I feasted on pork last night to celebrate my return to the good old US of A. A short (and cheap!) 13 hour flight from Cairo deposited me safely despite some insane maneuvering during the landing approach - ostensibly the same flight plan used to airlift supplies to West Berlin in the 1950's - and I was welcomed back by a news report about a set of couples who were simultaneously wed on a rollercoaster. I think I prefer my televisual news to be in a foreign tongue and script, thank you much.
Anyways, the weather is nice and I was able to go back to sleep after waking at 0430 LMT, so all is good!
I have finally escaped from the clutches of the Gulf of Aden, with all of its piracy and predictable weather, and passed through Bad elMendeb into the Red Sea. It was a 700 nm sail from Aden to Suakin, Sudan, which was broken down into short passages as we hopped from anchorage to anchorage in Eritrea and southern Sudan. Things were going smoothly until we received a bad bit of news concerning one of the boats in the rally.
Cool Change, out of Port Douglas, British Columbia, a Vancouver 27 that was singlehanded by my friend Peter, in the middle of the night hit a poorly charted island while under sail. There was no fringing reef around the island, which is basically just a very large rock rising straight out of the sea, and consequently the damage is what would be expected after running straight into a sheer wall. His bowsprit was torn off, which led to his jib becoming partially unfurled and shredded in the wind. He also punctured his hull in two places, and was taking on water, although luckily not at a rate that he could not keep up with. Some nearby boats offered assistance, and he was able to get to a relatively calm anchorage about 50 nm away, where the boat was beached at high tide. We arrived in Mistral later in the day, and I volunteered to sleep above decks in the careened boat overnight to prevent any plunder from the locals, while Peter (the skipper) got some much needed rest. Early the next morning we assembled a large work crew, and were able to temporarily patch the hull and get the boat floating again before the seas violently picked up. Cool Change is currently in Massawa, Eritrea, attempting to repair his bowsprit and hull so that he may continue up the Red Sea, hopefully joining us in Egypt. Inshahallah.
Meanwhile, we continued up the western coast of the Red Sea in Mistral, taking some interesting passages through the reefs, and arrived yesterday AM in Suakin, Sudan. Apparently the political unrest in the Darfur region is no bad enough to preclude visits by boat, so we cleared in without issue. Suakin was once the main port in Sudan, and was the last place in the world to deal in the human slave trade, which was active here until the 1940s. Most of the buildings at the time were constructed from blocks cut from coral reefs, a practice that was stopped around the time that the slave trade here ended, and as a result all of the old buildings are collapsing and crumbling, unable to be repaired for lack of building materials. I spent the afternoon yesterday walking around the ruins, feeling strange that not long ago people were bought and sold here, most of whom ended up in the Arab gulf countries where slavery was (is) practiced up until very recently. Se the link below for pictures, under the Suakin folder.
Anways, the winds, which have been on the nose for the past 100 nm or so, are expected to lighten and clock around to the south for a few days, and we will leave here shortly and proceed to Pt. Ghalib in Egypt, again doing some coastal hopping from anchorage to anchorage. With any luck I will get to partake in some of the best dive sights in the world on the way.
I have done a photo update, which can be found at http://picasaweb.google.com/alex.nagle if the internet connection here improves in the next few minutes. Also, it seems that the SPOT thing that I have been using keeps a nice track, so check out the link from my last post to see where I have been. I used it from Aden to here but it seems that only in the last 100 miles or so have I had good enough reception.
As some of you may know, I carry a device known as a SPOT Satellite Messenger, which I try to occasionally use. This nifty piece of equipment speaks to some bastard offspring of the Sputnik, and then sends a link to some people via email containing a prespecified message and a link via google maps to exactly where the hell I am. Pretty cool, eh? Now, if you have never received one of these messages, it is not that I don't like you, which I would never admit, but rather that there are a limited number of email addresses that one can enter. But I have found a solution: follow this link http://share.findmespot.com/shared/faces/viewspots.jsp?glId=08ZgK5bfLvaB0DqS9rgHdKt8KXnWqZ4qq by carefully typing it into your address bar. A pain in the ass, I know, but there might be an easier way, I am sure. This will, theoretically, contain all of the messages that I send from this point on, and seems a pretty cool option. Check it out, I will send an initial message when I return to the boat.
