CHAPTER #5

Life in the fast lane?

Life in Petropolis was definitely not lived in the fast lane, and it was a welcome change from the frenzied pace of previous months. Petropolis was a small, quiet town nestled in the valleys between several adjacent mountain ridges. The small canal which ran the length of the Rua Coronel Veiga continued straight through to the centre of town where it widened between streets on either side.

Every Friday the town square played host to a bustling farmer's market where stands overflowed with the most wonderful fruits, fish, and vegetables. Vendors sold all manner of things from doce de leite, a deliciously sweet fudge, and little meat pies, to roasted castanhas de caju, the locally grown cachew nuts. It was an event that drew me to it, like a magnet, each week.

Generally, days were spent fixing up our little apartment, exploring the stores and trying out my Portuguese on unsuspecting shopkeepers. With gestures and a dictionary in hand I usually managed to buy what I needed, although I did have some difficulty once when I asked for a "head with short sleeves" (using the word cabeca instead of camisa for "shirt"). Nobody laughed at me, though, because I was immediately pegged as an estrangeira and forgiven my ignorance.

Unfortunately the apartment we lived in did not make for happy camping. It was far too tiny, and the kitchen was a disaster. Even the small double bed had to be pushed up against a wall to allow access to at least one of the sides. I chose the open side because Bill slept heavily and thrashed around a lot, whereas I slept lightly, hardly moving at all. Things came to a head one night when, during a dream-filled sleep, Bill brought his legs up to his chin and kicked me right out of the bed onto the floor. After that rude awakening I insisted we look for a bigger apartment, or else.

The apartment we chose was one of eight, in a four-story building, right in the centre of town; it had a nice living room, two bedrooms, a good-sized kitchen with all modern conveniences, a bathroom and a balcony. Perfect.

Several weeks after my arrival in Petropolis I met Kay's husband, Don. He turned out to be a good looking man with bright eyes, heavy dark brows and a mustache. Don traveled a great deal on company business, but when he was in town the four of us began to spend a fair bit of time together.

Don's wife and my husband both liked to go to bed late and sleep late in the morning, whereas Don and I each preferred to go to bed at a reasonable hour and rise early.... Kay used to say, jokingly, that we should switch husbands but I always replied "No way - yours talks too much." Bill, being a jealous sort, didn't care to discuss the matter at all.

In the meantime it had become necessary for me to take a trip to Montevideo, Uruguay (alone) to locate my missing baggage. I felt quite adventurous walking through that enormous warehouse lined with row upon row of baggage-laden racks. The customs agent who accompanied me was very patient and he pumped my hand heartily when I eventually discovered the goods. Once identified they were shipped to Petropolis and arrived within a week of my return.

Unfortunately, the record player must have fallen into the sea somewhere along the way because all of my precious henna powder had turned into smelly mush and had to be thrown away, along with the record player itself. Alas, it would soon be back to mousey-brown for me.

Despite the friendliness of the MacFadyens, and a few other Prospec staff members, I was lonely living in Petropolis. Bill worked most nights, sometimes until 2 or 3 in the morning checking flight lines - which always had to be done immediately on arrival - so we had little quality time together. I had also never been away from home before and missed my family in South Africa very much. There were times when I longed for Bill's contract to end so that we could return home again.

It became even lonelier for me when Kay returned to Canada with her two children. Genevieve's problems appeared to be intensifying and nobody knew exactly what was wrong with her. She could speak no words, was extremely hyperactive and screamed constantly with frustration.

So it was decided that she should be returned to Canada for diagnosis and possible treatment. Don remained in their house for a while but when tests proved that Genevieve was autistic and retarded he gave up the house and returned to Canada to see what he could do for his little daughter.

As it turned out, there were no facilities in Canada to deal with Genevieve's condition at that time so Don turned his attention to the United States. He was directed to a world-famous psychologist, Dr. Bruno Bettleheim, who was associated with the University of Chicago. A panel of experts examined Genevieve over a period of 5 days and were about to reject her as a likely candidate for treatment when she was observed, through a 2-way mirror, wiping up some milk which a little boy beside her had spilled. That single action persuaded Dr. Bettleheim that Genevieve could respond to treatment. She was admitted at the age of 5 and remained at the Orthogenic School in Chicago until she was 19 years old and no longer eligible to stay there.

