I learn that sometime during the morning after the ship had docked and most passengers had gone ashore, some Venezuelan visitors tried to come onboard but were refused permission to do so because their passes were not in order. The ship’s security officer, in proper British fashion, refused to bend the rules. “If they don’t have the correct papers, they are not going to step foot on the gangway.”
As it turns out, the leader of the group was a high-ranking military official in the Venezuelan government. The security officer’s refusal to let this official and his party on board is seen as an insult, and despite the security officer’s recitation of the rules, and the need for strict adherence to them, there is no appeasing this vocal, hot-tempered South American. The antagonism is heightened further because the ship’s captain is standing behind his security officer. There are rules for security purposes, and if the Venezuelans do not have the proper passes, they do not get on his ship.
The military official angrily left the gangplank and called the appropriate authorities and ordered that the ship be impounded, and for all the ship’s crew ashore to be rounded up and thrown in jail. The army is called in, and green-uniformed soldiers line the quay shipside, machine guns pointing at the ship’s decks. Gunboats line the seaboard side of the ship, preventing the ship from sailing. I am lucky that I had been rehearsing onboard that morning, otherwise my education might have included seeing the inside of a Venezuelan jail.
I go up to the lido deck where I get a better view of what is going on. Other dancers follow. I lean over the wooden rail on the dockside of the ship and point to the soldiers with their guns aimed at the ship. “Wow, this is serious!” I say. I look at the soldiers looking at us. They stand rigid facing the ship, guns raised, their eyes tracking any movement along the decks. The other girls giggle beside me, making comments on the green men and pointing to the object of their comments. Passengers gather around us with comments and questions on what is happening.
Every few minutes Marty comes to find me and gives me updates.
“They won’t let the ship leave,” he reports, his own voice sharing my excited tone. Sometime later he tells me, “Captain is communicating with London, and the embassy in Caracas. This is being called an international incident!” Marty quickly walks away to return to his work below deck.
I feel important having someone give me knowledgeable information about what is happening to the ship. Each time Marty appears on deck to talk to me, the other dancers and the passengers turn to listen to his reports. It is exciting for us teenage girls to witness an international drama firsthand. It is an exciting and novel story to share back home.
The ship is scheduled to sail at 4:00 p.m., but that time comes and goes. As the hours pass, I learn telefaxes and phone calls are exchanged between Venezuela and the ship’s headquarters in Southampton and London. The captain is not going to back down. Rules are rules, his officer is correct. However, the ship carries Venezuelan passengers, and they need to embark and disembark in La Guaira each week as scheduled, so some compromise has to be reached.
I don’t know the diplomacy behind the resolution. I only know that around midnight the crew ashore are allowed back onboard and the ship is given leave to sail. However, the cheeky British captain has the last word. We are hours behind schedule. The ship sails away from the port, but without untying the long guy ropes that tether the ship to the quay. The ship pulls out sideways, rotates a hundred and eighty degrees, and then sails forward away from the port—the guy ropes pulling the concrete quay with it. Only once we are out in international waters does the ship slow enough for crew members to cut the ropes from the ship’s decks, allowing the concrete quay to sink to the bottom of the Caribbean Sea. Next Monday we are all back in La Guaira as if nothing has happened.
This is my first lesson in foreign diplomacy.
Every Wednesday the Cunard Countess visits Barbados, docking in Bridgetown, alongside warehouses packed with sugar cane harvested from the island’s farms. Anytime I go ashore, Marty carries me piggyback from the ship’s gangplank to the dockyard gate because I absolutely won’t walk on the quay. The sugar attracts cockroaches by the tens of thousands, and they scurry across the quay, creating a brown crunchy carpet that makes it impossible to walk without stepping on these offensive creatures. I wrap myself around Marty’s back, keeping my legs as high as possible just in case the creatures somehow jump up onto my legs. I know my arms are like an iron vise around Marty’s neck as I giggle nervously and “ew” at the sight beneath me.