Ah, the boat. My new home, a Southerly 135 named Mistral, is a nice piece of equipment, not the least by comparative standards. It is very roomy, seemingly seaworthy, and well laid out. I inhabit the forepeak, which could prove interesting with my slight propensity towards the sea womits, but the seas around here aren't all that bad, so it should be fine. Lodewijk (Lo) is the leader of the Vascoda Gama Rally http://www.vascodagamarally.nl/ and is quite the character, exemplifying everything I like about goofy Dutch people. The dog, Hugo, a Welsh Terrier, is also quite nice and goofy, and is overall a pleasure to have aboard. And though two people on a boat may seem a bit boring to most, being the head of a rally with over 30 participating boats gives plenty of opportunities for people to stop by with questions and such.
Normally I use Microsoft Word to pre-type my blogs in order to do basic spelling checks, but the computer I am on had Word hooked up for Asian language script and I am unable to do this service. I'm sure you can all cope.
Anyways, I am back in Oman to re-begin sailing the Gulf of Aden. We didn't see any pirates the first time around, so maybe we'll get lucky this time, inshahallah. (Inshahallah means "by the grace of god" or something, but is typically translated simply as "hopefully") This time, however, I am taking a small travel break and staying in the only one star hotel in Oman, which was nice enough to supply a bucket so that I could do laundry. Oman is such a clean place anyways (compared to Yemen at least, the dumpster of the Arabian peninsula...) that even the dirtiest of hotels are kept to a dull sheen by the hoardes of Indian workers here.
Which brings me to my main travel tip, for those of you wacky enough to go to an alcohol free desert country: learn the language, or at least key phrases so that it at least seems like you are trying. Arabic is quite difficult, so while this may seem prohibitive, one need not worry, for Arabic is in truth a tertiary language here. English comes in second, due to the vast number of white people that I have seen in the last day, but Malayalam, the language of Kerala in India, is by far the most widely spoken language, which makes sense when one observes that every single shop and hotel is manned entirely by Keralites. (Ok, just go to en.wikipedia.org and look this stuff up, it will be a good lesson in both geography and population density.) So while I have got a couple key Arabic phrases down, I am not abandoning this pursuit and trying to learn some basic Malayalam, which so far has proved worthwhile. At least I think so, as the guy at the coffee shop didn't spit in my avacado milkshake. (I had to try it, and you should as well.)
I leave for Salalah in a few days. On a more somber note, the crew of Minstral has been reduced by one...Lloyd the dog died today after an illness, before I ever got to meet him. Have a beer for him.
The Eldemer suffered a variety of breakdowns and failures on the trip from Salalah to Aden, and combined with the inability of the 6 hp engine to move the boat to windward, I have made the decision to leave the boat. Not that this is a problem, as the boat will not be leaving Aden for quite some time, at least until the SW monsoon starts, and favorable west winds kick in for the return trip to India. The fate of the boat once there is uncertain.
I will help Rad with any work involved in securing the boat for long term storage, then leave. I have been offered a berth on board the Mistral, a monohull owned by one Lo Brust, the organizer of the Vascode Gama Rally, which will be coming through the area in the next couple weeks. Depending on the timetable for Eldemer work, I will either meet the boat here or return to Salalah to join up with the boat and face the pirates again. Either way, I will be able to continue north through the Red Sea, and end up in Turkey in early May. What happens from there is up in the air.
"And remember, when you come to a fork in the road, take it." - Warren Miller
Oh yeah there will be four total on the boat: Myself, Lo, Lloyd and Yugo, the former two being human and the latter two being canine. Huzzah!
