I entered this story for the 2015 Bridport Prize. It didn't make the long list but I still like it. If I was to rewrite it, I would spend more time on the characters and see more of the events through their eyes. I would value any criticism as I know that fiction is harder to write than the things I normally do. It is basically a true story. I was the nature guide on the trip.
“Zanzi-Bar”
The R.V. Prof. Antonov sailed from Dar es Salaam with 21 British passengers, a Russian crew of eight, a tour leader, a nature guide, a doctor and three stow-aways. The hot afternoon sun bore down on the ship but her forward motion generated a cooling breeze that the disorientated and disgruntled passengers desperately needed.
They had all flown in from London that morning to have their glossy-magazine expectations badly dented by the every-day inconveniences of visiting tropical East Africa. Leaving their air-conditioned airliner to walk on the concrete apron was like landing on another planet where the pull of gravity was too strong and the atmosphere far too hot and humid to support human life. The endless wait for their baggage inside the terminal building was a relief compared to the blast-furnace outside.
A local bus had been hired to get them to the ship, but the driver had been instructed to take the long way round as the crew needed more time to prepare for their arrival. The passengers quickly caught on and, during a sweaty visit to a market, they all agreed that they had seen enough of Dar es Salaam, thank you very much. The tour was cut short and they were driven into the docks where they were greeted by a ramshackle group of men who had set up an unofficial road block. None of the men looked over 30 and most of them wore baseball caps. The tallest of them wore black jeans and a hoody topped off with a white Muslim kufi. He spoke to the driver who asked everyone to get off the bus while a search was carried out. It was all done quietly as though this was “business as usual”, which it was. The passengers were sure they were about to be robbed of all their possessions and a lady remarked that this was “The perfect end to a perfect day”. “Don't you just love Africa?” . Somehow the driver talked or bribed his way out of the situation and they were allowed to get back on the bus without anything obvious going missing. All everyone wanted to do now was to get on board their ship and have a stiff drink.
The ship was not what they expected; it was not shiny-white and it was not a cruise liner. One passenger remarked;
“I gave up camping years ago and I’m not taking it up again now.”
He was told that he had signed up for an “expedition” not a cruise and this silenced him, but only briefly. The truth was that most of them had not read the literature that they had been sent. The fabulous pictures of scenery and wildlife and the magical place names of Zanzibar, Aldabra and Seychelles were enough to sell them the trip; the word “exclusive” helped too.
The Antonov could be described as a Russian fishery research vessel that was equipped to work in polar waters, but she was a spy ship. In the Cold War, she had been used to track NATO vessels and to listen to radio traffic from all sorts of places, which is why she was festooned with wires and radio masts mostly designed to receive signals rather than send them. Her current charter had begun in Chile and then passed through the Falklands, South Georgia and the Antarctic Peninsula. The second section of the expedition began in Cape Town, took in Madagascar and the Comoros and ended in Dar es Salaam. After all that time at sea the Antonov was not looking her best and, even if she had been, the passengers would still have found plenty to complain about.
After only a few hours steaming up the coast she put into Zanzibar where a walking tour of Stone Town was organised for the clients. It would be almost sun-set when they returned to the dock.
The crew stayed behind and conducted a routine search that revealed two handsome young Swahili men hiding under a lifeboat that was kept upside down on the heli-deck. They were able to explain to the Captain that they were on “safari” and hoped to get to Nairobi by taking a boat to Mombasa and then hitch-hiking rides from there. Three crewmen were assigned to get the boys ashore as quietly as possible and then send them away with a few US dollars to keep their mouths shut. The passengers were not told of the incident and nothing about it was entered in the ship’s log. All in all, Captain Nikolay Smirloff was happy that the situation had been settled with the minimum of fuss. The Swahili boys probably thought the whole thing went very well too; they had never been to Zanzibar before and their adventures were just beginning.
Smuggling people between countries, even by accident, is an illegal act. The ship could have been impounded while the Captain was taken to court, except that Zanzibar is currently part of Tanzania. Technically, the boys had never left their own country. All the same, any involvement by the Zanzibar authorities would have led to delays and some expenses too. To avoid such inconveniences, many stowaways are cast overboard from cargo boats every year.
Clutching drinks, the passengers watched astern as an impossibly large red ball of a sun set over the distant African mainland while the minarets and towers of Stone Town disappeared into the shadows below the horizon. The sea looked like a sheet of rippled gold leaf, cut across by the black shark-fin shapes of Arab dhow sailboats. As the ship picked up speed, the breeze drove most of the tourists below, but it was still warm and the few real enthusiasts on board stayed on deck to watch the Southern Cross appear in the inky tropical sky. For them this was the adventure of a lifetime and they did not wish to miss a minute of it. Their destination was the Aldabra atoll in the Seychelles Archipelago, “A thousand miles from anywhere,” as it says in the brochures.
