The growing ubiquity of coffee is a testimony to the gathering pace of globalisation. The best espresso — say a tiny goblet of black go-go mud in Rome’s Tazze d’Oro — should be belted down, as its name implies, not mulled over; and while coffee preparation and blends may have their regional distinctions, they are being speedily and effectively annihilated by the Republic of Caffeine. Not so tea. We acquire a taste for coffee in late adolescence, when we leave home to join the Family of Man, but tea we imbibe with our mother’s milk.
Or father’s. My own had such a rigid view of his tea ceremonial that he might have been the Confucian sitting under the mulberry tree depicted on the caddy. The pot had to be warmed with boiling water before the leaves were placed in it (leaves — never bags; bags were as alien to him as crack cocaine or pederasty). Milk had to go in the cup before the tea was poured, then three cups were to be drunk — no more, no less. My father swore he could taste the difference if any one of these operations was altered. When I was about seven, he took me to Speakers’ Corner to witness British freedom of speech in action. There were the usual bunch of stepladder orators — Maoists, Bible-huggers, rank crazies — and a most interesting Kenyan gentleman, whose subject was the depredations of imperialism.
‘I tell you,’ the Kenyan proclaimed, ‘when I slaved on the tea estates during the Emergency I did my bit to help my brave brothers in the bush fighting Imperialism, yes I did. Do you want to know what I did?’ Of course we did — we were transfixed. ‘Every single sack of tea that passed through the shed where I worked I pissed in. Yes I did — I pissed in it heartily, satisfied that it would be ending up in your mouths!’ ‘Ahem,’ my father cleared his throat a little uneasily, ‘what an angry chap — don’t believe a word of it, I’m sure he’s fibbing.’
However, I did believe it. Not only that, I grew to consider it one of the shining lights of British democracy, that we could welcome a former subject to our shores and afford him a platform so he could tell us precisely how he’d pissed all over us. What’s more, this nameless Kenyan did more for my appreciation of the significance of world trade than a thousand economics tutorials. I can lift a cup of tea to my lips even now and be pungently reminded of where it comes from.
Which takes us back to Turkey — Istanbul, to be precise — where Ralph was pursued by this tea pedlar with a samovar strapped to his back. Either that’s what it is, or it’s a prototype, steam-powered jet pack. I too have taken to going about the place with tea-making equipment to hand: a camping gas stove, a small kettle, bag, cups and milk. Friends I’m out walking with scoff when I begin to brew up, but once they’re sipping they’re infused with gratitude. After all, nothing beats a good cup of tea save for a chimpanzee dressed up as a world leader.
Deliverance — Doggy Style
Tully, northern Queensland, Australia. The sugar mill belches smoke as thick and flocculent as candyfloss. Along Highway 1 from Innisfail, the narrow-gauge tracks incise the bluey tarmac and serpentine trains heavy with the sweetness of cut cane trundle through the endless fields. Sugar cane — humanity’s biggest crop, weightier than rice and wheat combined. Strange that a world dedicated to producing so much sweetness should nevertheless seem so sour.
And seldom sourer than in Tully, which, to be frank, is a dump. The old 1950s storefronts are warped and mildewed; the tiny grid of commercial premises feels sunk in desuetude. Within a few blocks the Queensland equivalents of pound shops and greasy spoons have given way to overgrown subdivisions and clapboard houses on knock-kneed stilts. Obese, hydrocephalic types crawl along the sidewalks, looking as if they’re on their way to audition for a remake of Deliverance.
The only tourist attractions in Tully are the sugar mill — which does a tour — and the Big Boot. The Big Boot is the same height as the flood waters which covered Tully during the early 1970s, and from its six-metre summit there are commanding views of. . the sugar mill. I’m all for the sugar mill tour but the adolescents are revolting — they want to go white-water rafting. You can see their point; beyond Tully the Walter Hill Range of mountains pushes 1,000 metres up into the cloudy skies, rocky summits draped in rainforest, vertiginous gorges, tumultuous cataracts — a vast wilderness of adrenalin.
I don’t want to go white-water rafting. I’m not scared — I can’t even get close to being scared; it’s just that I’d sooner have my penis severed, varnished and put on sale in a provincial gift shop than entrust my frail form to a tiny rubber boat bouncing down the Tully River, which, given that this is the wettest dry season northern Queensland has ever seen, is approaching full spate. Still — it’s not about me, is it? So we go white-water rafting.
We’re issued with wet suits and crash helmets and climb into a bus which jolts us through the cane fields and then up a winding road that coils between dripping trees festooned with lianas. The guides are all limber fellows with plenty of piercings and pigtails. They keep up a running commentary the whole way there: if you fall in stay on your back so that if you hit anything it’ll be your bottom that takes the impact; choose yourselves a team and get acquainted — your lives will depend upon each other; you must listen to the guide in your boat and do what he says — again, your lives depend upon it. This isn’t, it occurs to me, recreation at all; it’s survival.
Our team is me, my three adolescents and a mismatched couple from Brisbane: Kurt and Pauline. Kurt is a rugged, good-looking chap. As we carry our raft over the rocks to the river he tells me that the choice was between this and parasailing. Pauline, on the other hand, is so frail, pretty and anaemic that her choices — which manifestly were ignored — must have been between a well-heated art gallery and dabbing eau de cologne on her blue-veined temples.
Our raft guide, a Kiwi called Dan with bleached bits in his hair, urges us to pick a name for our team. ‘Somethin’ rousing,’ he enjoins us, ‘so that when we’ve shot a rapids we can shout it out!’ ‘Er, how about Deliverance?’ I suggest in a desultory fashion, and Kurt, to my considerable relief, sniggers appreciatively. ‘Yeah, OK,’ says Dan, ‘although what I had in mind was, like, “Doggy Style”. So that I could shout out, “How d’you like to do it?” — and youse guys would all clash your paddles and shout “Oooh-ooh! Doggy Style!”’ As we slip into the brown and white sinewy embrace of the Tully River, I don’t exactly feel that Dan and I are on the same wavelength. But, realistically, it’s too late for a meeting of minds, because we’re in the raft, floating towards the rapids and he’s telling me what to do not only for my own survival — but to stop the rest of the team from being dashed to pieces on the rocks.
The strange thing is that it works — the team that is. We paddle when Dan shouts, ‘Paddle!’ We back-paddle when he shouts that. We shift from side to side in the raft, and as it teeters then plunges over falls we get down in it with our paddles held to attention. At the rapid called ‘Wet & Moisty’ I fall out of the raft — and the team gets me back in. At ‘Double D-Cup’ my daughter falls out midway through the cataract and yet is hauled to safety. Whatever our differences concerning nomenclature — it’s clear that Dan has the measure of the Tully Gorge.