By Any Means: His Brand New Adventure From Wicklow to Wollongong (16 page)

The reality was that despite all the hardships, the Iranian people had been very kind and generous to us. I’ve been to a few places now around the world and I’ve come to realise that the less people have, the happier they are to share.

At last we managed to secure a trip on a dhow, even if it was just to get back from the island to the mainland. There were a bunch of the old boats tied up at the docks, some for passengers and others for cargo; exactly the kind of thing we’d wanted to sail to Dubai. The passenger area was fenced with wooden planks to make sure no one fell overboard. Under the low roof, rough tables were fixed to the floor and all sorts of people were sitting at them: women in scarves - some with red masks completely covering their faces - men in long shirts and loose-fitting trousers, and lots and lots of kids.

I wandered up to the wheelhouse and in sign language asked the captain if I could have a go at driving.

This was a proper boat, the kind the Persians had used for centuries - although this one admittedly was powered by diesel and not a sail. The wheelhouse was narrow with a long padded bench and a massive old wooden ship’s wheel instead of the games console joystick I was becoming used to seeing on this trip. I perched next to the captain, who was barefoot and steering with his toes. We couldn’t say much, he had no English and I had no Persian and he was concentrating on the boat. The dash had a radar screen as well as a radio, but that was it apart from an old ship’s compass floating in a wooden box. I reckoned there were 120 souls on board and I took my responsibility seriously, negotiating the buoys and a massive oil platform, not to mention tankers and warships. OK, that’s not quite true, I steered a bit of a course, the current trying to push us starboard, but all the time the captain’s toes were right there in the wheel spokes.

Back on deck I was leaning on the rail when a speedboat flew by, hopping across the waves with an intermittent scream as the propeller lifted clear of the water. Two young guys were holding on to their smuggled goods while another guy was steering. I waved to him and with a mischievous-looking grin he waved back. The speedboat was maybe twelve or thirteen foot long - we’d seen a few of them in the harbour at Qeshm. They’d more than likely have to deal with the navy when they got closer to Bandar-e Abbas; we’d seen a whole bunch of military speedboats back there. Mahmood told us it was an occupational hazard and if the smugglers were approached they’d just dump the contraband overboard and plead innocence.

Back at the hotel I left Mungo to his electric shaver. Later he told me it took him three attempts to get rid of the badger, the batteries packing up twice before he could get the mains to work. He went from mountain man to moustachioed seventies porn star before finally arriving at the stubble he likes to think is cool.

At twelve-thirty a.m. battle resumed in my room. Two mosquitoes this time: one cocky little sod and his friend. The cocky one had been doing fly-bys right under my nose and I was buggered if he’d get away with that. Finally I caught him trying to hide out at the top of the curtains and without any compunction whatsoever I squashed the little bastard.

11

Die Really Hard on a Boat

On 8 May we left Iran and caught the ferry to Dubai. I’d visited once before when I was training for the Dakar Rally. I’d planned on spending two weeks sand training on a Honda but I’d crashed only a couple of days in and broken my collar bone.

This time, Dubai was great, a few days in paradise; fabulous room, great pool, you know the kind of thing when you’re knackered. The most daring thing I did was head for the shopping mall. I was supposed to buy DVDs for the crossing to India plus some shorts and maybe a couple of T-shirts. I came away with a dress to send home to my wife and a Leatherman. Oh, and a rubber ball.

By Sunday afternoon I was itching to get moving. Another country was beckoning, somewhere I’d never been before, and to arrive on a container ship would be fantastic. We’d received a news text telling us that India had fired a nuclear test missile while we were crossing the strait to Dubai but I tried not to let it bother me: just another bit of political agitation in a politically agitated area.

Russ had to fly back to London to take care of some business, which just left Mungo and me. The ship didn’t leave until early Monday morning, but customs worked differently here - the paperwork had to be sorted well in advance and they wanted us on board today - so we arrived at the Jebel Ali Harbour in plenty of time.

This was a whole new experience for me. We had seen a lot of container ships on the strait - massive floating hunks of metal weighed down by hundreds of containers - but I’d never been on one and I didn’t know the drill. I spent most of the afternoon repacking my case, getting rid of heavier clothing, which I wouldn’t need now. Everywhere from here on would be pretty warm, I reckoned. I’d take my waterproofs, but if it got cold in Nepal I’d try to buy something locally.

We were travelling with Maersk on the
Nedlloyd Tasman
, a ship registered in London. It was enormous; black-hulled, it sat high in the water with the deck miles above us. We stood there for a few moments just taking the whole thing in; not just the enormity of the ship itself but the activity, the hubbub all around us. Truck after truck was pulling up, each loaded with containers. Then cranes known as split grabbers would swoop down and pick one up then swing it across the deck and set it down. It was like watching a movie: so state-of-the-art and technical that it appeared almost computer-generated. This was probably the wackiest bit of transport we’d travelled on so far.

I climbed the rope-sided gangplank, lugging my suitcase which still seemed to weigh a ton. On deck we were met by Dave the boatswain, or third mate, who took us to the ship’s office to be registered. Already I was tingling from the noise of the docks and the bustle. Dave introduced us to Kevin the captain, a really nice guy and so laid-back he was about to fall over. He told us we could have the run of his ship and film anywhere we wanted just as long as we followed the rules and wore the requisite clothing: pale blue boiler-suits, hard hats and safety boots.

Dave explained that he was in charge of maintenance. Each day the chief mate Jim would tell him what needed doing and he’d organise the crew to do it: anything from painting, splitting wires, fixing lifts . . . you name it.

