by Rita Pomade
I knew he wouldn’t be happy to be awakened before his shift, but I didn’t care. “There’s something out there,” I said.
His eyes flashed open. “What?” he said. “A tanker? A trawler?”
“No, I don’t know what it is.” I could sense his irritation rising. I felt pretty stupid. “It’s a sound — really eerie — and it’s all around us, also some weird thumping on the side of the boat.”
“There’s nothing there.” He rolled over and tried to fall back asleep.
“I will not go back up there alone.” I tugged at his undershirt.
He sighed. “Did you see anything?”
“No.”
He tried to turn away again, but I wouldn’t let him. And then I heard the soft thumping inside the cabin. “Did you hear that?” I asked.
“No,” he answered.
“Listen.”
This time he heard it and went for the large projector light. I followed behind him. As we entered the cockpit, he heard the heavy breathing.
“Now, do you believe me?”
Bernard walked over to the stanchion line and shone the emergency searchlight out over the water. I was terrified that whatever was out there might pull him in and would probably come for me next — maybe some giant underwater creature with uncanny intelligence, one not yet discovered, because there’s never been a survivor. But that didn’t happen. Instead Bernard burst out laughing. I walked over to where he was standing and gasped at the sight. A huge school of dolphins surrounded the yacht. I had been listening to the heavy breathing of a bevy of dolphins circling the boat. Bernard caught them by surprise before they had a chance to dive under. Their game was up.
They knew what they were doing. As soon as their plot was discovered, they stopped hiding and were content to swim beside us, sometimes in front of the prow, sometimes along the side, leaping into the air, diving under, and in general having a good time. I could barely see them until light started to define the horizon, but it was comforting to hear them splashing about. I didn’t feel so alone.
A steady seven-knot wind carried us from Sebang to the coast of India in nine days. The night before we entered Cochin, the port entry to the state of Kerala, we found ourselves surrounded by hundreds of tiny fishing boats stationed in the dark. Without being aware, we had moved into the middle of their fishing grounds. Bernard turned on the big searchlight to illuminate our way through.
It angered the fishermen. I never knew whether it was because we disturbed where they had positioned themselves in the water, or if the light frightened the fish away. One of the fishermen took a long, wooden pole and tried to break the searchlight. The others shouted things that were probably just as well I didn’t understand, but we had no choice if we didn’t want to hit one of their fragile boats. We slowly threaded our way through until we left the area, and began to breathe easily again.
As we approached Cochin’s harbour, an enormous sea of swimming crabs with claws in the air raced past the yacht like a huge floating island pushed by wind. We had no idea where they came from, why they were in a rush, or where they were going, but they gave the impression that the water beneath the yacht was teeming with life.
In the morning light, we feasted our eyes on enormous nets that lined the harbour, each one at least thirty feet high and sixty feet across, their filigreed interior held in place by arched bamboo and teak poles. Teams of fishermen worked the nets, slowly lowering and then raising them from the water. The men acted as a fulcrum between the massive structures and roped stones at the other end. It was a beautifully choreographed performance, but the catch never seemed to equal to the size of the nets, though I don’t think it mattered. The ephemeral delicacy of the giant nets against the light of the rising sun gave a charm to Cochin that compensated for the small amount of fish caught.
We learned that these Cheenavalas, as they were called, had been in use since the thirteenth century when they were brought to Cochin by a Chinese explorer named Zheng He during the reign of Kublai Khan. Until then I had thought that Kubla Khan and Xanadu were figments of the poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s imagination. I now knew that that he’d misspelled Kublai and the Mongol lord was real, as was Xanadu. The magic of the harbour whetted my appetite for exploring more of India, but it wasn’t to happen.
You cannot leave the city of Cochin,” the immigration officer said, curtly handing back my American passport. Then he turned to Bernard. “Welcome to India,” he said as he stamped Bernard’s Canadian passport and returned it with a smile.