Simon Nyiti huddled in a heap of ropes and chains that were stored below decks, right at the bow of the ship. He had no knowledge of the two Swahili boys and he had not moved from his hiding place, even when the ship stopped at Zanzibar. He planned to leave Africa behind him altogether; beyond that, he had no plan.
Simon was raised on the slopes of Mount Meru, in northern Tanzania near Arusha. His family had land there and he was engaged to be married to a local girl. He even owned some land in his own right. He asked himself “How on earth have I arrived on a Russian ship heading for God-knows-where?”
The answer is, simply by bad luck.
Until recently, Simon would have described himself as lucky, even privileged. He was small, wiry energetic and intelligent. He had been well educated at a Catholic school and had a degree in Agriculture from the University in Morogoro. He spoke good English as well as Kiswahili and a smattering of Latin, French and German. Through family contacts he had found work as an agricultural outreach officer in the Uluguru Mountains which reminded him of home. With the help of aid money from Sweden, he helped to introduce modern farming techniques such as intercropping and contour ploughing, both aimed at preventing the loss of valuable soil through erosion. The European Union funded other projects for forestry and fish farming as well as the management of water supplies for domestic and industrial use, mainly because Dar es Salaam’s water supply comes from the Ulugurus. Simon was on a secure career track that would make him relatively wealthy while being engaged in projects that he actually believed in.
Aid projects rely upon a steady supply of equipment and imported vehicles such as Landrovers from the UK and Toyotas from Japan. In Tanzania these vehicles arrive in Dar es Salaam and are usually impounded until someone negotiates their release. Simon, armed with all the right paperwork and a bag of Tanzanian shillings, was sent to “Dar” to secure a new white Landcruiser that the Swedes had sent for his project. This took him four days. His return to journey to Morogoro on the A7 highway should have taken about six or seven seven hours. He never arrived.
Simon was followed from the docks by four men in a silver Pajero 4x4. They waited until he made a stop and hit him over his bald head with a wrench, leaving him to die behind a petrol station in Msolwa. They back-tracked to Chalinze Junction but avoided the busy town by using dirt roads and cattle tracks for a few miles. They then drove the Toyota north on the A14 to the border with Kenya where, despite being brand new and sporting Swedish Aid logos, it was sold for a fraction of its value, probably to become a taxi in Nairobi. It had not yet been reported missing.
The garage owners in Msolwa were Gujaratis who knew that calling the police would bring more problems down on their heads, so they took Simon to a near-by Methodist mission. That was where he succumbed to the cerebral malaria that he had caught on the coast.
The Methodists looked after him well and his physical health slowly recovered but Simon was depressed and he decided that he could not return to the project having lost a valuable vehicle and a large bag of cash. His very strong Christian beliefs and sense of duty combined with his confused mental state persuaded him that, with no money at all, he had to back-track to Dar es Salaam in search of justice. Due to his dishevelled appearance he failed to make a good impression on the people at the Swedish Embassy and they more or less threw him out on the street.
After several weeks of living rough and trying to connect to friends and family, he became weak again and sank deeper into depression. He ran away from it all by climbing on board a random ship. It was very easy to do.
The deep inky water of the Indian Ocean slid by for two days with no land in sight and hardly a ripple on the surface. The tourists’ eagerness began to wear off as they searched an empty ocean for the birds and wildlife that the tour company had promised. There was no seaweed, no birds, turtles, whale-sharks or dolphins; not even any flotsam.
In truth, the deep tropical oceans are deserts. Their warm water holds little oxygen and sunlight penetrates only so far, even in water that is so clear that it looks like a swimming pool. If you were to snorkel on the surface, you might experience a sensation of flying, or you might suffer from vertigo and imagine falling endlessly through blue space.
On the second day a red-footed booby sat on the radar mast and was later joined by a second one. As flying fish scattered from the bows, the birds would launch themselves for an attack that was almost always successful but for the customers, at $500 a day, two birds and several fish did not add up to great value for money.
On these slow days the passengers were offered a lecture by the trip leader who was a well known television personality from the ‘80s. The talks were witty and polished and they went down well with the guests but they wanted more contact with their celebrity host. After months at sea his tolerance for his paying guests had worn thin. As far as he was concerned they had already overstayed their welcome, especially since they did not seem to be enjoying their adventure at all. He avoided them by taking all his meals in the wheelhouse with the Russian captain whom he admired and who accepted him as a seaman rather than a celebrity.
