Of Foreign Build (16 page)

After some serious negotiations, we were soon two to a camel, with four camels all tied to each other. Joy was in front with our guide. I had read that camels can be lovely friendly creatures. Alas, these camels had had the rough end of the deal and were completely fed up with being bullied into walking around the same triangular pile of stones day in and day out. They were not happy camels. When we approached them, they bared their teeth to such an extent we could see right down their throats. With protection from the handlers, we jumped on as fast as mounting a camel allowed us to. We were second in line; Noel was in front of me on our beast. We rolled along with basic instructions, but there was not too much to do, as we were tied to the lead camel. We were able to pad right up to the pyramids and the huge sphinx; the place had a magical feel, a feeling of ancient times gone by. Our guide was fun and full of history titbits.

Halfway there, we dismounted for photos. The camels expelled an ugly moan, bark, and groan. We were all giggling, bouncing, sliding, and rubber-necking around the vista, having a jolly good time. Later, when we remounted, the guide ensured we were all on, and he tried to hop on when his camel jumped up. Now, some sort of power play came in. He swiftly and violently whacked his steed right across its ears with a whip. I hate this sort of thing and promptly had a go at our guide. But the camel was perfectly capable of fighting its own battles and retaliated with the most violent bark. He was that angry a huge inflated bladder like bubble ballooned out of its throat into its mouth and beyond its lips. I was a little concerned that something quite horrible was about to occur. These camels were big, far stronger than us, and we were securely tied to the one with the ‘ump (pun fully intended). We had no method of control whatsoever. With a few minutes of vying for supremacy, the handler finally won. It wasn’t a pretty sight. We were somewhat relieved that we were safe and not about to be galloped off into the desert sunset dragged by an incensed camel.

After about half-an-hour of riding these beasts, my horse-riding background kicked in, and I was urging our camel on with my heels, using my weight to steer and trying to overtake the leader, much to Noel’s disgust and my delight. At the end, we had a sprint finish and I was in my element, unleashing my competitive side.

We came to halt and the camels were prepared for the dismount. I was acutely aware that when the camels lie down, we’d be thrown forwards (as their front legs folded), then backwards (as their back legs folded), and braced myself in anticipation. I was in the front at this point and as the camel tipped us forward, Noel became unseated. As the camel’s back legs crouched down, Noel lost all control of his body and his equilibrium with gravity and, beautifully, rolled straight off the back. I then had trouble dismounting, purely because I was in pain from laughing so hard.

Back in Suez, we spent a day or two in town provisioning. One evening, we fancied a beer and were guided to a place named St. George. An inconspicuous, shed-like shop was revealed after stepping through an unremarkable green door from the street. The bar was filled with men: strong Russians, frowning Polish, thoughtful Taiwanese, and serious Japanese who all worked at the Suez Port on the big ships. The small room was filled with once-white tables, timber chairs, and a general grubbiness beneath the haze of lingering smoke. There was no music, just the clatter of scraping chairs, deep masculine laughter, and hum of kindred spirits.

Timid at first, Noel and I sat quietly together and were just glad to have a cold beer. After a couple of beers and curious looks in both directions (from us to the port men), Noel was at one table and I at another! We both ended up in deep conversations with people from all over the world, all while only understanding one in ten words! I met George, from Greece. I could speak not one word of Greek and he could speak no English. He would start talking in earnest, and I would place my chin on my fist and nod at various pauses as if I understood; this would go on for a few minutes. Then I would grin and so would he. I started to laugh and so did he. We both performed these theatrics over and again and spent most of the evening in a fit of hysterical laughter. There were few words passed between us that were understood, we both grasped ideas of the meaning, or least thought we did. We said goodbye with a mutual respect – we both knew we would have become good friends, if only we could talk to each other!

On 4 May, we departed from Suez with an impatient pilot on board. We had waited over an hour for him to arrive. As soon as he jumped on
Mariah
he started shouting, ‘Come on, hurry hurry, must go now!’ Thankfully, our experience of working together smoothly meant we were ready to leave quickly.

