Seeker

by Rita Pomade

  While Bernard was working on the two projects, I thought I’d look around for work. It was late autumn, nights were cool in spite of our being directly on the equator, and spending some time in Singapore didn’t seem like a bad idea. The city felt safe, and it was easy to get around by bus. English was one of the four official languages, but many Singaporeans felt more comfortable in the languages of their ethnic roots whether Tamil, Malay, or Mandarin, so I thought it would be easy to find contract work as an English Second Language teacher. It didn’t matter if we stayed a while. We weren’t in a hurry to get anywhere, and keeping a yacht seaworthy was costlier than we had anticipated. The time worn saying among yachties that a boat is a hole in the water that you keep pouring money into wasn’t a joke. Without money coming in, we were going to run out sooner than we’d expected.

  It wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be. The best schools hired from applications received outside the country. Those that would hire on the spot were seedy fly-by-night places that paid peanuts; that is, if you were lucky enough to be paid before they disappeared. We decided that, as soon as Bernard finished working on the fridge and bowsprit, we’d leave for countries where the dollar went further than in Singapore.

  The first job he tackled was putting together the fridge. It had been an icebox that fit neatly into a space in the galley. Inside the box he put a coil of copper, a container with below freezing liquid, and a copper pipe that ran from the fridge to the compressor on the engine. If we ran the engine for an hour, it would keep the fridge cold for twenty-four hours. Bernard’s uncanny ability to make anything from nothing endeared him to me. I thought that if the world ever came to an end and everything was destroyed, he’d be the one person I’d want to be with for my survival.

  He solved the problem of the bowsprit by sawing six feet off a two-by-four beam and screwing it to the front of the yacht. He ran a cable from the end of the bowsprit, jutting out in front of the boat, to the top of the foremast so that he could attach a staysail between the two points. It did improve the yacht’s stability and gave the Santa Rita the speed he was looking for. There were no stanchion lines around the bowsprit for protection, but there would be no reason to have to go out on it — or so we thought.

  With the staysail in place, we were ready to lift anchor for the Malacca Strait — another stretch of water infested by pirates, this time coming from Thailand.

  Chapter 15

  HINDU MIRACLES, BUDDHIST SNAKES AND A BROKEN MAST

  Winter 1983: Malaysia

  There is nothing more enticing, disenchanting,

  and enslaving than the life at sea.

  — JOSEPH CONRAD

  As we lifted anchor to leave Singapore, I already missed the roti pratas that had become a daily ritual in our lives. Our morning dinghy ride for breakfast at the roti prata stand had been the one moment in ride for breakfast at the the day Bernard, Stefan and I were together as a family. It re-established our connection to each other and was a stabilizing interlude in our peripatetic lifestyle.

  When we approached the Malacca Strait, I shifted my focus to what lay ahead — a planned pit stop or two in Malaysia, and some time in Phuket, Sri Lanka and the Maldives before the three-week stretch to the Red Sea. It was now late January and we had to get to the Red Sea by May to avoid facing the monsoons that tore through the Indian Ocean at that time of year.

  The Malacca Strait was notorious for pirate activity. So once the Santa Rita entered the strait, we put our pirate evasion strategy into full operation. It meant constant vigilance to spot suspicious-looking boats before they got too close. That way, we’d have enough time to make our getaway in the opposite direction. A strategic part of our tactic was two-hour watches day and night.

  There were other reasons to be vigilant. We were following the route of the big cargo ships. Huge containers were known to fall off these ships, leaving only a corner floating above water. We’d already heard stories about yachts smashing into these floating behemoths. I thought of them as stealth enemies lurking in the dark underbelly of the sea waiting to annihilate happy, little fibreglass sprites like our Santa Rita riding the surface.

  There was also the issue of whales, who during mating season don’t like smooth-bellied hulls crowding their territory. A Dutch couple we had met in the Philippines had their yacht rammed by a whale, and still had the dent in the side of their steel hull as proof of their story. Our fibreglass hull was too fragile to withstand the whack of a whale. We’d split in two and sink in no time.

