; Tanganyika resembled a ship sailing erratically on oceans of history while its passengers believed that the captain had a true bearing on their destination. Under the tropical sun a few flourished, more wilted ,while most simply got by, in a country to which they went with feelings of trepidation, from homelands they often recalled, to a place they never forgot; a land which now bears little trace of them. This book is dedicated to their remembrance.
*
I was born (1944) in Tanganyika arriving in the UK in 1963 to attend the Cambridgeshire College of Arts and Technology. Finding the fenland winter too cold to bear, I spent much of my first year identifying the college with the best heating system and found it at Keele University where the Nissen hut accommodation was served by the largest radiators in the land. Keele then allowed its undergraduates a Foundation year during which I discovered History, the love of my life after Merrilyn, whom I met at Keele. We married in 1969 and were blessed in 1972 with a daughter, Sophie. The family home of forty years and more is in Staffordshire where, at various colleges, I have taught African Politics and Government, International (European and Non-European) Political History and modern Polish, British and German Diplomatic History.
In writing this book I have relied mostly on memory; on remembered conversations within a family where story telling was the main source of entertainment. We did not listen to the radio. Nor to the gramophone. We also read next to nothing. Perhaps this was because when night fell regularly at 6 (or at 12, by the Swahili clock) the paraffin lamps gave inadequate light for that pastime? Or was it simply because talking in the dim flickering light had the added attraction of shadow play on our lime washed bedroom walls?
There were some two dozen books in the house; a set of Golden Pathway which a slick salesman off-loaded as the best source of knowledge for our betterment. The Wedgwood blue, hardbound volumes, were never consulted save for a look at each coloured frontispiece. Strangely, many years later, I saw a play in Nantwich, in Cheshire, based on the unread contents; it was all very English. There was also a three volume set, in Polish, recording the battle for Monte Casino whose summit was taken by Poles. Next, a book in Greek entitled Hellenes Abroad (Tanganyika), written by John Tsondos, published in Nicosia, no date of publication. It contains material I have long treasured such as mention of every Greek in the Territory, including many photographs, including one of our family. There was also a tome called Greeks in Africa, in English, published by a Greek publishing house in Alexandria, in 1955, listing every Hellene in every corner of the continent. The photographs show men in short sleeved shirts, knee length baggy khaki shorts (kaptulas) and knee high long socks. Women in flower patterned light cotton dresses, and couples often leaning on the bonnets of automobiles, one foot on the running boards, a la Bonnie and Clyde. The American limousines, box-bodies and pick-ups are straight out of fifties movies. My Godfather owned a brown Hudson which had a massive steering wheel on which was mounted a glass globe the size of a small paperweight, enabling the driver single-handedly to swing the wheel within which a concentric chrome ring could be pressed to sound a melodious note of warning. This true limousine had immensely comfortable bench seats where his chickens, flying in through open windows, loved to roost when the limo was static. The designation De Luxe, a hallmark of the age, was proudly emblazoned on the sides of a long bonnet; he loved to use the term which he pronounced as delooxaria. Fords, Pontiacs, Chevrolets and Studebakers there were a plenty. The only Cadillac in town belonged to Mr. Subzali who owned the concession for the marque. My cousin and I would gaze at the chrome hub caps, the size of today’s television dishes, on display in a long glass cabinet in the showroom of Subzali Motors. No ducal silverware, polished to its most dazzling shine, could ever surpass the glittering beauty of those wheel dressings. As for white walled tyres, soon covered in red earth which rendered them pink after every wash, these were the height of automobilistic aspiration. Coming away with glossy brochures of the latest dreams from Detroit was sufficient compensation, especially as each had an exchange rate of one for four Eagle comics, three Beano or Dandy, two War or Cowboy comics or one Classic.
Other reading matter at home included a photographic record, in a series of six tomes, of the Second World War, in which my brother George and I recorded our response to each image with an exaggerated system of marking as though we were teachers assessing work in blue crayon, from A quadruple plus to D quadruple minus. We were thoroughly beaten for the defacement of books otherwise unread. Lastly there was a children’s book of poetry. Preparing me for kindergarten, my father insisted on teaching me to memorise Little Boy Blue. He pronounced meadow as meedow and when I repeated the word at my first declamation in school the teacher laughed so raucously that I wet my shorts in terror. I also cried from laughter when listening to my father’s version of Olivier’s Henry by Shakespeare, which he had seen on screen, first at The Victory, then at The Paradise and again at The Metropole; each time the funnier; drama was only ever rendered as comedy at home.
It was linguistically confusing to grow up in a household in which, around the dining table, five languages, all jumbled up, could be heard: ‘Pass me a glass and the jug of water please’, with Polish, Greek, English, Warusha (akin to Masai) and Swahili words in the same sentence. (Purists will wince at my usage of Swahili. I would however point out that I write it as it is spoken on the streets; Colonial Officers in Tanganyika, who had to pass an examination in the language, were taught a written form few understood and a pronunciation all locals found risible.)
I have long since held that all children should first be taught just one tongue, English. The world’s language, taught to a high standard, giving everyone a full command of its vocabulary, grammar and syntax; a language for all seasons; fit for every purpose, from rap to Queen’s Speech. Yet, for all that, our domestic tower of Babel prepared me well in the art of national identity and the science of international history.
