The Ethiopian Intercept

by R G Ainslee

  Frightened men gathered around the man in charge. It was easy to detect the object of their discussion — me. The men spoke with passion, hate and fear — Somali — the only word with any meaning. Did the crew assume the planes to be Somali?

  One large sailor with Arabic features tried to tell the captain what to do. The old man waved him away. The tough guy glared in my direction, hatred flared from his eyes.

  * * *

  Calm returned, and we sailed on under the setting sun. My thoughts more organized, snippets from a blurry past played in my mind. I had been flying and crashed into the Indian Ocean. The context fuzzy. Details a complete blank.

  In some way, I recognized the boat: an Arab style dhow. A simple sailing craft like many thousands before had changed little, plying the ancient trade routes between West Asia and East Africa. In the age of high technology and energy crisis, dhows relied on the wind to drive them along the African coast, north, or south depending on the seasonal monsoon winds.

  The captain, a quiet simple man, endowed with a certain authority, commanded the boat by respect rather than by fear. The crew went about their duties and handled the simple craft with graceful ease.

  From fragments of conversation, I sensed the men seemed concerned about Somalis. They recognized Somalia as the enemy and perhaps believed the Somalis were after me.

  The cook produced an unappetizing pot filled with rice and spiced fish. We sat on the wooden deck and he dished out what passed for the evening meal. Hesitantly, I tasted the simple fare, stifled the urge to throw up, and managed a faint smile. A nod to the cook, produced a toothless grim. The Arab continued to glare with obvious hatred.

  My situation came into clearer focus. The aircraft represented extreme danger. No doubt, another would appear in the morning.

  A Soviet bomber … Four days to Zanzibar — in four days we'll all be dead. I gotta get to shore soon as possible. Wait a minute, Zanzibar's ruled by pro-Communists. How did I know that?

  We're off the Kenya coast … Mombasa. An image came into focus: a familiar image, a coastal city, white buildings, black faces, and a vague familiarity. That's it, Mombasa.

  I approached the captain, pointed south, and called out with profound sincerity, "Mombasa."

  The captain shook his head and exclaimed in a deliberate manner, "Hapana, Zanzibar." He led me over to the open hatch, waved a hand at some wooden boxes below deck, and made a negative comment. He raised his chin towards the south. "Zanzibar, no Mombasa." The boxes must have held contraband. Evidently, sailing into Mombasa entailed too much risk.

  If the Soviets are after me, Zanzibar’s too dangerous. Can’t risk the time it would take to arrive. Can’t risk dealing with pro-communist authorities, if we manage to get that far.

  I pounded my chest and declared with emphasis, "No Zanzibar, no Zanzibar."

  He shook his head. "Zanzibar, no Mombasa."

  Once more, I pleaded "No Zanzibar — No Zanzibar."

  He started to turn away. I pointed to the now darkening sky, made a swooshing sound like a jet, swept my hand past the men, and clattered like a machine gun. They got the idea, but it rekindled excitement and fear.

  The crew gathered around the captain. An animated conversation ensued, the men genuinely afraid. The large Arab shouted angrily and brandished hostile gestures in my direction. A few seemed to agree. I began to sense it was a mistake to warn about the aircraft’s reappearance.

  The captain turned towards the faint glow in the west and shouted orders to the crew. The only recognizable word: Lamu. A vaguely familiar name, a Kenyan island, a faint memory, but I couldn’t visualize the place. Not as good as Mombasa, but a lot better than stuck in the Indian Ocean, miles from land.

  Without warning, the Arab bellowed at the top of his lungs and glared in my direction. The intensity in his eyes cut right through, the look of a born troublemaker. The captain tried to restrain him. The larger man broke free, whipped out a curved knife, and swaggered towards at me.

  I froze in place, paralyzed with fear.

  He gestured to the others. Two men took a few steps forward. The angry captain shouted at them. They glanced at one another, halted, and retreated.

  The big man's eyes burned with hatred as he muttered an incomprehensible stream of invective. He crouched into an attacking position, flicking the knife side to side in a menacing fashion.

  I instinctively held my hands out in front.

