by Gary Cleaver
Where the Bougainvillea Grows
By Gary Cleaver
Copyright © 2009 by Gary S. Cleaver
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
First Printing, 2015
For Helen
Table of Contents
Introduction
The Hairdresser
The Visitor
Aphrodite’s Crop
The Twisted Branch
The Day Before Easter
A View From The Sea
Theo Takes Delivery
Thirty Friends
A Beautiful Game
White’s Gold
Festival
Sofia’s place
On a Sunday Afternoon
Fotia Se Dassos
Ashes
Introduction
Segment from Henry Gale’s “Greece for the backpacker” 2008 edition:
KATSIMILA: Peloponnese region (Saronic Gulf Coast). Corinth 75km. Population: 950. Small harbour. Shingle beach. A few hotels, bars, tavernas and 2 supermarkets. One rather shabby discotheque.
One bus to Athens, daily (change at Ligourio). Two hydrofoil flights to Pireaus (summer only). Fine Byzantine Church. Otherwise unremarkable.
The Hairdresser
In the Taiwan strait, mid way between Fujian province and the sprawling city of Taipei a monster roamed the seas, his name was Zeb and all who got in his way were apt to be very sorry indeed. Zeb was a class five typhoon, the worst kind and the last of a long terrible season; from his hideous throat the wind shrieked at over one hundred and fifty kilometres per hour, piling the sea into sharp pyramids over twelve metres high. The waves were black, marbled with white and the powerful gusts ripped the tops from each into wild sheets of spray. Most local vessels, the many freighters, coasters and fishing boats which plied these waters, had long since run for shelter; out in the screaming dark Zeb found only two targets for his fury.
The Greek registered container ship “ELENA” only six years old and the pride of her company, was three days out from Shanghai and fully loaded with over fifteen hundred containers, each filled with the delights of a hungry consumer society. Refrigerators, washing machines, stoves, televisions, computers, motorcycles, children’s toys, light fittings, outboard motors, furniture, garden tools, food processors, clothing, the list went on and on. One was filled with sixteen thousand plastic Christmas trees, another with enough sex toys to shock a bosun’s mate, still another was laden with three and a half million tampons, and there were plates, cups, knives and toasters, cosmetics, pills, pencils and exercise machines, plates, pens, snorkels and the body of a Chinese fork lift truck driver. This hapless individual had clambered behind a wall of boxes for a quiet and illegal smoke; he had succumbed to a heart attack and had hidden himself so well that his absence went at first unnoticed. When he was missed one of the loading gang remembered that Chang Lee had been complaining all that morning of a persistent pain in his left arm, it was therefore assumed that he had taken himself off to the sick bay. The container was closed, sealed and driven away, later that same day it was loaded aboard “ELENA”, poor Chang Lee lay in his last resting place along with five hundred boxes of bright red water pistols. That had been seventy two hours before, now the great bulk of the “ELENA” pushed slowly on through the worst storm that any of her forty one crew had ever seen.
Although she was Greek owned and registered “ELENA’s” crew were a mixed bunch, only seven were Greek nationals, the rest were South Koreans, Burmese, Indian, Sri Lankan and Maltese. There was also one Briton, Bryan, the chief engineer, was from Grimsby, the rest thought him very exotic. Three quarters of way along her vast length was the bridge island, it was five storeys high, on the top level was the bridge itself, it was dimly lit to make the most of outside visibility and hunched over the radar repeater on the starboard side, was it’s sole inhabitant. Costas Doukas, thirty eight years old, born and bred in Pireaus, had been the first officer aboard “ELENA” for three years. He was short, stocky and swarthy with black hair, grey eyes and a permanently blue chin, even though he shaved twice a day. He was also in a foul mood, he had been alone on the bridge for twenty minutes since the captain had gone to visit the bathroom and it made him nervous and irritable, he felt a weight of responsibility, that his forty shipmates were relying on him alone to keep them safe on this wild and terrifying night. He went from one system to another checking and re-checking that all was in order, all the while muttering to himself about his terrible job and how it was him keeping the ship together while the captain sat on the can reading “Playboy”. There was only one contact on the screen, a Japanese bulk carrier thirty kilometres to the north east, he made his way over to the GPS and checked their position again, stopping halfway to cling on to the rail as “ELENA” made her way up and over another vast swell. The bow crashed down into the next trough sending spray in a solid mass to crash against the armoured glass screens like a great fist. Costas heard footsteps coming up the companionway to his left, despite the ship’s extreme movement the steps were steady and measured, he felt relief wash away his irritation, it could only be the old man himself.
“We are still afloat I see.” Dimitris Lambakis, the ships master, strolled on to the bridge, casually, as if he were entering his favourite bar back home on a spring afternoon; he glanced briefly over Costas shoulder at the GPS before moving forward to look out into the shouting dark. He was a big man, nearly one metre ninety tall and tipping the scales at ninety eight kilos, but like many big men his movements were graceful, almost cat-like. His hair and moustache were black and always immaculate, the eyes a striking dark blue like the sea on a summer morning, his face was wide and handsome marked only with a thin scar that ran from just above the right eyebrow into the hairline. This last had caused much speculation and story telling among the crew, some said he had been hit by loose deck gear while saving his ship in a Caribbean hurricane, others that he had been attacked with a knife in a bar in Surabaya. One day Costas had just asked him straight out
“What’s the deal with the scar captain?” Lambakis had pointed unnecessarily at it.
