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About the Author
Beryl Markham (1902–1986) was a British-born Kenyan aviatrix, adventurer, and racehorse trainer.
Sara Wheeler is the author of, most recently, The Magnetic North and Access All Areas.
Read an Excerpt
West With The Night
By Beryl Markham
OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIACopyright © 1983 Beryl Markham
All rights reserved.
Message from Nungwe
HOW IS IT POSSIBLE to bring order out of memory? I should like to begin at the beginning, patiently, like a weaver at his loom. I should like to say, 'This is the place to start; there can be no other.'
But there are a hundred places to start for there are a hundred names — Mwanza, Serengetti, Nungwe, Molo, Nakuru. There are easily a hundred names, and I can begin best by choosing one of them — not because it is first nor of any importance in a wildly adventurous sense, but because here it happens to be, turned uppermost in my logbook. After all, I am no weaver. Weavers create. This is remembrance — re-visitation; and names are keys that open corridors no longer fresh in the mind, but nonetheless familiar in the heart.
So the name shall be Nungwe — as good as any other — entered like this in the log, lending reality, if not order, to memory:
DATE — 16/6/35
TYPE AIRCRAFT — Avro Avian
MARKINGS — VP — KAN
JOURNEY — Nairobi to Nungwe
TIME — 3 hrs. 40 mins.
After that comes, PILOT: Self; and REMARKS — of which there were none. But there might have been.
Nungwe may be dead and forgotten now. It was barely alive when I went there in 1935. It lay west and south of Nairobi on the southernmost rim of Lake Victoria Nyanza, no more than a starveling outpost of grubby huts, and that only because a weary and discouraged prospector one day saw a speck of gold clinging to the mud on the heel of his boot. He lifted the speck with the tip of his hunting knife and stared at it until it grew in his imagination from a tiny, rusty grain to a nugget, and from a nugget to a fabulous stake.
His name eludes the memory, but he was not a secretive man. In a little while Nungwe, which had been no more than a word, was both a Mecca and a mirage, so that other adventurers like himself discounted the burning heat of the country, the malaria, the blackwater, the utter lack of communications except by foot through forest trails, and went there with shovels and picks and quinine and tinned food and high hopes, and began to dig.
I never knew what their digging got them, if it got them anything, because, when I set my small biplane down on the narrow runway they had hacked out of the bush, it was night and there were fires of oil-soaked rags burning in bent chunks of tin to guide my landing.
There's not much to be seen in light like that — some dark upturned faces impassive and patient, half-raised arms beckoning, the shadow of a dog slouching between the flares. I remember these things and the men who greeted me at Nungwe. But I took off again after dawn without learning anything about the success of their operations or the wealth of their mine.
It wasn't that they meant to keep those things concealed; it was just that they had other things to think about that night, and none of them had to do with gold.
I had been working out of Nairobi as a free-lance pilot with the Muthaiga Country Club as my headquarters. Even in nineteen-thirty-five it wasn't easy to get a plane in East Africa and it was almost impossible to get very far across country without one. There were roads, of course, leading in a dozen directions out of Nairobi. They started out boldly enough, but grew narrow and rough after a few miles and dwindled into the rock-studded hills, or lost themselves in a morass of red muram mud or black cotton soil, in the flat country and the valleys. On a map they look sturdy and incapable of deceit, but to have ventured from Nairobi south toward Machakos or Magadi in anything less formidable than a moderately powered John Deere tractor was optimistic to the point of sheer whimsey, and the road to the Anglo-Egyptian Sudan, north and west through Naivasha, called 'practicable' in the dry season, had, when I last used it after a mild rain, an adhesive quality equal to that of the most prized black treacle. This minor defect, coupled with the fact that thousands of miles of papyrus swamp and deep desert lie between Naivasha and Khartoum, had been almost flippantly overlooked by a Government road commission which had caused the erection, near Naivasha, of an impressive and beautiful signpost reading:
To JUBA — KHARTOUM — CAIRO —
I have never known whether this questionable encouragement to the casual traveller was only the result of well-meant wishful thinking or whether some official cursed with a depraved and sadistic humour had found an outlet for it after years of repression in a muggy Nairobi office. In any case, there the sign stood, like a beacon, daring all and sundry to proceed (not even with caution) toward what was almost sure to be neither Khartoum nor Cairo, but a Slough of Despond more tangible than, but at least as hopeless as Mr. Bunyan's.