Unbeknownst to me, there was tension between India and the United States. I was confined to Cochin as a questionable alien. Bernard, the Canadian, was a welcome guest. As Swiss citizens, Barbie and Ken had free run of the country. They left for the tourist haven of Goa, leaving their gear behind to ensure we’d still be there when they returned.
Because I couldn’t leave the city, Bernard suggested we explore Cochin together. The Santa Rita was safely moored in a harbour within the city, and he felt comfortable leaving her for a while, but I think it was the culture’s vibrancy that lured him. Cochin’s narrow streets were filled with a colourful patchwork of people moving about its tiny shops and make-shift stalls in search of clothing, jewellery, produce and spices, oblivious to the motorcycle taxis weaving in and out among them.
We sampled the local cuisine and found it to be pure ambrosia, India being the home of cinnamon, cardamom, turmeric, chili, and mustard seed. Kerala grew coriander, tamarind, garlic, ginger, and coconut, and the blending of these ingredients with the spices created a mouth-watering array of memorable dishes. We gorged on curried shrimp and fish, fresh daily from the sea and at an unbeatable price. Food was almost given away. When I bought produce in the market, I had to buy far more than I could use because with our American dollars, the smallest unit of exchange bought an overwhelming amount. In spite of the obvious poverty, the people of Kerala, for the most part, ate well.
I learned they had the highest level of education in India, which meant the state of Kerala was more privileged than most, and should have had a higher standard of living. But we visited a factory that made hemp rugs and the conditions there were appalling. Men in thread-bare dhotis worked in extreme heat inside a primitive structure that looked like a workhouse scene from the late Middle Ages. Perhaps they eked out enough wages to keep from starving, but quality of life had a long way to go.
Happy to stretch our legs after so many days at sea, we took in a few tourist attractions that weren’t too far from the Santa Rita, One of our outings was to a Kathakali dance performance, native to south India. This dance form, performed by men, tells stories taken from the Mahabharata, a Sanskrit book of poems dealing with royalty, war, and ethics. Though I had never seen Indian dance, I studied dance when I was young, and had done a paper on dance in India when I was in college.
I was excited to see a performance of one of the schools I had written about, but in spite of the elaborate costumes and eye-catching make-up, the stylized movements of the dancers failed to engage me. I knew it took years to perfect the intricacies of this dance form, but I had to admit I was disappointed. What my imagination had envisioned as a young student in search of unique experiences was something quite different from what I now saw.
The other touted tourist attraction was the Paradesi Synagogue, rebuilt in 1568 on land donated by the Rajah of Cochin, who welcomed Jews escaping from persecution in Portugal and Spain. The Portuguese had burned down the original synagogue that belonged to the Malaberi Jews, a darker skinned people who had come to Cochin in the fourth century or possibly before. At the time of our visit, we were told there were only ten Jews left in Cochin, but the synagogue was still functioning.
Blue and white hand-painted Chinese tiles covered the floor of the interior giving it a unique charm. The brass trim and lacquered woods in the main sanctuary created a pleasing counterpoint to the slew of coloured glass lamps and elaborate crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. The space
looked like a theatre in the round before a play was about to begin. It was barely used, yet so well cared-for. In contrast, the exterior of the compound was nondescript, the history of the building and its people being far more interesting than the architecture.
Having taken in some of the tourist sites of Cochin, and with our virtual crew bronzed and back on board, we prepared to set sail for the Red Sea. Bernard pointed to a location on the nautical chart spread before us.
“I think we should head for Aden on the coast of Yemen,” he said. “From there it’s a short sail through the Bab-el-Mandeb Strait to the Red Sea.”
“Bab-el-Mandeb,” I said. “What a great name! It conjures up images from those Dune books by Frank Herbert.” Bernard smiled. Years before, we had read and enjoyed the science fiction trilogy. I later learned Bab-el-Mandeb meant Gate of Grief in Arabic.
From Yemen-Aden to Andorra
Chapter 22
STORMS BREWING ON THE HORIZON
Spring 1984: To Yemen and Sudan
Though we travel the world to find the beautiful,
we must carry it with us or we find it not.
