From My Notebooks In 1974: Africa
24th May 2026 |
Finally my ship, the Zoe.G, is ready to sail from Lourenço Marques for Brasil. It’s eight o’clock and dark.
L.M. Wednesday, May 8th
The pilot appears in the doorway of the captain’s cabin. A dark, bearded figure in a heavy coat. He seems shrouded in darkness and mystery. A portentous figure.
“Are you ready, Captain? “The boat has been shivering gently for hours, a soft, almost inaudible rustling in the paneling. Like the breath of a sleeping child, flowing and ebbing, flowing and ebbing. The Captain, in cream shirt and grey flannels with a zip that won’t quite close, has been like any office worker in a humdrum business tapping out tedious letters on a clapped-out Standard typewriter, and filling in forms. The agent’s clerk in charge of the manifest has noted the loading for fuel, water, the expected time of arrival in Fortaleza, the draught fore and aft and the anticipated mean draught at Fortaleza. He is a tall, graceful Portuguese Indian with a liquid charm and a wry smile which carries a permanent suggestion that behind the apparent reality of the moment is an altogether different and more significant reality which promises little good. We have been discussing the future of Moçambique after the coup.
“There will be trouble,” he says. “You will see. You will hear about it. there will be bloodshed.”
Politely he listens to my arguments, but they carry no weight, and don’t convince me either.
“I was four years in the army fighting this war. I left university to go to the army. When I finished I gave up university. There was no time anymore. It was necessary to put my feet on the ground. Now I am married. I have children. Am I going to go back to the army now? We can fight this war 4,8,12, 16 years but we will have to give it away in the end.”
The pilot puts an end to the talk. Amade (his name) uncrosses his legs and smiles encouragingly at me as though it were I who faced the miserable uncertainties of Africa. We shook hands and he jumped ashore from the rail.
“Go up on the bridge,” he said, “You will see it better from there.”
The pilot is on the bridge with the captain. Above them is another open deck around the funnel which is exuding steam like a simmering kettle. Far below me Amade is at the quayside. At last the stern is cast off and begins to part, very slowly, from the quayside. I hear the whistle and chatter of the walkie-talkies. Already the stern has swung clear of the bows of the next ship in line along the quayside. Amade gives a last wave and turns away to walk across the sidings, away from the lights into the shadows of the yard, over the coal black dust, back to the town. I’m going to Rio. He’s going nowhere. An immense sadness reaches out to me and then fades as he moves out of sight among the goods wagons.
The ship has now swung out at thirty degrees to the quay and crossing to the other side I see why. A long tugboat is hauling the stern out into the harbour – the “Chamite” – a throbbing power-house of energy.
Suddenly excitement rushes up in me with a flush of adrenalin. From this angle I can see the full line of vessels stretching out in both directions as far as I can see. . A magical sight. All brilliant, glowing, like a thousand lanterns, tantalising, inviting, promising joy, like department stores at Christmas time, like a giant festival, a fairground. Nothing gladdens the heart like lights shining in darkness. I am so overjoyed that I leap up and down and shout. Heaven knows what the Captain down below makes of my antics. The tug lets go of the stern now, and its bulbous padded nose slides along the side of the ship and rams into the bows, chugging again, swinging round to complete a full circle until at last we are pointing out to sea. Behind me the funnel belches exhaust, and the Zoe.G’s Burmeister engines take up the strain. The journey has begun, and the tugboat slips away, streaking away to port, flaunting her power, her work done.
Ahead of us a trail of blue flashing buoys perforate the black water and leads us out past other floating fairylands at anchor in the bay.
There are several elements in this scene which I have not isolated but which combine to produce this sense of elation. First of course the prospect of Brasil. Every development brings that continent nearer. Then the pleasure of seeing massive objects in effortless motion, on water or in air. Then the lights, which provide an outline, illuminate a few planes and recesses, but leave the rest to the imagination. In every respect there is a benign magic at work, shaping the world for my special pleasure and benefit. I’m also impressed by the size of the harbour which seems immensely long. Counting the ships I can see there are more than 12 tied up (including the space left by the Zoe.G.) but the impression is of a far greater number. All the squalour and ugliness of the docks has disappeared, and it is pure magic.
