K.C. Gan­dar-Dower

Timeless Travels Magazine - - CONTENTS - Sev­eral sa­fari com­pa­nies of­fer tours of the Aber­dare Moun­tains, now pro­tected as the Aber­dare Na­tional Park. They take in soar­ing peaks and bam­boo forested val­leys, home to eland and Bongo re­spec­tively. Sadly a Marozi sight­ing is not part of the itin­er­ary

Stashed away in the stores of Lon­don’s Nat­u­ral His­tory Mu­seum is an old lion skin. The staff will tell you it’s that of a nor­mal ju­ve­nile an­i­mal but to one man, K. C. Gan­dar-Dower, it was ev­i­dence of Kenya’s leg­endary Marozi, or Spot­ted Lion. Travel writer Dun­can J. D. Smith tracks the jour­ney­ing of this in­trigu­ing but for­got­ten English adventurer

Ken­neth Cecil Gan­dar-Dower (19081944) could only have lived in the first half of the 20th cen­tury. Known to his friends as plain Gan­dar, he was born to in­de­pen­dently wealthy par­ents at home in Re­gent’s Park, Lon­don. As a boy he read avidly the ad­ven­ture nov­els of H. Rider Haggard and dis­played an early if undis­ci­plined ta­lent for writ­ing. This was honed at Har­row, where in 1927 he won a medal for an es­say on Shake­speare, whilst also writ­ing for The Har­ro­vian with his chum, drama­tist Ter­ence Rat­ti­gan.

Of his early years Gan­dar-Dower would later write that “We have all had our day-dreams of ad­ven­ture...I seem to be one of those un­for­tu­nates who is driven by devils to put them into prac­tice”. For Gan­dar-Dower, the first real ad­ven­tures were of the sport­ing va­ri­ety. At Har­row he proved him­self skilled at most mov­ing ball games. Af­ter se­cur­ing a schol­ar­ship to study his­tory at Trinity Col­lege, Cam­bridge, he went on to win ath­letic blues in bil­liards, ten­nis, real ten­nis, Rugby Fives, Eton Fives, and rack­ets. Con­sid­er­ing the fact that he was also edit­ing the Granta lit­er­ary mag­a­zine and chair­ing the Trinity de­bat­ing so­ci­ety at the same time, it is re­mark­able he only nar­rowly missed tak­ing a First Class de­gree.

The ver­sa­tile Gan­dar-Dower rep­re­sented Cam­bridge in six sports, win­ning sev­eral tro­phies in the process. He later be­came a lead­ing ten­nis player, com­pet­ing at Wim­ble­don and the French Open, where he was nick­named 'The Undy­ing Retriever' for his abil­ity to cover enor­mous dis­tances! His great­est suc­cess came at the 1932

“We have all had our day-dreams of ad­ven­ture... I seem to be one of those un­for­tu­nates who is driven by devils to put them into prac­tice”

Queen’s Club Cham­pi­onships in Lon­don, where he de­feated Harry Hop­man in three sets. That and the fact that he won the Bri­tish Am­a­teur Squash Cham­pi­onships in 1938 made him one of the few sports­men to have rep­re­sented their coun­try in more than one dis­ci­pline.

Dreams of ad­ven­ture

The peri­patetic en­ergy, in­domitable spirit and con­ta­gious en­thu­si­asm dis­played by Gan­dar-Dower at Cam­bridge would de­fine the rest of his life. In­deed, upon grad­u­at­ing his dreams of ad­ven­ture took a new turn. His own words take up the story: “For years a yearn­ing had been com­ing over me. Ev­ery boy has dreams of ad­ven­ture, and for most, un­for­tu­nately, they must re­main only dreams, un­til at last they die away and are for­got­ten in the hum­drum mid­dle years… But shortly af­ter leav­ing Cam­bridge I be­gan to re­alise that for me it was pos­si­ble to trans­mute them into re­al­ity.”

The dream this time was to fly. Ac­cord­ingly, in March 1932, with the help of ex-R.A.F. friend An­gus C. S. Ir­win, Gan­dar-Dower took fly­ing lessons. The fol­low­ing month he pur­chased a sec­ond-hand, two-seater, Puss-Moth mono­plane, and in May suc­cess­fully passed his fly­ing test. Then in June he ce­mented his fly­ing re­la­tion­ship with Ir­win by en­ter­ing the de­mand­ing King’s Cup Air Race from Brook­lands to Scot­land and back again. The pair fin­ished a very re­spectable fourth.

