Seasick, lamb curry, not dying!
By then, we had arrived at a wind speed of 10. There was already a hurricane and it was to get even worse! The ship rolled and pounded like hell and we could hardly even stand. But I had to still work and clean up the kitchen. Now, something happened that happens to every newcomer on a rocking ship - I became seasick. Not only seasick, I was mortally ill. My lunch announced itself and wanted to come out in the open. I ran, as fast as I could. It was more of a crawl to the railing, to make a sacrifice to Neptune. In the process, I forgot where the windward and leeward area was or I didn't know yet or it didn't matter to me at all. I had to throw up and did it too... of course against the wind! As I realized it, it was already too late. My cook’s jacket, which was white earlier, became unusable. I could not get rid of the yellow-green Madras-curry powder with turmeric even after washing it many times, as my friend, the steward said. I was relieved from my duties as cook and was permitted to go to my room. But I couldn't think of sleeping there, even simply lying flat was not possible. The ship rolled to the right, then to the left, then came back to the elevator-effect! Up, down, sometimes forward, and sometimes backwards. How could you hold your balance there?
I just wanted to die. So it was the whole night through. The most hard-boiled ones, who had sailed often in the sea sat in the crew's mess room and drank rum or beer, as if they were sitting in a country pub. The storm did not stop and I had to finish making the bread rolls - how I could I do that? I had no problem getting up at 5 a.m., the question was how I would survive until then.
Somehow I managed the night. But I could hardly stand on my feet. The term "a picture of misery" was the exact description of my condition.
There was always roast pork and red cabbage Thursdays and Sundays on every German ship and cake from baking tin in the afternoons, the so-called "Armor-Plate". So the stew had to be made that day in a pot that was to be half-filled. Half-full vessels reduce the risk of the items spilling out during heavy seas. But of course breakfast had to be prepared before lunch. The chef and the butcher were not as sick as I was, and they prepared it.
There was bread from the previous day, a tub of scrambled eggs and fried, cooked bacon. The smell of fried bacon made me want to throw up again. But now only green Madras-Curry spit came out, since I didn't have anything anymore in my stomach. The boatman gave me the advice to swallow a piece of fat bacon tied to a thread and to pull it out again and to repeat this a few times. This would stop the seasickness. Neptune would want that! But even this recipe did not help me.
Only the next day I had some relief.
The Bicaya was total calm and I felt better again. By the time we reached Port Said, I was fully capable of working again.
The Second Officer, who also had the job of a doctor or nurse and had saved my life by administrating certain tablets to me during the storm, brought me a message from the shipping company at Port Said. They had already promoted me to cook's mate-baker. This meant I would get a higher pay. Otherwise everything remained the same for me. Since I was in the bottom rank in the kitchen, I still had to work as a cabin boy (called "Moses-Work in German).
The trip through the Suez Canal was an experience for me! To travel like that through the Desert of Sinai, that was something special! It was hot in Suez and the Red Sea is even hotter. In Aden we got our supply of fuel and we journeyed on to Karachi. Here I got post from my parents through the shipping company.
They were doing good and hoped the same with me; the new VW Beetle, which Father had now was nicer and better than the small Fiat 500, Mother wrote. She also wrote that the gravestone of my brother's grave had sunk down, but that it was put into order again. And that she loved me and missed me and that I should also write, and tell her something about myself. I did so. Back to sea towards Bombay I wrote a long letter and told her of my life as a seaman but I didn't mention about my birthday in Hamburg.
Bombay. I would have my first shore leave here. I could hardly wait! How long I had to wait for this event. India, my dream was coming closer.
At 1 a.m. in the night we anchored at the pier and I smelled for the first time this strange scent, which exuded from this city. Yes, first of all I smelled India and secondly I saw the country and city. It is strange that you can recognize a city by its smell. Later, I had friends who worked as pilots. That is exactly what they confirmed me and told me that they could say in the air, on which city they were flying at the moment.
