A Liberian Journey

Creator

Date

Coverage

Text

Dear Wm and Mary – 

            I should have written you long before this but – oh well, Im too hot to try to invent excuses so I’ll put it down to laziness which will be near enough the truth. And then I have written family letters.

            But what do you think of my going to Paris to call on young ladies – I mean, A young lady – especially flying over? – When the cats’ away you know – And I must admit that it was a very pleasant excursion and diversion. In the first place there was the pleasure of flying – to me perfectly fascinating. A little rough perhaps but if you like roller coasters and get a fiendish delight out of dropping or suddenly shooting straight up you will enjoy it. And then there is the unparalleled sensation of landing – really indescribable – the plane banks actually vertical as you swing around the field so that you look straight down on the diminutive little ants called men, on long gray buildings and possibly on some other plane just coasting down to earth. Then the motors are shut off and you begin to plunge down, down, down. Instead of the roar there is now a shrill whistling as the wind rushes thru the struts and wires – the speed increases – 100 miles, 110, 120 and at the same time the ground seems to be rushing up to meet you. And still you drop like a plummet into the veritable midst of the buildings – But when it is too late you flatten out – skim the tops of the hangers to shoot with terrific speed out across the field – an almost imperceptible jar and then you are rolling along the earth. The engines roar again you spin round and taxi triumphantly back to the hangers as another plane plunges to the ground. Well, I’m sold on the idea.

And then Paris – Im willing to try anything once so I tried telephoning. Fist of all I tried “Trois, cinq, quatre, six” – no luck at all – I found that I must say “trente cinque – quarante six.” And then a deluge of French came over the line – I was completely floored – and, mind you, my ears were still ringing from the plane and I had not tried to speak French for over five years. Still I gathered that I had the wrong number. 

            I saw the Moulin Rouge, where – to use a plebeian expression – a jock strap and a beauty spot make up a large part of the costume – And that’s the literal truth s’welp me -. Still I must admit that it was much less suggestive than our dear follies and better done tho not so suappy.

            But La place du Tertre – a moon overhead shedding its pale light upon the little square. Small tables on a gravel floor beneath arched trees – and on each table a flickering kerosene lamp with a little orange and blue lamp shades. A mandolin and guitar strumming queer music to a medley of people. Couples having a glass of wine together – a group of men talking and singing and on one side a long table of students drinking toasts and singing choruses. A white haired man with twinkling eyes is singing ballads to finally drift into a high falsetto – beautiful and which fades into the night. Our lamp goes out as a fitful breeze breeze caresses it. And over all rests a softness – a smiling sense of pure happiness. A girl laughs – But it is late and we must go.

            But it is all a dream now – as though it had happened years ago – and yet it is still so vivid – a living dream – and one which I will not forget.

            And here I am now drifting – drifting always south into hotter and hotter weather. And with the heat comes dampness, clawing dampness which seeps into the very corners of everything to soften the very steel of the gun barrels. We move so slowly over the quiet seas just creep – and never a motion – we glide as if upon the most placid of lakes.

            We went ashore at Teneriffe – a mighty peak rising abruptly from the sea. Jagged skyline – a ragged shore line – cliffs rising 1000 ft out of the water. And no vegetation just red brown cliffs while way above shrouded by clouds towers the peak – 10000 ft above us. And at its base swifts nestle against its side to seek shelter from the breezes. It is an arid spot – cactuses everywhere, while small fields of straw colored wheat or dusty shrunken corn bear mute testimony to the absence of rain. And all this is a vegetation is divided into little fields which rise tier upon tier along the steep slopes of the island. A crazy quilt in gray greens, straw yellows and red browns. And there way down below us is an amphitheater of cool banana trees – acres of them slowly rustly waving in the almost imperceptible breeze. And cañons gut the hillside where in now but a bed of dry stones, tho in the rainy season a veritable torrent must dash down to plunge finally into the sea thousands of feet below.

            But I have said all this in my family letter – so it will be but repetition. And since then nothing new – just the same old story of ships life 

            Oh – I have forgotten – My Frauleins – Ah – Yes, I have been pursued – think of that, actually chased. I was even told that I was beautiful – And I had my picture taken many times too – and, -oh! And I played my uke and – But to explain myself. The two Frauleins are by name Ada (20) and Elisabeth (14) Feliling and they were en route to Las Palmas (Canary Isles) As Hal and I were talking over the rail, they came out and asked us in chorus “ Dont’ you dance .” We did. And then Luti (Liz) fastened on to me. And the boat is so small that you can’t get away from people very easily altho I was successful for two and one half nights running. I must have had 10 pictures taken of me – Four by Ada and six by Luti – before the first two days passed. And then when they saw I was still adamant we quieted down some what.

             Ada is extremely handsome – statuesque while Luti is a regular tomboy and is never still from morning till night. And both of them have a rather limited English vocabulary (of course we have no German at all) Still we got along very well altho very quietly. I don’t believe in ships flirtations with children and I stuck to my guns. But they have left us and life is more quiet.

            My true love is Anita – a mixture of German (her father) and Japanese-Polynesian (her mother). She is four, self contained with dark brown half oriental eyes and a fascinating smile. Well Ive lost my heart. 

            I find, too, that the Germans get no end of pleasure out of raising hell with somebody elses state room. It is a daily diversion – soaked beds - sodoform scattered thru sheets and pillows – pajamas and slippers in the wash basins and other merry jests – It's a great life.

            But we will soon by in Monrovia and will settle down to work.

The Best o luck to you both and my best love to little Mary.

            Your loving brother

                        Loring

Type

Identifier

Citation