Of Foreign Build (12 page)

‘I have travelled a lot and know how difficult a strange country can be. Please let me help you.’

With a fair bit of scepticism, we told him of our plight.

‘Come with me,’ he offered the open door of his air-conditioned car. Thoughts of kidnapping, murder, mugging, and rape didn’t enter our heads. We were so hot and defeated that we gladly stepped into the enormously plush car. We now had a chauffeur, tour guide, and translator, all wrapped up in a comfy air-conditioned car.

Our new friend, Murshid, drove us along dirt roads with deep potholes that you could lose a small person in, and parts of town we would have never known existed. A ramshackle old shed with smashed windows was the telephone company’s headquarters. Here several minutes of intense conversation occurred between Murshid and many other jean-clad men, all with deeply creased faces. We just stood, watched, and sweated. Suddenly papers were shuffled and money offered to us for a full refund on our telephone card!

Murshid then invited us to his home for a traditional dinner. He dropped us off at the dinghy and waited while we collected fresh clothes and shower gear. We had learned to take any opportunity of another’s shower!

Murshid’s home was simple, plainly painted with the odd fake gold, gaudy statue depicting reverence to a god. His bathroom was plain and unfinished, but his wonderful cold shower was used with much joy. Murshid was resplendent in his dishdasha of fine fabric the colour of ivy. Subtle patterns woven through the edges of his tunic with his smouldering dark looks made him look incredibly fetching (did I mention he was handsome?). A handful of his friends joined us for the evening. One lad wore jeans and he strutted with head held high; he clearly felt cool wearing western gear. I found myself frowning at his appearance. It was like turning up to a wedding in shorts – it just didn’t sit right. Even Noel and I had gotten rid our western gear. Murshid presented Noel with a beautiful plain dishdasha and to me a huge, green tent dress, decorated with green flowers – not elegant, but we fitted right in!

Murshid’s friends played homemade guitars and drums. They taught us words we didn’t understand, and then rolled around in fits of laughter when we tried to sing them. We were served local foods, spices, vegetables, and dark meat. A young, pretty woman served us; she was subservient and glowed when we thanked her, Noel and I were the only ones that seemed to appreciate her. Murshid wore a slight scowl when she stayed too long in the room when we tried to engage her in conversation. He tried to hide the frown, but it was evident woman were not part of the social scene. I was grateful to be allowed an insight and grateful, too, of our western life and acceptance.

As the evening cooled, Murshid drove us back to the dinghy. We stopped for a stroll along the beach. Many other people had the same idea. I was the only woman. This was the men’s time – women stayed at home, Murshid explained.

That night, we quietly approached the port entrance. Curfew back into the port was 7 pm. Sometimes, the officials stretched this to 10 pm. We got back at 11:30 pm. In a language we could not decipher, but with the meaning clear, the angry port authorities wagged their fingers and firmly held their guns. Noel and I stared at our feet like scolded kids. With our sincere apologies, they eventually let us back into the bay. However, our bowed heads were not just for the guards. We realised that we may have made it harder for following cruisers, possibly encouraging the authorities to instigate harsher rules, especially, perhaps for Australians. Worse, we had taken advantage of a warm welcome into a foreign country. A mistake we wouldn’t make again.

The port’s facilities in Salalah would sound good in any brochure, with fuel, water, and amenities, however the reality was a universe away. The shower block was communal, filthy, and the smell was one sniff short of making you heave. The shower doors, of which there were two, were held shut with grimy twine that you really didn’t want to touch. Quickly, you learned how to balance the wash bag, towel, and fresh clothes on this piece of putrid string, which was the cleanest part of the entire building. Trying not to breathe too much or knock my gear on the floor, I’d shower frantically for as short a time as possible. Wearing decent footwear was imperative to help dodge cockroaches that were so big you could lean on them for support if you needed it. Why did we shower in such places? Well, at sea, you become covered in salt; it’s sticky and uncomfortable. Apart from that, it is exceptionally hot. We had little other choice. The last clean, hot shower was in Thailand, about two months ago.

