by Stuart Kells
Even though I now live among a motley crowd comprising the scum of a dozen countries, I derive great consolation from the little timetable:
1 week – Port Said
2 weeks – Marseilles
3 weeks – home.
Last night a rumour was circulated throughout the ship that a conference was being held that night somewhere on the Continent with a possible issue of war between England, France and Belgium against Germany and Russia. A thing like this seems incredible, but I wonder what it was really all about – if there was any foundation at all for the rumour.
I am afraid I shall have to stop writing. The only place I can scribble in, save the deck, is the dining saloon where there are plenty of electric lights and the walls and ceiling are all white. These combined, plus white paper, tend to make my eyes ache. This, for all the rubbish I write, isn’t worthwhile.
Sunday, 14 March 1926
About 12 o’clock today land was sighted and a couple of hours later we were close enough to distinguish straw huts on some of the sandy stretches. As a greeting to the natives, the ship’s siren sounded thrice and some passengers said they saw people moving about on the beaches – but we must have been nearly three miles away and I somewhat doubt the truth of their statement. We have also seen two ships today, both tramps, but they were too far away for their names to be distinguished.
The land, when first sighted, appeared as a cloud, but as it remained stationary while the clouds above it moved we knew that it must be land. Its distance away was estimated at anything from five to fifty miles, I guessed twenty, and as we average ten to twelve knots an hour, and as it took about two hours to draw level with it, I don’t think that I was far out.
Since a certain affair a few nights ago I have been left severely alone by all the first class passengers and, of course, I naturally blame the female in question for this. And what makes me all the more wild is that she is more friendly than ever with the ship’s officer and drinks with him at least three times a day.
At the commencement of the voyage I was led to believe that the ‘Bosch’s’ wife was an Australian, but now I am pleased to be able to say she is a Dane. It makes things a lot clearer, for I could not possibly imagine how ever an English girl could have been silly enough to marry him.
Also, as a matter of a fact, this adds another nationality to the long list we already have. Among the second class passengers we now have: English (I suppose New Zealanders also come under this heading); French; Corsican; people from Reunion and Martinique (some sort of Frenchmen I suppose they call themselves); German; Swiss; Norwegian–Belgian; Italian; Danish; Greek; Czechoslovakian; and Yugoslavian. Among the first class passengers are some ‘dinkie die’ Australians. And, among all this crowd, there are not half a dozen well built, strong, healthy persons. The French appear to be very indifferently built as a race, and one national characteristic seems to be brown eyes.
Tuesday, 16 March 1926
Yesterday we saw three ships.
I could find no interesting book to read and nobody to play cards with. Also there was no music to listen to and it was too hot to sleep. So I just did nothing. Toby is not very interesting to talk to as he knows everything – and, as far as I can make out, everything wrong. Hans is now very friendly with the ‘Bosch’ so I cannot be really friendly with him.
Madame cannot sleep well at nights, so she sleeps during the day to make up for the sleep she lost the night before (and, incidentally, spoils her chance for sleep during the coming night). The only other English speaking person is one who I only speak to when I have to, for she was the means of my falling out with the first class passengers. Incidentally, she spends the first hour in the morning and the last two at night with the officer in question. In future, I shall mind my own business or be more biting. ‘Let sleeping dogs lie.’
This afternoon we again came in sight of land. The name of it I know not or whether it was an island or the continent. We are now well and truly in the Red Sea and I am pleased to say that it is quite cool.
Although by travelling on a French boat, third class, for that is really what this is. In the Messageries Line, second class by Intermediate boats is equal to third on mail boats. Anyhow, second or third on a French boat. I miss all the social life that would take place on an English boat. Still, I have learnt quite a lot about the ways of foreigners. That has made me very thankful that I am British. There’s no race like them – mentally, physically, morally or any other way.
Wednesday, 17 March 1926
I was reading a book this morning when I came across a quotation which was so good that I immediately decided to make a note of it. It is by Tourgueneff who, in describing a certain proud personage, says that ‘he had the air of his own statue erected by national subscription’.
