Intensity of a Dream

April 1974.

Yuri shifted about uncomfortably - trying to ease the cramp in his foot; the plane had been crowded and he was forced to settle for a bulkhead seat in the front of the coach section with virtually no legroom. He was tired of looking at the faded design of an African plain which made the excuse of decorating the partition between the executive and coach sections. There was absolutely nothing to look at outside - just the gray, dismal looking skies as the plane lumbered across the Atlantic towards England. He had exhausted every article in the few newspapers he had brought, and there was apparently nothing else on board to read.

Seated next to him was a burley South African whose bulk seemed to flow over the armrests as he steadily drank himself into oblivion. Yuri had tried to strike up a conversation with him without very much success - the man did not particularly feel like talking - and when he did say anything, it was barely intelligible. Somewhere behind him, Yuri heard the twang of an American accent discussing tobacco farming with someone Yuri guessed was Greek. In the aisle to his right, a young British couple tried desperately to calm down their little boy who insisted on crying. A harried stewardess brushed past with some juice in the hope that this would quiet him down.

Yuri was tired - very tired; they had been flying for the last ten hours and there were still two hours to go before they got to London. Apart form a few minutes of disturbed, fitful dozing, he had not been able to sleep. He just felt too cramped and apprehensive about London - no idea of what things were going to be like in this place which was likely to become home for a long time. Home. Andaka. He shifted again leaning back into a more tolerable position and tiredly let his mind drift as he thought back about the home he had left........

Andaka, with a population of close to four million covered approximately eight hundred square miles; it had the best of all worlds, Yuri thought to himself: mountains – some soaring as high as 9500 ft above sea level - dotting the landscape and drawing down into rich valleys of savannah grasslands where you could see clusters of thatched huts and a smattering of tin roof buildings which comprised the typical rural village. In the evenings, he remembered fondly, you could see the gentle glow of outdoor wood fires as the Andakans cooked their evening meals; you almost smelt the haunting scent of the smoke mingled with the food being prepared down below. You could hear the sound of voices and laughter drift up from the valleys as the events of the day were recounted. Children chased around playfully, urging the passage of time as they eagerly waited for their evening meal.

And throughout the country, there were streams, rivers and lakes with crystal clear waters flowing in a calm serenity as if beckoning those who traveled along their shores to come forward and enjoy the gentle caress of the waters. In his youth, Yuri remembered, he spent many an afternoon fishing in some of those lakes for bass and tiger fish – delicious grilled, particularly when done over makeshift campfires on the shore. All you heard here was the hypnotic rustling of the reeds, the lapping of water and haunting calls of fish eagles as they soared majestically above you.

The countryside teemed with wildlife which roamed freely across the safety of the savannah plains. With the establishment of reserves, the wildlife population had grown significantly, and it was a common sight to see herds of Elephants lumber slowly, almost lazily, across the plains – or hear the thundering sound of Zebras as they made their way toward a watering hole. Sometimes at dusk, the symphony of jungle sounds would be broken by the roar of a lion somewhere out in the distance, and silence would descend across the plains - almost anticipation of what was to come.

The great African rift valley ran across Andaka, separating the northern part of the country by a steep escarpment the Andakans called Kasupe. The Shiri river flowed below and there was a single bridge connecting the north and south of the country. There had been times when, after a particularly harsh rainy season, the roads across the escarpment had been almost impassable and the only the most courageous – or reckless drivers would venture to make the trip across to the north to cities and towns like Rono and Rumpi – farming and trading communities close to the border with Zambia and Mozambique. At times like these, there was good money to be made if you could get across.