After Genevieve had been installed at the Orthogenic School Kay decided that she no longer wanted to go back to Brazil. So, with 3-year-old Rod in tow, she went to live with her parents on their fruit farm in Vineland, Ontario. Don returned to Petropolis alone and rented a flat back-to-back with ours.

During the remainder of Bill's contract in Brazil Don dined with us many times - he would knock on the adjoining wall to say he was coming over, or we would bang on it to say that he should. Sometimes Bill and Don talked until way past midnight - or rather Don talked and Bill interjected an occasional comment. Bill was an uncommunicative soul who much preferred reading to talking, but Don has always needed to communicate his thoughts and ideas aloud - whether his companions wanted to hear them or not!

When these long nightly discussions revolved around business I stayed out of the way but I would listen with interest when Don talked about his personal and wartime experiences.

For instance, when Don and his sister Joan were very young their mother ran away with another man! This dramatic turn of events must have been devastating for the family. Don's father was an important banker at the time whose work often involved traveling across Ontario, so it was virtually impossible for him to raise two small children alone.

Fortunately Aunt Kate and Uncle Donald came to the rescue and the children were raised by them in small-town Galt until they reached the ages of 12 and 14 respectively. When Uncle Donald died unexpectedly, Don's father purchased a large mansion in Toronto, engaged a couple to keep house for the family and brought the children (and Aunt Kate) back to live with him. Happy to be reunited with their father, Don enrolled as a student at the prestigious University of Toronto School, Joan went to Bishop Strachan, and life for them, in a big city, became infinitely more varied than it had been in the small town of Galt.

We heard tales of how Don would sneak out before dawn, while still a schoolboy, so that he could learn to fly an airplane without his father's knowledge. He had saved up enough money to pay for the lessons himself and was abetted in the venture by his father's driver, who willingly ferried him to and from the airport for each session. No doubt it was this determination that allowed Don to qualify as a pilot in the RCAF when WWII eventually broke out.

Commissioned as an officer in the RCAF, Don told us that he became, first, an instructor and then a night-intruder pilot. Thinking about it now, I'm sure that it was Don's seriousness, and his ability to concentrate, that made him one of Canada's ace pilots and ensured a great many successful sorties into enemy territory.

Of course we were impressed to hear that Don had been awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross (twice!) and that a Distinguished Service Order had been pinned to his uniform by none other than King George VI himself. Okay - so the man was brave and he had a lot to say - the trouble was I couldn't get enough sleep at night while he was saying it.

Rio de Janeiro.

The remainder of Bill's contract at Prospec played itself out for me quite uneventfully. When I felt the need of a little excitement I would take a bus trip down to Rio, braving a stinking marshland just beyond the Santos Dumont airport, on the way. The stench from the marsh was so great that passengers would hold perfumed handkerchiefs over their noses until the bus had
passed it by. Unbelievably, that marsh was also the site on which a favela (slum) had been built: a hodge-podge collection of rickety shacks supported on stilts, raised 6 or 8 feet above the black mud, and connected to dry land by ramps of wooden planks. How those poor people lived and breathed in that foetid air was beyond comprehension.

Shopping in Rio was much like it is in any other large metropolis: there were elegant clothing stores, fascinating craft and curio shops, and because Brazil is famous for its gemstones, some of the best jewellery stores in the world.

Rio is actually divided right down the middle by a range of impressive mountains, of which Corcovado and the Sugar Loaf are the most famous. Corcovado towers to a height of over 2,300 feet and rises out of the moist Tijuca rain forest like a sleeping giant. High atop the mountain a gigantic figure of Christ the Redeemer stands, with arms outstretched in welcome.

Sugar Loaf, on the other hand, juts out from a chain of mountains which encircles Guanabara Bay like a toothy brown necklace. We had been told that one could get a perfect view of Rio's fabled beaches from the cable cars which made frequent trips up to the summit. Buying two tickets we hopped into the next car. As soon as we lifted off the ground I became so filled with terror that I had to sit on the floor of the cable car, going both ways.