The ecstasy endures for perhaps five minutes. The ensuing misery for perhaps 24 hours. In the morning I feel fine – it seems that yesterday’s magic will protect me from sickness, and with confidence I sit down to bacon and eggs at 7 am. The sky is cloudy, and the sea is swelling. By ten there is a gale blowing, and the sea has grown even more. My uneasiness has grown with it. Now the ship is see-sawing and rolling heavily, and I am pitched into full-scale sea sickness which I have never experienced before. There is only one place on the ship where I can bear to stand, on the starboard gangway at the pivotal point of the pitch. Here at least the possibilities for violent motion are reduced by one. By burping and belching constantly I can hold on to my stomach but evidently I can’t stay here all day and night. I decide to try lying down in the cabin. The effect is instantaneous and disastrous. The process which begins there is quite irreversible. My stomach goes into a floating wobble as though completely detached from its moorings, something grips my throat, my mouth fills with saliva which seems to be pouring out of it and reminds me of a beast of prey. There is time to get out to the rail. The vomiting is accompanied by an involuntary noise, and the sound of this ugly, croaking despairing noise issuing with my breakfast is perhaps the worst part of the experience. The palpitations continue. Then there is a period of beautiful peace. During the rest of the afternoon I resume my place on the gangway, watching the sea. The ship is swinging and rolling wildly now. The sea is in turmoil – lumps of black water with white crests rushing about in aimless fury, colliding with each other. The wind whips up a spray. The clouds discharge their rain. The two meet and for a while the sky and the sea merge into the same element, a swirling fusion of wind and water. It is impossible not to think of the sea as alive. Now I understand the origins of Neptune, the sprites. There is a life force at work here. The waves are merely cloaks for devils tearing about below the surface, the crests are a froth whipped up by their tridents.
The Zoe.G. is about 300 feet long and weighs some 4000 tons. She rides up on a swell and falls again through an angle of thirty degrees. When she comes down she hammers the sea with her bows and the sea rushes off screaming pain and vengeance. Where the Zoe.G. has hammered the sea, livid bruises appear, patches of the palest blue where the ships’ hull has smashed air and water together so hard that they remain entangled in the wake of the vessel as far back as one can see. Still the fury mounts. Every inch of water is covered with a lacy foam flying across the surface. Looking down into it makes you want to hold on to everything very tightly, because nothing could survive in that cauldron.
By dinner time it occurs to me that some soup might help. But it’s fish soup, and as I eat it I know it’s no help. Soon after I’m violently sick again. In the peace that follows I get into bed. The motion of the ship now declares itself in the purest geometrical forms. I feel myself tracing out patterns through the mattress. The most spectacular movement is the corkscrew which drills me down into the bed. Several doors are flying about and have to be secured but at last, inevitably, I sleep. The next day is clear and blue. The sea is calm, although the ship can still swing quite far in a gentle sea. Still I feel queasy and nervous of a recurrence. I’m resigned to three days of sickness but that seems like an eternal prospect. Since it began I have not been able to get my mind off it for more than five minutes. It is mentally and physically exhausting. I dare to eat a grapefruit. Nothing awful happens. Later I pick out what’s left of an over-ripe avocado. Still no disasters, but no real relief either. The mess boy tries to persuade me to have lunch. Says it’s better to eat. I refuse him and mean to keep off food until the next day. But at dinner time (5.30} on an impulse I go in and sit. What I’m more afraid of than the food is the effect of sitting down inside. But it seems better now. I eat a plate of sliced tomato. With each mouthful I feel stronger. It’s too good to believe. The main course arrives. Roast lamb full of garlic and a heap of greasy roast potatoes, but nothing can stop me. I eat the lamb. Delicious. Even a beer. Seems crazy. It’s over.
My bike was strapped up on deck under a tarp – a sad, huddled object. Later I took half a teaspoon of salt out of the carb.