So it was that in Oc­to­ber of the same year, with lit­tle more than a cou­ple of para­chutes, a pair of in­ner tubes, and a “haver­sack con­tain­ing a few col­lars, hand­ker­chiefs, shirts, sun-hel­mets and the prover­bial tooth­brush”, the pair flew 7,000 miles from Lon­don to Madras, with Gan­dar-Dower tak­ing the con­trols for 1,700 of them. Set­ting out from He­ston in Mid­dle­sex they called in at Paris, Ajac­cio, Tu­nis, Tripoli, Beng­hazi, Mersa Ma­truh, Cairo, Am­man, Baghdad, Basra, Karachi, Bom­bay,

and Poona. They landed suc­cess­fully in Madras a fort­night later.

Un­der­taken just for the fun of it, Gan­dar-Dower re­counted the ex­pe­ri­ence with amus­ing vivid­ness in his first book Am­a­teur Ad­ven­ture (1934), not­ing that he didn’t dare tell his mother of the jour­ney for fear of wor­ry­ing her. These, of course, were the days be­fore cock­pit ra­dios and GPS, when fly­ing de­pended on com­pass, ob­ser­va­tion and luck. The book con­veys not only Gan­dar-Dower’s great joy in the en­ter­prise but also the mag­nif­i­cent im­pres­sion of land­scapes seen from the air. Al­though af­ter­wards he ad­mit­ted with char­ac­ter­is­tic dif­fi­dence that “we only beat the ship by a cou­ple of days”, he and Ir­win were ac­tu­ally among the first pi­lots to make such a flight. They cel­e­brated their suc­cess by hunt­ing tigers for a month in In­dia, a re­ward of­fered by Ir­win’s fa­ther as an in­cen­tive for them to ar­rive in one piece!

Pur­suit of the spot­ted lion

Fly­ing had given Gan­dar-Dower a taste of the ad­ven­tur­ous life he craved. So with money no great ob­sta­cle, and still only twenty six years of age, he set off in late 1934 on a sa­fari to the equa­to­rial moun­tains of Kenya. Ini­tially he sought sim­ply the thrill of see­ing and pho­tograph­ing Africa’s big game in its nat­u­ral set­ting. Quickly, how­ever, the trip de­vel­oped into a quest “for an­i­mals that hov­ered be­tween the rare and the fab­u­lous.”

One of these fa­bled crea­tures was the Marozi, or Spot­ted Lion, a crea­ture seem­ingly quite dis­tinct from the leop­ard or the nor­mal East African plains lion, first re­ported by lo­cals dur­ing the early years

of the 20th cen­tury. As with his flight to In­dia, how­ever, Gan­dar-Dower was barely pre­pared for the task ahead: “Mine was not a promis­ing si­t­u­a­tion when I found my­self stranded in Nairobi. My only as­sets were a love of Rider Haggard and a vague half-knowl­edge of what I wished to do... Yet I could not speak Swahili. I had no friends in Kenya. I had scarcely taken a still pho­to­graph (that had come out) or fired a ri­fle (ex­cept upon a range). My rid­ing was lim­ited to ten lessons, taken seven­teen years pre­vi­ously when I was nine, on a horse which would barely can­ter.”

Help came in the guise of Ray­mond Hook of Nanyuki, who had been in Kenya since 1912. A vet­eran sa­fari guide, farmer and hunter, he not sur­pris­ingly was scep­ti­cal of Gan­dar-Dower’s quarry. For his part, Gan­dar-Dower be­lieved in the Marozi’s ex­is­tence but won­dered how on earth he would find it in two thou­sand square miles of wilder­ness. To ready him­self for the chal­lenge, he made an in­de­pen­dent ex­pe­di­tion to the Ma­sai Mara, where he saw a plains lion and shot it. The slay­ing had a cu­ri­ous ef­fect on him though, and filled with re­morse he stripped naked and ran off into the bush as penance. He wanted to know how he might feel be­ing vul­ner­a­ble to a preda­tor.