There are about fifty miles of beaches in Rio, of which Copacabana is the most central, and they are all framed by black and white mosaic tiled sidewalks set in wavy patterns. Day or night, the beaches and sidewalks are crowded with the young and the old. Men, women and children of all shapes and sizes - and in various states of near nudity - promenade, play soccer and volley ball, swim, surf or just lie on the beach baking into ever darker shades of brown.

High-rise apartments stand shoulder to shoulder along the street behind Copacabana Beach and I sometimes envied the occupants their incomparable view of the bay. But when I thought about the perpetual stream of noisy traffic driving by, the quiet and peacefulness of Petropolis became much more desirable.

Cariocas (as Rio dwellers are wont to be called) are famous for being fun-loving and relaxed - that is until they get behind the wheel of a car and then LOOK OUT! Cabbies were the worst offenders because most of them drove old VW bugs with their hands on horns and their feet on accelerators. The front passenger seats are removed to make room for suitcases, too, so that meant there was nothing to hang on to if the driver should come to a sudden screaming halt or swerve violently to avoid any pedestrian brave enough to cross the road in front of him. After taking a few nosedives myself, I learned to either travel by bus, or walk, to wherever it was I wanted to go.

Every February Cariocas celebrate Carnaval with wild abandon. Hotels are filled with tourists and streets are jammed with revelers. Bill and I decided that we, too, would reserve a hotel room for one of these occasions. With samba music pounding outside, dancers gyrating, and whistles blowing, we joined the swaying throng which flowed like a river down one street, up another, and another, and another, until we were completely disoriented.

It was hot and humid that evening in Rio as performers sang and writhed, half naked, into the wee hours of the morning. Competing bands strove to outdo each other in exuberance, imbued with a potent sexual energy that seemed to affect everyone around them. Too bad I ended the night with a really nasty headache.

Contract's end, Adeus Brasil.

The two years we had spent in Brazil finally drew to a close and I began eagerly to pack our belongings into the old gray trunk and various boxes. I was excited and happy to be going back home again, although Bill was reluctant to leave Brazil and return to an uncertain future in South Africa.

Don, too, appeared sad that we were leaving and I guessed he would miss our nightly discussions and the home-cooked meals we shared on so many occasions.

A few farewell dinners later and it was time for us to board another liner - this time bound for Cape Town, South Africa. Don shook Bill's hand and hugged me tightly. As he kissed me good-bye I realized that this man, who had so greatly changed our lives, was now passing out of them forever. Regretfully, I knew we would miss Don's enthusiasm and his wonderful zest for life.

Sailing slowly past the Sugar Loaf mountain, we watched beach and buildings gradually recede until all we could see was the giant figure of Christ on the top of Corcovado. I recalled the excitement I had felt two years ago, and little Chinese slippers bobbing in the bay.... they would be among memories I would treasure and savour many times in the years to come.

Another queasy voyage ensued but this time it wasn't quite as bad as it had been on the outbound trip. During dinner that first night we were asked by an elderly couple at our table if we played bridge. Bill was a good bridge player but I had only a smattering of knowledge so Bill offered to teach me and I agreed to learn.

From then on, with nothing much else to do on board, we started to play bridge after breakfast - and again after lunch. I stumbled through the games but generally managed to carry it off without too much embarrassment. Then, before we knew it, two crew members had joined the queue and we were expected to play bridge with them also. Well, they would just have to be fitted in after dinner.

Believe me, it was fun for several days, but when my nightly dreams were invaded by streams of clubs and diamonds (interspersed with rivers of hearts and spades) and my brain was being shuffled along with the cards, it became nothing more than a painful chore. Nevertheless, I had to keep going or be dubbed a party pooper - and who wants to be one of those?

I may have mentioned before that Bill did not like to wake up in the morning. In fact, he was downright cranky every time it happened. So, on the second night of our voyage, when the ship's engines fell silent, I was loathe to wake him up immediately.

Why had we suddenly stopped? Was there a chance we might be sinking? Worried, I got out of my bunk and opened the cabin door. Chinese stewards were running back and forth down the corridor, looking concerned, and chattering excitedly.

