CHAPTER #6

Asuncion, Paraguay, and banana trees.

When we told both sets of parents that we would be leaving South Africa once more they accepted the news gracefully and even became quite philosophical about our next departure.

One thing was certain, though: there would be no more ocean voyages for us. Bill had flown to England a few years back and I had travelled by air once before also (on that short expedition to Montevideo to discover my baggage); this time the flight would be much longer - at least fifteen hours. I wasn't looking forward to it but it would be bliss compared to a long ocean voyage. Fortunately there would be no need to store heavy trunks and boxes in the hold, either, because our plan was to rent a fully furnished house when we got there.

By the time we arrived at the airport in Asuncion the tearstained hanky with which I had waved good-bye to my loved ones had dried completely. And so had my eyes after a sleepless night in the air. While Bill sawed his way through at least a cord of wood, I worried about engine fatigue and the possibility of running out of fuel. Obviously ignorance is not always bliss.

As soon as we had cleared customs, we were met by a company representative and while we waited for him to bring his Jeep around, I noticed a very large sign written in five or six languages. The sign claimed that Paraguay had the most beautiful women in the world.

This bold assertion may have piqued Bill's interest but it caused me to feel even more bleary-eyed than ever. One of the languages on the sign was new to us and when we asked our driver about it he told us it was Guarani (Gwa-ra-nee), Paraguay’s second official language.

Apparently when Spain conquered Paraguay in the 1500s communication with the Guarani indians was virtually impossible so, in order for both cultural groups to be able to co-exist, Paraguay evolved into a bilingual country and has remained so ever since; it also had the distinction of having been governed for over 30 years by a single dictator: the late General Alfredo Stroessner.

When the Jeep finally pulled up in front of the airport we were stuffed into it, along with our baggage, and advised that we would be staying at the Hotel Terrazza until we could find a home of our own.

As we drove through the outlying suburbs of Asuncion it was apparent that, apart from an enclave of large homes on the outskirts of the city, almost all of the roads appeared to be unpaved. It seemed odd that a capital city of any country would have hard-packed reddish earth roads like that in the year 1959. Probably a shortage of cash, I thought.

Then we saw the president's palace. No cash shortage there - it was a grand fortress painted watermelon pink and surrounded by high walls of the same glowing colour. Iron gates in front were guarded by armed soldiers who made it perfectly clear that no-one was encouraged to loiter anywhere near the premises. I guess when you hold power by force there is always the fear that someone else will be waiting in the wings to try to take it from you.

The town itself was not large. Stores had tall stone fronts with small windows, probably to keep indoor space cool during hot summer days. The streets in town were cobbled with irregularly shaped stones which made for a bumpy ride, especially for anyone squashed into an open-sided Jeep. It was a relief when finally we were able to unfold into our temporary refuge.

The Hotel Terrazza is unlikely to exist any more, but at that time it was a rambling structure situated on a ridge overlooking an unpaved square some forty or fifty feet below. The guest rooms formed a semicircle around a large terrace dotted with tables and chairs.

Looking over the edge of the terrace we could see that the square below was rimmed with electric light standards. There was also a loudspeaker positioned high on a long pole. We listened with pleasure as the sorrowful voice of a Portuguese fado singer floated upwards on the late afternoon breeze. Later, our pleasure diminished when we realized that the bar below used this loudspeaker virtually all day and most of the night to broadcast music for its patrons - and, it seemed, for everyone else who lived within a radius of two miles.

The next morning, under sunny skies, we breakfasted at one of the tables on the terrace. Sitting across from Bill I was surprised to see a giant tortoise inching its way slowly towards us across the tiles. Reaching our table it peered up at us with world-weary eyes. I was just about to pat its shell encouragingly when a waitress came over and tossed a bread roll on the floor in front of it. Ten minutes later, all that was left of the roll was a small wet spot of saliva where it had once been.

After breakfast the trusty driver arrived to take Bill to his new office for orientation. Unfortunately our friend, Don MacFadyen, was not in Asuncion at that time but this didn't bother Bill as he was eager to get back to work again as quickly as possible. Later, the driver returned for me, armed with a list of houses available for rent in Asuncion, and I set off to find somewhere for us to live during the next two years.