To traverse the Suez Canal, you hire two pilots. It takes two days to traverse, one pilot per day. In the first instance, a few days prior to departure, an official comes on board from an agency called Prince of the Red Sea, which Noel aptly renamed Prince of Thieves. The official took measurements and calculated our fee. No one had any idea how the calculations were made. We believe he comes aboard to assess your worth by the size and grandness of your boat.

As with all officials, we just tried to be as polite as possible and hoped he was in a good mood. We had been warned from other cruisers that he asked for shampoo for his wife and cigarettes and baksheesh (bribery being part and parcel of life here). We gathered these items and were ready to use them as bargaining tools to hopefully keep the price down. However, we were slightly thrown when instead of asking for soaps and cigarettes he asked, ‘Do you have any computers or mobile phones I can have?’ Noel and I looked at each other, then, blankly at him. ‘What about binoculars or radios?’ Our stunned silence continued, with the imaginings of a huge fee, as we could not bribe this particular official. ‘I’ll just sit here and wait until you find something for me,’ he said!

The Egyptians truly believe that they are fully entitled to own everything you own. After some rummaging, we found an old mobile phone that didn’t work. He wasn’t too happy and left the boat rather abruptly, while we worried what our fees might amount to.

Surprisingly, our fees were not too high, in the region of a few hundred American dollars. Some boats were higher, some lower. We were quite happy with our quote.

The day came when we paid the agency fees, pilot fees, baksheesh and more baksheesh, and set off. This was the easy part, except you had an Egyptian on the boat.

Fortunately, our two pilots were nice; we provided a nice lunch for them both. The conversation was reasonable and, as per other cruisers’ instructions, we did not let them below decks (except to use the head) – rumours of stealing were rife.

We knew that when we dropped each pilot off at the end of the day, we were required to give him or her a gift. The pilot’s administration office advised that five American dollars was enough, plus a few packets of cigarettes. They actually asked us not to give any more and lift the pilots’ expectations for the future, as it could create resentment. Of course, the pilots do not think this is enough. To save an argument on board your boat, we were told to wrap up the dollars (baksheesh) and the gifts tightly with plenty of tape and on no account give them their gifts until they were literally stepping off the boat. This was not as easy as it sounds, as they spent the last four hours on board continually asking for their gift like petulant children. As the pilot boat came alongside
Mariah
to collect our pilot, he was almost begging for something from us. We handed over the packages of soaps, shampoo, and money. Wildly, he tore at the gifts like a demented man and was instantly annoyed that we had given him just five American dollars. With resignation he stepped off
Mariah
and did not say farewell.

That night, on 5 May, we anchored at Ismailia, an overnight stop half way through the canals. After the first day, it was a relief to be in protected waters. At 6 am the next morning, the pilot boat dropped off the next pilot for the second and last day. As they approached, I had only just got up, so my hair was sticking-up in every direction, and my face still creased. I was drowsy as I tried to pull up the anchor, which was, as usual, splattering cold water and mud all over me as the chain wound in on the gypsy. As the pilot boat approached and asked for baksheesh for those on board, I gave them such an angry look that they withdrew the question. Noel, the pilots on the boat (about half a dozen), and the entire anchorage became quiet. They just gawped at this medusa looking woman who was splattered in mud, giving them a piece of her mind. Still, it worked and they left empty handed, leaving their slightly worried pilot on board to travel the last part of the canal with us. We all enjoyed a pleasant, easy going, final day in the canal under clear blue skies.

At Port Said, the package-ripping pilot stepped off our boat, and we contemplated staying the night after receiving a weather warning.

‘What d’ya reckon?’ Noel asked.

‘I reckon we can handle it,’ I replied confidently, ‘I’ve had enough of being constantly nagged for hand-outs.’

Usually we would anchor and await favourable conditions. But the port was exceptionally busy and full of Egyptians. We’d had enough of the constant nagging for money and gifts, so with proven faith in
Mariah
we ventured into the Mediterranean Sea and into gale force winds, and hurtled towards Cyprus. I knew I could cope in these winds, my experience now providing the courage.

