of whales. Prancing all over the deck, scrambling up the rigging, he was
beside himself with excitement, relapsing entirely into French
punctuated with staccato bursts of “Ooo-la-la! Ooo-la-la!” One whale, of
impressive size, came up for mutual inspection less than a boat’s length
away. We all felt, a little nervously, that that was quite close enough
and were relieved when he apparently felt the same, and sounded.
We hove to once on this passage, in a heavy thunderstorm, with driving
rain and incessant lightning. The wind oscillated between dead calm and
terrific gusts, so we thought it better to strike all sail and wait for
the weather to make up its mind. Early next morning, with the wind still
strong and the seas high, we could see the loom of Durban’s lights on
the horizon just before dawn. Throughout the day we worked our way in
but the wind was dead against us and after taking several long tacks,
each of which put us only slightly nearer our goal, it became apparent
that we could not make it before dark. I wanted to lay off, but my crew
had land fever and I finally compromised by trying to raise the harbor
officials by radio telephone.
Five miles off the harbor entrance, I made contact and a pilot boat was
sent out to meet us. The seas were much too rough for them to take us in
tow, but they stood by for the next three hours while we labored along
under sail and engine, against wind, heavy seas, and the outgoing tide,
at the magnificent speed of one knot. Inside the channel, well after
dark, they finally came alongside, put a pilot aboard, and guided us
briskly into the completely landlocked harbor, where we were put on a
buoy for the night.
On our way up the channel, with Nick at the tiller, my crew were given a
lesson in how to answer orders. Over and over on the trip I had
emphasized the need for repeating an order aloud, in times of stress or
noise, so there could be no misunderstanding. The Japanese had been very
reluctant to cooperate, perhaps feeling that it put them in a
subservient position. Now, on our way up the channel, the pilot called
an order to the helmsman and Nick, as usual, obeyed silently. In no
uncertain terms, though quite politely, the pilot directed Nick (through
me) to repeat every order _as given_.
I thought it a salutary lesson and was human enough to see the culprit,
thus reprimanded, squirm. And yet I wish I could report that the lesson
had been learned. On the contrary, perhaps because of the loss of face
involved, the issue became sharper than ever before.
It was a baffling situation. A couple of years earlier I would have
dissolved the relationship summarily, exercising my right to demand
compliance even though it forced a parting of the ways. Now, however,
the desire to succeed in our trip, to keep our original group intact,
had assumed an importance that made the question “Who is boss?” seem a
bit childish. In addition, I believe I was gaining in patience and
understanding, in desire to understand the point of view of my
companions. Their deep insecurity in the many situations they had to
face around the world gave them a real need to re-establish constantly
their status as equals. Untrained in democratic procedures, they at
times withdrew from responsibility and left the entire weight of
decisions to me; and at times reasserted their independence by refusing,
in unimportant details, to accept any suggestion of authority.
Perhaps, I told myself, I was demanding a subservience to which I was
not entitled. Perhaps the matter of repeating orders should be relegated
to the same category as saluting the bridge or piping the captain
aboard, observances of rank and authority that were perhaps correct in
their proper place but not aboard a small boat. And yet, balancing all
this rationalization was the knowledge that, in a tight spot, an order
not heard or perhaps misunderstood could mean the loss of the ship. I
didn’t give a damn about salutes and pipes, but I cared a great deal
about my family and the _Phoenix_.
At any rate, by 2130 we were snugly moored with the lights of Durban all
about us. Barbara, who had not wanted to miss our entrance, now went
below to whip up a late, hot supper, and everyone visibly relaxed as I
broke out a bottle of rum. I brought my log up to date: our last lap of
16 days at sea had added another 1,756 miles; another ocean crossed,
another continent, another milestone on our voyage. We were in Africa!
12 SOUTH AFRICA:
BEAUTIFUL, UNHAPPY LAND
“What will you do when that day comes?”
In the morning we were again picked up by the pilot and escorted to a
mooring in the small-craft harbor.
“There will be no charge,” he told us.
“None at all?” I was incredulous, remembering that they had come out at
our request and stood by for three hours while we crawled in.
