Shooting Stars and Flying Fish: Swapping the boardroom for the seven seas

by Nancy Knudsen

  ‘What?’ I say when this happens.

  He just grins. ‘Nothing.’

  We now explore the streets of Addu Atoll on our new bikes, ranging up and down the islands that ring the lagoon. The constant breeze is warm on the skin. The streets are sandy, shady and running with children, who show off their English by calling out, ‘How-are-you-fine-thank-you’ and giggling behind their hands. We are awed by the delicacy of the older tiny houses handmade from bleached coral. Even the high curved fences around them are also made of finely patterned pieces of coral, and the gardens are swamped with palm trees and flowering vines. Pigs and chickens snort and crow and rustle in the undergrowth. The adults are shy and curious, but smiling.

  Life is easy here, gentle. I do the washing using a public hose by the shore. Sitting in a sarong by my wash bucket under the palm trees, legs dangling over the seawall, chatting in bits of English and sign language to the local crew of a berthed coastguard boat, my former life in Sydney seems very remote, like a dream from which I have woken. I think about Ted. The corporate suit and smart car are gone. He is today dressed in long shorts and a T-shirt, and has gone off on his bicycle to get our customs clearance. His smile comes easier. We laugh more. We’re brown now, very brown, in spite of our covered cockpit and ever-present hats. We’re skinnier too, and I am stronger in the arms from winding winches and the constant exercise of moving around a rocking boat.

  I begin to ponder on my thought – the dream from which I have woken . . . Or was it a nightmare? Ever since we left Sydney I have been entranced by the warmth and humanity of the people I have met. My memories of Sydney are of listless pedestrians, sequestered chauffeured children, angry drivers, smelly streets and the unethical competitiveness of the blue-suited life of the CBD. Life without aspirations for money, recognition and status was unthinkable.

  ‘Madam!’

  My thoughts are interrupted by a coastguard crew member, dark face, standing over me. ‘Madam! Tea?’ He is standing formally, almost at attention, fulfilling his given task.

  One of the coastguards has brewed tea on their boat, and has sent me a cup as well. I laugh, accepting it with pleasure, and put it beside my wash bucket as I swish our sheets clean using their water hoses.

  I watch young girls riding their bikes and chattering in the sunshine. What if I had been born into such a community? Who would I be now? What would my understanding of life be? Who am I now, anyway? Am I the relaxed and healthy sea gypsy that I feel I am? Where is the high-heeled, highly stressed Sydneysider that I took for granted? Have I lost her? Or was she always a figment of my imagination? I have no answers to these questions . . .

  Soon Ted is back with our clearance papers, and we set about the practical business of carting our washing back to the boat in the dinghy to dry on our lifelines. My reveries are forgotten as I think how much daily joy there is in our lives.

  However, as we set off through the passage out of the atoll into the Indian Ocean again, now heading for the capital of the Maldives, Malé, our delight is tempered by a small warning voice in my head: For all your care, you have now allowed Blackwattle to hit a reef. Never forget it. Tragedy CAN happen to you.

  5. The Magic of Kochi

  The Maldives to India

  We sail north up the long necklace of islands that comprise the Maldives, heading for India. The Maldives has had a varied history. The culture was Buddhist for more than a thousand years, until the twelfth century when Arab traders brought Islam with them, when they came in search of the Maldives’ abundant cowrie shells, then used as currency throughout the Indian Ocean. The islands’ strategically vital location meant they were later colonised by the Portuguese and then the Dutch, before they formed an alliance with the British, who gave the islands considerable autonomy. The British left for good in 1972, and their influence is said to be still strong.

  We find the island of Malé to be anything but a lazy holiday resort; it is almost frenetic. The traffic is chaos, buildings occupy every square inch of the island, and it doesn’t take long to find out that, in a society where alcohol is a prohibited import, illicit drugs, drink and prostitution are rife. The island city is four kilometres in circumference, ideal for us to cover it thoroughly on our bicycles. There is no atoll, no fringing reef which is viable, so they have built an encircling seawall. This creates an artificial harbour which is constantly abuzz with watercraft activity.

