|
The island of Zanzibar off the coast of Tanzania long held
visions of exotic, tranquil serenity ever since I had learned
about the Spice Island in my history books. As if the prospect
of going there wasn't enough to feed my fantasy, an exciting
opportunity presented itself to travel there by a traditional
motorized, cargo dhow boat.
My traveling companions were an Australian compatriot, Sue,
and an Englishman, Edward. On the morning of our departure
we arrived at the dock, and after much gesticulating we successfully
found the right boat. To our dismay it turned out to be an
old, rickety wooden dinghy. After a hearty curry of dubious
origin for breakfast, nature called, and my first mission
on board was to ask where the toilet was. My shameful naivety
gave me away as several Africans laughed loudly in obvious
mockery. Desperately wanting to take on the persona of a hard
core, well-seasoned backpacker, I pretended not to care. Okay,
so I'm not the world's most hardened traveler, rather pathetic
actually, and I trembled at the prospect of hanging my butt
over the side of the boat in full view of twenty African men.
So in a mood of frightful anxiety, I practiced tightening
my sphincter muscles and decided to relieve myself in the
moonlight when every one was asleep. Noticing the absence
of life jackets, I resisted ridiculing myself further by not
asking their whereabouts.
We patiently perched ourselves on our packs and waited for
our scheduled departure time of twelve noon….African
time as we discovered much later. After a while we politely
inquired as to what the delay was. It was explained that the
cargo had not yet arrived. Just when I was contemplating the
prospect of spending the next two nights sleeping on a hard,
filthy deck, the goods turned up. I happily welcomed the freight
that was in the form of useful foam mattresses! Over the next
few hours, our prospective bedding was being passed overhead
and underfoot, by Kenyans who were totally oblivious to our
presence, while we were beginning to wonder just how many
more mattresses could possibly fit on the tiny dhow.
Inevitably, yet another delay presented itself in the guise
of engine trouble. Whilst the "mechanics" set about
repairing the problem, we spent the ensuing hours occupied
under the searing sun, swimming in our sweat on the plastic
covered mattresses. After another set of hold ups, the usually
very polite Edward vented his frustration by releasing a tirade
of tense obscenities and threats. This did nothing to hasten
our departure time, but at dusk we finally set sail. With
the day's pantomime of hindrances behind us, it really couldn't
have been a more perfect time to leave. I lay back and watched
yet another typically perfect African sunset over serene,
balmy, waters as we cruised out of the bay into the Indian
Ocean. After several hours had passed, the combination of
the hypnotic drone of the engine, and the warm tropical, balmy,
breeze gently lapping at my face, had mesmerized me as I drifted
into a heavy slumber.
I awoke with a start as a large, heavy drop of rain that
plunged down and hit me right in between my eyes. Quickly
orientating myself I realised that darkness had fallen, and
that the weather had uncharacteristically taken a turn for
the worse. Unfortunately, the ancient leaky tarpaulin cover
was not providing much protection from the torrential downpour,
which had suddenly developed. With the swell now a couple
of metres, I had decided to move to the centre of the vessel
for safety. Amongst the panic and wretched seasickness that
had escalated, I managed to wedge one of the mattresses horizontally
between the piles of vertical ones. At least in this way a
barrier would be formed against the turbulent conditions.
Adding to our paralysing fear, we could no longer hear the
steady noise of the engine. The coastal lights were slowly
diminishing in the horizon. We were powerless in the unrelenting
force of nature. Soaked to the bone, we desperately clung
to each other as the waves tossed the dhow about and threatened
to engulf us. Anticipating a capsize with the next wave that
was rapidly approaching, a sharp loud bang resounded with
terror. To my relief, a forty four gallon drum had hit the
deck and rolled to and fro as the wave passed under us. A
slight reprieve in the situation allowed me to steal a glance
in the direction I expected the coastal lights to be. To my
horror the distant shore lights had been swamped behind a
wall of water coming directly at us. Just when I was certain
that the wave was going to take my life, the dinghy had fortuitously
negotiated its way over the colossal swell.
In our obvious relief, both Sue and I burst into spontaneous,
compulsive sobs. Edward, in his 'stiff upper lip' English
accent, constantly reiterated that going on this trip was
a mistake. Finally, we heard the glorious familiar sounds
of the engine choking. I was infinitely relieved to discover
that the crew put us on due course back to Mombasa. We spent
the return journey crying, huddled and clutching each other
in the aftermath of the peril. We had truly been to hell and
back.
|
Travel Writers: Doubtful Dhow by Adrianne
Yzerman
Globe Trekker: 
