Time and a Ticket

by Peter Benchley

  "Why not?"

  "They're small and hot and dirty, and they have no lights and no screens."

  "Then we'll sleep on the beach," I said.

  "Not bloody likely," said the concierge. "If you slept on the beach with your luggage, you'd be lucky to wake up in the morning, and luckier still to wake up and find anything left. Even if you left your bags here and took nothing that anyone would want to steal, you couldn't sleep on the beach. You'd be up every ten seconds swatting at an insect—or at a cloud of insects, more likely."

  I said, "You don't seem to be very anxious for us to go there."

  "It's not that," said the concierge. "It's just that if you are going to go, you must realize that you'll have to live like civilized beings. 'Back to nature' and all that is very nice, but not very practical."

  The next morning the concierge told us that because of a sudden cancellation, he had been able to secure us one of the ten rooms in the resthouse for three days.

  The train ride south to Hikkaduwa was two hours long, and the scenery was exquisite. The tracks ran along the shore, some fifty or sixty yards from the water. On our right, through the trees, was the sea. On our left, not five feet from the tracks, was the jungle. We passed by several small villages—clusters of thatched huts, outrigger canoes lying on the beach, children wrapped in gaily colored cloth running through the jungle.

  "Man, this is it," said Charlie dreamily as he stared out the window. "This is what the South Seas should be like."

  Still, it was hot, over a hundred, and humid, so when we arrived at the resthouse, which was clean and pleasant and beautifully situated on a small point of land, we threw off our clothes, put on our bathing suits, and rushed for the water. At the edge of the shore, a sign read, "Swimming not permitted here—strong currents, sharp coral." We were advised to swim in a tiny area at the crotch of the point of land. It was a small tidal pool, perhaps ten yards across, protected from the currents. We decided against that, and walked a few hundred yards down the beach. We were hot and tired and sticky and dirty, and when we found a place where there seemed to be no dangerous coral, we raced each other into the water.

  It was like falling into yesterday's bath water. If the air was a hundred and ten, the water was ninety. It was clear and clean and sparkling, but it felt syrupy and dirty. It gave no relief from the heat, but rather coated us with salt and made us itch. We wallowed in it for a few minutes, just because it was water and we knew that even if it didn't feel clean, it would remove some of the grime. We tried to ride some of the larger waves, but they were the kind that break sharply and have no roll, so they picked us straight up in the air and dropped us onto the small pieces of rock and coral that were scattered about in the sand. We crawled out of the water and lay down on the beach. Within two minutes we began to sweat, and the sweat attracted bugs. We got up and walked back to the resthouse, where we took showers in tepid chlorinated water.

  We were told that the ocean cooled down in the late afternoon, so while we waited, we decided to take a walk through the jungle in back of the resthouse. A small path began across the road. We put on shirts, hoping to keep some of the bugs away, and started off.

  The path was full of roots and stones, and before we had gone fifty feet we wished that we had worn shoes. We had to keep our eyes on the ground, so as not to cut our feet, and the only way we could see where we were was to stop. The air in the jungle was heavy and wet. When we passed the shacks, the women who were washing clothes in brown water or beating them clean on rocks would stop work and stare at us.

  But the jungle was beautiful. We stopped by a large rock and sat down to rest our feet and let the sweat dry, hoping the quick evaporation would cool us. The colors were spectacular, bougainvillaea and mangoes and ten thousand fruits and flowers that we had never heard of. Monkeys chattered and played in the trees, and birds, cawing and cackling, fluttered about far overhead, as the sunlight that seeped in between the tops of the trees played on their orange and yellow and red wings. Dark-skinned boys with gleaming white teeth laughed and chased each other among the shacks. Despite the noises of the animals, it was peaceful, and if the heat was uncomfortable, the colors were soothing.