In this book, I have attempted to render words or statements in Greek, Polish, and Swahili as they would be pronounced by a native speaker. For example: instead of hoi poloi which confusingly sounds to the Anglophone as ‘the posh’ rather than meaning ‘the many’, I suggest ee polee; the way Greeks say it and I would bet a thrahma (th as in the) to an evro that when a Sapho or an Omeeros (Homer) is resurrected through some frankensteinian sparking of dry old DNA, we shall discover that that is how they would have pronounced the Greek language. In the meantime, I would, with great respect, suggest that Classicists listen to the modern Demotic before attempting to speak the Ancient.
In matters Greek, the book owes much to I.N. Tsondos, Elleenes En Tee Xenee (Tanganyika) (Greeks in Tanganyika) and to Greeks in Africa, but most of all from papers held in private archives which were proffered to me in Tanzania in 1987 and in research material I had collected, but did not use in penning The Kidron Bible.
The Polish story is based on previous work, now out of print, to which I have copyright: Poland, 1939-1947, the English translation of Garlicki’s Jozef Pilsudski, the New Edition of Zajdlerowa’s The Dark Side of The Moon and on two lengthy video-recorded interviews: Sir Frank Roberts, A Diplomatic History, 1939-1968 and The Dark Side of the Moon whose surface was lightly trod by that most graceful of women; my mother.
My opinion of Julius Nyerere is mainly informed by conversations in 1987 with members of Tanzania’s masses, ee polee, or, if you insist, hoi polloi and on T.S.Eliot’s notions of culture and social structure. The central question highlighted in his preface to the original, anonymously written, edition of The Dark Side of The Moon, published in 1946, is: ‘What happens to a society, a nation, when its apex is forcibly removed?’ A question I have attempted to answer in ‘T.S. Eliot’s Model of Society in the light of Polish Experience’, published in the first volume of the journal, Text and Context.
The consequences of gross social engineering (by which I mean the eradication or attempted metamorphosis through state policy of any layer of humanity within the imagined triangle) perpetrated upon a nation has been of long interest to me; ever since, as a boy in my beloved grandmother’s care, an august lady who was my main link in Eliot’s transmission chain of culture, I first learnt of my grandfather’s murder at Katyn.
That atrocity has indelibly coloured my take on political history
in Europe and in Africa.
*
John Coutouvidis, The Boat House, Barlaston, Staffordshire
13 April, 2011
For my Parents and in memory of my Godfather
GOD OF HUNGER
John Konstantine Kokopoulos, otherwise known as KK, was blessed from an early age with an inquiring mind, a great appetite for learning, a heightened drive for adventure and the resilience of a peasant. His parents worked on the Argenti estate, the richest in the fertile plain of Hios (Chios) known as the Kamvo, famous for its Mastiha, a shrub whose sap produced a chewing gum produced mainly for the harem market.
His father laboured on the land and his mother served as housemaid in the big house. The spirit of the place was Tuscan; cultured, elegant and civilised and ahead in every manner of life, though not in philosophy, to all other inhabitants of the island of Hios.
Despite the material poverty of most Hiotes few could doubt the richness of their identity; their intellectual heritage. Hios is the island of Omeeros and Sapho. It is also the birth place of Christopher Columbus and many other seafaring adventurers. And it is also the island from which Kolokotronis, so named after a shot from a Turkish musket stung (kotroni) his posterior (kolos), took on the might of the Ottoman fleet in the fight for modern Greek political and religious freedom which came in hard fought stages between the first quarters of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries after centuries of Turkic occupation.
It was the Ottoman Turks who had shaped the third largest piece of intellectual furniture in the Hiot mind; an oriental orientation in manners and music. The first piece, alluded to above, was crafted by classical Hellenism and the second by the Greek Orthodox Church.
To be a modern Greek is to be of the Greek orthodox faith. It goes without saying until questioned when it becomes clear that whilst nation and faith are one, the church hierarchy is rarely respected. Priests are tolerated, Metropolitans and above barely so. And God and his saints and angels are best understood as a Greek Testament gloss on the Animism of the Ancients. And everywhere, the Evil Eye.
As a boy, KK had little time for religion but, like most islanders found the long Sunday service a boon chance for the exchange of news and gossip. Participation in the liturgy came naturally and automatically; everyone knew the order of service by heart but not by mind. The Classics were another matter. The philosophers and dramatists were exercised with deep understanding even when recited from memory. KK could from an early age recall the Iliatha. It was understood by him to be about what we would now call male bonding. Accordingly, the world was set as a stage for men to act upon, each swearing allegiance to comradeship in arms whilst reaching for the lone status of a hero.
Women were venerated as mothers, tolerated as sisters or wives and fought over as trophies should they be identified as such in comparison to other prizes such as a heifer or an iron tripod in ancient times or a caique in the near present of KK’s youth or a good rifle later on in his life in Africa.
How he yearned for a boat of his own on his expeditions to the bay across the harbour of Hios; the bay of Tsesme. What drew him there were the wrecks of the Turkish fleet sunk in 1770 by a ‘search and destroy’ mission sent out by Katherinee, the Great Empress of Orthodox Russia.
