The Seed Collector

Once Geert and Keith arrived in Mauritius, our boat chores were largely complete, and we were free to spend some time touring the island.  Our new friend Rashid, a local cab driver who specialized in meeting the needs of visiting cruisers, rented us his car for a few days at a rate roughly one-half the local rental agency rate.  We were cautioned by Rashid not to drive faster than 80 km/hr (about 50 mph), and to tell any policeman that may stop us that we had borrowed the car from our friend Rashid.  Thus a business is borne.  He also handled diesel refills, but ceded the boat laundry franchise to another local, Deodith.

So we all piled into Rashid’s tiny car, and immediately discovered and reconciled ourselves to the absence of air conditioning.  Economy and the grey market have its consequences.  Undaunted, we began our touring with a foray north to national botanical gardens for a look-see at its world-renowned collection of flora, assembled there during various colonial rules since the garden’s  inception in 1735.  After parking the car at a lot situated near the garden’s exit gate, we walked around to the entrance, engaged a guide, and began our tour.  Suffice it to say there were palms galore, dozens and dozens of varieties, many pointed out by our multi-lingual guide, who spoke French, English, and, as it turns out Italian – this last language resulting in our merry band being joined by a couple from Italy – Rome – who spoke not a word of English.

Wandering among the palms, shrubs, and flowers, listening to the guide describe the flora in English and then the vowel-laden lilt of Italian, our little party noticed the Italian gentleman lingering behind at each specimen, stooping to pick up something or other from the ground, sweeping away leaves and debris, always stooping, stooping.  After a time, Geert hung back to see what was going on, and later reported back that the man was picking up seeds, to replant in pots back home, “to see what comes up.”    What an idea, and one that instantly appealed to me until I recalled the near-universal question on every arrival form in every airport or port I’ve ever visited:  “Are you carrying any seeds or plants?”

The idea of transplanting Mauritian seeds to colorful Italian earthenware pots nonetheless seemed somehow harmless to me, even though, if reported, it would likely arouse an immediate investigation and ultimate confiscation by Italian quarantine officers.  But that will be his problem, not mine. For me, the idea of collecting seeds for later re-planting seems a useful metaphor for travelers such as ourselves, sailing island to island, meeting people, experiencing local cultures, acquiring cognitive seeds that we stow away in our subconscious, ready for replanting once we arrive back home.

Now, just 250 miles from the coast of South Africa, racing to beat an approaching cold front and its accompanying heavy seas, the image of our Italian tour mate, stooping down to squeeze a seed between his fingers, lifting it to drop it in a satchel at his waist, seems more and more like a simple variation on a tourist snapping a picture, a sailor accepting another cruiser’s boat card, a writer scribbling down a recollection of a chance meeting at a botanical garden, each traveler plucking a seed from a recent experience, each preserving the seed to plant later, in a different time and place, each seed waiting for the soil and water of the traveler’s soul to blossom – or not – into something evocative and reflective of the travel experience, tempered, as all memories are, by the passing of time, the traveler’s home climate, and the traveler’s willingness to nurture these seeds to life.   

Maybe we should all become seed collectors ... for who knows what might grow out of our travel experiences, if properly nurtured?