  We started off again, carefully placing one foot in front of the other, feeling for rocks. Suddenly I heard a tittering behind us, and I turned to see a group of ten or fifteen children who had been noiselessly following us. They walked easily on their calloused feet, not bothering about stones, and every time Charlie or I winced or jumped or cursed at another bruise, they laughed merrily. They followed us, laughing at our tender feet, until we had circled the village and were back on the road by the resthouse. Now and then we looked back at them, and as soon as they saw our faces, they screamed with laughter.

  It was the next afternoon, and we were sitting under a small awning, sipping bad Indian gin and watching the sun set. "You know," I said, "I think I've found out what our problem is with this place."

  "What's that?" said Charlie.

  "It's too much of a tropical paradise. It's exactly what we were looking for, and now that we've found it, we can't cope with it."

  "How do you mean?"

  "Our complaint here is that we're bored, right? There's nothing to do. We can't fish because we don't have the equipment and there's no place to rent it. The same for skindiving. There are no surfboards, no waterskis, no sailboats, no books, no movies, none of the things that we're used to having to keep us busy. We're not used to doing nothing. Look what we did today, for instance. We got up, had breakfast, and went for a swim before the water got too warm. Then we lay on the beach. Then we sat on the rocks. Then we went for another swim. Then we lay on the beach. Then we had lunch. Then we had a nap. Then we went for another swim. Then we lay on the beach. Then we sat on the rocks. Pretty exciting. What we really wanted was a place that is spoiled, a place that looks unchanged but that has, hidden among the trees, aqualungs, waterskis, sailboats, movie theaters, saloons, nightclubs, and dance bands. I think what we were looking for was a place that combined the advantages of civilization with the advantages of the 'tropical paradise' without the drawbacks of either."

  "You know who thought of all this before you?" said Charlie. "Conrad Hilton and his cronies. All they need is a few people like us, who think we can go back to nature and then find that we need a few of the diversions of civilization, and bam! they've made a pile."

  "Yeah, and—"

  "Excuse me," said a voice behind us. "You are Americans, no?"

  We stood up and saw a Ceylonese boy about eighteen standing just outside the awning. He was wearing a starched white shirt, a black tie, and a dark gray suit, the first such clothes we had seen since we left Colombo. Charlie and I were still in bathing suits.

  "Yes," I said. "Come in and sit down."

  The boy drew up a chair and sat stiffly on the edge of it, his hands folded in his lap. "I saw you on the beach today," he said.

  "Do you live here?" asked Charlie.

  "No, in Galle, a few miles down the road. I was visiting a relative." There was an uneasy silence as all three of us tried to think of something to say. Then the boy said to Charlie, "Do you like it here?"

  "Yes," said Charlie. "It's fine."

  "Oh. I see." The boy paused. He unfolded his hands and looked at his fingernails, then folded them again. He cleared his throat. "Can you help me go to America?" he said suddenly. He smiled nervously and picked at a fingernail.

  "Help you in what way?" said Charlie.

  "Can you get me a scholarship in America? If I can get a scholarship, they will give me a visa."

  The boy was obviously embarrassed, and his embarrassment made Charlie uneasy. "No," he said, more curtly than he had intended. "It's impossible. I don't see how I can help you."

  "I see," said the boy.

  "Look," said Charlie, trying to make up for his harshness, "have you tried the American Embassy? Have you applied anywhere?"

  "Not yet," said the boy. "Not in America. I h
ave been given a scholarship to Lumumba Friendship University in Moscow."

  "Omigod," said Charlie under his breath. "Well, that's a good school."

  "Yes," said the boy, "but I don't want to go there. I want to go to America."

  "I wish I could do something," said Charlie, "but I don't see how I can."

  "Can't you ask Mr. Kennedy for me?"

  "I'm afraid I don't know Mr. Kennedy. And even if I did, I'm not sure he could make a special exception for you."

  The boy was silent. Finally, he said, "I see," and stood up. "Thank you for your time." He bowed and walked away.

  "I'm sorry," said Charlie, but the boy didn't hear him, or if he did, he didn't acknowledge the apology.

  Charlie sat for a moment without saying anything. Then he shook his head and said, "He changed his clothes for us, too. He went to all that trouble to impress us, and look where it got him. We couldn't help him a goddam bit."