Few islanders had the courage to dive for treasure in the shallows closer to Turkey than Greece. Indeed, not many had precise knowledge of it. KK had both.
His interest in local history had come to Count Argenti’s attention for two reasons. Firstly, Argenti was forever working on a history of Hios and had a ready ear open for new information concerning the island. And secondly, as the Governor of the only school on the island, he was given reports of the academic progress of its pupils only to find KK at the top of every list.
The boy was invited to visit the big house and was questioned by the Count on various aspects of learning which confirmed the reports he was getting from the school; Kokopoulos, J.K., was extremely bright. And so began a pedagogic relationship by which the boy visited the Count after church each Sunday to exchange views about the text lent and read over the previous week. And so it was that the history of the world centred on Hios became an open book to the boy who impressed the Count on other subjects too.
The mastiha trees at the top end of the estate always furnished less gum than the average yield. This was because they grew along a ridge raised above the plain and in that position were more vulnerable to desiccation over the summer months. KK’s father often reported on the Count’s concern about these trees. Wishing to repay his lordships kindness to him, KK gave the matter much thought and came up with a solution after a year’s experimentation. He had observed that unkempt trees in peasant gardens higher up in Monastir appeared in better shape than the Count’s marginal rows. Could it be that the piles of stones that littered the un-harrowed ground around the less cared for trees held the answer to the problem of desiccation?
The boy requested the Count that he allow his father to place gravel around the base of each tree along the ridge. This was done and the following year’s yield of gum had risen significantly from these rows; the gravel kept the moisture around the roots.
It was then that the Count took an even greater interest in the boy, suggesting to his father that he, the Count, would send KK abroad for further education, having in mind a college in Damascus ran by a German order of monks. They provided a well-rounded general education and the opportunity to specialise in practical disciplines of which farming in a dry climate was one in which the college had developed a far reaching reputation.
When put to KK, the proposal was not welcomed. He had not thought of his own future and resented others, however well meaning, to plan it on his behalf. So one evening he stole out of Hios town and crossed the bay to Anatolia, one nautical mile away, in a dilapidated skiff which had long been beached at one end of the harbour.
The crossing started well but gradually the boat filled with sea-water and half way across sank, leaving the boy to swim the rest of the way. It was not that he found it arduous to do so but would have preferred a drier landing at his destination at the village of Katopanaya, a kilometre and a half south east of Tsesme.
Katopanaya was a village inhabited entirely by his country men who had originally come from Pontus to cultivate virgin land around the Mother of God, above and below:
Anopanaya and Katopanaya, two ancient chapels, one on a hill and the other by the sea.
Between massacres, the last had occurred on Hios in 1822 and the next was to come in Smyrna in 1921, life for Greeks in Turkish hands was safe and largely self regulated. Provided taxes were paid and first-born sons offered up for military service when required by the Sultan, Hellenic communities got on with their lives unmolested. But woe betide an occurrence out of the ordinary which could cast doubt and suspicion in the official mind.
KK’s nocturnal adventure roused the ire of the village elders. They did not want the authorities on their backs at a time of high alert with talk of war after the assassination of the Austrian Crown Prince at Sarajevo earlier that week. The boy could be mistaken for a spy and to harbour such would endanger them all. The elders weighed the matter up. Was the protection of a fellow Greek runaway whose presence would not go unnoticed by the local Muhtar worth risking all? Clearly not.
The next day KK was led to the Muhtar’s office in Tsesme castle and there handed over to be dealt with by him whilst during the same night as KK’s arrival in Katopanaya, word crossed the bay to Hios in the boat of a Katopanayousee fisherman, such that Count Argenti’s pleas on behalf of the boy were already in the hands and pockets of the Muhtar.
The Turk twirled his moustache and struck a pose of bellicose authority without uttering a word. He dismissed the elders with a swing of his right hand and indicated with his left to the sentry that the boy should be led into the cell. There he was left to contemplate his fate in fear of dire punishment until the door was opened at dawn of the second day of his incarceration. He was led out of the castle, across the square and onto the quayside where Argenti’s motor launch was moored. Without a word being said, he was escorted aboard, his manacles removed, and left among friends who took him back to the island.
A large bribe apart, Argenti had assured the Muhtar that KK would be sent away to college in Damascus where he would also be under the watchful eye of Turkish authority.
*
All that was about to change. The Ottoman Empire became an ally of the Central Powers and when the Great War ended, it was broken up into its constituent parts which became new nation states exercising various degrees of autonomy within a supposed new world order headed by the United States and the Soviet Union but still under the sway of the victorious European empires: Belgian, British, Dutch and French.
The ending of the war in 1918 coincided with KK’s graduation from college. He emerged well rounded and grounded; trained as an agronomist and educated in arts and languages.
Throughout his five years in Damascus he kept up a regular correspondence with his Hian mentor, Count Argenti. Between regularly stated assumptions that KK would return to the island and take over the management of his estates, Argenti kept the young man abreast of his writing.
Whilst KK was in college the Count had published Massacres of Hios describing the holocaust of 1822 and was now working on an account of the wars of Greek independence extracts of which he would include in his letters to KK. This material fascinated the young man but neither the promise of a well paid job on the land nor access to the library at the big house would draw him back to Hios.
