I wish longingly to fare homeward and see the day of my returning. And if some god shall wreck me in the wine-dark deep, even so I will endure.
Homer, The Odyssey
On the morning of 10 November, we left Al Ghaydah in a convoy of four pick-up trucks with the sultan in the lead. He’d decided that the safest thing to do was leave the country for a few days himself and go to the safety of Oman, where he would meet some diplomats who might be able to help in negotiations with the Saudis, who had by now issued an ultimatum: accept the UAE troops willingly in the ports and on the borders, or else prepare to be invaded.
We left after breakfast. The drivers were bleary eyed after a full day of khat-chewing the day before. They knew they had to get their fill, as they couldn’t take any across the border to Oman, where it was illegal.
I got into the back seat of one of the cars and sat next to Abshir and Sayeed. Both of them seemed to be relieved to be going back to Oman; even Sayeed, who was Mahri himself, preferred the calm streets of Salalah to the constant edge of living in a rebel hideout. We took the same road as we had entered on, first driving out across the dry river bed and following the coast to the east. We passed the African fishermen, who sat around on the beach oblivious to the political machinations going on all around. For them it was one and the same. As long as there were fish to catch, they didn’t care who stood around on the borders.
Soon the country became more undulating and the mountains closed in from the north. The road wound upwards, following the jagged cliffs around and zigzagging up and down over the precipices above a glistening ocean. I saw dolphins in the bay and wondered if they were the same ones I’d seen on the way in. We passed the dusty villages hemmed in by palm glades and waterfalls and I couldn’t help but think that I was leaving paradise. I had no idea what lay ahead, or was it behind?
I’d lost my sense of purpose now. For two months I’d been moving forward, driven by a singular urge to explore Arabia, whatever that may mean. But for me, it had necessitated movement. By moving I was able to compare, to contrast and to draw parallels. Getting stuck in one place meant a loss of momentum and with that the prospect of getting stuck in one narrative, learning only one side of the story – the risk of becoming drawn in too far.
But there was something else, too. I was only halfway. I knew that what lay ahead could be the most difficult part of the journey. Now I’d been defeated by Yemen, what did that mean? What were my options? I had no idea how I would complete the journey I’d set out to do. It might sound dramatic, and perhaps a little petulant, but I couldn’t just fly home and give up. There was more at stake than merely the loss of pride of not having completed the expedition.
I’d given up everything for this. I’d set out on my ultimate journey against all the odds. I’d done it with no external funding or official commission. There was no TV deal, only the backing of a couple of good friends, and I had a duty, to them as much as myself, to finish the job. I’d set out to learn about Arabia and the people who lived there, and I hadn’t even seen the half of it yet.
I dreamt of seeing the Hejaz, Petra, Jerusalem and Damascus. I’d promised myself the prize of standing on the shores of the Mediterranean at Byblos, in the ruins of antiquity, looking out west towards a Europe I’d left behind so long ago, and south towards the Nile, where this long journey began all those years before.
And in any case, what did I have to go back to? This was my life, my work and my passion. I’d lost my girlfriend: she’d left me, finally fed up with my wanderings. I had no job, no ties apart from my parents, and nothing but the prospect of a drizzly winter in London. No. I had to find a way to carry on.
We continued into the mountains and into the mist of the forest. By the time we reached the border post, it was already dark and it had started to rain. The Omani border force, quite content to let us depart illegally into Yemen, weren’t quite so happy to see us come back, especially in a convoy filled with armed rebels and in the company of an exiled king.
It took three hours of standing around in the rain and hard negotiations and persuasion on the part of Abshir, Sayeed and the sultan himself to convince the Omani officer in command that our intentions were innocent. We sent one of the cars back filled with all the guns and had to somehow cram all the tribal chiefs and their bodyguards into three pick-up trucks. By ten p.m., however, we had left the mountains behind and arrived back in Salalah, cold, wet and tired, but at least we were alive.