In the morning after breakfast I was the first one to be scheduled to go on shore leave and registered myself in the money list. As a seaman you didn't need a passport. Instead, there was the seaman's record book and a Shore Leave-Pass, which the shipping agent belonging to the Indian authorities supplied. The Indian money was brought and nothing stood in the way any more for the shore leave. The currency exchange was a bit complicated. First our German Mark was exchanged to Dollars and then from Dollars into Indian Rupees.
For my DM 50 I got $15 at an exchange rate of 3.40 DM for a Dollar. I got 8 Rupees for one Dollar.
I could then spend 120 Rupees. It must be remembered that a dock worker, whom they call "Coolie" here, was paid just Rs. 2 per day. He had to tow heavy sacks weighing 50 kg from the cargo hole of a ship the whole day for this. For these 2 rupees, you get 20 teas, 20 chapattis, 30 bananas or you can ride by rickshaw for half a day.
As long as we were in the port, I didn't have to worry about disposal of kitchen waste. There were always takers (buyers) on-site, who could process everything further. But we had to lock up everything always. No wonder in a country where everything is needed.
Our carpenter Horst, the steward Hannes and I dressed up for the shore leave. Immediately after dinner, we disappeared in the direction of the harbor exit. There were no taxis in the harbor, so we had to walk up to the gate. Then we saw the city of Bombay - and I believe the entire Indian subcontinent. At least that is what it looked like to me. Hundreds of rickshaws and even more black-and-yellow Morris Minor taxis were suddenly beside, behind and in front of us. All wanted to offer us their services. We first went on a defensive position and ignored everything and everyone. Horst had already been here frequently and knew his stuff. So we let him manage everything. He drove them away all and used Indian swearwords, which sounded very bad although I didn't understand anything. Then he decided for a man wearing a turban, i.e. a Sikh. It was very strange to see the driver sitting on the on the wrong side in the car. It was even worse to see him drive on the wrong side.
Of course, the British have wrecked the Indians so that they drive on the left-hand side. My English was still in the early stages, Horst and Hannes spoke good English. Our driver chatted in perfect Indo-English - he sang almost every sentence. Horst promised the driver that we would keep him for the whole evening if he offered us a good price. We agreed on five rupees per hour and he agreed. Our plan was clear: We would first do something to educate ourselves and then something for our hormonal balance.
I was impressed with our driver, his name was Singh. That is what it said on his permit - his license, which was fixed on the dashboard. The passport-size photo of him had definitely been there for 10 years next to his permit. And the English car was certainly at least 20 years in the service of his proud owner. Mister Singh drove the old useless box with such an elegance around obstacles like rickshaws, sacred cows, cyclists and armies of pedestrians around us that you could only be astonished.
I had my ideas about Bombay but in the Towers of Silence there were no corpses, which were gnawed off by vultures. And there were no trees hanging from the skies in the Hanging Gardens. So much for the subject of cultural contributions of a seafarer.
On the return trip of the places of cultural interest, we drove right alongside the water along and I had to admit that it was it a fantastic view.
It was night and the "Marine Drive" was a single sea of light up to Colaba. The indigenous people also called the street as the "Queen's Necklace". That was Bombay after my f
ancy.
Our Mr. Singh noticed that we were in a good mood and asked us also immediately which disco he should drive us to. "Do you want girls or boys?” he asked us. He probably wanted to know whether we were looking for a brothel. We made it clear to him that we wanted to go to a café with dancing - perhaps into a hotel disco or something similar to it. He understood and changed the direction. But he had not understood so correctly because the hotel was only a dosshouse. The premises however had a disco and many pretty girls, who gladly wanted to earn some pocket money. They were probably employees or students of a higher class. Our carpenter was not able to resist them and moved off with one of them. Hannes and I went back to the ship. Our driver managed to drive us up to the front of our gangway. We gave him extra five rupees. All together Mr. Singh got 50 rupees from us, which made him very happy and made us satisfied. After all he had spent over 8 hours with us.
