Whoever Fears the Sea Justin Fox (books for 8th graders .txt) 📖

countless, long-since-vanished dhows that once frequented Mombasa. Just like a cemetery register, he thought.

‘But now?’ A sweep of Mr Hussain’s hand encompassed the entire anchorage. ‘This morning there are only two motor dhows and a freighter from Somalia.’

‘What happened?’

‘Oil. Black gold. The Gulf states no longer need to trade with Africa in old wooden boats. Just one tanker or container ship dwarfs the whole East African dhow trade. In the 1980s it dried up. Trade that lasted a thousand years disappeared in one decade.’

‘Do any booms still come?’ Paul asked.

‘No, they are all gone.’

‘Jahazis?’

‘Yes, we still get a few jahazis, but they are mostly up north.’

Paul sighed. ‘So you don’t think I’ll find a dhow to Lamu.’

‘It’s not likely but let me see what I can do. Ghalib!’

An elderly man with a kofia skullcap and walking stick appeared in the doorway and, after a brief discussion, was despatched to ask around the harbour and find out if anyone, perhaps a northbound fisherman, would be prepared to take him to Lamu.

While they waited, Paul studied the model, taking in the details of mast, rigging and a yardarm that was longer than the vessel itself. He craved to see one. Whether by bus or dhow, he needed to get to Lamu.

‘So, tell me, Mr Paul, how’s your economy back in South Africa? A weak rand, no?’

‘Yes,’ said Paul. ‘But that makes it cheap for tourists. Have you ever been?’

‘No,’ Mr Hussain said, stroking his chin. ‘But I would like to. When I retire I want to visit Johannesburg, the city of gold. Tell me, what are the hotel prices like and how much does a steak and chips cost?’

Paul offered a few numbers and out came Mr Hussain’s calculator, converting the prices from rands to shillings. He looked pleased.

Eventually Ghalib returned with news. Mr Hussain looked angry and answered brusquely in Swahili. He turned to Paul: ‘The verdict is not good. There are no sailing craft available, only motor dhows, and no one wants to go as far as Lamu, or even Malindi. Ghalib did find a fisherman who is prepared to get you as far as Kilifi, where you could try to find another boat.’

But Kilifi is only fifty kilometres away. And I’ll have the same problem there. Paul thought for a moment. ‘How much is he asking?’

‘Five hundred dollars.’

‘But that’s insane!’ Paul spluttered. ‘I could fly to London and back for that.’

‘I know, it’s crazy. The bus to Malindi will cost you one dollar.’ Mr Hussain shook his head. ‘Maybe you must forget about a dhow.’

Paul stood up and shook Mr Hussain’s hand. There was nothing more to be done. Still, he hesitated at the door: ‘I was also thinking about trying to get to Somalia —’

‘You certainly won’t find a captain willing to take you up there.’

Paul wandered up Mzizima Road, fuming. Mr Hussain had not even permitted him to look around the port and take photos: ‘I’m afraid not. We’ve had to tighten security. If you’d come with an official letter, perhaps, but my hands are tied.’ Paul imagined a suicide bomber singling out Mombasa dhow harbour for attack. He could eliminate the Somali freighter and send exploded bits of shark meat raining down on the town — a potent, if enigmatic, symbol. Koranic manna, perhaps? Next thing they’d have anti-aircraft guns protecting the bloody anchorage.

Paul walked past Vasco da Gama kiosk and Schmuck Laden Curio Shop. A red banner strung across the street read LIVERPOOL FC. A group of teenagers at Leven Steps offered him marijuana, but Paul didn’t hear them. He was too busy cursing his lack of preparation. Had he really thought he could simply swan into Kenya and hop on a northbound dhow? He’d read too many books by venerable travellers who took every mishap in their stride. They always had a Plan B.

His notions of African sail had come up against an empty anchorage. This was not Mozambique, where dhows were still plentiful. Better economies quickly lose their commercial sail power. What fisherman or small-time merchantman wouldn’t swap his patchwork sail for an outboard engine?

Paul reached the old dhow anchorage down a flight of steps. Piles of smouldering plastic leaked an acrid smoke. Cats and crows picked through the filth on the beach. Just then, a load of rubbish was tipped from the bluff and avalanched past him.

He walked along the water’s edge. A man in holey underpants stepped from a dinghy and threw a few undersized fish on to the sand, where they flapped like wind-up toys. A vagrant shuffled across the beach towards him. ‘Hi, Mister, I’m also a producer,’ he said, flashing a rotten smile and pointing at Paul’s Nikon. ‘I’ve been in the movies.’

‘Yeah, right, send me your show reel, buddy,’ Paul said through clenched teeth, and quickened his pace.

At the end of the beach he came to an upturned rowing boat and sat on the hull. Paul closed his eyes and felt the sun on his face. He listened to the wind ruffling the palm fronds, the wash of water on the sand. It was low tide, and he imagined a row of dhows from different centuries and from across southern Asia propped upright on the beach for caulking and repairs. Behind them lay a fleet at anchor in the shallows. He pictured Kuwaiti booms offloading dates from Basra, sambuks from Sur with deck-loads of cows and boriti poles, ornate baghlas with carved stern-castles and any number of jahazis from ports along the African main. Here was a ghanjah making ready to slip anchor with a deck full of fierce-looking Bedouin passengers with scarred cheeks. There, a straight-bowed Mahra badan creeping into the anchorage; and beyond it, the longboat from an ababuz, rowed by a span of muscular black men and steered by a dainty Arab in a pink