  14

  In Bombay, the P & O ships on the eastern runs fill up with Indians. Some are going to Singapore to visit relatives who have businesses there, or to start businesses of their own. Some are going to Hong Kong to look for work. And some take the round trip from Bombay to Yokohama and back as their vacations. They travel tourist class, and in groups. Because India has strict regulations concerning the amount of money that may be taken out of the country, most of them have very little money to spend on amusements. Those that chink can afford only beer, and they pass the long days playing noisy card games over a glass or two of beer. The Bombay-east part of the run is never popular with the crew.

  Charlie and I had embarked at Colombo, the first stop after Bombay, with tickets for Singapore, a five-day trip. The ship was the Canton, one of the few P & O ships that is not air-conditioned. The temperature in Colombo the day we left was between ninety-five and a hundred, and the air was heavy and wet, because it had been raining all day. The crew was irritable and impatient, and the passengers were sullen. As we threw our luggage on the bunks of our cabin on F deck, which got the heat of the engine room and the noise of the screws and whose porthole couldn't be opened except on the calmest of days because of its being so near the waterline, I wondered about the joys of liner travel.

  When we were settled, I went to the dining room to arrange for our seating time for meals. The headwaiter was an old, fat, bald, sweaty Englishman with a heavy, knee-slapping sense of humor. After a few jokes, he settled down with the seating plan and tried to find places for Charlie and me.

  "Would you like second sitting or first?" he said.

  "Second, please."

  "Lazy, what? Like to sleep late. Ha-ha. Well, let me see now. You'd like to sit with your friend, would you?"

  "It's not important."

  He studied his chart. "I'll be frank," he said. "I can put you together, but it'll be with a bunch of Indians, and I wouldn't do that to my worst enemy. Not even to my dog. No offense. Ha-ha."

  "Why not?"

  "Have you ever seen them Indians eat? Why, they eat like animals, they do. Head right in the plate. Make me spew, is what, if / had to sit with them."

  "It doesn't make any difference," I said. "Whatever's convenient."

  "Well, if that's how you want it, that's the way it'll be. Let me see, I can put you—no, no. Not there. Wouldn't think of it. I'd be crackers to put you there."

  "Where?"

  "Bunch of Indians. Really bad lot. Caused trouble all the way from Bombay. The captain wanted to put them off in Colombo, but the authorities didn't want any part of them."

  "What did they do?"

  "In my department, they just screamed and yelled and threw food. The other day, their waiter said he was going to kill one of them. They're on his back, y'know. He's a white man and all, and they love to get on a white man's back when they can. But up topside they make real trouble. Someone said they force money out of the other Indians so they can go drink at the bar. There are six of them, and I guess they just say they'll smash you if you don't come across."

  The headwaiter finally found us seats at two European tables, and I scurried up to the bar. The bar was empty except for the bartender, a waiter, and a group of six Indians who sat at a table in the corner. They were playing cards and shouting across the table at one another. Two of them were big and dark—one a huge fat man, the other about six feet and stocky. The others were short and thin, with light complexions about the same color as a Caucasian with a good tan.

  I sat in a chair and signaled to the waiter, who came over. He was a short, round young man with long, wavy hair and a strong Cockney twang. He was hot and tired and annoyed.

  He brought me a drink, set it down, and turned to go. "Just a second," I said. "Tell me something. Who are those guys over there?"

  He had been waiting for someone to ask him. He crouched down beside my chair and whispered, "Scum. Dirty, rotten, black scum. They're in here every night drinking and hollering and making trouble. If you ask me, they're all on dope, too. Purser says he's sure, and so's the doc. Take a look at their eyes sometime you get a chance."

  "Hey, boy!" yelled one of the Indians, and the others laughed.

  ''See? Ain't they charmers?" He walked over to the table.

  "Six beers," said one of the two big ones. "And clear this stuff away."

  When he had served them, he came back to my chair. "Captain should have put them off like he wanted to. Or in irons somewhere. There's gonna be trouble with them."