The best way to familiarize one’s self with a foreign environment is without question enveloped in the concept called “Total Immersion.” There are some exceptions – swimming comes to mind – but all in all just jumping in yield the best results. This is seen in learning a new language, developing a new skill, or familiarizing yourself with a new culture. The learning curve may be steep, but the rewards are more fruitful. With this in mind, I decided to investigate a phenomenon found almost exclusively in Yemen, namely partaking in the use of the recreational drug called Qat. (Scrabble players rejoice!) Qat is a leafy plant similar to some exotic strains of lettuce in appearance, with long, narrow purplish stems and a green leaf with a 2:1 length to width ratio. It is also chewed by 99% of Yemeni men, which considering it’s US classification as an illegal drug and it’s supposed hallucinogenic properties, the wide spread use of it can be disconcerting when your minibus driver has a cheek full and is driving rapidly around a traffic circle, horn blaring, with the sliding side door locked in the fully open position. Seeing armed guards yielding Kalishnakovs carefully selecting and peeling off the best leaves can also make one extra careful not to arouse unnecessary suspicion. But when in Yemen, do as the Yemenis do: chew qat.
I did not try this new leafy drug alone, I had the company of one Joe, a 7 year Iraq War vet (Purple Heart), who is a serious backpacker and traveler, and the first white guy my age that I have met since the good old U.S of A. We minibussed it over to Krater (a suburb of Aden named because it sits in a volcanic crater, obviously) and began our hunt for this mysterious drug. It was actually easier than would be thought, given the complete legality of it in this country, and a helpful guy from the souq walked us to the town square that functions as the main supply artery in this part of town. One whole end of the square was lined with tables, each manned by two or three gentlemen and covered in small bundles carefully wrapped up in towels. We approached a table in the middle, chosen only because this is the table to which we were led, and began our enquiries. A small mental image will help set the scene here: two white guys buying Yemeni street drugs in broad daylight; two white guys who don’t speak a lick of Arabic (except for some numbers on Joe’s part); the only two white guys within a 500 mile radius – a bit of a stretch, but just picture it. All eyes are on us as we fumble around with words and gestures and get quoted a price for what looks to be an average bundle: 2000 riyals = $10.00. No way, we turn away. “Sadik (friend) sadik wait, 1500 riyals!” No. Next stall. New bundles unwrapped, all eyes still upon us. “1800 riyals.” Next table. “1000 riyals.” Next table. “1200 riyals.” This was getting annoying, but finally we spied a likely loyal customer paying 400 for a bundle. Jackpot. We stood by, making it clear that we were closely following the transaction, asked a bundle from beneath the same towel, and gave the guy 400 riyals. Bargaining done and product received, we were given a standing ovation complete with hoots and whistles from the entire vending community. We snuck away, satisfied with our bargaining (Joe deserves most, if not all of, the credit for this) to now try and figure out what the hell one does with a bundle of qat.
Keen observational techniques told us that one does not eat the stems, and from the bulges in one cheek of everyone around, we knew that we needed to act chipmunk like, and having scurried into a street-side coffee shop, we began plucking leaves and placing them into our mouths. Chewing made sense, as it would release the internal juices, but chewing resulted in hundred of tiny leaf chunks getting caught in and on your teeth, sliding backwards towards your throat in a gag-inducing manner, and making the whole wad generally hard to contain. We noticed that people were folding the leaves a few times, biting down, and moving the leaf into the appropriate position. We followed suit but kept the chewed wad inside our mouths, and soon developed a characteristic cheek tumor-looking thing. We were unsure of whether anything was happening or not, but trying to have a conversation while chewing the cud (bovinically speaking) gives the impression that something in the speech department is lacking. We sat at our coffee table, pondering the effects and drawing the attention of every single man, woman and child that happened to be walking by. (Most of the men, who are the majority of qat chewers, smiled while pointing to their cheeks and asked “Is good?”) Qat eaters are not hard to find: if you cannot get a good look at their face, or have only a view of their profile, the pink bag sticking obtrusively from a pocket is a telltale sign. We didn’t know what we were doing, but we were getting local respect for trying to “fit in.”
