In the Indian market were hundreds of small stalls beneath one roof where importunate salesmen of curios tried to waylay the visitor with “cut rate” ebony or embroidered fans, while dark-skinned women in graceful saris measured out curry seasonings from brilliant piles of brown, yellow, orange, and saffron-colored powders.
Next door to the Indian market, on bare dirt behind a corrugated iron fence, was the native bazaar. Here tribesmen, just in from the hinterland, wandered barefooted, wrapped in bright blankets, to inspect racks of used city clothing. Women, their hair fashioned into elaborate headdresses held in place with red clay, their arms and necks and waists encircled with heavy ropes of magnificent beadwork, squatted beside a counter full of scrap metal and suckled their infants while searching for treasure: a usable flashlight, a rusty knife, a discarded kerosene stove. In the bazaar one could see lion or zebra skins being stretched and dried; could watch Zulus fashioning medicine wands with leopard-tail tassels or stringing necklaces and breastplates with thousands of tiny colored beads; could see Xosa and Basuto and Swazi and Zulu and hear the babel of their many tongues. And one could see the swiftly veiled glint of distrust and hatred when one of them looked up and recognized a white face.
We had been forced to give up our ambition to get to Kruger National Park, both because of travel restrictions for our entire group and because of finances. Nick and Moto, as I have mentioned, settled for a trip to Pretoria; Barbara and Jessica seemed quite content to relax at the Mollers’ farm. But Ted and I would not give up so easily and we looked about for a less-distant goal.
On the advice of Bill Sinclair, a wild-life photographer for the national parks service whose spectacular color shots had even further whetted our desires, we chose the Hluhluwe (shloo-shloo-way) Game Reserve in Zululand. The variety of game there, he assured us, was quite as impressive as at Kruger—if we didn’t mind missing the elephants and lions. We did mind, but we had long since learned that our trip was of necessity a long series of compromises, and we settled for Hluhluwe.
Actually, we were not at all disappointed, for we were able to see not only the African interior, with its characteristic highlands, its Zulu villages of kraals and beehive-shaped rondevals, but also a fine selection of native animal life. We saw, in their native state, wildebeest, zebra, kudu, impala, and warthog—and, the highlight of the trip, the ponderous but amazingly swift rhino.
We have reason to know how fast a rhino can move. We found out on the day we trotted down a narrow path through the bush, in hot pursuit of a white rhino lumbering on ahead. Suddenly he became aware that he was being trailed. Swinging around abruptly, he reversed his course and we had barely time to take to the trees before he crashed blindly past us through the undergrowth.
Two days after the New Year we left Durban, bound around the Cape of Good Hope to Cape Town. Although this was considered the best season for the trip, we had no guarantee that the passage would be quiet and I’m sure we all had mentally crossed our fingers. A number of yachts accompanied us through the harbor and the Sea Scouts, among whom Ted had made many friends, continued for a short distance outside in their launch. Then we were on our own.
On our own—but we did not lack for company, much of which we could well have done without. Because of the Suez blockade, there was scarcely an hour of the day or night when we did not have at least one ship in sight. On the very first day a freighter changed course and came bearing down on us, a frightening sight to one who is maneuvering under sail. We tacked and headed out, but the freighter too changed course. I was becoming more and more uneasy. Obviously, they were merely interested in looking us over, but what if they overestimated our maneuverability under sail? What if they came too close upwind and blanketed our sails so that we lost steerageway? What if—It is impossible to describe how small and vulnerable a yacht can feel when forced to play tag with a large and relentless freighter!
The ship approached closer and at last Barbara was able to make out the name on her hull: Sulu. It was a cargo ship from the Philippines, whose captain had visited us on board and had later taken us all out to dinner. Sulu approached very close, far closer than I cared for, sounding her whistle repeatedly. We broke out our compressed-air hooter and returned the greeting, waving heartfelt permission for our jovial escort to go on his way. At last he did, and the Sulu carried on out of sight.
For the first six days the breeze was light and the weather fair, but on January 8 things took a turn for the worse. The radio was giving out gale warnings, so we took down the main and were prepared when a thunderstorm hit in the early-morning hours, bringing heavy rain and strong winds at its peak. By dawn the breeze had fallen off enough so that we were banging around considerably in very heavy seas.