“Quick, Marty! Let’s get out of here!”
“I’m moving as fast as I can. You’re a bit of a lump to carry!”
“Ooh they’re awful!”
“You’re choking me. If I drop you, you’ll land right on them.”
“Don’t you dare!”
We make it to the dockyard gate without Marty dropping me, and to celebrate our success, we head to the nearest bar, where we sit outside under the palm trees and drink tropical drinks with tantalizing names, enjoying the day, our relationship, and the company of friends who join us.
At times I disconnect myself from my companions’ conversation and take in the environment. The warm humid air, the fragrance of hibiscus and other flowers I have never seen in England. I think how lucky I am to have this life, to dance and to travel. The fun I have with my friends, the mischief we sometimes get up to. I never imagined when I was growing up that I would get the chance to travel to these places. Had I known, perhaps the dramas and challenges I faced as a child would have been more bearable. My reverie concludes, and I rejoin my companions’ conversation, with Marty challenging his mate, “Bet I can down more of these Coco Locos than you!”
A crash course in reality comes one Wednesday afternoon when the ship is docked in Bridgetown. I am lying by the pool, enjoying the quiet of the ship, its hundreds of passengers having been released ashore for a couple hours. Marty is working, painting some divots on another deck, so I decide not to brave the cockroach carpet by myself, but to stay onboard to sunbathe and swim in the relative peace.
It is quiet except for the low hum of the ship’s ecosystem at work, and the occasional breeze flapping the flags high above the deck. Suddenly a loud boom echoes around the pool deck, shaking everything from the glassware and bottles behind the pool bar to the sun beds around the deck. Abruptly I sit up. I am confused as I look at what is happening around me. The ship’s crew and passengers are running to the ship’s port side railing. I get up from my sun bed and follow them across the deck, knowing something has happened but I am not sure what. I see a black cloud of smoke a short way out from the airport, hanging in the sky over the blue Caribbean Sea, dropping bits of something into the water. I am not sure what it is, but I know something is not right.
I retain my place by the railing, wondering what is transpiring out there in the water, unable to walk away from what I instinctively know is a terrible human tragedy. I am aware of the rushed activity around me as a siren sounds and the ship immediately changes into rescue mode as the crew reacts quickly, scrambling to get the lifeboats underway. The doctors and nurses grab supplies and join the crew by the lifeboats, changing from tourist guides to rescuers as the lifeboats are sent over the side and away to pick up survivors.
Matt the bartender pulls out a small transistor radio and places it on the pool bar and fiddles with the dial and turns up the volume. He finds a local news station from which an anxious male voice announces, “There are reports of an explosion on a plane shortly after it took off from Bridgetown International Airport.” The scene playing out before me confirms the story. Moments later a news update explains further, “The flight is Cubana de Aviación Flight 455 carrying seventy-three souls, including teenage members of the national Cuban fencing team and five crew members. There are no survivors.”
Marty is sent out on one of the lifeboats. When he returns, his voice is subdued as he describes the detritus he saw. He saw pieces of humanity and personal effects
—strewn for miles across the ocean—being looted by the locals, who are just as quick on the scene with their own watercraft, going out to find what prizes they could acquire from this tragedy. I hear of watches wrestled from bodiless wrists, and clothing unceremoniously searched for valuables.
For me, the most memorial and nauseating moment comes at the end of the rescue mission. As a crew member I have been summoned to my lifeboat station. I stand on an upper deck, watching as the ship’s lifeboats are hoisted back on board. The decks are packed with gawking passengers lining the ship’s rail to watch the return of the rescuers. Strips of clothing and other matter are twisted around the lifeboats’ propellers, and those on the lifeboat deck and close enough to the hoists reach up to pull pieces of that tragic material from the propeller as a souvenir, something they can share with friends back home, their memento of someone else’s loss.