KK sensed greater opportunities in the brave new world opening up before his very eyes in the Near East. On graduating, top of his year, the young man was offered a teaching post at his college but left after a year to seek his fortune in Egypt where he arrived in the spring of 1919.
His journey from Damascus took him first to Jerusalem and then to Alexandria, via Gaza.
Alexandria was the appropriate entrepot for a Greek into Africa. It was still very much a Hellenic town with the grandest Greek community on the continent, seat to a Patriarchate with dominion over Africa, embellished with Greek schools and colleges, hospitals and theatres. And kaffenia throughout the centre of town, clustered around the ancient harbour where once stood the Pharos and much else long known but destroyed like the great Library and unknown but very much alive in the minds of Alexandrians such as Alexander’s tomb and the palace of his pharaonic successors. And then there was Kafavy the first of the Moderns whom T.S.Eliot emulated and with whom E.M. Forster copulated.
But it was neither the Classical past nor the Modernist present that made a living for the Alexandrian Greeks. It was cotton, grown on the alluvial soil of the delta deposited and watered by the Nile that was Alexandria’s rich sustenance. KK was clearly interested in its cultivation and he sought out the great cotton masters like Salvago and Benaki to ask whether or not opportunities in growing the fibre existed for one like him. ‘Only as an eepalilos (employee) otherwise try the Sudan; land in Egypt is not for sale to new arrivals.’
A disappointed KK left Alexandria for Cairo and, out of necessity, found employment with the Hellenic Enterprise Company (HEC). In a short space of time he made his mark as the most able clerk at head office and found himself being groomed for a role in management.
In this capacity he was invited to attend, as the firm’s representative, at many important social functions and it was at one such occasion that he fell prey to the charms of Lady X, the mistress to the head of British intelligence.
KK was not warned off the affair but was warned by his bosses not to divulge company secrets to Cairo’s loveliest femme fatale whilst being encouraged to develop relations with his part-time lover for the sake of the business; on her arm he had entree to the highest social gatherings in Cairo. Not disappointing his employers, the suave young man’s suaveness was rewarded by rapid promotion to the office of the Chairman’s personal cabinet.
KK, groomed for the high life in Cairene society never lost his head to its many diversions, taking instead personal advantage of contacts within the cultivated elite.
His erudite lover taught him a great deal of the ways of the world. And also of ancient history, an interest he had cultivated in Hios and in Syria. Outside her bed-chamber Lady X was a world-authority on the ancient civilisations of the Eastern Mediterranean.
Apres l’amour one afternoon, KK fell to browsing through the books on her bedside table. He leant back to face her and enquired about the contents of the thinnest book in the pile.
‘My darling, it is the oldest story in the world. Gilgamesh was a great person ruling at Uruk, in Sumer, in Mesopotamia, in ancient Iraq. Through his journeys and feats Gilgamesh gained the reputation of one above all other men. For a time he thought of himself as a god. Yet he came to realize that the immortality he had hoped for was impossible and returned from his searching to his city and resigned himself to the inevitability of death. Hamurabi, of whom we know a great deal more, did likewise. A great man who built a great empire. And in building the walls of Babylon with bricks bearing his name he clearly thought of immortality. But when his job was done he resigned himself to death. He showed no fear when he died. His servants, preparing his body for the funeral, found an amulet on the floor of his bedchamber. It was of Gilgamesh overpowering a buffalo. You see, Hamurabi was a great huntsman. He compared himself to Gilgamesh; hunter and creator. That is how he wanted to remembered amongst his own people. As God.’
Our Ancient Greek Gods must have inspired him.
‘Not so my darling boy. Babylonian Gods are older than yours.’
‘Older than Homer’s? (He had learnt to anglicize Omeeros in Anglophone company. ‘We Greeks were the very first thinkers and writers. The first post-barbarians.’
‘Sorry to disappoint you my darling but even on that score you are mistaken.’
She told him of the latest finds on the islet of Salamina where the palace of Ajax had just been accounted for and in whose bay indeed lay the wrecks of Xerxes’s ambitions. The historical value of Homer’s verse and the prose of Herodotus was confirmed with each passing season. But what was new to the world was that archaeologists working on the island’s acropolis were reported to have found traces of human organic matter on and beneath its base; evidence enough to suggest that earlier temples and the temple to Athena may have been a place of barbaric rites.
‘The question is, my dear boy, could it have been a site for the ritual murder of humans?
‘Are you saying that Greeks were barbarians?’
She laughed as she said, ‘I’m afraid so.’
KK took badly to the statement. He got out of bed and got dressed and was about to go out without a word when she declared her love for him and suggested they immediately leave Cairo for Alexandria there to be alone together.
He melted to her declaration of love and to the prospect of a few hours out of Cairo.
That evening in Alexandria they went for a stroll along the Corniche in the direction of Montaza. Hunger overtook them when they got to King Farouk’s palace which was shuttered. There was no restaurant or bistro to be found. Just a fisherman’s charcoal burning brazier serving up grilled slices of octopus. A drink of arak was obtained from a small shop, the only one open. Neither shop keeper nor al fresco chef replied to their attempts at conversation. It was a twilight lacking in joie de vivre. A quietude both found unnerving.