Let’s get this straight: we
could
shower on board. But, at times it was easier to save our water supply. We had a pressure garden-spray that held four kettles of water (one warm if we were feeling indulgent). This was the shower we used when arriving into port. During the voyage, most days we would have a shower with the deck-wash hose using the chilly salt water of the ocean. Rinsing with salt water cleared the lather, and to finish up we used just one or two cups of fresh water to carefully rinse the salt from our skin and hair. We always arrived into port with plenty of spare fresh water, but at sea we didn’t want to risk running low through using too much or suffering a problem with a tank.
Mariah
had three separate water tanks in case of contamination or damage.

There was a bright side to the showers in Oman. In the shower block, there was a big trough with taps (unending running water to a cruiser is close to heaven). We did our laundry here and filled up
Mariah’s
water tanks via jerry can. Every drop was carried to the boat, unless we indulged in the rare luxury of a marina, or topped up the tanks when taking on diesel.

We learned another good lesson in Oman. When at anchor we used the VHF radio to talk to other boats (we hailed on channel sixteen, then changed to a working channel for longer conversations); we recently had a potentially rather embarrassing situation develop. A friend used our radio on board
Maria
h
to organise a party. Unfortunately, she hung the mic back up, so the transmit button was pressed in! It wasn’t until the next day when the whole anchorage was privy to our morning conversation, that we realised what had happened.

‘Hey,
Mariah II
, it’s all very nice hearing your breakfast conversation, but it’s time to turn your mic off!’ yelled the skipper of nearest boat anchored to us.

It all could have been very embarrassing. With a quick appraisal of what was said the previous night and during the morning, we believed we didn’t do or say anything too shocking!

Sight-seeing and Oman are two words that don’t really go together in one sentence. There’s the dry and bleak vista, dusty camels, bleating goats, rocks and… well, that’s it really. With a kind offer from another cruising couple that had hired a car, we took a quick drive up into the hills together. Great vistas of hot, stark land greeted our sun-burnt eyes. Wandering camels peered at us, keeping their distance, protecting their young, while also chewing on bleached thistles. Tents and basic timber huts speckled the hillside.

After about a week, we were ready to go. That week was spent fixing, maintaining, stocking up with food, fuel, water, hand-washing the laundry, and stowing everything properly, plus scraping the bottom of the boat again.

Soon it was time for the intrepid (read nervous) sailors to leave. We were in a group of six; together we would cross the pirate-infested waters.

The piracy plan was to stay in the group, and we were hoping this would make potential attackers think twice. If we were approached and their intent was harmful, the rest of the group were prepared to let off flares and put out a Mayday call on our designated channels. We hoped that we could scare them off.

In addition, we all agreed to use our running lights at night, (deck lights), instead of our masthead lights. This helped avoid detection from further afield. We agreed to only using the VHF radio to say, ‘fleet to channel A, B or C.’ These channels (A, B, C) were pre-arranged channels on the SSB (HF-long range radio); this was how we would communicate. Pirates could easily scan the few channels on VHF and then pinpoint us, keeping use of the VHF to a minimum and using HF for conversations could mean going undetected.

Tentatively, we set off. Our route took us initially south; the previous attack occurred close to the Yemeni coast, so we kept well out, away from land, in the shipping lane. We stuck close together, within about half a mile of each other, It was reassuring. No one came anywhere near us.

The excitement started early when Noel and I promptly caught a huge yellow fin tuna. With just fishing reels and a net, it took quite some effort to get the beautiful creature on board. He thrashed wildly and his blood splattered around the cockpit. As
Mariah
rolled, the blood ran around – it was slippery. The metallic smell suffocated the salty aroma. As he thrashed we grabbed the cheap bottle of vodka and gave him his last drink. The alcohol killed him immediately, and at last the fight ended. These beautiful fish are strong. I watched as his rainbow colours slowly faded and I felt sad. We thanked the sea for gifting us this food. This fine tuna fed us for most of the nine-day journey, with careful storing in the coolest parts of the boat. We didn’t have a huge range of fresh food on board, so we were grateful. Although we didn’t have a proper fridge, by this time, we did have a small built-in icebox. This helped keep the fish for longer.