I said goodbye to the sultan in the lobby of his hotel. He’d offered to pay for my stay there, but I didn’t want to be a burden any longer, and anyway he had an important job to do, trying to negotiate a peace deal with the coalition. And from a selfish perspective, he was a wanted man, and I didn’t think it was wise to be staying in the same hotel while I myself was trying to figure out a way of getting around Yemen.
I found myself a room in the same hotel I’d left the last time I was here, and arranged to meet Abshir the following day to see about a plan. That night I passed out and slept better than I had done in weeks.
The following morning, I gathered my thoughts and stared at a map. I followed the coastline from Salalah round to the west. That was the way I’d driven into Yemen, all the way to Al Ghaydah, and then on to Qishn, four hundred kilometres away. I looked at the coastline: Mukalla, Aden and then the narrow straits where Djibouti is but a stone’s throw away. I followed the course of the Red Sea. The first port inside Saudi Arabia was Jazan. I knew instinctively that was where I needed to get to, somehow.
For now, though, there was no way of entering the secretive kingdom. I’d applied months ago for a Saudi visa, and been told that they don’t issue tourist visas. I’d tried applying for a journalist visa. They didn’t do them either. A business visa? Not a chance unless you work in oil, it seems. I’d tried everything. I’d pulled some strings and asked the British Embassy in Riyadh to see if they could help. I was met with a dubious, bureaucratic throat-clearing. I’d even managed to get a personal introduction from a very senior member of the royal family, but that had also disappeared into the vortex of the diplomatic service.
I was told I might have to fly back to London, but there was one more option – apparently the Saudi Embassy in Djibouti was a bit more, how do we say, flexible on these sorts of matters. I saw on the news that there were the rumblings of war between Saudi Arabia and Iran – if that happened, then I knew my journey was completely over.
When you’re on an expedition, there’s nothing worse than getting held up somewhere. Danger, jeopardy and general excitement are all fine; part and parcel of the journey itself. But getting bogged down by bureaucracy and paperwork is torment. When momentum is lost, it’s hard to get it back again.
I looked at Djibouti on the map. The tiny country lodged in between Ethiopia, Eritrea and Somalia could be the key to the puzzle. For now, it seemed my only hope was to find a way to get there. It was as good a plan as any.
‘A dhow?’ Abshir laughed. ‘Nobody goes on a dhow,’ he said, when I met him later in the afternoon the following day.
‘But there’s hundreds of them in the harbour. Somebody must use them,’ I said.
‘Yes, of course, fishermen. And some of them take cargo to Africa or Iran or India.’
‘Well, that would be perfect,’ I said, with a sudden glimmer of hope.
‘No, no. It’s impossible. They’re run by war lords and Somalis.’
‘You’re a Somali.’
‘That’s exactly why I’m telling you not to even think about a dhow. You’d be a sitting duck, floating on a matchbox in the middle of the Gulf of Aden in the most pirate-infested waters in the world. They’d have a field day if they caught you.’
‘But how would they know I’m on it? I’d just blend in with the fishermen.’
Abshir looked serious and shook his head.
‘No, no. I tell you what, why don’t you look into a proper ship? Cargo ships and oil tankers sometimes pass by Salalah on their way to the Red Sea. Maybe you could hitch a ride on one of those?’
It seemed like a reasonable idea, I thought.
‘I’ll ask my people and you ask yours,’ he said.
For the next few days, I sat in my hotel room staring into the screen of my laptop; scouring the internet for contacts. I tried calling and emailing all the main shipping companies and drew on all my contacts from the military who worked in maritime security. Most of them ignored me and even with those who picked up, the answer was always the same. No.
‘You won’t be insured,’ said Maersk.
‘We can’t stop in the Red Sea,’ said the captain of the Braemar.
‘We don’t pick up in Salalah,’ said the chief of Affinity Tankers.
Orient Marine came back with a rather polite, ‘Human loads don’t suit us.’