  The great dhonis with their curved bows and elegant S-shaped tillers decorate the wharves around the island, and are used as ferries, taxis and for all general transport. The Maldivians have been water people for hundreds of years, and they manoeuvre their craft into and out of tiny spaces with grace and expertise. We eat healthy meals in local cafes or teahouses for under $5 for the two of us.

  We’re very close to the equator now, and by 9 am any movement at all produces a lather of sweat. We start sleeping in the cockpit every night for the cooling breezes, but it often rains, so we wake up and stumble around comically closing clears and hatches. Once the sun rises, I dive from the rear swim board into the clear water every two hours or so to keep cool.

  It’s a pleasant stay, but after a month in the Maldives we’re whooshing off to India. It’s less than 400 miles away but contrary currents and a windless sky means it takes six days.

  Ancient Cochin, now called Kochi, was an important spice-trading port for many centuries. As we sail into the huge port, the brown water spewing into the ocean tells us of the existence of a river. Signs of a smog-drowned city lie ahead in the haze and we pass fishing nets on the right shore, three storeys high with great wooden arms for supports – Kochi’s famed Chinese fishing nets.

  During colonial times the Kingdom of Kochi was, like the Maldives, variously ruled by the Portuguese, the Dutch and the British. The largest port in India’s rich south-western state of Kerala, Kochi has an enthralling history, a polyglot population embracing many religions and customs, and high rainfall. Behind the port is a maze of waterways and islands called the Backwaters, choked with palm trees and other rich tropical vegetation. On the slopes of the mountains behind Kochi the fields are fertile, producing coffee, tea and spices, the source of the city’s wealth. I had visited Kochi once before, when it was still called Cochin, and am keen to see it again.

  We have contacted Port Control from outside the harbour to alert them to our arrival, and haven’t even reached the quarantine anchorage when a steel-grey boat approaches, the crew shouting anchoring directions. After some confusing yelling on both sides, we safely anchor-down in good mud.

  Two official-looking boats approach from each side. We don’t have enough fenders. They both tie up anyway, not waiting for permission, scraping and denting our topsides. One is port control, the other customs. The anchor snubber is not yet on, we’re hot and sweaty and want only a cold drink and a moment of peace. The customs official, dressed in sparkling white, struts importantly on board and seats himself in the cockpit. The port controller, a rotund gentleman dressed in Western civilian clothes but holding a parasol high above him, apparently as evidence of his status, seats himself on the other side of the cockpit. Both want their forms filled in at once.

  They are kind, but officious, and in a hurry. The customs official wants everything in quadruplicate, but has no carbon paper. Now there’s another call from the water, and we see a slight dark-skinned man standing in a small rowboat, dressed in traditional Indian lungi. It’s clean but old, and his shirt is also clean, but ancient, almost raggedy. Perhaps he’s a Dalit, or Untouchable – that lowest of all Indian classes which has only recently been granted civil rights.

  ‘My am Nazar. My take you to Immigration.’ Ah, yes, Nazar. This was arranged by our agent in the Maldives.

  ‘Hello, Nazar,’ I say. ‘But we have these other people to attend to – can you come back?’

  ‘My wait okay.’ He stands on his boat in the searing sunshine,
placidly, for the next twenty minutes, plying his oars lazily in the muddy water to keep position in the tide.

  Next we all go ashore in a haphazard flotilla, the customs official, the port controller, Nazar, Ted and me. When we get ashore the port controller, the opulent gentleman of the grand parasol, wafts away in another direction, so I assume we have satisfied his requirements.

  We walk the short distance to the customs house together, a strange bunch – one strutting officer in immaculate whites with brass buttons blazing, two sweating yachties in shorts and sandals drooping along in the sun, and one we surmise is a Dalit, in raggedy lungi, swaying gracefully as he trails obediently behind.

