CHAPTER #4

Leaping into the future. Getting ready to go.

It must have been difficult for my parents to contemplate the imminent departure of their only daughter knowing not only that they could not be present at her wedding but wondering when they would ever see her again. While neither of my parents communicated their innermost feelings to me at the time, I shall always be grateful to them for wanting my happiness above their own and for holding their tears until it was time for us to part.

Suddenly my orderly life had become a blur of busyness: there were travel arrangements to make, my job had to be wrapped up, friends to see, decisions to make about what to take with me, clothes and a wedding dress to buy. A traditional gown was out of the question, of course, so I chose instead a simple, pale pink dress with a little hat and accessories to match.

I would be traveling by sea so my clothes would be packed into two large suitcases which could be stowed in the cabin. However, a big gray metal trunk, with everything else in it, would have to go into the hold. This trunk was filled to the brim with all of the things I had collected for my trousseau plus a few treasures that absolutely could not be left behind.

At that time I was tinting my hair with henna - a noxious concoction when mixed with water which smelled, and looked, rather like manure - but since it turned my dark hair into a nice rich auburn colour, a two-year supply had to be stuffed into the top of a record player to ensure perpetuation of the illusion I wanted to create. This also would have to go into the hold.

A round of farewell parties followed. At one, given for me by friends at the Aircraft Operating Company, I received a beautiful mohair traveling rug, in delicate shades of mauve and lilac. That rug eventually traveled with me to seven different countries in the world and ended up, some thirty years later, being wrapped around a father-in-law to warm his dying days.

How mysterious are the threads that bind our lives to those of others. For instance, I often wondered about my little engagement ring .... whose had it been before it became mine and what where the circumstances of it ending up in the antique store? Supposing there had been some unhappiness attached to the ring - could it be transmitted, like a virus, to me? I hoped not.

At last, everything was ready for departure: passport, birth certificate, tickets, English/Portuguese dictionary, book on How to Speak Portuguese, and lots of Kleenex. Mum was to travel with me by train to Cape Town where I would embark on a steamer bound for Rio de Janeiro, Brazil.

I have said good-bye to my family many times since that day in September '55 and, believe me, it has never become any easier through repetition.

First, a quick hug and a kiss for Eddie and Joan, then cousins and friends and, last of all, my dear solemn Dad. I shall never forget his sad face, eyes filled with tears, as he kissed me good-bye and hugged me tighter than I have ever been hugged before. "We'll always be here for you, love, just you be happy." Blinded by our own tears Mum and I leaned out of the windows, waving frantically, as the train chugged away, until family and friends were finally lost to view.

Feeling not at all like a young woman embarking on a great adventure, I wondered if the great adventure was going to be worth so much present pain and sorrow.

Mum and I tried to stay cheerful for each other on that journey and when we arrived in Cape Town, for a while, we pretended it was just another holiday. Neither of us had been to Cape Town before nor seen Table Mountain, with its fabled flat top, currently iced with puffy white clouds. The town lay sprawled out below the mountain sandwiched, like a colourful filling, between it and the brilliant blue curve of Table Bay. One of the busiest ports in the world, Table Bay was filled with large ocean liners, trawlers, barges, tugs and pilot boats of all sizes. My stomach lurched.

We took a trip to see the lush vineyards of Stellenbosch, and admired the snow white houses built in the old Dutch tradition. Flowers everywhere, and fresh breezes off the cobalt sea, helped to take our minds off my impending departure.

When D-day finally arrived we took a taxi to the docks, boarded the ship and were shown to a tiny cabin where my bags were stowed away by a helpful porter. A quick tour of the ship and Mum would have to leave.

The pain of that parting was too intense for me to want to relive now. Mum and I had always been so close that it was like tearing off a part of myself and leaving it behind. Suffice it to say that Mum had a lonely trip back to Johannesburg, while it took me most of the next ten days to recover enough composure to be able to even think of a happy future with Bill.

Terra firma at last.