Asuncion is a port city on the Rio Paraguay and although it would have been nice to live down by the river, this was not an option. Many of the houses we saw en route to our targets appeared to be rather primitive dwellings but flowering lapacho trees lining the streets and gardens filled with colour made even the poorest neighborhoods look quite fine.

Because Asuncion is also the capital of Paraguay, there has always been a constant demand for houses suitable for foreign ambassadors and their staff to rent. By late afternoon we had checked all but one of those that were available, and several would have served us well, but the driver insisted on taking me to see the very last one - just "a little bit further on" he promised.

"A little bit further on" meant we were soon out in the country. I had the feeling we were moving much too far from town and was just about to suggest that we turn back when, with a flourish and a spurt of gravel, we pulled into the driveway of what looked like a small banana plantation. Sheltered by two enormous mango trees I spied a dappled ranch-style house with white stucco walls, black trim and loads of character.

After a quick tour of the property, the house decided that we were to be its next occupants. When we returned with Bill later that evening, it was I who enthusiastically pointed out all of its salient features: the dome-shaped casement windows which ran the whole length of the building, and how they opened onto a lush garden filled with jasmine, hibiscus and other flowering bushes; groups of bamboo chairs and tables arranged along the length of the garden room and the dark red tile-covered floors. Three bedrooms led off the garden room and a smaller, cozier sitting room was situated at the far end. Beyond a huge kitchen were the maid's quarters. Rosita the maid "came with the house" and, as a nice touch, she was at the front door to welcome us when we arrived.

As for the garden! Well. Three hundred banana trees sprawled over several acres of land, interspersed with many other unfamiliar species of trees and shrubs. Two fifty foot mango trees, one on either side of the driveway, had dropped dozens of sweet yellow mangoes on the ground, and there was even a cultivated vegetable garden hidden behind a hedge. Luckily, a gardener also "came with the house".

So next morning the deal was struck and, after all necessary arrangements had been made, we moved into our new home one week later. It looked as though we would be eating lots and lots of bananas during the next two years.

Friends and celestial sounds.

It is troubling to me that I can no longer remember names of the many people I met in Paraguay. Most of them were there on short-term contracts, of course, so no matter how warm the friendships might have been at the time, it was difficult to sustain them once the connection had been broken.

Because no South African Consul existed in Asuncion we registered our presence with the British Embassy and immediately discovered that there was a large foreign community in town, mostly British and American, along with many German and other mixed nationals. Soon we were assimilated into a social life which included an endless round of embassy cocktail parties for which there seemed always to be an occasion: somebody arriving, or leaving, or having a birthday, and sometimes just because it was Friday or Saturday.

Being allergic to alcohol, I became something of a curiosity at those gatherings of hard drinking partygoers. Bill found it particularly annoying when an occasional inebriated male would attempt to check out the "new" woman in town. I found those attentions annoying, also, especially since Bill always suspected that my politeness in staving off advances served only as encouragement for their continuation. In a way I was flattered that Bill was jealous and possessive, I just couldn't believe that he trusted me so little.

One day I was invited to tea at the home of an elderly British lady. As I walked into her cool, high-ceilinged home I heard liquid sounds of cascading music coming from another room. It was a Paraguayan harp being played and I knew, then and there, that I just had to have one of those for myself. My hostess agreed to make inquiries on my behalf.

Meanwhile, we had settled in to our new home with ease, thanks largely to Rosita. She knew where to get all the groceries nearby, we grew most of our own vegetables anyway, and each morning she would walk to a neighboring farm to buy a jug of freshly squeezed milk for our daily consumption. The milk would be still warm from the cow when it arrived and two inches of thick cream could be skimmed off the top for future cakes and desserts.

Unfortunately, however, there was a fly in the ointment. The house was plagued by legions of cockroaches. This didn't seem to bother Rosita but I became obsessed with eradicating every last one of them. Much as I hate killing creatures of any sort, I put poison down each night and in the morning we would sweep hundreds of them into the garbage - huge, shiny brown roaches with antennae long enough to give anyone the shivers.