At last there was a sound to break the monotony of their repast; the doleful sound of a church bell. They left the corniche and headed uphill toward the cross showing above the cupola above the surrounding roof tops.
They entered the church to find it full of worshipers. Women on the left and men on the right. Refusing to be parted KK and Lady X stood at the back crossing themselves at points in the priest’s intonation only he understood, whilst all the while an assistant priest waved the censor billowing with smoky incense; first at each icon in the screen behind the altar then at the congregation.
The Papas deap bass was joined by the three tenor voices to his left who swept prayer and smoke up into the dome where Christ Pantocrator received with unmoving eyes the scene of devotion beneath.
The depth of His gaze, the severity of His face, the company of His unsinging angels told of the risen Christ in mourning. For his people below.
Byzantine frescoes and mosaics did not allow the lightness in which the artists of the Western renaissance portrayed God in Heaven. There was none of Giotto’s blue wash as background to the Angelic host adoring Mother and Child which inspired sinners to seek repentance through familiar prayer aimed at the beguiling, light shedding Dove, central in the décor of Heaven. A feminine décor. A forgiving décor.
Not so by the artists of the Eastern naissance. Here the child Jesus was never a babe in arms. More a miniaturized portrait of the man charged from birth to deliver judgement over mankind. His mood always sombre even when lit by the sheen of gold leaf and the sparkle of gemstones.
Under the judgemental Deity, the couple allowed themselves to surrender to the service. And when it ended, left only when obliged to move out of the church by the swelling crowd heading for the portico. In the gloaming outside, KK asked, the passers-by to account for the memorial service; midweek and mournful.
Eventually an elderly man said, ‘A mneemoseeno for the old man.’
‘What old man?’
‘The holy man. Our hermit. Do you see that distant hill?’
‘Yes.’
‘He lived in a cave up there. And prayed each day. Throughout the day. Asking God for forgiveness.’
‘What had he done that merited such an existence and constant prayer?’
‘Ah, my dear. As a young man he, like many others emigrated to America. Like them, in retirement, he returned to his city. But unlike the rest who spoke only about the glory of the New Rome, New York, he said nothing but anathema to the place. There he saw and heard things which he believed offended God. So he took to his cave and gave penance for all the sins he had witnessed.’
‘A Saint?’
‘Perhaps.’
Lady X asked the old man, ‘Will we go to heaven?’
‘For you two, I think it is here on earth.’
*
Calmed by the experiences of the evening in Alexandria equilibrium in feelings about each other returned to KK and Lady X. They walked back to the Corniche along a street of large villas and booked into the Cecil Hotel for the night which further repaired the frayed bond of feeling between them. In the morning they returned to Cairo.
There Lady X suggested a week’s pause from lust while she returned to the Chief of British intelligence.
KK knew his place in the order of her life and showed only faked signs of remorse at separation, knowing full well that she would return to him with fresh news and gossip and the occasional morsel of hard information he could report to the Chairman.
In time KK came to know from Lady X much of what passed between the Chief Political Officer at GHQ, Middle East Command, Cairo, and London. And Paris. And Constantinople, Jerusalem, Baghdad, Damascus, Beyrut and New Delhi.
This information was as precious as gold to the head of the Cairene business community who had been watching the fate of the Ottoman Empire with increasing interest since the Allied victory in 1918. He well understood the value of inside knowledge at a time when into the political maelstrom of the post war world were cast the protagonists of the modern age.
*
In many ways the cosmopolitan KK was truly representative of it. Born a Greek under Ottoman rule, he went to a college in Damascus run by German monks whose language and ways he took to heart and mind. He took advantage of the education on offer. He read widely adding to his chosen science, philosophy and theology. His intellectual interests migrated, gradually exchanging religious belief for an equally religious interest in political ideology enhanced by a keen interest in language and history; by the time he left college he was fluently a German, Arab, Frenchman, Russian, Anglo-American and a Turk. He found no difficulty in acquiring this multiplicity of cultures. What taxed his brain was the duality of modern knowledge, materialistic and spiritual, and its inherent contradictions. These the young man would resolve in time. And time was on the side of the philosopher within. But not of the man of action, without.
A new world was fast in the making and the speed of change required rapid decisiveness for anyone wishing to take advantage of the possibilities on offer. Intelligence was all and KK was well positioned to read the runes as supplied to him courtesy of the mistress to the Chief Political Officer in Cairo.
*
Cairo and New Delhi were the centres of British power in the East and traffic between the two was reaching saturation point in 1919. Lines were becoming blurred. How far did Cairo’s remit run? To Afghanistan? No, that belonged to the India Office. But what of the former German Territories in East Africa, soon to be renamed Tanganyika Territory?
Dar-es-Salaam, or, Haven of Peace a name which captured KK’s imagination the moment he read it, was long a bone of contention between sets of British officials. For strategic reasons the War Office wanted a say over the entire crescent from the mouth of the Ruvama, north to the headwaters of the Litani, Jordan, Tigris and Euphrates and the litoral around the Arabian Peninsula; the entire sweep of land and water was seen as vital for the protection of Egypt and therefore of India.
