Travel Journalism
In Search of the African Thorn Tree
Perhaps my first remembered vision, when arriving in Africa, was the
thorn trees of the Natal Midlands. Especially the umbrella thorns. On a few
occasions since I have settled in Africa I have found myself on a return
visit to Northern Europe. I usually find myself sitting in a long traffic
jam under a dark Northern sky with the windscreen wipers squeaking away and
the rain pouring down outside. I get this vision of a crystal clear African
winter’s day with the umbrella thorns silhouetting the skyline and a sandy
dry path that meanders between them and the acacia pods crackling under
foot. I am now never far away from one. There are two yellow fever trees in
my garden to sit under. Their botanical name is acacia xanthophloea, which
is a bit of a tongue twister so it should be practised quietly in private
and then dropped gently into the conversation along the lines of “and this,
of course, is acacia xanthophloea”. One of its Zulu names is the beautifully
metaphoric umKhanya-kude, which means “the light that can be seen from
afar”due to its startling yellow bark. From home, in Scottsville, my day
starts with hospital rounds at St Anne’s hospital and Mediclinic where I
park under enormous fever trees, which vibrate and resonate, in spring, with
the nesting weaver birds. I then drive to my rooms in Hayfields going past
that magic grove of thorn tress in the dip below the Total garage and then,
arriving at the rooms, I park under a large paper-bark acacia (acacia
sieberana or umKhamba in Zulu). My life with thorn trees does not end here
as I can see a cluster of umbrella thorn trees and a sweet thorn (acacia
karoo) from my consulting room window. During the day I walk over to the
window and transport myself into the peace of the African veld. The flowers
of the sweet thorn are in bunches of little yellow balls, which come out in
the spring and some years ago I was informed that there was a rare variety
of acacia karoo which had white flowers but they only grew on the shoreline
on the island of Bazaruto lying off the Mocambique coast. Obviously one had
to check up on this so a journey was planned. There was to be a reunion of
family friends so a four day cruise to the island of Bazaruto was organised
from Durban on The Monterey, an Italian cruise ship. Much planning was
undertaken. On the ship’s plan there was a swimming pool or, as we Italians
say, a pescina, and next to it was a Pescina de Paris, where I assume one
could get pesced. We were disappointed, though, to see that the bars closed
at 4.00 am and only opened again at 8.00am. We decided that we would have to
have a happy hour from 3.00 to 4.00 am to keep the levels up. . We set out
on the journey on one of those stunningly hot Pietermaritzburg December
days. It would be in the high thirties by midday. The Natal countryside was
looking its green best as we drove down through Camperdown, Shongweni and
Pinetown to eventually arrive at the Durban Passenger Terminal on the
Quayside. It still had the nostalgic S.A.R.&H sign on the wall of the old
South African Railways and Harbours. Inside the embarkation shed is like a
small airport terminal except more intimate with a hotdog stand and a tea
bar. We sat down at one of the tables and immediately I noticed two very fat
people winding down two very large hot dogs. I don’t know about you but I
have a fascination for watching very fat people eat. The family told me to
stop staring. “Its rude, Christopher, and they will notice”. I couldn’t help
myself. I was mesmerized as they swallowed another two whole hot dogs in one
downwards movement like submarines crash diving. They then looked over in my
direction and I had to quickly look away and innocently gaze into the
fascinating middle distance, while wondering how they were going to get on
board. Perhaps they were booked to be swung over on a winch. Eventually we
were called to embark and I was expecting Peter Ustinov, in a white tropical
suit and David Niven in a naval uniform, to be walking up the gangplank
followed by the Italian ambassador in one of those hats with feathers on it.