After days of trying and being hung up on, I did find one company willing to do the journey, but they insisted I’d need an armed escort and outlying boats to protect against pirates. The only catch was that it would cost one hundred and twenty thousand pounds for the privilege.
I was back to square one. To make matters worse, I was rapidly running out of money, and my Oman visa was due to expire in a couple of days. I needed an answer fast. I called Abshir.
‘Any joy?’ I said hopefully, although I expected the worst.
‘All the big companies say no. They just aren’t willing to take a foreigner on board.’
‘Yes, I know, that’s the response I got.’
‘But there is one option,’ he said.
I suddenly got a tingle down my spine.
‘There’s a guy at the port. His name is Aladdin, and …’
‘Let me guess, a magic bloody carpet?’ I butted in.
‘No,’ said Abshir. ‘It won’t be that comfortable.’
‘Well, what is it?’
‘There’s a boat, although I don’t know how big it is. It’s leaving in a couple of days.’
‘Great,’ I said. ‘How much?’
‘They’ll take you for free, as long as you pay for your own food, and maybe chip in for the fuel. It’ll take five or six days.’
I was ecstatic. ‘What’s the catch?’ I said.
‘Meet me at the port and I’ll explain.’ He hung up. I was glad he was willing to help me. He didn’t have to, but he sounded somewhat embarrassed after failing to see me off in Yemen. He was a fixer after all and had a reputation to maintain like everyone else.
I took a taxi and parked up outside the gates of the commercial harbour. It being a strategic facility, no one without a pass was allowed in, so I sat there under the shade of a palm tree waiting for Abshir.
True to his word, ten minutes later he pulled up in a white Toyota Land Cruiser. On top of it was a flashing orange light attached to a coiled wire, and on the dashboard lay an orange hi-vis vest. Abshir was sitting in the passenger seat. The driver was another African with glowing teeth.
‘This is Aladdin,’ said Abshir, winding down the window.
‘At your service, mate,’ interjected the driver.
The man, who was clearly a Somali, also had the unmistakable accent of an African who’d spent a fair amount of time in London. He didn’t get out of the car and the interaction felt like something tantamount to a dodgy drug deal.
‘So, you want a boat, eh?’ he said, in a menacing whisper.
‘Yes, I want to go to Djibouti.’
‘Nah,’ he muttered. ‘No boats to Djibouti,’ he added, shaking his head. I looked at Abshir, who just shrugged.
‘Well then, where do the boats go?’ I was beginning to lose patience. This guy was meant to be the one in the know.
Aladdin smiled. ‘There’s one boat and it leaves tomorrow to Bosaso.’
‘Bosaso?’ I said. ‘Where on earth is that?’
I looked at the map on my phone and followed the coast south along from Djibouti. The next port along was Berbera in Somaliland. I kept swiping. Another three hundred miles to the east lay Bosaso, in the heart of Puntland, Somalia.
‘Somalia,’ I said, out loud.
‘Yep.’ He beamed.
‘Puntland. Isn’t it one of the most dangerous parts of Somalia?’ I asked.
‘Yep.’ He grinned again. ‘But it’s the only boat. The next one to Berbera might be in a week, or even a month.’
I looked at Abshir. He shrugged again.
‘Do you want it or not?’ He looked over his shoulder. Aladdin clearly worked at the port, but I suspected it wasn’t his position to be smuggling white men onto boats bound for Somalia.
I sighed.
‘I’ll take it.’
Aladdin winked at me. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘You’re doing what?’ said Richard, my contact at the maritime security agency. I thought I better check in. ‘That’s off thefucking Richter scale. You do know that is the most pirated route in the whole Arabian Sea? You’re mad.’
‘I don’t have a choice.’ I said.
‘Take a bloody plane.’
‘You know me better than that.’
‘Well then, at least let the Royal Navy know, just in case you get nabbed.’
‘I’ll do that.’