On the third morning things began to look up, at least for the passengers. The nature guide was able to point out dolphins that appeared in the ship’s wake and the seabirds that followed them. They saw white tropic-birds with long straw-like tails and thousands of terns and noddys diving for small fish. High above the smaller birds they were shown large black W-shaped frigate-birds that hung still on the breeze like tethered kites. The cold bottom-water from Antartica had hit on the ancient volcanic cone that lies beneath Aldabra and surged upwards to mix with the warm tropical water to produce a wealth of fish-food.
The ship dropped anchor at dusk and the passengers were fed and then offered a trip ashore at night to see green turtles nesting. To the guide’s surprise they turned it down despite his explanation that this would be a highlight of their trip and not something that happened every night. He was so disappointed that he almost went ashore with the doctor who was also keen, but he was told by the tour leader to stay-put in case he was needed.
When the passengers were asleep the doctor and the naturalist joined with the crew for a Vodka-party in the stern where an orange inflatable rubber swimming pool sat on the deck. The occasion was Olga the cook’s birthday.
Olga was a large shapeless woman with a round face featuring a row of silver teeth. She had arms like hydraulic grabs that hugged all the men around her, several at a time. Her vodka-laced breath was a fire hazard but she was clearly the most popular person on board that night.
The bright stern lights had been lit for the party and soon the crew noticed that squid were attracted to the light and how phosphorescent the water was. They lowered bobbin-like lures into the water on hand lines and jigged them up and down until the squid took hold. They also caught a big grouper and a shark. None of these would appear on the menu offered to the passengers.
Almost everyone went ashore for a morning visit to see the island’s unique wildlife and take photos. The boatmen stayed on the island but did not join in the tour. Instead they scoured the shore for souvenirs, collecting shells, bits of coral and sacks full of sprouting coconuts. They came across dozens of giant tortoises, some big enough to ride on, and thought about taking one or two to the ship, but they were just too heavy and they did not find any small ones. One of the crew found a large purple lobster climbing a coconut tree and grabbed it for the pot. It nearly took his thumb off and he dropped it. It was enticed into a sack and they took it back to the ship with them.
Aldabra is a World Heritage Site and no-one is allowed to collect souvenirs or remove any wildlife from the land or the sea. The tourists were briefed by the ship’s nature guide and by the rangers on the island but no-one had addressed the crew at all about this.
Simon took advantage of the passengers’ absence to try and get something to eat. He could see most of the crew on the shore with the ship’s four inflatable Zodiacs, and he could hear others at work in the stern. He grabbed a plastic bottle of water and a loaf of bread that was defrosting in the abandoned galley but he was seen by the cook. His game was up and he knew it.
Olga went up to the Bridge to tell the captain that they still had at least one stowaway on board, expecting him to order a full search of the ship. But the Captain pointed out that most of the crew would be back at the same time as the passengers and that he did not want a big fuss. He asked Olga to help him look in the most likely places and they found Simon in his dark recess huddled in a pile of ropes and rags.
The stowaway was shaking and sweating but he kept his dignity and held his arm out to take the Captain’s hand. “Good evening sir. My name is Simon Nyiti.”
Simon was told by the Captain that he was to stay where he was and that Olga would bring him food and water every day until they could get him ashore. If he showed himself to the rest of the crew or the passengers he was told that he would be thrown over the side at night for the sharks to eat. Simon believed every word.
Olga and the Captain discussed what to do with Simon. It was obvious that he was in bad shape so he was not just going to jump over the side and swim for it when they reached Seychelles. And if he did get ashore, what then? They decided to keep a lid on the situation and not tell anyone about Simon except the ship’s doctor.
Dr. Neil Andrews was on board to look after the passengers. Like the naturalist, he was unpaid but he had taken the job for the free trip. The passengers never seemed to need his help and the only medical work he had done was to treat some of the crew for various rashes and small injuries. The most serious case he had dealt with was an ingrowing toe-nail. He interviewed Simon and examined him from head to toe, then he reported back to the Captain.
“That man has been through a terrible time and should be in hospital really, but I think he will be fine if we feed him up and keep him hydrated. I’ve given him some antibiotics and cleaned up his sores and scratches with antiseptic swabs and that’s all I can do. I’ll check on him early each morning”.
Cousin Island is on the edge of the inner islands of Seychelles that sit within sight of each other on a shallow plateau. They are made of granite rather than coral and some are quite mountainous. The mountains attract rain and so the vegetation is much more lush than on the flat coral islands. These are the islands where almost all of the people live and where, on the island of Mahe, all on board would have to go through Customs and Immigration. It was time to decide what to do about Simon.
