Dennis Douglas McCarthy was born, as he wrote, ‘during the dying days of the 19th century in the reign of Queen Victoria … in a small house near the water tower in Invercargill, New Zealand’. After training at the Otago Medical School in Dunedin, McCarthy practiced in Southland’s Tokanui district, overseeing ‘a wild area’ with ‘nothing between [him] and the South Pole’. In the late 1920s, McCarthy joined the Colonial Medical Service and was stationed in Zanzibar, East Africa, on Unguja Island (also called Zanzibar Island) and Pemba Island, where he was one of just seven Europeans. McCarthy gradually specialised in tropical parasitology and was appointed Malaria Research Officer. In 1939 McCarthy joined the King’s African Rifles, rising to the rank of brigadier. After the war he practiced in the Pacific before returning to New Zealand, where he died in 1981.
Historians have examined colonial doctors such as McCarthy on several fronts. Since Philip Curtin’s seminal work on the connections between tropical medicine and British imperialism in Africa, medical historians have studied medicine’s role in consolidating and legitimising colonial rule on the African continent. Historians have also considered colonial officials as trans-imperial figures, whose professions took them around the globe, transmitting ideas and objects. Studies by scholars such as Alan Lester explore the life geographies of individuals, maintaining the specificity and complexity of the imperial experience and so accessing a deeper and more nuanced understanding of lives in the British Empire.
Such scholarship, however, has underexplored the role of colonial officials’ birthplaces and professions in shaping their experiences throughout the Empire. The vast majority of the literature represents all officials as homogenous Britons. Mary Pratt in Imperial Eyes does discuss the importance of what she terms hyphenated identities, but focuses on the role that those with hyphenated identities played in critiques of empire. There is relatively little work on New Zealand born colonial officials and this deficiency is multiplied when Africa is considered. Similarly, the role of medical training as a mediating lens through which imperial doctors viewed foreign locations is underdeveloped. Combining environmental history with imperial biography and medical history has the potential to further our understanding of the ways in which imperial officials from the colonies experienced new environments throughout the Empire.
When McCarthy arrived in Zanzibar, formal British control of the island extended less than thirty years. After Portugal lost its hold on East Africa in the early eighteenth century, Arab rulers – primarily from Oman – dominated the area and established Zanzibar as the centre of East African trade. Zanzibar’s trading prominence and East Africa’s proximity to Indian shipping routes turned British attention towards Zanzibar in the early nineteenth century. The 1822 Moresby Treaty nominally ended the region’s slave trade and permanently stationed a British government official in Zanzibar to supervise abolition. Indirect British influence steadily increased over the century, and although the British government initially avoided attempts to seize formal control, in 1890 Britain established the Zanzibar Protectorate. Direct rule entailed administration and over the next thirty years officials such as McCarthy entered the protectorate.As a doctor responsible for a partially rural district, McCarthy regularly encountered Zanzibar flora and fauna. W.H. Ingrams, writing in 1931, characterised the island as possessing five distinctive areas of vegetation: mangrove swamp; beaches and nearby rocky areas, featuring several species of palm; ‘scrub bush’, characterised by a strong odour; savannah; and tropical forest. By the 1930s Zanzibar’s forests had been severely depleted, with the best remaining example, according to Ingrams, appeared in North Pemba. Both islands held a wealth of animal life, including reptiles and fish. The mammals, however, drew the most comment. Monkeys, gazelles, duikers, mongooses and leopards were all noted by British observers, some more favourably than others. While Richard Burton in 1872 described the Zanzibar monkey as ‘small and pretty’ and ‘playful and easily tamed’, he warned that the leopard was ‘destructive in the interior of the island’. McCarthy’s medical work took him through remote natural areas where he encountered many of the plants and animals described by Ingrams and Burton.