There is a Romanian stewardess (femme de chambre) in the first class who can make herself understood quite well in English. This morning she came up to me and tried to tell me that she was very sorry that she had not learnt more when she was at school and, in her opinion, money spent on acquiring mental knowledge was well invested. ‘Ze monie is best ici’, and she tapped her head. ‘Not there’, and she tapped her pocket. ‘When one is young one ought to read the books and write in the books, not go making love to young girls.’ Good advice, this.
Last night we passed three boats. One of them, belonging to the same company, was only about half a mile away and we heard the customary Morse signals exchanged with any boat. Flares were lighted on both ships, which turned the night into day. A liner at night is a very fine sight when seen from another big boat; for the lights are so bright and the dark turned to light, that it makes you quite glad you’re afloat. Ugh, feeble.
It is a month ago today that we left Sydney and we have still another three or four days to go before we reach Port Said. One of the drawbacks of this boat is that the decks are very narrow, thereby curtailing exercise. Also one cannot walk around the ship without climbing over a hatchway on which there are always some sailors sleeping.
I think one would have to go a long way to see uglier or dirtier faces than some of the passengers and crew on this boat. There is one Cassiopie sailor who is always filthy – clothes, feet, hands – and I am sure he has not showered more than twice during the past four weeks. Yet he flops down in anybody’s deck chair and does not get out until he is asked to. When the first class passengers have their meals some of the ‘beauties’ of the second class peer in through the portholes, not for a minute or two but for the whole course of the meal. From the first class dining saloon some of the portholes are facing a hatchway, and here some of the aforementioned ‘oil paintings’ squat and gaze at the diners. The ugly, ill-mannered brutes! By the way, I hold the distinction of being the only man in the second and, I think, third classes to wear a collar and tie. All the rest either wear singlets, shirts without collars, or pyjama coats.
Rather an amusing incident occurred a couple of nights ago. Madame, whose knowledge of French is somewhat limited, was sleeping on deck when a man commenced to make friendly advances. ‘Clear off,’ said Madame. ‘Tout damn suite.’ The man went.
Thursday, 18 March 1926
Every day I am more and more struck with the ugliness of some of my fellow passengers. One – the ‘Olympic merchant’ or man that tried to impress me with how strong he was – wears only two garments, pants and a singlet, the latter looking as if it were made of coarse mosquito netting and is more than semi-transparent. It shows his hairy chest to great advantage, but when you have an object like that on the opposite side of the table I don’t think that it tends to make the oily food we have any more appetising. His table manners are even worse than his dress. So bad, in fact, that I don’t like to say anything about them. While his dress doesn’t affect me, I must confess that his manners, for a dining saloon, are over the fence. Another man, a Greek, has a face which is exactly like that of an orang-utan. A third has a pair of shoes made by cutting off the upper portion of a pair of boots,
the work being done very crudely. Only three men in the second class wear socks.
When one’s view of the sea is unobstructed in every direction for weeks on end it is apt to become monotonous. Of course, if I were travelling first class everything would be different, but as it is things are deadly dull. Yesterday I read a book, The Cords of Vanity by Cabell. I suppose it was a decent sort of a book but my opinion of it is that it was just a book, and nothing else.
There is a certain person on this boat who, for want of a better name, we will call ‘The Greek Girl’. I summed her up in a few days and have never had any cause to alter my opinion. Other people have held different views until tonight, when I was gratified, in a morbid sort of a way, to hear somebody say that he did not think she was as good as she might be – for that was the opinion I have always held. She is a weak mouthed, under built specimen of humanity, with a laugh that rasps on my nerves as a knife scraped on a plate affects some people’s teeth – sets them on edge.
