Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
On the morning of 15 September 1864, Burton and Speke sat at opposite ends of the
hall, and among the crowd were some of the most famous people of the day: Roderick
Murchison, president of the RGS, and the explorer David Livingstone, who was by then a
household name. The crowds were all there for the stars of the show - Burton and Speke,
who were to clash that afternoon - but first, as in all Victorian meetings, there were the
minutes and parish notices to deal with. Speke, never one for form, excused himself and
decided to kill a bit of time by doing a spot of grouse hunting at his cousin's nearby coun-
try estate. A few hours later, just after 2.30pm, a messenger burst into the hall and muttered
something into the host Murchison's ear: Speke was dead. He had been killed in an acci-
dental discharge of his shotgun as he clambered over a style. Murmurs reverberated around
the room. Burton's face went white as a sheet. Some whispered that Burton had perhaps
arranged the murder of his rival, others that Speke had committed suicide. Burton, aghast,
had never wanted his companion dead - even the Nile wasn't that important.
After that, Burton was never the same again - he was always to blame himself for the
terrible tragedy. For him, Speke had been a worthy subordinate who had let his ego get the
better of him. The truth was, to Burton their rivalry was all a game - it was the journey
that mattered, not the destination - and friendship counted more than winning. For Speke,
it seemed, all that mattered was the Nile - and, in the end, he won. In death, his glory was
secured - and Burton would forever after be seen as the quintessential eccentric traveller,
whose subordinate had claimed the ultimate prize.
At the bottom of the gardens, Boston and I found a little boat that would take us onto
the Nile and motored out to a little island in the centre of the river, at the exact spot where
it meets the lake. Here, an entrepreneurial soul had set up a gift shop selling awful T-shirts
and key-rings. It was a dilapidated shack, perched on jagged rocks, and its floor was three
inches deep in Nile water - but the shopkeeper didn't care. He seemed to think of it as
his own individual kingdom and welcomed us warmly, pointing out all the little souvenirs
and keepsakes we could buy. Boston began to peruse the tat, but I just wanted to wade out
from the outcrop and stand for a moment on this momentous spot. At the edge of the rocks
a crude sign read 'This is where the river Nile starts its 4,000 mile journey to the north.' I
gazed in that direction, tracking the great river as it cut a gorge through the forested valley.
Boston found me standing there, silently staring into the north.
'What is wrong, Lev?'
I couldn't put it into words. Gone was my wonder at standing in the same place as Speke
and seeing the same things he had seen, more than 150 years ago. I was, I admitted, be-
ginning to feel something very different. I wouldn't say it to Boston, but I was suddenly
affected by an overwhelming sense of terror. I was going to have to walk every last one of
those miles and, across history, they had defeated better men than me.
