Of Foreign Build (13 page)

Eritrea boarders Ethiopia, Sudan, and Djibouti; we anchored in the port of Massawa, which was quite close to the capital city of Asmara. We had traversed the worst of pirate infested-waters; the rest of the journey was looking to be beautiful and safe. We heaved a collective sigh of relief.

On entry, we tied
Mariah
alongside a wharf in order to check in. Once officials were happy, we could go anchor with the other boats. Meeting up with cruising buddies again was a delight, and we heard a rumour that the pirates that had attacked the catamaran were caught. Unfortunately, later we discovered it wasn’t true. The pirates that were caught had attacked a boat last November. The rumour went on to reveal that they were hanged!

I’d never thought much about guardian angels until I noticed a friend of mine always leaving a mouthful or two of food at every meal. She revealed that she kept it aside for her guardian angel. Now on
Mariah
, with our safe trip so far, I figured I must have someone looking out for me (other than Noel). I elected my guardian angel to be Daisy, my Great Nan, who had passed away some time ago just prior to her 100th birthday. Daisy had kept her wits about her, well into her nineties. As a maths teacher, in her late eighties she had helped me with long division when I was struggling. I had loved her very much and admired the way she kept up with the racing modern world, while she had slowed so much herself. As my appointed guardian angel, Daisy would have her work cut out for her over the next few months.

We had left Oman on 12 March 2001 and arrived at Eritrea nine days later.

Eritreans are incredibly proud people. On 28 May 1993, Eritrea gained UN recognition as an independent country. A former Italian colony and under British rule through 1942-52, Eritrea became part of Ethiopia. The Eritrean people conducted a constant struggle for independence for thirty years. They are now poor, all their money had been spent on defence, and more importantly 65,000 lives were lost. The rubble town is saturated with evidence of bombings and shootings. But the people are happy, proud and friendly, giving a strong sense that they are pulling forward and Eritrea will flourish.

The town occupies a powerful strategic position, controlling all points of access to the Red Sea and beyond, leaving Ethiopia dependent on Eritrea for access to foreign trade. They tolerate zero crime here, the locals welcome you to their country, and are proud to explain that women can walk the streets alone day or night without fear, and it’s true.

The anchorage was peaceful and calm, conducive to the rest our bodies craved. The dinghy ride ashore took about five minutes, and there was plenty to look at. As we puttered through the dirty water, bombed buildings lined the shore next to a flotilla of semi sunken ships, rusted, dying, and skewed in odd shapes, which seemed to highlight their agony. The concrete dock, where the dinghies were tied, was a hive of activity. Robotic crane arms stretched to load and unload freighters while sacks of dusty barley were delivered from the UN while brand new Red Cross trucks hummed around the bedlam. Noel tried to capture this on film and was almost rugby tackled by security – photos were strictly prohibited!

The rest of our convoy arrived the day after us, all in one piece. A meal was organised in a local restaurant to celebrate our survival. A couple of the cruisers were good friends; the others, well, were really just travelling companions. To be honest, the evening was dull, as one particular cruiser liked the sound of his voice a bit too much. However, it got worse: Noel and I had been living off fish and water for the last nine days, literally, and all they had on the menu was fish! Then we were told that they didn’t sell alcohol; all I wanted was a steak and a beer. We ate bread and water for dinner and enjoyed a private chat with the girls on board
Carmen Miranda
. We were all grateful to be safe. Added to the feeling of comfort was the knowledge that we had missed some horrendous weather. Prior to traversing the Indian Ocean, there had been a cyclone nearby; after we had completed the journey across, there was another cyclone. My guardian angel, Daisy, must have been working overtime.

After dinner, Noel and I wandered around the unlit rubble town. Soft music caught our ears, and we followed the sweet sound. In a dim doorway, a group of young lads, with girls watching, sat playing homemade guitars. As we slowly approached, they beckoned us to join them in their coffee ceremony. Their English was broken, but far better than our Eritrean (their national languages are English, Standard Arabic, Tigrinya, and a few more). They had, what seemed like, a magic box that contained the necessary tools and a small brazier. The ceremony was serious, unique, and quite romantic. Small cups were set out on a round tray, and a show of washing them was made. The beans were naked, straight from the plant, added to a small saucepan and roasted on the coals. Once they were roasted, it was customary for everyone to smell them; the aroma was so strong it smacked our tastebuds and our mouths started watering in anticipation. The beans were ground and water gradually added. The whole process took about half-an-hour; it was slow and precise and actually very gentle. Two large teaspoons of sugar were added to the small cups, so we expected a sweet drink. But the coffee was dark and rich, the sugar just right. We sipped the perfect cup of coffee; a feeling of calm enveloped us.