The main ev­i­dence to sup­port Gan­dar-Dower’s be­lief in the Marozi dated back to 1931, when a farmer named Michael Trent shot two li­ons, a pubescent male and fe­male, at an el­e­va­tion of around 10,000 feet in the Aber­dare Moun­tains north of Nairobi. The skins bore dense rosette­shaped mark­ings over the legs, flanks and shoul­ders of the type nor­mally only found on cubs, and so were re­tained as cu­riosi­ties. So un­usual were the skins that they came to the at­ten­tion of the Game Depart­ment in Nairobi from where one was dis­patched to Lon­don’s Nat­u­ral His­tory Mu­seum (the one still lan­guish­ing in the stores to­day). Ad­di­tion­ally, in the same year, a game war­den, Cap­tain R. E. Dent, re­ported see­ing four more ma­ture yet ap­par­ently spot­ted li­ons at a sim­i­lar al­ti­tude.

A liv­ing legend?

Gan­dar-Dower's ex­pe­di­tion set out in early 1935 but de­spite trekking for miles through dif­fi­cult ter­rain, no-one spot­ted a liv­ing Marozi (though tan­ta­lis­ingly lo­cals claimed that they missed a pair by just a day). But they did find two sets of pos­si­ble Marozi tracks at an al­ti­tude of 12,500 feet, where li­ons rarely if ever tread, the largest

of which were big­ger than those of a leop­ard but smaller than those of an adult Plains lion. This cer­tainly sug­gested the pos­si­bil­ity of a dis­tinct, dwarf species of lion liv­ing at high al­ti­tude (shades here of Hem­ing­way’s The Snows of Kil­i­man­jaro). Ap­pear­ing to fol­low a trail of buf­falo, it was posited that these might have been the tracks of a hunt­ing pair. It was cer­tainly enough to con­vince Gan­dar-Dower that the Marozi ex­isted but as he wrote in his book The Spot­ted Lion pub­lished in 1937, it was “the dif­fi­cult na­ture of the coun­try and the rar­ity of the beast” that pre­vented the crea­ture’s of­fi­cial zoo­log­i­cal clas­si­fi­ca­tion as a newly-dis­cov­ered species.

Need­less to say, Gan­dar-Dower’s book gen­er­ated nu­mer­ous al­ter­na­tive ex­pla­na­tions for what he saw high in the moun­tains of Kenya. Was the crea­ture per­haps a Leo­pon, a cross-breed of leop­ard and lion? Un­likely con­sid­er­ing the fact that Leo­pons have only ever been recorded in cap­tiv­ity and even then, are born ster­ile. Was it per­haps an ab­hor­rent spec­i­men of lion, like the white li­ons seen near the Kruger Na­tional Park in 1975? Again, this seems un­likely con­sid­er­ing the high-al­ti­tude forests favoured by the Marozi. Al­ter­na­tively, were the crea­tures just leop­ards, or a trick of the light, or even pure fan­tasy fab­ri­cated by lo­cals to at­tract white hunters?

Back in Eng­land Gan­dar-Dower’s claims gained trac­tion in a re­port on the Nat­u­ral His­tory Mu­seum’s skin penned by renowned zo­ol­o­gist R. I. Po­cock, a former su­per­in­ten­dant at Lon­don Zoo. He stated cat­e­gor­i­cally that the skin came from a young male (cer­tainly not a cub), but one that was smaller than a nor­mal young lion and with a no­tice­ably shorter mane. The de­trac­tors per­sisted though and cer­tain mem­bers of the Bri­tish press dubbed the adventurer “Gan­dar Dour” for fail­ing to see the funny side of his ex­ploits. The last sight­ing came in 1948, when the splen­didly-named G. Hamil­ton-Snow­ball re­ported a pair of Marozi high in the Aber­dares. Since then all has been quiet sug­gest­ing that the Marozi ei­ther died out or else never ex­isted in the first place.

Rac­ing chee­tahs

Al­though the Gan­dar-Dower ex­pe­di­tion failed in its pri­mary goal of se­cur­ing a Marozi, it did man­age to scale sev­eral vol­ca­noes and to map nu­mer­ous moun­tains. Most sig­nif­i­cantly it made one true dis­cov­ery: the sight­ing of a pre­vi­ously un­re­ported lake on the slopes of Mount Kenya. Gan­dar-Dower an­nounced the dis­cov­ery in a pa­per en­ti­tled New Lake on Mount Kenya, pub­lished in the Royal Ge­o­graph­i­cal So­ci­ety’s Ge­o­graph­i­cal jour­nal for Novem­ber 1935. Un­for­tu­nately, al­though the name Lake Gan­dar seemed fit­ting, the East African Moun­tain So­ci­ety opted for Lake Mit­tel­holzer in­stead, in hon­our of a Swiss avi­a­tor pi­o­neer and pho­tog­ra­pher.