Turns out that only a small percentage of the leaves are good to eat. The upper or young leaves, are the fresh offshoots containing the good stuff, while the lower leaves are not only not potent, but are typically covered in pesticide. Now would be a good time for a digression, as the use of pesticide on recreational drugs is a simply astounding phenomenon. Some Yemeni men, the addicted subsection of the populace, spend up to 30% of their income on qat and can spend roughly four hours a day doing nothing but chewing the cud. There may or may not be criminal organizations that relegate the growing and distribution of qat, and it has been estimated that 75% of fertile land is used to grow qat – instead of food, or at least the wildly popular and profitable Yemeni coffee, renowned as some of the worlds best. Anyways, it remains that the qat crop is so important that pesticides need to be used to keep harvests bountiful, thus making some of the plant parts toxic. (This is not the part that is considered the drug.) We were soon told of this fact, and a kind Yemeni, young, carefully picked through our bag and got rid of everything that wasn’t good to eat. By this time were part of a group of young Yemenis who were accompanying an older couple from Eritrea/Italy, and they happily told us all about the drug, it’s uses, side effects (intentional and not), the social ramifications, etc. It was a good group of people to have around when trying new mind altering substances, especially as being part of a group helped prevent kids from coming up to us and pointing and laughing. Eventually we learned not to swallow they leaves, to spit the some of the juice, how to fold the leaves properly and so on. We sat around in total for three or four hours, tried some delicious Yemeni drinks, and had absolutely no idea what this stuff was supposed to do or why we even persisted in trying to get anything out of it. In the end, we decided that the stuff was useless, had no effect, and left – but not before making plans with our new friends for tomorrow. (They spoke great English.)
Moral of the story? Don’t do drugs if you don’t know how to do them properly. But I gotta go, I’m jonesin’.
We had a smooth and problem free sail from Al Mukalla to Aden, with stern winds from 10-20 knots and low seas. The only hitch was that we were going a little to fast, and so resorted to the time tested ‘drift with no sails up method’ for the last night, to avoid a nighttime entry. Granted, we had a series of problems leaving Mukalla, but replacing fuel pumps and jury rigging anchor windlasses is really no sweat. No, the real issue was getting into Aden itself.
Aden is located inside an approximately 4 by 6 nm bay, with an entrance gated with jagged, towering peaks. However, the size of the bay allows the wind to build up inside, and consequently we had one of the most hair raising port entrances that I have experienced, an entrance that a normal boat could have done easily. See, Eldemer has a nice flat front to the cockpit area, about 8 feet high and 16 feet across, which, aerodynamically speaking, is a sail. To add to the complications, the twin electrical engines provide an output of less that 6 hp, so motoring is held to a maximum of about 3 knots in flat water, with no current or wind. What happens when one adds current and wind? Trouble. The head winds ranged from 10-20 knots, and the current was at most 1 knot, but we played a near-disaster like game of pinball, in which we were the ball and everything else was an obstacle. We almost drifted sideways into: a) A fishing boat being questioned by the Yemeni Coast Guard; b) More than one channel marker; c) A large buoy meant for oil tankers; and d) Another boat at anchor. It took us more than an hour to make the final approach, and many times our speed over ground read 0.00, that is before one of our exciting sideways jaunts. See the below link to a photo album with a picture of our course.
It is hoped that the repairs necessary for the damage done when the daggerboards broke can be done here, so I may be here a while. Fortunately, the area looks interesting, and I am hoping to make some on the cheap trips to San’aa, the capital, and Taliz, some other place.
On a more positive note, we had no interactions with pirates in the Gulf of Aden, and by making it here, we have essentially passed the trouble areas. The Navy guy, Abhi, forgot to check in with some department whilst in Mukalla, and so we were the effort of a search led by the Indian Navy, with the assistance of two recon planes, which did flybys and loops overhead, and were contacted and kept in touch with both Indian and French warships. The shipping was quite busy, which led to some interesting arrangements while performing our drifting exercise, but our use of AIS (Automatic Identification System) showed us everything we needed to know about the traffic, and no close calls were made at sea.
PS I wrote this earlier, but am now enjoying watching the guy running the internet cafe literally kicking kids out onto the street...all in good fun though!