“No charge,” he repeated. “We’re happy to serve you.”
It was luck we arrived when we did, for by the next week they could not
have served us at any price. The pressure from the Suez crisis was
beginning to be felt and every pilot was working almost around the
clock. Even so, many ships were obliged to stand off and wait before
they could be brought in for refueling, and their lights at night
stretched along the coast like an offshore roadway.
Our next contact with South African officialdom was not so hospitable. I
hit a snag when I reported to immigration officials and tried to clarify
the position of the Japanese. There are few Orientals in South Africa,
most of them transients aboard ships, who never leave the ports. Upon
learning that we _all_ planned to take a trip to Kruger National Park,
the officials became disturbed and downright uncooperative. The Japanese
were “urgently advised against” using public transportation; we were
“strongly urged” not to travel as a mixed group. And, in any event, the
Japanese could not leave Durban without permission. When I requested
that permission, they said they would “take the matter under advisement”
and that it would be necessary to “clear with Pretoria.” In the meantime
Nick, Mickey, and Moto were restricted to the city.
A reporter got hold of the story and asked me about it. I pointed out
that I had obtained, at a cost of £5 apiece, valid visas for these men
and that no travel restrictions had been mentioned. I added that had I
known of conditions here I would have entered at Portuguese Lourenço
Marques and given Durban a miss altogether.
Since Durban is one of the largest holiday and resort centers in South
Africa, this blast, delivered primarily to get a gripe off my chest, was
given a big play in the papers. Just at this time the men received an
invitation from the Japanese Ambassador to visit the Embassy in
Pretoria. I was summoned back to the immigration office and told that a
special pass would be issued (at the cost of an extra pound apiece) so
that the Japanese could make a trip to Pretoria and Johannesburg, said
trip to take no more than four days, including travel time. It was not
until I got back to the boat that we discovered that the pass had been
dated as of the day of issue and therefore the first day of the allotted
time period had already elapsed. Since it takes twenty-six hours to get
to Johannesburg—and an equally long time to return—it didn’t leave much
time for visiting the Embassy or doing any sightseeing. Nevertheless,
two of the three elected to go anyway. On their return they replied,
briefly, to our questions, that they had had “a nice time,” whatever
that means. They never elaborated except that once, many months later,
Barbara asked Nick, “How did you like your trip to Johannesburg?”
Nick replied, “Terrible!” and that closed the conversation.
The situation for the three M’s throughout our stay in South Africa was
anomalous in the extreme and the above is only a sample. The government
itself seems confused as to who is who, and their definitions of racial
categories do little to clarify the situation. The official definition
of “European,” as stated in a government publication, is as follows:
“European” means a person who in appearance is, or who is generally
accepted as a white person, but does not include a person who,
although in appearance obviously a white person, is generally accepted
as a coloured person. (A “coloured person,” under the same edict, is a
person who is “neither European nor a Native.” “I guess that means
us,” Jessica decided. “We’re American.”)
So confused is the terminology that one of our “European” acquaintances
reacted with horror when I described a friend as a “native of New
Zealand.”
“Oh,” she cried, “I didn’t think they allowed natives there!” To her—and
to many in South Africa—“native” is synonymous with “black man”—nothing
else. So accepted is this double talk that newspapers actually referred
to a visiting diplomat from Ethiopia as a “foreign native”!
Japanese may be officially regarded as “European,” but the ruling meant
nothing to the man on the street. Each waiter or box-office clerk, was
forced to make his own decision, to serve or not to serve.
Early in their stay, before they had become so sensitive that they
refused to go out by themselves at all, Nick, Mickey, and Moto were out
seeing the town and decided to stop at a pub for some beer. They entered
a “European” bar, but the bartender, albeit courteously, referred them
to another place just around the corner.
“That’s where you boys belong,” he told them. “This is the European
bar.”
Rather than argue their status, they went around the corner as directed.
Here, too, the proprietor, an Indian, was most polite and helpful. “Just
what _are_ you men?”
“We’re Japanese.”