  The Arab continued his advance with enraged confidence. After a few clumsy feints, he rushed forward and lunged straight at me.

  A jolt of adrenalin surged through my core, and then, a strange calm. Without thinking, I slid off to the left, blocked his strike, seized his right wrist, pivoted in his direction, wrenched his arm up and across my body, and tripped him. He went down hard and slammed into the deck. His head hung face down over the stern.

  I stepped back and checked my back. The crew stood dumfounded.

  The Arab rolled over, examined his hands, and realized — he lost his knife. He scrambled around the wooden deck, desperate to find the blade. He glanced up at me. His shocked expression said it all.

  I held the knife in my hand.

  He stared at me, his eyes a mixture of disbelief and hatred. After a long hesitation, he resigned himself to failure and rejoined the crew.

  No one else made a move. The cook gave me a toothless grin.

  Knife in hand, I growled, "Lamu."

  The captain shouted a command. The crew scurried about and changed course towards the setting sun. He turned an eye in my direction, stiffened, pointed west to the Kenyan coast, and repeated "Lamu."

  I acknowledged with a nod. Exhausted by the confrontation, a warm floating sensation enveloped my consciousness. I fought off the urge to throw up, kneeled on the deck and examined the knife, an ordinary weapon with a steel blade, a sailor’s working knife. I stabbed the blade into the deck and sat down.

  Bewildered by my ability to disarm the man, I wondered: It happened so fast. Where did that move come from? Didn’t even think about it, just did it.

  The captain and his crew evidently decided I was too hot to handle. They carried contraband and didn't want to deal with authorities any more than I did. An unwelcome and dangerous visitor, they needed get rid of me soon as possible.

  Heat fused with pain, both arms bruised and sore, throbbing in my head continued strong and persistent. No other injuries, I was otherwise intact, but struggled with my memory. It all seemed like a bad dream.

  * * *

  The sun dipped below the horizon. Darkness comes quickly near the Equator, especially on a moonless night. A heavy breeze filled the dhow’s lateen sail. The wooden hull slipped silently through the dark sea.

  For centuries, Arab dhows traveled the route in pursuit of Africa's riches, propelled southward by the wind known as the Kaskazi and brought home by the Kusi. In the not too distant past, they carried ivory, tortoise shell, and slaves to their Arab homelands. In the twentieth century, smaller dhows carry mangrove wood to Arabia and contraband both ways.

  We sailed on. The small crew, African and Arab, black and brown, the usual mixture found along the East African coast, products of centuries of Arab-Swahili culture. The men skilled and the captain a master of his trade. The captain and the cook seemed to be on my side and the crew, except the Arab, indifferent. Under any other circumstances, it might have been an interesting and enjoyable voyage.

  Lamu. A recollection developed. The isolated Arab-Swahili fishing village in recent years had become a popular destination for western travelers. A sense of being in Kenya sometime in the past emerged. Mombasa seemed familiar, but Lamu remained elusive.

  I tried to piece together a plan. Once on land, I needed to contact someone, but local authorities would be a problem. They might ask for identification and an explanation. One thing for sure, I didn't want to end up on Zanzibar.

  At least, from Lamu I can reach Mombasa and contact… I don’t have a clue who to contact. Wait
a minute. I’m American, the American consulate.

  The dhow sailed on across the gloomy sea. The crew unrolled mats on the deck and turned in for the night. Two crewmembers stayed on watch. The captain manned the tiller and the mate made occasional adjustments to the large lateen sail.

  The Arab sat by the mast and eyed me with an intense glare. I didn't dare go to sleep or let my guard down in case he decided to have another go at me. The knife stayed close by, my only defense.

  * * *

  Hours later, after midnight, a faint white smudge materialized on the dark horizon. We sailed in closer to the coastline. A phosphorescent surf line glowed on the horizon. A dim light flickered in the distance. Lamu Island.

  The craft approached the shore where waves rolled in directly off the Indian Ocean to an empty beach. The captain appeared out of the dark with an inflated goatskin and gestured towards the shore.