For two days we bumped along, clinging white-knuckled and riding out nature’s offering. Noel had picked up a nasty cold in Suez and was tired, so I tried to maintain longer shifts to give him some much-needed rest. This resulted in us both being exhausted, but we made it in to Cyprus safely on 7 May. Throughout the windstorm, I had done much of the boat work, sail changing, navigation, and watches by myself. These thoughts provided me with a self-satisfied grin that I carried around for several days.

Cruisers in front of us made a big deal of our arrival, as did we when boats arrived after us. It was quite a feat to traverse the Red Sea. Not just the threat of piracy, but ferocious weather and, of course, the Egyptian officials.

The first week in the port of Larnaca, we did nothing except eat enough meat to make up for our vegetarian diet over the last two months. We slept, rested, and gloated mightily at the fact that we were surrounded with cheap, nice wine, and way too healthy olive oil. I noticed, and felt somewhat guilty, that other cruisers had streams of washing out to dry the day after they arrived. We didn’t tackle ours until about a week after landing. We had better things to do. I wanted to enjoy terra firma, quaff wine, and indulge in the Mediterranean way of life.

Different boats arrived each day, friends reunited and stories told. The social life was terrific. We felt mightily relieved just to be ignored as we walked the streets. Not one person harassed us or asked for money. It had been sometime since we were just one of the crowd.

We loved the Med but, as with everything, there was always compromise. We may have been gleefully ignored, but food prices were much higher than they’d been for a long time. It was what we expected, and we took more care with our expenditure, as you must when earning so little.

Our cruising budget came from savings. Over the months, we watched those savings dwindle. Before leaving Australia, I had completed a writing and photography course with dreams of earning a living via pen. Since heading off, I had tried my hand at fiction and had no success. We knew, in England, we’d have to bolster the coffers.

We didn’t indulge in luxuries on board, but we could indulge ourselves in thoughts of reaching England; we were so close. It seemed incredible we had sailed the entire way here. But we had achieved this by baby-steps – one port at a time.

With thoughts in our heads of England, money, and work, we knew it unlikely we’d be back in Cyprus any time soon, so we wanted to explore. It was funny that Noel hired the largest motorbike on the island, but he deserved a reward for getting us thus far safely; we set off for Mount Olympus and Troodos. Avoiding large towns, we kept to the smallest roads and explored quaint little villages that speckled the countryside: beautiful crumbling churches, narrow cobbled alleys, crooked steps, and cheap stone walled cafes. We loved the unmistakable white buildings scattered between dried greens and blue waters and the friendly folk – all beneath sunny skies.

Back at Larnaca, we turned our minds to important tasks; we still had a long way to go. Our last week was spent hauling
Mariah
out of the water and slapping on some more anti-foul paint. We were happy to see that everything below the water was where it should be and that all our hard work last year had paid off.

Suddenly, we were casting off to Turkey. The first day out was calm, the smooth waters easing us into the three dimensional movements. Having been on the hard (out of the water) for a week, our sea legs took a while to re-appear. But the seas were kind and we were happy to be moving again.

Relaxing into the sail, we started to wonder what all the fuss was about sailing the Mediterranean. We had heard it could be quite a chore with either strong head winds or no wind at all. One day we’d learn to listen properly, as the next day the wind picked up. It wasn’t super strong, but fifteen-to-twenty knots on the nose made for quite a bumpy ride. We were a little out of practice, having indulged so heavily in Cyprus; we became tired and scanned the charts for a more favourable course, a direction that was more with the wind, than fighting it. We altered course to the island of Rhodes. Suddenly
Mariah
calmed down and we skimmed along comfortably.

‘Arrh, isn’t sailing great?’ and, ‘So relaxing,’ were odd phrases heard wafting over
Mariah’s
deck. We were motor sailing now, as the winds had become light, which was perfectly okay with us. If a better sail can be had going to a different country, then that is what we’d do.

