More recent pic (2012) - with village headman in northern Malawi -

near Chitipa on Malawi/Zambia border.

Waiting for pic of Jim & Geoff Dimmock here

CAPTION - below:

On safari in Feira Protected Area [restricted entry due to tsetse fly]. On a ridge along the top of the Luangwa escarpment -

behind is a sheer 200ft drop to the valley floor (about 20km upstream from the Luangwa/Zambezi confluence)

- Jimmy Saunders took the pic.





CAPTION - below:

Self plus blue vervet friend - Alifons2 - sharing a beer after a hard day's work in Feira Protected Area - eastern Zambia circa 1963. (Note protective sock! The other sock was probably in the wash.)


On one occasion - in the valley of the ‘strategically-positioned-tree’ - we came across hundreds of uncommon ‘helmet-crested’ guineafowl.

They flew onto the low branches around us, and seemed more interested in us than afraid!

Sadly, once our workers began pelting them with rocks, the honeymoon was over and they disappeared with loud protesting squawks!

Hugh was a pleasant and easygoing companion – and talented too. He played a mean guitar, and later in life I still don’t understand why I didn’t take up his offer to teach me. He subsequently appeared on local TV with a band known as the ‘Cicadas’ (Christmas beetles!)

On one occasion his Mom and Dad came from Hartley to visit their lad in our camp in the Forest Reserve – we were camped alongside the small river that served as the boundary – and a more pleasant and civilized spot would be hard to imagine. Once, while we were away on foot-safari, the worker we’d left behind to guard the camp, broke open my trunk and departed with all my ‘smart townie’ clothes.

With Paul leading the way, we followed the trail of clues that led to the culprit. It wasn’t too difficult – villagers pointed the direction in which the “very smartly dressed” individual had travelled. At last we arrived at the village where the man lived, and in a display of intelligence and wisdom, Paul advised me to remain at the vehicle while he and a few workers went to collect the thief.

Paul said I shouldn’t accompany them, because the sight of the man wearing my best clothes ‘could make me angry enough to want to strike him.’ To have acted thus, even under excessive provocation, would have meant serious repercussions for me – one-way ticket out of NR.

To conclude the tale of the stolen clothes: the thief was collected later by the police at the village, and Paul returned to the vehicle with a tatty bag filled with my (formerly) “best” clothes. They were all in a horrible state – the shirts were filthy and stained, the 2 jackets were disgusting, and the trousers looked like he’d used them to wash his pigs! Underwear, ties, socks and shoes had to be discarded.

In due course I took the bundle of ‘soiled’ clothing to the insurance company, and lodged my claim. Several weeks later I received a message to call on the insurance agent. He handed me a parcel which contained, I was informed, all my clothing freshly laundered and dry-cleaned. There need be no payment of my claim, because all the clothing was being returned, herewith. Suffice to say that I left the parcel with the agent, with a few (rude) comments, and sometime later I received a cheque in full settlement. I’ve no idea what eventually happened to the clothes.

Moving closer to Lusaka, I remember being with Dai James on the day after John Kennedy was shot. Geoff Dimmock and I worked in the same area for a time, and I remember a few ‘heavy’ sessions in the Lusaka Hotel when the field staff came in from the bush for the wet season. Kenneth Kaunda’s UNIP was gearing for Independence, and 24 October 1964 was the date when Northern Rhodesia would cease to exist, and Zambia would be the new nation.

It was at this point, towards the end of 1963, that I decided to return to newspapers in Johannesburg. I resigned, loaded the Austin A35 with all my katundu, and set off to drive down to South Africa. Within two years I would be back at Charterex – and also working for Kenneth Kaunda’s broadcasting service in TV - and married - but I didn’t know it at the time.