“Oh this? I fell over in the street when I was six”.
He had been at sea for twenty three years and, at forty one, was the youngest captain in the company. His experience had begun with three years national service in the Greek navy, most of which he had spent aboard an old, obsolete and distinctly rickety destroyer purchased from the United States. His enthusiasm and willingness to learn never failed to impress his superiors, prompting his captain (a famously taciturn man) to say in his final report on the boy, “Lambakis will be missed”. It was inevitable that he would stay at sea and it did not surprise the family when he immediately joined the merchant marine. His rise was nothing short of meteoric, he was recommended for officer training at once, becoming second officer of a freighter at twenty seven. His strength of character and natural leadership skills were quickly recognised and he was a first officer at thirty one, a short six years later he was given his first command, a small tanker and eighteen months after that, on a day he would never forget, the chief executive of the line took him in the company Mercedes down to Pireaus and stood him in front of the massive MV ELENA.
“Well Dimitri what do you think?” Lambakis had looked her up and down, he shook his head.
“She’s magnificent.” He breathed in an awe struck whisper.
“Good, I’m glad you like her, she’s yours, don’t screw it up.”
Wi
th that the older man turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Dimitris to gaze with wonder at his mighty new charge. At that time she was not a happy ship, his predecessor’s foul temper and haphazard style had earned him the nickname “Queeg” amongst her sulky crew, but Dimitris had turned this around in short order, his “firm but fair” approach, his good humour and ready wit soon got them behind him, he encouraged them to work and play together and forged them into an efficient unit. Three years on they would follow him into anything; quite simply, they adored him.
In the middle of his busy career he had even found time to marry and start a family. On a visit to his home village he had met, quite by chance, Gabriella Koutalidas, an old friend from his high school days, they’d had a good relationship always, but the younger, awkward Lambakis had been too shy to ask her out. She, like him, was unusually tall and her pretty face, dark ringlets of hair and wondrous black eyes drove him crazy. It did not help that her father, the large, stern and daunting Christos Koutalidas was Dimitris’ Greek history teacher. But on that later meeting things had fallen naturally, easily into place, over coffee they had laughed at how young and stupid they had once been. After they had walked, talked, kissed; the next afternoon they swam together in a bay south of his village, and after made love beneath a pine tree, Dimitris for his pains got mild sunburn on his backside. Gabriella got pregnant.
They married in unseemly haste, in the background both sets of parents had made dark pronouncements.
“It will not last, mark my words, a girl like that? Pah!” was Voula Lambakis’ all time favourite.
But they were made for each other, they made it work in spite of Dimitris’ long, enforced absences, they now had two children. Thassos their son came first, followed by Panniotta, named after Gabriella’s grandmother and as with her it was immediately shortened to Yota. A brilliant career, a beautiful family, who could wish for more? But it was not a happy man who looked out of the bridge window at the wild, tossing ocean, in two weeks time Yota would be three, the storm would delay them enough for him to miss this, as he had missed all of her birthdays, and all but one of Thassos’. Dimitris had decided that a family man belonged with his family, a simple philosophy that would not be denied, but how to make this happen was another matter. He was a master mariner but his land skills were few, it was no good being a family man if you could not feed and clothe them! Much of his spare time lately had been spent on finding a solution and he did not seem to be getting any closer. Costas’ voice shook him from his reverie,
“Yes still afloat my captain,” he said, then, muttering “No thanks to you and your girlie books”
Dimitris, who had never read such books in all his life, took no offence at this and ignored it; Doukas’ insubordination was one of the cornerstones of their relationship.
“No need for concern, Costa, my friend” he patted the rail in front of him with affection. “ELENA can cope with this weather, she won’t let us down and, you’ll be pleased to hear I have sent Anil for some of his wonderful coffee.” He walked over to the radar screen and peered in. “Only one companion tonight, lonely out here.”
“I saw her early this morning, had a word with my counterpart” Costas said. “ The Koshuki Maru, five days out of Honshu, eighty five thousand tons of aluminium ore. I wouldn’t be in their shoes for anything, I wonder what’s keeping our waiter?”.
As if on cue they heard from the companionway behind them a stream of cursing in Hindi, a language well suited for the purpose. Anil, the captain’s steward, staggered on to the bridge, the large tray he carried was fully laden with two large mugs, a two litre coffee pot, a jug of cream, a pot of sugar, bread, butter, English marmalade, honey and a plate of biscuits, none of this was assisting his balance. The ship’s movements were causing him considerable alarm, captain Lambakis could act as cool as he liked, nothing could shake Anil from the certainty that “ELENA” would soon founder and send all of them to meet their ancestors. He was the eldest of seven children from the slums of Calcutta, he had three brothers and, to his fathers lasting shame, three sisters. He had joined the ship a year before and loved his job, all of the officers spoke English and as this was Anil’s second language he was quick to settle. He had tried to learn Greek, but found it very difficult, his confusion between Kalimera (good morning) and Kalamari (squid) the junior members of the crew had found particularly hilarious. The two most senior officers, who confronted him now, treated him with courtesy and respect, he felt valued in their company.
