Nelson Dias

Nelson Bento Herculano

(Class of 61) 

May 19, 1944 - Dec 4, 2022

It is with much sadness that we announce the passing away of Nelson Dias on Dec 4, 2022 in Goa. Nelson suddenly passed away without any indication of major ill health issues.  Son of Thomas and Theddy Dias,  Nelson leaves behind his son Lee (Chloe) and daughter, Tracy and grandchildren Isabel and Rory.  Nelson will be terribly missed by his Brother Edward (Julia) and sister Vivienne, nieces Candice, Madeline and Nephew Jonathan.

Updated March 17, 2023:

Memorial Mass for Nelson  Dias scheduled for Sunday, April 16, 2023 at 1:30 PM

Sacred Heart of Jesus Church

New Priory, Quex Road (Just off the Edgware Rd)

Kllburn, London NW6 4PS 

Memorial Mass Video

There is ample parking in and around the church and it is served by various tube/train stations. Nearest tube is probably Bakerloo line to Kilburn Park  

All are welcome, if possible, please let us know if you are attending,   email:  ejdias@talktalk.net

A Travelling Man

By Vivienne D'Silva

I sit here leafing through Nelson’s many passports and I cant help but think of us when we were young and in Kenya, did we ever imagine that we would travel so far and wide? Indeed, Nelson, saw most of the world both as a tourist and whilst working.

He had an idyllic life in Kenya, a bright pupil of Dr. Riberio Goan School, he mostly enjoyed nature and as children we spent hours trying to trap robins under straw baskets propped up by a stick that was attached to a string. But Kenya was not enough and in 1965 he decided to travel to London. His journey was mainly overland via Djibouti, Marseilles and eventually to London, where he worked at Norwich Union and the Post Office before joining the RAF to study radio/telecommunication engineering. It was to be his chosen path through life.

With the RAF he was based in Cologne with Rona, his wife and had his son Lee.  On return to London, he worked for British Gas and a daughter, Tracy, complemented his family. They immigrated to Toronto, Canada.  Sadly that marriage ended.

Riyadh Saudi, Tel Aviv-Israel, California US, Bangkok, Puerto Plata, Porto Rica, Paraguay, Argentina and probably a few more places that I have forgotten, where he worked with Ericsson in the forefront of cell phone technology and where it appears his skills were in demand. He lived in Oaxaca, Peru and Chile.

For me, he was my brother; actually a soul mate and a good friend.  We spent many vacations together traveled round Mexico in a Beetle, Paraguay, Spain and India.

Hard for some to believe, but as Lee in his tribute to his father and Candice in her tribute to her uncle, both said he was a very patient man that they could go to him with their problems.  I never found him judgmental but totally supportive and a very loyal son who would always be there in an emergency.

On his many stays with me, I would love the way, half way through his day, he would call up friends all over the world and chat with them, always laughing heartily.

I shall miss his grinning face, his vast knowledge of world politics and his bombastic command of the English language.  It is therefore ironic then, that he found his way to Goa, where he had his own villa, and now lays peacefully with my mother and father forever.

What follows is Nelson in his own words, 'My journey from Nairobi to London'.....

It was late August 1965 and I could feel the walls closing in on me.  A few months earlier my position in The Provincial Education Department had been Africanised, an on-going program designed to remove non-Africans from the civil service.  Within a short time I got another job with Norwich Union Fire Insurance.  This was a welcome opportunity to have an income while cogitating on my next move.

I was sitting in the car with Ralph, outside the Old Mutual building.  We talked about the number of our friends and acquaintances who had departed for the UK. Eugene Pereira, Tim Fernandes, Cyril Rebello and Roland D'Souza.  This was a never-ending list and, to the contrary, was being added to as the dark clouds gathered on the Asian community in Nairobi.

The East African Standard had an advert for berths available on a French shipping line, Messagerie Maritime that plied between Marseille, France, and Reunion, a French dependency off the South African coast.  This line carried cargo, passengers and troops between France and Africa.

We talked about it and decided to get in touch with the shipping line. They informed us that passages were available at the end of October in 1st, 2nd and bunk class.  Needless to say bunk class was the only one that made financial sense.  We subsequently booked ourselves to leave Mombasa on 1st November 1965.

I resigned from my position with Norwich Union and was ready for my adventure to Europe. We approached our impending trip with excitement, not knowing what we would encounter on our voyage, but we were young and indestructible so no problems.  At the end of October my brother, Edward, drove Ralph and me to Mombasa for the start of our journey.

