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Chapter's From Mike Charnaud's Post War Story
Post War Chapter 1 Post War Chapter 2 Post War Chapter 3 Post War Chapter 4 Post War Chapter 5 Post War Chapter 6 Post War Chapter 7 Post War Chapter 8 Post War Chapter 9 Post War Chapter 10 Post War Chapter 11 Post War Chapter 12 Post War Chapter 13 Post War Chapter 14 Post War Chapter 15 Post War Chapter 16 Post War Chapter 17 Post War Chapter 18 Post War Chapter 19 Post War Chapter 20 Post War Chapter 21 Post War Chapter 22 Post War Chapter 23 Post War Chapter 24

HUGH

MY  BROTHER HUGH  Born 5th October 1920 died  9th May 2006

dishonesty in the British Colonial Service, but I heard a lot of tales that the East African administrators had a lot of bad eggs among them.
In the evening I  finally  moved out of Dodoma, the weather was clear and “Southern Cross” was shining bright straight ahead, and I sang “ Give me land , lots of land and don’t Fence me in”…..The bike was cruising smoothly and gave no more trouble. But at Iringa the police picked me up and a very young most officious officer wanted to lock me up in the local jail, and was most disappointed when I was able to produce the clearance from Arusha…..apparently the order to detain me originally had been sent all over the country, and so at each town I entered I had to prove that there was a mistake with my clearance.

I now reached Nyasaland (Malawi)  and journeyed south uneventfully through that lush country, until 50 miles before  Lilongwe my tyre burst. So I had to take the wheel off and repair it, and then 15 miles further on it burst again, again it was repaired, then a few hundred yards further on the chain broke. The reason were the appalling corrugated Nyasaland roads which went on for mile upon mile juddering everything to pieces.  I was completely exhausted and slept on the side of the road   and in the morning a kind truck driver gave me a lift  with the bike and all my gear into Lilongwe. There at a garage I was able to make temporary repairs, welded the back mudguard, vulkcanised the inner tube and headed towards Blantrye. A 120 miles on I stopped again on the side of the road and I could feel I was being watched all night. I thought it must have been a leopard but it never attacked. The next day I was warned of 4 man eating lions in that very area where I had slept, so I was lucky!  About 50 miles from Blantyre there was yet one more trauma…the piston cracked in the middle of nowhere, and I was stranded without water with the nearest village some 15 miles away.  Finally by a strange co-incidence an ex- naval man I knew in the war  stopped. We exchanged greetings but he was in a tremendous hurry,  anyhow he gave me some tools to get the cylinder head off, and most welcome  of all a bottle of beer to quench my thirst.  He apologised profusely for not delaying  and explained that he was off  for a naughty week-end with his girl friend on the shores of Lake Nyasa at Monkey Bay. He did however stop a Portugese truck  further up the road and asked him to help me, which was most thoughtful and considerate. The driver was a half caste, most charming and he helped me get the cylinder head off, and once off I saw that the damage was not so serious, I was relieved. The driver offered me a lift but I turned his kind offer down and said that I could now fix the machine if he could only give me some water to drink. He replied that the water there was bad for the stomach but instead he had gallons of wine which he gave me some. However   the beer  combined with the wine on an empty stomach went straight to my head and made me tipsy. Holding the bike with one hand, and trying to replace the cylinder with the other I slipped and broke the piston ring, so that further travel was now impossible. I sobered up and by now it was getting dark and I thought of that man eating lion. Some animals started moving ominously about 50 yards away in the bush., so I  had my shot gun ready loaded, but only a weak hand torch  and there were big eyes looking at me as I crouched behind the bike for cover. Just at that moment by the Grace of God there were lights of another lorry approaching. The kind driver not only gave me a lift into Limbe but he also took the bike and all my gear. I had the most hospitable welcome you could possibly wish for in that  tiny town. Tommy Hill  and his friend Miln, welded and turned my piston and eventually got the bike going. I told them I was absolutely broke and would not take any payment. The same at the Indian Petrol station who filled me up with fuel, and I told him I was going to Rhodesia,  and when I bought a few raisins to eat along the way, insisted on giving me a whole lot of tinned

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