News media worldwide report the story of two bombs being placed on the plane by anti-Castro exiles. The ship is given credit in the newspapers, by local authorities and the authorities in Britain, for being so quick to offer assistance and to step into the rescue role. Still, I cannot forget the images of the pudgy ladies in swimsuits, reaching fat fingers up to the lifeboat’s propeller and eagerly snagging a piece of material and slipping it into their bags, gleefully smiling at their companions, sharing the accomplishment. It disgusts me that people are so willing to trivialize tragedy and make it into a carnival sideshow or party piece for their next cocktail hour. Until that day, I had little or no interest in politics or world events, and didn’t trouble myself with knowing about anti-this or pro-that groups. It is my first lesson in how quickly life can be extinguished, and part of this lesson is recognizing how harmful intolerance can be. That day I vow to learn tolerance of others no matter how differing their points of view.
CHAPTER
TWELVE
Stepping off the plane, the first thing I feel is the force of the dry heat. Even in the middle of the night, it is pervasive, like a thick invisible barrier of thermal energy, pushing against my body and making movement difficult.
Welcome to Egypt, I think to myself.
The dance group I am now working with, and which I joined after my contract with the ship ended, is The Three Cs, standing for Cool, Calm, and Collected. We have just finished several months of working in Minorca and Barcelona, in Spain. We fly in from Barcelona, landing at the Cairo airport around one o’clock in the morning.
The local agent meets us at the airport terminal and takes us to process work papers, and then brings us to the nightclub at the Mena House Hotel where we are to work. Our first priority is to find out what length of show the hotel wants from us, put together the running order of the show, unpack and set up costumes, and run through music and lighting cues; only once that is all in place are we able to grab a bite to eat. Finding our accommodations and sleeping will come at some later time. Just before sunrise the agent asks us if we would like to see the pyramids when the sun comes up. Naturally we all “ooh” and “aah” at the suggestion and follow the agent out to the Mena House gardens by the pool, where the agent then points out into the dark night.
“Wait,” he tells us. “Wait and you will see. When the sun comes up. Soon you will see.”
I look out through the dark night toward where I anticipate the horizon will be when the sun rises. In my mind I imagine the pyramids out there somewhere, and I picture them as triangular shapes that will appear out on the dawn horizon. As my friends and I stand there, the black sky lightens, just a shade. I look out, not taking my eyes away for a moment, anticipating this significant sight. The sky lightens little by little as the night slips away, allowing the dawn to take over. I strain my eyes, looking out at eye level, impatient as the sky continues to lighten. But then, instead of a cloth of solid dark, the horizon begins to show silhouettes, shapes of dark and light. And as I stand there watching, waiting, the dawn begins to reveal immense shapes growing right before my eyes, and no more than one hundred yards away, I see blocks forming, and I slowly follow their form upward and lift my gaze as the pyramids are gradually and dramatically revealed to me by the dawn’s light. I look up, up, having to lean backward to see the top of these ancient pyramids towering regally above me. I see I am standing at their base. They are so close I feel as if I can reach out and touch them. They have been standing here for thousands of years. And today they now show me my own insignificance as I stand in their dawn shadow.
Every day in Egypt is a learning experience. It might be 1977, but in some parts of the city it is like going back in time, looking at people, ways of life, culture, buildings that have not changed in centuries. In Cairo I see the discrepancy in living conditions between the poor and the rich citizens of Egypt. And, as history would have it, I also have a front row seat to the first Israeli-Egyptian peace talks, being held at the Mena House at the end of 1977. The Mena House is on lockdown and surrounded by high security. While the talks are ongoing, our regular shows are cancelled, leaving us to enjoy our days and nights to ride across the desert, visit casinos and nightclubs in the city. One honor bestowed upon us is that The Three Cs is asked to perform shows for dignitaries and the press at the Mena House. The shows are performed at night, on an outdoor stage by the pool and gardens, with the pyramids as our backdrop. To me this is not only a unique performance but also a small way I can be part of this historic step toward peace in the Middle East.
view of Pyramids at Giza, Cairo, Egypt, photo © Laraine Denny Burrell
Life in Cairo is different than other places I have lived and worked. I soon learn that in this country the temperatures can soar. Yesterday, the thermometer at the pool recorded 144 degrees Fahrenheit, and the local paper recorded temperatures in Upper Egypt as 156 degrees. Accurate or not, it is bloody hot! What is accurate is that because of the heat, little is accomplished during the day, and the pool is the visitor’s best friend.