Towards the end of this life, McCarthy began an autobiography called ‘A Physician to the Sultan’. Beginning with his childhood and early career medical practice in New Zealand, it then covers his work and life in British East Africa and some parts of his later career in the Pacific. The manuscript includes a wealth of detail about places he visited, people he met, and cases he worked on, suggesting it is likely based on diaries. This article uses McCarthy’s manuscript to identify the significance of his medical profession and New Zealand origin in determining his experience of the East African environment. The first section compares McCarthy’s descriptions of New Zealand and East Africa, and the second examines the role that scientific language and frameworks play in his text. The third section identifies orientalist tropes in McCarthy’s writing and explores the intersection of orientalism and science through a discourse of nostalgia. The final section evaluates the supernatural scenes that appear in ‘A Physician to the Sultan’.
Home always plays a profound role in determining migrants’ experiences of new environments. As Susan Imbarrato writes, ‘authors usually adopt a comparative mode that measures new surroundings against a familiar one’, with home as the principal reference point. Mary Schriber agrees, noting that ‘‘home’ and ‘abroad’ are the polarities from which travellers construct meaning’. This ‘home’ does not have to be specific. Defined against the ‘other’ of the colonial landscape, it can become a generic trans-imperial standard, with the landscape measured against British World expectations of environments and behaviour. Webs of empire created a shared colonial culture, with particular beliefs, attitudes and rituals that recurred throughout the British Empire.
McCarthy drew on these British World norms in his interactions with the East African environment. He compared Zanzibar to England and shaped his days like countless colonial officials throughout the Empire: attending the colonial club; playing tennis, golf and croquet; and having tea on the verandah, surveying the surrounding landscape. When McCarthy described ‘sitting out on the lawn, with the fading sunset and a rising moon shining on the whiskey decanter and glasses, and the gin and vermouth bottle reflected in the polished surface of the large Arab copper tray’, he could have been writing from the British Raj, or many other parts of the Empire. 
Yet the influence of McCarthy’s New Zealand origins is also clear. One striking aspect of McCarthy’s manuscript is the continuity between the African and New Zealand environments. No reader could doubt that McCarthy was far more prepared – physically and mentally – for the African landscape than most colonial officials from urban Britain. Key themes through the African sections of McCarthy’s manuscript are isolation and the difficulties of transport; however, these ideas appear almost identically in the New Zealand passages. Take for example the following quotations: ‘The track had been fascined and corduroyed [sic], with teetree poles and scrub, but these just seemed to disappear down into the mud’; ‘I don’t think I ever traversed this road without losing at least one shoe from the horse’s hooves’; ‘another very ancient gentleman lived out on the edge of the bush’; ‘they lived … completely cut off from the rest of the population’; ‘crossing it by night with a flashing torch or a tiny storm lantern, under these conditions was little less than a nightmare’. The first three are from New Zealand and the rest East Africa, but they are almost indistinguishable. Although McCarthy complained about rough and inaccessible African terrain, it was nonetheless familiar.
McCarthy’s presentation of the landscape’s balance between beauty and terror displays similar continuities. The duality of beauty and oppressive isolation in the environment is a common theme in nineteenth century New Zealand novels but McCarthy took this further, juxtaposing beautiful landscapes with their more violent manifestations. The top of Taieri Gorge, which McCarthy noted was his ‘favourite area’, appears as desolate but grand, a place of inner (if not necessarily outer) beauty. Its danger is explained in the next paragraph, which relates how McCarthy was ‘caught in one of Central Otago’s blizzards, and for five days was holed up in [his] tent with some eighteen inches of snow on the ground’. Waikawa harbour is described first as ‘lovely’, ‘with little bush clad hills as a green curtain along the edges’ but then revealed to be ‘subject to violent and sudden storms’, ‘in spite of its peaceful appearance’.
McCarthy’s descriptions of East Africa record the same duality, summed up by his assessment of the region as ‘an attractive but stark, hard ruthless country’. Numerous picturesque descriptions of Africa appear, typified by McCarthy’s description of Zanzibar’s Grave, Prison and Bat Islands as ‘seemingly suspended above the morning mists above a mirror-like seas, like emeralds about to drop into their quicksilver setting’. McCarthy wrote ‘it was glorious to hear the cricket’s chirruping sounds and smell the stephanotis perfume hanging on the air and see the stars begin to appear and the brightening moon, the sparkling dew on the lawn and mist on the glasses’. Such descriptions coexist with African nature’s dangerous side: rough country, inaccessible areas, sudden storms, ‘shallow and treacherous water’ and risk of attack by animals or disease. Once again, continuity is an essential element of McCarthy’s experience and is driven by exposure to the New Zealand environment.