  Until now, we’d been lax about watches. The autopilot did much of the work, while we checked in from time to time to give a cursory look over the horizon or to tweak the sails. A whale attack or a floating container lying in wait seemed more remote than a bunch of fishermen, who could turn to piracy any moment. But we weren’t chancing any of it.

  I prepared myself for a bleary-eyed week of night watches when Stefan offered a way out. “I’ll take the night watch,” he told Bernard. “Give me from 10 at night to 6 in the morning. You and mom can take turns on the day watch.”

  He later told me he needed that time to think — that he always thought better at night and didn’t sleep much anyway. He’d already told me in Hong Kong that he’d dropped out of junior college in Montreal to join us because he had no direction and didn’t want to waste his time.

  “I have to think about my future,” he said, “and what I want to do.”

  “Fair enough,” I said. I’d gone from high school to university without any notion of who I was or what I wanted — a decision I later regretted. I respected his courage for taking time out, for following his own voice, for searching for his own integrity.

  Captain Elliot, a retired sea captain we met in the Philippines, told us the Malay coastline was the most beautiful in the world. The anticipation of seeing something unique helped quell some of the anxiety of a possible pirate encounter. I knew through my discipline in meditation, a practice I’d kept up since Hong Kong, that if I emptied my mind and focused on one point, it calmed me. This would become essential to my survival in the adventures that we were yet to encounter. For now it was the Malay coast, and I wasn’t disappointed. Malaysia was lush and green with tropical rain forests tumbling down to the water’s edge.

  On the second day of our sail we entered Port Klang, a busy, uninspiring port town full of warehouses with a smattering of affable people who lived in houses built on stilts. Our destination was Kuala Lumpur, the nation’s capital. Stefan took charge of the Santa Rita while Bernard and I took a taxi to the capital, about an hour and a half inland. We wanted to see how it compared with Singapore. We also thought we could get a nice variety of fresh produce there.

  Unlike Singapore, Kuala Lumpur was in no hurry to rip away the old. In the heart of a verdant, tropical rain forest, the Malays had carved out a city of stately beauty and refinement. The city had once been part of an important trade route connecting China with India. In the 1800s it became a major tin mining centre. As a result many cultures passed through, leaving part of their architectural heritage behind. Each culture modified its building plans to accommodate the aesthetic of the Malay people and the tropical demands of the environment. It made the city not only beautiful, but refreshingly unique.

  We strolled by Moghul-inspired buildings with arched stone windows, carved façades and Greek columns that sat side by side with Tudor and Victorian buildings. A gothic cathedral and a number of gothic-influenced churches shared space with domed mosques and ornate Indian temples. They all seemed to fit seamlessly into the city’s backdrop of soaring high-rises. We eventually arrived at the Chinese sector where row upon row of shop-houses vied for space with hordes of people who crowded the narrow, winding streets. The area teemed with life. At one of the outdoor produce stands, I elbowed my way through the bulk of shoppers and bought three-inch eggplants, footlong string beans and succulent mangosteens to replenish our dwindling stores of fresh food.

  When our eyes grew tired and our f
eet started to flatten, we took refuge at a hawker stand to recharge our batteries. Like Singapore, Kuala Lumpur was a city that took pride in its food. It was hard to select from the wide array of Malay, Chinese and Indian dishes. We finally decided on a national favourite of rice and chopped chicken leg drenched in a chili and garlic sauce. Huge banana leaves were placed in front of us, and the chicken and rice dish dumped directly onto the leaves. The only utensil was our right hand. I took great pleasure in balling up the rice between my fingers and flicking the whole sloppy mess into my mouth with my thumb — a technique I learned by watching the diners at the neighbouring table.

  I thought about how efficient it was to eat off a banana leaf, and wished I had been brought up where bananas grew in abundance so that I could indulge in this labour-saving way to eat. I did get a banana plant (not a tree, I discovered) when I moved to Mexico many years later, and I still love eating with my fingers. But I confine my illicit pleasure to the privacy of my home.