“Good evening my captain and good evening Mr Doukas” he said, nodding to each. ”I hope you are both well on what is sure to be the last evening of all our lives.”
Dimitris smiled and patted his shoulder. “Thank you for your concern Anil but believe me the situation is well under control, we have a fine ship, an excellent crew, and what appears to be a small banquet before us.”
Anil set down the tray with care. “Just a few little extras I thought you both might appreciate.”
Dimitris scanned the tray “I see only two mugs.”
“Ah!” said Anil, he thrust a hand into the pocket of his white jacket and brought out a smaller mug which had written on its side in red letters “World’s best windsurfer”; he always waited to be asked.
Costas too was studying the tray’s contents. “No baklava?”
Anil was mystified. “Why do you want a hat?”
Costas clapped a hand to his forehead. “Let me explain.”
“No, I think the explanation can wait for another time” Dimitris interrupted. “Thank you Anil it is all … just perfect.“
But Costas was not to be denied, after all baklava was his favourite. ”It is a pastry Anil, rich with almonds and…”
Dimitris interrupted again, he was looking forward through one of the large bridge windows. “Ah, I think both of you should find something to hold on to.”
They followed his gaze, Costas’ mouth dropped open, he started to cross himself, realised he didn’t know how and stopped; Anil screamed, his English at once deserted him and he reverted to Hindi, a long, rambling stream of it. Dimitris only understood one word, “Shiva” a god who brought death and destruction, how apt, he thought. He had just enough time to cross over to a big red button on the bulkhead, the collision alarm; he hit the button hard, warning klaxons sounded all over the cabins, corridors and machinery spaces of “ELENA”. Everywhere the crew stopped what they were doing and braced themselves.
The sheets of spray had momentarily cleared, allowing forward vision, the next wave was coming, and it was a monster. The great wall of water was fully twenty five metres high, a swell big enough to break the back of any ship, Costas grabbed hold of the compass binnacle, the nearest thing to hand, Anil had rolled into a ball on the deck still shrieking and praying for a quick end, Dimitris held on to the rail and kept his eyes toward the bow, whatever was about to befall his ship, he needed to see detail. But instead of lifting “ELENA’s” bow upwards the wave curled, broke and collapsed on to her foredeck, to Costas, who was no longer looking, it sounded like a hundred cannon all fired at once. Anil described it later to one of the galley boys, like someone had placed an empty oil drum over him and then hit it with a cricket bat. The five containers on the top row of the front stack were instantly torn away as if they were matchboxes, three went straight over the side, one taking fifteen metres of the starboard rail along with it, the remaining two crashed on to the next stack behind and split open. From one of them a Kawasaki motorcycle bounced upright, twice along the deck and would have survived had there not been a long gap in the starboard rail, as it was the bike slipped slowly almost grandly into the maelstrom alongside. From the other, a large wooden crate fell to the deck and shattered, instantly the scene before Dimitris and Costas, who had opened his eyes and wished he hadn’t, turned bizarre and macabre. Hundreds, literally hundreds of small yellow figures tumbled out and across the deck, many were carried over the side and into the boiling sea, their arms and legs splay
ed out as if in a vain effort to save themselves, many more slammed into containers, deck gear and other solid objects, most horrific of all, four were picked up by the wind and thrown upward and aft, one of these somersaulted through the air heading straight for the bridge itself, they could only watch, thunderstruck as this unfortunate individual smacked into the window in front of them head first, before mercifully sliding away out of sight. The two senior officers looked at each other, Costas was the first to speak.
“Do you suppose, my captain” he said quietly, “that teddy bears can swim?”
There were no more such waves, it was almost as if Zeb had done his worst to “ELENA” and her crew, and was now content to move on and wreak havoc elsewhere. Dimitris and Costas stayed on the bridge all night, Costas leaving only once, briefly, to escort the gibbering Anil below, an hour before dawn the sea at last began to moderate. Through the night Dimitris contacted the various departments throughout his ship to assess the damage, the chaos out on the deck was obvious to see from his vantage point on the bridge but he had decided to wait for first light and a further cessation in the weather before sending anyone out there to take a closer look. He had also made up his mind that as captain, whoever went out first, he would be with them. His final check was the engine room, where he found Bryan, even though he too had been at his post all night, was as bright and cheeky as ever.
”Morning skipper, nice of you to pay us a visit. Not a lot to say down here, tell the truth, one of my blokes took a bit of a spill when the big one hit us, bump on his head the size of a pigeons egg, apart from that, no trouble. Engines? On the top line.”
Dimitris went back up to the bridge giving thanks that he had got off so lightly, only one slight injury. At nine twenty a.m. escorted by Costas and two other crew members, all of them clad in bright orange survival suits, he ventured out on to the foredeck. Costas and one of the junior officers went right up to the forepeak, they reported back to Dimitris an hour later.