Zebra Horizon
Page 54
YET ANOTHER DAY IN PARADISE
Old Gordon, in his boat Flaming Lil, stroked the dog on his lap, looked at his favourite painting in the cabin and said to the pigeon sitting on his head, “You see Elvis, this is MAMI WATA the water spirit. She’s lots of things: nurturing mother, sexy mama, healer of ills, embodiement of danger and desires, risks and fears, challenges, dreams and forebodings.” He sucked a thoughtful schluck of mate through his bombilla and put the dog down on the sole. “Let’s go.” A cat jumped off the bunk and followed Gordon, the dog and the pigeon into the cockpit, onto the side deck and down a wooden staircase. Gordon liked his staircase. He’d made it himself about 20 years ago when he’d moved onto the land. In his personal opinion he occupied the best spot at the Pelican Island Yacht Club. Behind the casuarinas on Flaming Lil’s portside stood the clubhouse with all its amenities only a 5 minute walk away and from the starboard side he had a fantastic view down the slope and across the Bay. His closest neighbours were the boats moored on A-trot. Nice to look at but far enough away for him to have some privacy. A man needed space, especially after having lived on the sea for 50 years. Gordon walked towards the beach. The pigeon on his head cooed softly. “What a beautiful morning, hey Elvis,” the old man said to the bird. The first sunrays lit up the bougainvillea covering a boatshed. Gordon walked past the palm trees and the oleander bushes, slowly, carefully watching his step. When you were nearly 90 your bones weren’t what they used to be and he didn’t want to sprain his ankle again, like on his birthday when he’d fallen over a fender in the clubhouse, but that had been with half a bottle of Old Brown Sherry in his guts and he still wanted to klap the idiot who’d left the fender there; anyway, it was better to watch your step in your old age even when you were sober. At the jetty, 2 grey herons looked expectantly at Gordon. The old man took a piece of boerewors out of a plastic packet and broke it in half. Stretch took his piece first. He was the alpha bird. Gordon had found him 9 years ago with a broken wing. Lofty had been half starved with a piece of fishing line tangled up between her feet. That had been 5 years ago…or 6? Gordon scratched his beard. Mmh…it had been just before his boat had sunk…8 years ago. Gordon looked past the birds to the end of the jetty where his Wind Song had been moored. Ah ja, the good old days! But Gordon wasn’t prone to reminiscence. He cast his eyes to the mangroves on the opposite side of the channel. Hundreds of egrets dotted the branches. It looked like a giant Iceberg-rosebush. Gordon squinted his eyes to improve his vision but it didn’t help when you had cataracts; the only thing you could do was to have an operation but he’d be damned if he let anybody fiddle around with his eyes. At least he’d seen the planet before mankind had buggered it up; he’d sailed the Seven Seas when the oceans were still full of fish instead full of garbage and when you could go to Galapagos without having to apply for a visa and you could stay there as long as you wanted. Ja, his had been a good life and still was. The other day, Patti, who ran the pub at the yacht club, had asked him what he wanted for Christmas and he’d said “nothing”. He was happy with his lot although during the last few days he’d been thinking…if there really was God the Creator up in the sky He could have arranged for old people to grow a third set of teeth. Ja, a new set of teeth was all he wanted in life.
On Timshel in D-trot Mathilda opened the hatch and climbed onto the bridge deck. She hit her head on the boom. Damnit! After 7 weeks on the boat it still happened. She pressed her hand against the growing bruise and, looking around her, immediately forgot the pain. The sun had just come up behind the bluff where red blossomed trees shone like flames in amongst the indigenous bush. A gentle breeze began to stir; the water in the Bay, still undisturbed, reflected the blue sky and the yachts; she’d counted them the other day, there were more than 40, their masts sticking up in the sky like trees of an outlandish forest. On the opposite shore at the dinghy jetty she saw Gordon feed his birds, that was what he did every morning. The tide was out and his dog and the cat were strolling along the beach towards the yacht jetty. On the lawn behind the beach somebody had unrolled a sail and further up the slope the clubhouse peeped out from behind the palms and casuarinas, hiding most of the container yard beyond the yacht club premises. Mathilda checked the neighbouring boats. Looked like on Lucky Star on the opposite trot Louis and Sophie were still sleeping, no trace of Louis’ sexy knee peeping out from the cockpit. On Nukani Madeleine was up the mast working on the cross trees. Dal on Solitaire was checking his fishing lines. All of a sudden the egrets took off from the mangroves in a mighty swish. Mathilda followed their flight down the channel, a swirl of white bodies and wings gliding perfectly synchronized past the fisheries and the turning basin towards the hills of the city.
A dinghy detached itself from a dark-blue ketch. A lean figure with long black hair wearing a straw hat and cut-off jeans was standing in it paddling at a leisurely pace towards the shore. A fish jumped. The reflections of the masts crinkled on the water. Here goes Joe, Mathilda thought. Joe, deep in thought, didn’t notice much of what was going on around him. He didn’t see the cormorant catch a mullet, or the pelicans hunting between the mooring lines. He sighed. Life had been easy – until last night. Fuck! He thought he’d left all the crap behind him. Hell! For the last few years, since he’d dropped anchor at the yacht club he’d been settled and happy. He looked after the moorings and sometimes he delivered yachts to exotic places. He had no worries in life plus the club had a pub, plus some lovely chicks. Sure, there were some smartasses amongst the members but he socialized with the sensible guys who realized that there was more to life than the rat race and status symbols. And now this. Hells bells! He couldn’t believe it. Why did life have to be so complicated? Maybe he should just ignore the whole thing…
Interview with Gunda Hardegen-Brunner
When did you first start writing?