We scoured the cupboards and floors, stored all the food in containers but still they came in droves. We could go into the kitchen at any time of night, switch on a light and see a dark mass of them scurrying off in all directions. Eventually their source was traced to a cesspool in the garden some distance from the house: the gardener had lifted a rusty iron trapdoor to discover a seething swarm of roaches coating every square inch of visible space. There must have been thousands of them running over each other like rustling leaves on a windy day. Sadly for the roaches, extermination followed quickly and The Great Roach War finally came to its bitter conclusion.

What a red letter day it was when my new harp finally arrived! Unlike the chromatic harps one sees at symphony concerts, this one was about 5 ft. long with strings arranged in octaves, each separated by a different colour. It was made of dark wood shaped like a long, narrow triangle and, when seated, the top rested comfortably on my right shoulder.

It was disappointing to discover that there was no written music for the Paraguayan harp and, being diatonic, no sharps or flats either. The teacher would simply show me what to do (rhythmic chords played with the left hand and plinking melodies with the right) and I would then have to struggle to remember his instructions. By the second lesson I had smartened up enough to produce a tape recorder which made it a lot easier to remember what I was supposed to be practising later on. And practice I certainly did. Soon the teacher was able to accompany my efforts on his guitar and the resulting harmony was so exciting that, by the end of every lesson, my temperature had risen at least two points.

One day, after I had been playing for a year or more, I was introduced to three other harpists and told that the four of us would soon be performing at a concert! We practiced furiously for several weeks and managed to put on a credible performance at the concert but it was fortunate, with four of us playing the same polkas, that one or other of us could make an occasional mistake without anyone else being the wiser. That concert even got me another "gig" playing at an American Embassy garden party while a little Paraguayan girl did a dance with a bottle balanced on her head.

You would think, after such exposure, that I would go on to achieve some fame and fortune, wouldn't you? Sadly, though, my star gradually lost its twinkle and I slowly drifted back into anonymous obscurity.

Santa Cruz, Bolivia, revolution, and Cadbury's chocolate.

One day Bill was asked to fly to Santa Cruz, Bolivia, to meet up with Stu Scott again. I cannot remember the reason for the journey but it surely must have been important. At any rate Bill invited me to go along with him and I jumped at the chance to see something of Bolivia.

So, if the journey was important I would have to dress for the occasion. Right? Out came my freshly laundered sparkling white cotton dress, on went the black and white hat, white gloves, white shoes and purse, black and white multi-strand necklace. I felt like the cat's meow and the epitome of sophistication.

We sashayed down to the airport, expecting to board a big jet, only to be directed to the steps of a small two-engined plane that held only twenty passengers. Somewhat crestfallen, we jammed into our seats, engines roared and the aircraft rose slowly upwards, just barely clearing a patch of trees at the end of the runway.

It was immediately obvious to everyone that there was no air-conditioning inside the cabin - no little nozzles to twist and absolutely no relief from the oppressive heat. On top of that, the aircraft kept yawing from side to side, alternating with up and down. Hot and nauseated it seemed only a matter of time before I would puke all over my clean white dress. Bill noticed my pallor, picked up a magazine and began fanning me vigorously. "Hang on," he said cheerfully, "we'll be there in a couple of hours." All I could do was smile weakly.

In another couple of hours, however, there was still no sign of Santa Cruz - only dry, wheat-flattened fields stretching as far as the eye could see. By this time everyone on the plane was distressed: babies cried, voices were raised irritably and Bill's arm had lost its fan ability.

Suddenly the Captain's voice jolted us all into silence. Fasten seat belts, we would be landing right away. Ohmigod! Had we lost an engine or something?

With no airport in sight the aircraft landed bumpily on the wheat field and everyone was told to get out. How? I wondered. There were no steps available and the drop to the ground appeared terrifyingly steep. Putting off the inevitable as long as possible Bill and I waited for everyone else to leave first. When there was no other alternative, two men below lifted up their arms to catch us as we fell. Bill jumped first, stumbled, then righted himself with a few quick steps. Taking a deep breath I, too, leaped into the air and dropped like a stone into the arms of the men below.

We pushed in beside others standing in the shade of the airplane's wings. Listening carefully to the rapid-fire Spanish bubbling up around us we deduced that the pilot had lost his way, didn't think there would be enough fuel to reach our destination and had picked this isolated spot on which to land! We were stranded in Embarcacion, Argentina, on a boiling hot day with not a tree in sight.