The absences in McCarthy’s manuscript provide further evidence of continuity between New Zealand and East Africa. The representation of East Africa as a place of unspoiled natural beauty and bounty – a Garden of Eden – has a long tradition in British writings. English settlers were also frequently shockedby colonial landscapes, unused to such vast areas of seemingly wild and unmanaged land. They often felt the urge to clear the land, bringing it under cultivation and ‘civilisation’. McCarthy recorded no such reactions. As a young man he spent substantial periods of time exploring the Central Otago high country, and he wrote lovingly of its open spaces and wild state. Large areas of untamed land were neither novel, nor threatening. They were home. Overall, the comparisons that McCarthy drew between New Zealand and East Africa illustrate that New Zealand had a profound influence on his interpretation of the East African landscape.
Colonial travel writings from the mid-eighteenth century commonly interpreted foreign environments via a scientific discourse. It was a form of interpretation intimately connected to British imperialism. As Elleke Boehmer explains in Colonial and Postcolonial Literature, ‘from the mid-eighteenth century, the European at large in colonial territory had seen himself in the character of the disinterested scientist, the rational and neutral collector of knowledge’. Scientific observation allowed travellers to make sense of new lands, strip them of their otherness and convert them into a familiar Western framework. Placing new landscapes in the global framework of Western science gave the illusion of a coherent British Empire: superficially diverse but fundamentally the same, governable through basic principles. The scientific literary mode also allows the narrator to fashion him- or herself as a benign bystander, separate from violence or exploitation.
While authors without formal scientific training also utilised scientific discourses, McCarthy’s medical education and profession would have made them particularly palatable to him. In ‘A Physician to the Sultan’, McCarthy frequently described the East African environment in a scientific mode. When discussing animals he almost invariably used technical descriptions and categorisations, as represented by precise names, measurements and scientific details. Pythons were ‘usually of moderate size … about 8 to 12 feet to 14 feet in length’. The fish stocks of Zanzibar ‘consisted of barracuda, which ran up to 70 lbs, perhaps more, and a type of mackeral which rarely exceeded 25 lbs, and a large deep oval shaped fish whose local name was Kambesi, and whose screen-type name belonged to the genus named Scomberomberus’. McCarthy applied the same neutral, scientific explanations to inanimate features of the landscape. Environmental features are labelled, named and categorised, rendering the unfamiliar explicable and placing them within a rational, scientific framework.
The role that McCarthy’s scientific discourse played in interpreting and familiarising the new landscape becomes even more apparent through the interaction between danger and scientific knowledge. Boehmer stresses that it is vital not to overlook the profound unease that radically new environments induced in officials. Colonial texts, she argues, are filled with images of nameless and unknowable dangers: vast spaces, impenetrable jungles, and swamps. McCarthy mitigated the potentially terrifying unknown through science. He drove away the thousands of bats living in his roof with his knowledge of bats’ aversion to light, by installing windows. He identified that chemical salts of the oasis water in Wajir, Kenya produced crystals in the lower urinary tract and eliminated them with a water treatment system.
On the very few occasions when McCarthy succumbed to colonial dangers, he highlighted a lack of knowledge as the problem. After a close encounter with three lions, from which he emerged ‘soaked with perspiration’ and in need of ‘a large brandy’, he explained that ‘I had not allowed for the natural curiosity of the cat family, or the fact that these particular cats had not learnt to fear man very greatly’. McCarthy’s wife Marjorie got ‘the most unpleasant rash all over the exposed parts of her body’. He eventually discovered that the fine hairs on the leaves of the castor oil plant, blowing into their house from the garden, caused the rash. McCarthy commented that the area was ‘always producing surprises, mostly surprises due to my ignorance of local things and conditions’ and, with respect to the castor oil plants, used the telling phrase ‘as everyone knows, who knows them’. It is not nature that causes danger, but one’s lack of knowledge about it. Once he possessed the necessary knowledge, McCarthy easily solved the problem of the castor oil rash. McCarthy’s medical training gave him both specific tools and a framework through which to interpret unknown landscapes, minimising their harms and making them knowable.