I was fine the next day but not Horst. He had continued to drink with the Indian woman in the night. I came to know that we would be docked in Bombay for a longer period and so shore leave was the order of the day and we applied for more foreign currency.
It was the fourth day; in the meantime I knew my way around already a bit. Our ship dealer, who supplied us with fresh vegetables, meat and eggs, gave me the tip to visit the noble hotel Taj Mahal once.
The disco was the best of the whole of Bombay and girls from the highest ranking families socialized there, according to him.
India, the country of my dreams
I was told that I would have to dress a little better and also try to behave well. It was not just a cheap joint. The cook also came along with us this time and so we were four of us. The hotel was actually a 5-star hotel and the disco was a class for itself as also as the audience. It amazes me even today that the security people had let us in at all. The Indians, who were "well brought up" by the English knew how to get along with a "Sahib", a European. You do not prohibit anything or say no to a "Sahib". Yet in the hotel we became noticeable immediately as what we were - sailors. Horst was our weak point; he smoked only pipe, cursed continuously, and every woman was a whore in his eyes. Our drinks came, we drank and ordered again. That went on well for some time.
A live band played and a pretty Indian woman was trying to improve her singing qualities in English. It would have definitely sounded better in Hindi. It was just simply too much of the impossible. But that was not what triggered the fight, but rather our carpenter Horst started an argument with the Englishmen at the neighboring table. There were four men and two Indian women. And Horst had actually had the nerve to chat up with one of the Indian women and to make her an offer for the night. He offered to pay her more than the Englishman. However that man heard this – it became clear that he was officially married to the Indian woman.
First the glasses fell, then the chairs flew and then the fists and after that the men. The best fight was going on.
It was a battle of one man against another man. The ladies showed their presence from the background only by squeaking. Hitherto I had held myself back, since I knew that we were at fault - if there is such a thing at all, generally speaking for such a fight.
However now the Englishmen came to know that we were Germans and became somewhat unfair They played up the past so much and it then sounded like this: You damn' Nazi pig ! You killed my grandparents! All Germans are motherf***s and the devil take you! Your Germans are all criminals and murderers and you should all die a miserable death! So they pushed us too far.
I tried to explain that I had been just four years old at that time and that all this embarrassed me and that I wanted to excuse myself for it. Even my friend, the carpenter, said sorry and explained that he was so drunk that he did not know what kind of insults he had brought forth. So I tried to make my voice heard to my counterpart. But instead I got a punch into the middle of my face, which hurt a lot. Then I too got angry and remembered my days as a boxer and also the admonitions of my trainer where you are not supposed to hit. I hit exactly there of course and the Englishman fell on the floor.
But the joy regarding the victory was short-lived; a shot was fired and we looked at one another. One of the Englishmen stood with his pistol in the hand, luckily already held firmly by two security officials. Horst screamed that he had been shot. I saw him holding his shoulder with his bleeding hand. He had received a grazing shot. The police was quickly on the spot and cleared up the confusion.
The hotel's doctor who was called, provided Horst with an emergency dressing and waited with him till an ambulance came and took him to the hospital. The four Englishmen and we three Germans were taken to an Indian police station and we spent the remainder of the night in a cell. The Englishmen were separated from us and were accommodated in an opposite cell. You couldn't say who had won this war. But I was sure that the Englishmen with their trigger-happy colleague didn't have a chance.
Our shipping agent and a representative of the British Consulate came in the next morning to the guardroom of the police station. The Englishmen were technicians and worked for the technical improvement of the airport. One of the men was actually married to this Indian woman and was already living in India for long time. He was the one who had fired the shot. Our Indian colleague from the British Consulate who came from our ship's agent, was able to solve the problem quickly with the police and after some palaver we were able to go. I never learned how much it had cost our shipping company. I also never heard of the Englishmen ever again. Horst returned on board the following day with a bandaged arm in a sling.
