I was interested to see a photo of a visit to Kenya by HRH Prince Charles, supposedly from "early 1970's"
I have my doubts about that date, as I remember when we lived in Nakuru, all the families and the children from my daughters first school gathered at the airstrip near Lanet to 'meet and greet' .... HRH was on his way to have lunch with Mzee Kenyatta at State House, and when he went for his lunch, the air crew from HRH's plane invited the children to have a look around the aircraft, and I believe they were given sweets !
Here, I've got a vast collection of letters that we sent 'home' to our parents, probably around 500 or 600 of them, which I've sorted into date order, so was easily able to find the letters for the relavent time; which wasn't "early 1970's" as the children were too young to have been in school then, and we didn't move to Nakuru until about 1976.
Bingo .... I found a mention of the visit in a letter to my mother from May1977, but D.W., my old Maseno friend, found the article below in the New York Times, which dates this visit to March '77 .... so I am now wondering why I didn't write home about it until May, and only to my mother and not also the parents in law ? One of lifes mysteries ....
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Prince
Charles Leads Newshounds on a Merry Chase in Africa
NAIROBI, Kenya, March
9—Prince Charles, who is in Kenya on a photographic safari, is
himself the quarry in a journalistic hunt mounted by a Fleet Street
caravan.
The press caravan,
composed of nine top reporters and photographers of the British
popular press, was at Nairobi Airport on Sunday when the Prince of
Wales arrived, landing his own plane. He met the group affably,
saying, “Sorry I'm late. Had to check the controls. Pleasant
flight. Bit bumpy.”
That was all he said
before disappearing for unknown places. It was hardly enough to
justify expenses for a trip to Greenwich, let alone Africa.
Members of the group,
however, are an indomitable breed. Among them is a man who once spent
tens of thousands of dollars tracking a milkman in Argentina in the
belief that he was Martin Bormann. He found out that he was a
milkman.
Through charm, guile
and the disbursement of money, the reporters have, among them,
ferreted out hundreds of circulation‐boosting secrets and true
confessions.
Still, by Sunday night,
they had not learned the whereabouts of the Prince. Messages from
their London offices demanded stories, offered suggestions, provided
goads. Obviously, the situation was serious.
By very early Monday
morning there was a breakthrough. The reporters had reliably learned
that the Prince was in the Aberdares. This is a forested mountain
region about the size of Rhode Island, only much bumpier.
Mau Mau fighters hid in
these dense forests for years from thousands of British troops. Could
the terrain provide enough covering for Charles to evade the Fleet
Street pack?
The journalists set off
in LandRovers for Treetops, a lodge for viewing game in the area. It
was at this lodge that Charles's mother became Queen when King George
VI died a quarter century ago.
The reporters saw
elephant and buffalo but no sign of royalty.
For a while the
resident Nairobi press corps, all colleagues and admirers of the
Fleet Streeters, lost contact with the group. Some of the Fleet
Street pursuers had said they would be back in Nairobi for dinner.
When they did not show up, one resident journalist explained,
“Newsmen in Lion Horror,” offering as well a paradigm of a
British headline.
Yesterday came word by
telephone that—except for no Prince—all was well. The journalists
moved to the Outspan Hotel. Many funny stories were reportedly being
told. Expenses were mounting. The man from The Sun said that royal
tracking was being impeded by Kenyan soldiers under orders to keep
the newshounds at bay.
“They're not playing
about,” said the man from The Sun.
But neither are tilt
reporters. Those who have watched them in action before are not eager
to bet against them. After all, they haven't yet used disguises or
hired bearers. They may yet burst upon the royal encampment, emerging
from a thicket of thorns, ragged but triumphant, cornering their
quarry with a “Your Royal Highness, I presume?”
(from New York Times, 10 March 1977)