‘Oh well, perhaps we’ll see Turkey another day!’ Noel said.

In the port of Lindos, Noel viewed his first castle. Unfortunately, Lindos was not a checking in port, so we could only step ashore briefly. In these situations, we had learned that most officials were sympathetic to circumstances, and if we were discreet, they were discreet. You had to choose your countries well when you want to bend the rules. We would not have done this in Egypt.

As picturesque as a postcard, Greece identifies itself with her white, concrete houses scattered across the jade of green hills. Clear water surrounded our timber home, a spotless beach was but a swim away, and nature put on a full show of fabulous weather. We enjoyed a day’s rest, but before we knew it we were sampling our first taste of the Med’s notorious weather. Forty-nine knots of harsh, skin-searing wind pummelled us around our anchor for one-and-a-half days. We were grateful that the harbour police didn’t insist we move, as we still hadn’t checked in; it was too dangerous to make us leave. To myself, I wondered what the Egyptians would have done. We stayed up all night doing anchor watch; we were boat bound during the day. Boat life can be crap sometimes. Anchor watch is hideously dull. If our anchor dragged or let go, we’d have little time to ready the boat before it ran aground or into another yacht. So we had to be ready to move in an instant. The clanging of the rigging and grinding of the anchor chain put a stop to any rest.

Crete was now scratched off the itinerary. Bob and Christine on board
Breakaway
(our Irish friends) were on anchorage in Crete and had tried several times to leave and kept getting beaten back by strong winds.

We decided to island hop a bit further north to try to avoid becoming trapped. Along the way, we caught up with some more friends, Tom and Leslie from
Obsession
. They had become our tour guides way back in Darwin that had talked us into going to Bali. It was their fault we had found ourselves in Greece! True to form, they had all information on the island’s hopping route, which we gladly copied down.

Rhodes city on the northern tip of the island of Rhodes was the next stop, and the journey there was unremarkable, so it can only be assumed that it was reasonably good. Rhodes was, however, spectacular. The old town sits behind the castle’s walls, and the castle stands proudly over the new city. Much of the castle has been rebuilt after earthquake damage, and what a fantastic job they have done. The Street of the Knights is a cobbled street with characteristic arched wooden doors and shutters. Here the knights slept with their horses stabled beneath them. So enchanting is the street, that you can almost hear the horse’s hoofs on the cobbled stones and the raucous laughter of the heroic knights.

It was 9 June, and we were planning to leave within the next few days. We were moored on a wall with all the charter boats. The marina management were harassing us to move. We were reluctant to move as we had to med-moor, which was a tricky bit of manoeuvring.

Med-mooring required you to drop anchor a certain distance off the wall, about two boat lengths. Once the anchor was dropped, it was necessary to steer towards the wall and tie the other end of the boat there. Our anchor was set up on the bow, like most boats. We had zero steerage in reverse, which if we utilised our bow anchor, meant we’d have to try to steer in reverse. We decided to rig up the spare anchor astern and steer forwards into the wall to tie the bow on the wall.
Mariah
had a canoe stern, so her back part was as pointy as the front (making her a great sea boat in large, following seas).

At the right time (which meant Noel shouted, ‘Now!’) I threw the anchor over the handrails, trying to ensure it didn’t hit the hull and that our feet weren’t in the middle of the coil of rope that ran out at an alarming rate. By some miracle, the anchor grabbed. ‘Perfect,’ we smiled at each other, wondering what all the fuss was about. Tearing ourselves from our self-congratulatory club, we noticed our Scottish friends from
Athena
(John and Carol) were frantically waving at us, as our bow glided slowly towards the wharf.

‘No, don’t come in,’ they shouted.

