Voyage By Dhow

by Norman Lewis

  Aden had been neither East nor West, but a vigorous hybrid of the both in which whatever differences that existed were being vigorously chamfered away. Lahej was an old-style Arabian town at its best—hospitable, good-humoured and rather poor, with a fine collection of old-fashioned prejudices that elsewhere had gone by the board. Soft veils of dust hung over the buildings and subdued the sun’s rays to a bearable glow. This had been an ancient tented town in which most of the population now lived with reluctance in brick buildings forced upon them by the authorities. It was noisy, for the drummers of the Sultan’s military band marched constantly up and down through the narrow, echoing streets. Most people possessed tents in memory of the good old days, and occupied them whenever they could. ‘You see,’ said a native of the town with whom I struck up a conversation, ‘we’re all Bedouin at heart, and we like to be reminded of the way we lived.’

  Perhaps the most extraordinary of my Arabian experiences was my meeting in Lahej with the celebrated outlaw, El Hadrami. He had turned up in the town a few days before my arrival and now basked in the prestige due in these parts to a man who had recently beheaded four of the King of the Yemen’s guards sent to carry out his arrest.

  El Hadrami’s enormous fame permitted him to stage a procession of his own, timed on the Friday to follow the ritual of the Sultan’s state visit to the mosque. I missed this demonstration of power, but later, on hearing that there was a journalist in the town, he ordered me to be ushered into his presence. He proved to be an immense and hugely muscular man wearing one of the new sports shirts recently imported from Europe, and with it a kilt. Spotting my camera, he ordered me to take a photograph of him, and drawing his enormous scimitar he slashed ferociously at the air. Several spectators had appeared in the background but were signalled by a movement of his index finger to withdraw. On such occasions El Hadrami was accustomed to invite a few leading citizens to lunch with him, and in this instance I was included.

  The town’s small central square was to be taken over for this purpose, but first a team of boys, furnished with brooms, filled the air with clouds of dust swept from the fronds of its palms. A rare local sucker-fish featured on the menu, for the first time that season, I was assured. It was in great demand, not on account of its insipid flavour, but in the belief that a little of what was considered its exceptional intelligence could be passed on to the consumer.

  Silence, austerity and religious dictatorship—all the sworn enemies of pleasure—drove the most vigorous of the Yemen’s sons to take refuge in the more congenial environment of the south, and after a short experience among these more relaxed Arabian scenes I formed a new theory of the Bedouin character. For these desert warriors, or ex-warriors, enjoyment was inseparable from the subtle pleasures of risk. Many of the citizens of Lahej had been born in or near the desert with eyes never able wholly to free themselves from imprinted vistas of sand. Boredom was thus their inheritance and in Lahej they demonstrated the lengths they would go to in search of excitement. This town was celebrated throughout southern Arabia for its rifle ranges where the bored shepherd escaping from the dunes did not shoot, but allowed himself to be shot. Finding it hard to believe what I’d been told about this I went to see for myself later on the Saturday. The target stood erect, hands over his eyes, and the marksman paid eight annas to shoot him with small darts at a distance of twenty yards, or a rupee to use a real bullet from which most of the gunpowder had been removed.

  IV

  In gathering information of the west coast with its flowers, trees, monkeys and exotic birds we made a discovery which Stevens rated as a useful find. Strangely enough, the road passing through these undisturbed surroundings had remained in a remarkable state of repair, despite its evident age. Said Hamud, my friend with the camel cart, had suggested that it was in such excellent condition largely because it had been unused for a century or more. Two or three hundred years back, he thought, it would have been essential to the conduct of hostilities between north and south. Nowadays all the business—and in consequence the disputes—of southern Arabia centred on the Gulf of Aden, where maritime traffic was all-important and what was left of the old roads were no longer used. There had been much talk of war in Lahej, but it would have been pointless, even disastrous, for the government of the Yemen to plan an attack down this ancient military highway, especially when it was known to possess only two armoured vehicles, both of them at that time out of use with engine trouble.