This was, of course, an exception. The more travelled roads were good and often paved for a short distance, but once the pavement ended, an aeroplane, if one were at hand, could save hours of weary toil behind the wheel of a lurching car — provided the driver were skilful enough to keep it lurching at all. My plane, though only a two-seater, was busy most of the time in spite of competition from the then barely budding East African — not to say the full-blown Wilson — Airways.
Nairobi itself was busy and growing — gateway to a still new country, a big country, an almost unknown country. In less than thirty years the town had sprung from a collection of corrugated iron shacks serving the spindly Uganda Railway to a sprawling welter of British, Boers, Indians, Somalis, Abyssinians, natives from all over Africa and a dozen other places.
Today its Indian Bazaar alone covers several acres; its hotels, its government offices, its race-course, and its churches are imposing evidence that modern times and methods have at last caught up with East Africa. But the core of it is still raw and hardly softened at all by the weighty hand of British officialdom. Business goes on, banks flourish, automobiles purr importantly up and down Government Road, and shop-girls and clerks think, act, and live about as they do in any modern settlement of thirty-odd thousand in any country anywhere.
The town lies snugly against the Athi Plains at the foot of the rolling Kikuyu Hills, looking north to Mount Kenya and south to Kilimanjaro in Tanganyika. It is a counting house in the wilderness — a place of shillings and pounds and land sales and trade, extraordinary successes and extraordinary failures. Its shops sell whatever you need to buy. Farms and coffee plantations surround it for more than a hundred miles and goods trains and lorries supply its markets with produce daily.
But what is a hundred miles in a country so big?
Beyond are villages still sleeping in the forests, on the great reservations — villages peopled with human beings only vaguely aware that the even course of their racial life may somehow be endangered by the persistent and irresistible pressure of the White man.
But white men's wars are fought on the edges of Africa — you can carry a machine gun three hundred miles inland from the sea and you are still on the edge of it. Since Carthage, and before, men have hacked and scrabbled for permanent footholds along the coasts and in the deserts and on the mountains, and where these footholds have been secured, the right to hold them has been the cause of endless dispute and bloodshed.
Competitors in conquest have overlooked the vital soul of Africa herself, from which emanates the true resistance to conquest. The soul is not dead, but silent, the wisdom not lacking, but of such simplicity as to be counted non-existent in the tinker's mind of modern civilization. Africa is of an ancient age and the blood of many of her peoples is as venerable and as chaste as truth. What upstart race, sprung from some recent, callow century to arm itself with steel and boastfulness, can match in purity the blood of a single Masai Murani whose heritage may have stemmed not far from Eden? It is not the weed that is corrupt; roots of the weed sucked first life from the genesis of earth and hold the essence of it still. Always the weed returns; the cultured plant retreats before it. Racial purity, true aristocracy, devolve not from edict, nor from rote, but from the preservation of kinship with the elemental forces and purposes of life whose understanding is not farther beyond the mind of a Native shepherd than beyond the cultured rumblings of a mortarboard intelligence.
Whatever happens, armies will continue to rumble, colonies may change masters, and in the face of it all Africa lies, and will lie, like a great, wisely somnolent giant unmolested by the noisy drum-rolling of bickering empires. It is not only a land; it is an entity born of one man's hope and another man's fancy.
So there are many Africas. There are as many Africas as there are books about Africa — and as many books about it as you could read in a leisurely lifetime. Whoever writes a new one can afford a certain complacency in the knowledge that his is a new picture agreeing with no one else's, but likely to be haughtily disagreed with by all those who believe in some other Africa.
Doctor Livingstone's Africa was a pretty dark one. There have been a lot of Africas since that, some darker, some bright, most of them full of animals and pygmies, and a few mildly hysterical about the weather, the jungle, and the trials of safari.