My practice of tolerance serves me well as living in Cairo, Egypt, is like living in another world as my history and geography books come to life around me. I see the ancient world playing host to the modern as the pyramids and sphinx and hieroglyphics of the past educate the visitors of the modern resort hotels, the Nile Hilton, the Sheraton. I learn a staple Egyptian term, Mish Mumkin, for “impossible” or “no way!”
I learn respect for the Muslim faith, knowing that when the imam calls for prayer from the minaret of the mosque, the faithful will place mats on the floor facing toward Mecca and kneel to pray. I know not to enter a shop during that time as the shopkeeper will be in prayer, his mind somewhere beyond the tangible and commercial function of his store.
The streets are dusty crowds of humanity, camels, goats, and cars and old sand-colored trucks pushing and tooting their way through the masses. I see carts of camel carcasses hauled along the road and wonder whose dinner plate the meat will end up on. Hopefully, not mine. Technology is dated. The apartment building where the other performers and I live has only one telephone number, and every time the phone rings, someone from each of the six apartments answers the phone, and a heated discussion, usually in Arabic, ensues until the proper recipient is identified.
My pale skin, blonde hair, standard jeans and T-shirt tag me as the European woman that I am, and a constant stream of curb-crawlers follow me along the streets, each vehicle moving single file at a walking pace next to the curb. Darker-skinned young men lean out of the car windows, shouting at me in accented English or in Arabic, their hands waving me over to the car. Of course I ignore them, knowing their interest in me is because I am an “uninhibited” western girl and likely to do things that Egyptian women will not do, or are forbidden to do.
Sometimes when I walk through the souk or along the streets, women will come up to me and touch my blonde hair with their tanned hands, sometimes stroking it as if to verify for themselves that my hair is real, and to feel the texture of the light strands. Dark wrinkled faces grin at me and mutter something in Arabic that I am suppose
d to understand but don’t. I smile nicely at the women, then walk on. I know I stand out; I am different. People here are curious, and entitled to their curiosity. I am the visitor. I have to accept and adhere to local customs, and rather than be offended at the interjections of inquisitiveness, I use them as lessons to help broaden my understanding and acceptance of other people, other cultures.
I see the pyramids on a daily basis since I live on Shari Al Ahram, Pyramid Street, and work at the Mena House in Giza across the street from the pyramids themselves. The other dancers and I make many friends, young Egyptian men from wealthy families who pursue the pretty European dancers, knowing we are freer to enjoy life than Egyptian women. We party; we drink. We visit nightclubs and casinos.
The Three Cs’s entertainment agent at the time is a tall, handsome Greek impresario named Mimis. He is much older than me, and, despite my travels, is more worldly than I am. He and I are drawn to each other. He knows people and invites me to interesting places both cultural and social. I like that he can take me to nice restaurants, and to see shows by other performers he represents. He makes me feel important. I like that I can have an intelligent conversation with him. When he is in Cairo, we are inseparable.
One night Mimis takes me to play blackjack at the Nile Hilton. At the same table is none other than Egyptian movie star Omar Sharif. I am underage and not permitted to gamble. But who cares? I don’t. I am twenty years old and feel quite sophisticated, and I intend to live life to the fullest, and undertake as many different experiences as I can, while I can. I am Laraine, daring, and free, escaping the bonds of my strict upbringing. I am a jet-setter like those women I see photographed in glamour magazines. I travel the world. I play blackjack with celebrities in Cairo. I am feted by men, young and old alike. Life is fantastic.
Our Grand Finale Page 12