(still under construction)


JIM SAUNDERS WRITES:

SOME MEMORIES FROM CHARTEREX

I recall member the following from more than 50 years ago:

  • Walking into a dry river bed and encountering a pride of lions basking on the bank- I had to gently persuade my workers to slowly amble away when they were keen on legging it!
  • Sitting and reading in my mess when I heard a loud thud – which was a long black mamba that had come through an open window and proceeded to slither slowly across my legs resting on the table, and then worked its way out of the window on the other side - “dumbstruck!”
  • Our long-drop toilet – without a door - situated in a hill, and the best sitting view of a gorge on the Zambezi River!
  • Entering a dense bamboo ticket to discover that we were surrounded by a large herd of elephants – with dry bamboo underfoot they never made a sound whereas we very noisily beat it out of there!
  • Our wedding ceremony was held at Peter Freeman’s house – and conducted by the District Commissioner. The reception was held at the Flying Club, and when we went to pay for everything we were told that the Chief Geologist had paid the lot – what wonderful people!
  • Our Best Man was Neville Huxham who played the same role when we were married in South Africa two weeks later, with parent and relatives.
  • In our camp in Feira, where we had a resident hippo in a very small pool, Neville came very painfully into contact with “buffalo bean” – and also had his expensive Parker pen stolen by his pet vervet monkey – Alifons2. (The pen was chewed into pieces, and the pet was also very nearly shot out of the tree in mid-chew by an angry Neville.) *We were the forward party that went into Angola. On one safari in Gazombe, we gave the Portuguese army guys a slap-up party - which resulted in many hang-overs the next day. As a result we were very friendly with them, and together built many bridges in the area.
  • The one party in Lusaka that I remember very well was for Ned’s birthday – when he was given a very special present by someone we knew as “The Body”! She had forgotten to buy him a present, and he emerged from the bedroom with the biggest smile “The Mission” has ever seen!


Those were the days, my friends …..


NOTE: Jim and Wendy are living happily in Westville in Kwa-Zulu Natal. Both are keen swimmers, and have been awarded their KZN Provincial colours – in the Seniors League. In fact, in early 2014 Jim was awarded Provincial Honours for his swimming achievements! Way to go!!!!


Contact: +27 (0) 3112662031 Email (via daughter Candice Livingstone: Candice@fleuriot.co.za




























































A few interesting anecdotes spring to mind: On the (then) Portuguese bank of Luangwa River, was (still is) the small town of Zumbo, also established by Portuguese settlers in the early 1700s. Even in the 1960s, Zumbo was still about as remote a settlement as you could expect to find in Portugal’s African territories.


During my time in the Feira area, chatting with the locals, we were regaled with stories about the developments at Zumbo, and one Sunday Chris Jones and I decided to go and take a look. The Land Rover was parked near the massive baobab tree in Feira (the tree was used in the old slaving days as a collection point for captured unfortunates, and still had the metal rings imbedded to which the captives were chained!)

We found an old fisherman who was prepared to ferry us over in his leaky dug-out canoe to the Portuguese bank – maybe 500 metres away- and we didn’t understand why he seemed in such a hurry to drop us off on the nearest sandbank. It turned out the sandbank was actually a mudbank, so Chris and I slogged our way – cursing and laughing - through the ankle-deep mud to reach the thick undergrowth on the river-bank proper.

We spotted a pathway leading up from the riverbed, and clambered up onto the bank. There we sat down to catch our breath, and also to scrape off the mud from our boots.

Suddenly, we were surrounded by very aggressive camouflaged soldiers – about 10 of them – all pointing their guns very menacingly at us!

Our surprise – and shock – was obvious.

One of the men could speak a little English, fortunately, and he demanded to know what we were doing ‘trying to sneak’ into Mozambique. We explained our mission, showed our passports (which we’d luckily brought). We were told that they’d spotted us on our way over, and had discussed whether to pick us off once we got close enough, because they could not be sure that we were not armed and dangerous. However, once they were satisfied that we were not spies or enemy agents, they escorted us to the town.

And Zumbo did not disappoint! It was small, but very tidy. Tarred roads, road-signs, white-painted kerbs, and orderly, white-washed buildings in excellent condition! The duka displayed everything we had imagined – large wicker-covered glass cabars of white and red whites hanging from cords on the wall posts, jars of sweets on glass-topped counters – displaying assorted watches and boxed pen and pencil sets – everything in fact that you would not expect to find in a shop in remotest Africa. The shop was cool and clean inside. Everything was so neat and so orderly – and so unexpected – that it was a cultural shock that stayed with me for years.