Right country, wrong port. We left Salalah intending to go all the way to Aden, a leg of about 600 nautical miles. (For those knot in the know, a nautical miles is approximately 6076 feet, or 1/21600 of the circumference of the earth, measured through the poles in an arbitrary great circle.) So why did we only make it half way, and end up in the beautiful port of Al Mukalla? This is a question worth exploring, but after some preliminary comments on Al Mukalla: This is a traditional first port of call for boat transiting the Gulf of Aden heading westwards, and besides being equipped with very friendly and English speaking customs/immigration agents, is spectacularly beautiful. The town itself occupies a small strip of land, perhaps 300 yards, sandwiched between sheer cliff walls rising at least 1,000 feet – and lined on the ridge with ancient looking military outposts – and the sea, with a convenient wall to protect from waves. Not a tree or sign of shrubbery in sight from the boat, but it seems a true desert/seaside outpost, complete with an old town that conjures up images if traditional Arabic culture, which makes sense since the Arabs claim (wittingly or no) Yemen as their original stomping grounds. I intend to do some exploring while here… but how did we end up here? Oh yeah…
We left Salalah with minor difficulties until we were about 200 yards from where we were docked, when we discovered a small exhaust leak into the main cabin from the engine – we were much relieved to discover that it was not an electrical fire – which was solved by opening the cover for the engine and letting it vent. No worries, until the Lemco generator started showing a decreasing voltage and had to be replaced. (Note that the engine was fine, but extending from the engine is a drive shaft which rotates a series of magnets across a set of brushes creating electricity. This unit is called a commutator, which can be used as either an motor (when supplied with electricity causing it to rotate) or a generator (when supplied with rotational force, creating electricity, as in our case.) The replacement was pretty straight forward, and since we had put in the inferior spare and saved the better one for a backup, all worked well. Oh before this we ran over a crabbing line, which got caught in the prop and necessitated me going for a swim with a knife, luckily it was daytime and the sea was so cool and refreshing… but that can happen to anyone (who doesn’t look out for such things…not me.) While replacing the generator, the wind picked up, and after setting sails we were making 8-10 knots with the wind on the beam, which I thought was a spectacular start to a first leg. We took some waves over the bows, as can happen in 20 knots of wind and 8 foot steep seas, which due to a poor forward cabin hatch design, got my bedding wet, so I moved one bunk aft, only to hear a fantastic cracking sound as I was lying down and combating a small bout of seasickness.
By the way, seasickness is a bummer, but a good shot of adrenaline can make it go away in a flash. Point in case, the cracking turned out to be our port daggerboard breaking in half at the water line and taking part of its support with it, which can excite even the most stoic sailors. No compromising hull damage was done, but we soon afterwards developed a strange rotation point for balancing the boat…which was remedied the next day when the starboard daggerboard broke in the exact same fashion, although this time we were under calmer wind and sea conditions. No big deal, we just can’t go to windward, which is lucky because the trades in this region at this time of year are aft of us, until they aren’t, which not only already happened for the first 100nm outside of Salalah, but will happen again soon enough, in a serious way. So we decided to make for Al Mukalla, hoping that here we could fashion some sort of repairs that would enable us to use our older and shorter daggerboards, which we held onto. No luck though, the only thing that we can hope to get here is an interesting scenic view and the loss of a crew member, Paul, who has come to the justifiable conclusion that the boat is no good. Perhaps it was the daggerboards, perhaps the sail plans and sailing characteristics, the steering failures, autohelm problems, electronic issues, but I think it is because he got a small stomach issue…
Regardless nothing can be done here, so I will stay on and help Rad limp along to Aden, another 300 nm to the west, and upon arrival there we will see what is in store for the boat.
On a positive note, no pirates! Yet. Or winds greater than 25 knots...
Oh did I mention that the port holes in the forward port cabin (Abhi’s, the Indian Navy guy’s) were stove in and the cabin flooded? Because that happened, and I am now well versed in applying emergency porthole plugs, a minor piece of equipment that while often overlooked, can for damn sure come in handy.
We have finally received our last crew member, Lt. Cmdr Tomy from the Indian Navy, and are departing on the morning of the 13th for a 600 nm leg through the Gulf of Aden, trying to dodge pirates, ending up in Aden, Yemen. Seeing as our original departure date was about one month ago, and I have been here for almost six weeks, I am looking forward to getting out onto the seas again, pirates or no.
