From My Notebooks In 1975: Hair From An Elephant’s Tail

Early on my journey, when I was passing through Kenya I became friends, briefly (all my friendships were necessarily brief) with a man whose brother had married and gone to live in Australia. When he heard that Australia was on my route he asked me to take along two bracelets woven with the hair from an elephant’s tail. They were remarkable objects. The hair was like wire, black and polished, and he said they were supposed to confer virility on the male, and seductiveness on the female. I was already carrying a ceremonial sword from one brother in Egypt to another in Brazil, and I rather enjoyed the idea of being a sentimental postman. This brother, Brian Adams, lived near Cairns. and I had his address, in Redlynch, so naturally that was where we were headed, two years later.

Riding north after crossing the Tropic of Capricorn for the sixth time:

December 27th

Road reports say only obstruction to Cairns is flooding just before Ingham. A fairly easy day – except for pushing the bike through the flood. Above Ingham, country seems to change finally to tropical and for both of us, it seems to symbolise a sort of escape from the rigidity of Australia. Sun out a lot of the way. Bike seems to be going well and everything has dried out well before we reach Cairns at about 3pm. However, Redlynch is on the north side. The low range of mountains we’ve seen to the north-west slide in closer until we’re facing into them and pointed at the heart of a small but very black rainstorm. No matter how the road wriggles it always comes back to the same bearing and at last we ride into an absolute torrent of rain falling exclusively on Redlynch. The P.O. is shut (Why? It’s taken for granted) but two Italian brothers in the store next door – they’ve been here for decades and still can hardly manage an English sound – say they’ve heard of an Adams (Edems?) across the river, 3rd house after the cane barracks, but the creek might be up. So on we go, both with our separate premonitions.

The house is empty, but a dark young man in grey working shorts and shirt drove past the cane field on the right in a tractor and pulled up in front of his house. He was farmer and landlord of the other houses. Says Mary was in England and Brian was “up to the Cape.” They had split up. The time and distance I had travelled to get here from Kenya weighed on me. While I was riding, the world was changing – too fast for me perhaps. If I had arrived a year before with my “elephant tail charms” – virility to the male, seductiveness to the female – would it have saved the marriage? Rot!

In the tropical north strange creatures lurk behind the lush vegetation

Talked to the Adams’ friends, Jan and Jean (French). They explained a bit of what had happened. Said Brian was back from the Cape. When we DID meet Brian, red hair and beard, the sort of green marble eyes I imagine on Drake, he took our presence entirely for granted.

Tuesday 30th

First day at Cairns. Brian suggests we go with him to Port Douglas. There his friend Anne and 3 kids meet us. We eat pies and walk to the beach, the harbour, and up to the head. Sensitive mimosa on the ground. Long narrow beaches under coco palms. But can’t swim in summer because jellyfish (box jellies) are very painful and can kill.

(There were three types of jelly on a warning poster at Shute Harbour – Box, Seawasp and Bluebottle. Also Stone fish and sea snakes can kill.)

Triumph agent in Cairns is Trusty Rusty Rees. His son was at the shop when I arrived – blonde hair slicked down, young face coarsened and battered with discoloured teeth, a fancy blue denim suit flared in all directions (lapels, shoulders, skirt, legs) with raised seams all over, and a tie like a sunburst flat fish hanging at his neck and almost covering his shirtfront with dayglo. He was, incredibly, just on his way to a funeral.

Behold. the marsupial tractor

Cairns is a noughts and crosses grid of a half dozen streets, and a neat harbour. It’s a favourite place for high-powered, deep-sea fishing maniacs. (Dean Martin?) and the strange craft with scaffolding and long alloy rods like antennae are lined up along the jetty, their prestigious-looking barbers’ chairs facing back. Marlin is what brings them all here.

The town has a pub/hotel at every corner, and a number of others in-between. Men sit on stools, staring out vacantly. The facades have an aura of something exciting in the past – but even that I now feel is illusory – just monuments to a time when men’s rapacity had freer reign than now.

Those men who left the cities or country of their youth to make fortunes at the frontiers must have left terrible traumas behind them of envy, resentment. Australia seems to me to be overcast by their influence.

Minerals, sugar-cane, logging – already many kinds of timber are scarce – silky oak, cedar. Australia imports much timber from Oregon. Before the war, says Sonia (?) [Australia] sold coal to Germany for 5 cents a ton. There they found enough gold in the coal to pay for the shipping.

Wednesday 31st

Last thing I’d noticed before stopping the bike yesterday was rough noise and burning oil. Took the engine down today in the morning and took barrel into town. A lot of wear on one cylinder – and that very uneven – as if some abrasive material got in. Lot of carbon on piston crown too. But no good pistons to be had in Cairns or Brisbane. Decided that [indecipherable] pistons would see me through, and to ask Triumph to send some to Melbourne while we limped back there. Called London that night, but Peter Harland on holiday.

[THEN THIS. I DON’T KNOW WHY]

They believed a man should choose his own name, so they wanted to give their son all the initials in the alphabet. But the vicar objected to having to read the alphabet out loud at the christening. Why not call him Alphabet, he suggested? So they agreed thinking he’d change it some day. But he never did, and Alphabet Jones is what he was when he died.

New Year’s Day, 1976

Reassembled the bike. Failed again to reach London. Brian made a super curry. He’d hoped to celebrate with Anne, but she didn’t dare go out under threats of violence from her husband.

I’m away in Mexico for a few weeks, so you may not be hearing from me for a while. Just listened to “State of the Union.” I leave you in the hope and belief that Joe Biden can turn the tide. He should be able to. After all he’s a young man from where I stand. If he can’t there will be hell to pay.