That, and the alarming and heavily-armed riverside “un-welcoming committee” – oh yes - and the delicious aroma of freshly-baked Portuguese bread that filled the shop. There were even chilled cokes in the fridge. Luxury beyond imagining! We bought as much goods as we could carry – wine, cigarettes, and bread (just the essentials, of course) - and set off back to the river, where we would signal the fisher/ferryman to collect us.

En route to the river, I posed in front of the main administration building and asked Chris to take a photograph. Our escorts immediately lost their good humour, and we were instructed loudly and bluntly that photographs of the admin building were PROIBIDA!!

Very well, we reasoned, instead of standing slap-bang in front of the building, what about asking one of them to take a photo of Chris and me standing with our lead military escort at the corner of the building? Good humour was immediately restored, and several ‘nice pictures’ were taken of us plus the broadly-beaming lead escort, with the verboten building prominent in the background.

We tackled the mudflats barefooted, struggling under our loads of goodies, and made an uneventful – but successful – return crossing in the old man’s dug-out canoe.

However, it is worth noting that had we tried the same excursion only a couple of years later, we would certainly have ‘disappeared’ – becoming just another couple of bullet-riddled corpses floating downriver – courtesy of trigger-happy Frelimo 'freedom fighters.'


FEARSOME BUSHFIRE!

While camped in the FPA, by now I was operating on my own, I had a narrow escape from being trapped in a bushfire. I had a team of three African workers – Boaz, Fredson and Harrison, and on this particular day we were making slow progress up a stream-bed in a narrow gully, with very steep high hills on either side.

The stream-bed was densely overgrown with thick, matted, head-high reeds, and because it was nearing the end of the dry season, all the undergrowth was totally dessicated. We suddenly became aware of a terrific roaring noise behind us, downstream and, to our horror not far away we could see dense, thick white smoke billowing skywards, and sounds like multiple rifle shots as the flames chewed through the reeds. The thick reeds ahead make escape forward impossible!

We could not get up and out on either bank fast enough, and the congflagration was heading for us at an alarming speed. The flames were well above our heads – at least 20 feet into the air. The noise was deafening. And terrifying!

I gestured to my ‘boys’ that our best option was to bury ourselves in the sandy bed of the stream, and let the flames pass overhead.

I quickly scraped out a shallow depression, lay inside it, and covered myself with sand as best I could. I remember shouting to the ‘boys’ that under no circumstances should they break and run. Seconds later the fire-storm was on us! The heat was unbearable and I was covering my face with my bush-hat but I could feel the intense heat on my hands and body as the flames got closer.

Suddenly I was aware of movement. Each of the boys in turn panicked, and leapt to their feet running wildly downstream, screaming in terror as they hurtled their bodies through the raging flames. The heat became too much, and ignoring my own advice, I too leapt out of my sandy grave and, sand flying off my clothing, streaked as fast as I could out of harm’s way!

I clearly remember seeing a break in the inferno, just to one side of the stream-bed, and I dived through.

Beyond the flames, everything was surreal. Where before there had been impenetrable reeds and underbrush, now there was an open, smoking world. Eerily silent, while behind the fire continued its noisy blazing destruction.

In the stream-bed, a hundred or so metres ahead, the three workers lay in the sand, face-down, chests heaving as they gasped for air. I stumbled to where they lay, expecting the worst. On hearing my voice, they all sprang to their feet and began laughing. Of course it was the relief of our close encounter, but we stood there, my face blackened like a minstrel, and they soot-covered, laughing hysterically.

But there was a downside, and it soon became apparent. We were utterly parched, seriously in danger of dehydration, and there was no sign of the canvas water-bag.

Fortunately the way forward had now been cleared by the fire, and we were certain we’d find some seepage higher up in the stream, which indeed turned out to be the case. But what we found was a very scummy, dirty pond, and we each very gingerly managed to sip enough to get back to the vehicle.

That night the first of the severe cramps started – which stayed with me for a long time, and eventuated a few years later in a ten-day stay at the London School of Tropical Medicine where some incredibly painful tests (involving 8 separate skin snips on either side down my back, and a flourish of a couple of rectal snips just to finish me off) – revealed that I had a ‘massive microfilarial infection’ – unquestionably picked up from the water in that scummy pond! Uncomfortable as it was, the news was a relief because in Lusaka I’d been tentatively diagnosed with leukemia – and the trip to London was to make certain. It was around this time in the FPA that I had a sobering medical-related experience: one morning one of the workers failed to arrive for duty, and his colleagues informed me that he was sick.