Suddenly, off in the distance we spied a jeep rocketing towards us, followed closely by a pickup truck trailing clouds of yellow dust. As soon as these two vehicles stopped nearby we were told to climb aboard. Within seconds the jeep was filled and so, it seemed, was the pickup truck. Passengers were perched on huge sacks of wheat piled up on the floorboards, leaving just one sack at the very end for the two of us.

Even though my crisp white dress had wilted considerably by now Bill gallantly whipped out his handkerchief and laid it on the sack for me to sit upon. Stepping up gracefully was out of the question so Bill gave a great shove from behind and I landed on target, with only a passing display of frilly knickers. Once we were seated, the driver slammed shut the tailgate, jumped into his cab and with a great grinding of gears we drove off into the shimmering distance.

Don't ever sit in the back of a truck travelling at speed over a bone-dry field at noon. I swear that most of the atomic mushroom of dust that descended upon us that day ended up on my white dress. As I clung desperately to my little hat, dust filled my eyes, nose, and mouth, it settled like a blanket over every part of me that was no longer crisp, no longer white and definitely no longer happy. Fortunately all torture ends eventually - either in death or deliverance. In this case it was the latter.

After a half-hour's drive, the truck came to a shuddering halt beside what appeared to be a restaurant with no walls. Wooden tables and chairs spilled out onto the sidewalks and were occupied by assorted patrons, most of them dressed simply in sleeveless undershirts and pants. Relieved to be out of the jouncing truck at last, we staggered over to claim one of the wooden tables for ourselves. The rest of the passengers followed quickly. It seemed we were all to be given free lunch while we waited for another airplane to arrive with additional fuel - and, presumably, a map.

One greasy hamburger and chips later we were back at our impromptu airstrip being lifted unceremoniously into one of the two planes (we were even allowed to choose which one). All I'll say about that flight is that everyone, except Bill, regurgitated his or her lunch into neat little plastic bags within the first half-hour aloft. When the aircraft finally touched down in Santa Cruz, it was a sorry, bedraggled bunch of travellers who limped on to their final destinations. Ours happened to be a small hotel on a main street in town and we were going to be staying there for one entire week.

That night, just as we were getting ready to go down for dinner, we heard a commotion outside. Rushing on to the balcony we saw several lorry loads of young men driving by. They were waving flags and brandishing guns, shouting "Viva Santa Cruz!" and "Viva la revolucion!" It was rather like watching a parade but when they started shooting real bullets into the air we beat a hasty retreat indoors. No sense taking any chances we thought.

During the week that followed Bill conducted his business with Stu Scott, we had dinner with a Canadian consular representative and his family, and I took several walks around the hot, hot, hot town.

On one of these walks, to my great surprise, I found a tiny little variety store with a stock of Cadbury's chocolate bars in it! Mouth watering, I immediately bought a half dozen bars and carried them carefully back to the hotel. They were soft and squishy from the heat but I ate two of them right away, savoring every morsel. Did I save one for Bill? Can’t remember, but if I did it could only have been after a long discussion with my conscience and then only with the greatest reluctance.

At the end of the week we left Santa Cruz with three new possessions - one Vicuna fur covering for a bed and two Alpaca fur rugs for the floor - beautiful soft coverings which were destined to have their own adventures in the years ahead.

That show-biz bug bites again

In Asuncion, very little entertainment was available in English at that time so for a number of years a group of people had been producing their own plays in a local theatre. The next play on the program was to be The Women by Clare Booth Luce and I was co-opted to play the part of a British governess. The part was not pivotal and there were not too many lines to learn but the best part was getting into make-up. My short hair was slicked back like a man’s, huge horn-rimmed spectacles were placed on my nose, completely covering my eyebrows, and new brows were blacked in above them. Most people who saw the play didn’t even know I was in it and I had lots of fun pretending to be someone else.