  The customs house, with a sweeping view of the harbour, is a grand old building but sadly neglected. The stucco is crumbling away, mildew spreads across all the walls, and lush undergrowth is making a creeping attack through the windows. We’re passed from person to person, office to office, each with an ancient, Dickensian atmosphere. Thousands of files tied with red ribbon are piled against the walls in stacks fourteen feet high, some documents so old that the paper has turned dark brown and is literally falling apart. Small scraps rain on us from above. The women office workers wear splendidly coloured saris. We have no idea of the purpose of each office – we’re following like obedient sheep – but they all talk to each other earnestly, glancing at us frequently.

  The customs man issues pompous commands to humble Nazar in a rapid gabble. ‘Give him some money – he will change then you can pay,’ the official explains.

  Nazar departs at a run in the sweltering heat.

  We need to visit no less than three more offices for the fee-paying process – the first for our growing mound of documents to be stamped, a second to issue a receipt, and a third to present the receipt to pay the money, brought just in time by Nazar.

  Customs completed, Nazar scampers down the street and hails a tuk-tuk (a motorised rickshaw) to take us on a harrowing ten-minute drive through narrow streets to the immigration building – which, to the uninitiated, looks abandoned, with grass growing through cracked concrete and iron doors hanging off their hinges. Inside it is populated with many officers sitting at clear desks, appearing to have nothing to do. It takes four people, including one so important that we don’t even see him, to stamp our passports.

  While we wait we talk cricket with the officers – something they are very happy to do since India has just beaten Australia in the first Test. After three and a half hours, the customs officer has a parting warning.

  ‘Make sure to lock yourselves in tonight. This is a dangerous part of Kochi Harbour.’

  We are rowed back to Blackwattle by Nazar to coil our ropes, anchor properly, recover from the barrage of officialdom, and look forward to a steamy night with closed hatches.

  ‘My coming tomorrow ten o’clock go to Bolgatty now. My show you way,’ says Nazar.

  We’re aware that the chart does not show the channel, and we need help to get across the shallow water to the ‘approved’ anchorage, which can only be reached at high tide.

  ‘Okay, Nazar,’ says Ted. ‘Ten o’clock okay tide?’

  ‘My no understand.’

  ‘Water . . .’ Ted starts to gesticulate. ‘Water okay high?’

  ‘Okay, okay – my coming ten o’clock.’

  We’re both tired. ‘Okay, okay, ten o’clock,’ we agree.

  That night, the weather is balmy, if a little smoggy, and the view of Kochi is spectacular, like a night on Sydney Harbour without the Opera House. We sleep soundly – another leg of our journey completed successfully, and Blackwattle is still floating.

  Next morning, at around 8 am, Ted consults the tide charts.

  ‘Hell,’ he says. ‘At ten o’clock the tide is going out, and it’s only half tide.’ But we have no way of contacting Nazar, and Customs have told us in no uncertain terms they expect us to vacate the quarantine area this morning.

  At 9.30 am Nazar appears, rowing with long easy strokes in a standing position, and is ready to show us the way to the anchorage.

  ‘Nazar, okay for water, enough water?’ Gesticulations help.

  ‘Yes, okay, all okay.’

  ‘We draw 2.1 metres.’

  ‘Okay, okay.’

  But Ted is unsure and tries again. ‘Boat is seven feet down.’ Ted points into the water, showing seven fingers.

  ‘Okay, okay.’ Nazar nods encouragingly.

  We trail his rowing boat behind us, and all goes well for the first half-hour. Then, as we divert into a minor waterway, the water starts to shoal. I am on the wheel, calling the depths, and Nazar directs. Ted is on the bow, but the water is muddy – I don’t know how he’ll see anything . . .

  ‘Small, small,’ Nazar murmurs beside me, pointing to the right, then, ‘small, small,’ pointing to the left.

  I call ‘point seven’ (of a metre under the keel) ‘point six, point five, point four, point five,’ then, my voice rising, ‘point four, point three, point two, point one.’ At .1 of a metre below the keel, we are meant to be aground. Finally, the depth gauge reads zero, and I watch in horror as, with the same revs, the speed begins to drop.

  ‘We’re aground!’ I call to Ted on the bow, but we’re still moving so I start raising the revs to counteract the slowing. After a minute or two I’m going full throttle, but can only achieve 1.16 knots. We are literally keel-dragging our boat across the slushy sea bottom.