Gan­dar-Dower it seems was destined to leave his mark in more nov­els ways. Keen to share the speed and grace of chee­tahs with his coun­try­men, in 1936 he and Ray­mond Hook im­ported a dozen of them, which they quar­an­tined and then raced at Rom­ford Greyhound Sta­dium in Es­sex. Agree­ing to go fifty-fifty on any prof­its, they hoped to do well out of the un­usual ven­ture. One chee­tah named He­len man­aged to break the ex­ist­ing record for 355 yards held by a greyhound, cov­er­ing the dis­tance in less than 20 sec­onds at a speed of 55mph. This some­what ec­cen­tric ven­ture soon came to an end though, fol­low­ing com­plaints not only from fear­ful lo­cal res­i­dents but also other track own­ers, who felt their at­ten­dance fig­ures might be im­pacted. Ad­di­tion­ally, the chee­tahs had a habit of cut­ting the track cor­ners and in­stinc­tively stopped run­ning the mo­ment the elec­tric hare fell out­side their per­sonal kill zone. Gan­dar-Dower also raised a few eye­brows by walk­ing a two-year-old chee­tah called Pongo up to the bar of the Queen’s Club on a leash!

On a more se­ri­ous note, it was dur­ing the late 1930s that Gan­dar-Dower’s pen­chant for cyn­i­cism took flight in a pair of satir­i­cal works about the par­lous state of his home­land and Europe just prior to the Sec­ond World War. In­side Bri­tain – An In­ter­nal Scrap­book, a Satir­i­cal Ac­count (1937) and Out­side Bri­tain – A Guide to the Grave New World (1938) were writ­ten in col­lab­o­ra­tion with his clos­est friend and fel­low Har­ro­vian, Wil­liam James Rid­dell, a Bri­tish cham­pion skier and fel­low am­a­teur adventurer. One re­view of the books de­scribed them as be­ing “clair­voy­ant in their po­lit­i­cal spec­u­la­tion”.

One last ad­ven­ture

In 1938, with the Mu­nich Con­fer­ence over and war now loom­ing, Gan­dar-Dower and Rid­dell headed to Africa to­gether, know­ing full well that a new global

Armed only with twenty Le­ica cam­eras, a de­ter­mi­na­tion to harm no liv­ing thing, and an abil­ity to laugh at them­selves, they went into the strange, dark, fan­tas­tic world of the Cen­tral African for­est where more fa­mous ex­plor­ers had taken their fully equipped ex­pe­di­tions be­fore them

con­flict would de­stroy for­ever their ro­man­tic no­tion of the ‘back of be­yond’. Rid­dell’s re­count­ing of the trip in his book In the Forests of the Night (1946) ex­plained their mo­tives, tongue firmly in cheek:

“There was a time when it was con­sid­ered that young men who sud­denly left Eng­land for a year and headed for the Back of Be­yond, for no other pur­pose than to ex­plore places and shoot things, could only be ex­cused as be­ing ei­ther ec­cen­tric or badly crossed in love – or both. When we set out from Eng­land in 1938 we could only lay mod­est claims to the former of these”.

Rather more pro­saically the book’s dust jacket de­scribed the book as “the story of how two English­men, am­a­teurs in the art of both big game hunt­ing and pho­tog­ra­phy, set them­selves the task of tak­ing close-up pho­to­graphs of African an­i­mals… Armed only with twenty Le­ica cam­eras, a de­ter­mi­na­tion to harm no liv­ing thing, and an abil­ity to laugh at them­selves, they went into the strange, dark, fan­tas­tic world of the Cen­tral African for­est where more fa­mous ex­plor­ers had taken their fully equipped ex­pe­di­tions be­fore them.” What­ever their mo­tives, the trip of­fered the two men a great ad­ven­ture, and “that was all we wanted”.