“I see. Well, I’ll tell you—you go just around the corner—”
At this point Mickey leaned forward and said confidentially, “We don’t
want European beer. We want _non_-European beer. We don’t _like_
Europeans!”
“You don’t!” the proprietor exclaimed, in pleased amazement. “Gentlemen,
the drinks are on the house!”
Not only the barkeeper, but every patron in the establishment insisted
on setting them up, until the three M’s had consumed all they could
hold. They came back to the boat considerably cheered, so much so that
Nick volunteered the story, which we would otherwise certainly never
have heard.
The tension between “European” and “non-European” is by no means the
only conflict in this unhappy country. There is a deep and ever-widening
schism between the whites themselves, between those of British
background and those descended from the early Boers. The latter speak
Afrikaans, are fantastically conservative, and are doing everything they
can to break all ties with the English. The few we met seemed to us to
have a pathological sensitivity to criticism. On one occasion, in the
course of a very enjoyable afternoon’s ride through the countryside, I
saw a sign painted in Afrikaans beside the road: SKOOL. Beneath it was
the same word in the second official language: SCHOOL. I made a joking
reference to the first spelling, something like, “If at first you don’t
succeed, try, try again!”—only to be blasted by an outburst from the
lady in the party, who apparently came from an Afrikaner family. Her
tirade included charges that foreigners always acted superior, were
always looking for things to criticize, and didn’t do any better in
their own country! There was much truth in what she said, so I made a
shame-faced apology and took the lesson to heart. She, too, apologized,
but her last remark was almost desperate in its intensity: “You just
can’t understand the situation here!”
To me the most remarkable thing about the incident was the fact that
such a trivial and relatively meaningless jest should have brought on
such a disproportionate response. Tensions are great in South Africa and
very little is required to bring them to the breaking point.
We ourselves were by no means immune. There was poison in the very
atmosphere and doubts and dissensions began to work insidiously within
our own group. Nick, Mickey, and Moto rarely left the boat, although
they had many visitors, mainly from visiting Japanese ships. More and
more they drew into themselves and there was a subtle atmosphere of
brooding and dissatisfaction. Finally matters came to a head. Some small
incident released the pressure and we had another “blowing off” session.
“Why you call us ‘boys’?” Moto, usually the peaceable one, demanded.
“You think we are your servant!”
Shocked, we re-examined the term we had often used with reference to our
companions as a group. We had always regarded Nick, Mickey, and Moto as
a part of our extended family and just as we had referred to our two
sons as “the boys” (and as I had often spoken of my wife and daughter
collectively as “the girls”), so we had unconsciously stretched the
terminology to include all the junior males of the _Phoenix_ family. It
had seemed less pompous than referring to them as “the Japanese” and
more accurate than “the crew”—since all of us were crew together. Now,
however, we realized that in many countries “boy” is a peremptory form
of address used by a white man toward a colored person of any age, from
one to a hundred. By speaking to outsiders of “the boys,” we had
obviously given the wrong impression to many.
Thereafter we made a real effort to change our habits and began to
substitute the term “men”—although we felt that our relationship lost
something of its warmth and intimacy in the process.
Fortunately for our crew relations—and for the reputation of the white
man in South Africa—there were those who extended friendship and
hospitality to our entire group. Outstanding among these was Lindsay
Moller, a South African “European” whom we had met fleetingly two years
before when he had been vacationing on the Kona coast of Hawaii. He had
given me his card and told me to look him up when we got to Africa—an
eventuality that had seemed highly remote and problematical at that time
when my main concern had been the next hop, around to Hilo. Yet now,
miraculously, we had arrived on the far side of the globe. I had kept
Lindsay’s card—and I dropped him a note.
He came down promptly and took us all in hand. The Mollers were
heaven-sent for our needs, for they had a long list of assets over and
above their warm hearts: two daughters, Christine and Vicky, who
bracketed Jessica in age and quickly adopted her for the duration of our
stay; a town house, which was convenient; a farm 22 miles up in the
hills, which provided, in addition to an ultramodern piggery for 2,700
pigs, a swimming pool, riding horses, miles of walking trails, and an
unsurpassed view of the mountains. Lindsay drove up to the farm every
weekend and always had room for any and all, for a day or for the week.