All of these books, or at least as many of them as I have read, are accurate in their various portrayals of Africa — not my Africa, perhaps, nor that of an early settler, nor of a veteran of the Boer War, nor of an American millionaire who went there and shot zebra and lion, but of an Africa true to each writer of each book. Being thus all things to all authors, it follows, I suppose, that Africa must be all things to all readers.
Africa is mystic; it is wild; it is a sweltering inferno; it is a photographer's paradise, a hunter's Valhalla, an escapist's Utopia. It is what you will, and it withstands all interpretations. It is the last vestige of a dead world or the cradle of a shiny new one. To a lot of people, as to myself, it is just 'home.' It is all these things but one thing — it is never dull.
From the time I arrived in British East Africa at the indifferent age of four and went through the barefoot stage of early youth hunting wild pig with the Nandi, later training race-horses for a living, and still later scouting Tanganyika and the waterless bush country between the Tana and Athi Rivers, by aeroplane, for elephant, I remained so happily provincial I was unable to discuss the boredom of being alive with any intelligence until I had gone to London and lived there a year. Boredom, like hookworm, is endemic.
I have lifted my plane from the Nairobi airport for perhaps a thousand flights and I have never felt her wheels glide from the earth into the air without knowing the uncertainty and the exhilaration of firstborn adventure.
The call that took me to Nungwe came about one o'clock in the morning relayed from Muthaiga Country Club to my small cottage in the eucalyptus grove near-by.
It was a brief message asking that a cylinder of oxygen be flown to the settlement at once for the treatment of a gold miner near death with a lung disease. The appeal was signed with a name I had never heard, and I remember thinking that there was a kind of pathetic optimism about its having been sent at all, because the only way it could have reached me was through the telegraph station at Mwanza — itself a hundred miles by Native runner from Nungwe. During the two or three days the message had been on its way, a man in need of oxygen must either have died or shown a superhuman determination to live.
So far as I know I was the only professional woman pilot in Africa at that time. I had no free-lance competition in Kenya, man or woman, and such messages, or at least others not always so urgent or melancholy, were frequent enough to keep me occupied most days and far too many nights.
Night flying over charted country by the aid of instruments and radio guidance can still be a lonely business, but to fly in unbroken darkness without even the cold companionship of a pair of ear-phones or the knowledge that somewhere ahead are lights and life and a well-marked airport is something more than just lonely. It is at times unreal to the point where the existence of other people seems not even a reasonable probability. The hills, the forests, the rocks, and the plains are one with the darkness, and the darkness is infinite. The earth is no more your planet than is a distant star — if a star is shining; the plane is your planet and you are its sole inhabitant.
Before such a flight it was this anticipation of aloneness more than any thought of physical danger that used to haunt me a little and make me wonder sometimes if mine was the most wonderful job in the world after all. I always concluded that lonely or not it was still free from the curse of boredom.
Under ordinary circumstances I should have been at the aerodrome ready to take off for Nungwe in less than half an hour, but instead I found myself confronted with a problem much too difficult to solve while still half asleep and at one o'clock in the morning. It was one of those problems that seem incapable of solution — and are; but which, once they have fastened themselves upon you, can neither be escaped nor ignored.
A pilot, a man named Wood who flew for East African Airways, was down somewhere on the vast Serengetti Plains and had been missing for two days. To me and to all of his friends, he was just Woody — a good flier and a likeable person. He was a familiar figure in Nairobi and, though word of his disappearance had been slow in finding attention, once it was realized that he was not simply overdue, but lost, there was a good deal of excitement. Some of this, I suppose, was no more than the usual public enjoyment of suspense and melodrama, though there was seldom a scarcity of either in Nairobi.
Where Woody's misfortune was most sincerely felt, of course, was amongst those of his own profession. I do not mean pilots alone. Few people realize the agony and anxiety a conscientious ground engineer can suffer if an aeroplane he has signed out fails to return. He will not always consider the probability of bad weather or a possible error of judgment on the part of the pilot, but instead will torture himself with unanswerable questions about proper wiring, fuel lines, carburation, valves, and all the hundred and one things he must think about. He will feel that on this occasion he must surely have overlooked something — some small but vital adjustment which, because of his neglect, has resulted in the crash of a plane or the death of a pilot.
