I told the bees

The top corner of the backyard is dominated by a leopard tree, so called because of its white and grey mottled bark. It has a special story, having sprouted from a seed picked up by the previous owners during a ceremony in Brisbane’s ANZAC Square. We have promised to never cut down this magnificent specimen that has survived droughts and floods, and fifty years on still graces us with its vast canopy of yellow flowers, celebrating the resilience of the ANZAC spirit. Red eyed fig eaters shelter in its foliage early summer, providing the occasional close up photo opportunity from the back deck.

This is my multicultural corner, my haphazardly grown jardin créole, where all plants have at least a double nationality and are now prospering in this little patch of Australia, their lucky country! The leopard tree is host to a sturdy vanilla orchid and a purple petrea, both native of South America, and both of which grow abundantly in my native Mauritius. The petrea requires more sun, and I am hoping that plenty of compost tea and sweet talking will push it up to the top of the tree where it will find enough light to produce masses of purple wisteria like flowers. Maybe by the time Alice and Amelie come to visit, the vine will be strong enough to bless my garden with an exotic Latin American display.

It will have to compete with the vanilla orchid, which has snaked its way more than ten metres up the leopard tree. Vanilla also originates from Latin America, Mexico to be precise, and it was introduced in Europe in the mid 16th century, and then spread to the Indian Ocean islands of Mauritius and Réunion by the French. They failed, however, to bring along the Melipona bees, which, I believe, are the only ones to pollinate vanilla and may now be extinct? Have you ever wondered why vanilla is so expensive? The flowers have to be hand pollinated, and it was a twelve-year-old Réunionais slave who devised this method of producing the bean. If Edmond Albius only knew how much the global vanilla industry is worth today thanks to his ingenuity!

Vanilla orchid vine on leopard tree

My vanilla flowers are unfortunately far too high up the leopard tree for me to attempt pollination, and I must remain content with admiring a short-lived display of orchids from the deck. If you do ever go to Réunion Island, treat yourself to a visit to the vanilleraie at Sainte Suzanne to see how black gold is cultivated, hand pollinated, picked and cured for months before turning up in your kitchen … or your bottle of rum. In Réunion and Mauritius, rum & vanilla is a match made in heaven, but it seems that Nicaraguans have not developed a taste for rhum arrangé flavoured with vanilla, dried fruit and orange peel, possibly because theirs is the best ron in the world and perfection cannot be perfected.

A jardin créole 

A jardin créole is a hotchpotch of plants, where seeds are thrown, and cuttings are just stuck in the ground with the hope that all will thrive. And they usually do. My little ‘creole garden’ is sheltered by an old frangipani which has struggled for years in the shade of the leopard tree, and has come to accept that it will not get its full quota of sunshine. Reluctantly it yields some bunches of pink and yellow flowers whose fragrance waft on to the deck on a hot summer afternoon. This shady corner of the garden provides an ideal oasis for a variety of medicinal herbs and shade loving plants such as the ever-thirsty Madonna lilies that flower all year round. The Ayapana, also from America, and much prised in Mauritius, though rare in Australia, is now thriving and I have started infusing the leaves to ensure healthy digestion and a good night’s sleep. The Baume du Pérou (from Peru as the name suggests) will soon cover every bare patch of earth with its thick and furry pale green leaves, which, when pulped, can be consumed or applied externally. It has the power to draw fluid, hence its application on swollen skin to reduce inflammation, or its consumption to clear the chest of mucus. Does it work? My oath! You ask any old wife from Mauritius.

Fantastical pets

This little corner of my garden brings back memories of my own childhood, much of which was spent running wild in a large garden of bare earth (terre battue), much like the Ticuantepe yard, with its patches of lawn, its flower beds filled with a hotchpotch of roses, hibiscus, anthuriums, Cana lilies, and orchids. Where chickens roam in open spaces between the large fruit trees, where ripe avocadoes, mangoes and papayas plop to the ground and are given away by the basketful to anyone who cares for them.