Ever since the opening of the Suez Canal in 1869, Cairo’s contingent of British civil servants was on a par in numbers to New Delhi’s, the most precious jewel in Britain’s imperial crown. But which of the two British bureaucracies was to administer the territories becoming available East Africa?
In his reports from Kabul, the British Minister appealed for advice about this very question about which Lady X told KK.
The third of many more Afghan wars was taking its bloody course when a certain ‘Professor’ Barkatullah was mentioned in dispatches:
‘He is a native of Bhopal, Central India. Worked as teacher of Hindustani in Tokyo until expelled by the Japanese. Moved to America where he let no opportunity pass of vilifying our rule in India. Claims to be a German subject and German diplomatic agent in Kabul. Holds a German passport issued at Dar-es-Salaam. Was Foreign Minister in the provisional government of India formed in Berlin and led by Mahendra Pratap. Now ‘Head of Afghan delegation in Moscow’, presently in Tashkent seeking Soviet aid from Chicherin. (Soviet Commissar for Foreign Affairs).’
The ‘Professor’ was now back in Dar-es-Salaam, was calling for a Jihad against the British throughout the Orient. Loud echoes were being voiced in Egypt and in India. Moreover, in his call for a general Muslim uprising, the ‘Professor’ was being encouraged by Moscow. Was East Africa to go red?
Ever since the success of the Bolsheviks in taking over the Russian state there came a call from Lenin and his henchmen for the end of colonialism. Persians, Turks, Arabs and Indians were encouraged to overthrow ‘the imperialist robbers and enslavers’ of their countries. All secret treaties involving Tsarist Russia as an ally of Britain and France in the Great War, including the Sykes-Picot agreement which over the Middle East between Imperial Russia, Britain and France, were made public. The planned partition of Turkey and Persia was denounced and Constantinople, which was to be taken into Tsarist care, was declared ‘a Muslim city for all time’.
‘All Russian Congresses of Communist Organizations’ were convened to mobilize Muslim opinion throughout the East against Great Britain whose forces were still in the field in support of the Whites in the Caucasus and in Central Asia. This meant that the Middle East became, in 1919, the theatre of an all but undeclared ‘cold’ war, a cold war between Britain and the Russian Socialist Federal Soviet Republic. And, as the Persian revolution of 1906 and the ‘Young Turk’ revolt of 1908 had already shown, the Middle East was potentially the most vulnerable point of British imperial power; nationalism was in the air. The palace revolution in Kabul and the Third Afghan war in the spring of 1919 gave renewed cause for concern. And as though all this was not enough, Cairo had from May of that year to deal with the redefinition of territory formerly held by the Ottoman Empire.
Kokopoulos had up to the minute information paper on many these subjects. But it was fragmentary. He was particularly interested in the news about Tanganyika which he had decided on a whim that it was the country for him. His relationship with Lady X had run its course. And of this and of his intention to leave he informed his employer, who, try as he might, could not convince KK to remain in Cairo. He did nevertheless welcome his ambitious young manager’s recommended strategy as set out in The Final Report, 13 August, 1919, by J.K. Kokopoulos to the President of the Board of the Hellenic Enterprise Company in Alexandria concerning business potential in the Middle East and East Africa:
Sir, It is my privilege to send you my final report before beginning my journey up the Nile to East Africa. Your kindness in providing me with letters of introduction is greatly appreciated and I can only hope to return your kindness when settled at my destination.
Regarding developments about which I have, to the best of my ability, kept you informed, I wish here to present in summary form, matters, which, in my view, are vital to your interests. ….’
The report concluded with a recommendation to invest in the ports of Dar-es-Salaam and Alexandretta.
Explaining how Dar-es-salaam was becoming strategically important he offered his services as agent to the Hellenic Enterprise Company in a place little developed which would require enormous quantities of cement for construction of the modern port and the closest manufactory of cement was in Cairo and owned by the HEC.
With regard to Alexandretta, he argued, that the port was destined to be the answer to the troubled question of access to the markets of the new Middle East, especially in the case of Mesopotamia to which, by sea the obstacles were: ‘(1) the distance from European markets; (2) the unhealthiness of the Persian Gulf; (3) the dues of the Suez Canal. Nothing can change the first; the British are not likely to modify greatly the second and third. And for these reasons engineers are much preoccupied with schemes for giving to Mesopotamia direct access by pipe and railways to a Mediterranean port.’
‘So far as I can learn, the subject as a whole has so far been very imperfectly studied. I am not sure that, as regards pipe lines, it has been studied at all. A great deal, indeed, is known and much has been done with the Baghdad Railway; and its eastern section - if it were connected with Alexandretta, and the port of Alexandretta were improved and modernised - would provide the natural outlet to the commerce of Northern Mesopotamia.’
‘The wars fought by the British have exhausted them economically; Ee Englezi eene denekiethes (the English are empty vessels). The Americans are not interested in our region. The French are and have every intention of making money here. I would advise an early visit to Alexandretta which must stand the best chance of becoming the port to service the railhead and pipeline east. Your capital, Mr. President, would in my humble opinion be best invested in the French zone. …’
‘On this subject, I am confident of my intelligence.’
‘I remain, your ever faithful Servant,
J.K. Kokopoulos, Deputy Head of the Intelligence Unit, HEC.
