Отрывок из книги
Jack McLaren
Published by Good Press, 2021
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The finding of a site suitable for the establishment of a pioneer coconut plantation was not the simple matter my partner and I had thought. Despite the fact that for many weary days I sailed up and down the Peninsula's eastern shore, making inspection of every likely spot, never once did I come across the combination I sought--arable land and shelter for shipping--though these qualities existed separately in exasperating numbers. Indeed, never before had I seen so many fine harbours edged by soil of absolute barrenness, and so many unsheltered beaches edged by land which would grow anything at all. To me the outstanding feature of the country was a remarkable dearth of suitable plantation sites. It was extremely discouraging.
And to add to the discouragement there was the opinion of the crew that the land wouldn't grow coconuts anyway. If it would, why were none there now? they asked, thereby revealing the conservative native belief that what never was never could be. There must be something wrong with the land, they said decisively--to all of which the captain's wife nodded agreement, and one evening, greatly daring, warned me privately that my venture was a foolish one, and then, fearing my displeasure and as something in the way of conciliation, took from behind her ear a cigarette of crude tobacco rolled in dried bana-leaf and placed it between my lips and lit it, striking the match on the hardened sole of her foot.
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