I knew it was a risky move. I’d be uninsured, travelling at the mercy of the Somalis, and for all I knew, they could be pirates themselves. Maybe they’d steal my stuff and throw me overboard? No, no, I’m worth more to them alive. Perhaps they’d sell me to their cousins? All sorts of anxieties scrabbled through my mind, as I packed my bags and stocked up with provisions for the impending voyage. I finally settled myself with the hopeful thought that at least if I was travelling on a pirate ship, there was probably less likelihood of getting kidnapped, especially if I gave them a decent tip up front.
The next day I arrived back at the port at two p.m., as directed by Aladdin. Abshir was also waiting for me to say goodbye.
‘Good luck, Lev. When you get to Somalia, don’t hang around in Bosaso. Get yourself to Hargeisa as quickly as you can, it’s safer there.’
‘Are you sure you don’t want to come?’ I said. Abshir had been good to me and helped me way beyond any expectations, and I knew I’d miss him.
He chuckled. ‘No, no. You won’t catch me going back there. And anyway, I don’t think I’m welcome.’ He winked. ‘I’ll see you in London when you finish.’ With that, he waved goodbye and got into his car and drove off, leaving me with Aladdin.
‘Come on, mate, I can’t be seen here with a white man. The boss will think I’m up to no good. Follow me.’
He led me in between some shipping containers and into a little office. He looked around.
‘Quick, nobody is here. Passport,’ he said. I handed him mine and out of a dusty drawer he pulled out a rubber stamp. He pressed it firmly into an ink pad and stamped me out of Oman.
‘There you go. Immigration done, let’s go before anyone sees us.’
We sneaked out and walked quickly across the yard. We walked to the harbour itself, where the tiny fishing boats were dwarfed by enormous oil tankers and naval vessels.
‘There she is,’ said Aladdin, pointing ahead to where the tiniest wooden dhow was being loaded up.
‘Are you for real?’
I looked on in astonishment at the rickety little vessel, which couldn’t have been more than sixty feet in length. A dozen Indians were busy hurling cardboard boxes onto the deck.
‘That’s the boat? It’s not fit for an ocean crossing.’
‘Well, that’s your only option,’ said Aladdin. ‘It leaves at dusk.’ He gave me a dirty slip of paper written in Arabic, which I assumed to be my boarding permit, and he walked away.
There’s no turning back now, I thought to myself. Inshallah. It’s God’s will. I’d convinced myself there was no choice in the matter, that I was here because of fate. I’d asked for a dhow and now I’d got one. Be careful what you wish for.
Resigned, I followed my destiny and walked up the plank, and climbed over the rigging onto the port side of the boat. The Indians looked at me with an impassive glare. I tried to introduce myself, but they didn’t speak a word of English.
I looked around at my reluctant hosts. For the most part they seemed inclined to ignore me, but I was determined to get them on side from the outset, so I got stuck in helping them carry the boxes, which they seemed to appreciate. None of them wore shoes, so I took mine off as well. Eventually one of the men came up and insisted I sat down in the captain’s cabin. Through a mixture of sign language and repetition I understood him to be the captain and that his name was Mr Hussain.
‘Gujarati.’ He pointed to his chest.
‘English.’ I pointed to mine.
We shook hands.
‘Ingleesh, ingleesh.’ Mr Hussain gave a little head-wobble in the Indian fashion and smiled in a bewildered way.
‘No Ingleesh boat.’
I think he was trying to convey that he’d never had any English people on his boat before. In fact, he’d probably never met any Englishmen before in any circumstances, and having one forced upon him by the Somali boat owners must have come as a bit of a surprise.
I counted the men. There wasn’t a Somali in sight, but I think there were fifteen Gujaratis in total, although it was difficult to tell, as they kept disappearing into tiny hatches that led to the belly of the boat. There was almost no room at all to sleep. The entire bow was taken up with the boxes that were stacked five high. On closer inspection, I discovered that the valuable cargo was nothing more than thousands of packets of powdered milk.