All the members of a ground crew, no matter how poorly equipped or how small the aerodrome on which they work, will share equally the apprehension and the nervous strain that come with the first hint of mishap.
But whether storm, or engine trouble, or whatever the cause, Woody had disappeared, and for the past two days I had been droning my plane back and forth over the Northern Serengetti and half the Masai Reserve without having sighted so much as a plume of signal smoke or the glint of sunlight on a crumpled wing.
Anxiety was increasing, even changing to gloom, and I had expected to take off again at sunrise to continue the search; but here suddenly was the message from Nungwe.
For all professional pilots there exists a kind of guild, without charter and without by-laws. It demands no requirements for inclusion save an understanding of the wind, the compass, the rudder, and fair fellowship. It is a camaraderie sans sentiment of the kind that men who once sailed uncharted seas in wooden ships must have known and lived by.
I was my own employer, my own pilot, and as often as not my own ground engineer as well. As such I might easily, perhaps even justifiably, have refused the flight to Nungwe, arguing that the rescue of the lost pilot was more important — as, to me, it was. But there was a tinge of personal sympathy about such reasoning that weakened conviction, and Woody, whom I knew so little and yet so well that I never bothered to remember his full name any more than most of his friends did, would have been quick to reject a decision that favoured him at the expense of an unknown miner choking his lungs out in the soggy swamplands of Victoria Nyanza.
In the end I telephoned the Nairobi Hospital, made sure that the oxygen would be ready, and prepared to fly south.
Excerpted from West With The Night by Beryl Markham. Copyright © 1983 Beryl Markham. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Introduction Sara Wheeler xi
I Message from Nungwe 3
II Men with Blackwater Die 17
III The Stamp of Wilderness 33
IV Why Do We Fly? 45
V He Was a Good Lion 57
VI Still Is the Land 67
VII Praise God for the Blood of the Bull 77
VIII And We Be Playmates, Thou and I 99
IX Royal Exile 108
X Was There a Horse with Wings? 117
XI My Trail Is North 131
XII Hodi! 143
XIII Na Kupa Hati M'zuri 155
XIV Errands of the Wind 175
XV Birth of a Life 185
XVI Ivory and Sansevieria 197
XVII I May Have to Shoot Him 205
XVIII Captives of the Rivers 219
XIX What of the Hunting, Hunter Bold? 228
XX Kwaheri Means Farewell 245
XXI Search for a Libyan Fort 254
XXII Benghazi by Candlelight 264
XXIII West with the Night 277
XXIV The Sea Will Take Small Pride 292
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
I think this is one of the most beautifully written biography out there. Aside for the fact that Markham's life unfolded like a movie even as she was living it, her writing is simply wonderful. At times, as when she describes how her best friend's father died (see pg 101) she brought me to tears.
In fact, its such a lovely book, I'm willing to overlook some of her more, shall we say...James Fry-like tendencies. For example, while relating the story of her flying lessons and the affair she had with her instructor, she somehow forgot to mention that he was married to Isak Denisen at the time. Like I said, I'm willing forgive-particularly in light of the extraordinary life she lived and in light of Hemingway's utter respect for her writing. Comparing his prose to hers, he once told a friend that she made him feel like an amateur carpenter who, given some nails and planks, could cobble together a passable pig pen.