With our minds focused on anchoring and controlling the boat, we didn’t see a mooring line straight across the gap! In the nick of time, Noel shoved our throttle into reverse, and we started to wonder how the hell we’d pull the anchor up. There was no anchor winch this end of the boat. With much grunting and grinding, a strong husband, and a well-behaved boat, the anchor came up without too many further dramas. We found another spot and achieved the impossible by comfortably mooring. These times were stressful and our kind friends John and Carol knew this only too well (as does any cruiser willing to admit it). They helped us tie up, calmed us down, and gave us a beer to steady the nerves, hence our reluctance to move. There would be a lot of practice with Med-moorings as we headed west.

We had to make a decision on timing, as we were running out of time to get to England that year. My two sisters (Denise and Josie) were planning a holiday to meet us somewhere, accompanied by Denise’s boyfriend (Peter), her son (Kieran), and Josie’s daughter (Trinity). We had not met Peter and Trinity, and I deeply missed my family. They booked a flight to arrive into the main airport in Greece on 18 June, but at that point they didn’t know where to head. They patiently waited to hear from us to find out where they would be holidaying.

After umpteen phone calls, much uhhming and arhhing, and weather worrying, we all finally met up in Kalamata, home of those rather yummy olives and a port on the Southern side of Peloponnesus.

We left
Mariah
at a new, professional, and well-run marina in Kalamata and hired a car to meet the crew from England in a place thirty miles west of Kalamata. Here, it was quieter and much prettier. We spent a week catching up, eating, drinking, and getting to know each other once again.

Saying farewell left me feeling sad and relieved: relieved because the holiday went well and sad, as I hate farewells. I clung to the thought that I’d be seeing them all again soon in sunny old England!

Along the Messina Straits (around Italy’s toes), there was a traffic separation zone, so everyone knew where they should be. Traversing this waterway at night, we were blessed with calm seas. We had a couple of scares when boats and ferries were crossing our channel and their navigation lights were camouflaged by the many shore lights on either side of us (in places the channel was only one-and-a-half miles wide). As we were both exhausted from being up all night, we found a small bay at the end of the straits to stop and rest. We found a spot on the end of the concrete pier, but then noticed that there was nothing to tie up to. With a bit of creativity, we managed to tie up to one of our oars, which was shoved into a crack in the concrete for our bow line; for our stern line, we found a two inch piece of rusted metal to tie on to. We collapsed into bed and tried to sleep with dozens of noisy fishermen as our neighbours.

When rested, we had a lovely evening with our neighbours on
Zigizoo
, who were great at providing us with much information on the French canals, as they had been through them two years ago. The canals were our target.

Our next stop was the Aeolian Islands, just round the toes of Italy and north-west, which was touristy, but pretty. We had our first Italian pizza here and it was the worst pizza we had ever eaten!

We visited the Volcano Island, where you can cover yourself in mud. I was all ready to wallow for a while, but when we got there it looked like a huge muddy puddle. No bubbles or mystery, so I didn’t bother. It looked pretty hard to find mud anyhow – it all looked too watery.

From here we went to Sardinia and made it just as the winds picked up, so the last hour was a bit hairy. The marina was basic with just toilets and a small hut with a bar. The town (Olbia) was groovy and fun; beautiful men and women in the height of fashion draped themselves over walls and sat on grass. However, even though they were dressed fashionably, they were all dressed in the same beautiful clothes that bore no individuality.

We met some young lads who worked in a cafe. They knew about two words of English, and we knew the same in Italian, but we all tried to communicate and had good fun in doing so. We were glad we met these guys and had a laugh with them, as the people in the marina were straight-faced, didn’t bother to communicate, and didn’t know how to laugh. Still, we were glad of the shelter when the winds really picked up, and for six days we had to sit tight. Finally, we could leave, and we completed a couple of day-hops up the coast.

Next stop Corsica. We landed at Port Ajaccio, where Napoleon was born. We loved it there, and I think we liked it so much because of the people. They were friendly, happy, and enjoyed our clumsy attempts at communicating. I was enjoying the fact that not many people spoke English; I had been studying French for a few months, and was surprised that I could communicate, though only the basics. Everyone was so friendly, so I didn’t feel shy about having a go. It became great fun and fuelled our desire to spend time in the French canals.