  We were three days out when the trouble came. Charlie and I were in our cabin, and we heard people running in the passageway. We looked out, and saw hordes of Indians hurrying into their cabins and shutting the doors. Curious, we left and locked our cabin and went cautiously up the stairs. People were gathered in small groups, talking excitedly. We went up one more deck, to the bar. The bartender and waiter were alone. The waiter had a cut on one cheek and a bump on his head. We asked what had happened.

  "We was here," he said, "just like normal. There was Bob and me. The only others were a couple—a Ceylonese lad with a club foot or one short leg or something, and his wife." He said that the Ceylonese couple had gotten up to leave, and as they were going out the door, three of the bad six were coming in the door. One of them intentionally bumped the Ceylonese man's wife, and she stumbled. The Ceylonese man said something to the Indian, and without a word, the Indian jumped on him and started beating him up. When the Indian had the Ceylonese backed up against the wall, the other two Indians pushed the cripple to the floor and started kicking him. The bartender called out the porthole for help, and the waiter ran over and knocked down the biggest of the Indians. One of the others punched the waiter in the face just as two of the crew ran in the door. The Indians tried to flee, but the two crew members caught them and knocked them senseless. The man the waiter had punched made a break for the porthole, but the waiter caught him by the legs and he fell across the sill on his neck.

  "Where are they now?" I asked.

  "The one that started it, he's been locked up in the hospital," said the waiter. "He must be bloody crazy." He said that the man had gone berserk and had tried to hit anyone who got in his way. One of the crew had picked up the screaming man and dragged him to the hospital, where the man tried to attack the doctor. The crew member threw him against the bulkhead and knocked him out. The waiter said that the other Indians were running around saying that they'd get their friend out of the hospital if they had to sink the ship to do it. The captain had stationed guards at the hospital and was calling the Singapore police to have them pick up the Indians when we docked.

  The hospital was aft of the bar, on the same deck. We went outside. The deck was deserted except for two crew members from the engine room who were standing by the entrance to the hospital. As we stood by the rail, the smaller of the other two Indians came up from below and walked over to one of the guards. He talked to him for a moment, and the guard smiled and shook his head. Then the Indian began to wave his arms, and the guard laughed. The Indian scre
amed, "We'll get him out, you'll see! We'll get him out!" He walked away from the hospital toward us. He was thin, and had very dark, deep-set eyes. There was almost no white showing, and his pupils, we could see from a few feet away, were huge. Suddenly he stopped and turned back toward the guard. "God damned white men!" he shrieked. "White bastards! We'll get you all when we get to Singapore. God damned white men! God damned white men!" He turned, shouting obscenities, and ran down the stairs.

  Later that afternoon, I was sitting in one of the lounges when a girl I had met at a dance the night before came over and sat beside me. She was one of the loveliest women I'd ever seen—a tall, slim Indian with smooth black hair, dark eyes, and sharp features. Her skin was a rich honey tan. She had told me that her husband could not get a vacation that year and had sent her on a cruise to Japan. She was traveling with a group of friends.

  "I just wanted to say that after what happened today, I am ashamed for my people," she said.

  "It was a pity," I said.

  "I am afraid that people will judge all Indians by those few bad ones, and that is unjust. We ourselves hate them. They have caused trouble all the way. They have forced some of their countrymen to give them money."

  "Why didn't you tell the captain?"

  "He would not have cared. He would have said that it was our problem."

  "How do you know that?"

  "I know." She paused. "You do not hold this against all Indians, do you?"

  "No, of course not."

  "I am glad. The crew does. I heard them before, two of them on deck. They were using the old talk, referring to us as bloody wogs. They said we should all be thrown overboard."

  "They were just talking."

  "I know, but they feel it. They do not like Indians. Any Indians."

  "During the trouble today," I said, "one of the men tried to get his friend loose, and when he couldn't, he got flustered and started screaming about white men in general. That fascinated me. I wondered why he chose that as his last defense. Why did that particular feeling of inferiority come out? He isn't any darker than most white men."