The Town Lies On An Island Of The
Same Name, Separated From The Mainland Only By
A Very Narrow Channel,
Which forms the harbour;
and as our vessel steamed slowly in, close under
the quaint old Portuguese fortress built over
Three hundred years ago, I was much struck
with the strange beauty of the view which
gradually opened out before me. Contrary to
my anticipation, everything looked fresh and
green, and an oriental glamour of enchantment
seemed to hang over the island. The old
town was bathed in brilliant sunshine and
reflected itself lazily on the motionless sea; its flat
roofs and dazzlingly white walls peeped out
dreamily between waving palms and lofty
cocoanuts, huge baobabs and spreading mango trees;
and the darker background of well-wooded hills
and slopes on the mainland formed a very effective
setting to a beautiful and, to me, unexpected
picture.
The harbour was plentifully sprinkled with Arab
dhows, in some of which, I believe, even at the
present day, a few slaves are occasionally smuggled
off to Persia and Arabia. It has always been a
matter of great wonder to me how the navigators of
little vessels find their way from port to port,
as they do, without the aid of either compass or
sextant, and how they manage to weather the
terrible storms that at certain seasons of the year
suddenly visit eastern seas. I remember once
coming across a dhow becalmed in the middle of
the Indian Ocean, and its crew making signals of
distress, our captain slowed down to investigate.
There were four men on board, all nearly dead
from thirst; they had been without drink of any
kind for several days and had completely lost their
bearings. After giving them some casks of water,
we directed them to Muscat (the port they wished
to make), and our vessel resumed its journey,
leaving them still becalmed in the midst of that
glassy sea. Whether they managed to reach their
destination I never knew.
As our steamer made its way to its anchorage,
the romantic surroundings of the harbour of
Mombasa conjured up, visions of stirring
adventures of the past, and recalled to my mind the
many tales of reckless doings of pirates and
slavers, which as a boy it had been my delight to
read. I remembered that it was at this very place
that in 1498 the great Vasco da Gama nearly lost
his ship and life through the treachery of his Arab
pilot, who plotted to wreck the vessel on the reef
which bars more than half the entrance to the
harbour. Luckily, this nefarious design was
discovered in time, and the bold navigator promptly
hanged the pilot, and would also have sacked
the town but for the timely submission and
apologies of the Sultan. In the principal street
of Mombasa - appropriately called Vasco da
Gama Street - there still stands a curiously
shaped pillar which is said to have been erected
by this great seaman in commemoration of his
visit.
Scarcely had the anchor been dropped, when, as
if by magic, our vessel was surrounded by a fleet
of small boats and "dug-outs" manned by crowds
of shouting and gesticulating natives. After a short
fight between some rival Swahili boatmen for my
baggage and person, I found myself being
vigorously rowed to the foot of the landing steps by the
bahareen (sailors) who had been successful in the
encounter. Now, my object in coming out to East
Africa at this time was to take up a position to
which I had been appointed by the Foreign Office
on the construction staff of the Uganda Railway.
As soon as I landed, therefore, I enquired from
one of the Customs officials where the
headquarters of the railway were to be found, and
was told that they were at a place called Kilindini,
some three miles away, on the other side of the
island. The best way to get there, I was further
informed, was by gharri, which I found to be a
small trolley, having two seats placed back to back
under a little canopy and running on narrow rails
which are laid through the principal street of the
town. Accordingly, I secured one of these
vehicles, which are pushed by two strapping
Swahili boys, and was soon flying down the track,
which once outside the town lay for the most part
through dense groves of mango, baobab, banana
and palm trees, with here and there brilliantly
coloured creepers hanging in luxuriant festoons
from the branches.
On arrival at Kilindini, I made my way to the
railway Offices and was informed that I should be
stationed inland and should receive further
instructions in the course of a day or two. Meanwhile I
pitched my tent under some shady palms near the
gharri line, and busied myself in exploring the
island and in procuring the stores and the outfit
necessary for a lengthy sojourn up-country. The
town of Mombasa itself naturally occupied most
of my attention. It is supposed to have been
founded about A.D. 1000, but the discovery of
ancient Egyptian idols, and of coins of the early
Persian and Chinese dynasties, goes to show that
it must at different ages have been settled by
people of the very earliest civilisations. Coming
to more modern times, it was held on and off from
1505 to 1729 by the Portuguese, a permanent
memorial of whose occupation remains in the shape
of the grim old fortress, built about 1593 - on the
site, it is believed, of a still older stronghold. These
enterprising sea-rovers piously named it "Jesus
Fort," and an inscription recording this is still to
be seen over the main entrance. The Portuguese
occupation of Mombasa was, however, not without
its vicissitudes. From March 15, 1696, for
example, the town was besieged for thirty-three
consecutive months by a large fleet of Arab dhows,
which completely surrounded the island. In spite
of plague, treachery and famine, the little garrison
held out valiantly in Jesus Fort, to which they had
been forced to retire, until December 12, 1698,
when the Arabs made a last determined attack and
captured the citadel, putting the remnant of the
defenders, both men and women, to the sword.
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