  I had asked Said Hamud what Yahya’s chances of success were should conflict break out. His reply was that the north would fare badly under the inevitable air-attacks against which it could offer no defence, but its army would be unbeatable in a defensive battle fought in the mountains. The Yemeni soldier survived rather than lived on a diet of dried figs and unleavened bread, and would be ready to fight to the death—which he would in any case regard as no more than the promotion of his soul.

  Back in Aden after my short absence I sensed a change in the atmosphere of the place but some time passed before I decided that this was due to another influx of Italian soldiers. They were all officers, splendidly uniformed and courteous—if slightly aloof in their manner—but still perhaps a little dazzled by their recent victory in Abyssinia. They congregated in the lounges of the better hotels, bowing and smiling slightly when introduced to foreigners, but above all demonstrating a slight superiority, where their British counterparts were concerned, by never appearing to have had too much to drink. It was in the bar on the roof terrace of the Marina Hotel that I spotted Farago, who had been mysteriously absent for most of our stay. He was with an Italian, grinning broadly and gesticulating as he sometimes did. A second Italian officer joined the pair and the soldiers exchanged fascist salutes. At this point I moved behind a potted fern to give some thought to the possible implication of this scene.

  That afternoon I located Farago in another part of the hotel and he told me that he had been to Djibouti—clearly at Stevens’ behest. ‘But why on earth Djibouti?’ I asked. ‘Isn’t it French?’ He grinned. ‘These places change hands all the time,’ he said.

  It seemed better to change the subject. ‘A lot of Italians about the place,’ I suggested.

  ‘I noticed that,’ Farago laughed. ‘They’re quick off the mark. No Italian stays longer than he has to in Abyssinia. This must be like coming home to them. Just say “Buon giorno” and “Come va?” You’ll find they’re all right.’

  ‘Any news of the permit?’ I asked.

  ‘None whatever. I can assure you that Sir Bernard Reilly has given it up as hopeless and so have I. All we have to do now is take the dhow to Hodeidah with a pocket full of fivers and talk to the immigration people there.’ He laughed again—a sound in this case finishing in a whine like a dog’s.

  ‘When do we leave?’

  ‘Impossible to say. The dhow people probably don’t know themselves. Also they keep as quiet as possible until the last thing to trick the devil who preys on ships. All we can do is be ready with the luggage and sit down to wait until the omens are right. That’s something that can take two or three days.’

  ‘This sort of thing goes on all the time, I imagine?’

  ‘All the time. Same as in Abyssinia. They had prayer groups there. You went down to the port and joined a group praying for a change in the wind, or whatever it was that was holding things up. A mullah led the prayers and collected his fees.’

  ‘And they do that here?’

  ‘Probably. We’ll soon see.’

  Later the news came through that the dhow would be leaving that night, and after a hurried take-off we arrived at the harbour in the early evening. Here, having delivered our gear to a crew member, we climbed aboard by a rope ladder and picked our way over piled-up boxes and bales in search of a place to put down our belongings. Most of the passengers had already settled in and scooped out nests for themselves among what could be shifted of the cargo. A few—perhaps braving the sea for the first time, and nervous in these surrounding
s—had apprehensively wrapped cloths around their mouths. I was told that this was in reaction to a local belief that at such moments of tension the spirit may suddenly endeavour to make its escape from the body. We had been given deck passages, and this came as a relief, for when we had first looked the dhow over we had noted a stagnant odour rising through the gangway from the depths of the ship.

  V

  The dhow’s captain—the nakhoda—told us that he hoped to set sail in the early hours of the next day. But an hour after we had embarked a canoe came alongside, bringing a messenger from the city with an invitation for the dhow’s crew and passengers to attend a wedding of a Hadrami family which had settled in Aden. This was instantly accepted and the nakhoda announced that work for that day was finished.