Tomy seems to be a good guy, and will likely prove to be a worthy addition to the crew. He recently spent some months in Cochin, India, working as a shoreside manager for one of the Volvo Ocean Race boats. He has the shoes to prove it to, red Pumas with the race logo imprinted on the inner sole. As for his skills as a sailor, I am both hopeful and skeptical: He worked alongside some pretty impressive projects and has some dinghy experience, but he was worried about not having sailing gloves. We’ll see.
Short update, feeling uninspired and stagnant. Look for something interesting around the 20th, perhaps.
No broken bones! In a foolish test of the accuracy of Newton's gravitational constant, I discovered that a participatory observer is my no means qualified to make accurate observations. My face, knee and left pointer finger provided poor clues, and all that I can ascertain is:
1) Newton was a pretty clever guy, he used apples instead of himself; and
2) A nine foot fall headfirst onto the asphalt hurts.
A physician friend of mine here, who is connected with the Indian Embassy, was able to arrange for an x-ray (at the cost of 2 rials or $5.00) and then took me to see the premature baby (8 weeks) that he operated on for 6 hours yesterday, reconnecting and/or removing the disjointed parts (11) of it's small intestine. This same doctor may also be able to help us buy booze for our voyage, since as an established ex-pat he can apply for a drinking license! Three times three huzzah!
We launch after several delays tomorrow, which in coincidence with the new year will be a cause for jubilation. Happy New Year, a holiday we can all believe in. (Granted that we share the usage of the Gregorian calendar...)
Some may dream of a white Christmas for purely aesthetic reasons: a light dusting of snow conjures up dreams of being inside, huddled around a fire and sipping hot coffee or something more potent. For me, being around any unnecessary sources of heat would prove unbearable; indeed I pine for only a brief respite from the tropical sun that would be adequately provided by some good old sub-zero temperatures. The only chance that I have had for this sort of pleasure today was running the air conditioning in the car during trips to the “ablution block” to fill up 30 liter jugs of water. They were used to fill a small water tank so that we could test our newly reassembled outboard engine, which after an air intake and flow chamber fix, fired up beautifully and needed only a small engine idle speed adjustment. Talk about gifts that keep on giving! This 30 hp engine will be needed when we transit the Suez Canal, which has a minimum speed requirement of 6 knots, which our twin electric engines are not equipped to deliver.
Besides that unique satisfaction that comes from slowly but surely crossing off to-do items on a preparation for sea checklist, we received a humble gift from the INS (Indian Naval Ship) Mysore consisting of extra flares, that need to be fired out of a flare gun of a size which I can scarcely comprehend. It would be the equivalent of say, a 00 gauge shotgun that could handle the diameter of these flares. Or a cannon, perhaps. We do however have the past director of an Indian research institute aboard, so we could likely find an only somewhat hazardous way to discharge these flares, which may be able to alert some of the planets around Betelgeuse that we are requiring assistance.
There have also been other things on my mind besides the boat and whether we will be ready to leave before Rad’s visa expires on Dec. 31, thoughts more in tune (perhaps…) with the holiday spirit. No, I am not speaking of the, as my father once put it, “miracle” of the virgin birth (to quote: “There is no such thing as immaculate conception” said over an x-mas eve fire in order to remind us children to accept responsibility for our actions) but rather of the much more believable commercial aspect! Who can possibly forget gift giving, especially when so much energy is spent trying to find the perfect gift for that second cousin of yours, who you see perhaps thrice a year? In my perhaps heat stroke induced musings, I have come up with the only acceptable gift that can ever be given, besides books. New underwear. I came to this realization when a prominent Indian physician, whom I recently of had the pleasure to meet, noted that the Omani’s do not wear underwear beneath their dishdash, which is I believe the name for the one piece dress worn by the followers of the Islamic tradition. The disturbing part about this dress code violation is that 90% of the dishdashes are colored white…so if we are to truly believe that our western notions of (blank) are superior, we should all join together in celebration of new, clean, and present undergarments, and make sure that everybody that we care for will never have to worry about a lack thereof.