Hannes and I alone went on shore leave the next day. We went to the restaurant "Talk of The Town" and ordered from a typical Indian menu of course, which was also excellent. My knowledge of the Indian cuisine was through our cook and books, which I learned while at sea, was quite passable.
Since we had a lot of time and were very hungry, we ordered for a whole family. Of course I knew that there would be enough takers on the street for all the food that we didn't manage to finish.
The so-called doggy bags were then distributed to the beggars. So nothing went into the rubbish bin. Here in Germany, you would say to the waiter that it was for the dog, but here everyone knew that it was for the beggars.
I ordered a Muligatawny soup for myself; Hannes immediately went for something more substantial. He had ‘Batakh Pista’, roasted duck with pistachios. Next we were served Prawn Dansak. This dish is a typical Farsi delicacy that the Parsis that is the Persians had brought along with them to India about 500 years back. The dish consists of king prawns on lentil puree. But that was not all. Next there was Rogan Gosh in line. The translation for that is simply Red Curry.
But it was a little bit too red due to the red chillies and so we took a small break, to finish it off with a Mango Yogurt Cream after that. We were finally satisfied and our bellies were full. Nevertheless we ordered rice, dal and some chapatis to take along with us - our "doggy bag", which we were able to distribute in front of the restaurant door.
We explained to the taxi driver that he should take us to a bar with girls. The driver only grinned and said: "Okay Sahib"! Then he drove with us into the darkest area of Bombay. After a while, I stopped him because I had seen mates from our ship.
They were chatting in from of a tattoo-shop and wanted to persuade us also to get ourselves a nice tattoo. One of them showed me his upper arm proudly, which displayed the ship's name, a tiger head with the logo "Bombay 1961". But I said no thanks; I did not care much for tattoos and was also scared of the dirty needle. And so I still do not have any tattoos on my body to this day.
Our drive continued on through the slums of Bombay till the driver stopped and announced that this would be a good address for our intentions. Hannes and I looked at one another doubtfully. "Whatever!" I said, "You also have to see how all the poor people live." We paid the driver who immediately drove off. Probably this area did not suit him.
There we stood now in a stinking lane. Indians surrounded us a
nd demanded us for a bakshish, to give them some Paisas. We paid them and fled into the house in front of us. I had seen the weather-beaten beer advertisement, which was mounted on the first floor. Another sign directed us to the entrance of "Mother Merinda’s Home". We proceeded to go in there. There was something similar to a reception on the first floor. There was a room with chairs and small tables behind it. "Hello boys, welcome to Merinda", the owner of the establishment greeted us. Then she screamed: "Two beers!" although we didn't see anyone to whom she shouted. After she had made us sit at one of the small tables, the beers and also some of the girls arrived. I turned to Mama Merinda and explained to her that we just wanted some beers and we would then decide on what we would do. She clapped her hand and made a gesture in addition and the girls disappeared from our table. Where had we actually landed here?
It dawned on me - we were in a puff of the lowest category. Hannes advised me to get accustomed to such an environment because I would make this type of visits often in the future. But I did not want to get accustomed to such a level.
It had to be a puff, then something of a higher standard, please. The beer tasted vile as if it had gone through several Persia-America trips with loose crown caps.
Horrifyingly disgusting like the whole establishment here. I turned to Mama Merinda and asked if there was an alternative to the beer and lo and behold, a closed bottle of Johnny Walker arrived. Somehow a tub with ice also came. But that meant that it was frozen local water, something that I would never have added to my drink. Even alcohol cannot kill these bacilli. We placed the whiskey into the tub. We could drink it like this better because even the coke, with which we mixed the whiskey was warm. We were sweating and so we had to drink more and we were sweating even more because of this – it was a vicious circle. So gradually the establishment was not so bad any more, the whiskey was taking its effect.
My Dream to Be Free Page 6