As soon as I could hold a pen and my father had taught me to write. I was about 5 and made illustrated stories about animals, flowers, witches, fairies and people.
What was the first book you remember reading?
Pippi Langstrumpf – Pippi Longstocking, while I was in primary school. From the first page it confirmed that my decision to never grow up and to do my own thing in life was the way to go.
What is the story behind Zebra Horizon?
Michael and I were living on our smallholding between Johannesburg and Pretoria with all sorts of freerange animal companions and we were building our boat, a wooden, 40 foot gaff-rigged cutter.
One day, it must have been the year 2000, I said to Michael, “I want to write a book.”
He said, “I think that’s a great idea. What’s it going to be about?”
“About our life here in the sticks with all the animals and our eccentric neighbours and about how we built our house using local materials like the ground to make bricks, trees for beams and veld grass to thatch the roof – without any electric tools but a goodly bit of lateral thinking.”
I started the book with how Michael and I first met – when I was an exchange student and he one of my host fathers – that seemed to be a logical beginning. And then the story took on its own life. It took unexpected turns and twists; new characters appeared out of the blue and made me laugh and cry. After 2 years I had a script that wasn’t about our life on the smallholding at all but about Mathilda and her exchange year to South Africa in the 70s – a novel inspired by my personal experience.
I wrote a lot in Michael’s dressing room at the SABC. The Isidingo cast and crew with their various backgrounds were a fantastic source of information about aspects of life in South Africa in the 70s that I hadn’t been able to experience myself or get uncensored information about while I was an exchange student.
On days I stayed at home I wrote in the writing chamber with a view on the pond with all the ducks and geese, the garden and the forest. The dogs kept me company, the sheep walked around, the hens scratched the ground surrounded by their chicks, while Jingleballicks, the rooster, let off lusty cock a doodle dos.
Sometimes Pegasus, the horse, popped in but only if the dogs would let him.
Michael was extremely supportive on all sorts of levels and on days I didn’t spend on film sets his first question arriving home would be, “May I read what you wrote today?”
What is the greatest joy of writing for you?
It has often been said that writing is a lonely process. I disagree. When the words are flowing I feel connected in every way. The universe embraces me for being myself – the essence of Gunda, creating something unique, contributing my bit to the expression of life. It’s the most extraordinary, exhilarating, enriching experience – I feel the rapture of being alive.
What are you working on at the moment?
A while ago I found 270 pages of Mathilda II on my laptop, a story I began to write in 2006, which I had totally forgotten about. Mathilda II (working title) is the sequel to Zebra Horizon.
In Mathilda II, Mathilda is back in Germany finishing her schooling. All she wants in life is to rejoin her South African boyfriend as fast as possible but Denzil, who is doing his bit for the Struggle – or is he? goes incommunicado.
Mathilda, mightily pissed off, leaves for Paris and works for Monsieur Gaspard, a wealthy philanthropist with a penchant for paintings and out of the ordinary cuisine.
Mathilda has an encounter that blows her clean out of her Birkenstock sandals and leads to the question – what is love all about?
That’s how far I got 8 years ago. I have no idea what’s going to happen next. At the moment I am doing research about France and South Africa in 1977.
What is your writing process?
I have an idea. I write down what comes up. I follow the story as it unfolds without interfering too much; I go with the flow…that’s how Zebra Horizon became a book about Mathilda’s exchange year instead about Michael’s and my life with our animal companions on our smallholding off the grid in the bush.
I always first write by hand. I love the feel of my pen and my hand gliding across the paper, the little sound that makes and watch the words appear on the page.
I write whenever I feel inspired, which can be at any time of the day or the night for half an hour or 12.
The only time I had a dedicated desk was when we were living on our smallholding. After that it was the dinette on the boat, our only table in our camp under the milkwood trees and for the last 2 years on my lap in the bush or a table seating 14, depending on where the flow of life took me.
I sometimes carry a notebook with me and have one next to my bed; I often dream sequences of my stories.
When the muse isn’t sitting on my shoulder I type my handwritten stuff onto the computer or I do research for my books. Doing research is one of my favourite pastimes – it takes me to all sorts of places and people in real life and on the internet. The Isidingo cast and crew answered questions like – Were there movie houses in Soweto in the 70s? – No, we went to Lenasia. – How do you strap a baby to your back so that it doesn’t fall off? – Ma Agnes gave me a practical demonstration. For Yet Another Day in Paradise I needed someone familiar with the yachting world to do the cover and Lawrence Moorcroft, a fellow sailor and yacht club member, who was involved in the Asterix movies when they were drawn by hand in the 60s, did the artwork.
An important part of the process is to sit still or walk in the woods or gaze at the stars – for stories to be born somewhere deep inside me.
What do you do when you don’t write?
I read. I spend as much time as I can in the wild. I paint – like mad for 3 months and then I stop for a year – or more – or less. I love to explore – places, people, different cultures, subcultures.
A great big thank you
to all those who made my exchange year possible
to Nathalie Shrosbree for her inspiring dedication to all things technical and the cover design,
to Jenny and Heather Metelerkamp for the YAY Jump cover photo
and to Jenny Gandar for the M & G photo