Our small group was huddled around the soft brazier fire, the only light in the lane way. It flickered on our contended faces. It was like a small orange room created beneath the stars, and the endless darkness added to the intimate experience. Our different languages were no longer a barrier. We were all content to sit together and simply enjoy the moment. Cicadas chirped and the only noise was our soft murmurs of trial conversation and the subtle flick of fingers across guitar strings. The realisation that humans can be so distant in miles, yet share such a special moment in time, was a privilege.

Unfortunately for me, the water that I’d sipped at our thrilling celebratory meal earlier in the evening started to weave its way down my innards and demanded to be let out. There would be no sewerage system here. I felt shy, too embarrassed to ask for a loo within the hushed romance of the night and shatter the ambience. I crossed my legs and concentrated on the moment. Soft songs and stroking melodies were strummed out on the guitars and the night grew old. Our enjoyment swelled while my bladder almost burst.

The following day while walking the town to find supplies we ate a brief, odd, lunch in a cafe. I think some of it was goat. For the next two days, Noel and I played tag team match for the toilet. Our lunch clutched our stomachs and caused excruciating cramps. We were not alone: most cruisers suffered at some point during their stay. We were almost recovered when we set out on a Tuesday for some inland travel, in company with Cindy and Faith from
Carmen Miranda
, to Asmara, the capital.

Faith and Cindy are lovely girls from San Francisco. Their quirky humour and ability to bring fun to all situations was compelling. The most revealing story of their antics was about their cat named Toulouse. Toulouse had been on board for many years; he’d actually come with the boat. Cats suffer on trips, just like us humans. This resulted in a mid-ocean cat enema. They didn’t provide full details of the story, but reported that, at the time Toulouse was rather put out and a bit huffy about the whole thing. Still, after the desired affect they were all friends again.

The journey into Asmara involved two bus rides: one to the main bus station and then four hours to the city. For an extra dollar, we opted for a smaller but more comfortable bus. The scenery was breathtaking: up and down and up again at least three almighty, barren hills. The hills accommodated stone huts that were perched on the sides of large precipices – one too many steps out the front door meant the express route to the bottom. The hills were horizontally lined with neatly piled stones, like a small wall, to help avoid erosion and to catch rain.

The journey, apparently, took us through three different seasons. To us it was stifling hot, uncomfortably hot, and then pleasantly hot as the cool, clear air of the hills refreshingly stroked our sweat caked skin. As we weaved around tight hairpin bends, we more or less followed the obsolete train track, which was intermittently spanned with the grandeur of Italian architecture. The barren hills were a casualty of the goats, who roamed freely with the odd shepherd herding them, it seemed, to the middle of nowhere. The superior camels, donkeys balancing on precipices – mimicking goats, and baboons all mingled graciously in the godforsaken land.

The town of Massawa was more familiar to us, a little more like what we are used to in the first world. The streets revealed the occasional Jacaranda with its familiar perfume and vivid purples. The Hotel Nyala had reasonable rooms. I stepped into the shower in anticipation, but alas it was tepid.

Feeling relaxed and happy to be in a large town that beckoned with its characteristic aura, we dined in the Blue Nile, an Italian restaurant. The Italians have had a fantastic influence in Asmara with the most exquisite pizza. The Blue Nile was spotlessly clean, had toilets where you could actually inhale without feeling like you should vomit, and the food was exceptionally cheap.

I was excited. Cindy and Faith looked at me as if I was slightly off balance. I was unashamedly energized to be in a clean place that served decent food, which you just knew was not going to take the express route out of your body. To top it all, I also had a nice cool beer. Noel just grinned at me; he had become used to me expressing my excitement, and I liked to be able to just be me – it’s a rare thing to not be judged for your own eccentricities.

After a restful night, we all breakfasted at the Blue Nile then went our separate ways. We arranged to meet Faith and Cindy at the bus station at two. Noel and I found the Egyptian Embassy to obtain our Egyptian visas. We had thought that it might save some money and be easier in the long run. It turned out that it didn’t save us time or money.

Our other main task was to catch up with family, primarily to let them know we were okay. The email was excruciatingly slow, but finally we were able to let our families know that we had not become pirate fodder. Eventually, we had achieved all we set out to do, so we could relax, pay our eleven nafka (a little over two Australia dollars) and watch the mystical and decaying scenery roll by on our journey home. The entire way, distorted Arabian music blared from inescapable overhead speakers and harassed our ears. Suddenly, the world outside the window turned dark. Hail began to fall, and a thunderstorm hit. The fog swirled in like a blanket and reduced the vision down to about five feet. No longer did we lazily watch the scenery, but with adrenaline pumping we clutched, white knuckled, at our seats.