During our two-month stay in Durban, all of us took him up at least
once, and Jessica, once the Moller girls were out of school for the
“long vac,” became a permanent resident at the farm.
For the men, as was always the case in major ports, work on the boat
came first. We made arrangements to haul out, to paint the bottom, and
catch up on the many small jobs that had accumulated since Sydney. When
we were put back in the water and the bill presented, we found there was
no charge for the service and that all materials had been sold to us at
cost (or “nett,” as the British have it). The bill was marked
“Compliments of the Country.”
Jimmy Whittle, manager of the boatyard, and his wife Jean showed us many
kindnesses, including inviting us for a memorable Christmas dinner along
with all their visiting relatives from Griqualand East and Natal, a
traditional English celebration with crepe paper hats, “crackers” to
pull, and plenty of sixpenny bits in the flaming plum pudding for the
young people to find.
Christmas shopping at the height of summer was an exhausting experience
but full of interest and surprises in Durban. We found the big
department stores in the center of town rather depressing than
otherwise, with their mixed crowds of irritable Europeans and apologetic
Africans (whose money was accepted graciously in any store, apartheid
notwithstanding), but we never tired of browsing in the Indian and
native markets, which somehow managed to remain off the beaten tourist
track.
In the Indian market were hundreds of small stalls beneath one roof
where importunate salesmen of curios tried to waylay the visitor with
“cut rate” ebony or embroidered fans, while dark-skinned women in
graceful saris measured out curry seasonings from brilliant piles of
brown, yellow, orange, and saffron-colored powders.
Next door to the Indian market, on bare dirt behind a corrugated iron
fence, was the native bazaar. Here tribesmen, just in from the
hinterland, wandered barefooted, wrapped in bright blankets, to inspect
racks of used city clothing. Women, their hair fashioned into elaborate
headdresses held in place with red clay, their arms and necks and waists
encircled with heavy ropes of magnificent beadwork, squatted beside a
counter full of scrap metal and suckled their infants while searching
for treasure: a usable flashlight, a rusty knife, a discarded kerosene
stove. In the bazaar one could see lion or zebra skins being stretched
and dried; could watch Zulus fashioning medicine wands with leopard-tail
tassels or stringing necklaces and breastplates with thousands of tiny
colored beads; could see Xosa and Basuto and Swazi and Zulu and hear the
babel of their many tongues. And one could see the swiftly veiled glint
of distrust and hatred when one of them looked up and recognized a white
face.
We had been forced to give up our ambition to get to Kruger National
Park, both because of travel restrictions for our entire group and
because of finances. Nick and Moto, as I have mentioned, settled for a
trip to Pretoria; Barbara and Jessica seemed quite content to relax at
the Mollers’ farm. But Ted and I would not give up so easily and we
looked about for a less-distant goal.
On the advice of Bill Sinclair, a wild-life photographer for the
national parks service whose spectacular color shots had even further
whetted our desires, we chose the Hluhluwe (shloo-shloo-way) Game
Reserve in Zululand. The variety of game there, he assured us, was quite
as impressive as at Kruger—if we didn’t mind missing the elephants and
lions. We did mind, but we had long since learned that our trip was of
necessity a long series of compromises, and we settled for Hluhluwe.
Actually, we were not at all disappointed, for we were able to see not
only the African interior, with its characteristic highlands, its Zulu
villages of kraals and beehive-shaped rondevals, but also a fine
selection of native animal life. We saw, in their native state,
wildebeest, zebra, kudu, impala, and warthog—and, the highlight of the
trip, the ponderous but amazingly swift rhino.
We have reason to know how fast a rhino can move. We found out on the
day we trotted down a narrow path through the bush, in hot pursuit of a
white rhino lumbering on ahead. Suddenly he became aware that he was
being trailed. Swinging around abruptly, he reversed his course and we
had barely time to take to the trees before he crashed blindly past us
through the undergrowth.