  "No, No." I pointed to what I reckoned to be a channel off to the starboard side. I tried to explain, "Lamu, there."

  The captain shook his head. He wasn't going to take me into the town. A mile away, the surf broke onto the beach. He became agitated, spoke sharp and direct. I had a choice: swim ashore to the beach or continue to Zanzibar. Not much choice — either way risked death or capture.

  Grabbed the goatskin and tried to thank him.

  He ignored me, grasped the tiller, and steered a course parallel to the breakers. The old man yelled once more.

  Shot a fleeting look at the waves —now or never — tossed the Arab’s knife into the sea and slipped over the side into the warm tropical waters. Much to my relief the goatskin floated. Fueled by raw fear, I held for dear life and began to swim.

  Clear of the boat, I rolled to my side and looked back. The dhow receded away from the shore. The Arab stood at the stern, a scowl on his face.

  I swam awkwardly in tepid water with the stinking goatskin, concentrated on kicking, breathing, and staying alive. Slow progress, paused to rest every few minutes, halted twice to puke up seawater. Sharks crossed my mind: shrugged it off and swam for the sound of breaking surf.

  A large wave brought me closer to the breakers and I began to worry about sharp coral and serious injury. The adrenaline surge long worn off, I struggled to keep going in the boiling water. Another wave held me for an instant and dashed my helpless body down. I hit bottom only to feel sand under my feet. No coral, thank goodness there's no reef. I bobbed to the surface with a firm grasp on the goatskin and threw up once more.

  On the verge of giving up and surrendering to the warm waters, I spied the beach, now only a hundred yards away. An electric shock of resolve flooded in, restoring my will to survive. I swam with a languorous determined effort. At last, the water became shallow enough to walk. I ditched the goatskin, sloshed on to the deserted beach, staggered a few yards, and collapsed exhausted.

  * * *

  A spike of pain radiated through my head. My body stirred. I pulled myself up and gazed back out to sea. A shark glided along for a moment before it vanished with the goatskin in its grasp.

  The temptation to lie in the cool sand and sleep was overwhelming. How wonderful it would be to give in and sleep, escape from confusion and danger. Somehow, I managed to summon the willpower to stand and survey my dark surroundings.

  Dunes rose behind the shore with no visible path away from the water. My only choice, follow the shoreline towards the channel sighted from the boat. I shuffled down the dark deserted beach, guided by high dunes and the dim luminescence of the surf.

  The channel that led to town blocked my progress. A hundred yards further on, down the channel, fatigued and unable to continue, I collapsed beside a tall grass tuft.

  Help only a few miles away. It was too late to go on into town. I couldn't just show up at the police station and ask for help. There would be questions — questions with no answers. No identification or money, my only possession the pale green underwear I wore under the flight suit. My mind hadn't been clear enough to keep the survival gear.

  Desperate for rest, I decided to sleep on the beach and start afresh in the morning. Maybe I'll run into some Americans. What will I tell them?

  Reclined on the sand, closed my eyes, and recalled the day’s events: What was I doing? Must have crashed. The dhow, was that just a dream?

  The sound of waves lapping at the near channel shore faded as I drifted off into a dream world inhabited by strange buzzing sounds and images of the sea.

  * * *

  A sharp noise, someone laughing. I awoke with a start from a restless sleep. A cautious peek over the grass, a group strode along the beach. Locals, four young men, singing, talking loudly, as if they had been drinking, out for a night on the town. Perhaps they spoke English.

  With laborious difficulty, I stood and staggered past the tall grass, not knowing what to say. I waved.

  They noticed me, came to a full stop, and began to speak rapidly.

  My voice weak and hoarse, I stammered, "Can you … help me?"

  A tall man motioned to the others with his hands.

  I shuffled through the sand, pleaded for help, and reached out.

  They separated and in a swift movement surrounded me.

  "I need help."

  A wild-eyed man dressed in jeans drew a long machete like weapon. In a flash, he stepped in front of me and lashed out.