  We were delighted to find ourselves included in the invitation. For one reason, we hoped that the marriage celebrations would afford us an excellent opportunity to get to know our future sailing companions. Of equal importance was our suspicion that, whatever the promises, we might still have several days on our hands before the dhow sailed. We were soon to discover that, as feared, sailing would be postponed due to exceptionally strong head winds. These winds, our new friends told us, were provided by Allah whenever there was a prospect of a good party. It would have been ill-mannered not to agree, and thus we made our way to the main entertainment, held in a large tent that had been put up on a waste space at the back of the town.

  Inside, cushion-covered benches, forms and, above all, packing cases had been arranged in rows. This was the main gathering place for the 200 guests. Shortly before sunset the nakhoda and the crew of the dhow appeared. They lined up facing each other and to the rhythm of pipes and drums performed a sword dancer. They pranced and gesticulated, advancing threateningly and retreating a number of times. Then, as the music and chanting reached a climax, they rushed to meet each other, leaping high in the air. The dances of the Hadrami, like most Arab performances, were violent and warlike. Swords had to be clashed as often as possible and if a party was going well—as in this case—someone would shoot out the lights.

  When the dance was over, night had fallen, and we joined the guests, led by torchbearers, to the house where the bride’s family lived, for the signing of the legal documents. An overflow sat down at tables that had been set out in the street, where they were served by members of the bride’s family with coffee and sweets. Some, perhaps bored—even a little drunk—went to sleep, and these were approached by a soft-footed servant, who sprayed them with perfume. After about an hour had elapsed, the witnesses came out of the house. A basket filled with jasmine blossoms was passed round and when each guest had taken a handful, embraced each other and praised God, the party broke up for the night.

  The wedding party was held next day in the great tent. Inevitably in southern Arabia, it was devoted to the chewing of khat—a drug guaranteed not to provoke argument or improper conduct of any kind. The guests stripped the leaves from their bundles of khat, pulled out their narghiles, refreshed themselves with mouthfuls of water and listened to the musicians. The host’s two younger brothers were with him, as bridegrooms are never left unattended during the ceremonies, theoretically to protect them from evil spirits, but actually to avoid overindulgence.

  The all-powerful barber-surgeon was master of ceremonies, and as each newcomer entered the tent the barber played a few notes on a pipe and announced his name. Guests went up to the dais, placed a gift of money in the bowl set before the bridegroom and gave a small coin to the barber in recognition of his services in arranging the wedding. The low social standing of the barber was curious in view of the essential services that he performed. His most important function was that of surgeon, and however fearsome the wounds he was called in to treat, his services were preferred in this Islamic community to those of physicians with medical degrees—suspected in this society as sorcerers and quacks. The barber in southern Arabia, like the sweeper and the troubadour, was often recruited from the depressed Subis, thought to be descendants of the enslaved remnants of the Persian and Abyssinian invaders of the Yemen. But because the bonds of caste were loosely drawn, it sometimes happened that a barber, escaping his destiny, would rise even to become the governor of a province.

  Morally and philosophically I did not think we had much to offer of advantage to the East. But, generally speaking, the ills of the body were not well understood or capably treated. Bloodletting was the remedy for most ailments. The traveller returning home after a long journey made for the barber’s parlour and had himself slashed wherever he had felt pain while away. He sat down in a chair, stripped to his loincloth, and the barber cut into the areas that had given trouble. Then heated cows’ horns were cupped over the razor cuts and left there as long as necessary.

  Even khat may produce special effects when taken in abundance. Some of the guests began to sing quietly to the accompaniment of the rebaba and the violin of the musicians. Others fell into melancholy silence. Outside the tent the Hadrami seamen who had been chewing for hours on end laughed and clapped their hands and danced a kind of farandole in the torchlight. An unveiled Subi woman exorcized evil spirits with a prolonged and quavering howl. She was answered by the faint yapping of the pariah dogs that came down from the mountain slopes to devour the Parsee dead and to wander among the tombstones of the ancient Jewish cemetery. A few Yemeni Bedouin looked on with uneasy fascination. It was remembered in the Yemen that the Prophet, when he heard the music of pipes, had put his fingers in his ears, although recently Yahya had written a poem in music’s praise, mentioning that its use promoted calm and the dutiful acceptance of the orders of those placed in authority.