Us­ing mostly flash bulbs and black cot­ton trip wires, the men pro­duced a se­ries of re­mark­able pho­to­graphs re­flect­ing the ten­sion and beauty of the equa­to­rial forests at night. Those of the Bongo, an elu­sive for­est an­te­lope, and the Gi­ant For­est Hog were prob­a­bly the first ever taken of those crea­tures in their nat­u­ral habi­tat. They also took plenty of un­re­mark­able pic­tures of them­selves by ac­ci­den­tally snag­ging the trip wires prompt­ing Gan­dar-Dower to re­mark in his usual self-ef­fac­ing man­ner, “If it goes on like this we may have to re­vise the whole ex­pe­di­tion. We might even find it bet­ter to hand the whole thing over to the an­i­mals and have them take a se­ries of in­ti­mate shots of white men at work.” The pair’s ul­ti­mate goal was the Bel­gian Congo, (later Zaïre, now the Demo­cratic Repub­lic of the Congo) where they hoped to pho­to­graph moun­tain go­ril­las – and it was there that they heard of the out­break of the Sec­ond World War.

Back into Africa

Rid­dell headed back up the Nile en route to Eng­land to sup­port the war ef­fort al­though he ended up stay­ing in the Mid­dle East. Gan­darDower mean­while trav­elled to Nairobi to of­fer his tal­ents as a press li­ai­son of­fi­cer be­tween the lo­cal pop­u­la­tion, the mil­i­tary au­thor­i­ties and the Kenyan govern­ment. When the job came to an end he re­turned home, hop­ing to find work as a war cor­re­spon­dent or to be em­ployed abroad by the Min­istry of In­for­ma­tion. While wait­ing he un­der­took re­search for Tom Har­ri­son of Mass Ob­ser­va­tion, an­other fel­low Har­ro­vian and adventurer with whom he planned an aerial sur­vey of an un­ex­plored moun­tain re­gion in New Guinea.

But it was not to be and Gan­dar-Dower was soon off again only this time alone, re­turn­ing to Kenya once more as press of­fi­cer. It was in this role, armed with lit­tle more than his cam­era and type­writer, that he wit­nessed the East African Cam­paign of 1940–1941, in­clud­ing the Al­lied lib­er­a­tion of Ital­ian-oc­cu­pied Ethiopia (then called Abyssinia).

Greatly at­tracted by the coun­try’s na­tive charm and scenery, he com­piled an an­thol­ogy of sto­ries and re­ports, told or writ­ten by friend and en­emy alike, sol­diers and gen­er­als, pris­on­ers-of-war and traders, na­tives and strangers. The re­sult was

Abyssinian Patch­work (pub­lished posthu­mously in 1949), a fas­ci­nat­ing por­trait of the coun­try, which de­spite be­ing the only African na­tion un­touched by 19th-cen­tury Colo­nial­ism was the first to be in­vaded in the Sec­ond World War – and the first to be lib­er­ated. Around the same time, he also au­thored the of­fi­cial and lauda­tory ac­count of Bri­tish rule in Eritrea and So­ma­lia, The First to be

Freed, fol­low­ing the col­lapse of the bru­tal Fas­cist Ital­ian ad­min­is­tra­tion.

Gan­dar-Dower’s war ef­fort con­tin­ued on Septem­ber 10th 1942 with the Al­lied as­sault on Vichy-held Mada­gas­car. To­gether with the Sec­ond Reg­u­lar Bat­tal­ion of the East Lan­cashire Reg­i­ment, he ar­rived at the sea­port of Ma­ha­janga on the island’s north-west coast in a troop-filled land­ing craft. Un­der heavy fire he leapt from the ves­sel car­ry­ing his type­writer, um­brella, and bowler hat! This and nu­mer­ous other episodes, con­clud­ing with the peace sign­ing at Am­bal­avao on 6th Novem­ber, are re­called in his book Into Mada­gas­car (1943) (as well as in The King’s African

Ri­fles in Mada­gas­car writ­ten for the East African

Com­mand). De­spite the se­ri­ous­ness of the sub­ject mat­ter, once again Gan­dar-Dower brought his trade­mark gal­lows humour to the pro­ceed­ings, not­ing that the 19th-cen­tury Mala­gasy Queen Ranaval­ona I had “a pas­sion for sew­ing her sub­jects up in sacks and mak­ing use of the first­class fa­cil­i­ties of­fered by her cap­i­tal in the mat­ter of ver­ti­cal drops”!