  Too tired to respond, the flat blade struck my head…

  Chapter 7 ~ The Island

  Tuesday, 7 February: Lamu Island, Kenya

  Voices … a faint sweet smell … eyes unsealed, stark white walls, flashes of color, vague moving forms … a face materialized from the mist. Shock and panic, two men stood over me.

  An older man with a tanned face and close-cropped gray hair spoke softly, "Je vais vous consulter."

  Sharp pain, constant throbbing and sick with nausea, an attempt to raise my head failed and sent a searing shot through my skull. "Don’t understand."

  Calm mellow eyes viewed me with an air of concern. "How do you feel?"

  "Head hurts."

  He reached over, opened an eyelid, and examined both eyes. "You have a contusion on the left side of your head, some swelling, and a small cut. It is possible you suffered a concussion. He flashed a bright light in my eyes that made the pain more intense. "Your wounds are not grave. You will recover, now you must rest."

  "Where am I?"

  "We speak later." He called over his shoulder. The second man, younger with dark skin, held a bottle. "You must drink. The water has a mild sedative to help you rest. Drink as much as you can."

  The water tasted of minerals. The bottle drained, my thirst was insatiable. The man took the empty. An attempt to speak failed as the drugs flowed through my system. My head nestled back on the soft pillow.

  "You sleep now. Rest is the best medicine." They switched off the light and left the room.

  The window filled with darkness. Confusion reigned. I struggled to remember. No answers surfaced from the recesses of my mind, the past a total blank. A frantic dreamlike state competed with a cool comforting sensation … everything went black.

  Wednesday, Late Morning, 8 February: Lamu Island

  Surrounded by stark white walls, I tentatively rose on shaky elbows to examine my surroundings. A ribbon of sunshine burst through an open window. A refreshing fragrant sea breeze floated across the room. Pain racked my brain along with soreness on my left cheek and temple. I became aware of an object on my head, reached up, felt a bandage.

  A young woman peeked in through the open door. Moments later, the older man dressed in white shirt and trousers re-appeared. "Are you feeling better?" He spoke softly, a sympathetic tone with a pronounced continental accent.

  "Hurts. My head's splitting."

  He examined both eyes. "Yes, as I told you, it is likely you have a suffered a concussion. Are you… as you say dizzy?"

  "Yes." Panic returned. "Where are we?"

  "The Shela Beach Hotel."

  "She… wh
ere?"

  "Lamu."

  "Lamu? … Where?

  "Lamu Island, do you not remember?"

  "No. Don't know." The sense of alarm and confusion intensified.

  He drew his lips and brow in a serious manner. "What happened to you?"

  "Don't…" I labored to recall, my only memory a hazy vision of the sea.

  He expelled a breath. "It seems you met a panga gang. You should not wander about after dark. No one warned you?"

  "No, don’t understand." A dim recollection, a group on a beach, details lost in confusion. "What's a pa… panga?"

  "The young men with the panga … like the swords. They rob innocent tourists. You do not understand?" He paused for a moment, and then asked with a suspicious tone, "Where do you stay?"

  Panic: What's happening? "I don't know."

  He asked incredulously. "What were you doing on the beach, planning to camp on the sand?"

  "Camp…" I didn't have an answer. "I was on a beach?"

  "Yes, a stupid decision, and now you have not anything, not even clothes on your back." He let out an exasperated sigh. "Ali, the cook, found you naked on the sand yesterday in the morning when he went to catch the fish."

  Startled, I looked down, white pajamas. "Yesterday…" Didn't know what to say, nothing made sense.

  He shook his head in disgust. "We will send for the police.

  "The police?" What's going on? I was camping? What happened? Lamu Island, where’s that? … The police — don't know what to tell them. "No. No police. Don’t want the police."

  "Are you here alone?"

  "Ah…" I didn't know, didn't know anything.

  "Where are you from?"

  My chest tightened. "Dunno … wait, I'm American."

  The man drew his lips together, gave me a stern look. "As expected. You think you can be like a cowboy and go anywhere you want. This is Africa and it is not a walk in your park?"

  "Can't remember… You said Africa?"

  His demeanor changed and eyed me with renewed concern. "Yes, Africa. Lamu Island is in Kenya. Do you not remember?"