Friday, 19 March 1926
It is nice and warm again today. For the last week we have been having cool winds, quite unusual, I believe, for the Red Sea. We have not been out of sight of a boat for several days and at one time yesterday there were five in sight, some quite close and some just discernible on the horizon. This afternoon we passed two islands, quite close to each other. I believe they are called The Brothers.
A couple of days ago I gave one of the Chinese boys some washing to do. He finished it today and I gave him ten francs. He said it was not enough and asked for ten more. The cheek of the fellow! If only I had known a little more French than I do I would have told him to go to the devil. As it was, I just turned around and walked away.
In a fortnight’s time I shall be home. Just think of it – home. The home I have never seen. Fourteen days, perhaps even less.
‘Breathes there the man, with soul so dead?’ I very much doubt it. I read rather a good short story on this subject a few days ago. I think it was called ‘The Man Without a Country’. An American soldier, when being court-martialled, said: ‘Damn the U.S.A. I never wish to hear of it again.’ As a punishment the court decided to grant his request. And he was placed on a ship about to set out on a long trip. And he was transferred from boat to boat until his death, some fifty or sixty years later. All the men he came in contact with were cautioned not to speak of the United States. So his wish was fulfilled and the writer dwells on the tortures that he suffered being without a country.
There are four men who have their meals in this saloon after all the passengers have finished. The maître d’hôtel of the first class, ditto of the second class, the chief chef and the patron, and they all eat their food in different ways. The maître of the première classe is quite an aristocratic sort of a chap, always neat and courteous, although his tongue can be short when the occasion demands. His manners are above reproach. Our maître settles down and appears to thoroughly enjoy whatever comes along. The chef is a little more particular and likes things just so, although he thinks nothing of mauling his food about with his hands. And the patron, the ugly hulking brute, so fat that he can hardly squeeze through the door, he just flops into his chair and gorges. Everything that is there to eat, he eats, and as much as he can get of it. While the meal is in progress he does not say a word, just stuffs. Sometimes it makes me feel quite sick to observe the amount of oil he pours on to his food.
He has just come in now to commence his meal. He flops into his seat, throws his cap into another and, as the soup is not yet on the table, he catches up a chunk of bread and gnaws away at that. Before the soup tureen is on the table, he has hold of the ladle and fills up his plate, and empties it again so quickly that one wonders if he really had any at all.
Saturday, 20 March 1926
We are now nearing the end of the Red Sea and in a few hours’ time shall be at Suez. Land is now visible on both sides. Barren, dry-looking sort of country, sandy in patches but usually bleak, rocky hills. Not a sign of life anywhere, animal or vegetable. But there are plenty of boats – some overtaking us, we overtaking them, and some proceeding in the opposite direction. Of the latter species, an Orient Liner has just sped by. At the present moment we are having a ‘bow to bow’ race with an English boat of about the same tonnage as ourselves. Occasionally one hears the hiss of steam escaping from our safety valves. I have just glanced out of the porthole and find that neither has gained the slightest advantage during the last half hour.
There is one thing that I miss on this boat and that is breakfast. From 6am to 11am the only refreshment supplied is coffee, bread and butter, and as the latter is uneatable all I have is coffee. And for a growing youth of my age it is not enough. If only the boat had called at some port such as Adelaide, Perth or Colombo I would have purchased a tin of biscuits which would have gone very well with the morning coffee. There are eight second class passengers getting off at Port Said; I am sorry it’s not eighteen.
Two days ago was St. Joseph’s Day and the Captain d’armes, being named after him, held a party in the evening in honour of his fête. Toby, Madame and Miss Dobie were asked but for some reason or other I was not. It was rather a wild affair as the party, consisting of eight, consumed twelve bottles of Champagne during the evening and some of the party arrived back in their cabins at 3am not quite as sober as they might have been. The most expensive Champagne on the boat is fifty francs a bottle which in English money, at the present rate of exchange, is about eight shillings. Ordinary Champagne can be purchased at any price from twenty francs.
Another half hour to dinner. I really don’t know how I am going to exist until then.