I enquired as to the complaint, and their general reluctance to tell me, led me to believe that he was malingering. I instructed them to tell him to report to me personally, so that I could determine whether in fact he was ill or not. Some tried to dissuade me, saying that it was difficult for him to report in person. I had no idea what sort of illness he could be experiencing that would make it ‘difficult ’ for him to report when the bwana requested, so I insisted. Malingering workers were unacceptable, and had to be treated.

Several minutes later the man arrived at the mess, being carried in a sitting position by three of his colleagues. In response to my unsympathetic questioning, he slowly and carefully pulled down his trousers, to reveal a sight I had seen once before, on Lake Victoria, and never forgotten.

His testicles were swollen to the size of a football! No exaggeration. He was in unbelievable pain and my skepticism had only served to add greatly to his agony. The condition is caused by a microfilarial nematode parasite that is transmitted by female mosquitos and colonises the lymphatic system. The swelling is called ‘elephantiasis’ which presents as massive enlargement and thickening of the feet and ankles, resembling an elephant’s foot, fortunately treatable by antibiotics. The illness is rife – around 140 million people are infected worldwide, with one in three cases occurring in Africa, and a similar number in India.

A few years earlier, working with Williamsons, I was intrigued to see a man sitting in shallow water at the side of Lake Victoria, splashing water onto his lap. Curious, I walked over to see what he was doing, and couldn’t believe my eyes. He gave me a weak smile and explained: ‘private part is very sore.’ An understatement of note!

In similar vein, and related to skepticism, I was about to set off on a 10-day sampling safari, when one of the porters said he didn’t want to go, claiming to be ‘dizzy.’ In my Field Manual, dizziness wasn’t reason enough to be excused duty, and although he didn’t look completely well, I insisted that he join the safari. We departed from the camp, and because I had misgivings later in the day, I decided to send him back late in the afternoon with the first batch of samples. At midday the next day the second porter set off to return to camp, with the next batch of samples. At the end of the safari when we eventually returned to the camp, I was told that the ‘dizzy’ man had been found unconscious on the path by the second returning porter and had been helped to get back to camp. It transpired that he was an epileptic, and hadn’t wanted to tell me he felt a seizure was imminent, for fear he’d be dismissed. It wasn’t a happy thought for me to realize that he’d collapsed in the bush, alone, and had lain unconscious all night – unguarded - and could have been attacked by any of the usual scavengers – most seriously by a hyena!

I felt unbelievably bad about his experience, and I resolved to pay more attention both to my attitude as well as diagnosing technique!

At some point in the Lusaka East experience, I was joined by ‘young’ Hugh Cumming, and we set up camp in the Miombo Forest Reserve beyond Chongwe. I say ‘young’ Hugh because he was straight out of school in Hartley, and this was his first experience as a fieldie. The forest reserve was a wonderfully scenic and pristine area, and the prospecting work was easy and pleasant.

We had a ‘bossboy’ (Paul Chimfwembe) whose main task was preparing and clearing tracks for us to access the target areas. He was a star at ‘making a plan’ and I remember a few of his really special tracks, one of which was along the ridge of a hill where the tyres of the Land Rover straddled the rocky outcrop – the wheels on the driver’s side were on one side of the rocky outcrop, and the passenger-side wheels were on the other. Of course, turning around was impossible!

Another track ran down the side of a very, very steep hill. Halfway down was a strategically located tree. Once into the descent you realized that the vehicle was in ‘free-slide’ – slowly, but actually out of the driver’s control. The track was angled so that the side of the vehicle came to rest against the trunk of the strategically located tree. It was then possible to engage low-gear and, with control regained, steer the vehicle away from the tree and point it straight down the remainder of the slope. It took nerves and courage, and a ‘can-do’ attitude – qualities that Charterex fieldies were not short of!