— RALPH WALDO EMERSON
After fourteen days on the Santa Rita crossing the Arabian Sea from India, Bernard and I were ready for a break. We also needed provisions. The Barbie and Ken couple continued to be a pain in the butt. They spent the two-week crossing locked in their cabin, appearing when hungry or to sunbathe on nicer days. After a week of cooking for them with no effort on their part to participate in the handling of the yacht, I no longer called them for meals.
“When do we eat?” Barbie asked on the first day of the new regime, when she noticed I didn’t knock on their cabin door at lunchtime.
“You don’t,” I said. “If you don’t contribute, you don’t eat.”
“You have to feed us. It’s the law.”
“Is it?”
The pouty little princess marched back to the cabin and slammed the door. She reappeared in bikini, with sun hat and towel in hand, and strutted her way to her favourite sunbathing spot. Later that evening when Bernard and I were on deck, I heard the couple rummaging below, looking for what they could find to put their own meal together.
“Let them scrounge around for whatever they can find,” I said to Bernard. “They wouldn’t dare use the stove, and I doubt if either of them know how to cook.” I hoped our new arrangement would encourage them to jump ship once we docked.
We made it clear they weren’t welcome. Nevertheless, they had no compunctions about having opinions on where we should sail.
Ken pulled a sour face when he saw us entering Aden, the port city of Yemen. “Why not Socotra?” he said, not aware that we had already passed the archipelago.
“It’s a pirate hangout,” Bernard said. “It’s not safe for boats. But if you’d like to go, you can always fly.”
Ken didn’t take the bait.
I had been excited about exploring Aden, knowing that Yemen was one of the oldest civilizations in the Middle East. Not only did it control the spice and incense trade from the twelfth century BCE to the sixth century CE, it was also rumoured to be the home of the biblical Cain and Abel.
Even before dropping anchor, my illusion of finding remnants of the country’s historical past was shattered. The heady smell of fresh earth that often uplifted me as we entered other ports was missing. Oil replaced the spice trade, and the stench from refineries was sickening.
Before leaving Cochin, I had sent letters to friends and Jonah telling them we’d soon be in Aden, and I’d pick up the next batch of mail there. When we arrived, a number of letters were already waiting for us at the post office. I opened Jonah’s first, looking forward to his entertaining stories about life at Oxford. I had hoped to see him before he returned to Middlebury for his senior year. Now it looked as though it could happen. His spring break was around the time we planned to pass through the Suez Canal. I was ecstatic. It had been almost three years since I’d seen him off at the Manila International Airport. I wrote to him suggesting we meet up in Israel. Having heard about the vagaries of the Red Sea, I wasn’t sure we’d make it, but Bernard seemed pretty certain, and he was usually right.
The second letter I took out of the packet left me amazed at the effectiveness of the “Poste Restante” mail system. It was easy to receive mail from one country to the next using the local post office as a mailing address, but what a surprise when the packet held a letter addressed to “Rita Pomade/Aden” without the name of the country. I had another surprise when the stamps I bought pictured guerrillas with machine guns pointed directly at the purchaser.
Little did we know that in 1983 escalating tension between Palestinians and Israelis resulted in a mass exodus of Palestinians to Yemen. Anger towards Israel was palpable, and I could feel it in the streets. Also, tension between British-held North Yemen and Russian-supported South Yemen was threatening to erupt at any moment. Each time I licked a postage stamp, I was reminded we were in a dangerous environment, but then I forgot. Until something happens, there’s the feeling that nothing will happen. So in spite of the charged political environment, we thought the port was too interesting to lift anchor and leave.
We headed for the office of the Harbour Master to announce our arrival. Endless rows of empty shoes covered the port’s streets, giving the feeling of people mysteriously lifted out of their footwear into an alternate universe. I later learned it was the custom never to enter an establishment in shoes.