Except for the motion this boat was designed to make it is perfectly still and has been practically so for the last two or three weeks. It is, therefore, a very good sea boat. If only I was travelling first class I don’t think I should have any complaint at all to make. And if I desire to return to Australia again within twelve months, I believe I could travel by any Intermediate boat of this line from Marseilles to Sydney first class for about £45.
The English boat has gained about 100 yards on us during the last half hour. The land is more flat now than it was, and also more sandy. The sea now is as still as sea could be, not a ripple to move its surface which is as glossy and shiny as polished glass. A little breeze springs up, and although the sea is as calm as ever its surface is changed in a twinkling from glossy to matt.
Sunday, 21 March 1926
This is being written as we slowly proceed through the Suez Canal. But the best way is to carry on from where I left off yesterday.
Inch by inch we gained on the English boat – which turned out to be the Westmoreland of London Town – and we steamed into Suez a good half mile ahead. No sooner had we dropped the anchor than we were besieged by steam launches, motor launches, a couple of small barges and a swarm of curious-looking sailing boats. I am not sure if they would be termed ‘dhows’ or not. Anyhow, the occupants proved to be natives in flowing skirts, turbans or fez and desirous of selling us Turkish Delight, cigarettes, matches and beads. Later on came some traders with carpets. I am afraid they did not do much trade, as in less than an hour they left us and proceeded to the Westmoreland.
Later on in the same day. Now Suez, the Canal and Port Said are all things of the past and we have started on our last lap. Five and a half days more and we shall be at Marseilles.
To get back to yesterday, which now seems a week ago. While we laid anchored at Suez, the Slamat, a fine Dutch boat, glided past us and stopped a few hundred yards away. She was one of the finest liners I have ever seen. I should imagine she was of about 20,000 tons, and well and truly a passenger boat. One of the barges that came alongside contained fresh vegetables, fruit and fish. And another had a couple of bulky crates which turned out to be a powerful searchlight in a case large enough to permit a man to operate it. Another case contained the engine which was to supply the power for the light. These were hoisted up and fixed in position, and a couple of m
en stayed on board to work them. We arrived at Suez about 2pm and left as soon as the pilot came on board, which was just at 6pm.
At the entrance of the Canal was a memorial and as we passed close to the road we saw bicycles, motor cars and perambulators for the first time for four weeks. T’was quite a treat! Before we had proceeded far darkness fell upon us and the great searchlight was brought into action, its great beam lighting up the Canal for a couple of hundred yards and rending steering comparatively easy. We travelled at half speed and were the first of a string of seven vessels. During the trip we passed five ships tied up to allow us to pass, some on the port and some on the starboard side. The Canal is 300 or 400 feet wide and on two or three occasions runs into lakes.
Unfortunately, owing to it being dark and also cold I did not see much of the Canal.
I was up soon after 6am and found the land on both sides to be very sandy and uninteresting. Occasionally we saw an Arab settlement. On the left hand side there was a telegraph line, a road and a railway line.
Interruption here. I have a rotten cold and am coughing so much that I hardly have time to write, so will retire and, circumstances favourable, will continue tomorrow.
Monday, 22 March 1926
I was surprised at the number of dredgers required to keep the Canal navigable. Most of them were suction dredgers; that is a dredger that has a large suction pump instead of the customary chain of buckets. These dredgers, instead of discharging the sand or silt they shifted into barges, were equipped with either a large, rigid discharge pipe or else were connected with a flexible pipe built in sections to any required length. But they could only be used where there was no fear of the sand and water flowing back into the Canal.
The Canal is sixty-eight miles in length and the banks are built of masonry, except where the Canal runs into the lakes. In some places a fresh wall is being built and the old one removed; the new one being further ‘inland’. I believe, in time, it is hoped to make the Canal wide enough for two boats to pass without either of them tying up. At about 9am we steamed into Port Said and were allowed to go on shore as soon as the boat had tied up.