*
Handing the paper to the Company Secretary in person, KK spent his last night in Cairo at the Greek Club. No one there, apart from his boss and his lover, who remained behind at the room they shared, knew of his imminent departure from Egypt.
Under the influence of heightened delight at the thought of leaving, he divulged to a friend, Armenis, whom he had met in the course of business dealings, his inner most thoughts.
Both secretly despised the Cairene establishment and shared the belief that a revolution on the model of Lenin’s should and would take the city, but that until it did, there was money to be made in the Middle East.
Armenis was doing very well in the oil trade. He had a finger dipped in the oil of Mosul and another in the new drillings in Persia and he encouraged KK to join him in his business as a broker. To no avail. KK wanted to farm and was going south to East Africa.
He had earlier thought he would try farming in Palestine where there was much fertile land to be had with fewer restrictions than in Syria or Mesopotamia. But he had not counted on the rapid move into the country by Zionist interests who had the capital to buy up land from the Arabs at a premium he could not afford.
He talked openly to Armenis of his despair of what was happening in Palestine and of his pro-Arab sympathies. Fluent in Arabic he knew just how the Jews were perceived by Arabs and knew, from his reading of telegrams, well before they did, how, in his words ‘they were mezethes (entrée dishes) at the Zionist feast.’ He spoke also of his deep resentment of the Anti- Hellenism amongst certain leading Zionists and within the British Foreign Office which then vehemently opposed the expansion of Greek territory east into Thrace and into the Anatolian sanjak of Smyrna.
Wound up in anger, KK divulged to Armenis the contents of a telegram which had that day been copied to Cairo from the British Charge d’Affaires in Prague.
David Trietsch, a prominent Jewish Zionist, had proposed Jewish colonization of Cyprus, arguing ‘that many people in England regard Cyprus as a doubtful asset. If, however, by means of Jewish immigration and colonisation the country could soon be made to flourish again it would become a most valuable possession, and by the same course the Jewish and the Moslem populations combined could in a short time outnumber the “so-called Greeks” and bring the anti-British propaganda to a standstill.’
This touched a raw nerve. Nothing raised Greek emotions more than ‘The Cyprus Question’, To Keepree-a-ko. Kokopoulos now well oiled, ranted:
‘If only the Germans had won the war! With their backing we would have got all we wanted from a weak Ottoman Empire open to dictates from Berlin which would also have put paid to Zionist dreams. Damn the Evrei and damn the British.’
Armenis looked at KK with shock and surprise. Never had he witnessed his friend break into drunken babble.
Wishing to steady him, Armenis asked, ‘So, tell me, what you are going to do?’
The question helped KK regain his balance.
‘There are great possibilities in German East Africa. Greeks have lived there under German rule for a long time. This new place …. Tanganyika may now be under British mandate, but the English presence is only nominal. Fundamentally the country is Germano-Arabic in its ways. Ways which suit me best. And there is land to be had from the new masters. I go to Dar-es-Salaam to make my fortune in East Africa.’
*
KK said goodbye to El Misr (Cairo) by visiting three of its most beautiful Mosques: the Gamia Sultan Hasan, the Gamia Rifaiyeh and the Gamia Emir Kijmas el-Ishaki. He read their Holy calligraphy and spoke to as many of their Holy men as he could find; all marvelled at his command of the highest refinements of the holy language.
Taking leave of this greatest of Arab cities, also the largest in Africa, Kokopoulos boarded the train to Aswan, 552 miles and sixteen hours away. He wanted to see the dam at the head of the First Cataract whose completion in 1912 he emulated in a scale model across one of the many furrows on the Argenti estate when he was still in Hios.
The dam was a dream come true to the amateur engineer. One and a half miles long, it held back six million tons of water affecting the level of the river as far as the Second Cataract at Wadi Halfa, 210 miles to the south of Aswan and inundating many villages. Was the human cost of construction worth it? To this question Kokopoulos gave the reply of an emphatic yes. An answer that was to trouble his mind when he and his labourers were forcibly evicted from his first farm in Tanganyika, though even then he never doubted that humans had to be sacrificed in the cause of ‘progress’. KK marvelled at great schemes. And here in Aswan a chain of five locks at the dam’s western end allowed through the steamer in which he continued his journey after many days of feasting his eyes on the dam of his young dreams. Yet there was one more to be seen of which he had only learnt about when at Port Sudan to which he had done a detour by rail from Wadi Halfa. Close to the principal port of the Anglo-Egyptian Sudan was a settlement of West Africans at Takroorie. This settlement, a racial anomaly, sufficiently interested the amateur anthropologist in Kokopoulos to make the detour. The inhabitants of Takroorie were indeed from West Africa. A moving population of pilgrims to Mecca across the Red Sea. The pilgrims worked in Port Sudan for about a year to pay for the next stage of their journey of devotion. Their village was built around a desert oasis, with waterhole and palm trees under which Kokopoulos learnt of the development of new works of irrigation at the mouth of the Gash which lay on the railway from Port Sudan to Khartoum, 500 miles away. That project was another he had to see.