The Harbour Master’s office bustled with people coming and going. When it was finally time for us to state our business, Bernard had hardly made his request when the sound of the Muezzin’s call penetrated the office. Everyone dropped to the floor and prayers began. We stood there, above the lumps of bodies wondering whether to go or stay. We waited awkwardly for the office staff to take their seats and for business to resume. The sudden change of tempo and then return to business as usual had the surreal feeling of our being extras in a science fiction movie. It was the first time I felt culture shock since our first weeks in Taipei four years earlier.
Aden’s streets were a tapestry of texture and colour. Tribesmen, coming into town from the mountains, still dressed in their native clothes. The women wore colourful dresses, their headscarves lined with coins, and diaphanous veils covered their faces. The men wore skirts and had turbans wrapped around their heads. Daggers with carved blades called jarbiyas were tied around their waists. They were a small and wiry people with handsome, weathered faces.
There were also tall, lithe women who seemed to glide as they walked. They were too dark to be Yemini and must have been from Somalia or Eritrea, a stone’s throw across the sea. These women wore flowing black robes, their faces and heads covered with the same material. Only their slender hands and feet were visible, finely tattooed with intricate patterns that looked like lace. The women moved together in a group, and at one point I found myself on a bus with them, the only Westerner. Their slow and graceful movements made me feel like a bulky sack of potatoes, but I have no idea what was hidden behind those long robes. They were as mysterious to me as they were alien.
Barbie and Ken had gone their own way for the week of our stay, and it was a relief for us to have the yacht to ourselves. We spent the time readying the Santa Rita for the voyage up the Red Sea, Bernard always on maintenance and me provisioning. Food, abundant and delicious, sold for a pittance. European agencies had been sending food aid to Yemen, a third world country, for years. Instead of the food reaching those in need, it was sold by private vendors in the marketplace. For the first time, I was filling the lockers with tasty European fare from roast duck to scrumptious whole chickens packed in cans.
The day we were to sail, Barbie and Ken arrived with packages given to them by Palestinians they had befriended. They had been asked to take these up the Red Sea and deliver them to a third party. They had no idea what was in them. Bernard was furious.
“Get that stuff off the yacht,” he demanded.
“You have no idea what you’re carrying and you don’t know where it’s really going. Return it and tell them the captain won’t let you aboard with unknown cargo.”
The two looked at each other and made irritated faces — then reluctantly left to return the goods.
Bernard was visibly agitated. “Idiots,” he mumbled.
I couldn’t be more in agreement. As owners of the Santa Rita, we were responsible for anything that came aboard. If we were stopped and searched, ignorance wouldn’t get us off the hook. We couldn’t take a chance like that, and they should have known better. When they returned we lifted anchor and headed for Sudan, only a day’s sail away.
Several months later, we learned by VHF radio that fighting broke out in Aden between North and South Yemen, and all the ships in the harbour were at risk. The Innocent Bystander, a yacht we had encountered when we were anchored there, was caught in the crossfire. The crew spent several tense hours lying on the floor below deck, while bullets sped overhead.
In contrast to Aden, Port Sudan was one of the most serene places I had ever visited. Against a backdrop of undulating dunes peppered with round mud huts, tall, slender black men in flowing white djellabas glided by. Even the camels moved in graceful motion quietly nuzzling their way through mounds of garbage heaped along the edges of dusty lanes. Mud walls functioned as outdoor toilets and every so often a man would squat near one, and protected by the flow of his robe, he would pee. I was curious as to what the women did as their cotton skirts wouldn’t permit the same luxury of discretion.
Couples strolled towards the outdoor marketplace where there was no sense of bustle, and families sat at small tables and drank tea together. It was the first occasion I witnessed time not measured by output of productivity, but defined by community where family and friends sat about and chatted without an agenda. I felt the Sudanese had a lot to teach us. But I knew there was no going back. More so today in our wired world, computers ubiquitous — cell phones and Twitter our virtual community. Still, when I’m most in need of serenity, I go back in my mind to Port Sudan in 1984 — as it was then.