1929 June 13 | Ferry over the Mutambala

Then – The Mutambala river

Ferry was a misleading name, perhaps. Two tree trunks tied by a collection of mismatched planks, nails sticking out and the largest collection of hemp ropes, that was the “ferry”. It was presently nicely splashing across the ochre waters to the far shore. The only truly reassuring thing was that the ferryman travelled himself on the thing. A ton? No problem, he had laughed their doubts away, already waving François to drive up the self-styled ramp. She suspected that, had they said 2 or 5 tons, the answer would have been the exact same. 

The cargo and the company engineer had been first, now them both and the truck. François was off swaggering around; she sat in the truck. 

The crew have kept up the hypnotic chant during the entire crossing, to keep momentum while tugging the platform across. That had been silently impressive, properly exotic,… The motion, the song, the wood, the dormant river: that felt organic and ancient, memories of the Nile spring up, unbidden. Behind them, the river sludges back as if nothing had ever happened.  

In a blink, the boat squelches into the far shore. 

The suspended time snaps back like a coiled spring: every ferrymen starts at once haranguing each other, as if their very survival depends on it. Suggestions are laughed off, ropes are tugged, loosed, tugged again, eyes are rolled and shoulders shrugged, until the ferryman steps in. His final tone funnels energy into action. The truck bounces off to the shore down the creaking, bowing ramp. 

They made it. 

A tiny twisty trail leads into the wall of grass blades that hems the narrow landing in. 

The crew cools off, and leans over the railing, daring them to go on. 

The water gently splashes, serene once again. The grass sways and whispers.

And suddenly explodes in a gaggle of voices talking, laughing, calling out at each other. Men and teenagers jostle to be the first to reach the truck, heads nodding, arms waving, fingers pointing. Some go for the crates and stand by them, eager, waiting for the instructions that will not fail to come. Many more stand there in a semi-circle, nodding, pointing, weighing, commenting, assessing, judging in final tones. A running commentary that follows them wherever they go, whatever they do. Vocal subtitles to their life. Unsettling at first, soon familiar.

Suzanne felt in a play, acting her own character for an audience vocally commenting within arm’s reach. Peculiar. 

Well, she’d better crack on with it! She ostentatiously takes a great interest in the cargo getting loaded: barrels, cans and bags, lard and cooking oil, beans and rice, corned beef and gin, tobacco and petrol, tools and spares… François and the engineer already stand on the truck flatbed and fasten the load. She turns to check on the ferry progress. Just as they had popped into existence, the voices blink out; the small crowd has dissolved back into the grassland. 

The wind hisses through the impenetrable grass blades again.  

Before they crossed, they could have walked back, push comes to shove. After all, others had done it for aeons; I presume. At least that was the theory. The ferry over the Mutambala was the true gateway into their new life. So, one last look, one last breath, press the starter, a cough, the reassuring clatter of the engine splutters to life. 

Into this wall of grass it is then.

She had thought of everything. She always did. Except for what she could not have thought about, of course. The road was rutted mud, the trees were grass, these people had … appeared … wearing shirts and shorts. And they were now being bounced around in a pickup truck deeper into Africa. That much was obvious. That much was new, exotic, fascinating… a little underwhelming? There was no shivers, no sense of elation nor gloom. She squirmed slightly at the thought. François sat proudly in the truck, helmet and shades on, smiling. 

Until now, all of it had felt like an adventure should. 

He had told her about aardvarks, elephants and lions. He had told her about the more messy details, the more squishy and squelchy ones. Even a couple of scary or just worrying ones. But she had unconsciously added clouds of parakeets, swarms of rainbow beetles, even black mambas slithering away. And purple sunsets. Oh, they were there, left and right and up and down. But where was the sense of marvel they once had.

Good or bad, it was always bound to happen.

It had. 

Here, now, it just was. 

Not good, not bad, real. Just real. Here, a rat cheekily standing on its hindlegs, welcoming them possibly. There, a titanic cockroach lifting the lid of a pot to wink at them. Down by the river, a flaccid bullfrog flopping its way back into the brown waters, a crawling cowpat if she was being honest. And rude. Her feet gently squelched, her shoes already looking like geological strata of every types of dried mud. 

She smiles. They are here. 

None of it matters at all. Why would it? Dreams had been dreamt and fears had been feared. Dreams were bound to be real one day, until then, they were only concepts, ideas, thoughts, scenarios. They would forever disappear in the rear view mirror, like times and places. 

This here is her story, their story. Time for new dreams and fears. And, from now on, a time and a place where she is. 

She sighed, she would still have to deal with this cockroach. 

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You read part 6 of Transvaal Blue Skies: the true story of how, early last century, Suzanne moved to Africa and built her laager. This is a series of loose dots weaved in a chronological thread, wrapped into a story to be plucked and observed, heard and remembered, recognised and judged. Suzanne Dulière was my grandmother.  

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