This inspirational novel is a memoir of Beryl Markham, a pilot, horse trainer, and a woman living her life to the utmost potential. She grew up in the African lands, learning many life lessons through her interaction with animals. Beryl was intrigued by the flying ability of her friend Tom Black, and was further inspired to become the first person ever to fly east to west across the Atlantic from London to North America. The major themes in this book include but are not limited to adventure, persistence, and the ability to adapt and accept things into ones life. Her life as the book depicts it is one starting and ending in adventure, never skipping a beat of life along the way. She was a woman who grew up next to the natives of Africa, hunting beside tribal leaders, being attacked by wild lions, and killing the dangerous hogs of the region with her own spear. When training one of the many horses in her lifetime, Beryl learned persistence, which was a necessity in this stubborn horses training. She was bit, kicked, and thrown across the stall of Royal Exile. Tolerance and patience was imperative in educating this wild beast, and she was successful in bringing his high, stubborn head back down to earth. As a white woman in Africa, Beryl was faced with the life long racism between whites and blacks. Beryl states in her moving novel, "What a child does not know and does not want to know of race and colour and class, he learns soon enough as he grows to see each man flipped inexorably into some predestined groove like a penny or a sovereign in a bankers rack" (Markham 149). I enjoyed how Beryl incorporated aspects of reflection of her childhood into her calm and relaxing rides on her horse she trained from birth, Pegasus. I would have enjoyed it if this book or weaved in an element of racism deeper than what they incorporated in the book. This book is recommended to all young adults and adults of any age. Not only does this book keep you turning the page, it teaches lessons and opens the readers' eyes to what it was like living in Africa, being a woman, and even flying. I rate this book overall to be five stars. I feel I am a different person after reading this book now, able to look at the world through the eyes of many different aspects. Beryl Markham was a moving woman and wrote a book accurately depicting Africa, horses, discipline, patience, fear and joy.
As a child growing up with her father in Africa, Beryl Markham faced down lions and wild boar. As an adult she trained race horses before learning to fly airplanes and becoming a bush pilot. Eventually she became the first pilot, female or male, to fly west with the night and cross the Atlantic ocean solo from Europe to North America. Markham brings the African bush to life with stories of boar hunts and elephant hunts. Of horse races and airplane flights over desert terrain. She lived a courageous life in a time when girls were only supposed to wear dresses and play with dolls and flying airplanes was a man's job. Highly inspirational to read! There's so much to talk about in mother-daughter book clubs or any book club. How was Markham's life different from so many of the girls in her time? How would her life have been different if her mother was also in Africa raising her? This book is beautifully written I've read it three times and each reading I glean more and more from it. I highly recommend it for anyone in high school or older.
Markham has a command of language and detail that drives this fascinating memoir. I have been to Kenya and she paints an accurate picture of the landscape. The story focuses on her inner life, so I read a biography to help fill in some gaps, such as why her mother is never mentioned in this book. Still, the story is fascinating for the writing, and Markham's tenacity. She was a strong woman who excelled in a man's world through hunting, horse training, flying, and as proven here, writing. The book's meditative nature is reminiscent of Antoine de saint-exupery's Wind, Sand, and Stars.
This book was so enlightening and uplifting. To be a white woman in Africa and then learn to fly a plane was extra ordinary. Beryl Markham was very inspiring I wish I could have met her. What an excellent choice when picking up something to read to enlighten, education and entertain.
OK, forget Earnest Hemmingway touts this as a finer book that any of his own, (that alone should be enough )Only 'his' autobiography, A Moveable Feast, comes anywhere near. To not read this book is to deny yourself one of readings' greatest pleasures. It is so perfect on a multitude of diverse planes. First, a story of one of the most intrepid women to walk the earth. Then it provides unparalled insight into the Aftica that existed just before our lives began. Then be overwhelemed by her insight into the magnificent animals. Some like the haunting revelation of female elephants' efforts to hide their bull elephant's prized tusk from the view of white hunters flying above. This may change you forever. This is the finest biography ever written. I have given this book with joy to every women I know, and each has fallen in love with it. Hence my reference to Beatty
Very well-written memoir of an early pioneer in aviation. It tells of her growing up in Africa on a ranch, her journey to find her place and finding it in flying.Detailed, lyrical descriptions of landscapes and adventures that take you to the edge, without pushing them too far. I highly recommend this enthralling, beautifully written tale.
West with Night, is a must read on every bookshelf about aviation. It is more than a flying book, it is a great history of Africa during the days of foriegn control. A must read for any aviator. I also reccomdend FLYING NORTH SOUTH EAST AND WEST by Captain Terry Reece, another good read of later operations from the North Pole to Africa.