We watched as the brown water cascaded at an alarming rate down the hill and across our path, seemingly heavier at the tight hairpins, where the water dropped over the edge, spilling two hundred feet down. There were no barriers along the side of the road. Halfway into the journey, all of a sudden quiet descended, the storm cleared, and the clouds drew back to reveal the breathtaking scenery. Greenery seemed to spurt up, revived with a quenching drink. We became deaf to the music, and despite the numb buttocks the unique spectacle of this obscure land made the arduous journey more than rewarding.

At the end of March we said goodbye to Eritrea, happy to be on our way again. A perfect wind from the south pushed us through the water, and we sailed for about five hours, enjoying the flat seas and clear skies. We were heading up the Red Sea.

We anchored at a small reef for the night. We had all afternoon to explore, so we launched the dinghy for a spot of snorkelling; the coral was alive and fish plentiful. Spying a huge manta ray, a couple of metres wide, before I dived in made me a little nervous. But the sun was too hot and the water too clear to miss out. After enjoying the underwater world we cleaned
Mariah’s
hull.

After a restful night, we set off at dawn the next day. We sailed for three days and nights with fantastic southerlies, so we had great sailing heading north along the Red Sea.

During the morning and evening radio Nets, we could hear the boats a few days in front of us. They were experiencing strong head winds, and our forecast was for strong northerlies. It was time to take shelter. The night before the northerlies were scheduled to hit us, we scanned the charts for an anchorage and turned
Mariah’s
bow towards land. I was doing the 7 pm to 1 am watch. The moon was nearly full, so the nights were pleasantly lit, the sea calm. We had a perfect fifteen knots on the beam and a one knot current assisting us. This was the best sailing we had ever had. As I was sitting peacefully, keeping a vigilant watch, I heard a vessel call up another vessel on the radio. The ships were obviously heading towards each other.

‘Vessel on bearing… I’m on a bearing of… my speed is fourteen knots and I am carrying a weight of 200,000 tonnes.’ This was said twice.

‘Yeah, well so what?’ was the reply!

Funny, kind of, but I nearly picked up the mic and said, ‘I’ll tell you what – it means he is bloody huge and his stopping distance is several miles long, so get out of the way quick smart, you idiot!’ But I thought I’d better leave that to the captain.

Within the Egyptian waters, we were blessed with three days of calm waters, cooling breezes, and clear skies. We found it somewhat hard to believe the weather report from the boats ahead of us.

‘We have thirty to thirty-five knots; it should be with you within twenty-four hours,’ came the gasping voice over the radio. The tinny tone, with the dramatic background of crashing winds, was like listening to a movie coming to a roaring end. In a few hours time, we’d be within the thick of that same mayhem.

‘It’s time to take shelter again,’ we both agreed. We only had a few more days until we reached Safaga, our next clearing in port. Avoiding head winds was one of our main goals in life. Jarring waves smashing into
Mariah’s
bow, stopping her forward momentum, was not only absurdly uncomfortable, but led to incredible stresses enforced on the boat. These stresses affected the equipment and us, so it was never worth the battle.

Before any departure, our charts would be thoroughly scanned and marked for possible hidey-holes. We always sought an opportunity to take shelter until the next weather window. This became a way of life: a few days of reasonable sailing, followed by punchy headwinds that we had to fight in order to reach the next shelter to rest.

And so it went on.

So much for only having a few more days until we reached the haven of Safaga; the weather was, what can only be described as, bloody awful. Continuous head winds of twenty to thirty knots made life virtually impossible.

The sky was completely swept clear of cloud. We could not move around the boat without holding on. The vertical posts within the boat allowed us to monkey-grip from one end to the other. Our limbs became sore and tired. Cleaning our teeth was a trial and as for having a pee, well, the sphincter is a marvellous muscle, but try relaxing it on a roller coaster ride, with a good bout of sea-sickness thrown in – it was something to be worked at.
Crash, crunch, BANG
, the noises were jarring: constantly side-to-side, up and down, forward and back.

And so it went on.

Between bouncing around the ocean like a ping-pong ball and throwing up, we took refuge within small bays. When the wind took a breather, we scurried out of our temporary sanctuary to head north. The trip was taking far longer than we anticipated, so food and water was starting to become alarmingly low; the menu was just noodles and peas. We’d eaten so much of this hideous concoction that starvation started to seem like an attractive alternative. Noodles (dried) and peas (tinned) was one of Noel’s inventions. He creates amazing pairings of the most antipodean tucker: mustard and peanut butter sandwiches, vegemite, banana and cheese on biscuits, apple or nectarine (when available) in a meaty stew. Being a Brit, I grew up on meat and two veg. I enjoy cultural food and relish the opportunity to try new tastes in different countries. However, I like flavours that complement each other, that aren’t vying for the attention of my taste buds! Bangers and mash, chops and peas (well maybe not peas anymore), and all that good old English food, I find enjoyable.