After that show I got a “starring” role as the love interest in Ten Little Indians. At one point during the performance the only light on stage was a candle set on a table beside the couch on which I was seated. A small furry moth soon started to flutter around the flame and I began to get goose bumps all over. (Even though he now denies it, my brother once put a live grasshopper down the back of my dress and ever since then I have been unable to stand scratchy or fluttery things around me.) The moth struck my hair a couple of times while I tried desperately to ignore it. Finally when it hit my chest, I broke down and put my hand over it. Stunned, the moth fell into my cleavage, I squeezed my breasts together tightly and the poor moth died a horrible death.

In addition to that tragedy, I had on long false eyelashes, one of which fell off during an embrace by my on-stage lover. This left me looking decidedly one-eyed and caused the wife of an Ambassador (who had had too much to drink), to start laughing. Her behavior drove my stage lover mad so, instead of appearing to comfort me, the play ended with him muttering expletives into my ear and with me trying to maintain some degree of composure. Finally, I took my bow, along with the rest of the cast, soaked in perspiration, dead moth still couched between my breasts and with one eye looking much smaller than the other. I never did find the other eyelash either.

Back at the plantation and babies.

It was in Paraguay that Bill and I first attempted to have a baby. I longed to start a family but, even after a year of trying, we had had no luck. I decided to visit a gynecologist who started me on a series of tests - dilation and curettage first, then gas blown through my fallopian tubes, then bits of flesh ripped out of mysterious places (without the aid of anesthesia!) for the purpose of biopsies - you name it, I had it all done to me.

Then one day I started to experience a great deal of abdominal pain and the gynecologist thought that it might be caused by an ectopic pregnancy. But he turned out to be wrong. When the pain became so intense that it occasionally caused me to double up, he checked again and discovered a large tumour growing on one of my ovaries. It was obviously going to have to be removed so we decided that I would return to South Africa for the surgery. Good. That meant I would get to see my family again too.

Bill's sister knew of a good surgeon and she made immediate arrangements to have me admitted to a hospital in Pretoria. Of course my mother would have preferred for me to be in Johannesburg but, like a good trooper, she was waiting, with Bill's mother, as I was wheeled out of the operating theatre - looking for all the world as though I hadn't survived the surgery at all.

I was placed in an open ward in a Catholic hospital with three other occupants who became instant friends. The nuns were kind, too, and I remember that one of them would come around each morning, juggling four big red apples. As she passed each of us she would drop an apple on the bed until all were gone and we had been served our morning snack.

One day, feeling particularly cheerful, I started singing You are my Sunshine to myself. Before I knew it my three ward mates had joined in and our impromptu quartet had attracted an appreciative audience of patients and nurses. We were encouraged to continue singing for as long as I was there and, somehow, it made the time go more quickly and pleasantly.

Needless to say, I was pampered and spoiled by Mum and Dad for the next six weeks and it was heavenly. However, after being given a clean bill of health by the surgeon, I knew that heaven would have to wait: it was time to leave for the banana plantation once again.

While Bill was happy to have me home again, his happiness was tempered soon afterward by the fact that Don MacFadyen had come back into our lives. When he arrived, Don gave me a great big hug and a kiss, despite Bill's disapproving stare. He stayed in one of our guest rooms for a week and the airspace on our plantation was once more filled with the sound of his voice - well into the wee hours of the morning.

Don seemed to enjoy teasing me and I always responded in kind. Bill, on the other hand, could not tolerate Don's professed admiration for me and would sulk whenever he thought that Don was poaching on "his territory". The “territory", meanwhile, although still extremely irritated by her husband's continued jealousy, just didn’t seem to care much anymore.

Bill's two year contract was scheduled to end within a matter of months and Don's trip to Paraguay, this time, had been for the purpose of offering him an opportunity to return to Brazil for another year of operations. This offer pleased Bill as he had been dreading the thought of returning to Johannesburg with no job prospects in sight.

While I was not so thrilled at the thought of returning to Petropolis, myself, I made no objections because it meant that Bill could continue to work in the aerial survey business for at least a little while longer.

With the die cast to move again we were soon launched into a final round of farewell parties. I would be sorry to leave the friends we had made in Asuncion, of course, but what I really hated most of all was the thought of giving up my harp lessons.

However, I made sure the harp would be travelling in the cabin with us to Petropolis and I vowed to keep on playing it forever.