  We’re dredging Kochi Harbour, for free.

  It’s early morning, several days later, before the first breath on the water. I can hear a cock crow, and the whirring song of birds from the trees that overhang our anchorage. The mullahs are calling the faithful to prayer, an exotic far-off keening, and a church choir starts singing hymns with glorious rising rhythms. Clutching an early-morning coffee, I sit in the cockpit, where we sleep among the smoke of many mosquito coils.

  In the glistening early haze I hear fishermen calling to each other from their tiny wooden canoes, sliding through the mist, flinging out white clouds of netting. A siren sounds across the water. Kochi is coming to life again.

  Soon the thrum of diesel engines fills the air – dredges, ships, ocean-going fishing boats and the ferries begin to run. Along the middle of the harbour there is a gathering of cormorants, obviously in serious discussion. Now pop songs can be heard too, as the tourist boats start their daily trips – loud, throbbing across the harbour. First one boat, then three, then five.

  Time to start the day, before the heat and the humidity overwhelm us.

  After a month in strictly modest Muslim territory, beautiful and gentle people that the Maldivians are, it is a relief not to have to ‘cover up’ in the extreme heat. Kochi is a feast of contrasts. Set in tropical rainforest, it has several harbour islands, which are connected by ferries. The waterways are the colour of used dishwater but the detritus is floating vegetation from upriver, with little rubbish of any kind.

  Poverty is hardly heard of here, and the few beggars, the locals tell us proudly, are not from Kochi – they come over the hills from Tamil Nadir. The city is almost buried in coconut palms, with frangipani and hibiscus everywhere. The streets smell of dust, rotting vegetables, armpits, shoe leather. The occasional open sewer is a rich shock to the nostrils.

  Living is cheap here, and on the roads, so is life. About the traffic I scribble in my journal:

  We have found there are very clear rules about the traffic:

  1. Cars give way to buses.

  2. Motorbikes give way to cars.

  3. Auto rickshaws (tuk-tuks) give way to cars.

  4. Bicycles give way to tuk-tuks.

  5. People give way to bicycles.

  6. Ted and Nancy, terrified, give way to everyone.

  We find tuk-tuks are the best way to travel, walking being far too dangerous. Tuk-tuks are very cheap, a
s well as good for the health of the passenger. First, they are good for one’s hand muscles, as one gets good exercise gripping the bars. Second, they are good for the lungs, giving you practice in holding your breath for extended periods of time. Third, they give your eyes a rest in the middle of a busy day, as keeping them shut during the journey preserves your heart muscle. They are also good for the character, as it’s a test of self-discipline to prevent oneself from releasing inadvertent screams (sharp intakes of breath are okay) and, finally, they are good for the soul, increasing one’s sense of fatalism and acceptance of the idea of mortality.

  The chaos of the traffic contrasts with the gentility of the people – Muslim, Hindu and Christian alike. Nobody shoves, nobody is impolite. I watch people boarding a ferry. Some people with bicycles board early, parking their bicycles in the open space at the entrance (there is nowhere else anyway). The fifty or so people who follow them climb over the top of the bicycles, or scuffle over seats, or move the wheels gently to reach their places. The bicycle owners watch serenely. No one complains or looks irritated. I stare, intrigued by this patience and tolerance. I can’t help thinking this would not happen in the so-called sophisticated Western world – my world (or it once was).

  Our anchorage would be excellent as a cyclone hole. We are in about three metres of water, ideally located near a ferry with about five other yachts, some of which have been here for over a year. The crew of each has a unique story – about their previous lives, about their reasons for sailing. One is Bill on Saltair, whom we met back on Christmas Island, still waiting for his Thai fiancée to arrive. Another, Tom, is an ex-member of the Shadows, of musical fame. He has been sailing the world on Axe Calibre for eight years. His wife Dee is still getting seasick. We are also delighted to encounter Pete, the British ex-747 captain of Giselle, with whom we had shared the anchorage in Cocos Keeling; his lovely wife Gaye promised she would sail the world for a maximum of ten years with him. All the cruisers have two things in common – there is light in their eyes, and warmth in their hearts.