Save me from sea voyages on ocean liners! I was sick for days despite pills and advice from fellow passengers on how to avoid the problem. In fact, I've blocked the memory of that journey out of my mind to such an extent that I can't even remember the name of the ship I was on. I only know it was the P. & O. Line and the crew members mostly Chinese, which was perfectly natural considering the "O" stood for Orient.

The oriental aspect of passengers and crew was interesting to me, particularly in the case of one elderly Chinese lady whose feet had been bound as a child making it impossible for her ever again to walk properly. She could sometimes be seen standing in her cabin doorway impassively observing the comings and goings on outside. I felt sad for her and glad that the practice was no longer permitted in China.

When I had recovered enough equilibrium to attend meals regularly, I was befriended by two young Argentinean mountain climbers. They attempted to teach me the difference between Spanish and Portuguese and, as I was eager to learn anything that might help me to adjust to a new continent and its culture, their company was much appreciated.

I noticed, however, that whenever bananas were served at lunch they ate theirs with a knife and fork whereas I peeled mine and held it upright in my hand with the skins draped down over my knuckles. They laughed at me for doing this and insisted that only monkeys ate bananas like that. I should have told them the story about my mother having a tail and living in a tree.... it might have given some credence to their theory.

After what seemed like a lifetime of seeing nothing but sea and sky, we were finally told that arrival in Rio de Janeiro was scheduled for dawn the next morning. Excitement began to build at the thought of seeing Bill again and I slept little that night. At dawn, as I peered hopefully out of the porthole, we drifted slowly by a mist-shrouded hill.

Dressing hurriedly I rushed up on deck to see the famous Sugar Loaf mountain emerging from the mist just as our ship dropped anchor about a half-mile off shore. We were going to have to wait for a pilot and immigration officials to come aboard before we could go any further.

A Chinese family, chattering excitedly alongside of me, suddenly tossed a dozen or so brightly-coloured slippers into the sea. Tied together with red ribbons they bobbed gently below. When I asked what the significance of this gesture was, they replied "So this will be our country and we will never leave it".

Immigration officials finally arrived on board as passengers queued up patiently to have their documents checked and passports stamped. Next we were all sprayed with disinfectant to kill any bugs or infectious diseases that might have stowed away on our persons! Considering that our baggage was not sprayed also, I deduced that this procedure must have been purely symbolic. It didn't do much for my earlier application of expensive perfume, either.

When the ship eventually glided into its allotted berth I scanned the seething horde of people on the dock below looking for Bill. There he was, a huge smile on his face, waving wildly! I stumbled down the gangplank and into a happy hug, relieved at last to be on firm ground once again.

Next, Bill advised that a despachante (the customs broker he had engaged) would need my documents to liberate my suitcases and other cargo. Our despachante promised to have everything delivered to Petropolis later that afternoon. As it turned out, the suitcases did arrive but the rest of my belongings sailed on to Uruguay where they stayed hidden for the next several months.

Petropolis.

Bill told me that he had tried to arrange for us to be married as soon as I arrived. In fact he had paid a substantial bribe to someone who was supposed to facilitate the matter quickly. Unfortunately I arrived on the day after a presidential election so all the judges were counting votes, making it impossible for us to be married for at least another week. Oh, well, what was one more week in a lifetime?

We set off by car for Petropolis, a small town high in the hills about 120 kms. from Rio. As we ascended a winding road into the hills above I was told that there were 115 bends in it during the first half hour's drive. Dazed and dizzy I could see that on one side the land fell steeply downwards in a dangerously sheer drop. Even though the view was spectacular and vegetation on the hills lush and tropical, I had to close my eyes in an effort not to feel carsick. Apparently my reaction was not at all unusual. Buses traveling regularly between Rio and Petropolis all carried paper bags for passengers who were likely to throw up.

Bill had been living in a very small bachelor pad in Petropolis but as he was a poor housekeeper, Kay MacFadyen kindly invited me to stay in their spacious home until our wedding could take place. I accepted gladly and so began my introduction to the MacFadyens.