Two days after the New Year we left Durban, bound around the Cape of
Good Hope to Cape Town. Although this was considered the best season for
the trip, we had no guarantee that the passage would be quiet and I’m
sure we all had mentally crossed our fingers. A number of yachts
accompanied us through the harbor and the Sea Scouts, among whom Ted had
made many friends, continued for a short distance outside in their
launch. Then we were on our own.
On our own—but we did not lack for company, much of which we could well
have done without. Because of the Suez blockade, there was scarcely an
hour of the day or night when we did not have at least one ship in
sight. On the very first day a freighter changed course and came bearing
down on us, a frightening sight to one who is maneuvering under sail. We
tacked and headed out, but the freighter too changed course. I was
becoming more and more uneasy. Obviously, they were merely interested in
looking us over, but what if they overestimated our maneuverability
under sail? What if they came too close upwind and blanketed our sails
so that we lost steerageway? What if—It is impossible to describe how
small and vulnerable a yacht can feel when forced to play tag with a
large and relentless freighter!
The ship approached closer and at last Barbara was able to make out the
name on her hull: _Sulu_. It was a cargo ship from the Philippines,
whose captain had visited us on board and had later taken us all out to
dinner. _Sulu_ approached very close, far closer than I cared for,
sounding her whistle repeatedly. We broke out our compressed-air hooter
and returned the greeting, waving heartfelt permission for our jovial
escort to go on his way. At last he did, and the _Sulu_ carried on out
of sight.
For the first six days the breeze was light and the weather fair, but on
January 8 things took a turn for the worse. The radio was giving out
gale warnings, so we took down the main and were prepared when a
thunderstorm hit in the early-morning hours, bringing heavy rain and
strong winds at its peak. By dawn the breeze had fallen off enough so
that we were banging around considerably in very heavy seas.
This was the worst spot in our rounding of the continent, however. We
drifted past Cape Agulhas, the southernmost tip of Africa, in quiet seas
and with the lightest of airs, as if on a sail in the bay. On our last
afternoon, while under bare steerageway, we narrowly missed being run
down by the tanker _Kongstank_, which passed us just to port, running at
a good clip and with no one visible anywhere on the ship. So far as we
could see, the bridge was quite empty and we could only assume that they
had set the automatic controls and gone below for a cup of coffee or a
nap. It was a sobering thought to realize that they might have sent us
to the bottom without ever knowing what they’d hit!
Throughout that day, as we cruised slowly northward, we were skirting
the Cape Peninsula, which well deserves its reputation as one of the
most beautiful sights in the world. The dramatically eroded pinnacles,
rather like a cross section of the Grand Canyon taken out of context,
run down to the sea, with deep-purple gorges between. The Twelve
Apostles, the Lion, and, finally, Table Mountain were all formations we
had seen in photographs, but now we were seeing them for the first time
in full color. Dusk settled over the sea. A pale moon gradually deepened
to rich yellow as we drew closer to Cape Town and, behind the mountain
peaks, the sky grew dark. Lights of the city began to flicker on around
the base of the hills, sparkling like fireflies. The air grew colder. We
were in the Atlantic now, and the water in this new ocean was frigid to
the touch. For the first time since 1954 in the North Pacific I could
see my breath, and the fur-lined parkas were dug out.
During the night we lay off, merely keeping our position. With an almost
constant movement of shipping in and out, we had no desire to attempt a
strange and crowded harbor after dark.
Next morning, finding ourselves blanketed by Table Mountain, we turned
on the engine and motored in. Following the chart, we proceeded down the
entire length of the harbor, inside the breakwater, past several dozen
freighters and tankers and passenger ships, until we reached the area
marked “Small Boat Harbor” at the extreme end. A number of frolicking
seals came out to greet us and Jessica was enchanted when two little
penguins drifted by, sitting demurely side by side on a floating board.
Near the inner entrance we were met by a motorboat filled with members
of the Royal Cape Yacht Club, who showed us to the mooring that had been
reserved for us. By midmorning all was secure, we had been cleared, and
Cape Town lay before us.