“WHO TRAVELS ALONE”

Otago Witness, Issue 3912, 5 March 1929, Page 76

“WHO TRAVELS ALONE”

THE ADVENTURES OF A LOWBROW NOVELIST.

By Monte Holcroft.

(Special for the Otago Witness.)

At sea! I have headed several dozen letters that way but have not yet lost its suggestions of travel. It stands now for pictures that are shifting but vivid — the oily Doldrums, the barren shapes of Red Sea islands or, as now, the storied Mediterranean. To-morrow we reach Malta, our last port of call, before London; and it is now possible to sort out jny impressions of the long voyage. No one ever heard of a struggling writer being able to travel de luxe, so I carried my baggage and my portable typewriter on to a one class boat—sometimes miscalled “ no-class ” —and persuaded myself that the study of interesting “ types ” would more than compensate for poor accommodation and inferior food. The voyage certainly has been rich in its varied assortments of character. At meal times I sit between a professional cafe cook and a raw youth who is returning to England—after looking for work in Australia .for one week—to become a bad advertisement for the Dominions. Opposite me is a Rhodes scholar, voyaging cheaply towards his hopeful future, and a young scientist ** bound for Cambridge and a post-graduate course. Types! They are without number. An ex-heavyweight champion of Australia is working his way to England and at odd times he may be seen shadow-sparring and exercising on an upper deck. We also had, for a time, a real live prince from the land of the Pharaohs. He claimed to be connected to the reigning House of Egypt, and he was the storm centre of the boat until we reached Suez. He had insulted everyone worth insulting, and, as soon as things looked dangerous, apologised out of hand. Of course no one really believed his story; but he left the boat at Suez, and those of us who rushed through to Cairo saw him in notable company at Sheppard’s Hotel. He was last seen ordering partridge and chocolate souffle. As each dish arrived he would flick his cigar ash upon it and remark: “Boy, take this muck away.” An estimable fellow. We also have the Jervis Bay stowaways on board. They joined us at Colombo, where they had been serving their term of fiye months’ imprisonment. Quite an atmosphere of tension grew about the ship when we learned that these desperadoes were aboard, and there was some talk as to the efficacy of hot water hoses in the event of trouble. The ringleader, according to the papers, had been a truculent half-caste, and in due course we saw him. He first appeared with a passenger’s baby hanging on to his hand, and since then he has been wandering aroimd with various children on his shoulder, or following him up. Obviously a dangerous character! A writer, it appears, is an object of curiosity on board ship. There is also,' I find, no such thing as a “ struggling ” writer. We are all either famous or notorious. In my case the Ship’s Liar got busy and spread the story that a distinguished author—whose confidence he had —was aboard, and that he proposed working throughout the trip. Other people discussed my appearance, which, it seemed, was very disappointing. I had one or two impressive moments on the voyage, particularly when I had my first glimpse of Africa. This continent has always appealed to me very much. The literature that has come from it has been touched with those same qualities which lie in the sound of the name with strength and the greys and glooms of steaming jungle and swamp. Some day, I hope, I shall go there; but in the meantime I reacted eagerly to this first sight of it. I recorded the experience in the journal I have been keeping of the voyage: “I have looked at Africa. Late in the afternoon a headland came out .of the sea and word went round that this was Cape Guardafui, on the east coast of Africa. I stood for a long time while the sun dipped down over the coast. Africa! I would not have been surprised if a beating of tom-toms had come drifting across the water, and while I stared I almost saw a giant shape arise and overshadow the cape—the head and shoulders of a native warrior with a spear in one hand and a shield in the other. . . . As the sun went down and the sudden •tropical darkness came, a lighthouse began winking intermittently from. Cape Guardafui. I was just a little disappointed at first. Lighthouses didn’t seem to belong to that coast. And then ah officer told me that it was only within the last two years that they have been able to keep a lighthouse there. Behind that coast lies Somaliland, and for a long, time the natives destroyed the lighthouse and its keepers periodically. Now- they have a heavily fortified lighthouse, and for two years all has been well. . . ; “ They are having a fancy dress ball on board to-night. I fear I am. unpopular at. the moment because I am one of the few who did not bother about costume. I have my own reasons, chiefly the fact that l am working hard with my novel and therefore am tired at nights. But I want to spend most of this eveiftng Remembering that Africa is somewhere Out in the darkness to port; I want to saturate myself with this first passing impression of the Dark Continent. . ■. •. Even at this moment, while the jazz blares on board, an- older music from which it sprung' may be beating down through 1116 jungle. Dark forms may be

dancing in the glare of leaping fires, and later there may be a stealthy creeping up, up towards that lonely point where a handful of men guard the eastern shoulder of Africa. And I am expected to dance!

And so the voyage has gone—with work, a little play, the capturing of vivid impressions. With the changing panorama of ocean spaces and new lands, new faces and new bits of life the unconscious mind will be busy. In seven days I shall be in London, after seven weeks of travel from New Zealand. There I shall be a literary pilgrim, ready to worship at the older shrines, but with a screed or two of my own to sell by the way!