They only carried a crew of twenty-three. Dave told us that ‘back in the day’ his first ship had been a thirty-year-old rust-bucket. He had spent the entire fourteen-week passage painting it. Those were the days when alcohol was allowed, the crew was a complement of forty-six and every night was party night in the bar. This ship was dry: company policy. It seemed to be a bit of a deal for the crew. The captain explained that when he had been responsible for dishing out a few cans, the officers and crew used to unwind together. Now it seemed life on board was more fragmented.

Our cabins were on the fourth deckhouse deck, where the officers and apprentices slept. Carrying my heavy case four flights up left me panting for breath, but the cabin itself was a welcome sight - air-conditioned and spacious with a TV and DVD player strapped down for rough weather. David apologised for the view from my window - basically a wall of containers - but I could hardly expect anything different from a ship carrying five thousand of the things. On the plus side, David said that the weather forecast was good, and the sea should be calm all the way to Mumbai.

After that we were introduced to Alistair McLean, the Scottish chief engineer. He informed us there was an engine problem. That was a good start; only just on board and we’d broken down even before we’d set sail.

We followed him down to the engine area. There was no air-conditioning here and the heat was intense, the steps so hot you couldn’t put your hands on the metal rail. Alistair explained that the lube oil pump, probably the most important pump in the whole engine, had an electrical problem; one of the connectors had exploded, compromising the insulation. Three technicians were working to make the switchboard safe while they waited for parts to be flown in from Ireland and Denmark.

I commented on the heat - I was sweating and the control room was so humid it was almost misty.

Alistair smiled wryly. ‘You think this is hot, Charley - just wait till you see the engine room itself. It’s fifty-seven degrees in there.’

He explained that the ship used massive amounts of electricity and generated its own supply. The switchboard looked relatively easy to understand: a wall panel with black lines linking each section, green lights to let you know everything was in order and red to tell you when an area had been compromised. They needed power to supply the bow thrusters which enabled the ship to turn. It was a huge ship - 40 metres wide and 276 metres long - and the rudder alone wasn’t powerful enough to turn it.

Alistair took us into the engine room and 57 degrees is bloody hot, believe me. The sweat was pouring as we picked our way through miles of lagged pipes to look out over the massive engine casings. The engines burned heavy oil, which is the waste from crude after the components of petrol or diesel have been taken out. It was a lot cheaper than diesel but had to be heated up so it was viscous enough to use efficiently. At full speed the ship burned between 760 and 770 tonnes of fuel a day. A year ago the price had been $260 a tonne but now it was up to $500 and every second cost them roughly a dollar: over a 24-hour period that’s $86,400. Alistair showed me a piston. I tried to hug it - my dad’s into hugging trees - but it was so big I couldn’t get my arms around it.

‘That’s a spare,’ Alistair said. ‘There’re ten of those in the engine.’

It was too hot to spend any length of time down there so we made our way upstairs to the bridge. I’d expected lots of buttons and twirly things (that’s a technical term, you know) but instead the stairs led up to a glass-panelled corridor, spanning the full width of the ship - in fact it overhung the sides with panels in the floor so the officers could see all the way to the waterline sixty feet below. There were two consoles and two helms, one on each side. The helm itself was a separate block, like a lectern with a proper wheel to steer by - Jim told us that the ship had one of the most advanced autopilot systems in the world and it could follow the red line of a plotted course to the letter: the problem with that, though, was it meant the rudder was moving all the time and that burned huge amounts of fuel. There were also chart tables with dividers and rulers as well as a computerised chart plotter, two different radar systems and - most importantly - a kitchen area with a kettle and coffee maker.

As well as generating its own electricity (which, amongst other things, was used to power some five hundred refrigerated containers), the ship created fresh water with a full-on desalination system that mashed up all the poop and pee and got rid of it. Once at sea it was self-sufficient; a village, a little slice of Britain popping up anywhere in the world complete with Marmite, HP Sauce and Branston pickle.

The wheel intrigued me. I hoped to be steering the ship myself once we’d got beyond anything we could bash into and Jim told me that after ten hours’ practice I’d be competent to bring the ship into harbour.

With my hard hat in place and feeling very much at home, I followed the mate down to the dock where fresh food, fruit and veg, cans of soft drinks and cartons of cigarettes were being loaded - lifted from the van onto a wooden pallet then tied with netting before being hoisted aboard. The officers were all British but the crew was Filipino. The head chef was also Filipino and his galley was immaculate. He cooked English food for the officers and his mate Wilfred cooked Filipino-style food for the crew: mostly fish and rice, and chicken wings - spicy stuff. Mungo and I ate Filipino for lunch.

By the time we’d got going we’d already been on board for more than twenty-four hours. The scheduled departure time of early Monday morning came and went and after that there seemed to be delay after delay. The ship was bound for China ultimately and time was money, but there was nothing anyone could do about it. First there had been the electrical problem, then various other issues: towards evening a container that was supposed to weigh 27 tonnes was found to be nearer 40. The split grabber that tried to lift it couldn’t, so another one had to be brought in. We were told we’d be off around four p.m. but, things being what they were, at six-thirty we were still on the dock.

I asked Dave if he got ashore much but he said as this ship had a small crew he was a watch-keeper, which a boatswain normally wouldn’t be. He kept the watch from eight a.m. to midday, then again from eight p.m. till midnight. During the afternoon he organised the ship’s maintenance, which meant he didn’t have a lot of time to himself.

‘I get ashore when I can,’ he said. ‘Especially in Singapore and Hong Kong because the terminal is close to the city. The trouble is that these days the ships are getting so big most of the terminals have to be built miles from anywhere.’