Coming the other way, up the hill, was a doddle. Aim for the tree, low-range all the way, just miss the tree and head up the angled slope. Piece of cake! The wonder is how Paul, just a boss-boy, managed to work out the angles and mechanical forces to create a workable solution! We’d told him to build us a road to get down, and he did just that!

Local villagers were forbidden to enter the forests on pain of heavy fines - even to collect honey – so the area remained wild and uninhabited. This also meant that the wildlife was unaccustomed to being attacked  - and eaten.




































Neville Huxham writes:

I arrived in Lusaka 1963 after travelling by train from Johannesburg – via Bechuanaland - and changing trains at Bulawayo.

The only parts of the 3-day trip that I remember were the mobs at every stop - vendors holding up tin plates of very strange-looking meats, curio-sellers, begging women carrying babies, and half-naked children pleading with outstretched hands for … anything!

While waiting for the train-change at Bulawayo station, I recall much striding up and down the platform until the carriages arrived for departure to Lusaka. I was told there were showers to be had – but didn’t feel the need.

The headline in Johannesburg’s iconic Rand Daily Mail - reporting my departure from South Africa (it’s true – there was a report) – quoted me as consoling my mother at the station: “Don’t think of my going as losing a son – think of it rather as gaining a car.”

Like most other youngsters, while at home, I had practically commandeered my mother’s car.   Anyway, arriving in the NR capital, I was met off the train by Launce Garner, and dropped at the Lusaka Hotel on Cairo Road.

There were two people to meet me, one was Maurice Bergmann – with whom I’d worked at Williamsons in Tanganyika (as it then was) – and Chris Jones, CE’s “Terry Thomas” doppelganger.

About a year earlier, Maurice and I had travelled from Tanganyika to London on our first trip overseas. He was aiming to join the RAF and I (because I was/am colour-blind and couldn’t even think of becoming a pilot) was intent on becoming engaged to my Dodoma girlfriend (Maureen), and settling down to … well, just settling down.

Maurice didn’t make the RAF – something to do with him being unable to fit into the cockpit – he seemed a much bigger bloke in those days! We’d turned down jobs with AutoTours – acting as drivers and couriers taking groups of youngsters around Europe – it would have been great fun but my fiancée (rightly) questioned my commitment. We then travelled to Jersey and organized jobs as barmen and waiters – but didn’t follow through because it lacked challenge and interest!

Returning to London we shared a flat in Earl’s Court – 30 shillings week (on condition the landlady didn’t have to clean the place) – and I got a job as a labourer at the Hudson’s Bay Fur Company (it was a very smelly job – and a whole another story!)

So while I was spending my days slaving away sorting dead animals’ pelts, Maurice (because he had more money than I - and didn’t need to work) passed his time wandering from coffee bar to coffee bar around Earl's Court, trying to remember what had brought him to London in the first place!

It didn’t take long for us to tire of this aimless existence, and we decided to return to SA (my fiancée notwithstanding – we were both too young anyway).

I resumed working as a journo back on the Rand Daily Mail, and Maurice – after a short stint back home with his family in Tzaneen – arrived to stay in Joburg with me at my parents’ home – and then to a desk-job at the AA (Automobile Association) which he hated with a passion.

Not long afterwards Maurice made contact with Anglo, and soon he was on his way back to the bush – joining the field staff at Chartered Exploration in N. Rhodesia. I can still remember my envy watching as he departed for NR!


Fast forward past my growing dissatisfaction with the pace of life in Joburg (especially as a journo on the ‘liberal’ (i.e anti-govt) RDM at a time when urban ‘terrorism’ was on the rise; the ending of my marital plans, but most especially, the unsettling letters from Bergmann telling of the carefree, wonderful life he was enjoying back in the bush with Charterex!


It needs to be understood by anyone who has never lived and worked in the African bush – that it is an unforgettable experience! At one level it is an exciting life – at once romantic and dangerous, exotic and wild, but above all else - free! Liberated!


True, there is work to be done. Life in a bush camp is far from luxurious or even “every-day comfortable.” Living alone, miles from anywhere is not the easiest existence, and - unless you have an excellent cook – mealtimes can be an ordeal. But the sense of freedom, of being “out in the bush”, doing an uncomplicated but meaningful job and being – at that moment – responsible to no-one but yourself – is fulfilling, exhilarating, and rewarding beyond belief!