Back in Nairobi, with the fight­ing in Africa all but fin­ished, Gan­dar-Dower sud­denly found life in­tol­er­a­bly safe. In one of his last let­ters he wrote: “I can’t stand this. I must do some­thing more ad­ven­tur­ous.” Thus, on 6th Fe­bru­ary 1944 he boarded the troop ship SS Khe­dive Is­mail in Mom­basa bound for Colombo, Cey­lon and new ad­ven­tures in the Far East. On 12th Fe­bru­ary, while ap­proach­ing Addu Atoll in the Mal­dives, the ship was hit by tor­pe­does from a Ja­panese sub­ma­rine and sank in three min­utes. Of the 1511 pas­sen­gers aboard, only 214 were plucked safely from the shark-in­fested wa­ters. Gan­dar-Dower, aged just thirty-five, was not among them.

To Die Right Well

Gan­dar-Dower was one of the last of Eng­land’s in­de­pen­dent ro­man­tic ad­ven­tur­ers. His world was largely ex­tin­guished by the Sec­ond World War, and his style of ad­ven­tur­ing in­stead be­came the more ra­tio­nal pre­serve of the sci­en­tist. Gan­darDower’s old Har­row house­mas­ter, the Rev. D. B. Kit­ter­mas­ter, summed up his former pupil’s char­ac­ter best in the in­tro­duc­tion to Abyssinian

Patch­work. He was, he wrote, com­pet­i­tive yet gen­er­ous, lov­ing yet ag­nos­tic, am­bi­tious yet al­tru­is­tic, the most loyal of friends and a paci­fist de­ter­mined to sur­vive the war. Yet he wouldn’t have safety on any terms, for­ever run­ning head­long to­wards dan­ger.

But it is un­doubt­edly Gan­dar-Dower’s own words, writ­ten in a pre­scient poem aged just twenty-one, that sum up best his mer­cu­rial per­son­al­ity. He pic­tures him­self fly­ing through un­known skies to dis­cover be­low him, in an un­charted sea, the en­chanted island of his dreams, only to crash into the waves be­fore land­ing. “I shall not see the glory fade,” he writes “The vi­sion pass away, or mind and mus­cle shrink dis­mayed be­neath a slow de­cay…At least, I shall have died right well.”

Top right: Gan­dar-Dower, the con­sum­mate sports­man

Right: Sports­man Gan­dar-Dower show­ing an early in­ter­est in trans­port

Left: Ken­neth Cecil Gan­darDower: sports­man, avi­a­tor, ex­plorer, paci­fist and war cor­re­spon­dent Above: Gan­darDower's sport­ing achieve­ments cel­e­brated in a 1939 R. & J. Hill Ltd Celebri­ties of Sport cig­a­rette card

Above, top left: Gan­dar-Dower sur­vey­ing the pyra­mids on his way to In­dia in 1932

Above, bot­tom left: Gan­dar-Dower and Ir­win's Puss Moth dur­ing a sand­storm at Mersa Ma­truh, Egypt

Above: Gan­darDower (2nd on the left) and Ir­win (left) be­ing greeted in Madras by two colo­nial ad­min­is­tra­tors - and a dog!

Above: Build­ing a trap to catch the elu­sive Marozi

Above: Marozi­land - the high dense for­est where Gan­dar-Dower hoped to catch his Spot­ted Lion Right: Gan­darDower with two of the chee­tahs he raced at Rom­ford Greyhound Sta­dium in the mid-1930s

Left: The skin in Lon­don's Nat­u­ral His­tory Mu­seum be­lieved by Gan­darDower to be that of a Marozi

Above: A se­lec­tion of books writ­ten by Gan­dar-Dower, in­clud­ing his best­known work The Spot­ted Lion

Right: Gan­darDower in his sleep­ing bag dur­ing his 1938 ex­pe­di­tion into the forests of Cen­tral Africa with fel­low au­thor and ex­plorer James Rid­dell

Right, in­set: James Rid­dell (left) and Gan­dar-Dower

Left: Gan­dar-Dower died in 1944 when the SS Khe­div Is­mail (pic­tured here in a pe­riod post­card) was tor­pe­doed on its way to Cey­lon

Newspapers in English

Newspapers from UK

© PressReader. All rights reserved.