  Bernard was less enthusiastic about eating with his hand. It surprised me as I’d thought of him as the earthier of the two of us. He was not in the least bothered by the infrequent bathing we could permit ourselves. Nor did he mind wearing the same clothes day after day, the problem being our small capacity for water storage. Seasoned yachties told me the best way to do laundry was to put the dirty clothes in a net and drag it behind the yacht. After one try, I settled for grit instead of sea salt in my clothing, but it wasn’t a satisfying compromise. I concluded that being physical and being sensuous weren’t the same. Bernard took pleasure in the nitty-gritty. I took pleasure in the senses.

  After a day of walking the streets, engaging in small talk with strangers, and sampling a variety of rice and noodle snacks washed down with chilled coconut drinks, we headed back to the Santa Rita for the next leg of our journey to Penang.

  As luck would have it, our arrival in Penang coincided with the full moon of the tenth month of the Hindu calendar, last week in January. The day marked the celestial time that Parathi, wife of Shiva, gave her warrior son, Lord Muruga, the necessary spear to fight and destroy evil in the world. We knew nothing about Lord Muruga, and still wouldn’t know, if we hadn’t arrived during Thaipusam, the yearly Hindu festival that honours Lord Muruga.

  We walked off the Santa Rita and into an extraordinary scene on the streets of Penang. The Tamil, who are Hindu, but also some Chinese, who were probably Buddhist, and a few Sikhs living in this Muslim country were busily pounding coconuts onto the pavement, spilling their oozy contents on the cement and leaving sharp shells all over the street. In the middle of this activity, a huge silver chariot pulled by two decorated oxen passed by.

  We later learned the crushing of the coconuts signified releasing the ego, and it was Lord Muruga in the chariot being taken from his home in one temple to be brought to another several miles away. A procession of people on their way to be blessed followed the chariot. They carried pots of milk on their heads or heavy semi-circular platforms that were decorated with ribbons, coloured paper, pictures of gods, and/or peacock feathers. I purchased several feathers to take back to the boat as they were known to bring good luck.

  Makeshift stalls, decorated in flowers and coloured paper crowded the edges of the road. From these stalls volunteers handed out water, fruit and sweet buns to the followers of Lord Muruga and whoever else asked. It looked as though all of Penang showed up for this festival.

  The next day was even more spectacular. Tamil men in loincloths stood stoically still while small groups of “trainers” or family members drove spears, skewers, and meat hooks through their tongues and cheeks, and into their backs, chests, and arms. Some of the hooks had chains that connected one hook to another. Others had fruit or heavy coconuts hanging from smaller hooks that were imbedded in their flesh. Still others had ropes attached to the hooks in their backs and shoulders from which ox carts were dragged, their skin stretching from the weight of the carts.

  A number of men carried heavy platforms on their shoulders, similar to the ones I had seen the day before, but they were now attached to their bodies with strings tied to the hooks sunk into their flesh. Burdened in this way, the devotees climbed five hundred steps to a hilltop temple.

  We saw no blood or any sign of pain. Later, when the hooks and skewers were removed, they left no marks on the skin. The holes filled up as though they never were. I asked a Chinese gentleman standing beside me about this ritual.

  “Doing penance,” he said. “At least some of them are. Others wish for their prayers to be answered or are giving thanks for having them fulfilled.”

  “How can they do that?” I asked. He shook his head and walked away. Bernard and I were stupefied and more than a little curious.

  By asking around, we learned that the men had spent over a month in prayer and celibacy. Milk and fruit were their only nourishment. The heavy, semi-circular platforms they carried on their shoulders were called Kavadi and represented their burdens. These men were in some kind of trance, but I couldn’t figure out how they got there.

  Years later, I started to doubt what I had seen. I looked this festival up on the internet and found several articles by National Geographic verifying my experience. I remember being in awe of the profound commitment these supplicants had to their beliefs. I don’t think I could ever believe that strongly about anything to give myself over to such an ordeal. The whole experience was mesmerizing and humbling. Even more so, given that the whole town, whatever their cultural or religious orientation, was involved in this rite. Spectators and participants were one and the same. We were among very few onlookers.