(For those of you who may protest that I am not being faithful to the spirit of christmas, I am presently enveloped in a cloud of frankincense, which was incidentally one of the trio of gifts that resulted in us all getting new underwear at this time of year.)
Rantings and ravings aside, I would like to extend a warm greeting to all of my friends and family. In talking to my family this afternoon, I learned that I missed a collective showing last night of my favorite family of four brothers (and now two sisters), so to (briefly) Bob, Dave, Bry and Drew (Diane as well) I wish a Merry Christmas. Same goes for everyone else.
The boat is slowly starting to come together properly: The generator that runs the twin electric engines is almost in good shape, needing only slight wiring modifications and a commutator swap; the standing rigging has all been inspected and the turn buckles refurbished; and the outboard engine, which we will need in order to maintain the proper speed through the Suez Canal, is being awoken from its days of storage. The food has also been excellent. Sasi is an excellent cook, preparing traditional Indian fare with whatever we can get. Today for lunch we had curried fish and mackerel, which was caught fresh in front of our boat. At first this change of palate was unsettling, but I am growing accustomed to this food. I don’t foresee enjoying pickled mangos anytime in the near future, but the rest of the stuff is pretty good.
We have had some problems with crew for the ship, which we have all but resolved. Two Indians were supposed to join us for the Red Sea transit, but both have backed out. One reneged because he had to take care of his ailing father, and the other was scared of pirates and did not think that it would be responsible. Wimp. The EU and US have both put ships in the area, and an Indian warship will be in the area as well. Besides, holding the lowly crew of Eldemer hostage could only potentially net a guffaw and some wampum. On the plus side, we have received word that the Indian Navy will be sending a Lieutenant Commander to do some sea training on board for a number of months, and we have also convinced another to join us. Now dear readers, please take to your seats, because with some of you the much despised by me phrase “Oh, it’s such a smaaaall world!!” may pop into your head. Please, spare me the shit.
The mystery member of the crew goes by the moniker “Paul” and is a Canadian sailor who has been circumnavigating with his wife for some time. They currently reside in Colburn on Great Lake Erie, and Paul teaches basic keelboat courses in the summertime, as I myself have been known to do. He also sits on the board of the Toronto Sailtraining Association (or something like that), which operates two Tall Ships on Lakes Ontario and Erie, one of which is called the Pathfinder. STV Pathfinder stopped in Erie this summer, and I had the pleasure of helping the Captain forge a number of belaying pins by skillfully combining shovel handles with dowel rods. Such seaworthy, skillful workmanship has not been seen since, I would assume, the invention of the wood lathe some several thousand years ago. Anyways, my improvisational skills aside, Paul will be a great temporary addition to the crew, as all Lake Erie sailors are predestined to be. He will depart us somewhere in the Med, which he had planned on transiting in his boat before his engine tragically decided to disassemble itself from the inside out, resulting in the need for a large scale rebuild. In the mean time, his wife decided that she has had enough of the cruising life, so Paul is leaving his boat here, to return later and sail his boat to Thailand. (The soon to be NE monsoon would be highly prohibitive of such a voyage at this time.)