There were added responsibilities of course! Being in charge of a work-force of several to many African men, all dependent on you for their basic living conditions – their food rations, their comfort (extremely basic – in ‘porters’ tents’ – as they were called), medical needs, transport – and personal safety. In the bush, danger lurked everywhere – scorpions in beds or boots, snakes unexpectedly, even larger threats depending on the area where the exploration camp was sited - elephant, lion, rhino and hippos. Especially hippo!


And tsetse fly. Or tick-bite fever. Bilharzia. And always, mosquitos – the danger from malaria was ever present!! Not many have experienced putsi-fly – or jigger-flea – but to have seen the effects and squeezed out the maggots is something you need never do - even once in a lifetime!! It is an experience, literally, in which you’ll get to know who your true friends are!!

* * * * * * * * * *

Reminiscing about medical matters, reminds me of Dave Madgen’s experience (I think it was Dave), who was called one evening to assist an African woman having difficulty producing her baby. As per custom, she was squatting with her back against a tree, legs open, straining to deliver but the baby wouldn’t come. The ‘midwife’ had sent the woman’s husband – one of the labourers – to call the bwana to assist.

Not knowing anything at all about the intricacies of delivering babies, Dave and his camp companion nevertheless rushed to the rescue. As luck would have it – although it was probably the trauma of seeing the two very young white men approaching that spooked the laboring woman – at that very moment the baby arrived! Taking one look and realizing what was required, Dave shouted to his gawking companion to run and fetch the carving knife from the kitchen. Heaven knows what went through the chap’s mind – but he promptly fainted out cold on the spot!

The hovering new-father was sent instead, and after Dave had cut and tied the umbilicus he assisted his by-now-recovering companion back to the camp for a celebratory beer!!

* * * * * * * * * *

Back in Lusaka, I dumped my belongings into a room at the Lusaka Hotel on Cairo Road, and was driven to the Charterex office.


The Chief Geo was Dr John Osten. Tosh was the accountant, Launce Garner was the Admin man, Graham Hunter managed the transport, Jerry Wilson looked after the mechanicals (we also worked together in Tanganyika at Williamsons), Poppy Gilliver was the secretary, Tony and Peter Moore, Alan Boisragon and Gerald Gibb were involved in various duties around the office - and Clyde Kruger of course in the lab.


Kitted out and issued with a Land Rover, I was escorted from Lusaka to join Jack Mills’ “circus” out at the Lusaka East area. Actually, very far out east – the area extended all the way along the Great East Road as far as the old bridge over the Luangwa River.


I still recall the thrill and sense of excitement as I settled behind the steering wheel as we drove out of Lusaka.

The other fieldies in Jack’s team were: Jim Saunders, Chris Jones, Dirk Eva, Tom Cawker, Hugh Cumming and geo Murray Surtees. Steve Landsberg also spent time with us, using his ‘geophysical equipment’ – then still in its infancy as an exploration tool. Sid Dodgen, a miner from the Copperbelt, also joined the team primarily as a ‘blasting/explosives’ specialist.


I recall that W.D. (Billy) Stephens was the Regional Geo. And I vaguely remember being invited – along with all the other staff – to Bill’s wedding. At that time Bill had a flashy Volvo sportscar – the very latest and best there was in Lusaka!!

Initially Jim Saunders and I were camped in the Feira Protected area – closed because of tsetse fly – and we sampled the FPA area alongside the Luangwa River down as far as Feira, situated at the confluence with the Zambezi - and renamed Luangwa in 1964 after Independence.

Jim and I visited the Chingombe Catholic Mission, and met Father Wiragori – a Polish priest with an enormously long white beard. He took us out to see the Mission’s orchard, and we left with a large packet of oranges.


Historically, Feira was first settled by the Portuguese in 1720. It was abandoned in 1856, and resettled (and rebuilt) from 1887 by the amazing character John Harrison Clark – who was the undisputed King of Northern Rhodesia. He lived at Feira until 1895. (see insert below on Harrison Clark).