Don was away on business at that time but Kay and her two small children made me welcome. Kay was a lovely, tallish woman with long blond hair done up in a pony tail, full of action and enthusiasm. Genevieve was three years old, a sweet little blond child whose wild unfocussed eyes and inability to speak indicated a developmental problem of some sort. Rod was a chubby one year old with big gray-blue eyes in a round, serious face. One other inhabitant of the house was a young German nursemaid called Inge.

Since his arrival in Brazil, Bill had become friendly with the MacFadyens and felt comfortable in their home. I found everything so new and different, however, that it took me quite a while to relax. Eventually I came to look on Kay as a good friend and we have remained friendly to this day.

Their house was built in the Portuguese style with white stucco walls, arched doorways, red curved roof tiles and wide windows. It was situated on a hill with a large expanse of garden in front and a parrot on a perch at the side. The street it was on, Rua Coronel Veiga, had a deep ditch running alongside with a small stream trickling through it - but when it rained that trickle soon became a raging torrent. The view across the street was of a high tree-covered hill often shrouded in mist.

Married at last - I think.

Our wedding was scheduled for October 15th and was to take place in a small gangster-run town called Duque de Caxias. Apparently the mayor of the town always wore a black cape and was reputed to have killed a number of people before he became mayor. Nevertheless it was a place where two foreigners could get married without much delay and the usual reams of red tape.

In the meantime, Bill took me to see a small apartment he had rented for us to live in. The building was a brilliant pink colour, set on a hill overlooking a quiet suburb some distance from the centre of town. There was a minimum amount of furniture in it but there were curtains, crockery and cutlery too. Imagine my dismay, however, when I discovered that the kitchen was just a small alcove with a tiny fridge in it, no storage space and no stove! I was going to have to prepare meals on a hot plate with only two burners. Hmmm. A big bed, but no kitchen? What could Bill have been thinking about?

October 15th dawned bright and clear. Someone from the office was scheduled to drive Bill, Kay and me to Duque de Caxias where several more people from the office would be waiting to attend our wedding. We were all dressed and waiting at the appointed time of departure but no-one came to pick us up. We waited 15 minutes, 20 minutes and when the half-hour struck panic set in. We were going to be late. The phone rang: apparently the car we were to travel in had blown a tire and there was no spare on hand.

Oh, well, not to worry "I'll take you" said Kay. The three of us quickly tumbled into Don's fancy maroon convertible and set off at a fast clip down the Highway from Hell. It was a white-knuckle ride all the way. Hat awry, stomach in my mouth and sweat breaking out of every pore, we careened around hairpin bends on squealing tires, arriving 40 minutes later just in time to hear that we'd missed our turn and the judge had gone to lunch. "Come back in an hour" we were told.

So, accompanied by seven or eight friends from the office, we repaired to a local coffee shop to wait out the hour. Everyone ordered a cafezinho so I did too. A small demitasse was put in front of me, with sugar half way to the top, and a thick, black brew was poured onto the sugar. The coffee was so strong and syrupy that I had difficulty swallowing it. Tasted terrible too. Nevertheless, it gave me a mega shot of caffeine and steadied my nerves enough to get me through the rest of the ceremony.

Did I say ceremony? We were seated on long wooden benches in an ancient building which served as a courtroom. The ceiling was high and there were giant pillars spaced throughout to hold up the roof. By this time my pale pink dress had turned even paler and my pink cotton gloves were soaked with perspiration.

At 1.15 p.m. the judge stalked in surrounded by a number of his functionaries. He sat down importantly and banged his gavel. In a loud voice the clerk yelled out someone's name. Eight people stood up and approached the judge. Two minutes later they all started kissing each other and left.

Next a voice shouted "Guillermo Hovarde". Someone guessed this was William Howard and poked Bill in the back. Everyone in our party trooped up to the front with us. The Judge spoke a few words in Portuguese, we both said "Sim" when prompted, signed a certificate and the next thing we, too, all started kissing each other. It didn't take more than a couple of minutes.

We were married, weren't we? Apparently, we were.