Alongside his scientific style, McCarthy frequently employed an orientalist mode to describe the African landscape. Acting in a similar manner to a scientific mode, orientalist tropes also familiarise foreign landscapes and subdue colonial unease by painting the African environment in the image of the familiar exotic. Remote from McCarthy’s medical education and New Zealand origin, orientalist images derive from his position within the British World and so within a culture highly familiar with such images. He would have encountered them in popular literature, in art and very likely in English literature classes at school. Zanzibar’s deep cultural links with the Middle East made orientalist images a readily applicable source of cultural knowledge for the island. Indeed, McCarthy described Zanzibar as ‘an Arab Enclave on a primitive African Continent’.
McCarthy’s writing frequently describes the East African landscape with orientalist rhetoric. On first sight, Zanzibar lay ‘against the rising sun like dark sleeping jade, while to the west were the tiny off-shore satellite island jewels’. The Sultan’s palace shone ‘pinkish in the morning light’; tropical fruits were ‘as sweet as honey’, ‘rich with the taste of a confusion of many delicate flowers’ and ‘taste[d] like wild honey scented with geranium and apricots’; Harouni’s tomb, a Persian mausoleum, is described as ‘the ruin of a miniature fairy castle’, white with ‘tall minarets and tiny rooms’. East Africa is cast as the familiar exotic ‘other’ of the British imagination, reducing its foreignness.
A crucial element of orientalism is the representation of landscape as intimately and irrevocably tied to the past. For McCarthy, Africa was a place and a personification of history. On his first view of Zanzibar, he wrote that ‘as the sun rose on the old Arab Town with its square angular Arab buildings, it suddenly became real and alive and a piece of living history’. Sometimes historic remains prompted McCarthy to imagine vividly their history, recreating scenes of royal figures, rich carved interiors and fragrant gardens. ‘One then can imagine’, McCarthy wrote, ‘him stepping out into the aromatic peacefulness of a garden, tinctured with the atmosphere of cashew nuts, nutmegs and of other aromatics which would remind him of his native land’. At one point McCarthy went further, imagining the earlier Persian civilisation’s tragic end:
One can see in imagination, this great Royal King being stricken with malaria … and his following carrying his emaciated body on a palanquin … hurrying to get their loved Chief back to the homeland. But too late, he died and left them. Their last effort before taking to their ships, was to build … this isolated tomb like fairy castle, which is the only remembrance of, and the last memorial to a loved Leader.
At first glance, these orientalist passages seem antithetical to McCarthy’s other dominant mode of writing, that of the detached scientist. Although they serve similar functions – making a foreign landscape explicable by placing it in a Western framework – they appear an unlikely pairing. However, their coexistence becomes more comprehensible when we consider the role of nostalgia. William Bissell establishes three conditions necessary for nostalgia: the sense of a linear historical timeline, with history as irretrievable and tinged with loss; comparisons between the past and present, producing a narrative of decline; and physical remains of the past to which nostalgia can attach. All of these conditions are present in McCarthy’s writing.
Bissell also argues that ‘nostalgia is a discourse sparked by transition and discontinuity’ and thus a distinctive feature of modernity. Nostalgia does not signal a desire to return to the past, but rather, as Bissell puts it, ‘speaks of aspiration without possibility’. It is no coincidence, Bissell states, that nostalgia for precolonial societies is usually expressed by those – missionaries, colonial officials, and certainly doctors – employed to change them. Presenting the land as a place of history vanishes present day indigenous cultures and legitimises British colonialism in the region. McCarthy’s orientalist sections narrate romantic respect for the past but also make this past dead and irretrievable, left behind by the march of progress. This whiggish historical narrative legitimises McCarthy’s modernising activity, which is then expressed through a scientific discourse. Nostalgia makes coherent the two modes of McCarthy’s writing.
