In 1937, for most civilians on a freight boat, docking meant wandering the port town, or, at more touristy stops, perhaps embarking on an organized tour. But on this freight boat, a certain crewman has a motorcycle, and on it, he and this story’s heroine skip the docks and zoom off where the roads take them.
The after the trip letter
"...there was a hair-raising ride on the "rumble" of the motorcycle miles out of town, off the main road on a more goat track, into the "Valley of a Thousand Hills”.
Side note: The first several times I read that sentence, my brain saw ‘rumble’ and thought she meant their ride was rumbly (like bumpy, because of goat tracks and such).
But no, she is ‘on THE rumble…’ and ChatGTP says this was a folding seat added for extra passengers of cars and motorcycles. And the person often sat backwards (but how on a motorcycle??).
I bet her trip on the rumble did indeed feel rumbly (both meanings!).
And the goat tracks… I’m no goat expert, but they jump around aimlessly a lot, not making road-like tracks (at least on Instagram). Goats make rumbly tracks, I’m going to guess.
The blow by blow journal
Traffic in Durban directed by microphone from a balcony above the street “Hurry along there, don’t cross when the light is red.” There is to be a drive for less traffic noise, starting with ‘hootless’ Fridays.
Side note: From the “Hurry along there…” realtime traffic scoldings to ‘hootless Fridays’, British Durban, at least how she paints it, seems a bit Monty Python (that is a compliment).
“Traffic in Durban directed by microphone from a balcony above the street, ‘Hurry along there, don’t cross when the light is red.'”
Sat. Dec. 11: 6:45 a.m. — To the customs with Shag while he cleared the bike. Wide streets, attractive window displays, numerous tall buildings, many modernistic. Charming English type houses set in lovely gardens, a profusion of flowers in bloom — glads, snapdragon, morning glory, jacaranda, hibiscus, royal poinciana, stopped at a tea garden run by a Dutch lady Shag knew, had scones, hot chocolate and honey.
Side note: They were able to somehow coordinate a scone meet up with Shag’s friend in 1937!? Maybe she said, “Shag, do stop by my tea garden near Durban next time you travel around the world…” and then she just happens to be there. I lived for half my life without phones, but the latter me cannot recall how the former me got anywhere. Please ask my husband about when I arranged for a dinner date at a restaurant we like, and he found me waiting for him at a different restaurant, annoyed that he was late. This was in like 2016.
To the Valley of a Thousand Hills — like nothing I've ever seen — round, green and treeless, and surrounded by mountains in an endless succession of plateaus. Off the main road (where the native dwellings are like the shacks in Southern USA except that they're made of corrugated iron -- and the costume is fairly citified) headed for Zululand. The going becomes precipitous, don't look now but it's 500 ft. to the bottom, we're on a narrow path cut with a chisel out of the cliff, and momentarily I expect to slide forward over the handle bars.
Side note: “Bond…. Helen Bond.” And this is where goats come in handy… the craggy rock stuff.
The road narrows to a wagon track, then to a foot path, and we are in the midst of Zululand. The native kraals are built on a circular spot of ground, the huts are round, made of mud and thatched. Sat and feasted our eyes on the valley and on the plateau beyond. Numerous Zulu passed, asked for cigarettes "ticky", the men are handsome stalwarts, the women sturdy, costume varies. Most wear a cloth draped around the waist, falls below the knees, all bare footed, naked above the waist. Some have bustle-arrangements that wag when they walk, babies carried in a sling on the back. Probably covered 75 mi. today.
Side note: Wouldn’t you think these days a ‘children as scenery’ should seem dated? Sadly, it’s still all too common.
Sun. Dec. 12: Drove in the Reo down the South Coast. Hiked down another 300 ft. thru jungle growth — wild bananas, cactus, palms, to the beach and on down to a special cove. Beautiful rock formation, gorgeous surf. Stayed until 11:00 p.m. (and I had date with Shag for the evening — visited with him in the engine room a bit).
Side note: Jungles can have cactus. I just looked it up. And ‘visit… in the engine room a bit’ oooo. Note the time! She was at the beach until ELEVEN pm. Also, ‘a bit’ is still a classic ‘mention-but-minimize’ technique that remains contemporary. No?
Mon. Dec. 13: Ruth and I to town at 9:30, bot decorations for the Christmas party, noise makers for all. Shag and I drove out into the sugar plantation country, miles of it, like Iowa corn. S. and I were going dancing, but at the last moment decided on a bike ride, instead, wonderfully exhilarating. Out to the beach, sat and talked, listened to the roar of the surf.
Side note: So much roaring (she uses that word more than once) adventure for these two. Can one absorb so many core memories in such a short time?? All the senses at once. I hope so.
At 2:00 Shag and I went in on the bike, visited the Royal Auto Club, listened for two hours to plans for a trip from Cape to Algiers. He discouraged trying Cairo, too much swamp to go thru. Stimulation of the imagination to the boiling point, it almost sounds feasible. Think of seeing the mountains of the moon at the headwaters of the Nile.
“Think of seeing the mountains of the moon at the headwaters of the Nile.”
Side note: Remember talk of the 10,000 kilometer road trip from a few posts ago? It’s sounding like more than just a pipe dream. Being a race car dude, Shag can likely name drop and such and have a bit more leverage than the average guy on port leave.
Strung up my hammock and chewed the rag until 10 and I was so sleepy I couldn't hold my eyes open. Unloading went on until midnight, lumber and asphalt coming out. Stevedores had a chant which rose and swelled like some of our great Negro choruses.
Side note: I’m not sure what choruses she had seen/heard, but some lovely ones existed then. Beautiful and haunting.
And chew the rag, we learned before, means talk; while chew the rug means dance.
Wed. Dec. 15: Motor bike to the airport, several Gypsy Moths. Tariff: 10 min flight – 10 shillings each for 2; dual instruction – 3£ per hour; solo – 2£ 9/ per hour. Result: we stayed on the ground, rode across to the Durban Air Station, saw a Junkers take off – ugly things on the ground, corrugated metal like the old Fords. An S.A. flying boat flew over. Airport Adm. Building attractively modern, field small, bumpy.
Side note: she doesn’t seem too upset that she didn’t get to fly. The ship, the ports, the motorbike, and most probably Shag, seem to be giving her an equivalent rush.
At 5:00 walked with Shag to the "Pommern" 4 masted barque (Clyde 1903) from Finland, much smaller than the "Viking", dirty, cramped quarters, shouldn't want to sail on her. A French gunboat, the "Bouganiville" tied up near us. A sleek, slim ship, carrying a seaplane. Jaunty costume of the French Navy, striped blue and white vests, red pompom on flat-top white caps.
Side note: jaunty is not really what the military goes for in a look.
Thur. Dec. 16: Bed about 2 a.m. Woke at 4 a.m. and couldn't get back to sleep. Dressed and went for a walk on the quay – rosy sunrise. At 6:00 swung my hammock and read until 7. Wind blew in blustery fashion all day. I was very lazy. I visited Shag in the morning, heard about his brother Jack. Tried to sleep in the p.m. but was nearly blown out of the hammock.
Side note: Shag’s brother, Jack Shadbolt, was Roy’s older brother, who was still younger than Helen. The scandal! Jack was a well known artist and we will hear more about him later.
More about everything later! But for now, over and out.
Flying Under the Radar 