It was 1986, I was 26, had been travelling for two years, and was making my way through Africa. I was camping in the grounds of a run-down hotel, the only camp site in Kisangani, a city in what was then known as Zaire. On my first day in town I asked when the next River Congo ferry would leave. Tomorrow, they said.
Overland trucks would arrive and spend two to three days in town. A truck travelling from Kenya to the UK came, and its passengers put their stools in a circle to eat dinner. I asked to sit with them. Martha from Sydney sat beside me on the last spare stool. We spent most of that night chatting and laughing and got on really well.
I was very taken with Martha. She was witty, pretty, liked beer and dancing. She was also nobody’s fool. A local Zairean known as Mr Fixit used to hang around the campsite, changing money and buying things from travellers. One time a few of us were sitting at a large table. Mr Fixit came back to get his drink. He pointed at Martha and said, “Hey you, pass my drink.” Martha replied, “Hey you, get it yourself.”
We hung out for two days before Martha’s truck moved on; I took the ferry when it eventually arrived. Eleven days later in Bangui, the capital of the Central African Republic, we met again, by chance, in another campground. Her truck had been delayed. We spent a week together going to markets in the day and at night to the local bars and makeshift discos with dirt floors. We enjoyed each other’s company; however, Martha was in a relationship with someone in Sydney and not looking for romance.
We kept in touch; I saw Martha as a friend whose floor I could sleep on in Sydney, if I needed to.
I had loved Australia during my travels, and in January 1988 I migrated from England to Sydney. Martha and I caught up occasionally. I was easily able to find a flatshare so I didn’t have to ask to sleep on her floor.
When her relationship ended, she told me she wanted to be more than friends. But I thought she was not the one, and not wanting to lead her on, I rejected her offer.
Martha had once worked as an accountant in London, and was thinking of returning there. I had a friend, Pete, in London who I thought she would like, so in my head, I drafted a letter listing all the reasons why he should get in contact with Martha when she got there. She was funny, a great conversationalist who laughed a lot and drank beer. She was all-round wonderful.
Bugger Pete, I thought. I liked Martha, a lot. I had to let her know before she booked a flight to England.
We already had plans to catch up that Thursday, but I asked to move it forward a day. I wanted to ask her on our first proper date for Saturday, and I thought the sooner I asked, the better my chances of her being free. So on Wednesday, I told her how I felt and asked if she could forgive me for not seeing the light sooner. Fortunately for me, all she cared about was that I had finally come to my senses.
Things moved very quickly after that. In September, I moved in with Martha, and into her bed, not her floor. In December we bought the house we still live in. After deciding she didn’t want to be married nor have children, she eventually agreed to both, as long as I was the primary carer.
We’re very fortunate to live the life we do. Martha is just as wonderful as when we first met. The only thing that’s changed is she now drinks champagne.