On the second night out, amid the red and green lights of the small fleet, I noticed one boat turn around and head back the other way. I stayed silent for a while, waiting to see if anyone else noticed, or if the boat heading back would tell us why. Eventually, I couldn’t stand the silence any longer and called up on the VHF.

‘Fleet go to channel B,’ I announced.

In just a few moments we all met on the selected frequency on the HF radio.

‘Did anyone else notice that one of us has turned around?’

I received a few confirmations, and then the boat that had turned around came up and explained that they had some equipment problems on board and as we were still closer to Oman than anywhere else, they thought it prudent to turn around. A good decision, but strange just not to say anything. Now there were five boats in convoy.

When we thought the highest danger area was behind us, we pulled ahead. For many days we had been slowing
Mariah
down to stay with the fleet. Agreeing to a speed of five knots within our group was a total waste of time. No one bothered (except
Carmen Miranda
) to work with sails to maintain a good speed. A three knot speed was accepted by the rest of the group. Five knots was about our maximum, and we had no trouble achieving it with a bit of effort. Noel and I were completed miffed as to why anyone would want to go slow and spend more time in a pirate area. We were getting tired of backing our sails to stop
Mariah
and waiting for the rest of the fleet. Our sails were old and did not need the extra stress.

‘It’s hard for us to put our poles up,’ one boat commented when we asked why we were not keeping to the agreed speed, a speed everyone was easily capable of – we were the smallest and slowest boat!

Why have the poles?
We thought,
Why agree to something you can’t be bothered to do?
These were our private thoughts and discussions. We made a decision then, and talked to the other boats about our choice to move ahead. The ‘poles’ were the spinnaker poles that helped keep the sails full of wind when the boat rolled, they weren’t easy to put up, but a necessity at times. We were irked as to why some of the fleet didn’t want to make an effort

‘Stay safe,’ the group called to us on the radio. We thought that they needed these thoughts more than us; we were heading further out of the danger area. With relief at being able to let
Mariah
go, we peeled away from the group.

As Eritrea approached, we were both keeping watch on our last night. During the night, we traversed a traffic separation zone, which is a stretch of water where you have to keep to a certain area. On our charts the area is marked like a road is marked, to show which side we must keep on, depending on which direction we were travelling. The traffic separation zone was between an island and the mainland, and the current was running fast. Fortunately, it was giving us a ride and we sped along at nine knots, watching islands fly past. There was plenty of traffic to avoid within the narrow “roads,” shallow waters, and islands. At nine knots we felt a little out of control!

By 3 am we were both weary, but there were still plenty of ships around. The huge behemoths glided past at twenty-six knots: silent, dark, and foreboding. As I stretched out a huge yawn and rubbed my sore eyes, I noticed a light appear at the back of one of these ships. There was a small boat that was behind that ship, but now it’d come out from behind the ship and was heading our way! I rubbed my eyes again, my stomach lurched, and I noticed Noel had gone quiet too. I stared and felt the strain of concentration.

‘Can you see that boat?’ I asked Noel.

‘Yes, it’s coming towards us.’

It was moving fast, and although we were out of the main danger area, we were still concerned. If we could sail here, so could pirates. I picked up the winch handle, heavy in my hand, it made me feel better to be armed!

For a while we sat and watched, our hearts thudding with the imagined horrors, then it happened.

‘Erm, I don’t think it’s a ship,’ I said.

‘It’s not a ship. It’s a light on an island!’ We had figured it out at the same time. Where the 200,000 tonne ship had glided down our starboard side, overtaking us, it had hid a small island that had a flashing light on it. The movement of the ship going forward had made the light appear to be moving the other way. Our tired minds were playing tricks on us, but we were too relieved to care. With silly smiles, we had survived a potential pirate attack!

All in all, with adrenaline pumping at every light or fishing boat, a sleepless night, the traffic separation zone and a rampaging current, we were completely exhausted when we arrived, at dawn, into Eritrea. Our sagging limbs, scratchy eyes, and salt laden skin was mixed with the heady excitement of sailing into Eritrea. It was an interesting mix of emotions, which admittedly became a bit intoxicating and addictive.