We bunked in at the tailor's society in Mombasa and in the morning we were up and ready for breakfast, etc.  Then we loaded the car and headed off to Kilindini docks where we were greeted by the sight of this tired steamer tied up at the far end of the docks.

We showed the shipping representative out boarding passes and we were directed to the bowels of the ship.  There were rows upon rows of bunk beds, but there was no one else on board. We settled in our bunks, making the beds, depositing our suitcases and then wandering around the ship, quite excited at the prospect of sailing to France.

Soon we were joined by two others, Tony Couts, from Mombasa and, I think, Walter from Nakuru. We didn't know either one of them but we soon got to discussing our forthcoming voyage.  The next time we went back to our bunks we encountered two Indians; one was an older guy in his late forties and the other was a young man still in his teens.  We all started chatting and we discovered the older guy was called Papaji and the other was Bhasker, a really naive young man.  The only common thread that connected us was that we were all heading to London.

After a few days sailing we headed to Djibouti in French Somaliland.  We docked here for a few hours and we were permitted to explore this desolate wasteland.  Dry and bereft of any meaningful vegetation and being stared and glared at by some of the Somalis.  We were pleased to be leaving the port, as the only interesting aspect of our docking was access to the duty free shops.

Meals on board ship was French fare but not what most people would associate with that country's cuisine.  It was basic but each one of us was given a bottle of wine to accompany the meals.  This made the food palatable to some. I enjoyed the blue cheese that they also served up and acquired a taste for it that has lasted to this day.

We encountered some rough seas but nothing to complain about.  The ship moved inexorably northwards and soon turned west into the Red Sea.  As the ship sailed northeast through the Red Sea we caught glimpses of the coastline, nothing but unrelenting sand, totally devoid of any vegetation or any signs of life.

The ship soon got to Port Suez, the date, 5 November 1965 where we stopped for quite a while.  Shipping heading east into the Indian Ocean had to be cleared first as the ships had gathered in a convoy in the Great Bitter Lakes.

We were advised to disembark and take in the sights but we were also warned that the ship would be leaving in the early day and would depart with or without its passengers who had wandered on shore.

As we descended the gangplank onto the docks we were met by a swirling crowd of hawkers selling all sorts of cheap trinkets, Nefertiti busts, the Sphinx, and miniatures of the pyramids. We browsed through the offerings and I bought a really cheap wallet, embossed with a figure of a camel!

Then off we went sightseeing, as there were numerous shops, stalls and bars.  This tourist trap was crammed with stalls and stores offering a ton of stuff, most of it, beyond what our wallets could bear.  We were continually being accosted by vendors offering carpets, leather craft and jewellery. Some of the rings adorned by 2 to 3 carat of 'diamonds'!  We gave them all a wide berth until we could hear music wafting out of this bar with garish neon signs, beckoning us to enter and taste its wares.

As we entered the bar, thick with smoke, straight out of a Humphrey Bogart movie, we encountered lovely, young women sporting every hue under the beguiling moon.  We casually shrugged off the arms being draped across our waists or shoulders and sauntered to the bar.

We turned around and, lo and behold, Papaji had two women leaning against his shoulders as he went into a room.  His face was positively glowing and his smile spread from ear to ear. He waved us goodbye and told us not to wait for him.

The evening was getting quite tiring as we wended our way back to the ship.  Bhasker had left a little earlier as he had had enough of this sin city.

The next day the ship cast off and Papaji was nowhere to be found. As the ship sailed slowly heading towards the canal, a cutter came speeding towards the ship. It was the pilot's boat and he had Papaji on board; the gangplank was lowered and Papaji scrambled up the walkway and towards us.

He looked a little sheepish as he approached us. Asked how did it go and he replied that he couldn't remember a thing!  Evidently he was drugged and he had signed all of his traveller’s cheques to his newfound friends. All that he had on him were the stubs to which the cheques had been attached. He was glum for the rest of the voyage.

As we entered the Mediterranean the seas became quite choppy resulting in a load of passengers looking green around the gills. All of us were fine and went up to the bow of the ship as it ploughed through the sea.  The rest of the voyage was uneventful as headed to France, but the weather was turning quite chilly. We docked in Marseille on 10 November.

Immigration and customs clearance was very straightforward.  Perhaps they were accustomed to brown skinned, English speaking young men vending their way to the UK via France.

We went to the rail station and got a train to Paris and from there off to Calais. We got a ferry to Dover and then a train to London, all seemed a breeze and on arrival in London we headed to the Catholic Youth Hostel in Manor Park.

........that was a summary of our journey to Blighty.

Nelson Dias