In the Agżan sovkhoz, a boy of several years under his teens had not even dreamed of an adventure on the Dark Continent, of travelling along the route of Sienkiewicz’s heroes. Meanwhile, a stay in MASINDI (Uganda), heated by the tropical sun, became a fact. He ended up here in Transit Camp No. 3, one of six or seven in existence. Women, children, the elderly and disabled people were staying there. Camp No. 2 had a small church; in the “third,” there was a Polish secondary school under a baobab tree, as this unusual school was charmingly called. All of this was located on a large clearing, while just 150 metres from the settlement stretched virgin jungle teeming—especially at night—with life, with the terrifying struggle of animals and plants for survival.
The newcomers occupied primitive huts belonging to the Black inhabitants, thatched, without windows or any conveniences. Instead of a floor, there was ordinary beaten earth; people slept under tightly sealed mosquito nets for fear of bites from mosquitoes dangerous to health. Meals were cooked outside, as at a Scouts’ camp: two bricks or stones were arranged, and pots or cauldrons were placed on them to heat water. Everything here was dry and highly flammable; the entire camp could go up in smoke in an instant. Around their dwellings, the Poles, with the help of local people, cultivated tiny plots of land, planting potatoes and peanuts that produced crops twice a year. The Black inhabitants had primitive hoes, but they avoided physical effort even for money. The scorching heat was truly overwhelming. Africa astonished with its beauty and wildness, its exoticism and its lush, literally seething nature.
The English supplied the camps with food, including the allotted condensed milk and canned goods. If someone had money—English pounds—they could cycle or walk through the jungle, along some animal-trodden path, to shops run by Pakistanis or Indians beside the asphalt road leading straight to Kampala, the capital of Uganda. Some compatriots were helped by families from the USA or Canada, so it was possible to buy from the Black inhabitants bunches of bananas, ripe and sweet pineapples, or fantastic-tasting “popo” fruit, somewhat resembling watermelons in sweetness, with black flesh, which was prepared with other southern fruits and condensed milk. Delicacies that cannot be compared with anything.
The camp community was supportive, willing to offer help and make sacrifices. It maintained proper relations with the Black local inhabitants. Camp No. 5 had an orphanage for children of the war; one of the inner streets was named “Do Whatever You Want,” which testified to the distinctive atmosphere of life and its particular sense of humour. Beans and potatoes formed the basis of the diet, but this menu was sufficient in the hot climate when combined with an abundance of fruit and condensed tinned milk. The young people made dangerous, exciting expeditions into the jungle, which teemed with reptiles and loud, raucous birds. Unforgettable experiences.
The Pakistanis built a hospital in the camp; monks from Belgium and the Netherlands lived in mahogany cottages near the camp, but now the time for real learning had come. Earlier, the young boy had exchanged a gold watch received from an uncle living in New York for a splendid “Herkules” bicycle, very useful for trips around the area. He began his education in the first class of the African Polish-language secondary school under the baobab tree. From there, adolescents aged 16–18 were recruited and then sent to the transit post located in a nature reserve in MAKINDU (near Nairobi); from there, compact groups travelled to the Middle East (Port Said, Ismailia). Among the tents scattered across the desert in the Casasin settlement, the 3rd Corps of the Polish Army was being formed. Let us remember: the hell of war was raging, including the desert war, and every soldier counted toward future victory.
Young Eugeniusz was eager to join the army, but he was under his mother’s care, while his father had ended up in Iraq. They corresponded; he asked for permission for his mother to leave for the women’s air service in England and for his own enlistment in the army. And so it happened: his mother landed at Jork Schaier in the British Isles, where an air base with Polish ground personnel was located. The boy, now 16, briefly ended up in the camp orphanage. He was left alone—with no loved ones—in the heart of Black Africa.