Reading Beryl Markham's book is the reason that I went to Kenya for the summer of 1999. Of course, that Kenya and its social scene no longer exist, nor do the animals in such plentiful amounts, but I could easily see how she fell so in love with the country. I got so wrapped up in her stories of growing up in Kenya, playing with Masai children, and becoming the first female pilot in Africa. It follows closely the social scene that existed then, though I found it interesting the Karen Blixen was not mentioned, yet Bror Blixen was. Clearly Dana, the one giving this fine novel a review, has a lot of learning to do, because West with the Night is one of the best books ever written. Kudos to her teacher for making it assigned reading.
My second time reading this book. It was even better this time.
West With The Night by Beryl Markham is the 1942 memoir of Beryl Markham, a fearless and captivating woman who battled against the male dominated society of her time. It chronicles her life growing up in British East Africa, now Kenya, in the early 1900’s. She writes of her early life, growing up more among the local tribe, the Kipsigis, than raised by her father. She is more comfortable among the natives, wild animals, and the horses she and her father raise than among the other British settlers. Despite hardships, she becomes the first woman licensed horse trainer in Africa training several winners. But she doesn’t stop there. After meeting Finch Hatton, she wants to learn to fly, and becomes a bush pilot, flying to spot big game for hunters and delivering mail and medical supplies when needed. However, she is most well known for being the first women to fly from England to North America flying from East to West. It was a difficult and dangerous flight, since she was flying alone, against the wind, in the dark sitting in a plane full of fuel. This book is beautifully written so that British East Africa comes alive in all its colors. The fact that the authorship of the book is in question does not detract from the beauty of the writing. Since I knew very little about this remarkable woman, it was intriguing to find such a successful woman in a male dominated world at that time. She truly was a woman living life to its fullest before her time.
These are the 1942 memoirs of Beryl Clutterbuck Markham (1902-1986), one of the first female aviators, from her childhood in British East Africa (Kenya) to her historic solo non-stop flight from England to North America in 1936. She was only the second person and first female to fly the Atlantic east to west, because the winds favor flying from the other direction. The other man had taken off from Ireland, so she was the first to fly directly from England. She had intended to fly to New York, but the accumulation of ice in her fuel tank vents forced her to crash land on Cape Breton Island off of Nova Scotia. These memoirs are written in an anecdotal style and do not mention her three husbands, her son, or her mother. Although the opening chapters describe one of her adventures as a bush pilot in Africa, they are otherwise in chronological order. Her father was a farmer and horse breeder, and her first job as an adult was as a horse trainer. She was a tomboy as a child and even once went on a boar hunt with two locals. She also writes about her dog, Buller, and her horse, Pegasus., extensively You may also be familiar with her as one of the characters in the film adaptation of Out of Africa. However, she is not mentioned in the book, presumably because she was one of Isaak Dinesen’s rivals for the affections of Denis Finch-Hatton, played by Robert Redford in the film. Markham got even by not mentioning Dinesen (real name: Karen Blixen), although she does devote a short chapter to Finch-Hatton and several chapters to her adventures with Blixen’s husband Bror. The actual authorship of this book is in dispute, because she was married to a writer, Raoul Schumacher, at the time it was written, but it is still well worth reading.
I loved this book so much that, when I finished it, I flipped back to the first page and restarted it. I simply could not let it end. Beautifully written and wonderfully paced, this account of Markham's life is exciting, thought-provoking, and inspiring.
Beryl Markham's memoirs of her life in Africa as a horse trainer and a pilot make for fascinating reading. Most people have no idea that she flew across the Atlantic to America.
Beryl Markham lived a remarkable life in South Africa as a horse trainer then an aviator. Her writing style takes a bit to get used to. Her sentences are dense, packed with imagery or details of life in SA, horses or aviation. Well worth the effort.
Maybe the best autobiography ever written... Both in content and style.
One of the best books I have ever read. The author is an amazing lady who has led a more interesting life than all but a handful of us; who among us has hunted warthogs barefoot with a spear? Her prose is brilliant and she is funny as well.
For any fan of Isak Dinesen, her writing, and her life story needs to learn of Beryl Markham, one of the competitors for the affections of Denys Finch Hatten, Dinesen's love interest in Kenya. There is a controversy whether Markham wrote her own autobiography, but it does not matter. This is a beautifully done chronicle of colonial East Africa and a woman fiercely independent and far ahead of her time. Compelling reading.