The most unexpected aspects of the African sections of ‘A Physician to the Sultan’ are McCarthy’s supernatural discussions and records of paranormal events. The text generally does not offer explanations, and when it does they are supernatural. McCarthy described a ‘figure of an Arab’ who appeared by the head of his bed and then mysteriously vanished. By way of explanation, he wrote: ‘So what was it? I do not know. But Zanzibar was full of ghosts and ghost stories, many of them well documented and well authenticated. Perhaps the fact that these Vuga flats had been erected on the site of an old Arab graveyard, may have had some significance’. He discussed ‘some supernatural agency’ that inhabited the British residency ‘and used to make its presence offensive’. In another house, a phantom grey tabby cat appeared to McCarthy and to ‘all those who occupied that flat either previously or subsequently’.
None of these apparitions were malevolent and they did not particularly alarm McCarthy. Nevertheless, they form a striking contrast to his generally detached and scientific interpretation of the environment. In part, McCarthy’s paranormal experiences are probably a product of their time. Although today spiritualism is primarily associated with the Victorian and Edwardian eras, the movement gained popularity during the inter-war period. Indeed, both Geoffrey Nelson and Jennifer Hazelgrove pinpoint the 1930s – the period during which McCarthy was stationed in Zanzibar – as the movement’s height. Yet if spiritualist thought was the sole, or even primary, inspiration behind McCarthy’s paranormal discussions, one would expect similar events and descriptions in the New Zealand section of his manuscript.
McCarthy did also describe mysterious events in his New Zealand section, but with a substantial and telling difference from those set in East Africa. Unlike his African supernatural encounters, the seemingly mysterious New Zealand events ultimately possess a rational explanation. One evening McCarthy and two friends were returning from fishing and shooting in the Aparima River, when ‘it appeared in the moonlight, as though the ground was moving towards us like a long wave’. On a trip with two Acclimatisation Society rangers into the Lake Manapouri area, the dogs were roused one night from the campsite, ran into the bush, and returned ‘with their tails between their legs, completely cowed … and slept close beside us for the next few days’. Although less overtly supernatural, thus far these stories do not differ profoundly to those from Africa. Yet McCarthy then noted that ‘a mild earthquake had been recorded in the same region’ as the earth movement, and suggested that a takahe frightened the dogs at Lake Manapouri. Ultimately, for McCarthy the New Zealand landscape did not possess the same supernatural element as the African landscape, indicating that his mystical passages are a specific response to the African environment.
McCarthy’s orientalist mode could also have encouraged the inclusion of such passages, as the mystical is a common feature of orientalist writing. However, McCarthy typically described paranormal events in language closer to that of the scientific observer than the florid prose of the Orientalist, so orientalism alone seems an insufficient explanation. Contact between McCarthy and East African cultures provides another possible source of influence. Colonial encounters are two-way transfers of information, albeit unequal ones. Many African cultures emphasise the spiritual dimensions of landscape, peopling the land with spirits, ghosts and other supernatural creatures. It seems probable that the paranormal manifestations in McCarthy’s manuscript indicate that, while he most often imposed his own worldview onto the landscape, he also absorbed elements of the local environmental understanding.
McCarthy’s utilisation of traditional medicine and close association with local people supports the proposition that he was open to influence by local cultures. McCarthy was friendlier with the local population than most colonial officials. He believed in the efficacy of many traditional East African medical remedies and experimented with them when his own supplies were delayed. In such practices McCarthy was presumably more liberal than many of his colleagues, as he wrote that ‘perhaps this was being referred to when in later years some of my more cynical friends, were to ascribe to me the qualifications of W.W.D. (White Witch Doctor)’. McCarthy developed a close relationship with the isolated communities of the Paje and Mweju districts. After shooting two leopards that were attacking donkeys in the area, McCarthy noted that he was ‘made more and more a member of this isolated community of some 2000 people, and a close councillor of the Mwalimu himself’. He also facilitated infrastructure projects in the area, after which the local people remained his ‘very firm friends’ throughout his years in Zanzibar. This friendship was sufficiently unusual to earn from his European associates the mock title ‘The King of Mweju’, ‘always stated with a touch of gentle sarcasm and derision’. McCarthy wrote that ‘memories of work and endeavour and friendship with this simple and genuine people of this once lonely outpost … are among those that make memories worthwhile’.