  Perhaps I should have been more of a participant. A prayer or two might have saved us from an unpleasant surprise the following morning. Bernard discovered that during the night we had drifted too close to a neighbouring tramp boat. Our anchor got caught in the other boat’s anchor chain, and when the crew lifted the anchors, our boom swung behind our stern and hit the tramp boat’s massive steel hull, snapping our mizzenmast in two. When I came on deck, Bernard and Stefan were already there, inspecting the heaped sail and tangled ropes that looked to me like crushed wings and dangling tendons around the broken leg of a humongous stork.

  “Oh my God,” I mouthed. I had lost my voice.

  Bernard gave me a quick glance but said nothing.

  The broken mast cut my breath. I could feel my knees give, and I had to sit down. The Santa Rita was more than an object of pleasure. She was our home, our shared dream of many years of hard work, and the investment of our total savings. Most important, this floating bubble of plastic was our survival. Now she was crippled, no longer whole.

  “There’s no boatyard in Penang,” I said. “There’s nothing.”

  I couldn’t figure out how we’d be able to get another mast, and if we did, who’d have the expertise to install it. I had the panicky feeling we’d have to abandon the yacht. I was totally irrational.

  Bernard appeared calm, but I knew he was hurting. Before leaving Taiwan, we decided to hang the painting by Earthstone Joe that we’d bought in Taipei in the salon. Bernard’s tension when he had to put a nail into the cabin wall was palpable. It was a though he was mutilating his child. Now he had to deal with a real mutilation. I wanted to say something to comfort him, but I couldn’t. He was too removed for me to reach him. He wouldn’t even make eye contact. When Bernard felt a deep emotion, he disappeared within himself.

  His total attention was on the snapped mast, and he spent quite a while in reflection, trying to figure out how to get the two halves to hold together. Stefan and I tiptoed around the deck trying to keep out of his way.

  “That mast’s hollow,” he finally said. “I could jerry rig the severed halves by inserting something inside and screw the two halves to whatever I insert. But what?” He had to come up with a material strong enough to hold the mast together under a strong wind and in the worst possible weather. He settled on ironwood, a hardwood tree that grew in Penang and was said to be
as strong as steel. He took the measurements of the interior of the mast and went to find someone who could carve out the proper dimensions in the wood for him to insert between the two halves of the mast.

  While Bernard was involved with this project, I thought it would be a good idea if Stefan and I did some sightseeing. I knew from my Hong Kong experience the controlled nervous tension that was becoming more and more a part of Bernard’s character could find its outlet in rejection and nasty innuendo. I wanted us to be out of the way until he worked through some of his pent-up frustration. I also noticed that he had started drinking his homemade saki even though it hadn’t completely cured.

  I learned the previous day there was a snake temple on the island. “Could be an interesting adventure,” I told Stefan.

  I read him an excerpt from the tourist brochure I’d picked up at the Thaipusan festival:

  The snake temple was built in 1845 to honour Chor Soo Kong, a Buddhist monk who lived in the ninth century. Chor Soo Kong was a famous healer but also known for giving shelter to snakes. In 1843 a British resident of Penang prayed to Chor Soo Kong and was healed. He donated the land for the temple. After the temple was built, snakes entered of their own accord and stayed on to pay homage to the monk. This temple dedicated to Chor Soo Kong is the only snake temple in the world inhabited by pit vipers.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  Neither of us had an issue with snakes. I liked the fact they shed old skins as they grew — a nice metaphor for how we should all go through life. It also didn’t bother me that they crawled on their bellies. I thought it showed strength and determination because it wasn’t easy to move without legs.

  Also, unlike cockroaches that sneak around in the dark and leave dots of excrement wherever they go, snakes enjoy nature and don’t leave a trail of filth behind them. In Taiwan we had been inundated with roaches — flying ones, the size of small Mars bars. They flew through the windows and banged their heads against the walls before dropping to the floor. Their dried-out carcasses turned up in drawers, cabinets, and between the quilted blanket and wooden bed board we slept on. Even in death they couldn’t seem to disappear.