HEART BEAT:Marooned in Capetown after the voyage of our lives
“By thy long grey beard and
glittering eye
Now wherefore stopp’st thou me”
I’LL TELL you why. I am about to relate a tale of shipwreck, riot, piracy, storm, eruption and the marooning of a group of intrepid mariners. This is related by Maurice (Sinbad) N and his consort HA (Polo) N, and given under their hand in this year of Our Lord 2010. The truth of all I tell is attested by our worthy companions, Jaki from the New Forest, and Peter and Jean, mighty seafarers from Guernsey.
At the outset of my tale, the HA and I were wafted on a magic carpet to the fabled city of Hong Kong in the ancient civilisation of Cathay. It is no longer a dark and mysterious land. It is open and friendly and well able to trade beads with the rest of us.
Having joined our frail barque in the port, we set sail for exotic lands. Very soon, disaster struck. Our simple six-course meal was interrupted by a shuddering crash. “What was that?” we wondered in our Titanic complacency, “bit warm for icebergs.” It was in fact a collision with a Star Ferry vessel, boats which ply their purposes in these crowded waters. The captain and crew laboured to repair the non-existent damage and soon we were under way again.
On days at sea, to appease the restless traders, strange rituals were enacted. One such involved dividing us into groups of six and asking us difficult and diverse questions. The winning team would gain riches beyond avarice, a bookmark for example. We were teamed with an Australian lady, a Russian couple, both mathematicians, and our American leader. On one occasion I brought shame and ridicule upon our group. On being asked what mythical creature wore white gloves, red shirt and yellow trousers, in conclave our group decided the answer was one Mickey Mouse. “No,” I insisted, “that is too obvious, the true answer must be our great Irish statesman Bertie Ahern.” Okay, I was wrong, but I philosophised in the current nonsensical phrase of our homeland, “same difference”.
St Patrick’s Day found us in Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon). I was conscious that a great Irish leader called Conor Lenihan was due to honour the city on our national day. The inhabitants seemed slightly underwhelmed by this, although there were some banners stretched across minor roads. Upon inquiring upon their import our guide, however, told us they appeared to be advertising some form of kebabs.
Bangkok found us in the midst of riots with gangs of red-shirted individuals seemingly intent on bringing down the government. Mind you, compared with us Irish, they appeared to have little to complain about. Maybe we might try that soon!
Exotic locations followed one another. The Maldives were still there and prospering despite global warming, as were the Seychelles. Our next port was to be Mombasa and then inland to the Masai Mara to trade rhinoceros horn and ivory and then to rejoin our ship in Zanzibar laden down with the treasures of Africa.
Unfortunately, our captain dolefully informed us that the Somali pirates were happily cutting throats in the sea lanes we were about to traverse and, accordingly, we fled southwards to Mauritius and Reunion. In Reunion, I visited the volcanoes and even the volcano museum. I became an instant volcanologist. Indeed, I think I know as much about it as the experts who have just paralysed the world.
We ploughed through tropical storm “Robin” when many took to their beds fearing the end of creation. Many fasted that night voluntarily or otherwise. The HA wondered at my “iron stomach”. I explained that I was both hungry and thirsty and that if I was going to drown, I’d sooner go full and happy. That impressed her.
Finally, our trading came to an end. Iceland blew up and we were marooned in Capetown. We were given enough bread and water to last one week but fortunately on the sixth day we were rescued and returned to Thief Row (aka Heathrow).
I understand if by now you have had enough of this maritime tale and would say in Coleridge's Rime of the Ancient Mariner, already quoted:
“‘Hold off, unhand me grey-beard loon!’,
Eftsoons his hand dropped he”
I’ll drop my pen also, to pick it up again next week. There is work to be done in our little island.
mneligan@irishtimes.com