Here we have my submission for the Life Writing element of my OU Creative Writing course. The commentary follows at the end. For those who take an interest in such things, this piece earned me 92%. Please let me know what you think - whether you like it or not. Who knows, if enough people enjoy it perhaps one day I'll produce a full autobiography!
Welwitschia and Camel-Thorns
by David Thorne
by David Thorne
The
screen door clattered, and Faity called out for me, just as he'd done
every day for as long as I could remember. Moments later he sidled
into the kitchen and flopped onto the pine chair opposite me.
David Faity was one of my two best friends. He was french, though I
can’t recall him ever speaking his native tongue. We always spoke
English or Afrikaans, or sometimes a mixture of the two. He always
got Faity because I was David too, and I was chief of our gang. For
the first couple years at school Neville Gousse had been my
'official' best friend but somehow, without anyone noticing, Faity
had gradually supplanted that role. Neville was still our Lieutenant
but he seldom came to our house because he lived on the far side of
town in the new duplexes. We lived in Klein Tsumeb where most of the
bosses of the mine lived. Even on a bike it was a long way.
‘What shall we do today?’
I shrugged. What could we do with so little time left to us?
All the usual things occupied too many hours. The swimming pool at
the recreation club was out of the question, you needed a whole day
for that. Sometimes we would take apples or carrots from the
vegetable rack and ride our bikes over to Fritz Gaertner’s riding
stables to feed the horses. My mother would complain that half the
shopping budget was spent feeding those bloody horses. But the
stables were also too far to go today.
On days when the others in our gang showed up we would hang out in
our fort, built from leftovers off the log pile. To get in you had to
climb onto the top and lower yourself down through a hole in the
roof. Inside we had logs for stools and a table made from an upturned
tea chest. We called ourselves the Red Skull Gang and we would spend
hours carving catapults or bows and arrows with our penknives, for
use in the war we were always planning against Kyle-Dean Rutters’
gang.
When temperatures climbed into the mid forties and sharpening sticks
became too much effort, we would pick lemons and sit eating them
dipped in a bowl of sugar. We had a lot of lemon trees, so there was
always a plentiful supply, even after my Mother had made dozens of
jars of curd for the endless succession of fetes that dotted the
town’s social calendar. It struck me that we would never get to
pick those lemons again.
Two months earlier my mother had contracted a mysterious illness and
been flown to a hospital in Cape Town. You knew it was serious if
someone was sent to the Cape. The local hospital was known
colloquially as the butcher’s shop. They were okay at dishing out
aspirins or patching up cuts and scrapes; perhaps sorting out an
ingrowing toenail. But you wouldn’t want to go under the knife at
the hands of the local quacks.
I don’t know to this day what was wrong with her,
but she’d now recovered sufficiently to be released into the care
of friends to convalesce, and today I was off to join her. For a few
weeks, according to my father. But Faity and I both knew that I
wasn’t coming back. We sat kicking the legs of the wooden kitchen
table, talking about school and our strategy for the battle that
would never be. Anything to maintain the appearance of nonchalance,
not daring to broach the subject my leaving. Trying to put off the
inevitable for as long as possible.
The telephone rang in the living room. A few minutes later my father
came into the kitchen.
“It’s about time you were saying your cheerios now,” he said.
"Dory and Curtis will be here shortly. Is your bag packed?"
I nodded.
‘I’d better go then,’ said Faity scrambling to his feet.
My father had the decency to leave the room as we said our goodbyes.
It would be the last time I saw Faity’s cheeky face, framed by the
profusion of purple Bougainvillea surrounding the back door.
'Well...' said Faity.
I gazed down at his blue Adidas plimsols. Takkies we called them.
'Promise you'll keep the gang in order until I get back?’
‘Course I will, no problem,’ he grinned, revealing an incisor
chipped by a cricket ball. But his voice sounded thick and hoarse.
'Red skulls forever,’ we chorused, raising our fists in
half-hearted salute. Tears were gathering in Faity's eyes.
‘Well. Goodbye then.’
He turned and fled. Then he was pedalling away furiously. I called
out as he disappeared amongst the mango trees, but he didn't look
back. When he was gone the static-like buzz of the cicadas and
chatter of the hornbills seemed deafening; the sickly smell of
balloon flowers overpowering. I pulled a koringkriek off the door,
the tiny barbs on its legs clinging desperately to the mesh. I sat
down on the stoop and let the grey, armoured arthropod crawl over my
hands, as I waited for Dory and Curtis.
****
Dory
Eistead was a stout, efficient lady with tight lilac trousers and
dyed bouffant hair. My mother still insists that Dory was a lovely
woman, but to my ten year old eyes she seemed starchy and austere.
Captain of the bowls club, PTA chairman, and my chaperone for the
impending journey. Her husband Curtis was driving us to the airport.
He was a short, craggy fellow resembling a squat Walter Matthau. I
liked Curtis.
The journey was less than a mile. Our house adjoined the airfield,
but you had to drive around the perimeter to reach the terminal. I
sat in the back of the tank-like white Chevrolet clutching some comic
books I’d bought for the journey, nervous excitement competing with
anguish at leaving my whole world behind. The seats were a blue faux
leather. The kind that stuck to your legs in hot weather and left
square dimples on the backs of your thighs.
The 'airport' was just a wooden shack that served as an
office-cum-waiting-room. Alongside there was a big tin hangar housing
a Beechcraft six-seater which the management of the Corporation used
for business jaunts. On the one occasion that my parents and I had
flown in her, I had actually been allowed to sit beside the pilot and
steer her. It was the talk of the playground for weeks.
