The metal beast snorted clouds of steam from its steel grill then
gave one final defiant belch as the engine spluttered and died.
My mother coasted the car to the roadside and pulled up the brake.
“We’ll just have to wait till she cools!” she
sighed.
We were alone on a dirt road in the
middle of the African veldt while a symphony of spurts and creaks
continued to emanate from under the bonnet of our road-weary, 1950’s
Plymouth.
“Old girl hates hills!”
said my mother.
“If there is even the hint of
a hill anywhere here,” said my father, waving a derisive hand
at the surrounding flatness, “I would like you to point it
out to me – then I might agree!” He tapped the dashboard
impatiently.
“Delayed reaction,” grinned
my mother defensively, “from coming up the coastal pass!”
I got out of the car. The thick heat
of midday wrapped about me. There was a great stillness in these
vast empty spaces - as if a silken cloak had dropped on all the
earth and time itself was persuaded to slumber.
I wandered down the road, scuffing
the dirt with my plastic sandals as I went. Some of the stones got
between the gaps and crept between my toes so I sat down on a rock
and shook them out. The rock felt hot even through the fabric of
my dress.
The heat was pervasive, the only shade
being cast by my slight form and the truculent car that now stood
steaming gently on the roadside.
I walked a little further, watching
my shadow follow beside me as I went. How small it looked! I was
12, absorbing life, discovering the many mysteries in this wonderland
of Africa. We were on our way to the Amatole Mountains of the Eastern
Province of South Africa, heading for a small place called The Hogsback
perched high on a mountain ridge in the far distance.
A green abundance filled with magical
fairy dells and cascading waterfalls awaited us at journey’s
end, but all around me was an arid wasteland.
Here was desiccation, a constant cruel
glare, and an endless vista of heat-distorted horizons. There you
could turn a corner in the forest to discover grass that smelled
of lemons and jewelled flowers glowing in the shadows. But to get
there we first had to cross this flat plain that stretched almost
to the very edges of the earth.
I studied the grass verge. We called
it ‘grass’ but there was little of the colour green
in its pale, gold, blades. An ant was negotiating its way through
the roadside gravel. Where was it going I wondered? To the
ant the small undulations in the sand and the occasional tufts of
yellow grass were mighty hills and massive jungles to overcome.
I watched it in idle fascination for some minutes.
“Feeee!” my mother called,
“Lets get along now, the car’s cooled down enough!”
We set off once more across the veldt,
like the little ants we were, crossing our own particular patch
of gravel.
“Looks like there’s no
one ahead of us,” my mother said, with some relief. It was
a tough job driving in someone’s dust cloud. It blinded the
driver, and the dust made breathing difficult for anyone inside
the car. I used to soak my hanky in eau de cologne and hold it to
my nose, but I could still smell the red dust through it. It drifted
into my very soul and dried it out, like the parched veldt outside.
We continued our crossing of the plain,
leaving nothing but disturbed dust behind. After our passing the
dust settled back into the stillness of the land, erasing any memory
of our presence from others who might follow.
I gazed at the countryside that rolled
along with us. There was so much loneliness here. Forgotten by time,
untouched by the living, the distant haze of the Amatole Mountains
drifting like a mirage forever receding from us, we were mere observers
against the great canvas of the universe.
Finally, at last we began to climb,
gradually. And the mountains were closer. The air was cooler too,
and the heat waves faded.
“Mum!”
“Yes?”
“Can we stop?”
“What for?”
“My legs hurt!”
“Well it’s probably a good
idea to let the engine cool a bit before we begin the climb up the
pass. Five minutes then!”
Above us I could just make out the
road as it zigzagged up the side of the mountain. My mother brought
the car to a stop and turned off the engine. I turned to open the
car door.
Where there had been only dead land
and silence, before me was a seething carnival of life, brimming,
overflowing, turbulent, and effervescent. Little pink-bellied hands
fluttered like frantic butterflies against the glass of the car
windows. A gaggle of raggedy children, sparsely dressed, some a
little dirty, were hopping about in a frenzy of excitement, swarming
around the car. They had come out of nowhere for we had seen no
sign of life before we stopped.
Each one held out something in their
little hands and chanted “You have missy, you have!”
as they thrust their offerings at us.
My mother chuckled with delight. “Do
look at these!” she said “Aren’t they just wonderful?”
She reached out and took one of the objects from a short but particularly
enthusiastic young supplicant.
“Heavens, don’t encourage
them! We’ll have them all in the car in a moment.” My
father looked slightly bewildered by the sudden explosion of life
that surrounded us.
“Oh, but do look at what they
made!” said my mother, placing the little object carefully
on the palm of her hand.
It was a small clay horse with an expression
of quizzical good humour on its face, its grass mane standing stiff
across its back like the ridges of the mountains above us, and a
short stubby tail made of the same dried grass stuck out at right
angles from its rump. It was a treasure most rare.
And so they all were, those little
raggedy horses. We looked at each one. Some were fat, some were
thin, some were painted, some were carved with strange designs,
but all were masterpieces without exception.
There was little of wealth or luxury
in the vast empty land about us. Here were none of the things I
took for granted like running water, schooling, electric light.
Nature still ruled with absolute power. Yet these little children
had fashioned magical creations with the simple tools they found
aroundthem. The river mud, the grass, their tiny hands.
They did not create their horses to
be better than their friends, nor for wealth or fame. They made
them not because they were told to but because they wanted to. They
made them because they could. They made them because it gave them
joy. And they made them from what nature gives us all freely - earth,
water and sunlight.
I learned much from that raggedy herd.
These days I make my own raggedy horses, though I make them from
words, ideas and memories and not from red African river clay. Whenever
I am troubled that my efforts may not be good enough in the great
arena of creative art, I see those little faces, those magical little
horses, and I keep on writing.
Each man’s vision is unique and
of value. The measure is not in what others think of what we make
but in the pleasure we gain from sharing that simple godlike act
of creation.
We create because we can.  |
