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Journey By Arab Dhow, 1953
I was aboard a small vessel sailing along the
Baluchistan coast of Pakistan, and was approaching the
small port of Gwadar, which was situated in Pakistan, a
tiny enclave that belonged to Oman.
I walked ashore and made my way to the police post. One
of the guards then escorted me to the only visible
large building in sight. This was the residence of the
administrator of the territory of Gwadar. Reaching the
front door, I was welcomed by the governor, who turned
out to be a young Englishman.
In nearly all these enclaves that exist around the
planet, they are almost always administered by "old
school tie" Englishmen. These people are well suited for these
posts, since they have an excellent background in
languages.
This pleasant man introduced himself and said I could
rest my head in one of the numerous bedrooms. He had
been informed via bush telegraph of my impending
arrival.
During dinner that evening, I spun my tale of
adventure, which everybody wanted to hear. The
governor said he would try to find an Arab dhow to take
me to Oman. I must admit that I never understood why
Oman controlled this small piece of land and, as the
evening progressed, I gained no further insight.
For the next two days, I swam in the Indian ocean and
played afternoon cricket against the local population.
The dhow that I was to travel in sailed into the port
area, which was only a pontoon moored alongside the
beach. The vessel was about 10 metres (33') in length
with a crew of three, including the captain. The dhow
itself was an open-topped boat with no covering of any
kind, something like a whaling boat. Essential
accommodation consisted of squatting on the deck to eat
meals and lying on the deck to sleep.
The voyage was to be along the coast of Pakistan
towards Iran, actually in the Gulf of Oman, and was
under a fierce blazing-hot sun. The main and only sail
was hoisted and we moved silently along through the
amazingly calm water. The crew took it in turns to cast
a fishing line to attempt to catch some fish. All my
meals consisted of boiled rice and fried fish, which
was cooked over a small kerosene pressure stove. This
was washed down with ample glasses of sweet black tea.
Because I was now dining with Muslims, at all times I
remembered to use my right hand to scoop the food from the metal
plate.
The toilet arrangements were a small wooden box that
sat right on the end of the vessel, and over the open
sea. A hole in the floor was used to relieve oneself.
At times, this was uncomfortable as the ship rocked in
the waves.
Three days after leaving Gwadar, we turned away from
the coastline and headed out into the open ocean to
cross to the tip of Oman. This was a short journey, and
an overnight sail took us to the other side. Sleeping on
the deck at night was fascinating, looking up at the
endless numbers of stars twinkling away in the clear
sky above. I frequently observed illuminated
phosphorous fish jumping out of the water and then
swimming alongside us.
Once we reached the other side, near the tip of the
peninsular, we had to shelter close to the coast
because a very strong rip tide was surging and we would
have no hope of getting around the peninsular in such
fierce waves.
Two days were spent heaving-to in this manner. On the
first night, a large dhow approached and anchored
nearby. The captain of this dhow told me that his
vessel
was a slave ship which carried young African girls who
had been captured on an expedition into Africa. These
girls were destined for the interior of Saudi Arabia
where they would be sold off to the highest bidder, and
would end up being kept in various harems.
The captain assured my scepticism that this slave trade
still existed, and that all of us on our dhow should
avoid any contact. The reason being these slave traders
were very protective of their trade, and there could
be serious consequences for us all, should we be too
inquisitive.
The weather changed, and we sailed the short distance
to the only port in Oman. After saying goodbye to the
crew of the Dhow, and thanking them for a wonderful
voyage, I walked ashore and I was greeted by British
army officers on a shopping expedition. At that time,
this was a large English army and air force base.
Soon, I was conveyed by jeep to the camp and was bunked
down in the non-commissioned officers' quarters. Here,
in the evening, I was entertained by the staff in the
bar, knocking back a few beers, and was expected to
repay their hospitality by telling of my adventures.
Surprisingly, I was introduced to the camp's radio
operator and was able to send a message to my parents
in the UK. Most of the time,
whilst I was travelling, my parents had no idea where I
was. Of course, I sent letters whenever possible.
Frequently, these took weeks to arrive.
The next morning. I was informed that a British cargo
DC3 aircraft would soon be taking me into Iraq.
In this flight, I sat on the floor, since there were no
seating arrangements. It was quite a thrill to travel
in this manner. This flight was very short so was
quickly over. Almost before I had time to think, we
were descending and landing at Basra airport.
This illegal flight and entry into Iraq was
subsequently to cause me no end of problems later when
I encountered Iraqi officials!
- Nomad
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