Todays’ flight however, was with Namib Air, whose fleet comprised
two decrepit 1930’s Douglas DC-3s salvaged from the bush war in
Rhodesia. Onboard catering consisted of a mint humbug to help your
ears pop. I gazed through the blur of the propellers, at the
rippling, warping shadow of the aircraft speeding along the ochre
coloured earth, soaring over rocks, causing herds of zebra to
scatter.
These days tourists and gap-year kids pay big bucks for flights on
these so-called 'heritage' aircraft. Namib Air passengers considered
themselves lucky to survive the trip without being brought down by
trigger happy SWAPO terrorists. But it was a wildlife spotter's
dream. The ancient crates rattled and wheezed their way over the
hills at barely 400 metres, providing a phantasmagorical view of the
sunbaked Mopane savannah dotted with welwitschia and camel-thorns.
Dory pointed out a parade of six elephants crashing through the
scrub.
At Windhoek we transferred to a South African Airways 727 with a
bright orange tail fin emblazoned with a winged Springbok. Alongside
it the old Dakota appeared miniscule. Like all airliners, in my
experience, the cabin smelled faintly of vomit and air freshener as
we took our seats. I suppose I must have spoken to Dory during the
flight but I don't recall our conversation. Perhaps I read my comic
books and pretended she didn't exist?
****
At
D.F. Milan airport we were met by another coiffured lady and driven
forty odd miles to the house in Constantia where I would spend the
weekend, before joining my mother. It was a huge rambling affair with
umpteen staircases, grass tennis courts and outdoor swimming pool.
Dory mentioned that there were stables too, though I never got to see
those.
As we waited at the door for someone to admit us, I felt overwhelmed
and tearful. There had been recent rain and there was a smell of damp
vegetation and honeysuckle in the air. So different from the arid
climate of home. Home, where Faity and the gang would be sitting down
to their dinners. Except it wasn't home any more, was it? Dory’s
friend noticed me sniffing.
‘The garden boy has been sweeping up leaves to put on the bonfire,’
she smiled.
The door opened and a girl appeared. She must have been fourteen or
fifteen, with shortish brown hair and a jagged fringe. She wore a
lemon coloured tank top over a pink gingham shirt, blue jeans and
grubby white socks.
After a flurry of hugs and greetings Dory introduced us.
‘This is Joanna,’ she said.
‘Hi there,’ said the girl. She had a cheeky, tomboyish grin with
a tiny chip in her front tooth.
'Do you like creepy-crawlies? I've got something to show you.'
Joanna put a conspiratorial arm around my shoulders and steered me
into the house. Within hours Faity and Tsumeb felt like a dream. A
week later and I began to forget what they looked like.
Commentary
Welwitschia and Camel Thorns is an
autobiographical account of the day when I, as a child, left my home
in Tsumeb, Namibia (then South West Africa), to begin a new life in
Cape Town. It attempts to convey the transient nature of childhood
attachments. The title comes from two plants which are emblematic of
Namibia.
Before writing, I
re-read several autobiographies which I admired, to gain insight into
the process. These included On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft by
Steven King and two volumes of autobiography by Stephen Fry. I found
Fry’s work in particular to be charming, candid and sincere and a
model for the sort of piece I wanted to write. I chose to tell the
story in the first person, past tense, with my ten year old self as
narrator, interspersed with adult observations and humour.
I was impressed by
Jamaica Kinkaid's assertion that 'To say exactly what happened was
less than what I knew happened' [Kinkaid, 1993, in Anderson, 2006, p.
54]. This was apt when I wrote about the lemon trees, which were a
defining feature of my home, but which I never considered on the day
in question. Similarly the koringkriek incident didn’t take place
that particular day, but the image of the creature clinging to the
mesh door was appealing as a metaphor for me clinging to my old
life.
My initial draft was
written as a stream of consciousness during a train journey, taken
down in one session, using my iPhone as an impromptu notebook. I
wrote down the rough sequence of events, covering a two day period
from the time of being taken from my home to being re-united with my
mother. This draft exceeded 3,000 words with the second half focusing
on the narrator’s preadolescent yearning for the girl Joanna.
However, I found my memories of the second day too vague to construct
a truthful narrative. The word count also prohibited the development
of this second half of the story.
I also wanted to
convey a sense of the political reality of the time and the constant
threat posed by the guerrilla war taking place around us. My second
draft included considerable detail about the airfield and its role as
a base for the South African army. However, this material was not
directly relevant and was expunged from subsequent drafts, ultimately
being reduced to a single reference to SWAPO terrorists.
Once I had an
outline of events I began doing research to fill in the blanks in my
memory and/or knowledge. Some of this research consisted of talking
to my mother, to confirm some of the details and correct others. My
mother’s description of Dory Eistead as ‘a lovely woman’ is
taken directly from these conversations. I also did internet research
to confirm details about plants and geography.
I made lists of the
sights, smells and sounds familiar to me, to convey authentic local
colour. The details I describe are accurate to the time and place,
although it is impossible to say how much is genuine reportage and
how much is a fusion of other memories from that time.
References
Haslam,
S. et al (2006) 'Life Writing', in Anderson L. (ed.) Creative
Writing: A workbook with readings,
Milton Keynes/Abingdon: The Open University in association with
Routledge, pp 270-358.
CD3
Life Writing
(2005), The Open University/Pier Productions
King,
S. (2001), On Writing: A Memoir of
the Craft, London, New English
Library
Fry,
S. (1997), Moab is My Washpot: An
Autobiography, London, Hutchinson
Fry
S. (2010), The Fry Chronicles: An
Autobiography, London, Michael
Joseph