It is possible to speculate that McCarthy’s New Zealand origins may have facilitated his openness to local cultures. Unlike the majority of colonial officials, McCarthy had grown up in a country that had both a non-white population and more liberal attitudes towards race than most British colonies. As a practitioner in rural Southland, Maori had accounted for a number of his patients. Although McCarthy states that he “needn’t say very much about the Maori, most of you know the Maori far better than I do,” he does comment that “we grew up with him and he was part of our general community, the only difference being that he had a brown skin and we in winter time had a white one”. Although such a view of race relations is idealised, it nevertheless suggests that McCarthy had frequent and positive interactions with Maori as a young man, interactions that could not fail to have influenced his later experiences within the Empire. It is probable that McCarthy’s New Zealand origin facilitated his openness to East African cultures and readiness to absorb elements of their interpretations of environment.
A close study of Dennis McCarthy’s manuscript illustrates that individual biographical studies are crucial for understanding trans-imperial lives. Not only does such a focus highlight spatial connections throughout European empires, but it also captures the diversity among imperial officials that can be lost in broader studies. McCarthy’s treatment of landscapes reveals that while he did apply British World standards and interpretations to East Africa, his experience of environment was far more complex.
McCarthy’s New Zealand birth and medical profession shaped his interpretation of the East African environment to a considerable degree. Comparisons between New Zealand and East Africa identified many similarities, and McCarthy’s early experiences in the New Zealand back country meant he experienced continuities where colonial officials from urban England would have encountered only the strange and unknown. His medical training encouraged a scientific literary mode and allowed him to mitigate colonial danger through the application of scientific knowledge. It is also probable that his exposure to Maori culture encouraged an openness to local environmental worldviews. Overall, McCarthy’s writing highlights the multi-faceted identities of imperial officials born in the colonies, and the ways in which those identities shaped their environmental experiences throughout the Empire.
 Julia Wells is currently undertaking a master’s in history at Victoria University of Wellington. She would like to thank Vaughan Wood and Kathryn Hunter for their comments on earlier drafts and is grateful for feedback received on a version of this work at the 2015 Australia New Zealand Society for the History of Medicine conference.
 Dennis Douglas McCarthy, ‘A Physician to the Sultan’ (unpublished manuscript, New Zealand, c.1970s), 1.
 Ibid., 12.
 Ibid., 40D, 86. Note: McCarthy’s manuscript does not have simple integer page numbers, but often also utilises letters.
 Ibid., 185-186.
 Philip Curtin, Disease and Empire: The Health of European Troops in the Conquest of Tropical Africa (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998). For examples of influential works that explore links between medicine and colonialism in Africa see Megan Vaughan, Curing their Ills: Colonial Power and African Illness (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1991); Maryinez Lyons, The Colonial Disease: A Social History of Sleeping Sickness in Northern Zaire, 1900-1940 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992); John Farley, Bilharzia: A History of Imperial Tropical Medicine (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991); Helen Tilley, Africa as a Living Laboratory (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2011).
 David Lambert and Alan Lester, Colonial Lives across the British Empire: Imperial Careering in the Long Nineteenth Century (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006).
 For example, Lambert and Lester’s Colonial Lives includes only one figure not from Britain. Ibid.
 Mary Pratt, Imperial Eyes: Travel Writing and Transculturation (London and New York: Routledge, 1992), 208-225.
 John Hatch, The History of Britain in Africa (London: Andre Deutsch, 1969), 128-129.
 Ibid., 129.
 Ibid., 130-131, 168.
 All images are from Dennis McCarthy’s photographs, held by and used with permission of the Hager family.
