It is impossible not to knit. But then, I know this and was not surprised when my hands reached for the half-finished body of Bear number seventy-six. At nine in the morning. The day after I had sworn off regular blogging, regular photographing, and regular knitting, in favor of a less rigid approach to summer, some gardening, more reading, a couple of weeks of preparing for my Alaska trip.
Later that day, over lunch in the park, I wanted my thoughts to be “fancy free.” But they fancied!! When I admitted to myself that I wouldn’t mind if they worked on the unfinished book report about Victorian women travelers, they fancied a meeting between Pearl Nobuntu and Mary Kingsley. What would these two women say to each other? My invention, the modern South African overland truck driver and teacher, in charge of a new crop of teddy bears, and the famous Victorian lady who left behind her well-ordered life in search of adventure in West Africa.
First of all, I think, Pearl Nobuntu would climb down from her lofty seat in the truck, smooth out the folds of her comfortable bush skirt, take a few steps toward the other woman and hold out her solid, dark hand.
“Hello! I’m Pearl Nobuntu. Sorry about the dust.” She’d look at Mary Kingsley with pity. Why would anybody wear a black blouse and black long skirt on this road? She looked rather helpless, covered from head to toes with a layer of red sand. And why would this woman travel without anybody by her side? She must be courageous.
Mary Kingsley, unaware of her looks, happy to see a friendly native, would hurry toward Pearl, shake her hand and smile.
“Glad to meet you.” She would hold up a notebook with her other hand – a well-manicured, pale, Victorian lady’s hand - and explain, “I’m looking for a big Baobab and have made a map of its location, but it seems I am wrong in my measurements. I am unable to find it.
“Ahhhh. The famous Baobab. You’re very close. We’re on our way to it ourselves.” She’d notice the question mark on Kingsley’s face and explain, “I have a truckload of Bears with me. We’re on our way to the schoolhouse. The Baobab – it’s hollow at the bottom, like an arch, and it forms the gateway to our school. You must have passed the crossroad.”
Kingsley’s face would light up. “Would you mind giving me a ride, then?”
If Pearl Nobuntu had her doubts about Mary Kingsley’s abilities, she’d soon change her mind. Mary would stuff the notebook into her canvas bag, hoist her skirt above her knees, hold its folds together with one hand, and pull herself up into the front passenger seat of the truck with her other hand.
Pearl would offer her tea from the thermos. “My friend Zwanga rescued us with tea and bread, but the Bears ate all the bread. Nothing left but some tepid tea.”
“Lovely,” Mary would say. “Where are these Bears you are talking about?”
With a laugh Pearl would explain, “They are asleep again. My truck died with a pffft yesterday and we had to spend the night out here in the desert. The mechanic fixed it this morning and as soon as we took off, after breakfast, the Bears went back to sleep.”
Soon Pearl Nobuntu would turn the steering wheel sharply to the right and navigate into a partially hidden driveway. They would stop in front of the Baobab.
“Beautiful!” Mary Kingsley would exclaim. “It’s even grander than I had expected.”
Her exclamation would drown in Bear jubilations. “We’re here. We’re here.” They’d tumble all over each other trying to jump off the truck.
Zwanga, standing under the Baobab, would feel a slight pang of indecision. He had changed out of his overalls and looked forward to helping Pearl down to the ground, but the lady in black was a visitor and he’d have to bow to convention.
“May I help you? May I escort you to the visitors’ lounge?”
Mary’d take his offered hand graciously but as soon as she’d touch ground she’d run toward the tree. “Perfect,” she’d say. “Just perfect.”
Happy with the outcome of the meeting between my imagined heroine, Pearl Nobuntu, and the woman I was about to introduce to my memoir writing group as an unlikely, yet seasoned traveler, I folded my notes, returned the pen to my backpack, sealed my lunch leftovers into the Ziploc bag, and returned to knitting.
Later that day, over lunch in the park, I wanted my thoughts to be “fancy free.” But they fancied!! When I admitted to myself that I wouldn’t mind if they worked on the unfinished book report about Victorian women travelers, they fancied a meeting between Pearl Nobuntu and Mary Kingsley. What would these two women say to each other? My invention, the modern South African overland truck driver and teacher, in charge of a new crop of teddy bears, and the famous Victorian lady who left behind her well-ordered life in search of adventure in West Africa.
First of all, I think, Pearl Nobuntu would climb down from her lofty seat in the truck, smooth out the folds of her comfortable bush skirt, take a few steps toward the other woman and hold out her solid, dark hand.
“Hello! I’m Pearl Nobuntu. Sorry about the dust.” She’d look at Mary Kingsley with pity. Why would anybody wear a black blouse and black long skirt on this road? She looked rather helpless, covered from head to toes with a layer of red sand. And why would this woman travel without anybody by her side? She must be courageous.
Mary Kingsley, unaware of her looks, happy to see a friendly native, would hurry toward Pearl, shake her hand and smile.
“Glad to meet you.” She would hold up a notebook with her other hand – a well-manicured, pale, Victorian lady’s hand - and explain, “I’m looking for a big Baobab and have made a map of its location, but it seems I am wrong in my measurements. I am unable to find it.
“Ahhhh. The famous Baobab. You’re very close. We’re on our way to it ourselves.” She’d notice the question mark on Kingsley’s face and explain, “I have a truckload of Bears with me. We’re on our way to the schoolhouse. The Baobab – it’s hollow at the bottom, like an arch, and it forms the gateway to our school. You must have passed the crossroad.”
Kingsley’s face would light up. “Would you mind giving me a ride, then?”
If Pearl Nobuntu had her doubts about Mary Kingsley’s abilities, she’d soon change her mind. Mary would stuff the notebook into her canvas bag, hoist her skirt above her knees, hold its folds together with one hand, and pull herself up into the front passenger seat of the truck with her other hand.
Pearl would offer her tea from the thermos. “My friend Zwanga rescued us with tea and bread, but the Bears ate all the bread. Nothing left but some tepid tea.”
“Lovely,” Mary would say. “Where are these Bears you are talking about?”
With a laugh Pearl would explain, “They are asleep again. My truck died with a pffft yesterday and we had to spend the night out here in the desert. The mechanic fixed it this morning and as soon as we took off, after breakfast, the Bears went back to sleep.”
Soon Pearl Nobuntu would turn the steering wheel sharply to the right and navigate into a partially hidden driveway. They would stop in front of the Baobab.
“Beautiful!” Mary Kingsley would exclaim. “It’s even grander than I had expected.”
Her exclamation would drown in Bear jubilations. “We’re here. We’re here.” They’d tumble all over each other trying to jump off the truck.
Zwanga, standing under the Baobab, would feel a slight pang of indecision. He had changed out of his overalls and looked forward to helping Pearl down to the ground, but the lady in black was a visitor and he’d have to bow to convention.
“May I help you? May I escort you to the visitors’ lounge?”
Mary’d take his offered hand graciously but as soon as she’d touch ground she’d run toward the tree. “Perfect,” she’d say. “Just perfect.”
Happy with the outcome of the meeting between my imagined heroine, Pearl Nobuntu, and the woman I was about to introduce to my memoir writing group as an unlikely, yet seasoned traveler, I folded my notes, returned the pen to my backpack, sealed my lunch leftovers into the Ziploc bag, and returned to knitting.
No comments:
Post a Comment