At sundown, we set sail. Or more specifically, we motored out of the harbour, leaving the bright lights of the port city behind. I was too nervous and excited to sleep much and so I sat on deck as the hot night air breezed past. With each breath we chugged further and further into the night, where the glittering waves appeared to blend seamlessly into the infinite stars of the Arabian sky.
The Indian cook, the youngest member of the crew, took a shine to me and was keen to practise his three or four words of English. He handed me some sweet chai and we watched as the stern bobbed and left a trail of sparkling foam. In the cabin, Mr Hussain sat cross-legged on a cushion, as another of his crew steered using an old wooden wheel that looked like it had been salvaged from a pirate ship. There was a compass glued to the helm and the entire boat was pitch black. Apart from the red glow of the Indians’ cheroot cigarettes, there were no torches allowed.
‘No light,’ whispered the boy. ‘Somali pirate.’
He pointed out into the darkness with a wild glare and a flash of yellow teeth.
For four nights and five days we navigated to the south-west. There was more than eight hundred kilometres of open sea between us and the Horn of Africa. We’d average at five knots, something like six-and-a-half miles per hour, but when the wind was strong and blew in the right direction, the crew mustered to the rigging and unleashed a huge patchwork sail, which bolstered our speed, and we managed to cover over two hundred kilometres in twenty-four hours.
For the most part, the sea was calm and we ploughed on. Dolphins followed us occasionally and the men laid fishing lines out to trail, but caught nothing. The Indians rarely spoke to one another, and each had their little tasks, whether making the tea or scrubbing the decks. Cleanliness was important, and Mr Hussain told me off for cutting my toenails on deck. Most of them shaved daily using a cracked mirror and a cut-throat razor, leaving only pencil-thin moustaches. I joined them in their rituals and got rid of my two-month beard.
Going to the toilet was probably the most challenging task. A wooden box had been roped on the side of the boat with a hole cut in the bottom. To answer the call of nature, you had to squat and aim for the hole between your legs and watch the results drop ten feet into the green ocean below. Fish would trail us in eager anticipation of their next feed.
The walls of the cabin were covered in posters of Mecca and the Kaaba and yet I never once saw these Muslim sailors pray. They ate in a circle, sat cross-legged on the floor; dishes of rice and sometimes chicken. But most of all they drank tea and smoked their little bidis. Life at sea was dull and monotonous. Often the only noise was the constant crackling of the CB radio. It would sometimes tune in to faraway frequencies and for a second or two I’d be listening to the conversations of Iranian merchants, Saudi sailors and even the familiar tone of a British oil-tanker captain.
The only excitement was when the captain, Mr Hussain, would rush in and listen to the radio for reports of piracy and change direction when they came. For me, the outsider, there was nothing to do but read and think. And when I finished the books I had with me, all I had to do was think, and that is a dangerous thing.
For the first time in a very long time, I was homesick. My thoughts drifted away from Arabia and towards home. It was the middle of November and I imagined how the Christmas lights would be going up in the streets and my friends would be preparing to spend time with their families. I would be missing yet another holiday, missing my parents grow another year older. With each missed birthday and wedding, it was another black mark against me, and soon I’d stop getting the invitations altogether.
I was getting fed up of travelling, truth be told. In the past year I’d been away from home for almost nine months. And in the five years before that, I’d been away at least seven months of the year. The reality was that I’d been on the road pretty much constantly for eight years now, and it just struck me. I missed my ex-girlfriend. I’d thrown away too many perfectly good relationships in favour of the freedom of the road.
I supposed that I’d accepted that as part of my lifestyle, but now I had time to think, it suddenly seemed to sink in. What the hell was I doing? Was it all worth it? I started to wonder about all the things I’d lost and sacrificed because of my own doings, and I realised I was forlorn. Not only that, I was scared stiff. It dawned on me there and then, in the little captain’s cabin, that I was leading a very selfish, ridiculous life. There I was in the middle of the Arabian Sea, surrounded by the prospect of kidnap by pirates, or being eaten by sharks. I was lonely and afraid.