  Finally the feasting and the many delays were at an end. Two days later, half an hour before the appointed sailing time, we rowed out to the dhow and climbed the rope ladder again.

  VI

  Promptly at six o’clock the nakhoda raised his arms and gave an order. Several of the crew scrambled down to the bows and heaved the anchor up. Others grasped the rope and began to hoist the sail. This task, like the others on the dhow, was done to a rhythmic chant. A leader set the time by cries of ‘He bab’, and, with each heave, the haulers roared all together, ‘Allah karim’. Some of the passengers went to help the crew with the sail. Before it was halfway up the mast, a chance breath of wind caught it and the dhow began to move slowly forward. Immediately, the helpers let go of the rope and clambered hastily to the sides to say goodbye to their friends. The air resounded with parting cries of ‘God keep you’, and ‘Go in peace’.

  It was a hot and airless evening. The burnished breast of the harbour curved gently with a sinuous movement from the depths and, in places, a vagrant breeze frosted its surface with changing designs. Momentarily the great triangular sail filled with wind, and strained billowing at the mast. Then just as suddenly it drained out and hung down loosely. We moved so slowly that looking at distant objects we seemed to be stationary. Only a gentle straining of timbers assured us that we were under way, and in the water thin streams of iridescence spread out and curled into rings over the gently heaving wake as the ship’s sides disturbed the oiliness of the surface. Even the gull perched on the mast remained standing trance-like on one leg, and, as night drew close, stirred only to put its head under its wing.

  While we were still a distance from the mouth of the harbour the sun began to roll down the sky, gilding the ship with yellow light. Some of the Yemeni who had previously wound cloths round their mouths now covered themselves completely. They believed that the rays of the setting sun were harmful and, for this reason, in the Yemeni capital, Sana’a, the houses had no ordinary glass windows facing west, but in their stead, round or oval apertures with panes of thin alabaster. These they called ‘kamar’ (moon) on account of the moonlight effect they gave.

  The sun reached the horizon. Silhouetted against the brilliant sky were the tall raked masts of the dhows that still lay between us and the open sea. The faint stir of urban noises reached us
across the still water, rising above the soft splash of oars and the lapping of the water against our ship. At the sonorous ‘azaan’ of the muezzin the nakhoda turned from the wheel and, facing east, raised a quavering voice in the call to salvation. Now the evening air came up over the bows, cleansing the ship of the staleness of sacking and dried fish and bilge. We clumsily moved the packing cases about to clear a little area of private space, and laid down our blankets. Most of the passengers who had come aboard with us lay huddled up asleep, but the Hadrami from the eastern end of the coast collected in the bows and began to sing the quavering songs of their country.

  Packages of food had been left in our luggage and we were endeavouring to find them when our neighbour on the deck, father of a family of three, uttered what sounded like a cry of alarm. They had been busy with their supper, and now the man scrambled to his feet and came over smiling and bowing. What had become of our meal? he wanted to know. It was the first of a number of such embarrassing situations. These people, we were to discover, found it difficult to eat in the presence of others who were not eating without inviting them to share their meal.

  We rummaged among our baggage, produced sandwiches, smiled and bowed and held them aloft. We had learned our first lesson, but it was a small problem that constantly recurred, and it took us a while to understand the complex routines of hospitality that governed life on board.

  We soon became friends with our neighbours on the deck, and this quickly spread to the majority of the passengers and then to members of the crew. Possibly only the Western world tends to regard questioning of strangers as impolite. On the dhow curiosity was even a demonstration of good manners. A young man in temporary possession of a few square yards on the other side of the deck leapt to his feet at my approach, and smilingly said, ‘Ask me something about myself.’ I asked him whether he was married and what he did for a living, and scribbled his replies in my notebook. At this he was clearly gratified.