On a more somber note, I have recently been exposed as a diesel fuel smuggler and threatened with imprisonment, heft fines, and having to listen to Arabic music all day. Not that the music is tragically horrible, some of it is quite nice. For about five minutes, ten max. Then the foreign keys start to get to you, and the unceasing singing makes the situation no better. Returning to the story, I was helping a South African fellow fill up some jerry cans for his boat, because the man at the port (There are no women here. At all. Period.) quoted us at something around three times the price that you can get at the gas stations. Having read that it is acceptable to transport small (400 liters) of fuel in this manner, I proceeded to take ten of his cans and return through the main gate with 200 L of diesel. As we were loading the fuel into the dinghy and John, the South African, was motoring off, a tall man in the traditional white robes and cap (think Laurence of Arabia) started taking pictures of both of us and proclaiming that “This is Shit! I am going to the police and they will come and arrest you and you will be in trouble, he (John) will be in trouble, the boat you are on (Rad’s) will be in trouble, and whoever rented you the car (Mohammed the Prophet...I mean port agent, who has helped us tremendously with all of our problems) will be in trouble!!” He was pissed, and no amount of explanation and pleading of my ignorance would console him. Turns out, that this is the guy that was supposed to supply the fuel for his wonderfully low prices, and by bypassing him we had stripped him of his commission and such. Figures, he was just some greedy asshole trying to make a quick buck by conning the white guys. We eventually talked him down by promising that he could supply the remaining 200 L of needed fuel, and he left after explaining the hurt that he as an Omani citizen could not bring diesel through the main gate, but we just did, and by explaining the reasoning behind this law. Apparently, some boats were found to be supplying a group of Somali pirates with fuel…
Anywho, we asked around the next morning, contacted the Port Captain, Customs & Immigration, the Police and the gate guards, all of whom assured us that we could bring the fuel in. So we did. Oh, and I almost hit a camel driving to the gas station the previous night. The buggers blend in well with a desert backdrop, and their ergonomical shape hides their profile at night. But, come to think of it, most things are difficult if not impossible to see at night until they suddenly appear in your headlights.
Till next time. Pictures will be forthcoming, as soon as I start taking them.
Any spelling and punctuation errors are not the responsibility of the author, whose spelling and punctuation is always correct. The responsibility for comprehension falls entirely on the reader, who should know how to spell as the author does.
My arrival here has occurred without due ceremony, and I have quickly fallen into the familiar routine of preparing a boat for an ocean voyage. With only the slight mishap of lost baggage, which was recovered the day after my arrival, and a small (17 hour) layover in Muscat, Oman, my flight was unremarkable. I have, however, discovered the cure to jet lag: becoming completely engrossed in learning the ropes of a boat armed with technology that only a team of Indian PhD’s can fully grasp. No matter though, once my electrical engineering skills are up to par I believe that I will find the boat only slightly mind boggling and incomprehensible. But more on the boat later, after I have been at sea for a sufficient amount of time.
I have been able to find a reliable internet connection at the local watering hole, ironically named the “Oasis Club.” I use the term local loosely, as it is the only place to get a drink in the entire city of Salalah. As a Muslim community, alcohol is forbidden, so the term “dry climate” does not only apply to the desert environment. There are, however, other things to keep the mind sharp in Salalah, such as avoiding camels while driving from the main town to the port area. This is actually quite the serious concern, as the camels are private property that have been granted grazing rights on either side of the freeway. Perhaps vehicular camelslaughter is viewed as the equivalent of theft, which is traditionally punished by the removal of one hand by a sharp piece of metal otherwise known as a sword. Regardless, I have no wish to discover these perhaps insignificant ambiguities of Omani jurisprudence.
The boat, a 50 foot catamaran named Eldemer, is currently on the hard in the port area of Salalah. It is the first time that I have ever had the opportunity to wander around the grounds of a cargo port. There is a persistent hum in the air emanating from the myriad of cranes and other equipment used to unload large cargo ships on a 24/7 basis, and the exposure to the lives of the personnel that operate these ships has been eye opening. A dhow directly in front of us is the temporary home to what can only be called modern day slaves, workers from India who are contracted for a two year period, stripped of their passports to keep them in the port area (one must show their passport to venture outside), and paid about 80 rials or $200 per month. Oh, they also receive a bag of rice and a tank of cooking gas. They have, however, taught me some of the intricacies of squid fishing, which is about the only thing that they are able to do when they are not involved in the transit of a small ship to some of the various outlying islands to provide supplies for the rare visits of Omani or Saudi royalty. Their situation is quite disheartening, but fortunately Rad’s assistant Sasi is from the same region of India, and is able to keep them company and contract them to do such things as painting the hull for some extra money, which Rad is happy to provide. (Rad owns the boat.) Also, I have recently eaten more squid in the last four days than in my entire life, and with a bit of salt and pepper, it tastes quite similar to hard boiled egg whites, albeit more chewy. As in rubber chewy. But digestible!