 W.H. Ingrams, Zanzibar: Its History and Its Peoples (Abingdon: Frank Cass and Company, 1931), 21-22.
 Ibid., 22.
 Ibid., 23.
 Richard Burton, Zanzibar: City, Island and Coast, Vol.1 (London: Tinsley Bros, 1872), 197.
 Susan Imbarrato, Traveling Women: Narrative Visions of Early America (Athens: Ohio University Press, 2006), 26, 268.
 Mary Scriber, Writing Home: American Women Abroad, 1830-1920 (Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press, 1998), 134.
 Elleke Boehmer, Colonial and Postcolonial Literature (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995), 65; McCarthy, ‘Physician’, 24C, 24G, 40D, 41.
 McCarthy, ‘Physician’, 41.
 Ibid., 12A, 16, 25-26.
 Rebecca Gordon, ‘The Landscape of Empire: The Place of Landscape in Nineteenth Century Colonial Novels’ (MA diss., Victoria University of Wellington, 2010), 28.
 McCarthy, ‘Physician’, 3A.
 Ibid., 14.
 Ibid., 22.
 Ibid., 23.
 Ibid., 41-41A.
 Ibid., 25-27, 70, 89, 102, 104.
 Roderick Neumann, ‘Ways of Seeing Africa: Colonial Recasting of African Society and Landscapes in Serengeti National Park’, Cultural Anthropology, 2.2 (1995): 154.
 Sarah Mills, Gender and Colonial Space (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2005), 74.
 Ibid.; David Spurr, The Rhetoric of Empire: Colonial Discourse in Journalism, Travel Writing and Imperial Administration (Durham: Duke University Press, 1993), 29-31.
 Boehmer, Colonial and Postcolonial Literature, 73.
 Brigitte Georgi-Findlay, The Frontiers of Women’s Writing (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1996), 81.
 Conevery Valenčius, The Health of the Country (New York: Basic Books, 2002), 167.
 Pratt, Imperial Eyes, 7, 38-39.
 McCarthy, ‘Physician’, 25.
 Ibid., 65.
 Boehmer, Colonial and Postcolonial Literature, 93.
 Ibid., 94; Spurr, The Rhetoric of Empire, 94-95.
 McCarthy, ‘Physician’, 122.
 Ibid., 188.
 Ibid., 192.
 Ibid., 33.
 Ibid., 33-33A.
 Ibid., 33.
 Ibid., 44.
 Ibid., 23.
 Ibid., 23, 41A, 100.
 Ibid., 23.
 Ibid., 102.
 William Bissell, ‘Engaging Colonial Nostalgia’, Cultural Anthropology, 20.2 (2005): 221.
 Ibid., 211, 223.
 Ibid., 225-226.
 Ibid,. 224.
 McCarthy, ‘Physician’, 33B.
 Ibid., 33C.
 Ibid., 33D-33E.
 Jennifer Hazelgrove, ‘Spiritualism after the Great War’, Twentieth Century British History, 10.4 (1999): 404-405.
 Ibid., 405.
 McCarthy, ‘Physician’, 9.
 Ibid., 9-10.
 Bissell, ‘Engaging Colonial Nostalgia,’ 230.
 Ogbu Kalu, ‘The Sacred Egg: Worldview, Ecology and Development in West Africa’ in Indigenous Traditions and Ecology, ed. John Grim (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 2001), 230-237; Vimbai Chivaura, ‘African Indigenous Worldviews and Ancient Wisdom: A Conceptual Framework for Development in South Africa’ in Indigenous Peoples’ Wisdom and Power: Affirming our Knowledge through Narratives, ed. Julian Kunnie and Nomalungelo Goduka (Aldershot and Burlington: Ashgate, 2006), 214-215.
 McCarthy, ‘Physician’, 34A.
 Ibid., 42-45.
 Ibid., 42.
 Ibid., 42-45.
 Ibid., 28.
 Ibid., 45.
 Ibid., 16.
 McCarthy, ‘Polynesia Story’ (unpublished notes, New Zealand, 1970s), 1.
 Lambert and Lester, Colonial Lives, 20-21.