Instead of cruising into the port of Victoria as planned, the Antonov anchored for the night off the west end of Praslin Island which is rugged and sparsely populated. Near midnight the Captain went to Simon to tell him of his plan. He took Olga with him because he knew Simon trusted her.
“Simon. We are going to put you ashore on this island and leave you there. You will be OK.”
Olga saw the panic in Simon’s eyes and tried to hold his hand, but he pulled away. The Captain spoke again in his clipped English:
“Simon. We will give you food and supplies but you must wait three days before you contact local people. You will be OK.”
Three crewmen took Simon away quietly in a rowing boat. In the darkness they could see the swell that marked the outer reef and beyond that the silhouettes of palm trees climbing up a rounded hill. The shore looked rocky and possibly risky for a landing. They had watched the island from the ship all evening and chosen an area with no lights or any sign of human habitation. Simon made no effort to escape and he said nothing.
Paddling along the shore for perhaps thirty minutes revealed a small white beach that glowed under the moonlight. They slipped Simon ashore with three black garbage bags full of supplies that included bottles of water, food and a tarpaulin with which to make a shelter. They each patted him on his back and left him standing on the beach like an abandoned child.
The passengers explored the Vallee de Mai in the morning. It is a sort of “Jurassic Park” composed of ancient palms with a host of unique animals and birds, but without dinosaurs. The tourists finally seemed happy to meet their vision of what a tropical island jungle should look like. This was no co-incidence because the forest was made to look that way by its former French owner who removed all the more modern flowering plants that are widespread across the tropics to make it look more primeval. In the afternoon they enjoyed paddling and snorkelling around a small rock crowned with three palm trees. Isle Sainte Pierre conformed exactly with their expectations of a desert island and so the passengers were finally happy.
That night the ship moored at the quay in Victoria alongside a couple of yachts and half a dozen tuna boats beside the cannery. The Captain was arrested but was allowed to return to the ship which was impounded.
Arrangements were agreed that the passengers would be told nothing. They would stay on the ship at night but a local tour company would provide transport around Mahe and La Digue for two days and finally to the airport for their departure for the flight home.
The Court of Justice in Victoria is not a busy place. The community is small and the crime rate is low so Captain Smirloff appeared before the judge within twenty-four hours. The charge was “people smuggling” in that he had deliberately smuggled an illegal immigrant into the Republic of Seychelles. He represented himself but was supported by staff from the Russian Embassy which is surprisingly large for such a small state.
As soon as the rowing boat left him, Simon, who was terrified of being left alone in a jungle that he thought might hide snakes, crocodiles or even tigers, set off inland to find somewhere safe. He could smell the remains of a cooking fire somewhere nearby and he found a palm-thatched wooden hut, very like those around his home in Arusha. He roused the sleeping family within and begged for their help.
“I am a poor Christian man who has been thrown over the side of a ship and left to drown. You must help me.” Perhaps he felt that this embroidered version of his arrival might gain him more sympathy than the bare truth.
The poor Seychellois family of five seemed totally unimpressed by Simon’s arrival. They were Kreol speakers and only partly understood what Simon said. They had no telephone or electricity and so they simply made him up a mattress and went back to sleep. It would take another half day to walk him to the police station in Grande Anse.
In the court, apart from having to pay a substantial fine, the Captain was relieved to learn that he was free to go as long as he took Simon with him. Behind closed doors, the embassy had obviously bargained hard with the judge on his behalf.
———————-
Today the R.V. Prof Antonov no longer exists. On her return to Russia she was sold to an American company who completely refitted her and gave her a new name. She now specialises in nature tours for National Geographic and the Smithsonian.
Captain Nikolai Smirloff has retired and all the crew members have been paid off. Six of them set up in business together. They have their own restaurant in a disused ship’s chandlery where the old ropes, nets and other marine paraphernalia give it some atmosphere. They have small palms in pots around the walls and between the tables to give a tropical effect. If you are ever in Vladivostok you should look them up. The place is called “Zanzi-Bar". It is a popular place to drink at any time, but in the evenings the crowd comes for the food which is mostly cooked by Olga. The menu is in KiSwahili, Chinese and Russian and includes a lot of fish dishes and kuku or chicken that is marinaded in coconut milk and Zanzibar spices then grilled on skewers. While Olga is mostly out of sight in the kitchen, her crewmates wait on the tables. The barman is an African called Simon Nyiti.