Opposite the kitchen door, in the garden of my childhood, was a large lychee tree where we had tied up our pet Monkey, MooMoo, a magnificent macaque specimen gifted to my father for his services as a family doctor. I remember this intelligent creature with profound sadness. How cruel we have been. How ignorant, no wonder he looked so sad. These beautiful, intelligent creatures who are thought to have been brought to Mauritius by the Portuguese 400 years ago are now exported the world over for scientific experiments. Help!
Our poor MooMoo would have thought of himself as one of the children, like us he loved ice treats, screaming for his share when we got ours. Like me, he also had a special fondness for potatoes baked in the skin and served with lashings of butter. MooMoo adored my mother, she was the only one who could keep him reined in, the only one who could bring him back home after he had let himself loose and run amok in the neighbourhood, breaking into chicken pens, eating their eggs, and literally scaring the shit out of them. MooMoo was so named I believe, because of the kisses he seemingly blew my Mum. He died of an infection after being shot in the tail. My father tried to frighten him down from the top of the lychee tree after he had let himself loose, but the bullet from a .22 rifle unfortunately pierced his long dangling tail. The single bullet missed the sky and went right through MooMoo’s tail, would you believe it? Life is indeed stranger than fiction. His passing left a big hole in our children’s lives.

Donald’s grief

I told the bees that my mother, who was twin, would have delighted in the news of twin great granddaughters. She had a heart as big as the world, loving every creature that came into her care. Sometimes I wonder if she had not loved the menagerie more than her four children, given the unconditional love that they gave her in return, while us kids were at times an uncontrollable lot. She had a special gift with animals, and was the only one who could have rescued Donald the gander after he was locked up in a police cell for attacking passers by in the street. It took a few policemen to catch him, but he sat quietly on my mother’s lap across the desk from the sergeant during the exit interview. Donald had become seriously aggressive after his lifelong partner, Daisy, died. He had subsequently taken a fancy to our dressmaker, Lea, and he had followed her everywhere, wanting to sit on her lap, to be cuddled by her. As she did not return his love and was fearful of the consequences, Donald had to be locked up and the only place he would remain quiet was in my parents’ bedroom, where for hours on end, he would look sideways at himself in the mirror, one side then the other, pining for his unattainable Daisy. These creatures that shared my childhood taught me that animals grieve intensely. They too shed tears for their loved ones.  Maybe it was the angry stage of grief that got Donald locked up. Will we ever know?

The natives

But back to my Fingal Head garden. Beyond the leopard tree, along the fence line is a row of Lily pillies now in fruit. As I walk past, I grab a handful of their small bright pink fruit, blow away the ants and toss them all into my mouth. The tart flesh reminds me of jamalac, a much larger fruit of the same family, also known as Java apple or rose apple and which abound in Mauritius. It has a shiny pink skin and white and juicy crunchy flesh tasting of lemon and rose water. I eat the lily pilly fruit, seeds and all, telling myself that the acrid slightly bitter taste of the seeds is indicative of their medicinal properties, whatever these may be. If you are less inclined to raw bush tucker, these fruit make delicious jelly, so exquisitely pink you will want to wear it.

In front of the Lily pillies are three king grevilleas, adored by the honey-eaters and noisy miners, who have been nicknamed the ‘garden police’. They have assumed responsibility for everything that happens in our backyard, warning me of other birds and cats, of water dragons and snakes. They complain when the birdbath needs a clean and a refill. The fresh water soon attracts packs of lorikeets, who screech and swing from nearby branches in a colourful display as they sort out their pecking order of who is to wash and splash first. The awkward ibis then hops in for a sip of whatever water is left, or maybe just to find out what all the fuss was about. Despite its size, it remains at the bottom of the pecking order when it comes to swimming pool access.

The edge of this garden bed is lined with Daniellas, a grassy looking plant with white and purple lily-like flowers, and whose potentially dense foliage is intended to eventually attract the smaller birds that forage for insects on the ground, and who are intimidated by the noisy miners. All this was planted last year in my frenzy of creating new life, of keeping my hopes up, of killing time as I waited to fly away to my daughter and her babies. Everything has grown, is growing, is flowering and bearing fruit in a true celebration of life.

I told the bees

Past the birdbath are the bromeliads, and the famous quince tree. It is the odd one out, but a must in my garden. The poor tree been transplanted three times, and threatened to die twice, but with much TLC, sweet talking, and plenty of home made compost it had settled in its new spot next to the birdbath. Thanks to the bees, it is now bearing five plump quinces that will hopefully end up as paste on a cheese platter by mid winter.

And in the spring, when the quince is flowering once again, there will be two little girls and chickens running in the backyard. This will set the garden police amok, I told the bees.