But they must have got the dates wrong and so must have the band of the
Royal Marines. I had assumed that they would be on the quay side playing
Anchors Away in those large white pith helmets with the extensions down the
back to protect the white man’s neck in Africa. To make up for this we were
given streamers to threw overboard as we cruised out through the harbour
entrance and the diners at Thirstys came out to wave us goodbye. Once out
into the waves I had this uneasy sensation. When it comes to the sea I am
one of the last of the great vomiters. I find travelling on the water a
deeply religious experience and end up promising God anything so long as He
stops the swaying. I can throw up a complete mushroom omelette with the
first rock to starboard. (I hope you are not having breakfast while reading
this). In deck sports I usually win the oesophageal long jump by several
yards (in Italian it is known as pizza overboard). In fact, I was told of a
cure for sea sickness which I had not heard of before. It is called the “six
beer shoot”. At the beginning of the voyage you down six beers in the bar as
quickly as you can and then, and this is the important part, you go to the
side of the ship where the wind is blowing outwards. If you go to the wrong
side of the ship it comes back at you and it is rather a drenching affair.
Either way the relief is meant to cure the sea sickness for the rest of the
trip. My friend, Andre Olivier, had brought along a hand held Global
Positioning System (GPS) which needed three satellites to triangulate our
position in the bar to an accuracy of one metre. This is an extremely useful
piece of equipment for testing the effect of the different bar cocktails
such as Yellow Bird (rum, galliano, apricot brandy and pineapple) or
Dreaming Sonia (gin, orange juice, amaretto liqueur and grapefruit). With
the GPS you can tell how far down the bar you have slipped. If you are
talking to someone you can tell if you are both upright or lying on the
floor having the conversation. Obviously the search for the rare white sweet
thorn was going to be a hard and onerous business. So we headed out into the
Indian Ocean by courtesy of valoid, stugeron and avomine. Within an hour of
setting off we had a life boat drill and I think we assembled at the wrong
station. We went to A and we were meant to be at B. Anyway the two enormous
people from the hot dog stand were at our life boat. Our life boat was
obviously not going to be one with much room in it. We had to put on life
jackets and they could hardly get the jackets over their heads without going
purple. We were told that one long blast on the whistle was for man
overboard and two blasts was for fire on board. Would, I wondered, three
blasts be for “this is your captain speaking from the life boat heading for
Maputo”. At breakfast on the first day we were sixty five nautical miles
east of Inhaca island on the GPS and were being hovered over by Guiseppe,
Pepe, Antonia, and Giovanni, with a fair amount of bon giornos and ciaos.
There was also another waiter called Manuel but as far as I could ascertain
he was not from Barcelona. After breakfast everyone, of course, and I mean
nearly the whole ship’s passenger list, reached for their cell phones. One
of the delights of the cell phone is being able to phone the office from a
deck chair in the sunshine off the Mozambique coast to tell them how much
you are missing them. And so, as though in the foot steps of previous
African explorers, we intrepidly (true explorers are always intrepid)
steamed up the African coast. By lunch time the ship had developed a slight
roll-like corkscrew action and I felt unable to face the Suggerimenti dello
Chef (the chef’s special of the day). The ever helpful barman suggested that
this corkscrew motion could be taken away by a Pino Colada, which is creme
do coco and Bacardi rum shaken with pineapple juice and decorated with a red
cherry (cereja vermilha). It comes up (I mean it is served) in a large glass
goblet and , indeed, stopped the swaying of the ship in a miraculous way. My
main worry was that the weather would be too rough the next day for the
launch of the rubber ducks, which would take us from the cruiser onto the
shoreline of Bazaruto Island , which we were due to reach early the
following morning. As luck would have it the next day was calm and the
rubber ducks were launched and we arrived safely on the beach. We set off
with a determined pace and on rounding the mainland there was an idyllic
crescent shaped bay with clear calm water and a beach of fine soft sand
complete with a dhow on the water. It was the sort of place where you expect
them not to have seen a white man for fifteen years and the survivors of an
old ship wreck run out to greet you waving tattered shirts and with wild
glazed eyes. And there they were, the white sweet thorn trees, lining the
upper part of the beach. It was like finding the source of the Nile. Would,
one wondered, Doctor Livingstone have been able to have made it with only a
cell phone, a global positioning system and a cruise ship with two shows a
night whilst staving off dehydration with Pina Coladas? I await my Royal
Geographical Society’s medal for intrepid explorers.