*********

John Harrison Clarke – King of Mashukulumbwe “Changa Changa”

JHC was born in 1840 in Port Elizabeth in the Cape Colony, and arrived at Feira at the confluence of the Luangwa and Zambezi Rivers around 1867 – when he was about 27 years old. He was powerfully built - over 6-feet tall - and sported a large black moustache. He was an excellent shot, and apparently fearless.

When he first arrived at Feira he found the settlement, built by the Portuguese around 1720, in complete ruin and deserted. Livingstone had passed through Feira some 20 years earlier and found scattered masonry and relics of the massive stone wall the Portuguese had built across the triangle of land at the confluence of the two great rivers. Marauding tribes had over-run the settlement, and the Portuguese they had retreated to Zumbo on the other side of the river.

JHC decided to settle at Feira. Not long afterwards, while on safari further west, he came across a party of Portuguese and half-caste Chikunda slavers raiding the Ba-Ila and Ba-Tonga people near the Hook of Kafue. JHC and his group of tribesmen – armed only with spears - routed the slavers and freed the captives. Overjoyed, the tribes declared him their king.

JHC returned to Feira, formed an alliance with the ferocious Chikunda chief Mpuka by ‘marrying’ his daughter, and formed an ‘army’ comprising Senga tribesmen. He consolidated his power by arranging peace treaties with all tribal leaders from the Luangwa to the Kafue rivers, and as far north as where Broken Hill and Mkushi were eventually established.

He took on the title of “King of Mashukulumbwe” (one of the larger tribes in his domain) – an act that established Harrison Clarke as the recognised leader of many scattered and diverse tribes. He was renowned throughout the region by his tribal name of ‘Changa Changa’ (‘it all belongs to me’ – which in fact it did, at that time). Fearless he certainly was, but he had the reputation of being ‘a great gentleman, extremely polite, courteous, kind, and generous.’

His ‘throne’ may have been at Feira, but he roamed unchallenged across ‘’his kingdom” for the next 30 years hunting as he wished, driving out slavers, settling tribal disputes, punishing transgressors, and extracting ‘tributes’ from all foreign traders and hunters who entered or crossed his domain.

He established two major farms – at Chingombe on the Luangwa River north of Feira, and at Algoa (named after his birthplace) at the confluence of the Lunsemfwa and Lukasashi rivers – in what became Mkushi District. In 1902 the British South Africa Company sent its representatives to Feira (one of whom was the renowned Chirapula Stephenson) to terminate Changa Changa’s reign. Cecil Rhodes’ had obtained a Charter in 1895 for the area of land encompassing what became Southern and Northern Rhodesia (the very same Charter incidentally that gave its name to Chartered Exploration).

Harrison Clarke realised there was no point fighting against the British Crown for his ‘kingdom’! The BSA Company awarded him title to his two existing farms ( plus another smaller farm), and Changa Changa relocated from his ‘capital’ – first to Chingombwe (which he afterwards handed to Catholic missionaries who still occupy the property) then to Algoa for a few years, and eventually, in 1919, to Broken Hill.

He was given permission to open a beer hall at the Broken Hill Mine’s African labour compound, where he lived until he died on 9th December 1927 – aged 67. Thousands of tribesmen, from different tribes all across the region, flocked to Broken Hill to attend his funeral and mark the passing of a truly unique character!

The Northern Rhodesian Review makes the following concluding comment: “His strength of character and sense of fair play made him as widely honoured by the natives in Broken Hill as he had been at Feira and in the Luano Valley. In one lifetime it was possible for a man to be the uncrowned king of savage tribes, to be the ruler of vast tracts of wild country, to fight slavers and yet die a poor man whilst working in a humdrum job on a modern mine. He had led a wild, tough life but it had not turned him either into a rascal or into an uncouth bush dweller. He was one of the first Northern Rhodesians - and he was a grand chap!’

For many years afterwards, no doubt as a mark of respect, all African compound managers on mines in NR/Zambia and many parts of Southern Africa were known as ‘Bwana Changa Changa.’

Interestingly, many Charterex geologists and field officers traversed the areas that formed the ‘kingdom’ of ChangaChanga – without ever knowing anything about the tribal connections or the exploits of this remarkable man!

(Acknowledgement: NR Review)

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