First, the train ascended a range of volcanic mountains through a long succession of narrow valleys inhabited by the Hadendowa and their flocks. These were the people who wore their hair in original Afro-style and who were referred to in Baedeker as ‘Fuzzy-Wuzzies’ whom Kokopoulos sought out when he paused a day at Halya Junction on the water-shed dividing the Nile from the Red Sea. After Halya he stopped at Kassala on the River Gash at the upper end of the Atbara basin which was being developed for agriculture in a manner Kokopoulos wanted to study in case he could apply what he saw in Tanganyika.
The Gash which rises in Eritrea and flows through the Abyssinian highlands had, over millennia deposited a huge delta of silt, 10 to 20 miles in width, where it entered the Sudanese plains. Kokopoulos discovered that the river ended 90 miles north of Kassala where, what water remained, drained into the desert. He was told that during nine months of the year the river dried up as did the plain. But after the floods which take place in the ninety days from July to October, the fertility of the soil, rich with the goodness of Ethiopia, is phenomenal. Kokopoulos learnt that Sudanese engineers had just completed a channel to regularize the lower Gash. From this channel the water was led across the central fertile delta by a series of canals controlled by sluice gates. Irrigation was effected by discharging the flow from these canals through subsidiary channels. The areas selected for cultivation received one year’s flooding in every three, in a system of rotation. Cotton, which takes six months to mature, could be grown in a single flooding.
His mind brimming over with matters agricultural, he took a detour from Atbara junction along the loop line to the ruins of Napata which re-occurred in his other dream; that of becoming an archaeologist.
*
About the ninth century, B.C., the Ethiopian city of Napata, near Karima on the Dongola bend of the Nile, reached its apogee. Kokopoulos also knew that the royal capital then moved to Meroe which became a centre of great wealth and rich culture and which flourished well into the seventh century, yielding to archaeologists Egyptian, Greek, Meroitic and Roman objects of great refinement, the best of which, from the royal baths, Kokopoulos saw in the museum in Khartoum. But first he walked down the ancient streets to the ruins of the Temple of the Sun, seen whole by Herodotus. Kokopoulos then journeyed to Naqa, inland from Meroe near the country palace of Musauwarat. Naqa struck him as the most perfect ruins in the Sudan to whose capital, Khartoum he next travelled.
“The longest kiss in history.” That is how the confluence of the Blue with the White Niles is described in Arabic literature and Kokopoulos stood for hours admiring this act of love which gave life to Egypt.
The merging waters surrounded by desert re-affirmed his view of history; man at the mercy of the Gods of Hunger.
*
Later that day Kokopoulos crossed over to Omdurman by boat as the new seven-span bridge was still being constructed.
Omdurman. The place of slaughter. Where the banners of Islam declared the first jihad against the infidel British imperialists. Kokopoulos paid homage to the Mahdi whose tomb was in ruins and visited the house of the Khalifa Abdullahi which had become a museum for Mahdia and other historical relics. He then crossed over again to Khartoum, saw the plaque at the spot where Gordon fell and caught the steamer to Juba via Kosti.
Could the latter have been named after a Greek? Konstantinos, Kostas (its diminutive …), Kostakis, Kostaki, Kosti? Perhaps so. As it happened, a Greek of that name traded in antiquities from a small shop in the centre of town. His most prized item was a large fragment of a frieze depicting Meroitic lasciviousness. Kokopoulos had seen the series of images from which it came in the Royal Baths at Meroe. He described these to his compatriot before heading south again to Lake Victoria.
After resting at Kampala, he took the train to Mombassa on the Kenya coast. This was Swahili country where his knowledge of Arabic helped him to find a dhow which took him south to Dar-es-Salaam.
He did not stay there long because there was news of new land being released to settlers in the north. He took another dhow to Tanga, terminus to the railway line which ran to Arusha at the foot of Mount Meru, whose summit is some four thousand feet lower than that of its close neighbour, Kilimanjaro; the gleaming mountain, Africa’s highest peak.
*
When Kokopoulos arrived in Tanganyika in the late summer of 1920 he owned nothing more than what he wore plus a change of clothes, boots and a number of books all wrapped in a Bedouin prayer mat held tightly folded and wound around by a chord fashioned from the tendons of a camel’s forelegs. His savings had been transferred from Cairo to Dar-es-Salaam and with these he fitted out a mule train with the necessities of life and tools for work on the land leased to him a hundred and fifty miles or so out of town, south along the main track from Arusha to Babati and then right, into the bush. He hired as headman a German speaking Chagga who had served in von Lettow’s militia. He, the manyapara, took on five more men and a boy from his village. The boy, Martin, was an orphan from a mission settlement run by German Lutherans on the mountain behind the town. He had worked as a houseboy for the Fathers and also filled in for the cook who, with a key to the drinks cupboard in the pantry, often slept through his shift.
*
Men, boy and mules set out from the castellated compound of the Meru Hotel one Sunday morning, crossed the ford of the stream marking the boundary between uptown and downtown and stopped again at Aziz’s garage. Here worked two brothers apprenticed to Mr. Aziz who also ran the local cinema at which the brothers earned extra wages by supplying live sound effects to silent movies from behind the screen. On one famous occasion they shouted ‘here comes the lion’ and, as they roared, a spear hurled from the front seats reserved for natives found its target on the screen.
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