At this point I decided to get ready for the worst scenario by donning my flotation jacket. Next I shook my husband urgently and said "Bill! The ship may be sinking! Get up!" He shrugged my hand off roughly and turned his face to the wall. I tried again. "Buzz off" he mumbled, pulling the covers up over his head. Finding it hard to believe that a (supposedly) intelligent man could be that foolish, I toyed with the idea of letting him go down with the ship. Thinking I could make that decision later, I sat down and waited nervously for the command to abandon ship.

Fortunately no such command was forthcoming - but we did stay becalmed for the whole of the next day because of a problem in the engine room. It was a strange and eerie experience to be suddenly adrift in the middle of an ocean, with the only sound being that of waves slapping gently against the ship’s side. Fortunately, by Day 3 the engine had been repaired and we were able to resume our journey to the comforting sound of throbbing engines.

The rest of the voyage proved to be quite uneventful. Too tired to spend any additional time in Cape Town, we boarded a train for Johannesburg and headed straight for a joyous reunion with family and friends. Happy at last to be back with my loved ones it was time to rest and recover.

Johannesburg, work and a telegram.

Bill and I quickly found a small bachelor apartment close to the centre of Johannesburg. It was compact and cozy and within walking distance of town. Windows formed one entire wall of the apartment so I borrowed a sewing machine from my mother and set about making floor to ceiling curtains for it. Once that was done, and belongings installed, we moved in and started looking for employment.

There was nothing available in Bill's field of interest so he ended up taking a job managing a branch of the CNA (Central News Agency) which was a chain of book and stationery stores in South Africa.

I started working in the Administrative Offices of John Orr & Co. - an upscale department store in the centre of Jo'burg. It meant I could walk to and from work each day which was a major consideration since at this point we did not yet have a car. The work itself was not very exciting but I enjoyed it and was happy to be doing my bit to shore up the family finances.

Bill, on the other hand, hated his job at the CNA. Having to deal with personnel all day long he was impatient and sometimes undiplomatic. This did not make for congenial working conditions.

One of his duties was to deposit, at the bank, all of the money taken in each day. For this task he had to carry a gun. Never having handled a weapon before I suspect he was nervous about being able to use it during an attempted robbery. So would I have been. Fortunately the occasion never arose but, especially in South Africa, it was always a distinct possibility.

Once our apartment had been fully tweaked, we settled back into a pleasant routine, visiting back and forth with family, entertaining friends, and generally taking up where we had left off two years ago.

I had been longing to have a baby ever since we got married but, because Bill was not at all eager to rush into fatherhood, I had to content myself with cuddling Eddie and Joan's first little daughter, Cheryl. "Soon," I thought to myself as I sniffed the baby's cheek.

Ed and Joan were living in a very nice house, in the suburb of Linden. It had a big yard in which they kept some chickens and two turkeys. The male turkey was much bigger than the female because he would gobble up all the food from both dishes before the poor female had a chance to get going.

Bill and I stayed in that house for a week once, while Ed and family went on holiday, and it was very stressful to try to keep those turkeys apart. At feeding time I would stand there, like a referee, whacking the greedy male over his head with a tin plate every time he approached his skinny mate's food. We thought justice would be served when, at Christmas time, we ate that glutton for dinner but he turned out to be just as tough in death as he had been in life.

Dad, retired from his job at the Gas Works, was now working as Superintendent of a large office building in the centre of Johannesburg. One of the perks was a large penthouse apartment with a roof garden for Mum to putter around in. I was worried about my Dad, though; he coughed a lot from smoking too many cigarettes and complained of pains in his chest. I guessed his angina was acting up again. Fortunately Mum was her usual bright and cheery self.

After we had been home for just nine months, we received a telegram from Don MacFadyen: would Bill consider taking a 2-year contract to work in Paraguay? Oh, no! Just when we had got ourselves nicely settled in.

Because Bill's discontentment with his job had been increasing exponentially I knew what his answer would be. Even though I hated the thought of being uprooted again and going through another round of traumatic good-byes, the offer of employment was too good to pass up and, after all, it was for only two years.

I stoically set about packing again and wondered what Paraguay was going to be like